Chapter Twenty-Two

Finn did not visit her until late in the day. They supped together, once more on the rabbit stew, sitting at the small table in the dreary light inside the cottage. She'd been thankful that he'd not come sooner, that she didn't have to explain her tears and desolation to him. She didn't ask what kept him away until so late an hour and it wasn't until much later that she frowned over what seemed only a half-hearted want to be in her company.

She painted on a bright smile and stared absently at him while he spoke, at her request for something to occupy them, of the daily routine of the army.

"Marching is all we do, Sorcha," Finn answered between spoonfuls. "Aye, and when we're nae doing that, we have drills, and patrol, and mundane chores and uninspiring meals."

He then went on, in long-winded fashion, about an occasion when he became lost while on routine patrol, only to stumble after more than an hour upon a familiar landmark, which allowed him to eventually find his way back to camp. Sorcha listened attentively, expecting the drawn out tale to contain some bit of excitement or misadventure, but it never did.

"Ye're nae yerself tonight," he commented soon after his tedious tale. "Ye've hardly said two words. I'll be leaving shortly, Sorcha, and I dinna ken that ye'll mind so much. Ye've given nae the welcome nor the homecoming I'd expected."

Guilt ripped through her.

"I'm sorry, Finn. I really am. I want to...but...." She swallowed thickly. "Finn, do you believe we are the same people we were when first we left Ballechen?"

He frowned, possibly at her unrelated question.

"The same person?" He repeated, a hint of incredulity in his tone. "Nae, I'm nae the same person. Jesu, Sorcha, ye have nae idea what I've been through, what I've seen. I'm nae more a lad, stumbling through life without purpose or direction."

She was taken aback by his last words but had no time to dwell upon them as Finn continued.

"Ye're nae the same either, I can see that."

No, she was not. Though her response was not the whole truth, it was a large part of it as well. "Just as you needed to become a different person to be a confident and capable soldier, Finn, so I had to adjust to being by myself. It was daunting," she admitted, and gave a short laugh. "And quite often, certainly in the beginning, I cried as much for your loss as I did out of fear."

"Aye, but it's different, Sorcha," Finn argued. "Ye face nae life and death battles, dinna have to worry when ye would eat next—or if ye would. Ye had the townsfolk to support ye and I told Murdo to keep an eye on ye."

Nodding, Sorcha acquiesced, even as none of that was true. "You're right. Of course, the two circumstances cannot be compared."

Finn took his leave shortly after, his good night stilted after he made no attempt to hold her or kiss her, for which she was thankful and then infused with shame for feeling that way.

She was mentally exhausted, completely drained, and yet sleep eluded her. She was riddled with fear—an odd certainty—that she'd made the wrong decision.

Yesterday, she'd decided that Finn was the better man, and thus the better choice, but it just didn't feel that way.

Once more, she was driven to compare her love for Finn to her feelings for Augustus.

She shared an undeniable history with Finn, a past filled with love, companionship, and shared dreams—or so she'd thought. His statement about stumbling through life without purpose or direction had struck her as dishonest, or at the very least misremembered. Plans and dreams, of which they'd had plenty, could not be likened to aimlessness.

Finn had been her escape from a stifling and unhappy home life, and their time together had held the promise of joy and freedom. Had it always been perfect? No. But what was?

Her heart ached at the memory of joy they once shared, and she did genuinely mourn his loss deeply when she believed him to be dead. But now, in his presence again, Sorcha found herself questioning both the depth and the authenticity of her feelings for Finn. Was her love authentic? Or had it merely been a product of duty and guilt? He rescued her from a life she despised, and the weight of that debt had often hung heavy on her conscience. Many times since she'd had word that Finn had fallen in battle, Sorcha had tortured herself with guilt that if they had not ever left Ballechen, Finn might still be alive. All of this created doubt, wondering if she'd been clinging to the idea of loving him out of obligation rather than true affection.

Her brain and heart wrangled with questions about guilt, obligation, and the true nature of love.

One thing she knew for certain. Finn had changed, as had she. Had they simply outgrown one another? Apart from his attempts to be intimate with her, he'd seemed almost disinterested in the prospect of spending time with her. True, her conflicted and lukewarm welcome—a shameful thing—likely served as a strong detriment.

In contrast, while her love for Finn was known and comfortable, even if it had risen from a place of guilt and a sense of obligation—her feelings for Augustus were unbridled, colored with the joy of hope.

But that had been before she'd encountered that scene in front of the inn, and the man with the severed hand. That man and his pitiful circumstance had reminded Sorcha of Augustus's reputation, how fierce and unkind he could be. She was sorry now that she'd not taken the opportunity of meeting Augustus in the forest to question him about that man and the loss of his hand.

And yet, a part of her knew, in the depths of her soul, that there had to be more to the story. Despite his reputation, her personal knowledge of Augustus didn't align with the idea of him callously and cruelly taking off a man's hand simply for the crime of poaching.

She frowned into the darkness.

Augustus was a good man. She knew that he was. She felt this truth deep in her bones.

He had the power to take her, unwilling, in the beginning, but he did not.

He brought her thatch for her roof and gloves for her hands.

He freed Grimm, a man unjustly imprisoned, and on her word alone.

He'd fought as a demon during that ambush in his efforts to keep her free from harm.

He wore that gruesome expression when he climbed up from the pass where they buried the dead, his sorrow monumental all that night.

He'd loved her tenderly, rousing passion as she'd never imagined.

Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to feel his presence, his strength, and the cherished memory of his kiss.

Listen to your intuition, Grimm had suggested. About which man is better suited to you and holds the true affection at the core of your heart.

Sorcha bit her lip.

Oh, but I've made a terrible mistake.

***

Sorcha rose with purpose the next morning and not without a great fear that she might be too late. Pray God that Augustus hadn't yet departed for Strontian. She would make the journey herself if she had to but would much rather do so in his arms. She was visited by and quickly squashed a niggling doubt that he might not want her. No, she'd witnessed up close the depth of his pain, glinting in his steely blue eyes when she'd told him she'd chosen Finn and not him; she'd felt the power of his kiss yesterday, and all the furious emotions attached to it.

Quickly, she threw on her léine and ran her bone comb through her hair before twirling her cloak around her shoulders and pulling open the door.

She started and came to an abrupt halt at discovering Finn there, walking up from the lane.

Her first instinct was to excuse herself and ask to speak with him later. She needed to tell him of her decision as well. But Finn smiled at the sight of her even as a fleeting look of surprise brightened his face and began speaking before she might have.

"I came to advise that we're leaving a day earlier now," he said. "King Robert wants to march come tomorrow's sun."

"Oh, I see." Drawing a deep breath, she stepped backwards and invited Finn inside. "Finn, I'm glad you're—"

"Och, Sorcha," he said as he entered the cottage, "ye have to hear this. It's all over Ironwood, all through the camp. Some ne'er-do-well from the MacKenzie stronghold found his way to Caol."

Sorcha held her breath at the mention of Strontian.

"The Rebel sliced off his hand and, get this, Sorcha, made him wear it round his neck. Jesu, but he's a monster, aye?"

Bristling at the falsehood, Sorcha opened her mouth to refute this.

Finn kept on going though. "The man is pathetic, I guess, naught but a miserable drunk these days." He snickered haughtily. "And what did he ken would happen? I understand the poaching, ?ave done it myself, but he attacked some lass, nae but ten and three they say, and the Rebel—"

"He assaulted a young girl? The poacher with one hand?"

"Aye, that's what was told. ?Tis said the Rebel did nae kill him outright because he had a wife and bairns to support. Apparently MacKenzie kent that losing a hand would render him incapable of assaulting another, but that he could still shepherd the herd as he did. That's what was told anyway. Soft, by my reckoning," Finn said. "The Rebel, that is, for nae killing him as he needed. Should've chopped off his bits as that's what brought him to Caol, or rather from Strontian. ?Tis said he attacked another lass—or tried to—and Strontian's bailiff banished him fer guid."

Sorcha's heart soared with relief. She'd known there had to be some explanation.

She would have chopped off something as well, if the choice had been hers, for the man's attack on one so innocent.

She did not challenge Finn about his conflicting assessment of Augustus, having called him a monster and soft in the space of a few seconds.

"But I told ye, did I nae, that the Rebel was too be avoided, Sorcha? Bad news, that one. Aye, I dinna mind fighting in his company, dinna get me wrong, for he's the devil inside a fight—save that I heard de Montfort trounced him easily, naught but a week ago, I hear. And what's so mighty about him now, beaten by de Montfort's militia? They are nae but—"

"It was an ambush," Sorcha interjected tersely. "The MacKenzies were caught inside a narrow pass and de Montforts men—more than twice in number—turned on them without provocation."

Finn scowled at her, possibly wondering from where she'd gotten her information.

"Anyhow," he said, shrugging, "I dinna think he's quite what his reputation describes."

"He's not," Sorcha stated. "He's gallant and honorable and brave beyond reason. And he—"

"How the hell would ye ken that?" He laughed.

"Because I know him," she confessed. While Finn's frown returned, she added with confidence, "And I love him."

Mother of God, but that felt good, to get that out, to acknowledge that truth.

Finn's mouth opened but no words came forth.

Swallowing, and reminded of her guilt and shame regarding Finn, Sorcha winced a bit. "I'm sorry, Finn. I know that because I had believed you dead I don't need to feel guilty about loving Augustus, but I want you to know if I hadn't believed you dead, I absolutely would not have betrayed our...commitment." Having recently questioned the validity of her affection for Finn, she couldn't bring herself to use the word love.

"What...? Sorcha, what are you saying? Do ye jest?"

Softening her voice, she confirmed, "No, Finn. I love Augustus. And I want to be with him."

"He raped ye? Is that what happened? And now ye believe ye—"

"No!" She was quick to clarify. "No, he most certainly did not. Nothing I did was against my will." While he stared at her, seemingly aghast, Sorcha reiterated, "I am very sorry, Finn."

Eventually, Finn shook himself from the stupor of his shock. "But ye canna go with him or be with him," he said, as much a statement as it was a question. "Ye'll wait here for me to return again."

"Oh, Finn," she breathed, awash in guilt once more. "I cannot—"

"Ye've lain with him?" Finn interjected.

Sorcha bit her lip and nodded, her heart breaking for the shock she'd visited upon him.

Finn puffed up his cheeks with air before blowing it out, his frown still in evidence.

"?Tis nae easy a transgression to forgive, Sorcha."

I don't need your forgiveness, Finn, she thought but did not say. She watched as Finn tried to comprehend the gravity of what he'd just learned. And grimaced a bit while there was a moment of quiet contemplation, during which lines etched across his forehead and his eyes darted back and forth, searching for clarity amidst what surely was the chaos of her startling news. This was followed by a subtle shift in his expression, what seemed a blending of acceptance and determination.

Sorcha lifted her brows, hope overcoming her that he understood what this meant.

"Ye canna be with him, though. Ye ken that. Ye're nae made to be the Rebel's leman, Sorcha. Ye'll stay with me. And aye, I can forgive ye as I assume ye will my own transgressions, though mine are likely easier to justify."

"Your transgressions?" Sorcha asked.

"?Tis a long time marching, Sorcha," Finn explained matter-of-factly, addressing the ground beneath them, "and aye, sometimes I found relief in the bed of another." His ensuing chuckle was both misplaced and offensive, as it preceded the confession, "Sometimes nae in a bed, but upon grass or hay." He glanced up at Sorcha and mayhap deciphered her quiet disbelief and outrage. "?Tis nae anything to fash about. They dinna mean anything to me. And here ye are, confessing the same thing, so...."

Her jaw dropped and she stared at him, with fresh eyes and not the lens she owned years ago.

Starchily, she inquired, "Did you believe me dead at the time, Finn?"

He frowned, not in anger but in confusion, possibly wondering why she would have thought that.

She had been firm and confident and happy in her decision to part with Finn, had been sure that not only was Augustus the better man, but the one who owned her heart. But this was quite agreeable, she decided, to have this additional justification behind her decision.

The very fact that shock was the foremost emotion at this moment—not pain or sorrow—confirmed what she'd already guessed: that her love for Finn was not what memory had proclaimed it to be.

"The house is yours, Finn," she said indifferently, his unfaithfulness allowing her more easily to put the matter to rest. Guilt would no longer be a part of her life in this regard. "Do with it as you like. I won't be here when you return." She didn't know yet what might become of the bees, though she knew that bees had the capability to survive for years, even centuries, without attendance. Ideally, she would be able to relocate the hives to Strontian.

And unless Augustus rejected her outright and harshly, she was going to Strontian, either with him or to wait for him.

"Ye're serious, are ye?"

"I am. I love you, Finn, as much as I am able, and I will forever cherish what we had together."

She was, frankly, a tiny bit surprised that he seemed to accept it as well as he did.

Shrugging, glancing out the open door as if he wished to be walking through it, Finn said, "I guess there's nae reason for me to return ever to Caol." Turning back to Sorcha, he theorized, "I found a sweet spot down near Glasgow, south of there, fine burgh it is, Renfrew. I might eventually find myself there."

Some intuition prompted her to ask, "A woman lives there? One who caught yer fancy?"

Finn hesitated but then nodded.

Sorcha smiled. "Mayhap we were both living in the past, tied to it by what we felt was obligation. You should have told me, Finn," she said gently, lightened by the removal of so much anxiety.

"Aye, I might have," he said. "Truth be told, Sorcha, if ye'd received me better, with more passion, I'd have been happy to keep ye."

Of course it was worded all wrong, nearly offensively, but Sorcha did not take issue with it. She did, however, remind him of something she'd not have borne. "But I wouldn't have endured your infidelity, Finn."

For a moment they stared at each other.

"I wish you well, Finn, in wherever you go."

"And ye, Sorcha. I dinna ken about a life for ye with the Rebel, but I ken yer mind and that ye're impossible to stop once ye set it to something."

They embraced warmly. Sorcha closed her eyes, a bit teary-eyed after all for this, what would be their final parting, though it was nothing compared to the raw pain what ripped through her yesterday when she'd embraced Augustus, fearing that was the last time she would ever touch him.

"Assuming he dinna yet ken of yer decision," Finn said when they broke apart, "I might suggest ye get a move on. The MacKenzies were gathering near the gates when I went by."

Sorcha's heart skipped a beat. She pecked a quick kiss on Finn's cheek and fled through the open door.

"Goodbye, Finn!" She called over her shoulder. "Stay safe!" She said, but her mind had already put him behind her.

She forced herself into a sprint, her mind racing with fright that she might already be too late, and ran as if her life depended on it, knowing that every second counted. Her heart pounded in her chest as she ran along the lane and then dashed up the heather-strewn knoll and pushed through the trees in the wooded vale until finally she burst upon the fields of Ironwood, the castle and wall visible now in the distance. She breathed raggedly and paused, trying to decipher what she saw, still so far away. There, just in front of the towering gates stood the MacKenzie unit, unsurprisingly small since Augustus had told her he would travel with only a dozen men. There they were, clad in their blue plaids and brandishing their targes. They were already in formation, was all she could make out from several hundred yards away.

With the surge of determination, Sorcha burst into another sprint, the fear of losing Augustus propelling her forward. Her shoes were sucked into the recently turned-over earth of the field, and she struggled to gain traction, losing time and momentum, until finally she simply discarded her shoes and ran barefoot.

To her dismay, a great distance remained between her and Augustus when the small force began to move, not to the south, which would have brought them much closer to her, but around the wall and toward the north.

"Augustus!" she cried out, her voice ringing with desperation as she fought to make herself heard across the distance. "Wait."

No one heard and she kept running, stumbling twice and having to put her hands into the moist dirt to prevent herself from landing on her face. The fact that the MacKenzie men were only walking along, that they hadn't broken into a canter or gallop did not seem to matter as she seemed never closer to them.

She screamed again, crying out only a loud noise, and raised her arms as she ran, scissoring them above her head.

Please see me.

Her chest heaved with exertion, but she kept moving, cutting the distance from the edge of the trees in half at the same time the last of the mounted soldiers turned the corner around the wall.

Sorcha stopped and fisted her muddy hands. With her feet planted wide, she tipped her face to the heavens and screeched his name. "Augustus!"

Breathless and hopeless, she sagged a bit and returned her gaze to Ironwood's wall. For one brief moment, it appeared that the last pair of soldiers, at the end of the wall and just near the corner, had noticed her or heard her. She squinted, trying to decide if they had paused and were looking in her direction. But she could not be sure and then they, too, disappeared from view, rounding the corner of the curtain wall.

Dismayed and dejected, Sorcha stared in anguish for another moment. And then she glanced down at her feet and toes, buried in four inches of mud. She considered her hands, caked with the same brown wet dirt.

Her heart sank and so did she, plopping gracelessly down onto her butt, with this brief defeat.

She would catch her breath, she decided, and begin immediately working on her plans to journey alone to Strontian.

While her lungs continued to protest her mad dash, Sorcha's heart broke, knowing Augustus had actually left her.

He had left her, hadn't fought for her heart.

Mayhap there was no reason to go to Strontian after all.

Oh, but there was. ?Twas not much that she owned, but she'd wager it all against Augustus's pride being the culprit, preventing him from fighting for her, for them.

The jangle of a harness, followed by her realizing the clopping sounds of a horse close by jerked her from her reverie. She closed her eyes in despair, imagining she was about to be confronted by one of the crofters and given a scolding for clomping through their runrig. Or possibly one of the king's guard, about patrol, wondered what she was doing, nearly encased in mud.

She lifted one dirty hand and held it above her head and gave a single wave. "I'm fine. Everything is fine."

"Ye dinna look it."

Sorcha startled and turned. But the horse was so close that all she saw was it's head and not the rider in the saddle.

Augustus?

She tried to stand, to hop to her feet, but was prevented from doing so by the grasping mud.

"Sweet Mother of God," she blasphemed gruffly, forced to turn onto all fours.

A hand appeared under her arm and hauled her to her feet.

On her feet, she pushed the wayward hair out of her face, unknowingly leaving a swath of mud along her brow, and glanced into a pair of perfect blue eyes.

"What are you—" she stopped and turned back toward Ironwood. There was no sign of his army, none at all. She faced Augustus again, too witless with hope and jolted by confusion to suffer any anxiety at the moment over her appearance. "But I just saw you leave," she accused, pointing her finger over her shoulder toward the keep.

"Ye saw the lads of the unit leave," he informed her.

His fierce gaze searched every inch of her face, piercing and probing in its intensity.

Sorcha's heart skipped a delicious beat as she returned his thorough scrutiny. She would never not be captivated by his face, all those broad angles and sharp lines coming together to form so handsome a visage.

Blinking, she was returned to awareness.

"What are you—why are you not with your men, going to Strontian?" Frankly, she was just befuddled enough that it was implausible that hope stood a chance of developing.

"Ye first, lass. Why do ye go barefoot through the muck and screech my name across the fields?"

"I was trying to reach you...before you left," she finished weakly.

"For what purpose?" He asked, his scowl heavy.

?Twas not the conditions she'd imagined—or rather she hadn't actually plotted out what might happen if she'd reached him in time and was able to have her say—so that she spoke from the heart, even as a huge awkwardness struck her.

"I meant to beg you to take me with you to Strontian."

"Did ye?" He asked, giving nothing away as far as his reaction; his scowl did not ease.

Sorcha nodded jerkily.

"Yesterday ye said you had to be with Finn," he reminded her shortly.

"I know," she said and bowed her head, shame filling her for how she'd doubted the truth, what she felt for Augustus.

He said nothing until she lifted her gaze again to him.

"How did ye plan to convince me?"

"What?"

"What did ye plan to say?"

Finally, his scowl departed, as his brow rose in expectation.

Ah, he wanted an allocution.

Clearing her throat, Sorcha lifted her chin and boldly stated what she knew to be true.

"I planned to tell you I was wrong and that I love you. I love you, Augustus."

He listened and watched her but said nothing.

"You're angry—hurt, more likely," she rushed out. "I would be, too. It seemed...well, you didn't stop me when I went with Finn."

"Ye dinna want to be stopped."

"Oh, but I did." Deep down, beyond the shock of Finn's return, she'd wanted Augustus to speak up. "I love you," she repeated, forcing out more words to convince him of her heart. "For me at least," she said and tapped her muddy fist against her chest, "for me can you set aside your intractable pride for one moment? For this moment? You do love me. I saw it in your eyes when Finn came, it was there beside the heartbreak. I know you love me. And you will probably holler at me not to tell you what you think or feel. And I will say that I have to; if you won't acknowledge it, then I must."

"And what of your man?" He asked through clenched teeth.

"Finn is not my man. I told him so only this morning. He's not...you. I seem to understand finally what life ought to be—what love ought to be! I'm no longer afraid, or making decisions based on fear or guilt or—I love you. I'm going with you," she announced with grit, unwilling to be cast aside. She let no silence sit between her words, too fearful that his continued fierce expression meant that she might have, unbelievably, misread every blessed look and touch and kiss. "You invited me to Strontian. You wanted me there, and so I'm going, either with you or—wait, but why are you not with the men going to Strontian now?"

Completely devoid of any softening, his response came in a level and mild tone, utterly at odds with the heart-melting content of his answer.

"I'll be catching up with them," he answered. "I went by yer place, intending to compel or cajole or simply abduct ye."

Sorcha opened her mouth and stared at him, the meaning behind his words washing over her, flooding her heart with lightness and joy, and an overwhelming sense of relief.

Though she was layered in dirt and standing barefoot in a field, her toes cold now under the mud, and though the sky was overcast, the world around her seemed to shimmer with newfound brightness.

Keeping a smile at bay, as he had done, she boldly inquired, "And you? What had you intended to say to me?"

His slowly evolving grin was uncharacteristically mischievous, a beautiful sight to behold.

"Naturally, my plea would have been stated succinctly: Ye belong with me, Sorcha."

Reawakened to vitality, Sorcha grimaced a bit in mock dissatisfaction. "Um, I think you would have said that you love me."

"I might have," he teased. "We'll never ken."

"Why did you make me suffer just now? Dragging out of me all that begging and giving me not one hint in your expression that you felt the same way?"

"I dinna do it intentionally, love, but aye, I was weighing your statements against what ye said yesterday, which was the exact opposite. I needed to ken it's what is true inside ye."

"Do you doubt me now? Still?"

"I dinna doubt ye love me, Sorcha. I questioned whether your guilt would allow ye to express it or embrace it."

They hadn't touched yet, save for when Augustus brought her to her feet. They stood nearly two feet apart.

"It feels good, doesn't it?" Sorcha asked.

"What's that? The mud between yer toes?"

"All questions answered," she corrected. "All doubt erased."

"There was nae doubt in my mind, lass. I told ye I wanted ye at Strontian. That has nae changed."

"Will you take me in your arms now?"

"Are ye stuck, that ye canna launch yerself at me? I rather had that in mind, as to what yer reaction would be."

"Oh, I want to," she assured him, smiling broadly, charmed that he'd envisioned such a thing. "Alas, I am actually stuck."

Grinning widely, Augustus stepped forward and wrapped her in his strong arms, plucking her out of the mud as he lifted her off her feet.

Nose to nose, he said somberly, "I love ye, Sorcha. I dinna see it coming, and I'm not sure exactly—I've nae ever felt like this. It will take some getting used to."

"I look forward to discovering love—and everything—with you, Augustus."

"Aye, we've a lifetime to indulge in it."

Warm in his embrace and the promise of his love, Sorcha asked, "Would you really have abducted me?"

He kissed her long and luxuriously before he answered. She was breathless and yearning when he pulled his lips from hers.

"I am the Rebel, lass," he said, a devilish gleam in his blue eyes. "Aye, I would have."

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The End