Chapter Four

Augustus MacKenzie.

The Rebel of Lochaber Forest.

The Rebel, if the sinister and notorious rumors were to be believed.

There had long been conjecture about the Rebel's actual identity, but the name mentioned more than any other as the most probable culprit—or savior, depending on the source—was the Earl of Lochmere.

A wave of apprehension washed over her, filled with the chilling tales that painted Augustus MacKenzie as not merely a rebel but more akin to the devil. Naturally, she'd heard the stories whispered about him, all of them ugly and vile and nearly unbelievable, whispered in hushed tones, as if speaking too loudly of the heartless Rebel might conjure the man himself.

A shiver coursed through her.

True, she and him might share an allegiance to Scotland—he was reckoned as one of the most formidable warriors throughout all the land, half of his legend borne of his prowess upon the battlefield, his inability to be killed, to hear some speak of him—but that didn't diminish her fear of him. One might expect that a man who rose to the level of his legend must have left behind a wide and long trail of blood. Likely, friend and foe alike had fallen victim to his ruthlessness.

She did not particularly care for the idea beginning to form, based on the smirk he now wore, that he was very pleased to unnerve her. He relished her fright, she believed. And that made him very ugly in her mind, and not quite worthy of her regard. In fact, it made her more determined to show him exactly the opposite of what seemed to please him.

Truth was, she never had been one to tiptoe around fright.

"Do you prefer the Rebel?" Sorcha inquired innocently. "Or is Butcher more accurate? I've heard it both ways."

His response to this, a hardening of his...well, everything—jaw, eyes, lips—gave her pause. What if the tales were true? What if he was as merciless, as gleefully evil as they said?

In for a penny, in for a pound, she guessed. "Is it true that you wear a suit of armor, forged from the bones of your victims—excuse me, I mean your enemies?"

She was aware of Grimm stiffening at her side and felt rather than saw him turn a warning glower onto her.

However, Sorcha kept her attention on the Rebel and his gaze, which had swiftly turned icy and rather helped her understand that while he relished the fear elicited merely by the mention of his name, he also expected, possibly, a wee admiration—and mayhap a bit of fawning—for the fearsome reputation he had cultivated. She refused to be cowed by his formidable demeanor but was determined to match his icy stare with her own unwavering gaze.

"I see that more than merely broad tales have reached even these far corners," Augustus MacKenzie replied finally, his tone chilling, possibly containing a warning. "Be careful what ye heed, beekeeper. ?Tis true what's said that truth is often stranger—and more frightening—than fiction."

With a slight shift in her posture and a tilt to her head, Sorcha subtly conveyed her skepticism, meaning to rile him as he did her. "And what truth might that be, my lord?"

The earl's lips curved into a faint smirk, acknowledging her challenge. "The truth," he said, his gaze piercing, "is that legends are often born from kernels of reality. But whether they grow into towering oaks or wither into mere weeds...well, that is for history to decide."

Laying her hands flat on the scarred wood table, Sorcha goaded him, boldly proposing, "Let us not leave to chance nor to history the fate of your legend, sir. Lay out the facts here and now and write your own story."

Beyond the earl, one of his men snickered aloud, but Sorcha did not remove her gaze from the Rebel, whose smirk grew wide but not necessarily nicer. At the same time, Grimm kneed her leg beneath the table.

But she kept hold of the Rebel's hard blue eyes, unwilling to be intimidated by him.

She didn't understand his interest in her, or his insistence that she keep company with him. She was intent on making sure that this was greatly diminished.

Sure and Augustus MacKenzie wasn"t the first to show an interest in her, whether locals or passersby. Thus far, Grimm"s presence, and the occasional show of force—such as the altercation with Hamish McNair—had been necessary, but for the most part, Sorcha remained undisturbed by such trouble. She possessed a keen self-awareness regarding both her appearance and her social status. Though conscious that her perceived beauty often attracted unwanted attention, she never doubted the intentions of men—aside from Finn and Grimm, none of it was ever good. While she willingly gave her heart and body to Finn, she had no desire to share either with another. Additionally, she understood that her occupation as a minstrel, coupled with her modest station in life, led others to view her as nothing more than a tavern wench. Men assumed that because she sang for her supper, she was available for other services, and they presumed that for only a few coins tossed her way they might find their ease in her bed.

After a lengthy perusal, meant to intimidate her further no doubt, Augustus MacKenzie said, "I'm much more interested in yer story."

"But you already know it, sir, as it's told right here inside this alehouse several times a week."

"Which reveals only yer current situation," he remarked, "that ye are in mourning and trilling about it."

She was bold—she was the daughter of a lord herself, after all, certainly not beneath this man—and was able to easily manufacture a smirk to match his, one meant to show him she couldn't so easily be belittled—trilling, hah!—and that his efforts were paltry and wasted on her.

"Trilling is a curious choice of word, my lord," she said. "It suggests displeasure and then raises the very obvious question: why would you insist on my company?"

They were interrupted by Murdo's arrival, bearing two tankards of ale, followed by the alehouse's server, Maisie, who delivered steaming trenchers of stew, all of which was set down before Grimm and Sorcha.

Maisie cast a glance of concern at Sorcha, then laid a wary one on the earl, before returning her gaze to Sorcha. A thousand questions burned behind her wide brown eyes, readily communicating her unease about this situation unfolding.

"Thank you, Maisie," Sorcha said, smiling pleasantly.

Maisie and Nell, the regular servers, were mostly kind to Sorcha, or rather the least likely to judge her circumstance. They were more likely than any other to exchange greetings with Sorcha and Grimm, even outside the alehouse, as few other people were wont to do.

Neither she nor Grimm wasted any time before digging in.

She broke off a piece of the bread plate, drenched with thick juices and bits of meat, and plopped that into her mouth. The tender meat, possibly simmered for hours if not days, melted in her mouth.

She chewed and swallowed, and licked her thumb, returning her gaze to the mysterious earl. Lifting her chin defiantly, and though he'd not answered her last question, she addressed him. "I might suggest your attention has a certain design. And mayhap you already know but allow me to confirm: I am not interested."

"I have nae said what my designs are?"

"You have said very little, sir," she reminded him pertly, "but the manner in which you've conducted yourself thus far gives away enough that I believe my assumptions must be correct and therefore, my interest remains stagnant."

She returned her attention to the savory platter before her, as if any response from him was of little import after all. At her side, Grimm dug in with even more gusto, having made half the trencher and stew disappear already.

Augustus MacKenzie surprised her by replying, "Allow me to rectify such a poor beginning."

Before she could keep it safely tucked inside, Sorcha let out a little laugh of skepticism. "What's done is done, sir." Certainly he didn't seem the type to improve his conduct for another's benefit.

She lifted the tankard of ale and hid her growing consternation behind the width of it as she raised it to her lips.

His eyebrows, which seemed to reside permanently in a downward position, furrowed a bit more, giving him a look of stark intolerance. A fleeting, frightening thought crossed her mind: how may people saw this look last before they were smote with either words or sword? Sorcha swallowed, wondering if she had pushed him too far, if she had provoked him to abandon the facade of civility and reveal his true self, the Rebel who was rumored to possess neither heart nor mercy.

Augustus MacKenzie swiped his hand slowly over his mouth and chin while considering her. "I only meant to discover more about you," he said. "How long have you been living in Caol?"

"Four years."

"Do you perform elsewhere? Or are your songs reserved for the Bonnie Barrel Inn?"

"I sing here and nowhere else."

"And yet your talent is undeniable," he remarked, "and surely opportunities exist outside the area."

"Perhaps."

"Ye are stubborn," he commented now, his expression contrarily softening with this assessment, "and dinna want to give even the smallest morsel." He addressed Grimm. "Is she always like this?"

Grimm harrumphed, the guttural sound filled with displeasure.

Sorcha frowned at her friend, unsure if his response was aimed at the Rebel for what he was doing, or made in reaction to the question, since Grimm knew more than most how stubborn Sorcha could be.

"What do ye ken of the Guardian Stones?" The earl asked then, his probing regard returned to Sorcha.

Bewildered by his swift change of subject, Sorcha's reply was hesitant at first, though she was pleased that she, herself, was removed as the topic. "It is said that the, ah, the Guardian Stones, were erected thousands of years ago by an ancient civilization. According to legend, the stones were placed in that precise circle to harness the energy of the earth and the heavens, imbuing them with protective magic."

Did he ask because he was aware that one of her apiaries was located near the circle of standing stones? Hidden amidst lush meadows and rolling hills of forest, the apiary lay just a stone's throw away from the mystical stones. Would she reveal to him that she'd intentionally chosen that spot, where the towering stones cast their protective shadow over the buzzing hives? Should she acknowledge that apiary was her best-producing?

"You have seen the Guardian Stones?" She asked quietly, wondering at his interest.

"I have nae. I heard mention of them some time ago. ?Twas said that wounded warriors laid inside the circle might be healed."

"I...I have not ever seen this." She'd heard that claim as well and had thought it fanciful. She was only made more curious, though, as he didn't strike her either as someone in need of healing—unless he worried over his surely black heart—or as one who might put stock into supernatural lore.

"Aye, so many wild tales make their way ?round," the earl said mildly.

His words carried a subtle weight, likely a reminder to her to tread carefully in regard to the rumors and stories that swirled around him. A prickling sensation rose at the back of her neck, a silent warning to heed his unspoken caution.

But then, she herself was often the victim of speculation, a fine reminder that people were often quick to invent narratives, but rarely did so with kindness.

Thus, rather with a wee commiseration over this bit of common ground, she nodded in accord. "Tales will be woven, whether you supply the yarn or not."

He smirked once more, this time revealing a bit of humor. "So they will."

Maisie returned once more, removing the earl's empty tankard and replacing it with a fresh one. Sorcha noticed the barmaid's fretful expression, and how smoothly and unobtrusively she made the switch, as if she wished to go completely unnoticed.

Sorcha became aware that the longer she and Grimm sat here with the Earl of Lochmere, the more the patrons' interest in them seemed to wane. Gradually, they returned to their own conversations and companions, no longer fixated on the trio or any of the earl's other men, close at hand.

Unable to prevent herself from doing so, despite the urging of her brain, she looked upon the earl once more. She found his gaze heavy upon her still and was compelled by pride to hold his stare and not cower in the face of such discourteous curiosity. Or was she meant to tremble in the face of his continued piercing gaze? She supposed if the rumors were false—if he were not the Rebel or if the Rebel himself were not portrayed as a ruthless savage—she might look upon him and perceive him differently. If he were naught but a man, a stranger even, if she knew not of his legend, she might imagine him formidable but not monstrous, imposing but not threatening, mayhap even handsome for the mesmerizing blue of his eyes, and for the way his hair fell untamed over his forehead, as if this small thing were only playfully reckless, resisting every effort of his to appear formidable and severe.

Sliding her hands under the table, she made fists in her lap, alarmed by a fleeting and reckless desire to run her fingers over his brow and encourage those wayward locks into compliance. She lowered her gaze, not entirely sure those incisive blue eyes couldn't read minds.

She stared at the earl's long fingers, tapping slowly and rhythmically against the side of his tankard. His hands were large and strong, calloused and scarred, and darkened to a robust gold by the sun. An unexpected, uninvited thought came to her, wondering what it would feel like to have those long fingers caress her bare skin.

Her cheeks pinkened, shamed by her wanton thoughts. She told herself she was not intrigued by him, not at all. Lethal virility did not stir her, she was certain.

How different was the earl's intrusive regard from that soft and loving look she recalled so well from Finn! Sweet Mother of God, but what did he hope to achieve by forcing her company and then subjecting her to this stark and shudder-inducing examination?

"What is your price?" He asked. "For a night with ye."

Her eyes sped back to him. Sorcha"s mouth opened in disbelief, but no words emerged. She couldn"t help but wonder if, in addition to all the formidable feats he was credited with or accused of—depending on the speaker—the wicked Rebel could also read minds. He just answered the burning question inside her mind.

Grimm, in the act of draining his cup, stiffened, and slammed down his tankard, which wasn't emptied completely after all. A wave of liquid rose out of the top of the tankard and dropped just as swiftly, splashing his hand and the table.

Grimm's low growl was given as the first response before Sorcha was able to find her voice.

"I am not for sale," she uttered imperiously.

"And yet here you are, enjoying victuals and ale, bought with my coin."

While she held his gaze, she pushed the half-eaten trencher toward the middle of the table. "And now we're square," she said tightly. "You've paid for this company now and nothing more."

"It's easy to be brave when you've the mountain at yer side," the earl said, his observation given with lazy indifference.

Indeed, much of what she expressed just now was only bravado. Inside, however, her heart thundered wildly. Unfortunately, it was not uncommon, the tales she'd encountered of women, young lasses even, enduring mistreatment at the hands of greedy, despicable men. Sorcha had witnessed firsthand the harsh reality of women being subjected to abuse, many being taken against their will.

What lore had reached her ears about the Rebel of Lochaber Forest suggested strongly that he might be of that ilk, the kind who didn't bother with polite requests, but was accustomed to seizing. She would go, if that became the case, lest Grimm pay for her refusal, since she knew he would stand in her defense. Her steadfast protector wouldn't have a fighting chance though, not against the imposing figure of the earl and his silent, watchful comrades.

And yet, the earl had asked—offensively, of her price—but which gave her hope that he would not only take.

The mountain—Grimm—stood abruptly from the bench. Sorcha followed, wanting to be away from so contrary a man. "It's easy to be brave when offense is given," she countered, unable to deny that there seemed to be some threat in his words, "and when the offending party has earned none of my good opinion."

Truth be told, she was a little surprised neither the earl nor his men had moved, that it seemed they would make no effort to deny her and Grimm's departure. And though she normally didn't like it when Grimm led her around by the hand or arm, she found solace as he took her right wrist and pulled her close while they made their way to the back door. She gripped his thick upper arm with her free hand, unsettled to near witlessness. Heat suffused her entire body.

At the exit, the earl's guard met Grimm"s gaze for a few tense moments before slowly stepping aside to allow passage. Sorcha felt Grimm"s arm tense under her grip, his clenched fists betraying his urge to force his way through. Possibly, only her firm hold on his arm prevented him from taking action.

They escaped into the night. Never before had their departure come complete with a whoosh of anxious breath released once the door had closed behind them. Sorcha's breath was white in the crisp night air, but she had no time to lift her hood. Grimm did not pause once outside, once the immediate threat was diminished. Instead, he pulled Sorcha along at his side, his pace rushed with anger.

They marched hurriedly along the road with Grimm turning every few seconds, probably to be assured that the alehouse's door did not open and that they were not being pursued.

When they were a quarter mile gone from the Bonnie Barrel Inn and swallowed by the moonless night, Grimm left the road, steering them into a thicket of trees that flanked the twisting lane. Only then did Sorcha know some relief, small though it was. Tension drained from her body, and she exhaled a long breath. And yet she was plagued by her wicked and guilty conscience. She was not ignorant of a man's touch and had understood exactly what the earl had proposed and wanted. Try as she might, she could not refute the truth, that as much as the Rebel's crude offer had frightened and astonished her, it had also tantalized her.

***

Sorcha woke with a start the next morning, having in her mind some recollection of a tale heard not very long ago, whispered inside the walls of the Bonnie Barrel Inn, of a chilling incident involving the Rebel of Lochaber Forest.

Murine, the aged alewife of Caol, had told the tale some months ago. Sorcha heard the words again, as they'd been said then, in Murine's distinctive, craggy voice.

"Small group of travelers was lost in the labyrinthine paths of the forest, they say," Murine had said, "and stumbled upon an ancient ruin, a crumbling castle, its stones seasoned by unkind centuries."

On a good day, Murine was fanciful, always embellishing tales, even mundane ones. A simple transaction, her selling ale to Murdo, could easily become a lengthy and exaggerated story that didn't often or always resemble the exact truth. She loved an audience and had a grand one the day she'd first sang the tune, about one occasion of the Rebel's legend. Several fishwives, laundresses, and other peasants had gathered round and listened raptly. Sorcha was always amazed that no one ever challenged the woman's truth telling.

"Cautiously, they approached," Murine had divulged, "their wary footsteps muffled by the thick undergrowth."

She'd ducked her chin, leaning closer to her listeners, Sorcha recalled.

"A figure emerged from the shadows," Murine had gone on, using an ominous voice. "Tall and commanding, cloaked in darkness, the Rebel stood before them like a shadow of death itself. His eyes gleamed with a sinister light, his presence suffused with an aura of menace."

Sorcha felt now as she had then, the urge to roll her eyes for Murine's theatrical delivery.

"With a voice as cold as the winter wind, the Rebel demanded tribute from the weary travelers, a toll for daring to trespass in his domain, the forest at Lochaber. Ah, but they hesitated, paralyzed by fright, and so he unleashed his fury upon them. In the blink of an eye, his sword flashed like lightning in the darkness, cutting down the hapless travelers with ruthless precision. Their screams echoed through the forest, silent until that moment, and blood painted the leaves crimson."

She'd gone on in her imitable way, to say that when the dawn broke, "and the first light pierced the veil of night", the ruins bore witness to the Rebel's wrath. The forest was now haunted, Murine had supposed convincingly, before she'd finished, as she often did, with, "And there ye have it and why would I lie?"

In the narrow cot that was her bed, Sorcha stared at the thatch ceiling overhead in the gray light of morning and tried to discern if there was or could be any truth to that shocking account. Did the man who'd inquired with chilling indifference about the price for a night with her slay people without just cause? Did he truly possess a heart as dark as the stories suggested?

Her thoughts wandered back to last evening and that forced encounter with Augustus MacKenzie. Certainly, his piercing gaze had been filled with a brutal intensity, which had made her hair stand on end. But beneath the fa?ade of coldness, was there a flicker of humanity? Or was he truly the merciless villain that folklore portrayed him to be?

Grumbling aloud for the way he'd seeped into her consciousness even as she'd slept and for how he'd managed to torment her first thing in the morning, Sorcha threw back the blankets and climbed out of bed. As she did every day when she'd finished with her morning toilette, she opened the door to her small cottage, expecting Grimm would be near and come soon to share breakfast with her.

She grinned a little to herself as she stoked the small fire under the pot with yesterday's pottage, pleased that the usual pangs of hunger were a little less perceptible today, courtesy of last night's unexpected boon, the supper she'd wrangled out of the earl.