Chapter Six

Flashes of lightning illuminated the cottage every few seconds, the piercing light flickering between gaps where the lone window met the wall, casting eerie shadows about the cottage. The light also appeared as a multitude of streaks in the window's shutters and glinted through spaces around the door frame. The door and shutter shook and rattled with the force of the wind that drove the storm. Rain pounded against the thatch overhead with a relentless intensity, the likes of which Sorcha could not recall. The drumming of the rain, coupled with thunder that came as harsh blasts of noise and sometimes as low grumblings of a seething tempest, drowned out all other sounds.

Sorcha's heart raced with anxiety as she huddled in her narrow cot, listening to the persistent onslaught. Rain dripping onto the bottom of her bed, from where she'd moved her feet and the bottom of her blankets, worried her much less than what the fierce winds and driving rains might be doing to her apiaries. With every gust of wind that whistled ominously through her tiny cottage, she imagined her beehives toppling over or worse, yet being blown away entirely, those precious, industrious bees scattered, lost to the storm. She'd braved the lashing rain only briefly, an hour ago, to step outside and assure herself that her home apiary, inside the protective frame Finn had built, was undisturbed, having been greatly relieved to discover that the care Finn had taken to situate the hives away from the most common easterly wind had been prudent, and in this instance, lifesaving. There, on the southwestern side of the cottage, the skeps tucked under the sturdy frame were barely bothered by the wind or rain.

She had not dared to venture further, off to the forest apiary, not in the pure blackness of the night that was barely relieved by silvery rain. She would have to wait until morn to know its fate.

Before she'd returned to the relative warmth and calm inside her cottage, she'd called out for Grimm, wanting him to find shelter inside with her. He'd not responded and hadn't shown himself, which hadn't worried Sorcha so much as it had annoyed her, that he wouldn't seek refuge with her but somewhere on his own. His concern for propriety sometimes irked her; what did she care what the sometimes narrow-minded and often judgmental citizens of Caol thought or her? Their opinion of her was never going to improve, was only ever going to get worse, whether she behaved in a manner that suited their conveniently strict morals or acted the whore they imagined her.

She slept only intermittently and when morning came the hard earth inside her small house was littered with half a dozen puddles, as quite a bit of the thatch of her roof had been torn away by the fierce wind. Sorcha gave that mess little heed for now but stepped outside and tossed an exasperated glare at the clear blue sky—where were you last night?—checking first on the home apiary. Not even the smallest breeze lifted the hair off her shoulders or bent a single blade of grass now.

"If ye dinna like the weather, wait five minutes," she'd heard Murdo say more than once.

With an annoyance directed at a very fickle Mother Nature and her savage outburst of last night, Sorcha now squinted against the sun, checking the skeps under the lean-to once again before scouring the area for Grimm, who was still nowhere to be found. But she could not and would not wait for him and began to march away from the house, heading out on the rain-soaked path that led into Caol, but which she would abandon well before the burgh, making a left off into the woods and the apiary in the clearing.

Twenty minutes later, she'd just made that turn off the lane and was stomping through an area of wind and rain matted grass when it dawned on her that concern had overridden good sense, and that she'd not brought any tools with her to address any damage she might find among her hives. Disgruntled anew with her own lack of foresight, Sorcha continued on anyway, deciding she might best first discover what, if any, damage there was. She was still clinging to a nebulous hope that the thick forest all around the clearing might have provided some protection to her bees and hives.

The remainder of the trek, through a woodland thick with mud, downed limbs, and scattered forest debris, took twice as long as it normally might. Her sturdy but worn boots were caked with mud, and what had seemed only a trace of water but had turned out to be a puddle a half foot deep, alerted her that there was at least one hole in the toe of her boot and her left foot was wet inside and out, and thus, Sorcha's mood was not only anxious but sour by the time she reached her distant apiary.

Her mood was not improved when she arrived, but rather devastation sank heavily upon her at the sight of the once neatly aligned row of skeps, which were as she'd feared, toppled, broken, and vacant, the bees having flown elsewhere.

A small cry escaped her as she rushed toward the upset hives, picking up one overturned hackle and skep, frowning at the damage done to it. The protective straw hackle was shredded, and the hardened cloaming skep looked as if it had been beaten repeatedly against the ground or a nearby tree. Sorcha bent and picked up a remnant of another skep, turning it over, examining the woven willow, and then tossing it aside when she failed to find any part worth saving.

After a while, after she'd examined a dozen different pieces, she stood outside the circle of destruction, hands at her sides even as they held yet several broken sections of arc-ed willow, her mouth open as she stared with growing puzzlement at the mess made of her apiary. She had to imagine that any number of forest critters—raccoons, birds, ants— could have taken advantage of the initial destruction and helped themselves to a succulent treat of honey.

Straightening her back, Sorcha took a deep breath and considered the damage once more. ?Twas more than only her means of support destroyed, but her connection to Finn as well. He'd chosen this location, he'd built the first skep, and had said he'd construct others when he returned.

Disheartened and discouraged by the whims of Fate, Sorcha lifted her arm and twirled, flinging one of the willow sections with some force, the action committed to and performed before she realized that she was not alone. As soon as she released the brown wood piece she clapped her hands over her mouth, horrified as she watched the Earl of Lochmere duck out of the way of the flying missile.

She held her breath and waited, a frisson of fear teasing its way about her heart, tightening the organ in her chest.

Truth be told, she was as fascinated by the swift and smooth motion he used to avoid the airborne skep section as she was by how vibrant and virile he appeared against the backdrop of the earthy green forest. He bent backward at the waist, his torso and head moved out of the way with a fluid grace that belied his size, while at the same time he planted a foot behind himself to maintain his balance. ?Twas all done rather poetically, she didn't mind thinking, a wee bit mesmerized by the elegance of that motion. At the same time, he was awash in gorgeous color, which shimmered in the russet strands of his hair, in the brilliant blue of his eyes, in the rich fabric of his plaid. This, coupled with the athleticism of his action, evoked a sense of striking masculinity and vigor, and briefly overshadowed her initial fright at having essentially if unwittingly lobbed an assault at him.

When he straightened and though he scowled, he whistled low and turned around to where the willow landed innocently several feet beyond him.

"Was that meant for any who intruded upon you in your apiary?" Augustus Mackenzie drawled when he faced Sorcha again. "Or was that aimed at me directly?"

Dropping her hands from her face, she was quick to acknowledge, "I am...I'm sorry. I didn't know—I thought I was alone."

"Venting frustration then," he guessed, his piercing gaze scanning the scene before it settled upon her with that almost-familiar-by-now powerful scrutiny. "?Twas a rough night indeed," he said absently, his gaze raking over her with nearly offensive diligence.

She imagined she appeared unkempt, that she showed signs that she'd rushed from her bed and from her cottage with little care for her appearance, while he appeared quite fresh, as if he'd not been disturbed by the storm overnight, as if he had no care about the destruction left in its wake. Perhaps she should be thankful for the blush his prolonged inspection caused to rise, since it likely added color to her supposed weary paleness. And then she wondered why on earth she should care what this man saw or thought about her.

"This is not..." she began, though she did not have any full thought in mind, was only wanting to put words into the silence that accompanied his piercing stare. When her voice trailed off, she returned his regard, suddenly struck by many questions, not least of which were about his presence here and now, in this remote spot. "This is not as bad as it seems," she said, fabricating an end to her sentence.

"Where is your man?"

"Grimm? He's about," she said, aware now of her circumstance, alone with the Rebel, deep in the forest. "Of course his name is not Grimm, as you might have guessed," she said next, aiming for an indifference she most certainly did not feel. With no intention of keeping company with the Rebel at this time or in this place, Sorcha fisted her hand into her skirts and lifted the hem a bit, stepping over some of the hive debris, murmuring, "Good day," as she walked away from the disturbing scene. There wasn't anything she could do here now, and she neither wished nor had reason to remain.

To her surprise, the earl fell into step beside her, holding the reins of his large destrier.

"What...what are you doing?" She asked nervously but kept moving.

"I canna have ye walk alone," he said idly. "If yer man willna safeguard ye, I suppose I must."

Unable to help herself, she barked out a laugh, "Is there not some adage about the fox guarding the hen's quarters? Or is it the wolf keeping safe the sheep?"

"If I intended to take, I'd nae have offered to pay for it," he said starkly, displeased by her inference, if anything should be gleaned from his chilly tone of voice.

"And why did you, by the way?"

"Ye want me to catalogue your charms? Your beauty? Do ye nae hear it—"

"No, no. I don't mean that—I wasn't trawling for compliments. I meant, well, why me? Why someone who isn't interested? Do not swooning and coy females throw themselves at you? Is that not incorporated into so lauded and terrifying a legend? That women throw themselves at you?"

He frowned severely at her. "Ye dinna seem sheltered—canna be, nae for the way ye left home with the beekeeper and made yer life here, but damn, if ye dinna sound like a child, with queries such as that."

Neither did she gasp at his knowledge of her nor wonder from where it had come. If not Murdo, any of the townsfolk would have been happy to share gossip about her. She'd bet her last halfpenny he'd had quite an earful from people always ready to mock her.

Only partially chastised by his statement—more embarrassed than scolded—she lowered her head and joined her hands in front of her. "Pardon me, for having so little exposure to...to extravagant legends or...loose women, or whatever type might be the sort to throw themselves at you."

"Why are ye so sure there are any women throwing themselves at me?"

"Well, I mean," she began, lifting her hand, waving it at him, her gaze returning to his striking visage. She caught herself, though, before she might have revealed that she found him ruggedly handsome in a frightening and fascinating way. Dropping her hand, she shrugged and faced forward again, knowing her cheeks were as pink as rosy apples in early fall. "I guess I imagined the lore and legend of your reputation might draw...curiosity seekers."

"It's nae something I bandy about, that other moniker."

"And yet it is with you—you didn't deny it to me the other night," she reminded him. She sent a spare glance out of the corner of her eye at him. "One might almost believe you revel in the chaos it causes a person, when they discover who they are actually speaking to."

"Ye are speaking to Augustus MacKenzie."

"Ah, but you cannot disclaim the other now, not at this late date. You might have refuted the rumor straight away. Methinks you enjoy the intimidation."

They walked on for a bit in silence until the earl guessed, "Ye come to a lot of conclusions inside your own head, do ye nae?"

Ignoring the inference that she shouldn't trust her own judgment, she maintained, "You didn't refute it when you had the chance and, therefore, I will keep to my opinion. Mayhap you believed my head would be turned by the strength of your reputation?"

"?Tis nae your head I aim to turn."

"Aye, my body," she provided boldly, even as she understood the content of this conversation was enormously improper. Simultaneously, she veered a little to the left of the earl so that more space separated them. "You wish to spend the night with me, ravish me," she said, a bit flustered—her own doing, for delving into this topic—and waved a hand impatiently, "or what have you. All pointless, I must say. My heart is not mine to give." She glanced forward, wondering, hoping that they were close to the edge of the forest, that she might soon be relieved of his company.

"I made no mention of your heart."

"Mm, yes. I am aware," she replied, slightly breathless now for the speed of her march and the racing of her pulse. "But as it is attached to my body, neither is available for purchase."

"Belongs to another?" He asked casually.

Sorcha was frustrated that he didn't sound out of breath and that it appeared he didn't need to either lengthen or quicken his stride but was able to keep pace effortlessly with her. "Yes, for some time now," she answered when she recalled he'd posed his last words as a question.

"And how long still? I hear yer man's been gone for almost a year."

"Love has a time limit?"

"Nae, but life does."

She harrumphed a laugh. "I'm not so long in the tooth that I need worry about that yet."

"Ye are nae a maid, though, are nae a lass with fewer than a score of years behind ye."

"Sweet Jesus, but are you always so offensively forthwith?"

"Am I expected to squander time with politeness, when the next minute is nae guaranteed to us."

A bit peeved at his lousy response, which seemed to want to justify his rudeness but failed miserably in her estimation, Sorcha glanced around the quiet woodland. "I believe we might both assume we have at the very least, several more moments, and that no terrible end awaits us near or on the horizon. I do not require an escort, my lord. Last night's storm was more dangerous than anything here and now."

It was, wasn't it? Or was she in danger at this moment, in the company of the Rebel of Lochaber Forest?

Augustus MacKenzie retorted promptly and with little emotion. "Did your man subscribe to that opinion? Did he—or ye—believe he would return? That many tomorrows awaited ye?"

Knowing she would not discuss Finn, a good man, with this one, who most certainly was not, Sorcha clamped her lips and marched on.

"Ye are afraid of me," he drawled, his guess not far from the mark.

"Was that not your intent?"

"It was nae."

Flippantly, and despite a niggling of anxiety that coursed through her now, she said offhandedly, "Isn't that wonderful, when we are able to achieve greater results than we set out to accomplish?"

"Ye're a spiky lass," was the earl's response to this.

Against all the wise counsel inside her head, she was, admittedly, not unmoved by the sound of his rich voice, all his words delivered with the laziness of a disinterested drawl. Recalling the direction of their improper conversation and ignoring his accusation, Sorcha declared, "I don't understand you, or your curiosity. You've said, outright, that you...well, you've made your aim clear. You professed especially that you are not interested in my head or heart. So why the—" she stopped walking and talking and turned to stare at the earl, her brow knit. "Oh, dear Lord...is this your attempt to woo me? By showering me with what is expected to be either unthreatening or pleasant conversation, but which has mostly given offense?"

Before he answered, he responded with a feral scowl. At length he stared at her, as if she'd spoken a language he did not understand.

"And now ye smile?" He said after a moment.

"Yes." She hadn't realized she'd done so, though. "The apprehension of safety will do that. Unless you intend to force yourself on me—I am beginning to believe you will not—you will not succeed either in winning my affections or having what you want. You haven't the means to lure me away from Finn's memory." Her smile improved and she proclaimed triumphantly, "I am safe."

Though his countenance remained fierce, his next question surprised her for where his mind had gone, for what he'd heard in her statement.

"That's your fear? That's what keeps ye happily mourning? That you'll dishonor his memory?"

Lifting her chin, irritated with herself for giving anything away regarding Finn and her grief and annoyed with him, this stranger, for how callously he dismissed her grief, she said through thin lips. "I have no fear that Finn's memory will ever be overshadowed. He was...an exceptional man, a saint among sinners."

The earl of Lochmere crooked his head at her, his brow lifted quizzically. "Was he all that while he lived, too?"

Sorcha gasped at his insinuation that Finn had been anything but, or that she might only cherish sweet memories, having disregarded any other.

To her growing annoyance, the earl shrugged and moved on, as if any response she might give to his query—asked only to rile her, she was sure—was of little import to him, or perhaps not to be believed.

"Mayhap I begin to see why ladies of good character or other might not be throwing themselves at you," she crowed, making sure her voice was loud enough for him to hear as he walked several yards away from and in front of her.

But he only vexed her further, sending back a chuckle, which sounded amused and not infuriated. His laughter was deep and surprisingly warm, grating doubly on her nerves for how delectable the sound was.

Soon enough, they reached the edge of the woods, where the earl paused and faced her as she caught up with him.

"Here comes your man," he said, "nae doubt ready and willing to take off my head."

Sorcha glanced across the storm-swept tall grass that led to a meandering path that would take her home. Indeed, Grimm was spotted, stalking along toward her, the grass little hindrance to his long legs. He wore a fresh or renewed scowl, though she couldn't be sure since she hadn't seen him this morning.

Sorcha glanced back at the earl, somewhat belatedly surprised that she had emerged from their encounter wholly unscathed. Yet, her surprise swiftly turned to fascination as she beheld the sight of his eyes. The sunlight bathed them in a pure light, causing them to gleam as brightly blue as the sea itself. Her lips parted in wonder. ?Twas a sin, really, that such an infuriating man should be so very compelling.

Before Grimm came within hearing of them, the earl bowed his head slightly at her.

"There are nae saints, lass," he said, in reference to her earlier remark about Finn. "Nae in this world."

He did not at that moment take his leave of her but embarked upon a lengthy perusal of her person, from head to toe, his gaze potent enough to send a shiver down her spine.

He turned and walked off with his horse then, inclining his head to Grimm as he approached.

Sorcha watched as the earl mounted, trying to make sense of the man. Purported to be a vicious rebel, he'd been anything but with her. Vexing, to be sure, but neither merciless nor overtly cruel.

Before Grimm reached her, she stared after the earl, worrying her lips now, wondering if she'd woken a sleeping dragon. Had her flippant, occasionally hostile remarks been taken as a gauntlet? The intensity of his gaze when she'd announced he posed no threat to Finn's memory said as much, did it not? She'd sensed that he'd found great disfavor being relegated to so small a threat.

She acknowledged Grimm's quizzical frown but said nothing. Shaking her head, troubled by the way these interactions with the earl left her...unfulfilled—Sweet Mother of God, as if she wanted more—she began to stomp through the grass herself, forcing Grimm to retrace his steps. By the time she reached the path where the grass struck the lane, Sorcha was more sure than she'd been after any previous meeting with the earl that she'd not seen the last of Augustus MacKenzie. The stomping then, was conceived in an attempt to hammer out her frustration with herself, for being nearly giddy at the prospect. She must put the Rebel from her mind! How selfish and indecent she was to entertain a fluttering belly and tingling nerves when Finn lay cold and dead in some unmarked grave.