Chapter Seven

As was his practice in any new environment, Augustus rode his destrier far and wide over all of Caol. He didn't know that presently what he gleaned of the area would be useful but as with a dozen other locales he'd investigated, he appreciated having knowledge of the terrain and its features. It was a habit born from his years leading an army, where familiarity with different counties and parishes could often mean the difference between victory and defeat on the battlefield. So, he rode, taking in the rolling hills and meandering streams, committing the landscape to memory in case the need for such information should arise in the future.

He knew it wasn't precisely by chance that he entered the forest where days ago he'd met Sorcha in another of her apiaries, which had sadly been destroyed by the storm. As he allowed the destrier to pick his way through the forest, shafts of golden light filtered through the thick canopy overhead, dappling the needle-strewn earth with patches of light and shadow. Grinning, Augustus wondered if his horse knew the way as well, as without much guidance he seemed to be headed in the direction of the glade where had once been a dozen skeps.

Just as he considered that there wasn't much chance of running into Sorcha now—nothing remained to bring her to the glade—Augustus was jolted from all thought by a soft wave of music that drifted toward him, the unmistakable melody of Sorcha's song. As he'd just decided she had no cause to be in the forest, he was surprised by this, and he paused, his senses coming instantly alive.

Instinctively, he moved closer but not close enough to reveal his presence. One brow raised at the content of her song today. No mournful hymn this, and though it was not quite a rousing tavern tune, ?twas the first song he'd heard from her that was rich in cadence, and not a lament. After a moment, as his ears tuned to her voice, his lips parted and a slow grin formed, realizing that she sang what was commonly known as òrain obrach, or work songs, normally sung by laborers, weavers, and sometimes marching armies to coordinate their movements.

Less than half of the words reached his ears, but the pulse and the timbre of her voice was easily discernable. There was something familiar and soothing about the sound and Augustus was loath to disturb either it or her. Unhurriedly, he dismounted, securing the reins around the pommel. His destrier might wander, but it would not be far, and a curt whistle always brought him back.

Content to simply listen to Sorcha's mesmerizing voice, he leaned against the smooth bark of a silver birch and slid down until he was sitting. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to be further enchanted, welcoming the respite, a moment of peace that was rarely afforded him. In no time at all, tension and worries of the world slipped away, replaced by an unfamiliar calm, a tranquility he hadn't experienced in years.

?Twas a fine reminder that his fascination with Sorcha was not based solely on how exquisite she was, or by how she amused and enchanted him with her constant displays of spirit—a mighty soul, his màthair might have claimed she possessed—but that he was equally attracted to her song, which he'd begun to believe had the power to heal.

So soothing was the sound of her voice and song that Augustus felt himself losing the battle against wakefulness.

When next he opened his eyes, he understood immediately that he'd actually dozed off, and he realized that there was no more song. Jesu, but how long had he—

Climbing to his feet, he was caught unawares by a huge black shape on his right periphery, amid what should have been a forest of green. Reaching for his sword, he turned to confront...Sorcha, holding the reins of his destrier, standing thirty paces away, motionless and staring at him with a softened expression, biting her lip as she contemplated him.

As he breathed out a sigh of relief, that he'd not encountered a more dangerous animal or man, Sorcha came forward, leading his horse.

"I won't tell," she said, humor brightening her eyes, "that the Rebel sneaks off from the retinue that surrounds him day and night, only to take a nap in the forest."

She said take a nap in such a way as to suggest he was a bairn, still in nappies. While he didn't find it amusing, he found he wasn't provoked by the insinuation.

Augustus shrugged sheepishly. "I'm nae saying yer song was dull, lass, but it does have a certain calming effect."

When she wasn't bristling with indignation, when she wasn't trying to evade him for some imagined fear that he would pounce on her—when she wasn't standing up to de Montfort and goading him, to her great peril, by curtsying to Augustus!—he learned that she was or could be fairly forthright.

"Grimm sometimes falls asleep as well," she said. Her eyes remained lively, and a smile teased her lips. "I keep hope in my heart that it's the soothing song that lulls him and not only him pretending to sleep so that he's given a respite from my regular chatter—which would deaden an ear, as Finn used to...say."

Her smile faded and once more, she bit her lip, an inclination of hers that he found quite charming. He had a notion, whether accurate or not, that it wasn"t merely the mention of the deceased man"s name that caused her hesitation, but rather the revelation that her lover had deemed her overly talkative. With little deliberation, Augustus concluded that the dead man"s judgment cast Finn in a negative light, and much less so Sorcha.

She cleared her throat and announced, "I found this brute wandering near the glade."

Augustus lifted his hands and collected the reins from her, his fingers brushing hers.

"He's not quite as fearsome as he looks," she commented.

He rather expected that she would follow this with some remark that the same could not be said of the destrier's master, and quite frankly, Augustus knew a wee disappointment when she did not.

He frowned suddenly, realizing what had escaped his notice until now. "That's twice now I've found ye deep in the forest and the oaf naewhere around."

"His name is Grimm," she insisted.

"I'm sure it is nae," he countered.

Shrugging, Sorcha admitted, "No, it's probably not. And he probably hates it, but it's his own fault for not providing me with his actual name."

Though he was reluctant to offer any defense for the man, Augustus was compelled to remind her, "He dinna speak."

"Well, I know that, but there are other ways to convey his name—I'd once offered him honey and a sheaf of bark that he might write it down, but he refused."

"Mayhap he canna write."

Sorcha harrumphed with little grace, her nose wrinkling.

Once again, he found himself smitten, this time marveling at how effortlessly she engaged him in conversation. It seemed as though she had become relaxed enough to share her frustrations about her silent guardian.

Augustus returned to the issue he'd taken with her, which she'd adroitly sidestepped.

"But lass, I've seen enough of Caol and its citizens to understand the need for the—for Grimm's presence, and so why do ye tempt fate by taking yerself deep in the forest, where no one would hear ye scream?"

"Oh, he's busy with the roof," she said petulantly, "and I grew tired of waiting on him." As if reminded of something, she glanced down absently at her hand, turning it over to investigate her palm before she quickly closed her hand and buried it in the folds of her skirt.

Scowling, having caught a glimpse of redness and rawness, Augustus clasped her wrist and lifted her hand up for his own inspection, his face darkening at the damage done to her small hands.

"What is this?"

"It's nothing, but that stupid thatch," she said, trying to yank her hand away. "It's just that I'm not familiar with the method of thatch-making and...well, this is the result."

Augustus found her other hand and examined that one as well. Her palms bore the tell-tale signs of the labor-intensive craft. The once smooth skin now displayed a patchwork of welts and cuts.

Holding both her wrists, he brought his gaze to hers, his forehead creased in concern.

"Ye should have worn gloves," he scolded mildly.

"I am obviously ill-suited to such detailed labor," she answered, withdrawing her hands from his grasp, "but I do generally possess good sense, my lord; if I owned gloves, certainly I would have made use of—why are you making that face? You look as if you just swallowed some unidentifiable morsel of meat."

"Ye say guid sense, lass," he challenged lightly, "and I have to wonder where that was the other day when ye provoked de Montfort as ye did."

"I did no such thing!" She boldly lied.

"I'm nae saying that I was nae entertained, but de Montfort was much less so, I promise ye," Augustus said, ignoring her misplaced indignation. "He seems the type who dinna forget an affront. Ye dinna want to tickle that wolf's tail, lass."

Adopting a portion of that noble mien she'd deftly employed the other day—and which he was since certain she had in fact been born to—Sorcha dismissed his concern. "Fine, it may have been a bit of tickling the wolf's tail, as you say, but it's the least he deserves. A nastier, more vile, sorrier human being I'm sure I've never met." She lurched a bit and lifted her startling blue eyes to him, and quickly refined, "Unless you are well-disposed to him, and I shouldn't give vent to my frustration in front of you—in that case," she said, smiling benignly, "Lord Aldric is quite lovely."

Augustus chuckled at this, wonderfully amused by her at this point, and put her mind at ease.

"Nae, ye had the right of it—nasty, vile, and many other ignoble things, I agree."

Sorcha smiled at him. "I knew it."

His eyes devoured her rawly, feasting upon every gorgeous line and angle of her face, her high color, her pale countenance, eyes she swept downward at his lengthy scrutiny.

As if the shuttered gaze had boarded up her responsive personality as well, she withdrew—from him and from what ease and casualness they'd achieved today.

"I-I should get back," she said nervously.

She licked her lips and a coil of heat thrummed in his groin.

"Aye, unless ye prefer to ride," he said, a bit thickly, mayhap tellingly so, "I'll walk ye back."

Sorcha had turned in the direction in which they would go and now glanced over her shoulder. "I shall walk, thank you, but you needn't—"

"But I will."

He was annoyingly aware that he'd missed his chance—was well aware and sorry for it—that he'd missed an opportunity to kiss her.

***

An hour later, Sorcha stood beside Grimm as they stared up at the roof. Grimm had, sadly but necessarily, made the holes bigger in an attempt to remove all the damaged parts of the thatch.

"It wears the look of calamity, does it not?" she asked. And because he'd been grim-faced since he'd discovered her with Augustus MacKenzie—again, as the Rebel had returned her to her front door—Sorcha tried to bring out a grin. "Pray never say that it wears calamity better than I do."

He was displeased about something more than only the damage from the onslaught of the storm or having found her with the Rebel, but she didn't pursue his anger issues. If he wouldn't speak, there was little she could learn.

As twilight fell, they made their way into the village.

"I'm just sick about the damage to the forest apiary, Grimm. All that work destroyed, and most the bees gone," Sorcha said as they walked. She sighed. "For the present, I'll need to sing almost every night simply to collect enough coin to make up for what will be lost with all those hives destroyed." She put into words an idea she'd been toying with all throughout the day. "Maybe, Grimm, it's time to move on from Caol."

She met his gaze when he jerked his face toward her and studied him for a moment, attempting to gauge his reaction by his expression, judging him more surprised than alarmed. She did not read in his dark eyes any great reluctance or disagreement.

Grimm lifted both hands, asking a question with some annoyance.

"Where would we go?" She imagined he might be wondering. "I have no idea. And of course, you are not beholden or expected to simply follow blindly—or at all if you...if you would rather part company."

He rolled his eyes at this, to which Sorcha knew some relief. She hadn't known true fear in some time, hadn't felt alone—an awful feeling—and would rather not return to that status.

"I've thought a bit lately about returning to my family and Ballechen. It would be a trial, I'm sure. As I've mentioned previously, I wasn't always happy there, didn't so much enjoy being treated as an object, whose sole purpose was as an ardent disciple and fanatical believer—I wasn't very good at it, you might imagine. That's very selfish, I know. I am selfish and self-serving. And yet...while I truly enjoy my autonomy, I am weary of wondering when I'll eat next or if I'll survive the harsh winter or...ah, this is just me whining, feeling sorry for myself now in the wake of the ruin of the apiary." She paused and thought for a moment about going home and then wondered, "What does it say about me, Grimm, that I give hardly any thought to my father or mother, and even less to my sister and brother, than I do to Finn? I should miss them, shouldn't I? Long for their company and the sweet embrace of home?"

Grimm harrumphed quietly.

"Aye, maybe it says more about them and home, neither of whose embrace was actually sweet." She sighed as another thought struck her. "But then, please don't ever believe that I only left with Finn simply to escape. That was not the case. Finn was...Finn gave me life. He let me breathe when I only ever felt stifled by convention and expectations. He wasn't perfect, by no means, Grimm, but I knew love and felt love and it was...it was lovely."

The Bonnie Barrel Inn came into view as they rounded a copse of downy birch at a bend in the lane.

"We don't need to make any decisions straight away," Sorcha said, flipping up her hood over her loose blonde hair. "But you understand, do you not, that my trilling—as the earl calls it—will grow old here in Caol? I mean, how long can I really expect the fill the tavern ere they grow tired of the same doleful songs, night after night, week after week?"

At the back of the inn, Grimm opened the door, bringing to them the scent of garlic and onions and wood smoke.

As she followed Grimm inside, Sorcha said quietly at his back, for his ears alone, "I wish you would talk to me. It would be so much easier to debate ideas with another's input."

What seemed a rowdier than usual din took a moment longer to quiet. The sensation of this was always unnerving, knowing she now became the focus. Her heart thudded inside her chest and ears.

She lowered her head as she followed behind Grimm's broad figure. He ducked to enter while Sorcha walked straight forward, the door frame a full foot or more above her. Keeping her gaze on the timber floor of the inn, she counted seven steps inside, as she always did, and then stopped. Slowly, she lifted her face, her eyes closed briefly while she removed her hood. She did not open her eyes again until she'd lifted her face to the low ceiling.

Staunchly, she pushed away thoughts of the MacKenzie man, and that he might be watching her at this very moment. She tried to, anyway, but then wondered if she would feel his presence, his persona and aura being so large and bright and intimidating. A heated frisson coursed through her. Immediately, she dubbed the sensation displeasure and not delighted expectation. Named it such, even as she knew she lied.

Because her emotions had been high and low in the last few days, which had brought with it more tumult than she'd known recently, she'd not given thought to a new song but employed one she'd used before, since it required little awareness or preparedness and was most appropriate after the recent inclement weather.

"In the quiet of the morning, when the storm clouds clear," she began to sing, "a weight still sits upon my shoulders, hope consumed by fear."

She continued to sing, knowing it wasn't either her best song or her best effort. Though she failed to hit one note as well as she'd have liked, she was rather pleased with the performance overall. She'd always thought the final words—"Let the rain fall down upon me, let the thunder roll; Come the sun and your birdsong, there is peace within my soul"—was a fair representation of her truth.

When she was done, she closed her eyes again and lowered her face, no longer startled by the raucous applause as she had been when she'd first started singing here. After a moment, she opened her eyes, expecting that Grimm would be near, ready to escort her out through the same back door. Instead, she blinked, her gaze meeting with Augustus MacKenzie, who sat stoically—he was not cheering as was almost everyone else, including his man, Geddy, at his side—his gaze shuttered and unfathomable, so very different from what he'd shown her in the glade.

Grimm was engaged in a silent contest, chest to chest with one of the MacKenzie men, a rare person who could stand eye to eye with him, not half a dozen feet away from where Sorcha stood.

Sorcha bristled at the earl's presence even as she half expected it this evening. Still, she didn't appreciate the way he stared at her with such familiarity, as if he knew her, as if her curves were familiar, as if the texture of her skin and hair were already known to him. While she did not welcome the intimate stare, she recognized her own response to it, which was akin to how she'd felt this morning in his presence, not unmoved by it despite all hope and conscious effort. She wondered if her pulse didn't race so, if she might internally label his staring as leering.

It was then she noticed the heavy presence of so many men clad in the de Montfort colors and she realized the inn was crowded more with soldiers than village folk. And that's when she also realized that sitting at the same table with Augustus MacKenzie was Lord de Montfort himself.

A wretched feeling engulfed her, knowing she could not ignore the lord's presence. He had, unfortunately, the power to make her life miserable, as he liked to remind her. Likewise, she could not pretend that she wasn't aware of Lord Aldric curling his fingers toward himself, beckoning her to their table in a regal manner.

Pasting a slim smile on her face, Sorcha stepped off the dais and approached the table, where sat a total of four men, the two earls and two MacKenzie officers, including the one named Geddy.

Possibly more than one person might have noticed how she dragged her feet as she stepped off the small dais and made her way to the table where sat the two earls.

Certainly, the Lochaber Rebel observed her unwillingness. He stood and smirked knowingly at her as she neared, possibly recalling the opinion she'd shared with him, what she thought of Lord Aldric.

This smirk, unlike others she'd seen, was actually painted with a bit of humor. It gave gorgeous life to his stunning blue eyes, and Sorcha couldn't take her gaze from him. A dangerous man, indeed, for owning so brilliant a pair of laughing eyes.

"My lords, good evening," she said, standing before the round table where unfortunately one more chair sat empty.

The MacKenize earl indicated the free chair and did not sit again until Sorcha had reluctantly taken a seat. Lord Aldric did not stand. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw that Grimm was close again, alert and watchful.

"Ah, but it's been too long since I've heard your song," snapped Lord Aldric as if the fault were hers. Aye, the bark of his speech was normal, but it disagreed presently with the alleged praise of his words. "My own fault, of course, for how long gone I was, but here, now that's corrected." He turned a shrewd eye to Augustus and to Sorcha's shock, made bold statements that were clearly false. "It fairly distresses me," he said, the clip of his tone suggesting infuriates should have replaced distresses, "when I think of her condition, her present circumstance being so far removed from her past."

Sorcha scowled at him. He had no right to use her as the subject of any conversation—certainly not in her presence while acting as if he were not. Yet, short of leaving his company, Sorcha didn't know a way to stop it.

"But ye saw her yesterday at Ironwood," Lord Aldric continued. "Sharp of tongue and filled with ideas, things beyond her comprehension."

As if ignorant to the slight, or even as ignorant as he suggested, Sorcha focused her gaze on the shoulder of the MacKenzie captain directly across from her, who sometimes glanced at her though he did not let his gaze linger long.

Ye dinna want to tickle that wolf's tail, lass, Augustus had cautioned her.

Oh, but a large part of her really did.

But she did not, only sat stoically, barely attentive, wondering what the odds were that another raging storm might pass through Caol, twice in two days. Storms of that strength had the power to clear the taproom, she was sure.

Naught but wishful thinking.

She scarcely paid attention to the conversation, her mind drifting back to her first few months in Caol with Finn. Those rare occasions in the earl"s company had taught her that little was expected of her, and she reflected on the earl"s narrow-minded perspective, which deemed women as having only one purpose in life.

Instead, she eavesdropped on a mundane conversation taking place at a table nearby. Much more pleasant, much less provoking, those three men and their discussion about the local agriculture. Caol, she'd heard many times, was considered a region of poor soil. The wheat crop was specifically discussed, and apparently needed only two bushels per acre of seed, but would yield from the same space almost three hundred liters of grain.

Sorcha considered this, trying to recall if the same numbers would have or still did apply to Ballechen.

Lord Aldric's voice cut into her purposeful reverie.

"That wretched fool Harrington," he growled, his tone dripping with contempt. "Caught with his hands in the wrong bluidy pocket again, the spineless cur."

"And lost his head because of it," Augustus replied. "As it should be."

Though she did not show it, Sorcha was taken aback by the Rebel's nonchalant attitude toward an apparent execution, finding his indifference disturbing.

Maybe she should not have been surprised, but should have been guided by the rumors that preceded the advent of the Rebel into her life.

As difficult as it was to prevent any thoughts of Augustus MacKenzie from creeping into her consciousness, so too she found it nearly impossible not to compare the two earls.

Both men were gruff in their own way, and she supposed the MacKenzie might be more primitive than refined—courtly manners he did not possess—but clearly then Lord Aldric should be deemed a heathen by comparison, as coarse as he was. Though she wasn't quite sure who would rise to the top in her estimation, to her surprise, she discovered that she definitely preferred the MacKenzie's piercing and unsettling regard over de Montfort's lewd ogling.

She did not respect Lord Aldric, no more than she liked the man, but she feigned—mostly—the appropriate submissiveness, knowing she would suffer otherwise. She had some suspicion that Augustus MacKenzie would not only not find such submissiveness an attractive quality, but that it would possibly negate a person's worth if he was subjected to it.

If, under duress, she was forced to say one good thing about Lord Aldric, Sorcha might have guessed that she appreciated that he didn't conceal his evil nature or intentions. What you saw was exactly what he was.

She could not say, not with even the smallest degree of certainty that the same could be said of the MacKenzie earl. She simply did not know and absolutely did not trust that her intuition about him wasn't governed by his effect on her.

***

It was a struggle, to be sure, to endure the company of the earl so calmly, certainly while his disdain and mistrust festered like a wound that refused to heal. Every moment spent in de Montfort's presence was an eternity, each word exchanged a test of patience and endurance. Truly, his capability in subterfuge and reconnaissance were being tested. Despite the loathing crawling up his skin, Augustus knew he had little choice but to maintain civility. His mission demanded it.

He offered no defense for Sorcha, nor would he. De Montfort was not one to tolerate criticism, let alone alter his behavior to avoid it and thus any words spoken by Augustus in this regard would fall on deaf ears. Moreover, Augustus harbored a deep conviction that defending Sorcha would only put her at risk. If De Montfort proved to be a traitor, any hint of any possible affection for Sorcha on Augustus's part could make her a target or a pawn in de Montfort's machinations of war.

Occasionally as he sipped from his tankard of warm ale, he stole glances at Sorcha. When first she'd come to join them at the table, she'd glanced up through her lashes at him several times but had since become nearly immobile, almost trancelike as she stared at Geddy.

He thought it laughable how often he'd brought to mind the wee smile she'd shown him yesterday and the casualness she'd exhibited in his company today. He was laughable, he supposed, for being smitten with only a smile. Ah, but the brightness in her eyes at that moment, surely enough to turn the devil himself toward goodness.

Bluidy hell, and now I wax poetic.

Still, he allowed his gaze to seek her out often. Presently, while de Montfort yapped out some horseshite about his role and that of his army in a pitched battle against the MacFie of Colonsay, in which Augustus knew with certainty the earl had not been a factor, Augustus traced with his gaze the length of one long blonde tress as it hung aside her cheek and tumbled over her shoulder. Its texture was unknown, but surely it would feel as velvet when finally he caressed it between his fingers, would it not? His thoughts were captured by this idea, though to be fair, the thought was neither unbidden nor unexpected. He'd wanted just that, had he not? The chance to touch her, to run his hands over every inch of her flesh, to stroke her silky hair and take her sweet lips in a scorching kiss?

He did not let his gaze ever sit too long on her, unwilling to draw de Montfort's attention. He was not in the dark about de Montfort's desire for Sorcha—it was palpable, the sidelong sinister intention. Lord Aldric's first bit of conversation, after Sorcha had joined them, all about Sorcha—as if he knew her well and for years—bore the suggestion of an intimacy that Sorcha's stark, disgruntled gaze clearly said was false, as if her words to Augustus this afternoon had not already advised him of her feelings for the earl. However, Augustus saw de Montfort's behavior for what it was, staking a claim on Sorcha, not so subtly letting Augustus know Sorcha was not available to him, as if Lord Aldric had such power.

Considering her precarious circumstance and in light of de Montfort's intent to display his dominance tonight, Augustus spared a glance at Grimm, her protector, gratified to find de Montfort the subject of that silent man's intense regard. Even as he wondered if his own intentions regarding Sorcha might sooner or later be thwarted by Grimm, Augustus was at the same time grateful for the man's diligent protection of Sorcha.