Chapter Twenty

Though confusion still reigned, Sorcha's smile was instinctive.

And yet she had cause to wonder if she were dreaming.

How was it possible that a man stood before her, wearing all the features of Finn's beloved face? How did this man possess Finn's honey-colored hair and his soft brown eyes?

"Finn?"

Once burst from the line of horses, his steps faltered as his eyes sat heavy and warm upon her. Which each step forward, Sorcha's eyes widened further, her entire being weakened by disbelief and wonder. At the same time, her smile grew and tears fell, while a piece of her heart thought lost forever was now returned to her.

"Is it true?" She asked, her voice quaking.

"What's this?" Asked the king. "A reunion, I daresay, and how fitting."

Sorcha scarcely recognized the king's words, her mind aflutter with disbelief yet.

And then, as if given leave to approach by the king's words, Finn rushed at her, his arms extended. Sorcha went willingly, if yet a wee muddled, into his embrace. His arms closed around her just as her legs threatened to give way.

Enveloped in Finn's arms, a surge of joy flooded her senses. The weight of grief and longing lifted, replaced by sheer elation at his return—at the very fact that he was alive!

Fairly quickly, though, it became apparent that there was no familiarity in this embrace. Resting her chin on his shoulder as Finn stood not much taller than she, and with his lean arms around her, the fit and sensations seemed foreign to her.

Her eyes widened and a sudden pang of guilt washed over her, realizing that in her confusion and joy, she'd forgotten all about Augustus standing beside her. She froze in place, in Finn's arms, while the stark juxtaposition between past and present, between the love she once mourned and the prospect of love she'd found anew left her reeling.

And while sometimes of late she thought she never wanted to leave Augustus's arms, she dreaded now abandoning this embrace with Finn, but only for fear of having to face Augustus.

In a final burst of excitement, Finn picked her up and spun her around, crying out jubilantly, "I can't believe it! I imagined ye might have returned to yer father's house. But to find ye here!"

When he set her down, she now stood across from Augustus, facing him.

The expression on his face would be burned into her memory, into her heart, for as long as she lived, she knew at that moment. His jaw was clenched tight, veins rippling along his neck as if resisting a primal urge to lash out. His nostrils flared, a sure sign of his raging emotions, and his brows were gathered darkly over his piercing stare. While he held himself rigidly, intense emotion flashed as he stared at her, a turbulent storm in the deep blue sea of his eyes.

It could not be helped but that she sensed a challenge in his gaze, as he glared with such brutality at her. His eyes glittered with hardness, and Sorcha was overcome by the idea that he either expected her to announce their relationship now, or that he was about to speak in a dangerous tone, determined to protect what he considered as belonging to him.

And yet, beneath the mask of defiance, Sorcha imagined she saw something else in Augustus's eyes: pain, raw and immeasurable.

Her throat clogged with emotion and her lips parted while her heart twisted with conflict.

She waited for Augustus to unclamp his teeth and open his mouth, to claim her as his.

But it was Finn who spoke next, and Sorcha blinked, removing her gaze from Augustus while her heart constricted further.

"My liege," Finn addressed the king formally, bowing his head, "Might I have leave to reacquaint myself with my love? We've a cottage nearby"—he halted and turned to Sorcha—"Do we still?"

At her shaky nod, Finn faced the king again, his brows raised with hope.

The king inadvertently aided and abetted Finn's cause and managed to twist Augustus's mouth into an even more ugly sneer when he so generously acquiesced.

"By all means, lad, take your leave. I envy you your reunion and all the joy that comes with it."

Filled with glee, Finn smiled broadly and grabbed Sorcha's hand, pulling her away from the king and Augustus, away from the gates of Ironwood, causing her to run to keep up with his enthusiastic sprint. A short burst of lackluster cheering and ribald laughter shadowed their departure.

She went, less so willing or urged by delight than she was simply following, a wee removed from reality at the moment.

For all that she'd longed to know one more hour with Finn, one more day, she had yet to make sense of what was happening, or how it was possible. She hadn't yet grasped the concept of how Finn could be here, tugging at her hand, running across the fallow fields of Ironwood toward her home—their home. But how could she process such a fantastic turn when she couldn't shake the vision of Augustus's handsome face twisted and tortured!

A hundred yards away from the gates of Ironwood, Finn halted abruptly, causing Sorcha to nearly crash into him. She winced and Finn laughed, catching her, taking her face in his hands.

"I can't believe I haven't kissed you."

Frantically, Sorcha covered his hands with her own, meaning to pull his hands away, to thwart his coming kiss. But he was eager and unstoppable, filled with boundless energy, and his mouth crashed onto hers before she could muster a protest.

Finn ground his lips against hers.

Sorcha squeezed her eyes closed. She waited for...for anything—a thrill, a change in her breathing, a racing heart, a tingling deep inside, that glorious reward of pleasure—but if any of those sensations arrived, they were drowned out by the memory of another kiss that stirred all of those things and more.

"Och, but how I've missed ye and how sweet ye are," Finn said with a broad smile when he pulled his lips from hers.

She tried to smile in return but feared she failed miserably. At best, it was a shaky and uneven attempt to which Finn was completely oblivious.

They walked then, hand in hand, and for this Sorcha was grateful. The idea of running all the way to the cottage was a bit extreme, and her legs were yet pudding from her shock.

"I don't understand, Finn," she said to him, "what you're—how you can be here."

He turned a stilted smile on her, confusion evident. "What do ye mean? Ye saw me come in the king's army."

"But how are you...alive?" She asked. When he stared with his own bewilderment at her, she informed him, "I was informed you had perished in a fight. Your name was called out in the notices."

He was aghast, his eyebrows shooting up into his forehead. "What?"

Nodding, Sorcha explained that his name had been recorded in the death notices, and that his, and others, had been called out by Lord Aldric.

"I canna conceive how—well, actually, ?tis nae uncommon, that names are recorded in the wrong columns after a battle."

Not discounting the possibility of such carelessness, Sorcha also wondered if de Montfort, in his lust for her, had simply added Finn's name to the roster of the dead, hoping to make her vulnerable, desperate.

"Ah, my love, how you must ?ave suffered," he commented, his warm brown eyes darting around her face. "Doubly joyous, is it nae? Is that what ye feel that has ye so reticent and stiff?"

Sorcha latched onto to that excuse, which wasn't wholly untrue. "I feel as if I've seen a ghost."

"Nae doubt, nae doubt," he concurred promptly and then his voice and mien sobered. "And that was the MacKenzie, was it nae? There at Lord Aldric's gate?"

"Yes, it was," she said, her voice small.

"Ye'd be best keeping yer distance from that one," he said. "Dinna let it get out, Sorcha, but that's the Rebel of Lochaber Forest and ?ave ye ever heard of him?"

Dumbly, she murmured, "I have."

"Then ye ken, do ye nae, how brutal that man is? And what are ye doing in his company anyway? Did ye meet him at Ironwood? Did he rout Lord Aldric and was settling accounts? Were ye summoned by him? Jesu, but dinna tangle with that one, Sorcha. Just dinna do it."

Rather than explain even the smallest part of her knowing Augustus, or her relationship with him, Sorcha asked, "You know him?"

"Nae personally. Of course nae. I'm a grunt, Sorcha, a bluidy foot soldier. The lords and lairds and generals dinna take time with us. But I've fought in his company, Sorcha, and ye would nae want to see him with his sword in hand. Bless yerself, ye'll nae ever ?ave to. Ye'd withered and die in fright, sure as I'm standing ?ere, mark my words on that."

She'd forgotten, quite frankly, how animated and exaggerated were all of Finn's mannerisms and expressions. She'd forgotten as well, how riled he would become when relating news or events, even mundane ones.

"It's true what they say, Sorcha," he went on, shaking his head to corroborate his telling. "Whatever ye've heard about the Rebel of Lochaber Forest, all the ugliness, cruelty, showing nae mercy—?tis all true. The Rebel has nae soul, Sorcha."

That is a lie, her heart screamed. She would never believe that every kindness Augustus had shown her, every attempt to keep her safe was made by a man without a soul. He was separate from his legend, she understood that now. The legend was that man on the battlefield, and rightly so, as he needed to be, not only to survive but to triumph in the war. The man was neither merciless nor unjust.

"You never wrote me," she mused quietly when Finn was quiet for a moment.

He did that sometimes, grew quiet even as he remained animated. Sorcha had always imagined that he was only scrounging around in his brain for topics or matters to discuss. Often he would chew nervously at the inside of his cheek, as if the quiet disturbed him and he was determined to fill it. And then his eyes would widen, as if pleased by the discovery, when he imagined some fresh bit of conversation to share.

Presently, a look of mild awkwardness washed across his face. He glanced at the ground as they walked. "Aye, and to that, ye understand ?tis nae so easy to do. Parchment and ink are hard to come by, and aye, ye taught me the letters but I canna say it stuck."

"Were you not in Eamon Gregory's company?" She asked, referring to a local crofter's son who was smitten with the cobbler's daughter.

"Och, sure. Best mates we are, he and I."

"He wrote to Maribel...regularly, often. She had letters once a month at least."

Finn frowned and waved his hand. "Nothing to write about," he said airily. "?Twas naught but marching and fighting and fighting and marching."

Before she'd been notified of Finn's ‘death', she'd been quite put out that she'd received not one piece of correspondence from Finn—not even a postscript in Eamon's letter to pass onto her. She'd made excuses for the absence of communication at the time, but now, with his weak excuse given, she chewed her lip while a wee uncertainty crept into her consciousness.

"But it would have been nice to know that you were, indeed, alive," she argued gently. "A letter would have gone a long way invalidating the notice that you had been killed."

"But ye do ken now, Sorcha," he said blithely and then changed the subject. "Ye canna imagine my excitement when the king's lieutenant announced we were marching up to Caol—to bluidy Ironwood, he said, and nae one was more surprised than me. Two years I've been gone and aching to get back. Though, to that, I dinna expect to find ye here."

It was nearly impossible not to compare Finn's character and behavior to that of Augustus, and yet she understood it would be a precarious endeavor. Though she assumed it was natural for her to draw parallels between Finn and Augustus, she recognized that each man—every man—was unique, with his own strengths, weaknesses, and complexities. To judge one against another would require that she generalize their individuality and possibly overlook the nuances of their personalities.

At length they arrived at the cottage, which gladdened Finn until he spied the missing sections of thatch.

"God's teeth, Sorcha," he started, "but what happened to the roof? Why did ye nae repair the gaps?"

"It just happened, less than a week ago," she said sensitively, "and I've been...there's been a lot going on in the last few days."

Sweet heavens, but there was so much to tell him about all that had transpired and befallen her since he departed with the army—most of which had occurred just in the last few weeks since the arrival of the Mackenzie army and Augustus. And she'd have to tell him about Grimm eventually. But not now, when her brain was still processing his return and her anxious and increasing inner discord.

Finn pushed open the door and pulled her inside, spinning abruptly to take her in his arms. "Nae worries, lass. I'll nae be concerned with the roof while I'm here."

While her arms were trapped inside his, Finn nuzzled at her neck with his mouth.

"?Tis my Sorcha that I want," he said between kisses. "It's been too long."

Sorcha stood stiff in his embrace, unable to escape the memory of Augustus's recent expression or the lingering delight of his affection. Squirming with discomfort, Sorcha pushed away from Finn's arms.

"I can't," she said. Unable to comprehend how to explain this to Finn without telling him what she had done, how she had betrayed him, she murmured, "I'm sorry, it's still so...I feel I don't know you. This is—I'm so sorry—this is awkward." She swallowed all the guilt that surfaced with her half-truths and was caused to wonder if she would have rejected Finn just now if she'd not so recently encountered Augustus and the joyous expertise of his kiss and his touch.

For the space of a second, a veil of anger cloaked his amorous animation. He shuttered it quickly enough and said, "I kent ye'd be happy to see me."

"Of course I am," she insisted. "Simply to know you're alive, Finn, fills my heart with joy."

"But nae more than that," he guessed.

"Much more, but this....this is—just give me some time to come to terms with—"

"I'll nae have leave for long, Sorcha, mayhap more than today and tonight."

Firm in her resolve, she could only repeat, "I'm sorry, Finn."

A pang of guilt assaulted her. She could clearly see in his eyes the hope, the longing, the expectation that she would have welcomed him back with open affection. But instead she felt only turmoil, being unable to reciprocate his advances or excitement. She knew she hurt him, perhaps irreparably, with her hesitation and reluctance.

With contrived lightness, she said, "But let us spend together as much time as we are allowed, Finn. Let's tramp through the forest as we used to do—oh, I must tell you the same storm that took away portions of the thatch also destroyed the forest apiary. Come with me, Finn, and let's plan how I shall rebuild it before you return again."

Distracted, and a little curtly, he informed her, "I dinna care about the hives, Sorcha. I want to spend time with ye."

"But we will," she argued, briefly nonplussed. "We don't have to go the apiary. I can show you how well I've kept the hives here. Finn, I made new hackles completely on my own," she announced with no small amount of pride.

With much less animation, he refused this as well. "Nae. In fact, I should get back to my commander and verify what leave I might be given, if any."

"But the king said—"

"The king is my liege lord, Sorcha," Finn cut in, "but the commander of my company may nae approve of even a short departure."

"Oh."

Possibly he read her crestfallen expression; he smiled again and stepped forward to squeeze her hand and press a fleeting, harmless kiss on her cheek. "I'll return as soon as I am able."

"Of course," she allowed, fairly stunned by the quick about-face.

As quickly and unexpectedly as he had re-entered her life today, he departed it, sailing through the open door with nearly as much speed as he'd come through it a moment ago.

She stood for a moment, unmoving until she frowned in consternation and placed her hands on her hips. Her gaze drifted beyond the open door, staring rather blindly at the tall swaying grass beyond, wondering if the pain of her rejection had sent him running or if his inability to get her into bed had taken him off with such haste.

However, overriding her curiosity over this, was an undeniable relief to have sidestepped his advances.

The truth, though genuine, made her nearly sick to her stomach. My God, she thought, but Augustus has ruined me for any other—including my own true love!

Drained as she was, Sorcha flopped onto her back on her narrow cot, realizing just now that she'd been gone from this bed for several days, as she hadn't since first it had become her own. She threw her forearm over her forehead and stared at the sky through a nearly perfectly round hole in the thatch. For quite a few minutes, she tried to focus on one pertinent fact: Finn was alive. However, it was virtually hopeless to concentrate only on this and not question what it meant to her and Augustus.

Naught but a quarter hour had passed since Finn had left when she realized she was only tormenting herself mentally and she needed something else to occupy her. Though she had no idea how long Finn might be gone, she decided she likely had enough time to check in on Effie and see how she fared, even as more guilt assailed her at the thought; with the arrival of the king and his army, and Finn's resurrection, Sorcha had all but forgotten about poor Effie, whose trauma was obviously far greater than Sorcha's internal anguish.

She exited the cottage then, knowing it would take only twenty minutes or so to reach Effie's croft, which she'd once shared with a husband who had actually died in war, unless that notice had been falsely delivered as well. The announcement of Fergus's death had been recent, not more than two months ago, but this might have been the catalyst that made Effie a recent target of Blackwell's wickedness.

The route to Effie's croft on the outskirts of the village took her past the Bonnie Barrel Inn. The lane was damp, muddy in some spots, and she kept to the fringes, walking along the grass.

As she neared the Bonnie Barrel Inn, a small group of people were collected in the yard there. She recognized immediately the plaids and faces of some MacKenzie soldiers and several locals.

In their midst, at the center of the small crowd, was a man whose image shocked Sorcha. He spun about continually, as it seemed he was being harassed by those gathered round him and wanted to keep an eye on any threat. But that was the least remarkable thing about him. He wasn't very tall, was stocky and unkempt, his breeches ragged and torn in several places. His face, which might have once been handsome, was haggard and twisted with contempt as he glared at his audience. But most prominent about this man was the fact that though he had two hands, one of them had been removed at the wrist and was strung about his neck, being counterweighted with a small rock.

Sorcha covered her mouth with the back of her hand, the sight of the severed hand disturbing, for it had not only been recently removed, but appeared shriveled and nearly black, decay long ago having set in.

"Aye, poacher," one of the MacKenzie men was saying, his tone unkind, "and wot brings ye down from Strontian?"

Another Mackenzie soldier asked gruffly, "Did the laird nae tell ye, when he chopped off yer hand, to keep to yer croft and yer own affairs?"

Outside the circle of people, Sorcha gasped at what was revealed? Augustus had removed the man's hand?

The man stuttered some incomprehensible response, his words slurred beyond recognition. He listed a bit as well, advising that he might be drunk.

"Yer kind is nae welcome here, poacher," said another soldier. "Get back to where ye belong." He gave the drunk man a shove, not hardly light, that sent the man to the ground.

This was followed by snickers and sneering from all those around.

"Och, pick up that hand, mate," called another MacKenzie man. "Recall what the laird said he'd do to ye if he found ye without it."

Appalled, Sorcha stared gape-jawed at the MacKenzie soldiers, none of them at this moment the well-disciplined lads she'd met in Augustus's army. Further, her stomach-turning astonishment was heightened by the revelation that Augustus had so wickedly commanded that the man wear his severed hand. This then was her first true encounter with any supporting evidence about the rumors of the Rebel's callousness. True, she'd seen a bit of that in the ugly ambush, had been a wee alarmed at his dealing with Blackwood, his want of a fight that would have been clearly unfair, and now this man, with his severed hand....

Clearly, she did know Augustus. What he showed to her was only half of his character. Obviously, he'd gone out of his way to conceal the other half, that part of him that was in truth the merciless Rebel. Her head swam in light of this new information, for how easily she'd been deceived, for how easily she'd allowed herself to see what she wanted to see.

While the few townsfolk present goaded the one-hand man to leave their village and as the gathered soldiers did the same, Sorcha, still coming to grips with the ugliness of the scene, saw Grimm exiting the inn.

He noticed her directly as she was paused on the periphery of the group, and he marched directly at her.

"You don't need to see that," he said, putting his hand at the small of her back, compelling her to turn, and then leading her back the way she came. "A scrap of rubbish the MacKenzies will have removed in short order."

Sorcha went along with Grimm, less willingly than distractedly, until it dawned on her that she intended to go in the opposite direction. "No," she said, turning around again. "I was on my way to Effie's, to see what I could do for her."

"She's fine. I brought her myself to the Widow Agnes, who took her in hand," Grimm informed her. "I hadn't yet departed when three more matrons arrived, ready to lend support and aid."

"Oh," Sorcha said and allowed herself to be steered further along the lane and back home, knowing those matrons would not receive Sorcha kindly in their midst, even as her desire to see Ellie had been grounded in compassion.

Grimm dropped his hand after a few more steps. "Why are you not at home with your man?"

She panicked a bit, unprepared for the question, and what an honest answer would embarrassingly reveal; that she'd rejected Finn's advances and that he might have abandoned her because of it.

"He ah, he felt he needed to report to his immediate superior and um, confirm the length of his leave."

"Quite a shock you had," Grimm remarked mildly.

She snorted lightly. "Quite so. They just keep coming, so much upheaval."

"Hm. And yet, you're delighted with Finn's return, are you not?"

Sensing another question hidden under the one he voiced, Sorcha replied swiftly. "Of course."

Teasingly, Grimm posited, "Plenty of protectors you have now."

She cast a disapproving frown in his direction for what seemed a sardonic comment.

Grimm only grinned but sobered fairly quickly. "That makes my leavetaking less difficult, knowing you'll be safe—no matter whom you choose."

With the evidence of Augustus's cruelty only moments ago thrown in her face and because of her long-standing love for Finn, as compared to her emotions regarding Augustus—unexamined and so recent—Sorcha asserted starchily, "There is no choice. I love Finn. I had only ever dreamed that such a day might come. And yet here he is. My heart is full—but wait, what do you mean your leavetaking?"

Grimm stopped and faced her. "It's time for me to move on," he said.

"But why? Where?"

Another upheaval.

She'd been so grateful for the time spent together yesterday, when they'd waited above the crag while the MacKenzies had been about the unkind task of burying their dead. Her short-lived annoyance with Grimm had been superficial and she'd been so looking forward to enjoying his company even more than she already did, now returned to Caol and hopefully with all upheavals having been settled, for now being able to have conversation with him.

"But why?" Was all she could imagine to ask.

Grimm answered indirectly. "Sorcha, you are beautiful, brave, and clever, and whether you believe it or not, I always found your constant need to fill our silence with speech quite charming. I think, even without conversation, we got on very well together. I would have, and you know this, killed anyone who had harmed you. Your friendship is warm and comfortable, and what you provided me as far as relief and escape from my demons—for that I can never repay you. But there is another who holds my heart, whom I left...in an inexcusable fashion."

"And to her you will go?"

He nodded.

Sorcha smiled despite this fresh cause for grief. "That pleases me greatly." And it did, that he had someone to love, hopefully who loved him in return. "But Grimm, what kept you from her? Pray do not tell me you stayed away from her all this time merely to safeguard me? I will clobber you over the head with—"

His deep chuckle interrupted her growing exasperation.

"No, Sorcha, it was not you, but me that kept me away. And fear."

"Fear?"

"A man cannot fight as we do in this war, not with competence and success, without gathering some scars internally. I thought I shouldn't burden her with my demons, but..." he shrugged, a wee sheepish suddenly, "perhaps I'm hoping that she'll see me as you see the MacKenzie, beyond the fa?ade of warrior and all he must possess and exude to survive, down to the heart."

Sorcha blanched a bit but advised, "You cannot be compared to Augustus Grimm. I know your heart is good." She glanced back toward the inn, a hundred yards away, seeing that the crowd there had dispersed. "I think in his case, what has been said about the Rebel might actually be true."

"Do not judge him by that one piece of evidence, certainly when you have not the full story."

His quick and firm defense of Augustus surprised her.

"Sorcha, you understand why the legend needs to be fed, needs to be exaggerated, to strike fear in his enemies. Likewise you know—you know this—that the man and his legend are not the same person."

She said nothing, not sure that she did still believe that.

"Are you planning to leave soon?" She asked, pleased to change the subject.

"I am." His lips curved upward. "I meant to give you and Finn some time before I came to give my farewell."

Her eyes were suddenly awash in tears. "Will I ever see you again?"

"I have every confidence that you will," he said.

From where came this confidence she did not know.

"The MacKenzie has invited me into his army and to imagine a life at Strontian when we're not at war," he announced, revealing the justification behind his certainty.

Of course, his sureness was predicated on an apparent belief that she, too, would one day reside at Strontian.

"But you would fight against your own?" She thought to ask.

"I will for right," he answered simply, which did sound quite like something Augustus would say.

"So this is it," she concluded.

"It is for now."

Fearing that, despite his prediction, she would never see him again, Sorcha hugged him long and tightly. "Farewell, my friend. May God ever watch over you."

When they parted, and before Grimm turned and left her, he said gently, "Listen to your intuition, Sorcha. Think for yourself and of yourself, honestly, about which man is better suited to you and holds the true affection at the core of your heart."

And with that, he bowed courteously, pivoted on his heel and walked away.

Sorcha stared after him for a long moment, somehow not surprised about his insight into her turmoil.