Chapter Twenty-One

"I remember all those weeks it took for us to thatch this roof originally," Sorcha called up from the bottom of the ladder.

"I dinna recall," Finn sent downward.

Glancing upward, she saw only his boots and legs and a compacted view of his torso, arms, and head as he stood at the top of the ladder.

"You don't remember?" Sorcha challenged. "Finn, it took us nearly a week to gather all the straw, and another for it to dry, and you an entire fortnight, working nonstop to complete the roof."

"I mean, aye, I recall that I thatched the roof," he said, a wee breathless for his labors up there. "But nae more than that."

"Don't you remember," she pressed, "we prayed the rain would hold off until it was complete, but of course it did not. We woke one night when only half the roof was done, and rain was patting us on the face. We had to move the cot to the other side of the cottage, under the finished section."

The speed of his response suggested little thought given to the memory evoked. "I dinna remember that."

"Oh."

This was either sad or curious, or mayhap both. It was odd as well, in her estimation, considering that she'd tucked away and cherished every minute detail of their time together. Chewing her lip, she wondered if the harrowing nature of war meant that Finn had been induced to bury his sweet memories even deeper and thus they were lost to consciousness.

He'd been back for two days now. Frankly, she was still reeling from his return, both joyously and guiltily.

Two days ago, after he'd fled the cottage only moments after they'd entered, he'd not returned until the evening, saying he'd had a hard time tracking down his immediate commander. He'd been told he had leave so long as the king's army remained garrisoned at Ironwood, which Robert Bruce had since assumed for his own use.

"Willna be long, though," Finn had said then. "The king has plans to lay siege to the castle at Ayr, where the English commander, Pembroke, has made his camp."

Though he seemed to be—was, Sorcha was certain—genuinely happy to see her, that happiness appeared to be attached to his hope to renew their intimacy. When he'd returned that evening, he'd tried again to kiss her. And though it pained her enormously to deny him—Finn, to whom she'd freely and happily given so many kisses—she had again pushed him away, having yet to come to terms with the sense of betrayal she felt at the very idea, in regard to Augustus.

She simply could not bring herself to return Finn's affection, having met and adored the expertise of Augustus's loving, and hardly able to bear the knowledge that Finn's very rudimentary and sometimes fumbling attention could not compare. However, she hadn't resisted Finn's advances merely because memories of his lovemaking did not stir in her that same breathless excitement as did the memory of being loved by Augustus. She simply—and selfishly—didn't want the perfection of her night with Augustus to fade by taking Finn to her bed. She wanted to hold onto that memory for as long as she could, until she could no more.

Finn had received this blow poorly—childishly, in her mind.

"Might well ?ave stayed with my mates, if that be the case," he'd said.

Shortly thereafter, he'd announced he would leave.

"You won't stay with me?" She'd challenged. "Because I won't lie with you yet?"

Finn had shaken this off. "Nae, Sorcha, but I was instructed I must return to my unit each night." And so he did, departing her company after spending naught but an hour with her.

Petulance of that sort was rare but not wholly unknown to her. In truth, however, she'd carefully cleaved that and other small, disconcerting traits of his from the trove of her memories over the last twelve months.

And yet the tears she'd shed that first night were not for Finn, either in gladness for is return or for how awkward they were and what a stranger he seemed to her. Tears she'd shed that first night were for having to abandon what had blossomed so wondrously between her and Augustus, for the knowledge that never again would his strong arms enfold her, never again would his kiss ravish her.

She'd woken, not well-rested and her mood scarcely improved.

Despite this, yesterday had been quite nice. Finn had come in the early afternoon and had stayed with her most of the day. For a while it was as if he had never left. They'd visited the woodland apiary, and she showed him the damage from the storm. Though Finn expressed neither great sadness nor any desire to discuss how they might rebuild and even expand, as they'd always dreamed of doing, Sorcha was sure he was pleased to revisit the hives and to spend time with her. And yet, he had changed, she decided, not unexpected for what he might have seen and done in the last year. He frowned more and spoke less, and sometimes stared at her blankly, as if he saw through her or was seeing something else rather than her.

He"d spoken of some of his experiences in war, from the very beginning, his first battle, and how terror had filled him. She might have said, Yes, I know all about it, but did not. She could not quite fathom what reason compelled her to withhold her own recent initiation to war, but shook herself free of this concern and concentrated on Finn's accounts.

"We met a gruesome battle at Methven," Finn had said, plucking a long blade of grass from where they'd sat in the sunny glade of the ruined apiary. "The king invited Pembroke then to meet him in battle. From beyond the walls, Pembroke declined, sayin' it was too late in the day and dawn would serve them better." He frowned down at the grass in his hand, attempting to tear the long strip in two from top to bottom. "?Twas naught but a few hours later when we were yet erecting the camp and some were out foraging and others, they were already knee-deep into preparing their meals when Pembroke and his force broke through the trees. Christ, outnumbered us three to one, we guessed." He harrumphed, recollection making him silent for a moment. He threw aside two pieces of grass, split perfectly down the middle. "I was taking a leak at that moment. I dinna ken what to do, just dropped to the ground behind the brush, and rolled off to one side until I was hidden deeper. Och, but Sorcha, the screams all around, the sound of metal striking flesh and bone, the way a horse squeals like a hog when it's been struck." He shrugged helplessly at the same time he shook his head. "I covered my ears, couldnae stand it, the madness, watching as my own mates were slain, some nae more than a dozen feet away, those that ran from camp."

Sorcha said not a word. She was torn between heartfelt compassion for how terrifying that must have been, literally caught with his breeches down and overrun by an army thrice the size of his, and a certain disappointment that Finn had hid himself, watching men die that he might have saved.

But surely, she justified, he would have perished himself if he'd announced his presence in any way to the enemy.

However, there was no way she could resist comparing this behavior to that of Augustus, who had fought valiantly at Ashgill's pass and had only fled the immediate scene—after killing as many as he did who'd attacked him—because she'd been with him. My God, how he'd battled, she thought.

Unless I am slain, Sorcha, Augustus proclaimed shortly before the ambush, I vow that ye will live.

When the roof repairs were complete, Finn went off for a while, in search of some small game out of which to make a meal. Sorcha remained inside the cottage, using what remained of her barley and oats, which she procured from Ironwood's priest's glebe, the strip within the open fields maintained by the church, and for which she bartered using beeswax and honey, the latter which Father John proclaimed he could not eat his morning bannock without. She made a small loaf of bread and foraged within sight of her cottage for mushrooms and nuts to add to the pottage she'd started fresh upon her return.

Together, Sorcha and Finn enjoyed a fine stew, including the long-legged hare that Finn had brought and the addition of an onion, gotten from where Finn would not say. Mayhap the army had stores to which the soldiers could help themselves, she guessed, hoping that in reality, Finn had not pilfered the stores of another peasant as he'd sometimes been known to do, a habit Sorcha had been trying to break him of.

He talked more of places he'd been and people he'd met and for a little while seemed more the Finn she'd known and loved and less the stranger that had first returned to her. And yet, when evening came, she almost dreaded that he might attempt once more to share their bed and knew a profound relief, though it was tangled with guilt, when he announced his intention to return to camp without making any advances.

That night she sat on the side of the narrow cot, her hands on either side of her while she soaked her feet in a basin. Dressed in only her shift, having moments ago bathed the rest of herself, she pulled the torn hem of her shift into her lap. Absently, her finger traced over the uneven edges, hardly able to credit that it had been but days ago since she'd made the tear herself and bandaged Augustus's injury.

Try as she might, she couldn't stop thinking about Augustus.

And yet as she yearned for him, she was riddled with guilt. She was being fickle, she told herself harshly, arguing within that it was Finn she loved, and had loved for years since he'd been the beekeeper at Ballechen and she the daughter of its lord. The truth was, as difficult as it was to consider, that Finn was so much better as a memory than he was in reality.

Shaking her head, Sorcha knew that was not precisely true. More precisely, she began to wonder after having spent a few days intermittently with him, if her love for Finn had been greater in her lonely recollection than when it lived between them. Possibly, his supposed death had elevated her love to mythic proportions. Had her love for him and the effect on her heart been perfected in the embrace of memory?

The issue was, as she saw it, that he stirred in her no great and tumultuous emotion. Her heart did not beat with the thrill of anticipation at his touch, her eyes did not follow every move he made, she did not stop and stare in wonder at a smile from him, there was no spark of longing deep within her soul when she looked in his eyes.

Had there ever been?

Frowning abruptly, she pushed the hem of her shift down over her legs.

"No," she told herself. "No. I love Finn. I do."

She reminded herself of the differences between Finn and Augustus where the former clearly rose above the other in terms of suitability. Augustus, the Rebel, was cruel and merciless, killed with an ease that was alarming, and was often brooding and formidable. She remembered how thoroughly intimidated she'd been when she'd first laid eyes on him.

Finn was exactly the opposite. He was steady and true, a gentle soul who apparently did not relish the killing. They shared a beautiful history together. He was neither cruel nor merciless.

The inner struggle raged on within Sorcha, tearing at her heart and pounding in her head. Pitted against the familiar, comforting love she held for Finn—as she convinced herself it was, it must be—was the newfound allure of Augustus, a man whose enigmatic presence intrigued, entranced, and titillated her. She was caused to wonder if her fascination bordered on obsession, or if such devotion to a man as stoic and unyielding—and possibly as cruel as the rumors portrayed—was not, indeed, simply foolish or in fact, crazy.

She might have cried all night, her head and heart at war, but it occurred to her that possibly it was all for naught, her wrestling with indecision about her feelings for Finn versus Augustus.

In all likelihood, she had overestimated her own worth in Augustus's eyes. Mayhap he didn't want her. He hadn't challenged her leaving with Finn, hadn't said one word.

And he hadn't come for her since, as she'd fully expected that he would, demanding that she belonged to him.

***

Three days later, after the arrival of the king—and the return of Sorcha's true love—Augustus rode with Robert Bruce and a small retinue about the demesne of Ironwood, wanting to examine the entire holding and all it entailed. The king had confiscated Ironwood for the Scottish monarchy, and would, as was customary, entrust it to one of the nobles who had remained or had proven faithful to him and his wearing of the crown.

"I would gladly put it in your hands," said the king to Augustus as they rode, "and will do so, if you would consider coming down from your mountains up there at Strontian. I would appreciate a good warden for Caol, one loyal and true as you have proven with such distinction."

"I am honored that you would consider it, sire," Augustus acknowledged proudly. "But I happen to like those mountains—"

"And the distance between them and other society?"

"Aye, and that, too. Strontian is home, sire, and there I will abide when comes the end of war."

"God willing, sooner rather than later," Robert Bruce said with steadfastness.

In truth, the prospect of becoming lord of Ironwood filled Augustus with a deep-seated unease, one he struggled to articulate. On the surface, and as he'd said, his refusal to accept so generous an offering was a matter of an allegiance to his Highland fortress. Beneath his refusal, however, lurked a more poignant truth: the thought of residing in Caol, with Sorcha so near but out of his reach, belonging to another, was a torment he dared not consider. The mere thought of seeing her with another man and possibly having to witness her affection for Finn, a love he suspected surpassed anything she could ever feel for him, was a wound he was not brave enough to risk.

They rode on, through the village and over fields recently planted, along the river that emptied into the loch, and through the forest. The king commented on the fine quality of the soil, the sorry state of the mill, and the density of the forest, remarking that there was suitable timber available for cutting.

What more he might have added to that last statement was forestalled by one of the king's guard giving a curt and abbreviated whistle to alert all that something was either suspicious or unknown, warranting investigation.

As the small party came to a halt inside the forest, all noise of their making ceased until only the whisper of softly rustling leaves and occasional birdsong were heard.

With a furrowed brow, Augustus scrutinized the area all around and attuned his ears. It took only a few seconds to realize what had given the guardsman pause.

It wasn"t just birdsong nearby; there was another voice singing. The sound, melodious and clear, carried through the forest with a gentle cadence. It echoed softly among the trees and yet carried a warmth that was evident and raised the king's brow. Had it not been for the king's presence, Augustus might have closed his eyes and listened to her sweet song.

Sorcha apparently was at her apiary, the storm-damaged one, which was fairly close to where they stood.

"Stand down," he said to the watchful guards. And to the king, Augustus said, "?Tis the beekeeper, sire. Sorcha Reid. Ye met her the other day when she was reunited with her man, long-believed dead."

"Ah, yes, the beauty with the luminous blue eyes," the king recalled. He studied Augustus thoughtfully while he listened to Sorcha's singing, and they had yet to move. "Hm. If her presumed-dead lover had not returned, would you then have considered my offer of Ironwood and this earldom?"

Though affairs of the heart had no place in any conversation with the king, not now when his reign was so precarious, Augustus shook his head and said honestly, "I would have taken her to Strontian with me."

Robert Bruce studied Augustus a moment more before pulling on the reins and turning his horse around, though he remained close to Augustus's side.

"I've seen all I need to see of the estate and have matters to attend inside Ironwood's keep, messages to send," said the king. "We will return, the guards and I, but you, Augustus, should visit with the beekeeper—who clearly owns the voice of one of God's angel, I trow." The king drew closer and lowered his voice ever-so-slightly. "More remarkable than her reunion with her lover was the pain etched on your face at the same time," he said. "Advise her of your imminent departure, Augustus, and make a proper farewell, my friend. Pray do not leave and regret that you hadn't done so."

He nodded and within seconds, the king and his men had melded into the trees.

Augustus sat a moment more, debating if he would truly approach Sorcha in her apiary. Like as not, the man Finn would be with her. With so limited a time and with so much to celebrate and renew, Augustus imagined that the man had barely left her side.

His nostrils flared at the very thought.

Of course he teemed with tortured emotions, none of which he wanted to either name or investigate. But aye, the king wasn't far off the mark. Though Augustus was fairly certain he'd never had a broken heart, and that he hadn't ever suffered pain at the loss of affection from any woman, he supposed that the king's description of what he'd seen on his face three days ago was apt. He'd felt as if all the air had been sucked out of his lungs, and all promises of joy had been cleaved from the realm of possibility in those moments.

Geddy had goaded him later, unintentionally Augustus was sure, but had riled him all the same, wondering almost verbatim what Augustus initially had. "That's what she'd been mooning and mourning? All those bluidy songs twisting my heart and what? They'd been sung for that one and he looks to have nae more than a score of years under his belt, naught but a downy chin of hair? Ye mean to tell me he's man enough for her? That one, and he's nae wide enough to bless himself, and I dinna ken how he might keep her safe." The captain had snorted, the sound harsh and unflattering for the opinion attached to it.

Augustus sighed with distaste. And yet, it was what it was—and it was, he'd since decided, likely for the best.

He knew what he was: brooding, proud, fierce, often unyielding, and unable to distinguish love and all its softness from weakness. He had long maintained that love was a vulnerability he could not afford, one that might compromise his strength and effectiveness.

Sorcha, he determined, needed qualities that likely Finn could and had provided, emotional support or tenderness, things he struggled to express or show. She was better off with Finn, he told himself for the hundredth time, having fully convinced himself that he was acting in her best interest. His greatest desire was Sorcha's happiness and well-being, and it was only gut-wrenchingly unfortunate that to have those things meant it would be with someone else, and that his own desires would be squashed.

For one fleeting moment, he wished he was not the man he was, nor the legend he'd allowed to grow. But nae, ?twas dangerous, such thoughts. As it was, a small part of him already had wondered if the force behind his feelings for Sorcha had the potential to destabilize his carefully constructed identity or disrupt the control he fiercely maintained over his emotions and actions—as was already proven by how ungovernable to himself he'd become since first he'd set eyes on Sorcha.

Moreover, he reminded himself of his duty, to be at the king's side, in an uphill battle where the peak was not yet in sight. Or, in this case, as the king had made his wishes known yesterday, Augustus would not immediately be at the king's side but working on his behalf.

Make a proper farewell, the king had advised.

Straightening himself in the saddle, Augustus moved forward, toward the clearing and the apiary, realizing that she'd stopped singing. He hadn't far to go, he knew, but sped up a bit, hoping he hadn't missed his opportunity.

He found her standing in the middle of the glade, garbed in the familiar worn blue cloak, curiously faced in his direction and wearing an expression of arrested wariness.

The lad, Finn, was not in attendance of Sorcha, or not seen at the moment.

Though his heart quickened at the sight of her, a wave of concern washed over Augustus, fueled by her apparent unease.

"Sorcha?" He questioned, dismounting swiftly and covering the short distance between them easily with his long strides. "What causes your distress?"

Her fa?ade softened as he approached, the visible apprehension evaporating.

She was quick to ease his mind. "No, nothing. Nothing. I heard your horse, but I didn't know who came. It's fine. It's you."

"Oh," he said, with a great lack of cleverness. And words continued to evade him as he stared at her, realizing he was unlikely to ever see her again. His heart clenched in anguish at the idea and time seemed to slow to a crawl as he desperately tried to commit to memory every detail of her exquisite features.

Her fair golden locks, kissed by the sun, cascaded in waves over her narrow shoulders, framing a face so achingly perfect that he hoped forever its image was burned in his brain. But in truth, ?twas her eyes he would remember most, for they had captivated him from the start. Presently, they were mesmerizing pools of azure as she returned his silent regard.

Her gaze sparkled with a depth of emotion that stirred his very core, as if she too were aware that this would be the last time they would meet.

Clearing his throat, by no means anxious to become mawkish, he scowled at her and announced the reason for his presence.

"A farewell is due between us," he said. "The king and his army—your man included—will abide at Ironwood for a few more days before they head south. I and a dozen of my men will be returning briefly to Strontian at the king's behest. He is hoping that with his most recent triumph over Pembroke, and with Longshanks' health rumored to be perilous, that I might be able to gather a large force from some of the previously foot-dragging Highland clans."

"Oh," she said, every bit as unclever as he.

He assumed that this new distress was centered around having to bid farewell to Finn again. Likely she would be worried that another notice of death might come and that it would be real.

"The larger the army is, Sorcha," he advised, meaning to put her mind at ease, "the safer he will be."

"You are leaving," she said, ignoring his assurance and sounding a wee breathless. "First north and then south, to join the king and fight more battles."

He nodded, a bit confused by what seemed a fresh worry in her.

He knew not what else to say, though so much was left unsaid between them. And so it would remain.

Pride, of course, would not allow him to ask her to choose him, to come with him, or to wait for him. Still, as mighty as was his pride, he had to fight furiously to refrain from voicing the request.

Sorcha, too, seemed equally tongue-tied. After their initial long and melancholy stare, she'd spent the next little while darting glances at him, sharing her gaze with the hands she fidgeted with at her waist, as if she, too, were loath to take her leave, likely understanding as he did they would never see each other again.

Until Sorcha's gaze settled at length on him, and she whispered brokenly, "I'm so sorry, Augustus. I don't know what...if any hope you might have"—she stopped and shook herself rigidly. And then she started again. "I'm sorry this happened. Not Finn's return, of course, but that it happened...when it did and how it did, when we had barely...."

She did not finish but bit her lip and glanced again at her hands.

"Are you sorry for me or for you?"

He believed this an appropriate and justified question.

Even as her gaze lifted swiftly and her brow knit at the question, she wilted before him, her shoulders sagging. "I'm sorry for us."

He stared at her with a diligent gaze, trying to see what was unveiled in her face, and leave off reading her through his emotions, all of which were negative. The genuine distress glimpsed could not then be overlooked.

And aye, there'd been hope, and it rose again to the surface now.

If she were torn, could he convince her? He couldn't with words, having not the foggiest notion what might need to be said, having never once in his life begged for anything.

But a kiss perhaps. A kiss would remind her of their passion, might very well persuade her to choose him.

Abruptly, he moved, closing the gap between them. He was sure he appeared pitifully in need of her but did not care. He hauled her up against his chest, caged her within his arms, and captured her mouth and her startled gasp with a kiss of possessive greed. His hands swept over her tantalizing curves as he pressed his tongue inside her mouth, wanting to taste her.

Her resistance was tiny and lackluster and swiftly abandoned. Sorcha clutched at him, pressing against him with a whimper of delight, opening herself to him.

He kissed her as if he were starving and she responded ardently, as if she meant to nourish him.

For one glorious moment, his heart soared. In that time she melted against him as she had so beautifully before, she slid her tongue hungrily between his teeth and tasted him, and she molded her soft body to his. For that moment, she was his. For a moment her arms were wrapped around his shoulders but too soon, they lowered and wriggled between him and her. She pushed at his chest until he was forced to break the kiss.

Tears clouded her eyes as she pushed against him. His face twisted with raw fury for her conflicting actions.

"No," she pleaded. "No, please. Finn is back. I'm with Finn now...again."

All sense of restraint dissolved, gone in a flash. With the feel of her kiss and her equally desperate response so fresh, and the mention of her lover's name, jealousy and rage were unleashed.

"If he put his hands on you, I'll—"

"He is my husband," Sorcha contended hotly through her tears, her voice raised.

"He is nae yer husband," Augustus shot back hoarsely, "nae any more than I am. Did ye lay with him?"

Ah, Christ, why did he utter those words!

While he still held her arms, not allowing her to escape completely, Sorcha dropped the top of her head against his chest. Her hands remained there as well, her fingers splayed out above his stomach. Her shoulders shook with sobs, though she made no noise.

Mechanically, he moved his hand from her arm and slid it around her back, holding her close, drawing in a deep and tortured breath as he stared above her, into the trees, waiting for her tears to subside.

"I did not," she said after a full minute had passed. Another cry came. "I could not," she wept. "I didn't want it to weaken the memory of being in your arms."

Augustus closed his eyes and fought against all emotions while in the depths of his being, a storm raged.

He gathered Sorcha closer and held her tenderly.

"But ye will remain his?"

Another sob shuddered through her. Now fully in his embrace, with her cheek pressed against him, she nodded.

"I have to be with Finn."

"And what we shared?"

"Was...very special but—"

His noxious curse quieted her.

"Dinna pawn me off with such rubbish," he demanded severely even as he did not let her go.

And Sorcha did not immediately push to be freed. Her hands grasped at the fabric near his waist.

"My heart is broken, Augustus," she whispered in a small voice.

For the life of him, he could not bring himself to admit the truth, that his was as well.

It took another few moments for Sorcha to calm herself. He felt her draw in long, measured breaths, felt the rapid beat of her heart begin to slow.

She tipped her face up to him, her eyes shimmering with moisture, while her cheeks were wet with tears. The tip of her nose was red.

Gently now she pushed away.

And he let her go.

When she stood a few feet removed from him, she met his gaze and gave him a bittersweet smile, the last he would have from her.

"Be a good man, Augustus," she said.

While he stared, lifeless, she turned and walked away.