Chapter Fourteen

They emerged well downstream, miles and miles it had felt like, broken and battered by the rocks, the falls, and the surging water. Sorcha coughed for a full minute, trying to express all the water she'd taken in. Truth be told, it had been almost comical, floating and spinning past the men of the de Montfort army, whom they'd sailed right by as the original fight had happened so far downstream. There was no man willing or instructed to give chase in the river and so none did.

Sadly, the river widened and deepened after the falls and though they were spared the abuse of the rocks beneath the surface, the depth was more treacherous and several times Sorcha lost contact with Augustus. The last time was the worst, being parted from the security of his strong hand for more than a minute, having to navigate herself. She could not control her progress and found herself a prisoner of the whims of the river. He'd appeared out of nowhere then, near the shoreline with the lowering sun behind him, his head barely visible above the churning water, clinging to the protruding limb of some leafy brush, slapping his hand against hers as the water tried to push her past him, his fingers clamping around her wrist.

Bereft of all strength at that moment, Sorcha had no idea from where he culled his, but he managed to draw her near, at the same time hiking his hand further up the branch until his feet touched the bottom and he was able to stand. Sorcha was dragged the last few feet, her tangled skirts preventing her from finding the bottom itself.

He'd tripped over some root or rock upon the shore and toppled backwards, and Sorcha, having only just gotten to her feet, collapsed with him, falling hard on his chest.

For a long moment, she didn't move, or couldn't move. She went limp on top of him, laying her head against his chest while her legs were entwined with his. She thought she cried but couldn't be sure, her body wrecked, and her mind wracked by a thousand heightened emotions. Augustus dropped his hand heavily on her back and she felt, unreasonably, irrationally safe, and extremely fortunate to be alive.

Too soon, the fullness of her position, draped so intimately over him, prompted her to crawl off him, plopping face down in the sand next to him. Her feet were still lapped by water. On her stomach, she pressed her cheek into the sand, facing away from him, her gaze finding a small cluster of vibrant purple crocus. The deep purple tube flowers held her gaze and somewhere in the back of her mind she recalled her beloved grandmother saying the crocus represented hope, and "better things to come".

"The river became a loch," she said hoarsely after another moment, supposing that would explain why the speed at which the water moved had lessened, and why the shoreline was sandy.

"Aye," he said, as breathless as she. "Becomes Loch Eilde Mor, if I recall."

Hardly could she make a frown come, but she felt it inside, having not understood how close they were to home—her old home, where her family still resided, as far as she knew. She did not divulge this news to Augustus.

"They were after you specifically, were they not?" She asked instead.

"Seems so." After another moment, he said, "We canna stay here, have to keep moving."

Sorcha turned her head around, laying her other cheek in the sand so that she faced him. "Will they come for us, your army?"

"They might, if they survived, or those that did, but there's no way of telling if they even ken where we'd gone. We first ran east but the river took us fairly south."

"When I'm able to move—I'm not suggesting I am at this moment—what do we do?"

"Find cover. ?Tis nae safe to be out in the open. De Montfort canna allow me to live, imagining rightly that I'll take word of his treachery straight to King Robert."

"He is a traitor? That wasn't personal."

"It might well have been personal, but aye, he is a traitor, as we suspected."

"You suspected?" Had she the strength, she might have raised her voice with incredulity. "And you still made those plans with him, essentially invited him to march with you."

"I suspected but was nae sure. I would have been much happier to have been proved wrong."

"And now the king has neither the MacKenzies nor the De Montforts to rise to the challenge of Pembroke?"

He frowned at her, possibly wondering how she knew of their objective.

"I have ears," she told him, her voice still weak. "And Geddy's voice carries."

He closed his eyes and grinned. "Aye, it does."

"Are you more angry over de Montfort's deceit, his attempt to kill you, or that he prevented you from reaching the king?"

"That I will, in all likelihood, nae be able to be at my king's side."

"In all likelihood? Are you even now contemplating how you might still make it in time?"

"Aye, and if we could meet with any others, I would make haste to get to Loudon Hill."

"Do you wonder if...if Angus and those men with him had been with us, would it have made a difference?"

"Sadly, we'd still have been outnumbered two to one."

Another few minutes passed before Augustus sat up, blowing out yet another slow breath.

"I'm not ready to move," she warned him.

"But we must, lass."

With that, all energy and vigor were restored to him. He went easily to his feet while Sorcha barely managed, her body protesting all the way, to roll over onto her back. She contemplated the innocent looking sky, deep blue in the twilight, and wondered why she felt as if the sky should be crowded with storm clouds instead.

Augustus reached down his hand to her.

"Where are we going?" She asked when she was brought to her feet.

Standing before him, she noticed immediately the subtle shift in his demeanor. Normally formidable and proud, it seemed now a weariness weighed heavily upon his shoulders. His usual air of invincibility was tempered by the toll of the last hour, reflected in the fatigue etched upon his features. His usually piercing blue gaze, which gleamed so often with purpose, was dimmed now with a shadowy effect. He remained impossibly handsome; even drenched from their plunge in the river, with his dark hair soaked and tousled and his lashes spiked with water, he retained a rugged attractiveness that was difficult to ignore. And yet the weariness was stark and Sorcha realized that even Augustus Mackenzie, the infamous Rebel of Lochaber Forest, with all his strength, his enviable pride, and his towering presence, was not immune to the vulnerabilities of human frailty.

Lost in this reflection, she blinked when he spoke, trying to focus.

"Ye just reminded me of Angus's unit, and Griff and Finlay with him as well," he said. "We ken the path they'll take. We're naught but ten miles from Caol. If we canna find others, there might still be time to intercept them as they try to catch up."

"So you want me to move yet more?" She asked, quirking a grin, imbued with a sense that she should make him smile.

"Aye, and quickly."

"I don't ever want to travel again with you."

Wearing a scowl that lacked all the menace of his usual frowns, he lifted his hand and gentle as a breeze, brushed the sand from one cheek and then the other. He said nothing.

Sorcha withered in front of him.

"I'm sorry. I should not be flippant, not at all." She laid her hands over his at her cheeks. "Some of your men are dead, I imagine." She wrinkled her nose as tears gathered in her eyes. "Mayhap dozens...I am so sorry, Augustus."

He only nodded an acceptance of this but said nothing, and though his expressions were oft inscrutable, his tightened jaw and the flaring of his nostrils advised that he was not unmoved by the losses.

Pulling his hands away from her face, he laid his hand on the hilt of his sword, his fingers curling around it, as if he drew comfort from its presence. "Let's go."

"But we can't go back the way we came," Sorcha protested. "We're bound to run into de Montfort's men if we do."

"We're on the opposite side of the water now," he reminded her. "And we'll keep to the shadows if they come." He frowned anew and looked her over. "Take off your cloak."

"What?"

"Your cloak. ?Tis too heavy to dry and will prevent your léine and kirtle from drying as well if ye dinna remove it. Either carry it or discard it."

Discard it? "But I haven't another," she lamented. She laid her fingers protectively over the frog closure at her neck.

"And ye'll have nae need of another if this one kills ye," he admonished, "either by slowing us down or by freezing ye, trapping all the cold against yer skin."

"But my gown and kirtle are wet as well," she protested, even as she understood his concern. The cloak had nearly drowned her and now, the sodden wool was oppressive for the weight of it.

"And they will dry sooner if nae encumbered by the cloak." He held out his hand. "I'll carry it."

Begrudgingly, Sorcha undid the clasp and removed her cloaked, surprised to realize the full weight of it in her hands and for how much lighter she instantly felt. She handed the cloak to Augustus, who tossed it casually over his shoulder.

"Let's move."

Off they went, walking along the banks of the loch until Augustus stepped off into a path littered with heather and thistle. Walking a few steps behind Augustus, Sorcha turned toward the west, where only a quarter of the sun was visible, beyond the mountains in the distance, it's fading light filtered through a closer woodland of tall pines.

Inside of an hour, they were walking in near complete blackness. Sorcha had no idea how Augustus knew where he was going. If there was a moon, and she didn't regularly pay attention to that orb in the nighttime sky, it was obscured by inky black clouds.

Several times she wanted to say, Enough. She could walk no more. Her legs had been as pudding since they'd come from the water. But just as Augustus hoped to find some part of his army, even one man, so too did Sorcha, understanding how defenseless they were, Augustus's prowess in battle notwithstanding.

She revisited the fight, the carnage and chaos, the likes of which she'd not have been able to imagine if given ten lifetimes. In truth, she thought her memory played tricks on her, for the ravages she'd witnessed, for the utter brutality of that ambush. To some degree, because of the life she lived, and the risks she'd taken, she considered herself worldly. Oh, how foolish she had been to think so, to believe that she lived a brave and fearless life. The horror of that fight, Augustus's brutality in particular, advised that she was decidedly more unworldly and sheltered than she could have ever imagined. In hindsight, as she thought upon it now, she reckoned that the Rebel, as a caption to his legend, was grossly understated, wholly inadequate to capture the ferocity and ruthlessness he had displayed in that fight.

And try as she might, she could not help but insert Finn into that monstrous melee, wondering for the first time exactly how he'd perished. Her lip quivered as she considered that he might have had his head cleaved from his body, as Augustus had made sure one de Montfort soldier had. Or had he suffered a sword strike to the body and been left for dead, cold and alone upon the bloody ground?

Had he died slowly, thinking of her? The very idea filled her with sorrow and despair. She couldn't bear to imagine him suffering alone, his life slipping away as the sounds of war raged all around him.

A whimper escaped her, she being too weak to hold it back.

Ahead of her, Augustus's shadowy figure turned at the sound.

"I'm sorry," she murmured. "I can't go on." She did, in fact, fear she was about to collapse, and was so far gone into exhaustion and fright that she didn't even care what Augustus thought of this, or that he might now be wishing he'd not insisted she accompany the MacKenzies today. He might consider her a great nuisance or hindrance, but she was simply too drained to care. "I'm done," she said as Augustus turned and approached her.

Though his gaze was unfathomable in the darkness, the blue of his eyes glittered like black stones. When he stood in front of her, he reached out and touched his fingers to the sleeve of her gown before he moved his hand downward, tracing a section of her skirt, plucking it away from her body.

Sorcha watched him silently, her weary heart beating a little faster at his nearness and his touch, though she felt no urge to pull away. In but a moment she realized that he was merely gauging the dampness of her garments.

"I am wet and cold and cannot take another step," she declared dully. True, her léine and kirtle were not so sodden as they had been, but they were by no means fully dry.

"Aye, we can pause here—"

"Pause? No. I want to sleep," she insisted, "for the next twenty-four hours, if you please."

His teeth flashed white in the darkness, which had in the last half hour been lightened a wee bit as the clouds had cleared and a half moon shone overhead.

"I'll give ye several hours, lass, but nae so much as a day," he said, his voice returned to normal, devoid of the weariness that yet plagued her and grew steadily.

He glanced around with a practiced eye, his gaze sweeping over the shadowed landscape.

"This way," he said, taking her hand, leading her in a different direction than where they'd been heading.

The terrain stretched out before them, a patchwork of rugged hills and dense woodland, veiled in the cloak of night. Tall trees loomed overhead as they moved away from the open fields. The faint rustle of leaves and the sound of their soft footsteps were the only sounds heard.

Deep inside a forest of trees, Augustus led her to a clearing that offered both concealment and a measure of protection, having decided upon a spot where an outcropping of tall rock provided a useful wall against the cool breeze that chilled her to her bones. Assuming that walking had at least kept her blood moving, she wondered if she would only be colder for being still.

The rock sat adjacent to an old and massive fir, and a depression in the earth directly below the tree and on one side of the rock was filled with forest debris and protruding roots. Augustus hopped down into the shallow cavity and reached for Sorcha's hand.

"Merciful Lord, there are probably spiders everywhere," she bemoaned as she took his hand and climbed down to stand beside him in the small space.

Politely, Augustus cleared a bit of the debris with his boot, and then with his hands, scooping up handfuls of leaves and tossing them aside.

Sometimes when she was overtired, she did become a little giddy and said tartly now, "Great. Now you've woken them up."

Whether he knew she only jested, he ignored this and suggested, "Ye need to consider removing at least one layer," he said as he plucked her cloak from his shoulder and tossed it aside. "And before ye grouse about that, ken that two layers of damp will nae keep ye warm but likely make ye sick." He didn't stare at her, awaiting a verbal response or even consider her frozen, distressed expression but removed his padded leather breastplate, undoing the buckles blindly and dropping that to the ground as well, out of the way. Next, he pulled his severely disheveled plaid out from his belt and discarded that as well until he wore only his tunic, which hugged his body, hinting at a strongly muscled torso.

As Sorcha watched, and with little shame, he proceeded to lift his tunic over his head, unveiling the chiseled flesh beneath. A line of dark hair rose from his breeches, where they hung low on lean hips, and spread across his broad chest. His taut stomach rippled as he moved. He was a beast of a man, beautiful and virile, and Sorcha swallowed hard at the sight before her. Embarrassment finally burns her cheeks, for her unabashed ogling. But then she squinted into the darkness, her gaze focusing on dark impressions cut across his otherwise perfect form.

She gasped at the sight of what appeared to be a most serious wound. Thus bestirred from merely eyeing his body, Sorcha closed the small space between them and inspected him for other wounds. Augustus lifted his right shoulder and arm to peer down at the deep in his side. There were other cuts as well, but none as severe as the largest, which had sliced open a swath several inches long, but which thankfully was no longer actively bleeding.

Collecting herself, she stammered, "We have to—Augustus, the blood. We have to bind your wounds," she urged, her voice clearer and stronger now.

"Flesh wounds," he advised, brushing aside her concern. "Nae more than that."

"Um, I disagree—I strongly disagree."

"I've nae passed out yet, despite the miles we covered. It can wait until morn."

"No. It can't wait. I won't rest, I won't be able to now, with you bleeding all over the place. My God, Augustus, if you—"

"Hush," he said, weariness finally overriding all else.

More gently, Sorcha proposed, "At least let me bind the most grievous one—that I can see—the one on your side." Unwilling to be deterred, she reached for her cloak and tried to tear strips from it. When she could not, she handed it to Augustus.

"Nae, dinna destroy yer cloak," he argued. "?Tis all ye have, ye said."

"Then my kirtle," she said, lifting the hem of her gown. Beneath, her linen kirtle was yet damp but thinner by some degree than the fabric of her cloak and already threadbare so that she was able to wrench the garment at the hem and tear strips. No one long piece came apart all at once and so she tied several strips together while Augustus stood motionless beside her.

"I don't suppose we could make a fire?" She wondered. "Or no, I guess we haven't the means."

"Nae unless ye can snap yer fingers and produce flames."

"I cannot, more the pity."

When the torn strips had been fashioned into one long length of linen, Sorcha moved closer to Augustus.

"Lift your arms," she beckoned and when he did so, she applied the first end of the linen directly over the ghastly wound and coiled it about him, wrapping her arms around his midsection to find the linen at his back and bring it around. He was very broad, which often brought her chest and cheek into fleeting contact with the fabric of his breeches and the expanse of his abdomen as she endeavored to transfer the linen from one hand to another at his back. His skin was warm and while impressively solid, it was surprisingly soft. Though he smelled of sweat and blood, she did not find the scent offensive, but rather comforted by his sheer masculinity.

"You are quite proficient in this arena," he commented, his voice hoarse now whereas it was not a moment ago.

"Finn was nearly perfect save for an odd habit of not knowing where his body was in relation to the rest of the world," she answered lightly, feeling so much better to have Augustus's injury attended. "He was forever getting scraped and scratched and was once cut deeply by the blade of a plough. I've done this before."

He winced as she secured the linen, making it snug and tying two ends together at his middle, but at his left side and not directly over the wound.

"Nearly perfect, was he?"

"In my eyes, yes," she answered succinctly.

When the task was done, Sorcha straightened and inspected her handiwork, all that she could see in the darkness. Little could she improve upon it until both daylight and better supplies availed themselves to her. Reaching for the tunic he'd set aside, she offered that to him.

"Nae, tis still too wet. I'll be warmer without it. And the same applies to ye. Lose at least one of those layers."

She knew he was right, that without the weight and icy coolness of her long-sleeved léine, she might indeed be warmer. Possibly, the night air, though cool, was warmer than the fabric of her léine. Still, it took her a minute to come to terms with the idea.

Rejecting propriety in favor of her wellness, she stepped back, still inside the depression in the earth and lifted her clinging léine up and over her head. She felt an immediate brush with severe cold and rubbed her now bare arms with her hands.

The Rebel of Lochaber Forest was either immersed in politeness or disinterest, as he paid no attention to her but sat gingerly, not without a wince, with his back against the bottom of the rock, carefully stretching his long legs out before him.

With few other options and none that appealed to her, she sat beside him, leaning back as well, only to jerk forward for the shock of her back touching the cold stone. Drawing her knees up to her chest, she wrapped her arms around her legs and waited to become warm. She was shivering within a minute, but suspected this was due in part to her preoccupation with her body temperature.

A hand, gloriously warm, landed on her bare shoulder. "Sit near me, lass. Ye'll be warmer."

Her lips rolled inward, and she went rigid with shock, contemplating such a thing, nestled against his naked chest. Truth was, if he'd asked without touching her, she would have objected outright, but the heat of his touch, and that found only in one hand, suggested there was a large body of heat nearby, willing to warm her. Without a word though her cheeks were painted with a bright red blush, she scooted closer to him. Apparently it wasn't close enough to suit him; Augustus wrapped his arm around her and drew her closer and she hadn't the will to resist. Not only hadn't she the resolve, but as soon as she realized the heat wafting off him, Sorcha craved his warmth and made the last bit of space between them disappear, scooching as close as she could get. As his arm was up and around her shoulder, she snuggled closely against his chest and closed her eyes.

"This is glorious," she murmured into the hands near her chin.

"Mm," agreed Augustus.

Sorcha pictured him with his eyes closed, the events of the day finally catching up with him.

The distant hoot of an owl echoed in the stillness, punctuating the quiet of the night. The same small wind that chilled her carried with it the earthy scent of damp soil and pine.

The exhaustion that had threatened to make her drop as she walked was suddenly nowhere to be found. Indeed, she was invigorated by Augustus' presence, his warmth, and her own lack of fear. Plenty had she to worry about, but she was most curiously not afraid at this moment.

"I'm sorry about the loss of your horse, Augustus," she said quietly.

He didn't respond immediately and she wondered if he was asleep.

But then his low voice pierced the silence, his words vibrating in his chest against her side.

"I trained him from a foal. He'd been with me for almost seven years—the bravest destrier I'd ever known."

"You will train another?"

"Eventually."

"Do you not fear dying yourself?"

"Rugadh mi a "sabaid agus gheibh mi bàs a" sabaid," he said softly.

The lush quality of the foreign words, delivered in Augustus's rich voice, captivated her.

"My Scots is poor," she admitted.

"Born fighting and I will die fighting," he translated.

She wondered if another had ever been this close, warm in his embrace, and shared nighttime conversation with him. Augustus"s voice in the night was a deep, velvety rumble, soothing and lulling Sorcha into a greater sense of calm.

"Were you ever—or are you—wed?" She ventured boldly.

"Long ago, I was," he answered after only a moment's hesitation. "Right bonny lass she was, guid wife."

"Did you love her?"

"I dinna ken. I admired her, being that she was forthright and hard-working and dinna shrink from any duty. Mostly we got on well, but...I never ken a great desire for her when we were parted."

"Where is she now?"

"Buried, deep below Strontian, in the crypts with my sire and màthair."

"Did ye have children with her?"

"Nae, we could nae conceive."

"How did she die?"

"Same as a dozen others, my sire included, when a fever went round the village and keep."

"Did you...do you mourn her?"

"I mourn her for her faithfulness. I dinna ever believe she liked me so well, but she never misspoke about me to another and was a dutiful chatelaine to Strontian."

Sorcha considered how sorrowful it was, that a woman lived and married and managed a stronghold and when she died, it was done. No one carried on her name, manners, or memory.

"I want to have children," she said into the silence. I want someone to love, and someone to love me; I yearn for the affection of true love, were her innermost thoughts on the matter.

"Ye are nae beyond a time that ye might," Augustus commented, in what she thought was a careful tone, or carefully chosen words.

She tipped her face up to him, wanting to see his expression, which the darkness would not allow.

Without warning, Augustus dipped his head and captured her lips.

Sorcha sucked in her breath, but a jolting thrill overcame her surprise.

The kiss was slow and tender, possibly all that could be managed after the day they'd had. His mouth moved over hers and Sorcha lifted her hand to stroke it along the stubble on his cheek and jaw. She responded, seeking his lips and tongue with a hunger she'd ignored for too long. Long and languid was his kiss, as if he tried to transfer to her a thousand deep emotions that swirled inside him. Or was that what she was doing? Undeniably, she wanted more, to be completely naked beneath him, to feel him thrusting into the part of her that ached to be filled.

Once again, twas Augustus who broke the kiss.

"Nae," he said, slightly breathless. "I must keep my wits."

Her body, roused so swiftly with hope, deflated against him. She buried her head once more against his chest but couldn't find it within to chastise herself.

And yet, she didn't mind chastising him a bit. "Saying that I wanted children was not meant as an invitation to make them."

His responding chuckle was nearly silent, but it rumbled against her body where she touched him.

"Why have ye nae bairns?" He asked. "Ye and yer man were together for some time, were ye nae?"

"His name was Finn," she told him. Shrugging, she said, "Mayhap I cannot conceive."

Which would make her unsuitable as a mate to almost every man, but certainly to an earl, the chieftain of a large clan. Not that, for one instant, she supposed he was considering her as a wife.

Silence prevailed then, a long stretch of it until Sorcha finally drifted off to sleep.

Before she did, she realized she was both thrilled and horrified by her craving for Augustus's kiss—and so much more. As quickly as had come and gone his kiss, so too did Sorcha's fleeting want of atonement, for how she'd responded—several times now—to this man. She'd been lonely too long, and Augustus stirred something inside her as no one else had since Finn.

Possibly more than Finn ever had, she began to consider.

Immediately she was consumed by guilt, for how her thoughts betrayed her love of Finn.

Some hours later, Sorcha was gently shaken from a sound slumber. Slow was her wakefulness. Initially she was aware only that a warm hand caressed her cheek. Groggily, she laid her hand over the one at her cheek, smiling softly as she opened her eyes.

Her smile dissolved upon finding that it was not Finn stroking her face as she'd sleepily imagined, but Augustus, and that sometime overnight, she'd fallen into his lap and was staring up at him and he down at her.

Augustus saved her any grand mortification, announcing briskly, "Time to go."

She stiffened and sat up, only able to absolve herself of any further betrayal of Finn by knowing that she'd smiled because his touch had been warm and soothing and because she'd believed it had been Finn.

Even as her brain was shrouded with the fog of sleep, and before she managed to rise to her feet, she knew that she lied to herself.