Chapter 24 One Thing at a Time
“THAT’S HER,” HAMISH Macquarie said softly.
Next to him, one of his warriors shifted, his boots snapping on a twig. “How can ye tell?”
“My gut tells me.”
“But it’s not light enough to see her face properly.”
Hamish cut the man a disdainful look. Dug wasn’t the sharpest blade in the armory. “Two of them went into the castle yesterday,” he replied with exaggerated patience. “And three of them are leaving. One of them is a dark-haired woman. That’s good enough for me.”
“But that doesn’t—”
“Use what’s between yer ears, Dug,” Hamish cut him off, his patience fraying.
God’s troth, he was surrounded by half-wits.
Fortunately, though, Hamish wasn’t a fool.
He found himself missing Archie then. He, Ian, and Ross were his best. Sharp.
Resourceful. But they’d clearly failed him and were most likely dead.
The three warriors had never returned to the men waiting for them on the shore.
And finally, those two remaining warriors sailed back to Ulva, bringing unwelcome news with them.
Irritated, Hamish focused once more on the wagon that bounced down the rutted road.
The sun was rising, a glow in the windy sky. A man and woman sat up front, their cloaks snapping and billowing, while two garrons plowed forward, their heads bowed against the gusts. But they didn’t interest Hamish.
It was the figure crouched in the cart behind them, a woman with braided black hair, who caught his eye. Dug was right. He couldn’t pick out her features from this distance or discern the color of her eyes. All the same, he knew.
His belly started to burn then, a familiar rage kindling.
When the missive arrived from Craeg Maclean, ending the betrothal, Hamish’s rage had been blistering.
His wife and daughter had fled the solar as he hurled objects.
His son had shrunk back from his wrath—a fury that had seen him bellow for his birlinn to be readied.
However, on the journey down Mull’s western coast, he’d calmed down enough to think clearly.
And now, days later, he watched from the oakwood, east of Moy Castle, as a merchant trundled by.
“Why would she leave Moy?” Another voice intruded then. His son stepped up to his shoulder. Cameron’s brow was furrowed, his blue eyes narrowed as he watched the rattling wagon. “I thought Maclean was going to wed her.”
Hamish gave a soft snort. “Who cares?”
There were a host of reasons his bastard daughter might flee. They’d seen the chieftain depart a day earlier with a band of men, heading north. Hamish guessed he was making a trip to Duart to inform the clan-chief of his intended marriage to Hazel Maclean.
Hamish had considered following him, to confront him at Duart and shame him and Loch Maclean into keeping their part of their agreement.
But he hadn’t.
The Crone’s whispers stopped him.
Hazel was the problem. Not Craeg Maclean. Aye, he knew all about how she’d ensnared the young chieftain, for he’d sent one of his men into Lochbuie the day before to ask some discreet questions. The seer’s warning had been right.
She’d be his downfall.
She’d ruin everything.
She had to be dealt with. Once Hazel was dead, he’d focus on forcing Craeg Maclean to uphold his promise.
One thing at a time.
“Do we follow them?” Cameron asked, his gaze never leaving the cart. It cut its way through fields of neeps and cabbages now, following the road that would take them northeast. Hamish guessed the merchant was heading for Craignure, the most likely point to find passage back to the mainland.
“Aye,” Hamish replied. “Good to know that yer thought cage isn’t full of moths, lad.”
A flush rose to Cameron’s cheeks, and irritation knifed through Hamish in response.
He’d brought his son along on this mission to teach him a few things. The lad needed to come face-to-face with the harsh realities of life. He had to learn what was necessary if a man wanted power and influence—and what lengths were needed to protect yer clan.
“Hazel will destroy our alliance with the Macleans,” he said then, cutting his gaze back to the cloaked figure crouched next to an iron cauldron.
Saying the lass’s name made something tug uneasily deep in his chest. His daughter.
She had an identity now. She was no longer some faceless woman.
However, he swept the reaction away. “She must be dealt with.”
“So, ye will kill her?” The question held a challenge—something that surprised Hamish. Did his son have a spine, after all?
“No, I shall shake her hand and congratulate the lass on her fine match,” he snarled. “Ask me another fool question again, Cam, and I’ll blacken yer eye.”
His son swallowed, even as something akin to anger sparked in the depths of his dark-blue eyes. Nonetheless, he minded him.
Satisfied, Hamish turned, casting his eye over the band of six warriors he’d brought from Ulva. All of them were watching him, their expressions expectant. He flashed them a hard smile. “Let’s go hunting.”
“Thank ye for the passage, but I will find my own way from here.”
Beth turned to Hazel, her brows knitting together. “But I thought ye wished to travel to Craignure?”
“Eventually, aye.” Hazel flashed the woman a bright smile. “But I have an auld aunt near Loch Uisg. I’d like to stop off and see her for a day or two.”
It was a good excuse, for the narrow path that wound up the hillside through a scrubby hazelwood forked here, one path leading down to where the expanse of the loch itself sparkled in the distance.
All the same, Beth’s expression remained worried. “Ye shouldn’t be traveling on yer own, lass.”
Hazel gave a soft snort as she clambered off the cart and dusted down her skirts. “I’m no dainty lady, Beth,” she chastised her. “I live alone … and have spent most of my life watching my own back. Don’t worry yerself about me.”
Gordon huffed a laugh. “Well, mind how ye go, all the same.”
“I will. Thank ye again, for the ride.”
She meant it too. However, Gordon’s cart was painfully slow. She could walk faster, and she would. It was also risky to continue traveling with them.
Craeg could return to Moy at any time—and she couldn’t risk meeting him on this road.
Her belly tightened then.
No, that would make things much harder than they needed to be.
Gordon flicked the reins then, and Beth raised a hand in farewell. The older woman smiled, yet her gaze was still shadowed.
The cart rumbled away, the creak of its wheels and the clip-clop of the garrons’ hooves soon obscured by the whistle of the wind. Hazel stood at the fork in the path, watching until Beth and Gordon disappeared around a bend, swallowed by the gorse and heather.
Only then did she move.
Not east toward the loch and the imaginary aunt she’d invented. Instead, she entered the hazelwood to the west.
Her feet found a narrow deer track that ran parallel to both a burn and the road, hidden from the latter by a thick screen of trees. The water bubbled over stones, cold and clear, threading through moss-covered banks. Trees arched overhead, their leaves rustling in the wind.
She moved quickly, her basket bumping against her hip with each stride. The morning sun filtered through the canopy in shafts of green-gold light, but she barely noticed. Her mind churned like the water beside her.
This is right. This is the only way.
The words became a rhythm matching her footsteps. A prayer. A conviction.
They kept her strong. Kept her going.
By now, Gordon and Beth would be making slow progress northeast. Hazel couldn’t see the road, but she’d already overtaken them, she reckoned. The cart could only manage a crawl on the rough Highland tracks, while she—she could move like the deer whose path she followed.
Fast and determined.
Running.
Not running, she told herself fiercely. Choosing. There’s a difference.
Was there?
A hard knot tightened in her chest, but she shoved it down. Instead, she kept walking. The burn widened here, tumbling over a series of small falls, the sound loud enough to drown out thought.
Good.
She didn’t want to think, to remember Craeg’s face when he’d kissed her goodbye in the barmkin.
The fierce certainty in his eyes. The promises he’d made.
He thought his love would be enough, but Hazel knew better now.
She should have refused him. She’d lived long enough, seen enough, to understand how the world worked.
Love was a luxury for most people. A dangerous indulgence. One that only led to pain.
Love hadn’t saved Rhona Maclean from rape and a bloody end, or spared Siùsan from the grips of a terrible disease. Nor could it change the past or right the wrongs committed.
The path climbed, following the burn up through stands of birch and rowan. Her breath came harder now, her legs burning. Sweat trickled down her spine despite the cool morning air. But she didn’t slow.
And as she walked, she planned ahead. Once she located her relatives, she’d set herself up as a herb-wife, if not in Oban, then nearby.
It would hurt to leave everything behind, yet she’d survive. She was good at that. Siùsan had taught her well. Warmth suffused her chest as she recalled how fiercely independent her mother had been, how she’d encouraged the same self-reliance in Hazel.
The next few weeks would be hard, but she’d get through them. And in the meantime, Craeg would patch things up with the Macquaries. He’d marry Isla, lead his clan, and be the chieftain he was meant to be.
And yet, the thought of never seeing him again made the brief warmth drain from her chest. Misery twisted like a blade under her ribs as she stumbled.
Curse her, she’d left this decision too long.
The truth was, there would be no getting over Craeg Maclean.
The sun climbed higher, and despite the buffeting wind, her clothing clung to her skin. She paused to roll up her sleeves, adjusting the weight of her basket. All her possessions that mattered, save the coin purse at her waist, were in there. Her herbs and tools.
It wasn’t much, but it was hers.
There was a brittleness to her determination though, and it disturbed her. Keep walking. She couldn’t stop. If she did, she’d think. And if she thought too hard about what she was leaving behind, she might waver.
The burn narrowed again, threading through a gorge where ferns grew thick and lush. The sound of water echoed off stone walls. It was a sheltered spot. She guessed she was still traveling parallel to the road, although her path northeast was a little more winding.
Moy lay far behind her now. Her legs ached, and her throat burned with thirst. The basket felt like it was full of bricks.
She dropped to her knees beside the burn, cupping water to her mouth. It was icy, tasting of peat and stone. She drank deeply, then splashed handfuls over her face and neck, gasping at the cold shock of it.
Sitting back on her heels, she drew in a deep breath, gathering her strength once more. That was better. With each furlong that she put between herself and Moy Castle, she was severing the bond between her and Craeg. She was ensuring he didn’t throw away his future over reckless passion.
Water dripped from her chin, and she wiped it away with her forearm. Her hair had come loose from its braid, wild and tangled. She should probably comb her fingers through it and plait it again before she moved on.
A twig snapped behind her.
Hazel froze. Every muscle in her body locked.
Heart kicking against her ribs, she slowly turned.
Men stepped out from the trees. Around half a dozen of them. Their faces were hard, their clothes travel-stained. Dirks and short swords hung from their belts.
Her breathing caught.
Outlaws? No. Worse. Moving with loose-limbed stealth, they fanned out in a loose circle around her, cutting off escape.
Hunters.
And she was prey.