Chapter 13
“Iknow ye’re back there,” Clara called out behind her.
No one replied. Not that she had expected them to.
Whoever they were, they’d been trailing her for the last four days as she journeyed over the straw-yellow grass, going first to the Hamiltons, then to the Maxwells, and later to the Stirlings. Her adherent didn’t attack, nor did they interfere with her visits. They simply followed.
She hadn’t seen them fully yet, only a shadow from time to time or the rustle of leaves deep in the woods. But they were there. And that prickling unease at the back of her neck crawled with the awareness that there was indeed someone watching.
The forest thinned away into a clearing with a village at its center. Just beyond the thatch-roofed homes, and clusters of people going about their daily lives, rose yet another castle.
Clara had been so hopeful when she’d first gone to the Hamiltons, certain they would believe her when Lord Tavish had not. However, without the missive, they afforded her even less trust than did Lord Tavish.
The problems began with the muted Scottish burr in her accent, flattened by her time in England. Her inability to produce proof of what she claimed as Lord Tavish had kept the missive added to that. And the final nail in her coffin was the fact that she was a woman.
Never had being of the fairer sex been more of a hindrance than in the business of warfare and saving lives.
She looked up at the castle whose shadow fell ominously over her as she approached.
The soldier guarding it would need convincing that she was worthy of an audience with the laird of the keep, the same as they all did.
All that to inevitably pass back through these very gates without success. Again.
Exhaustion gripped her and begged her to turn back, to go through the forest and to Paisley Abbey, where she could accept her ultimate defeat.
Reid would be recovered by now. He would be able to go to Dumbarton, and they would finally have to say their farewells.
It was where their paths would split, for him to continue to live his peripatetic life, and she to devote her time to the abbey until they agreed to allow her to remain with them and later take her vows.
She would never see him again.
Her thoughts shifted once more to the futility standing before her.
The castle, the guard, knowing she had to try with the Montgomeries.
They were the last clan she planned to speak with.
She could go farther south and speak to the Muirs, but time was a persistent issue nipping at her mind and rose more forefront with each passing day.
Indeed, she hoped she was not too late, that the English had not already attacked.
Mayhap the Montgomeries would say yes where the others had cast her aside. If they did, there would be one more army to help protect the villagers outside of Dumbarton Castle.
The possibility was slight, but she had hope, even if it was foolish to do so.
She was shown into the keep, more diminutive and less opulent by comparison to the rest, with a great hall nearly half the others’ size.
However, the rushes were clean, and she was offered sustenance upon her arrival—a bit of salted butter and bread still warm from the oven, along with a mug of ale.
It was more than the others had provided.
But as well-mannered as the Montgomeries had proven to be, their aged laird regarded her with the same contempt as the others had when she was announced with a message for him. That disdain curled his thin lips when she began to speak.
“English,” he accused.
“My da was,” she admitted tiredly. “But I’m the granddaughter of the Chieftain of the Ross clan.” Never in her life had she thought she would admit to such a connection. Certainly, she’d never believed she would say it so often in so many days.
The laird tilted his head, his gray eyes narrowing as he studied her. “Ye’ve got the look of his wife about ye.”
Clara hid her surprise. No one had ever told her as much. But then, she wasn’t often around anyone from her mother’s family.
The laird settled back in his chair upon the dais, his hand smoothing down his considerable beard. After a moment, he nodded. “Aye, I’ll join yer grandda in the fight. We’re always looking for an excuse to kill the English.”
Her stomach sank. “My grandda won’t be there.”
The laird’s brows raised with incredulity. “I’ll no’ risk my men if yer grandda isna willing to do the same.”
“But innocent people—”
“My men’s families are innocent too, are they no’?” he asked, his hands spreading out, palm up. “Who will care for them when their fathers and husbands dinna come home?”
Clara went quiet at that. She knew all too well that no one did.
With that, she was dismissed from the keep, a failure once again, with her shadow hiding in the tree line to witness her defeat.
She kept from the trail as had become her habit, opting instead to go through the forest, where there was less likelihood of running into Englishmen or being harassed by men eager to find a woman traveling alone.
It was a miserably cold day with a wind that cut through her cloak, and flecks of rain that stung like shards of ice on her face and hands. She traveled for a bit of time with her shadow trailing behind her before finally stopping to rest her mount near a stream.
Even as she built a quick fire to thaw her numbed hands, the urgency returned.
The English would be there soon. She could sense it in the air as if it were something tangible.
They could have already attacked, and she wouldn’t be the wiser.
She had been gone long enough. Reid would be recovered as long as another infection had not set in, and he could go to Dumbarton Castle to speak with Lord Tavish.
Surely, they would believe Reid, being that he was Scottish and a man.
She caught a rabbit to roast before departing for the journey back to Paisley Abbey. Though she’d had a bit of bread, it was hardly enough to fill her belly, and she did not wish to stop until she was at the convent.
Awareness slinked over her skin.
She was being watched again. A shiver squeezed down her spine.
Her nerves were ragged and raw, shredded with the continual stream of degradation and rejection she’d received; the helplessness of her own inability to save innocent lives.
And through it all, this person had continued to observe her, without care or concern for those she wished to save.
It made rage boil in her veins until she had to fight down the urge to leap to her feet and scream like a madwoman, as she had in the forest with Reid. But Reid wasn’t there to comfort her now. It was only herself and her voyeur.
A stick snapped in the woods.
Her patience broke along with it. She’d had enough, and now she had an idea of what direction she might find her watcher. Energy shot through her muscles, springing her up, a predator descending on her prey as she closed in toward the sound. Movement showed between the trees.
“Will ye run from a woman then?” she called out. “Am I so terrifying?”
It was the kind of goading tactic Kinsey might utilize. Her younger sister always was ready to issue or accept a challenge.
For Clara’s part, she couldn’t stand the watching anymore.
Whatever had shifted between the trees went still. She wasted no time in approaching the person who had spent so many days shadowing her every move.
The metallic hiss of a blade clearing its sheath called her attention to a man standing by a thick tree trunk, his hard face set beneath a pair of bushy red brows. He was shorter than her, his body stocky.
Clara came closer despite the brandished weapon. “Why have ye been following me?”
“Why are ye going to all these keeps?” the man asked, lowering his blade by only a fraction of an inch.
“To implore their lords to assist Dumbarton when the English attack.”
He studied her a long moment, then his red mustache and beard twitched. “Ye’re either daft or brave.”
She lifted her shoulders in a helpless shrug. “I have hope.”
“Daft then.”
“I prefer stubborn.” She smiled at him, and he lowered his weapon entirely.
“Ye’ll be glad to know I’m done,” she informed him. “Ye can return to Dumbarton, to yer family and nights in a warm bed, secure under yer own roof.”
“That’s what ye’d say if ye were going to plan something nefarious.” His dark eyes narrowed. “And I dinna have a family.”
“I am merely venturing to Paisley Abbey to bring back the man who should have been the messenger,” she explained. “He ought to be recovered by now. Mayhap Lord Tavish will believe him.”
“I canna let ye go without me.” The older man puffed his chest out. “I’m to follow ye and ensure ye’re no’ a traitor.”
“Then ye are welcome to join me on my way to Paisley Abbey.” She hesitated, regarding him cautiously. “Though it would do well to know yer name. I’m Clara Fletcher.”
He studied her for so long that she didn’t think he would offer his name in reply. After a stretch, he finally said, “Well met. I’m Finlay.”
“Will ye join me for a bit of rabbit, Finlay?” she asked. “Ye’ve not had a campfire that I can tell, and I wager ye want some warm food.”
His gaze slid toward the smell of roasting meat. “If ye have enough…”
“I do.” She tilted her head toward her camp and made her way back to the small fire. “But we need to be swift. I think we may be running out of time.”
Finlay nodded and followed her, bringing his horse with him. He put his hands to the fire as soon as they arrived at her camp; his fingers were reddened with chilblains.
“Do yer hands bother ye?” she asked.
He paused, mid-scratch between his forefinger and thumb. “Aye, but ’tis common this time of year.” He lifted a booted foot. “My feet as well.”
She went through her bag and withdrew a jar of rosemary and lavender salve. “Keep them as warm as ye can and ensure yer feet stay dry and warm. Put this on for some relief.”