Chapter 19
When Claire set out, there was still a little daylight on the horizon, but it was fading fast. She knew she would have to walk quickly to reach the village of Glengar, where she hoped to find a hut or a barn to sleep in.
The days had begun to shorten as winter approached, and she was already cold, even though she was wearing a cloak and a blanket she had stolen from her bed.
She had brought as much food as she could steal from the kitchen, enough to last perhaps two days, but after that, she had no idea how she would feed herself.
She tried to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other, picking her way along the muddy road that she vaguely remembered travelling in the carriage. In a way, she was glad to have something to think about to take her mind off Iain’s betrayal.
In spite of her valiant efforts not to weep, Claire found that she could not help herself, and in no time her cheeks were wet with tears, which she wiped away impatiently with the heel of one hand.
Her little satchel of belongings was becoming heavier and heavier, and as if things could not get any worse, it began to rain in great sheets that soaked her to the skin in no time at all.
Claire sighed, but trudged on. She might be wet, and her heart might be broken, but her body and mind were still strong, and she was determined that no one was going to grind her down.
Whatever else she lacked, she was not short of pride and determination, and it was her stubbornness that drove her on when circumstances seemed to rise like a fortress of bad fortune in front of her.
Full darkness had set in by the time she had walked only a mile, and the clouds were covering what would have been the light of a half moon.
You will overcome this, Claire, she told herself.
Rose and Amanda always said you are unbeatable when you are determined to do something.
They said you have a will of iron. Do not disappoint them.
You can do this. How far is the village?
Another two miles? You are strong. Your will is stronger than Lorna and Agnes, and you are stronger by far than my Laird Iain Ross!
Claire had tried her hardest not to think about Iain, but he simply refused to leave her mind. Every time she tried to turn her thoughts away from him, he came back and wrapped his arms around her and kissed her so tenderly that she could hardly bear it.
What am I going to do without him? she asked herself, forgetting her resolutions of a few moments before. They had shared heaven together, but now Claire was going through hell.
As the rain intensified, the puddles on the path became deeper; Claire’s feet were soon soaked, and her clothes heavy with mud.
Adding to her misery, the ground became extremely slimy and wet, and she slipped and fell on her backside several times.
Each time it became harder to get up, and eventually, she had no more strength left.
She tripped one last time, then stayed where she was because she simply did not have the energy to stand.
She crawled towards a tree and sat with her back to it, then burst into a storm of tears. She had been weeping before, but this was a tempest of a far greater magnitude. She let her tears flow down her cheeks unchecked, mixing with the raindrops and making trails down her muddy face.
Her determination and stubbornness had gone, and she finally admitted that she was beaten.
If she froze to death here nobody would find her till it was too late, but she had heard that dying of cold was just like going to sleep, so perhaps she would just drift away.
She might even go to heaven, she thought wryly.
Claire closed her eyes, and let the biting wind flow over her. There was nothing she could do now, and in a strange way she felt at peace.
Then suddenly a hand clamped over her face and she let out a squeal of fright, as a rough voice spoke in her ear.
“Thought ye’d got away, hen? Well, I’m here tae tell ye tae forget any such idea. Have ye any last words?”
There was a sneering laugh, and as the stranger turned around to face him, she saw his face by the faint light of a small lantern.
He looked like evil personified, with a hooked nose and thin lips, but it was the expression in his dark, beady eyes, which stared at her with such malice, that terrified her most.
“W-what do you want?” she stuttered. “I have no jewels or money. I have nothing of value at all.”
The man threw back his head and laughed heartily. It was a horrible, thin, reedy noise that pierced the air like the sharp point of a needle, and she felt her whole body trembling at the sound.
“I want your life, hen,” he replied, bending closer to her. “Dougal McMahon has paid me very well for it—more than you could dream of giving me.”
He produced a dagger whose lethally sharp blade glinted in the pale light of the lamp.
“Dougal…” she muttered. Why would he—
But then she remembered how much he had fought over with Iain to get him to marry. He was behind everything. He had guessed her feelings for Iain and wanted her out for good.
The awful man could have murdered her without speaking a single word, but he was taking a sadistic pleasure in drawing out the moment, enjoying the terror on Claire’s face.
A moment before, Claire had been about to surrender her life to the cold and wet Scottish weather, but now it seemed that some instinct was spurring her on not to give it up.
She suddenly wanted to live, she did not stop to ask herself why, but stepped forward and stamped on the evil man’s foot as hard as she could.
He yelled and swore at her, unable to move for a moment. Claire turned to run, her heart pounding in terror, but again the mud was her undoing. She had taken no more than a few steps before she slipped and fell on her face.
She felt a sharp pain in her knees, which had hit the ground first, but she tried to scramble to her feet despite the agony. Then she cried out as she felt a cruel hand pulling her hair to wrench her head back, and she heard herself scream as she saw the glint of the dagger in front of her eyes.
By the time Iain had gone half a mile he was soaked, but he had no intention of turning back. All that was on his mind was Claire. Was she lost? Had she fallen and hurt herself? Had bandits taken her?
The darkness around them was almost impenetrable, and the flame of his lantern was guttering as if it would go out at any moment.
Damn! he thought. This is all my fault. I chased her away. If I had told Claire how much I love her, perhaps she would have stayed.
He rode on, yelling her name as fiercely and loudly as he could, reasoning that she could not have gone far in these conditions, but terrified that she was lying unconscious and freezing somewhere.
He refused to countenance the possibility that she was dead. His lantern was almost out, and he was terrified that he would miss her.
“Claire!” he called. “Claire! It’s Iain! Come out! Come back! I love you!”
The sound of the wind was carrying his voice away, making it almost inaudible, but he had to keep trying. He was beginning to panic when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. It was only a flicker, barely visible, but it was enough.
Then he saw the sight he had been dreading. A man was bending over Claire with a dagger poised at her throat, ready to slice into it.
Startled, the would-be murderer looked up, but it was too late. Just as the dagger touched Claire’s skin, Iain brought his sword down onto the back of his neck with all his weight and strength, almost decapitating him. He died with an agonised scream.
Iain had acted instinctively, without thinking, and now he pushed the body away from Claire and raised her to her feet, then took her in his arms with a huge sigh of relief.
She was trembling uncontrollably, but he said nothing, just held her as he felt her arms going around his waist, her head leaning on his shoulder.
“Who was that? Why did he attack you?”
“Dougal…. He sent someone to… to…” Claire murmured at last, her voice trembling.
“That old bastard!”
He was socked, but not so much. Now he could see just who the real Dougal McMahon was. And he would make sure he got what he deserved for betraying him like that.
“Iain…”
Claire tried to thank him, but the words would not come out, so she closed her eyes and inhaled the comforting scent of his body, and heard the deep rumble of his voice as he spoke.
“Why did you leave me?” he asked softly, tilting her chin up so that she was looking at him.
“I had to go,” she replied. “I could not watch you with someone else, Iain.” She had been looking into his eyes, but now she dropped her gaze to the ground. “Let me go. I hope you and Lady Morag have a good life together.”
She tried to turn away, but Iain gripped her arm and stopped her.
“Is that what you want, Claire?” he asked, tilting her chin up. “Look at me. Do you think I could possibly be happy with anyone but you?”
“But I am a nobody—” Claire began, but she was silenced.
Iain said, with a touch of anger in his voice, “You are not ‘nobody,’ Claire. You are everything to me.”
“What about your betrothed?” Claire asked, for the first time, allowing a little hope to creep into her heart.
“The contracts between our clans have not been signed,” he told her. “Lady Morag is nothing to me, whereas you are my whole life.”
Then he did something that shocked Claire. He dropped down on one knee in the mud and begged, “Be my lady, Claire. Be my wife and make me the happiest man in the world… please.”
Claire could hardly believe what she was hearing. She gave a gasp of shock, then the meaning of what Iain had said sank in, and she gave him a wide, radiant smile.
“Yes, Iain,” she answered. “I will be your wife. I love you with all my heart.”