Chapter Three

Sorcha lay in the cool, tall grass, feeling a little drained and melancholic, more so than usual. She watched as the bees swooped and swayed overhead, their hives situated nearby. At the house that Finn had built for her, she still maintained the original colonies of bees that Finn had established when they first arrived in Caol. Finn had constructed a shelter of sorts—a frame consisting of a long wooden bench with a roof made of wood and thatch. This shelter had been placed against an existing garden wall, the only remnant of the former inhabitants of the site. Positioned just west of due south, Finn believed this would protect the hives from the east wind and allow the setting sun to warm them.

The bee bole, Finn had called the protective structure. It held a dozen skeps, and housed thousands of bees, and in the evening, when the sun was golden before it disappeared, and nature's dust motes danced in the air, Sorcha liked to lay there and enjoy the peace wrought, remarkably, by witnessing the never-ending industry of the bees.

In the silence, Sorcha caught the faint sound of Grimm"s approach, the quiet swish of his large feet moving through the tall grass. As he drew nearer, she felt his presence, a gentle thud against the ground signifying his arrival. Blocking the sun, he loomed over her, a nightly ritual that always ended with the same unspoken question: Would they venture into town and visit the alehouse?

With a shake of her head, Sorcha declined, offering no explanation. She knew she didn"t owe Grimm any justification; he never pressed her for one. Though the tall grass obscured her view, she imagined Grimm settling down nearby. Perhaps, like her, he sought solace in the stillness, a moment for quiet reflection.

After a while, Sorcha couldn"t resist breaking the silence. "Don"t you ever feel the urge to speak?" she ventured, her curiosity piqued. She knew Grimm was capable of making sounds—chuckles and grunts had punctuated their shared moments—so why not speech?

Not surprisingly, there was no response.

Sorcha sighed, her frustration evident. She often sought answers to her many questions about Grimm, only to be met with his steadfast silence. Some days, more than others, this disturbed her, his refusal to enlighten her. And on a day such as today, when she feared her own melancholy would smother her or choke her, she found herself unable to accept his silence. Slightly miffed, she remarked pertly, "You could at least tell me your real name." When her request was met with yet more silence, she supposed, "Perhaps it's something awful like Mordred or...or Dagda, and Grimm is the preferable alternative." Only a second later, she relented. "Apologies, Grimm. I find myself in a sour mood, but I shouldn't take that out on you." She flopped her arms in the grass above her head.

Moments later, Sorcha was startled by Grimm"s sudden reappearance, his looming figure casting a shadow over her once more. His face was etched with anxiety as he swiftly extended his hand towards her. Though taken aback by his urgency and the stern expression on his face, Sorcha refrained from questioning him. Instead, she placed her hand in his, and with a swift motion, he pulled her to her feet.

She glanced around but found no sign of any immediate threat. Grimm, turning his back to her, swiftly maneuvered her behind him by extending his hand and prodding at her hip, urging her to move to the left.

"What—?" she began, but her words trailed off as she then heard the approaching sound of horses. While it wasn't uncommon for people to seek out the beekeeper, the arrival of a horde of mounted riders was highly unusual.

Sorcha instinctively grasped onto Grimm"s arm, hoping to see around him, but he shook her off with little regard for gentleness. It was then that she noticed his fingers wrapped around the hilt of the dagger tucked into his belt.

Taking a step further to the left, Sorcha peered around Grimm"s broad back and shoulder, careful not to make physical contact with him.

Her eyes widened at the sight before her. A group of a dozen men, mounted on towering destriers, made their way toward her and Grimm. Such grand steeds were a rarity in Caol, and Sorcha couldn"t help but feel a sense of unease.

The men were draped in deep blue plaids, their silhouettes contrasting sharply against the fading light of the setting sun. Golden sunlight glinted off the gleaming long swords and metallic components of the harnesses.

Sorcha"s gaze was drawn to and lingered on the imposing figure of the man at the forefront of the group, unmistakably their leader. His severity of countenance sent a shiver down her spine. Short chestnut hair, with an intriguing touch of gray at the temples framed a chiseled jawline while striking blue eyes locked onto her, even as she remained tucked safely behind Grimm"s protective stance. The man's frank stare unnerved her, the intensity of his gaze causing her heart to quicken its pace.

As he reined in his mount within a few yards of Sorcha and Grimm, the sinewy muscles of his arms flexed beneath the fabric of his tunic, a silent demonstration of his strength. He exuded a commanding presence that left Sorcha feeling both captivated and anxious.

Despite her apprehension, Sorcha found herself unable to tear her gaze away from him, not even to evaluate any other man in his company or to assess any potential threat they might pose. Instead, she remained fixated on the leader, her heart pounding in her chest as his penetrating gaze bore into her. There was a calculated intensity to his scrutiny, a deliberate assessment that sent a chill down her spine. Slowly, methodically, his eyes roamed over her face, as if dissecting her. It was a silent interrogation, a wordless exchange of power and dominance that left Sorcha feeling exposed and vulnerable.

He sat high above her, garbed in his fine breacan and a fierce warrior's mien, a long sword hanging comfortably at his side, its metal sheath dull with age and, she guessed, by constant use.

Refusing to be intimidated, not by the obvious intentions of this stranger to unsettle her, Sorcha took a deliberate step to her left, exposing herself more. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin defiantly.

"It is customary," she began, her voice ringing with authority, a tone she hadn't employed in years, "for one who arrives uninvited upon another"s property to declare their purpose. At the very least, an introduction is expected before subjecting someone to such a prolonged and impolite examination."

As Sorcha spoke, she noticed the subtle reaction of the man. His brows lifted, accentuating the intense blue of his eyes. At the same time, Grimm jerked his face toward her, shooting her a silent warning with his dark and troubled gaze.

The man atop the magnificent black horse grinned. It was merciless, unkind in the extreme, and yet it contained a bit of awareness, Sorcha feared, that her stern attitude—her bravado—was just that. Only that. She was certain he knew that she was quaking in her boots and that her pulse was pounding in her ears.

He did not reply to Sorcha but addressed Grimm, his tone and countenance derisive. "Ye let her speak for ye."

Sorcha startled and swallowed at the sound of his voice, which resonated through her as a deep, reverberating echo. It seemed to penetrate every fiber of her being, sending another shiver down her spine while igniting a flutter in her chest. It was not just the sound of his words, but the laconic and yet commanding presence behind them that seemed to envelop her entirely.

But Sorcha's spine stiffened. "Consider your tone, sir, and rid yourself of whatever contempt colors your words. Though no explanation is owed to you, Grimm hasn't the ability to speak. And I, you may have noticed, do not need someone to speak for me."

"As clear as the ripples on a loch, ma'am."

Sorcha wrenched her gaze from the blue-eyed devil and settled it upon the man sitting closest to him, the one who'd spoken. He sat tall in the saddle, wearing a weathered face, lined with scars. A gray beard framed a stern countenance, and yet Sorcha perceived a lightness in the muted green of his eyes.

"And who are you, sir?"

"I'd be Geddy, ma'am, captain of—"

"I'm not interested in your name, sir," she interrupted imperiously, "so much as I mean to understand why you think I might be concerned about your opinion." When he opened his mouth again, she dismissed him before he spoke. "Pray save your breath, sir. It doesn't matter." She returned her regard to the intimidating leader. "Kindly state your business and pray be quick about it ere you take your leave," she directed crisply.

One corner of the man's most gorgeous mouth quirked upward, and he took his time announcing, "We were only just passing by and thought to make your acquaintance, having recognized ye as the beekeeper who charmed the alehouse with her song."

His tone suggested that had been his intention but was not anymore.

It was unsurprising that Sorcha failed to recognize him as part of any recent audience. She had made a habit of avoiding eye contact with the tavern"s patrons, unwilling to confront the mixed judgments that often adorned their faces. By keeping her gaze fixed on the ceiling, she maintained a necessary distance, allowing her to deliver her song with greater ease despite the underlying sense of inferiority imposed upon her.

Not quite sure why this man riled her so, save that his initial scrutiny had been ill-mannered and his presence—among a dozen mounted, armed men—unsettled her as no other had as far back as she could recall, Sorcha wondered with barely concealed hope, "And has your intention changed now?"

He shrugged lazily and drawled, "I ken I've discovered enough."

He was not interested in knowing her, was her assessment of the cool remark. Perfect.

And now Sorcha smiled. "Very well. Good day, sir."

But the man and his cohorts did not depart.

Instead, he arched a skeptical brow and addressed Grimm. "Tell me, sir," he began, "with a war raging ?round us, with it moving closer day by day, friend and foe often unclear even so far north, why waste your time protecting a mere beekeeper rather than taking up arms against our enemies, near and far?"

Sorcha bristled at his query, laced with so much judgment, aimed at her and Grimm.

As she moved to respond, Grimm swiftly extended his arm, blocking her advance and quelling the verbal assault that threatened to erupt. Glaring at her friend, Sorcha reluctantly retreated, her shock deepening as she observed the uncharacteristically ugly sneer on Grimm's face as he faced the man. Dazed by his unexpected expression, one she had never seen before, she watched as Grimm then gestured with his arm, pointing a finger firmly past the man, indicating where he should go. Away.

"Aye, we'll take our leave," said the man, lifting his hand off the pommel, pulling in the reins. "It was a pleasure to meet ye..." he said and allowed a pause to settle before he finished, "Sorcha, the beekeeper."

Grimm growled his displeasure while Sorcha gasped at his knowledge of her name.

But the man clucked at his massive steed, turning him around, taking his leave.

The man named Geddy pretended to tip a hat from his bare head, grinning like an idiot, by Sorcha's estimation, before he and the others turned and followed their leader, whose name she did not know.

She watched them ride away, her gaze reluctantly fixed with admiration on the broad shoulders of the man with the scorching blue-eyed gaze.

Grimm watched as well, until they were far enough away that only dust risen in their wake remained. He turned on her then, giving her another feral glare.

"What? If you won't speak, then I must," she defended sharply. "We cannot both stand about, mute and terrorized."

Grimm's brows knitted darkly, and he scoffed angrily at this, which effectively let her know that he had not known fear.

Rolling her eyes, made cross by her reaction to the man and his uninvited visit and Grimm's austere manner—sometimes she really wanted to smack him upside the head and demand that he speak!—she belatedly brushed off her skirt, to which a bit of grass still clung, announcing moodily, "We should leave soon. I want to sing tonight."

Grimm was instantly reinvigorated with another forceful opinion, shaking his head angrily. A warning hovered in his gaze. He thought it a foul idea presently, mayhap because that man and his party had specifically sought her out just now.

"I have steam to work off," she argued. "He irritated me, that blue-eyed devil. I need to vent. Song is the best way to do so."

He didn't like it, kept shaking his head.

Sorcha insisted. "I want to sing. Stay behind if you don't want to go," she said, suggesting that she would go, with or without him, knowing very well that he wouldn't allow her to go alone.

Thus, as dusk descended and while Grimm"s scowl was even more pronounced than usual, they made their way into Caol and slipped through the back door of the Bonnie Barrel Inn.

Sorcha didn't even bother to pretend she was searching for him in the crowded alehouse, that mysterious man. Though he wasn"t positioned front and center, his presence was unmistakable, and much like Grimm"s, impossible to ignore. Positioned slightly off-center of where she stood on the ‘stage', such as it was, his very presence commanded attention, exuding an air of quiet authority, with the barest hint of menace attached to the ferocity of his countenance, not unlike his regard earlier today.

The man's piercing blue eyes locked onto hers, unyielding and intense, as if daring her to look away. She blinked rapidly and tried to focus, the crowded room quiet now for several seconds in expectation. Once more, and against her greater will, her gaze was drawn to him. Though dozens of eyes watched her, his unwavering stare seemed to penetrate the low noise and chatter of the alehouse, cutting through the haze of greasy smoke that hovered high in the room.

With surprising intuition, Sorcha realized that despite the intimidating gaze he projected, she didn't fear the man as much as she feared her own reaction to him. The intensity of his constant scrutiny stirred something within her.

Someone's harsh and hacking cough snapped her out of the hypnotic spell she'd been under.

With a determined lift of her chin, Sorcha directed her gaze upward and began to sing, pouring her heart into each note even as a robust curiosity lingered about the enigmatic figure in the room.

***

Honestly, the fact that she possessed so much fire stirred him even more. That mournful, pathetic creature who'd sung twice before had nothing on this new version, this dynamic, angry young woman with fire in her soul. She'd not only met his probing stare but returned it unblinking for a while. And when she sang, and though it was again a song that mourned, she included in the lyrics a line about the fleeting nature of one's legacy, what seemed like a veiled warning that urged—possibly him—to tread carefully in his dealings lest he be happily forgotten when, as she sang, "the sands of time sweep him away."

He smirked at this, even as she couldn't see it, her regard given to the soot and smoke darkened ceiling while she worked the room with her song.

Augustus was ever watchful and knew what The Oaf was about—Grimm, she'd called him, not very imaginative, since the oaf clearly was quite dour—when he gestured toward a barmaid, bringing her near. Out of the corner of his eye, Augustus watched as Grimm inquired of the harried lass about the strangers inside the taproom, inclining his head in Augustus's direction, his brow furrowed with displeasure.

The barmaid's eyes widened when she saw who Grimm inquired about. After taking her gaze off Augustus, she stood on her toes at the same time Grimm lowered his ear so that she whispered to him whatever knowledge she had about Augustus and his men. Scarcely did it concern him what the barmaid knew, supposed, or shared.

When Sorcha had begun to sing, Augustus had gestured wordlessly to his men, putting them into motion so that presently three of his men were positioned at the back door, thwarting any plan for Grimm and Sorcha to make their usual quick escape.

The seemingly idle wandering of Angus, Gryffin, and Kael and the subsequent strategic positions they assumed did not escape Grimm's notice. The Oaf turned a ferocious scowl onto Augustus, which he purposefully ignored, focusing yet on Sorcha and her song.

In the back of his mind, he did give some thought to the expected confrontation, what would happen when her song was done, and they could not make their hasty retreat.

Frankly, he wouldn't know upon whom to bet, if presented with an opportunity. Augustus feared no man, but couldn't say for sure that in one-on-one combat, he would prevail against the decidedly larger oaf. If anger, guilt, and bitterness alone could see a fight determined, even that would not advise of an obvious choice to win. Augustus might suppose beneath Grimm's seething nature, his steadfast protective instincts toward Sorcha notwithstanding, there lived as much fury and intolerance as what resided within Augustus. Possibly, how many of those inner emotions were self-directed or self-motivated would likely signify a winner; an angry man fought valiantly, but a man fighting inner demons fought recklessly, tirelessly.

As Sorcha's vibrant song came to a close, the last notes ending abruptly as she lowered her head to her chest, a moment of awed silence enveloped the room. This was broken first by a woman's breathy exhale, which seemed to appreciate the intensity and character of Sorcha's song, before the patrons erupted into thunderous applause once again. Their cheers and whistles echoed off the wooden beams of the Bonnie Barrel Inn. Her cheeks flushed with emotion and exhaustion, Sorcha offered a rare, modest smile—an insincere one, Augustus deemed it—before her attention was caught by Grimm, who began to march furiously toward Augustus.

Grimm's expression was dark, his eyes narrowed with determination that Sorcha suddenly seemed intent on disturbing. Amid the din of continued cheers and praise, she rushed after Grimm, taking hold of his big arm.

Whether she understood what Grimm was about, why he meant to confront Augustus, was a mystery presently.

"Leave it," she begged The Oaf when they were but a few yards away. "Grimm, don't."

Her man did not shake her off, but turned his hand around and took hold of Sorcha's wrist, essentially dragging her with him as he bore down on Augustus.

The alehouse went rigidly silent, the applause and appreciation for Sorcha's passionate ballad fading to silent stillness.

Augustus applauded Grimm's decision to keep her close. If he were a man filled with vile intention, the first thing he'd have done was separate her from the Oaf.

When Grimm arrived at the table, with Sorcha still pleading with him to cease, to ignore whatever threat he supposed, Augustus locked his eyes on The Oaf and said mildly, "I only meant to invite the lass to have a drink with me."

"No," she answered at the same time Grimm shook his head forcefully.

The Oaf pointed angrily at Kael and Angus, who blocked the door near the stage they had hoped to use.

Sorcha sent a fleeting gaze in that direction before swinging her blue eyes back around, laying an outraged, quizzical glare onto Augustus.

"I request but a wee bit of your time," he explained to her, just as she opened her mouth to protest, "right here in this public alehouse, at this table. Your man can sit close, can sit beside ye if it pleases ye," he allowed magnanimously. "I dinna ken ye want him using his fists. Me and mine haven't swung yet, and willna, nae first, but swords will be unsheathed if he takes the swing he's considering right now."

Sorcha's spine stiffened. She stopped trying to strip Grimm's hold from her wrist.

"Remove your men from blocking the door," she demanded instead.

"Ah," Augustus replied, smirking without humor, "but I dinna want to."

And thus she had no choice. She knew it. Grimm knew it. All the wide-eye and gape jawed patrons knew it. Only moments ago the alehouse had been alive with joy and now a heavy silence hung in the air, every eye fixed on the unfolding confrontation.

Sorcha's spine stiffened, as evidenced by a bit of height added to her small frame, while her blue eyes flashed with stubborn resolve. Purposefully, she yanked her hand from a wary Grimm and slid onto the bench, directly across from Augustus.

He felt a surge of surprise for her boldness, for the quiet determination she carried even as she essentially surrendered. He felt other things as well as he studied her intently, struck by her beauty up close. The soft golden glow of the alehouse lanterns danced across her porcelain skin and turned the strands of her pale blonde hair into spun gold.

Though thoroughly satisfying, Augustus's evaluation was brief, interrupted by Grimm taking a seat next to Sorcha on the bench. The Oaf was furious and didn't mind that Augustus saw this, leveling a steely glare onto him.

Sorcha further surprised Augustus, and perhaps several others, by summoning a hovering Murdo to their table. She smiled beautifully at the innkeeper. "As we are compelled to remain for a bit, Murdo, might Grimm and I have a serving of tonight's pottage? I trow, the aroma has never teased me so much as it has on this evening."

Murdo was taken aback, so much so that one might assume Sorcha and Grimm had never before dined inside the taproom. "But of course," said the garrulous man, "and won't ye be glad ye did?" He cast a sly glance at Augustus before suggesting to Sorcha, "Mayhap you'd a pint of refreshing ale to accommodate your supper?"

"How thoughtful," Sorcha answered, her smile still exquisite. "Yes, I believe we should. Don't you agree, Grimm?" She asked, turning what seemed like an uncomplicated and innocent expression—it was anything but that—onto her friend. "?Twould be rude of us, would it not, if we did not accept this stranger's gratuitous generosity?" She turned her grin back onto Murdo. "Thank you, sir."

The innkeep scurried away while Sorcha gave her regard to Augustus. Her smile vanished at once.

Grimm took it up, smirking at Augustus a bit now, for how he'd just been played.

Augustus revealed nothing of what he was thinking, even as he knew he'd consent to purchasing a week's worth of the Bonnie Barrel Inn's tasty stew, just to have these moments with her.

She didn't know it—how could she?—but this additional little spark, this show of bravado, only made him more curious about her, made him want to unravel the mysteries hidden beneath her fa?ade, to discover the depths of her courage and determination.

He might expect a simple introduction would reveal quite a bit.

"Thank ye for joining me. Apologies, as I have been remiss," he said smoothly. "I have not yet introduced myself. I am the Earl of Lochmere, Augustus MacKenzie."

He was the only one grinning now, his lips curling into a faint smirk, finding a strange satisfaction in their uneasy reaction to his identity. Quite obviously, his reputation had preceded him.