Chapter Fifteen

He was annoyed with himself for all the hours wasted sleeping, hours in which Angus and those MacKenzies with him might have covered many more miles and might now be well south of Augustus and Sorcha. More irritated still, for the weakness proven in him by how many minutes he let slip by while he sat awake but loath to rouse Sorcha, who'd been sleeping so serenely in his lap.

He'd done that, repositioned her so that she was more comfortable. When he'd woken after a few hours of fitful sleep, he'd noticed that her head kept drooping jerkily against him. It would fall and then she would startle and lift it again, every other minute, until Augustus put a wee bit of space between them so that she could, essentially, fall into his lap.

"Five more minutes," she'd murmured then and had promptly fallen back asleep.

Powerless to resist the temptation, he'd stroked his fingers over her silky hair, pushing it away from her face. When all was brushed back, he did not stop running his fingers over her hair and temple.

So aye, their predicament now was the negligible chance of finding any of his army for how much time he'd wasted in that sublime circumstance with Sorcha. Thus, he wore a grim expression while he waited, hands on his hips with a return of his impatience while Sorcha saw to her needs not too far from where they'd slept and where he waited now, still near that large boulder in the forest.

He had little awareness of the hour—another irritation, not having any true idea how long he'd slept—and could only guess by the quality of darkness that it was still several hours before the dawn.

Though she wasn't terribly noisy, he heard her before he saw her, her footfalls disturbing crunchy leaves and cracking at least one twig.

"I feel like I slept but a quarter hour," she said as she approached, garbed again in her léine.

His eyes were well adjusted to the inkiness so that her smile, tired but winning, did not go unnoticed.

"Where to, my lord?"

And just like that, nearly half his fury evaporated.

Mentally shaking himself, he turned and began walking, expecting that she would follow. Once again, her still-damp cloak was tossed over his shoulder.

"I canna be entirely sure of our location," he admitted, "but we kept along the river for quite a distance, and if I surmise correctly our general location, I expect we might be near to a guid spot to run into some or parts of my army."

"Augustus, shouldn't we—I mean, will we go back to...to where they ambushed us? Should we check for survivors?"

Several things about her very careful query intrigued him. First, in all probability, he would never grow accustomed to his name being said by her tongue—and he was fine with that. There was a certain intimacy in the way she said his name—in the very fact that she used his Christian name—that transcended the more formal titles of sir or my lord. In his mind, it signified a level of trust and comfort that went beyond their roles and position and their circumstance.

Next, he was a wee bemused by her use of us, referring to de Montfort's ambush. The use of the collective further indicated a connection between them that felt genuine and personal. He was hard pressed to take issue with either of these points.

"We will, lass," he stated, "but we could nae have returned yesterday, so soon after the rout, would've been too dangerous. And we canna go alone, just ye and I—again, it simply is nae safe."

"Where are we that you believe we might happen upon other MacKenzies?"

"There are plenty of the old roman roads, snaking up from the Lallans," he explained, "but we dinna keep with them even though this is nae so far south. So the lads will ken to search out the nearest trails and roadways used more frequently by friendly locals. Because we move often across the region, we've grown familiar with where these roads might be. If I'm right, we're in or near to Balquhidder and Loch Voil, and there's a well-maintained path that abuts against a barren field. Stone wall, covered in moss, small church and cemetery, the spire is painted—"

"Saffron yellow," Sorcha finished.

Augustus came to a halt and turned on her, awaiting an explanation for how she might know this. "Aye, saffron yellow. And why is that?"

Sorcha stopped as well when she came abreast of him. Swallowing what might be dread, though he couldn't be sure, she answered, "They wanted God to see them, amid all the green and brown on earth and the black hearts of sinners."

His jaw didn't drop but only because he caught himself.

"If you're right about that," Sorcha said, "where we are, I, um...I believe we're fairly close to my father's house."

He had questions, plenty of them, most pressing about the black hearts of sinners.

"My father's house sits on the Balvag River," she said. "A thousand acres has he."

"Yer father's house? Nae yours?"

She shook her head but gave no explanation for the curious distinction.

He was cautious with his response, saying mildly as to give no offense, "Ye dinna go far from home."

"No. I'm not so brave after all."

"Ye are though," he claimed, "remarkably so."

"It's easy to show little fear with...well, with someone of your stature and experience."

"I was nae with ye when ye left home," he reminded her, as he'd not only been speaking of her bravery yesterday, where likely she'd witnessed a scene such as she never had before. "I was nae with ye when yer man left nor when ye learned of his demise, nor when ye made yer own way, choosing to remain in Caol by yourself. Ye are brave, with nae help from another, lass."

Sorcha stared at him, her mouth open, a wee bit of wonder creeping into her gaze.

"I am, aren't I?" She asked with a smile.

"Aye," he said, noting how easily grins came in her company. "C'mon, let's find the lads and then ye can decide if ye want or need to pay a visit to yer kin."

"Ooh," she said and made a face that wrinkled her nose. "Unless someone is in dire need of healing—Ballechen has a superb healer—I don't see any reason to go by there."

Which then made it impossible to resist asking, "Would ye happen to be one of those sinners? With the black heart?"

She lifted her chin and nodded, trying very hard, he guessed, to show no shame.

"Ye're nae sinner, lass," he pronounced with no small amount of disgust for whomever told her otherwise, "nae more than I am a saint." He frowned, wanting to attach all the puzzle pieces that made up the image of Sorcha Reid. "Is that why ye ran off with the beekeeper, because they called ye sinner?"

"They called me sinner and I left with Finn for the same reason: because I loved him."

"And ye'll nae go back?"

When Sorcha shook her head, Augustus nodded, signifying an end to his queries for now, satisfied to have been given a few more insights into her character.

They marched again, mostly in silence, over stretches of fallow fields, through dense patches of woodland, and as the sun rose in the east in a red sky, over rolling hills until Augustus unceremoniously clutched at Sorcha's hand and drew her down to the ground, having discerned, he thought, the unmistakable jangle of a harness. They crouched in place before the crest of a knoll while Augustus listened intently, before he carefully lifted himself just enough to see over the ridge.

A hundred yards beyond the bottom of the hill rose a wall of trees and he recognized movement between the boughs. Hope soared as he believed the pathway he sought was just beyond that shallow but lengthy stretch of trees, and who but someone wanting to keep a low profile would avoid the open tracts of land for the safety of the trees?

He didn't realize Sorcha had risen carefully as well until she whispered, "Their plaids are blue. Augustus, those are ours. They're MacKenzies," she declared with some excitement.

She did it again, established a relationship to him and his men, saying ours in reference to his army. Later, he thought, he would investigate further why this pleased him so. A fleeting idea spun round his head, wondering if ours as opposed to theirs or them was employed simply as her way of distinguishing between good and bad company.

"Wait," he cautioned, ducking low once more.

Tipping his head upward, he emitted a prolonged whistle, imitating the tee-cher, tee-cher chatter of a great tit.

On her haunches at his side, Sorcha watched but did not question his objective.

A half minute passed before they heard a returned call, the short trilling song of the blue tit.

Augustus nodded quickly, with great relief, to Sorcha's animated query of, "Is that them?"

"Aye, let's go."

Still, he rose carefully and held Sorcha yet by the hand, keeping her low as he examined the line of trees. His relief expanded when he saw that indeed, some of the men there were draped in the MacKenzie colors.

He stood fully, bringing Sorcha with him, and together they crested the hillock and descended the other side while the men inside the trees came forward, showing their faces. He hadn't been hoping to see any one person or unit more so than another but knew a slight start to see that it was Angus and his unit, those that had remained behind to free Wycliffe. Narrowing his eyes, he searched the faces but did not see Grimm.

But just as he questioned the disappointment that visited him, Sorcha tugged at her hand and shouted, "Grimm!"

Augustus released her and watched as she sped down the hill, her arms held out to maintain balance as she floated over the thistle, grass, and rock.

He saw him then, the last man to emerge from the fir trees, walking tall and seemingly unhindered by any injury.

As the object of his desire ran toward another man with such unfettered joy, Augustus contemplated Wycliffe through a new lens. He was far enough away yet that his expression could not be observed, and though he stepped forward ahead of the rest of the party, he did not rush out to meet her. And whether or not he would have opened his arms would remain a mystery since, to Augustus's eyes, Sorcha throwing herself at him appeared rather a last minute decision, preceded by a bit of a stumble. Wycliffe did, however, wrap his arms around her and embrace her for several long seconds, in which time her feet were lifted off the ground an entire foot.

Having jogged after Sorcha, Augustus met first with Angus, exchanging a grateful embrace.

"Jesu, ye're a sight—believed ye dead, we did," Angus said in his ear.

He exchanged greetings with Griffyn, Finlay, and more than a dozen others, never more pleased to see the men of his army, whole and hearty.

"Aye, ye sprung ?im," Augustus said, referring to Wycliffe. "But how did it go? Suffer much resistance?"

Angus snorted and sneered. "Blackwood, much to my displeasure, was nae where to be found."

"And aye," Griffyn added broodily, "we looked hard for that one."

Before he might have questioned this further, Augustus's attention was drawn to the conversation between Wycliffe and Sorcha, the latter whose feet had since been returned to the ground. Though he'd already spoken to the English baron, apparently it was going to take some time to get used to the foreign sound of his voice.

"I knew she lied—Effie, that is," Sorcha was saying, "and just wait until I see her. I've a mind to—"

"Calm yourself, Sorcha," Wycliffe urged gently. "We cannot but imagine that duress was the source of her accusation."

"Sweet Mother of God, but look at your face, what they've done to you," she went on, her distress clearly not about to be diminished by a simple directive. "But is that it? Are you free? Or will they hunt you all your life?"

"Remains to be seen," Wycliffe acknowledged. "I am under the impression that at this time, De Montfort has more to concern himself with—"

Sorcha gasped, right in the middle of Wycliffe's statement. She smacked at his chest, catching the oaf unprepared so that he did not have time to deflect her slap.

"Oh, but I'm not speaking to you!" She said testily. "Almost a year—a year, sir!—you've been in my company and never not once said a single word to me."

"I could not," Wycliffe defended. "Surely you understand the many reasons that justify my silence."

Crossing her arms over her chest, Sorcha admitted in a small voice, "I would have trusted you, if my role had been yours."

Nonplussed, Wycliffe shrugged helplessly, wincing a bit.

Augustus found it curious that when mute, he'd had so few expressions, showing little emotions but anger and annoyance. Now, with speech, so much more was gleaned in his features.

"Greater matters at hand than the mute now talking," Angus proposed.

"Fine," Sorcha conceded with little grace, and after turning an infuriated glare onto Angus, "but will someone please remind me at some later date to take him to task for his behavior."

"Aye, ma'am," Angus agreed.

Sorcha pointedly turned her back on Wycliffe, by which his amused grin said he was quite entertained. He stepped around her and approached Augustus, extending his hand.

"I have you to thank, sir," Wycliffe said, "and I do, heartily and sincerely. I know you did not need to do what you did."

Augustus took his hand and pumped it several times. "I'm glad it all worked out," he said, leaving out the obvious truth behind the reasons for such an action: I did it for her.

Griffyn moved into Augustus's line of sight. "What the bluidy hell happened at the pass?"

Augustus sighed, expecting the entire awful tale would have to be relived in order to be conveyed. "An ambush. And I'll tell ye all about it as we ride, but I want to return to the pass and search for—"

"There are nae survivors," Angus said heatedly, his brow etched with fury. "Naught but bodies and blood. We finished off what de Montforts were still breathing, but—God forgive us—we dinna stay around to bury our own, went right out searching." He shook his head, wrinkling his face in such a way that it was clear they'd stumbled upon no other MacKenzies, or none that were alive.

"That is our first priority," Augustus announced, "recovering as many as we can, alive or nae. Let us go first along the local lanes and pathways. Just as we happened upon each other, so might we meet more of our own. Have ye a steed for me?"

"Four steeds we have, laird," Finlay proudly informed him. "Found them racing back toward Ironwood. That's when we figured something was amiss."

"Verra guid. Angus, take the lead, south first for five miles and then we'll retrace our path, and finish north. Were the wayns left at Ashgill's pass?"

"Gone," Angus said bluntly. "All of them. Or nae trace of them."

"Then we'll need to resupply a bit, assuming several days marching and then for the siege we will lay against Ironwood."

More than one pair of eyes widened at this revelation.

"Lay siege to a bluidy fortress?" Angus challenged. "With naught but twenty of us?"

"We'll find them, Geddy and many more I'm sure," he said confidently, even as he hadn't the heart yet to ask how many MacKenzie bodies they discovered in and around the pass. "And I willna rest until de Montfort pays for this crime."

Angus was unconvinced, of either the prudence of entertaining such a plot to attack Ironwood or that they would, actually, find more of their scattered comrades. He puffed out a breath of disbelief.

"Actually, you might be able to accomplish an effective siege with only these numbers," Richard Wycliffe contributed.

Angus rolled his eyes at this.

But Augustus favored him with a quizzical glance.

He'd hovered outside the group until now, but stepped forward, his size and startling statement drawing all eyes.

"There are tunnels beneath de Montfort's keep," Wycliffe disclosed. "Two of my guards, young lads, were talking outside the door to the dungeon," he explained to everyone's silence and skepticism. "One was bragging to the other, for his knowledge of the tunnels. The second one did not believe him and the lad who insisted they were there, said that he'd stolen into them at times, then proceeded to give way their location. A warren of tunnels, he indicated, winding all around below the keep. One arm even opened up directly under the armory, he said. Outside the wall, he said they exit at some place near a cluster of ancient oak trees. And there I sat, not ten feet away, with the door closed between us but the lad's voice rising in indignation for not being believed. He detailed the entire path of the tunnels and crypts."

"He dinna," breathed Angus in disbelief, at the lad's grievous misstep of giving up such valuable information, even inadvertently.

Griffyn chuckled darkly with satisfaction, amused by the chatty lad's carelessness.

"He did," Wycliffe assured them, grinning a bit himself.

"Jesu," Augustus drawled, "but that increases the possibility of success tenfold. All we have to do is get in and open the gate."

Angus pulled his hands off his hips and ticked off on his fingers the order of operations as he understood them. "Riding now, looking for our captain and any others. Resupply, and now to include what's needed to attack Ironwood—what we can accomplish by way of coin available—and then perpetrate an attack. Willna happen in one day, I guarantee ye that."

"And yet it should happen soon," Augustus decided. "We are nae use to King Robert now, too late and too depleted for his battle in a few days' time, but we can slay two birds with one stone by taking out de Montfort: vengeance for his crimes against the MacKenzies and to disrupt any plot he might be hatching against the king. He did nae ambush us merely for personal reasons. He wanted to prevent us from reaching the king and giving aid against Pembroke."

Hands returned to his hips, Angus shook his head. "Christ, de Montfort doubtless soiled his silk breeches—pardon, lass—knowing ye live yet."

"Bring me a steed," Augustus said at length. "Let's get to it."

While young Edwin moved swiftly to obey his laird, Augustus went to Sorcha, reaching down his hand. Though she looked resistant—to him or their plans, he could not say—she laid her hand in his and allowed him to pull her to her feet.

"Ye can rest while we ride," he assured her, but at the briefly disgruntled look she gave him, which suggested that was highly unlikely, he amended, "Ye can relax, at any rate. Safer now, we are."

She was no less exquisite for how weary she appeared, for the dark circles under her eyes and the still-growing colorful bruise aside her sweet mouth, nor for her rumpled hair and garb, but doubly attractive for her resolve, for how she'd coped with tragedy and horror thus far—and then she was twice more appealing for her response.

"Shock and a dreadful fright governed my last twenty-four hours, sir," she quietly told him, "but in hindsight, I cannot say that there was any one moment when I thought my end was near. I expect that will remain true so long as I am with you."

High praise indeed, respecting the fierceness of yesterday's ambush and what at times seemed like their imminent demise, that which was denied by their hard-fought and blessedly earned escape.

Rather than give her any choice or allow another to interfere, Augustus walked Sorcha over to the horse Edwin approached, intending that she ride with him and ready to gainsay any who might have other ideas. ?Twas not a large destrier as he was accustomed to, but a sleek charger built for speed, about which he was not upset.

Though she might well have mounted this steed by herself, as she'd been unable to do when he'd possessed his beloved destrier, Augustus lifted her into the saddle without giving her the option. He mounted behind her and set his arm around her middle, drawing himself closer to her until he was fully seated on the saddle.

Around them, all his men and Wycliffe too climbed atop their steeds and as they began to move, following Angus's lead, Sorcha laid her palm over the back of his hand at her middle and slunk down against him, laying her head against his chest.

A feeling, warm and soothing, enveloped him, for how trusting and at ease she was in his company, in his arms. While it didn"t provide a complete respite from the weight of his current burdens, it offered a rare internal peace that had eluded him for many years.