Chapter Five

Augustus leaned against the wooden railing of the farrier's stable, his gaze wandering over the quiet village of Caol, while Cormac, the village farrier, inspected the hoof of Augustus"s steed. The man murmured to himself as he worked but hadn't yet seemed to require any input or response from Augustus.

Two women were busy gathering water from the well on the opposite side of the main road. Both were decades older than Augustus, one petite and wiry while the other was taller and sturdier and wearing a handkerchief tied round her head. They'd aimed inquisitive gazes in his direction as they'd approached the well but seemed to have since appeased their curiosity and busied themselves with filling their buckets. Down the lane a wee bit, an even older woman tended to the garden plot at the side of her cottage, bent in half, plucking stalks and roots from the ground. She straightened abruptly, barking out some admonition at a pair of hounds that ran too close.

Four silhouetted men were seen up on the ridge of the fields but otherwise Caol was quiet. Mayhap the dreary skies and constant misting rain prompted folks to tend their indoor chores on this morning that was bitter with cold.

He thought of home, of Strontian's small village, not much larger than this burgh, but was not visited by any nostalgia, not by any wish that he was there instead of here.

Geddy and Angus appeared at the end of the lane, headed toward the farrier's shed, at the same time the farrier straightened up, giving a satisfied nod. "Aye, he's a fine steed, milord. Guid shape he is, for wherever the roads take ye."

"Many thanks," Augustus said, patting the steed"s flank before flipping a coin to the farrier.

"Might be wanting to be making yer presence kent to the lord up there," said the farrier, "if ye'll be staying a wee bit in these parts. Seems that ye might be, that ye've found at least one reason to keep ye near for a spell."

Ignoring the man's inference, which certainly referred to the beekeeper and confirmed a long-held belief about gossip in small burghs such as this, Augustus turned toward the northern hills, where the farrier had indicated. "Who is the lord here?"

"De Montfort," Cormac replied and then snickered a bit. "Lord Aldric de Montfort, and dinna be forgettin' that part."

The farrier's answer came as no surprise since Augustus had been sent purposefully to Caol to meet de Montfort. A noble in snake's robes, de Montfort had been described by Simon Fraser, a most trusted confidante of Robert Bruce, and who had, at the king's behest, charged Augustus with discerning where lay de Montfort's loyalties.

Never one to mince words, he remarked to the farrier, "I've heard he deals poorly with the common man."

Possibly the farrier regretted already how much he'd revealed. As Augustus was essentially a stranger to him, he kept any further opinions to himself. "Might be," was all he said.

Having no further need of the man, Augustus wished him a good day and walked his steed out from under the low roof, mounting just as Geddy and Angus arrived.

"They're all set," announced Geddy, referring to the MacKenzie army, whom Augustus had wanted gathered. "'Bout a mile off, near the bend in the loch."

"Seems the quickest route would take us right past the beekeeper's hut," Angus said, not bothering to hide his smirk.

Augustus gave him a feral glare and wheeled his steed in the opposite direction.

The three men trotted away from Caol, with Geddy advising, "Three of these local lads have joined the ranks, with one's mam scratching and clawing at the lad, trying to keep him from going."

Augustus rolled his eyes at this, a familiar frustration gnawing at him for the widespread expectation that others would fight for freedom while so many were unwilling to make sacrifices themselves. He found it particularly irksome when mothers, fearful for their sons" safety, opposed their involvement in the fight against the English. To Augustus, this attitude was perplexing and hypocritical. How could they expect to win a war without the collective sacrifice and commitment of all? Without individuals willing to fight and endure hardships, victory would remain out of reach.

Once outside the small and narrow lanes of Caol, Augustus gave his destrier his head, allowing him to gallop freely over the rolling hills. The big black's swift pace barred any other conversation, leaving Augustus with his own thoughts, which inevitably circled back to the beekeeper. His encounter with Sorcha last evening lingered like an irritating thorn, scratching and digging at him. He did not curse himself for his lack of finesse in her company, or for any fear that he didn't know how to win favor with a woman. His words and actions had been intentional. He wanted there to be no misunderstanding or doubt about what he wanted. Aye, he would have been mightily surprised if she'd not given the response she had, one of acute offense, but he was pleased to have laid the foundation, so to speak. At any time they met in the future—and he would make sure they did—he wanted there to be no ambiguity about what he was after.

And though he was relatively satisfied with yesterday's engagement with Sorcha and her grim protector, he was indeed vexed at himself for how much time he actually spent thinking about her. He'd passed a rough night, beguiled by recurring visions of her expressive blue eyes, the porcelain quality of her skin, and the sweetness of her voice.

Determined now to put her from his mind, and to instead concentrate instead on the day's ambition, he urged the destrier to greater speed and within minutes met with his army where three tall willows stood sentinel at a sharp bend in Loch Linnhe. He did not stop for any reason but rode beyond the gathered MacKenzie army, along the jagged shoreline of the lake, toward Ironwood, the de Montfort stronghold. His army fell into step behind him.

Naught but a few minutes later, the MacKenzie army crested a tall hillock and the imposing fortress loomed in front of them, its stone walls and battlements gleaming in the late morning sun. A chill wind swept down from the surrounding hills, carrying with it the faint scent of woodsmoke and the distant clang of a smithy's hammer against iron.

He did not approach Ironwood with his full army with any sense of grandeur or intimidation, but rather with a cautious and measured demeanor, as he wasn't quite sure what to expect. ?Twould be a hard sell, despite his reputation, with the numbers he traveled with; the MacKenzie army, fighting since Stirling Bridge a decade ago, was seriously depleted, whereas de Montfort's army, now in residence, was possibly three times the size.

It was often murmured, sometimes with a hint of derision, that de Montfort played only a peripheral role in the war. Rumors circulated about his curious knack for conveniently avoiding major battles, either fortuitously arriving late or finding a reason to skirt around them altogether. Many chuckled, though with little humor, at the notion that whenever forces were consolidated, de Montfort seemed all too eager to offer his company for the rear guard or some flanking position that never quite materialized as needed. It was as if he had mastered the art of preserving his own skin while others risked theirs in the name of victory. With growing frustration, many commanders theorized that hundreds of lives had been lost in battle so that de Montfort could maintain his.

De Montfort was a bit player in the large theater of war, but as Simon Fraser had said to Augustus, "Even the small characters, in only one scene, could wield great influence on the outcome."

Geddy announced their presence at the gate, surprisingly open, where they were advised that twelve might enter and no more. Leaving three officers outside with the bulk of the militia, Augustus, Geddy, and the other officers proceeded through the tall stone archway and dismounted. The door was opened to them and a ghoul of a man in long robes, advising he was Griswald, the castle steward, escorted them into the hall.

Augustus's gaze fell immediately upon Lord Aldric seated at the head table. The middle-aged lord possessed a long face that was notably thin, his frame imagined to be skeletal beneath the folds of his finery. His gaunt appearance lent him an air of austerity, accentuated by the sharp angle of his nose and hollowness of his cheeks, all of which was belied by the bounty of food before him. His expression pinched and haggard, Lord Aldric's eyes darted over Augustus and each of his men in his shadow with a calculating gaze that seemed to miss nothing.

Standing just beyond the earl, behind the chair carved of dark oak stood a woman presumed to be de Montfort's wife. She was twenty years his junior at least, her presence a stark contrast to that of her husband. Thin-lipped and with a fixed gaze that hadn't yet left the back of her husband's head, she exuded an aura of silent obedience, ready to serve her lord.

Around the hall, others loitered lazily, soldiers and servants alike, their movements sluggish and listless. Some leaned against the walls, idly chatting amongst themselves, while others lounged at the table with their lord, their faces obscured by the shadows. There was an air of apathy that hung heavy in the air, a sense that time passed slowly within the confines of Ironwood.

Augustus halted several yards in front of the center of the table and bowed his head briefly.

"Hail, my lord," he said. "I am Augustus MacKenzie, laird of Strontian, come to offer my respects as my retinue crosses through Coal."

Lord Aldric gnawed vigorously on the inside of his left cheek, which twisted his lips in ugly misshapenness to the right.

"Hmph," he snorted. "Cross through or camp in, my lord? Seems ye've been embedded here for several days and this is the first I've seen of ye."

"Pardon, my lord, but I wasn't sure if we were pausing or going," Augustus invented, managing to keep his disdain well concealed behind a tight smile of civility. He was a lord in his own right and effectively on equal footing with the man, and thus was not too keen on de Montfort's superior attitude. "I am under orders from Simon Fraser, loyal disciple of King Robert. I seek either faithless rebels in the area or, at your leave, enlistees for the king's army."

Another harrumphed answered this. Lord Aldric sat with his fingers buried in a platter of haphazardly dissected meat, the grease leaving slick trails across his fingers and staining his garments and chin. "Do ye nae ken yer time might better be spent than chasing small numbers of rebels and instigators?" While leaving his wrists on the table near the oval platter, de Montfort lengthened his thin spine and reclined against the back of the chair, contemplating Augustus through shrewd eyes. "My name is kent in these parts and goes a long way, sir, keeping enemies away from Caol. One can only hope," he said pointedly, raising one thin gray brow, "that the MacKenzies' current presence does nae invite the enemy into the territory. I am landlord, leader, judge, father," he barked, "I can call out any man—hundreds of them—to attend me at the chase or to fight under my banner and the mandate is met with ready obedience."

"Ye are fortunate indeed, my lord," said Augustus, wanting to launch himself at the man and quiet his barking with a sword through his ugly mouth. Ah, and he couldn't help himself, putting his mission at risk, but he simply could not leave the boastful statement unchallenged. "Leader, judge, and father?" He repeated, pretending to be impressed. "Ye assume a genial and respectful relationship with your adherents, my lord, but use words like mandate and obedience in the same breath."

De Montfort's eyes hardened at the defiance, but he did not raise his voice when he replied, though a derisive sneer was affixed to his tone. "Ye, instead, are a friend to those who fight in yer name?"

"They dinna fight in my name, my lord," Augustus replied levelly, "but in the name of the king." Often he'd heard of the erroneous impression of the Highland chief as an ignorant and unprincipled tyrant, who rewarded the abject submission of his followers with relentless cruelty and rigorous oppression. Augustus had consistently endeavored to shift such perception. De Montfort, however, proved the exception of the rule Augustus often espoused. "Aye, my lord, many are my friends," Augustus went on, turning and lifting his hand toward the MacKenzies who stood just beyond him. "Many I've kent all my life. Otherwise, duty and an honorable spirit are what join them to my banner."

Whether Lord Aldric was satisfied or annoyed by this response, Augustus did not know. The earl returned his attention to the meat on his platter, clawing with his teeth at the meat on a long bone.

"And what of your castle in Dingwall?" Augustus asked, daring to reveal what he already knew about de Montfort, but also managing to rouse the earl's attention.

Because de Montfort's loyalty had been in question for some time, a year ago he'd been forced to offer some assurances to the nobles who stood with Robert Bruce.

De Montfort seethed, "I gave up my strong castles to de Leslie, gave up my son as a hostage to my fidelity." This was uttered with more arrogance than any manner of submissiveness that surely had been attached to him at the time of the surrender. "And how do ye justify making that yer affair?"

He did not say what Augustus had also been made aware of, that Lord Aldric had given also up "fourteen pretty Irishmen" to de Leslie, who had all along been faithful to de Montfort's banner, who were immediately caused to be hanged. It was not well done on de Leslie's part to have taken those lives when de Montfort's treachery had not been proven, but it was inexcusably ill-done of de Montfort to have betrayed his own loyal men. More poorly done, if he had indeed risked his own son's life if it should be proven that he was working against the Scottish crown.

Augustus shrugged innocently. "Nae my affair at all, my lord. I merely acknowledge what is general knowledge, how much ye've sacrificed in the name of freedom."

De Montfort's gaze narrowed as he measured Augustus derisively, searching no doubt for any hint of deception.

Augustus maintained a carefully neutral fa?ade. It had not escaped his notice, the lack of hospitality extended by de Montfort. There was no offer of a drink or even a gesture to take a seat, or any of the customary courtesies expected of a host. The earl was haughtily contented, it seemed, to leave Augustus and his men standing awkwardly in front of him.

He didn't like him, de Montfort, not one bit.

But then he didn't have to like him. He was gratified, however, to be reminded that fiends resided even in gaunt, seemingly harmless bodies.

There is nae harmless man, came his father's voice in his head, just as there are nae men without sins. And who would know better, Augustus wondered internally.

He'd been sent to make conclusions about de Montfort's character and his loyalties. Yet, while all seemed obvious, what he'd surrendered to stay alive and keep his army, ?twas too soon to know for sure and Augustus knew he would be forced to endure many more hours in the man's vile company and domain.

***

Sorcha and Grimm walked along a path barely noticeable, traversed once a month only by the two of them, which turned off the lane and toward the north, where sat Ironwood Castle. Inside the stone walls of the keep built only a generation ago lived Lord Aldric de Montfort and his family, from whom Finn had leased the land and was given leave to build the cottage and with whom Sorcha had subsequently made a deal. Or rather, in the absence of the lord, Sorcha had begged mercy of his wife, Alice de Montfort, who'd conceded gracelessly to Sorcha's pleas to rework the lease after Finn's demise and had allowed Sorcha to pay for her lease with honey and beeswax for two years, almost one of which was nearly gone.

A whole year.

And longer than that since Finn had kissed her goodbye.

As they walked she closed her eyes briefly, her lashed misted by the light rain, trying to bring his image to mind, a pastime which was sadly becoming more and more difficult as time went by. A week ago, she struggled to recall the exact sound of his voice and had wept until she thought she'd recovered it properly. Certainly, she vividly remembered Finn's appearance, but the subtleties of his expressions—his wry grin, his teasing smile, the thoughtful furrow of his brow when he concentrated—were gradually fading from her memory. Like so many people, Finn likely possessed a myriad of expressions and Sorcha lamented the fact that with the passing days, weeks, and months, more and more of them slipped from the grasp of her memory.

Like so many people...save for Augustus MacKenzie, who seemed to have only that one expression: arrogantly fierce.

Her eyes snapped open, and her lips thinned. The last thing she wanted was thoughts of the maddening Rebel supplanting memories of her dear, sweet, perfect Finn. Her breath caught in her throat at the very idea, guilt suffusing her.

Steadfastly, she concentrated on the present, and today's chore, which gave her something else to fret about. She never liked going up to the de Montfort keep. Despite its relative newness, the keep was cold and dreary. Sorcha knew the de Montforts had several children, but she'd never caught even the shadow of a glimpse of them. There was no laughter ringing through the halls, no merry screaming, no bairn clinging to his mother's skirts. For as many times as she visited, she was mostly received by the lady of the keep or her steward and had only rarely met Lord Aldric. For this she was mostly thankful, her initial impression of him unfavorable, but then she wasn't sure his lady wife was a greater substitute. The woman was cold and stiff, the epitome of inhospitality, so much so that Sorcha wasn't sure how she'd been persuaded to accept Sorcha's terms to cover her lease payment with honey and wax or why, in the first place, the woman had allowed Sorcha to maintain the lease. Only a widow could lease land and it was no secret that while they'd lived as such, Sorcha and Finn had been wed only in their minds and hearts.

The small cart that Grimm pulled along behind him groaned as it rode over an exposed rock. The contents of the cart were jostled and shaken but packed so well with straw that nothing was unmoored from its position.

She caught Grimm eyeing her with speculation. Supposing he wondered at her silence for the first half mile, she waved off what appeared to be a question in his gaze.

"My head's in the clouds today," she said dismissively. "Or rather, absorbed here on earth. In spite of her generosity regarding Finn's lease, I can't find it in my heart or head to like Lady de Montfort." She sighed. "I'm an ungrateful wretch, I imagine."

Grimm shrugged, which Sorcha read not as a commentary on her dislike of the woman, but more as if he agreed that there was little to like in the woman.

"They look alike, do they not?" She asked impishly. "The Lord and Lady of Ironwood, both with their long faces and stick-like figures? Do you not find it strange, Grimm, that we've never seen them at the same time—either you and I, or previously Finn and I? Mayhap they are the same person, and—oh, my!" She caught herself, her eyes widening with delight at the idea of a fantastic scenario. "Mayhap Lord Aldric has long been dead, and Lady Alice only portrays him so that she is not compelled to wed another. She is quite young, you know, or she might be, it's hard to tell actually, with the way she squeezes her face so rigidly."

Grimm rolled his eyes at Sorcha while she laughed.

As was often the case, once she began to talk, she sometimes just prattled right along.

And because she spoke freely to Grimm almost always, Sorcha grumbled to him, "And, by the way, I was quiet there for a bit, absorbed in thoughts of Finn until that wretched Earl of Lochmere intruded upon my happy thoughts." Mayhap they were not so much happy as they were sacred thoughts, she clarified to herself. Though she found joy in the memory of Finn, the loss of him was both inescapable and heartbreaking still.

Grimm sent her a look of scathing rebuke, at which Sorcha shrugged.

"Oh, you don't have to tell me, Grimm. Trust me, it appalls me as much as you."

The next look he sent her way clearly said, And make sure it stays that way.

They trudged on, Grimm pulling along the three-wheeled cart along a level field of tall grass before they were forced to climb upward the last couple hundred feet, as Ironwood sat upon a small beinn, "as lofty as the lord," Sorcha had commented to Finn at one time.

They strolled in through the gates unchecked and Sorcha thought that there must ever be a person watching for people approaching as it had been many months since she'd been compelled to bang upon the thick wooden door and announce herself. Today it was pulled open by Griswald, de Montfort's steward, who wore a face much as his mistress, devoid of any good humor.

"Lord Aldric is expecting you," Griswald intoned, his lips barely moving inside a face that was pasty white.

A bit taken aback, both at being expected—there were still three days until the end of the quarter—and by the news that she would be received by de Montfort himself, Sorcha exchanged a raised brow with Grimm and followed the steward as he slunk through the dark halls of Ironwood. Grimm left the cart outside the door.

They were led directly to the keep's main hall, which would never be considered fine as it was without windows and thus light and was furnished with but one long table. Sorcha had often and peculiarly likened it to a dungeon, the table being where prisoners might be strapped down and tortured.

Many surprises greeted her as she glanced toward the far end of the hall.

First and most unnerving, standing in front of the lord's table was a small group of MacKenzie men, all of whom turned at their entrance, which Griswald announced scratchily. Sorcha's eyes passed right over all the faces, landing immediately upon Augustus MacKenzie, who stood at the helm of his men, so to speak.

His hypnotic blue eyes fixated on her, and she might have supposed that he was just as surprised to see her as she was him. Her breath caught in her throat, and she abhorred what had caused this, not fear but a prickling sense of womanly awareness. Damn him!

Grimm's timely and purposeful hand on her arm steered her forward, and there she met the next shock: Lady Alice standing behind her husband while he supped at the table. Any harsh opinion of the woman evaporated instantly as Sorcha considered her stiff and fearful mien. Good Lord! But was Alice instructed, under the threat of violence, to keep her eyes only on Lord Aldric, even as the hall became quite crowded with guests?

She felt as if she'd entered the wrong keep or another dimension.

But then she settled her gaze on Lord Aldric and a bit of normalcy returned. Lord Aldric de Montfort sat behind the long table, spooning pudding or some such delight from a silver cup while he watched her approach. She'd forgotten that about him, that she rarely if ever saw him when he wasn't eating something.

She smiled mechanically but insincerely at Lord Aldric, often required to resist a shiver in his presence. His face was gaunt and pallid, with sunken eyes that bore into any subject with a disturbing intensity. His thin lips were drawn into a perpetual sneer, often revealing crowded and crooked teeth that were nowhere near white. His hair hung limply around his haggard face, adding to his disturbing aura.

Lord Aldric passed a displeased glance over Grimm as they approached the table. His bony fingers continued to spoon pudding into his mouth. Previously, Sorcha had wondered if he would simply shrivel and die if he ever stopped eating. Was he hollow, and his skeletal frame needed constant filling?

Possibly, Lord Aldric had only met Grimm on one occasion, having been absent so often in the last year. She recalled now what she'd noted on that other occasion, that the lord was not pleased at all that Sorcha had found herself a protector. On two occasions since Finn had gone, Lord Aldric had ambiguously let it be known that he would be pleased to waive her rents due if she would accommodate some of his needs. She'd been quick with her refusal, using her grief in a self-serving manner—the first and only time—while somehow managing to refrain from gagging in front of him.

"Ah, the beekeeper," Lord Aldric intoned indistinctly, his mouth full. He swallowed and sent a clearly discontented glance at Grimm. "And the Oaf."

"Good day, my lord," she said, her voice shaky. She blamed the Rebel for this and not the earl. Having come abreast of him, and while her gaze was trained on de Montfort, she could feel the radiant heat of a pair of striking blue eyes. "I've brought my rents due for this quarter, my lord," she said, her voice stronger, "and I wonder if I might—"

"Ye dinna march straight in and go straightway to nattering. I've guests or have ye nae eyes in yer head?"

Bristling internally, Sorcha said tightly, "I meant not to waste any of your time. And I have met Lord Augustus." She turned and looked only at his broad shoulder. "Good day, my lord. I did not intend a rudeness."

"Good day, lass," the Rebel responded in a fair tone. "Rest assured, I would nae ever assume any impoliteness from ye."

Her eyes flew swiftly to his. Did she detect a scant hint of mockery directed at her? Aye, she supposed she had, and which she silently acknowledged was not out of line, for how discourteous she had been to him last evening.

"I dinna want these cakes," Lord Aldric barked to a serving wench, pushing the platter back into her stomach as the girl had just brought it to the table at his side. "Bring me the ones with the currants." He banged the flat of his hand on the table when the girl took time to steady the plate and bow to his favor. "Move, girl! Now."

With a bit of lingering annoyance, Lord Aldric turned his dark gaze onto Sorcha, whose eyes were wide now, not for the treatment of the kitchen girl, but that he'd not concealed it from the small crowd in the hall.

"What now?" He asked of Sorcha. "What are ye meaning to blather about?"

Wanting only to be away from all that was awkward and uncomfortable presently—more so than on any other occasion—Sorcha rushed out, "I seek leave, my lord, to construct a third apiary, as had been Finn's wish, in the—"

"Nae! Nae!" Lord Aldric blustered. "What need have ye of another? ?Tis nae my business to satisfy yer personal greed."

"My lord, consider the amount of honey I would be able to deliver to you," Sorcha implored tautly. "I would have to lease more space and thus you would benefit from—"

"I said nae. Enough with yer bees and yer hives." A look of annoyed confusion claimed his haggard features. "And what is your purpose inside Caol, Oaf? What occupation do you claim?"

"He doesn't speak, my lord," Sorcha gritted out, "as you might recall." Should recall, since he brought it up at each of their other meetings.

"Dinna speak, aye. Tongue might be broken but his hands are nae. He canna exist with nae—"

"Grimm is not without an occupation, my lord. He is my assistant, same as I was to Finn. The apiaries require continued attention, my lord, and when comes the time to claim the honey and—"

"Aye, aye, aye. I recall now. He serves you, Sorcha the beekeeper. But in what other capacity does he service you?"

Of course, he'd not misspoken by accident, the slimy old man.

Her cheeks flamed red at what he insinuated, knowing who stood among the audience.

"Grimm is my assistant, my lord, and aside from being my dearest friend, he serves as a loyal protector." She'd reached her limit and realized she couldn't hold back any more her opinion of him or his behavior much longer. However, in spite of her want to verbally berate him, she maintained her composure and only hinted at his dishonor and vulgar attempts at manipulation. "The nights here in Caol are fraught with dangers."

The beginnings of a nasty smirk curled one side of his mouth as he glared at her.

"Might be dangers of your own doing," he suggested in a tone meant to be interpreted as a father counseling his daughter, but which essentially reminded her that his protection was available.

Aye, if she didn't mind parting with her dignity, her sanity, any shred of pride, or for that matter, her very soul.

Sorcha met and held his gaze, smiling artlessly, all the while recalling what he'd said to her at the end of last year when they'd last met. He'd been much more open in his lewdness.

"I've said, have I nae, that I could make it so your life was far more comfortable?" He'd asked her last autumn, leering at her malevolently from that same chair.

"You have, my lord," Sorcha had returned stiffly on that other day.

"Or utterly more miserable," Lord Aldric had threatened then, too pompous to have veiled it, all because she'd failed to produce the appropriate amount of gratitude, or to accept his coarse offer.

Presently, without any expectation of gaining his approval to construct another hive, Sorcha bowed her head at the earl. "I won't take up anymore of your time. Good day."

With her anger ignited by the earl"s mistreatment, Sorcha turned and faced Augustus MacKenzie, intrigued by a brazen plan to swipe at Lord Aldric's arrogance—a move for which she knew she would likely face consequences. She grasped her threadbare cloak firmly and swept it out to her sides, lowering herself into a deep and reverent curtsy, a gesture of humble homage that she would forever withhold from de Montfort. One that, if not for her dander being raised and her wanting the last word, she would never have bestowed upon the Rebel.

"A great pleasure to see you again, my lord," she murmured to the ground.

When she rose and lifted her face, the mesmerizing blue eyes of the Rebel of Lochaber Forest brimmed with amusement.

He knew exactly what she had done and why.

Sorcha could have cared less.

With the aplomb worthy of a queen, she pivoted gracefully and took her leave, calling for Grimm to follow.

Damn both those earls!