Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Only when Samuel was satisfied that some kind of order had been returned to the inn and its occupants, that the injured were being well tended, and there were soldiers posted at the inn door, did he make his way up the stairs and along the hall to the chamber occupied by Maureen.
Alasdair was already at her door. He looked up as Samuel approached. “’Tis me duty tae guard the Lady Maureen at all times, Laird MacLeay. I have made me vow tae her braither.”
Samuel understood at once––the man’s duty, the trust placed upon him by Laird MacDonald required him to remain close to her.
“I’ll relieve ye lad, ye may wish tae check on yer man, he’s gravely hurt. I will remain here until dawn, tae see tae it that nae one disturbs the lady’s rest.”
Alasdair hesitated.
“If ye wish, ye might relieve me later once ye’ve taken care of yer man,” Samuel said, convincing the captain to take his leave.
As the inn finally quieted, Samuel laid his cloak on the hard timber floor and settled himself outside Maureen’s door.
He unbuckled his sword belt and set it aside, easing the weight from his hips, but he kept the blade itself within reach, laid parallel to his thigh.
Habit, born of long years and longer nights.
Guards passed and slowed when they saw him there.
“Someone asked fer ye below, me laird,” one murmured.
“Nay. This place is mine this night,” Samuel replied without lifting his head. “The lady is under me watch.”
They moved on.
Sleep did not come easily. When it did, it was shallow and easily broken.
Each footstep along the passage instantly awoke him, his hand already closing around the hilt of his sword before the sound had fully reached him.
Only when the tread passed harmlessly by did he ease again, his back against the wall, his gaze returning to the closed door before him.
The Lady Maureen MacDonald.
The knowledge of her pressed upon him more heavily than the stone beneath his shoulders.
Betrothed. The word had sat strangely upon him, both distant and binding.
He had known, of course, that the King’s will had claimed him as penance for his brother Aidan’s hot head, as surely as it claimed loyalty.
Yet knowing the outlines of his duty was not the same as knowing the woman bound to it.
His mind took him again to her as she had stood in the chaos of the inn – pale, shaken, and unbowed.
He admired her pluck, the quickness of her mind, the steadiness of her hand when fear might have undone another.
And he could not deny her beauty, though he had tried not to dwell upon it.
Her chestnut curls had come loose from their pins, catching the firelight, and her eyes, as green as emeralds, sharp with thought, had met his without flinching.
He imagined her as his wife, the word settling more easily now than it had hours before.
He wondered how she saw him – whether she measured him as a stranger, a duty, or something yet undefined.
Desire stirred, unbidden and unwelcome in its timing.
He tempered it as he always did, reminding himself that admiration must bow to honor, and desire must succumb to restraint.
Still, he wondered what their marriage might be. Whether there would be warmth between them, or only the careful distance of obligation? Would she ever look at him and choose him freely?
At last, he slept, and the night passed without any further incident.
It was still dark when Joseph appeared beside him. They kept their voices low, standing apart from the door and the sleeper beyond.
“Matheson kens something,” Joseph said quietly. “I cannae yet say how much, but enough tae cause harm if it spreads.”
Samuel’s jaw tightened. “Then it must nae spread.”
“If he speaks—”
“He willnae,” Samuel said. “Nae if we are vigilant.”
Joseph hesitated. “It could fracture the clan.”
Samuel met his gaze squarely. “Then we will ensure it daes nae. See tae it that our innkeeper keeps his spying checked. Nay messengers ride without our knowledge.”
Joseph nodded. “Aye. As ye say.”
They parted as the household began to stir, the weight of the unspoken settling once more upon Samuel’s shoulders.
As the dawn light crept into the stairs and the parlor below, he roused himself and went outside into the chill air.
There he found the cistern filled and splashed himself with the icy water.
He was wide awake in an instant. He dried himself on the length of cloth hanging there for that purpose, ran his fingers through his long, dark hair, and followed the enticing aroma coming from the kitchen.
He entered the parlor and seated himself on a bench by the hearth. Joseph entered and took a seat beside him.
Two maids bustled in with platters containing bowls of porridge, honey and milk. After consuming the porridge, he was just spreading his favorite orange marmalade on a bannock when he looked up and spied the Lady Maureen entering the room.
His heart gave an unaccustomed leap at the sight of her.
She was clad in a most becoming green gown and it took an effort to drag his gaze from the way it clung to her rounded curves as she crossed to the same table by the window where he’d first seen her.
As she took her seat, Samuel got to his feet and made his way across the room.
“Lady Maureen, I trust ye have slept well?” he studied her face for a moment. She was still pale, but her eyes flushed with disapproval as she returned his gaze, her distrust obvious. “I am pleased tae see the roses have returned tae yer cheeks.”
“Indeed, Laird MacLeay, I enjoyed a pleasant night of rest.” She said coolly. “I thank ye fer yer kind protection during the night.”
He gave a sharp laugh. “Ye kent I was there?”
“Of course. Ye rattled and clanged about like a team of horses.”
He laughed. “And there I was only worried me snoring would wake ye.”
“The other sounds ye made drowned out the snores.”
He found himself unable to drag his gaze away from her face, grateful to see the sparkle had returned to those emerald eyes.
“I shall leave ye tae yer breakfast. The horses will be saddled and waiting in the inn yard.”
She nodded and he walked away, musing on chestnut curls and green eyes. Would they ever come to trust each other? The enmity between their clans ran deep and it clearly would take time to heal.
Samuel felt the unsteady road even from the saddle, slick mud sucking at his horse’s hooves, the faint slide and correction with each careful step.
The rain had passed, but it had left its mark behind, the air sharp and clean, the scent of wet earth and pine thick enough to taste.
The river ran hard beside them, swollen from the night’s downpour, white water breaking over dark stones with a ceaseless roar that filled the glen and left little room for idle thought.
He kept his horse angled close to Maureen’s, watching the way she sat her mount.
She rode well enough, but there was a stiffness to her shoulders, a guardedness in the way she held herself, as though her body had not quite forgiven her for the violence of the crossing and the chaos that followed.
When her horse slipped once on a patch of churned mud, Samuel’s hand went up without thought, steadying her knee against the saddle before he even realized he had moved.
She caught herself quickly, murmuring a soft word to the mare, and he let his hand fall away at once.
He told himself it was prudence. Nothing more.
Ahead, the glen narrowed, the slopes rising steep and close, their flanks thick with dark pines that whispered as the breeze passed through them.
Between the trees, the land had begun to wake.
Yellow gorse flared bright against the grey stone.
Bluebells nodded along the riverbank, their color startling after the long, dull months of winter.
Here and there, white stars of stitchwort scattered across the grass, fragile as cobwebs.
Joseph reined back from a bend in the track and turned toward them, his horse splashed to the knees with mud, his eyes sharp beneath the brim of his bunnet.
“Clear,” he said quietly, falling into step beside Samuel. “I’ve ridden the ridge and the lower path both. Nay sign of Matheson’s men. Nay fresh tracks save our own and the drovers from yesterday.”
Samuel inclined his head, relief a low, unwelcome thing he refused to indulge too deeply. “They’ll nae give up so easily.”
Joseph’s mouth twitched. “Nae. But they’ll think twice before showing their faces in daylight after last night.”
Samuel glanced back along the road, where Maureen’s guards rode in a loose formation, watchful despite the calm. “Keep an eye on the river crossings,” he said. “If they mean trouble, they’ll try tae cut us off closer tae home.”
Joseph nodded once and rode ahead again, melting into the land as though the glen itself had claimed him.
They passed a small croft not long after, a strip of newly turned earth beside the track, dark and rich.
Two crofters worked there, a man and a woman, bent over their labor, planting with steady, practiced hands.
A child sat on the drystone wall, watching the horses pass with solemn curiosity.
A few cattle grazed over the croft, their hides slick with rain, steam lifting from their backs.
Sheep dotted the slope above them like scraps of wool caught on the hill.
A low cottage belonging to a crofter came into view near the field, its walls thick and sound, smoke curling from the chimney. The sight of it tightened something in Samuel’s chest – the quiet persistence of it, the life carried on despite feuds and threats and blood spilled in taverns.
Maureen turned in the saddle to watch them as they passed. “They look content,” she said. “As though nothing beyond their field exists.”
“Aye,” Samuel replied. “That’s the trick of it. Ye guard what’s yers and hope the rest of the world keeps its distance.”