Chapter 24
At the glen near the stream, Lilliana dismounted, glad of the moonlight that enabled her to see her way. Everything had a grey sheen to it, and it felt as if the trees were looming over her menacingly.
The air was damp and cold, the sort that carried sound farther than it ought. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted, and she resisted the urge to turn back towards the castle lights, which were now far behind her.
Maybe this was not such a good idea.
She patted the horse’s flank. “Good boy,” she whispered. “Stay here while I look around.”
Tying the reins around a tree branch, she strained her ears. Then she began to walk, peering around the trees, hoping to meet at least another of Kayden’s scouts if not find Nigel somewhere. Perhaps alive but hurt.
The stream was louder than usual tonight. Or perhaps it only seemed so because everything else was silent.
Before moving farther in, she crouched near the tree line and touched the soil. It was churned.
Boot prints. Not fresh, but not old either.
She leaned closer, squinting in the moonlight. There were at least three distinct sets: one heavier, one narrow, and one that dragged slightly at the heel.
Her pulse quickened.
Someone had been here. Recently.
She rose slowly and followed the disturbed ground towards the water. She knelt at the stream’s edge and removed a small glass vial from her reticule, which she had started carrying more often. Carefully, she dipped it into the current, filling it halfway.
She held it up towards the moonlight. The water looked clear. Too clear. But she had learned that poison did not always declare itself boldly.
She sniffed it cautiously. Nothing acrid. No scent of rot.
She dipped her fingers into the current and rubbed them together.
There. A faint slickness.
It could have been algae. It could have been nothing. But her mind quickly put the pieces together.
The villagers who drank directly from the loch were sickest. Those who boiled their water fared better. Those who had drawn from this stream were the most afflicted.
Her gaze moved downstream.
What if it was not the loch at all?
What if something was added where the water narrowed and slowed before continuing towards the village wells?
She stood, scanning the banks carefully now rather than wandering blindly. A pile of stones near the bend caught her eye.
Not natural. They were arranged too neatly.
She approached cautiously and crouched beside them. The stones were damp, but beneath one, the earth had been recently disturbed.
Her breath caught. She pushed one aside.
The soil beneath was darker—almost black—and faintly granular. She touched it, then hesitated.
Do not be foolish.
Instead, she removed a scrap of cloth and scooped a small amount into it. She tied the cloth tight and slipped it into her pocket.
Her heart was pounding now. Not from fear, but from certainty.
Someone is doing this deliberately.
She straightened and turned, scanning the trees again with sharper focus. Branches near the bank were broken at shoulder height. As if someone had crouched repeatedly. Waiting.
Her throat tightened.
She walked towards the merrily running stream again, but this time her steps were deliberate, investigative. And just as she neared a darker patch of ground near the water’s edge, she tripped, almost falling over something hidden in shadow.
Pinwheeling her arms, she caught herself and straightened up, looking down to see what she had tripped over. At first, she thought it was a bundle of cloth. Then she recognized the McGill plaid.
Her breath left her in a sharp gasp.
Dropping to her knees, she ran her fingers over him, trying to gauge whether he was alive. She moved the plaid aside, searching for his neck, wanting to feel his skin.
Her fingers brushed his throat. It was cool and clammy.
But there—
A pulse. Weak.
She exhaled in relief and leaned closer, scanning his body. There was blood on his temple. Not from a blade, but from blunt force. His hands were scraped raw, as though he had tried to crawl.
Her mind raced.
He saw something.
He had been here investigating and had found something.
She turned his head gently, checking his pupils in the dim light. Responsive—barely.
She reached into her bag, fumbling for smelling salts. If she could rouse him even briefly—
She froze. A hand circled her neck from behind, squeezing just enough to immobilize her. Cold steel pressed against her throat. Her pulse thundered beneath the blade.
A voice breathed close to her ear, “Clever little healer.”
Footprints led Kayden and Rua right to the glen where he had brought Lilliana before.
“Why did she return here?” he wondered aloud.
He jumped down from his horse, searching the ground critically. There were more than one horse’s hoofprints in the mud.
He heard a snort and turned to Rua. “Find the horse,” he ordered.
The dog ran off, and soon, he barked. Kayden followed the sound to find the dog standing next to Gemini.
The horse was peacefully grazing and did not seem to be harmed in any way, but there was no sign of his rider.
“Where did she go?” he murmured, looking around.
He walked towards the stream and bumped into Nigel’s body. He inhaled in surprise, kneeling down to check on the guard. He seemed unresponsive, and Kayden’s worry grew.
He looked from Gemini to Nigel. “Is there a chance that she didnae find him? Is that why she’s disappeared? Did she perhaps go to search for some herb to rouse him?”
Rua huffed, his tongue lolling as he also looked around, as if searching for Lilliana. Suddenly, he stilled and growled low in his throat as he looked east.
Kayden rose to his feet, his ears straining for any sound.
He heard a scuffling and then a muffled cry, and took off at a run towards a clearing.
He opened his mouth to shout for Lilliana, then closed it again.
He did not know what he would find and did not want to alert anyone to his presence if there was an enemy.
Rua padded at his side, keeping pace with him, so he knew he was headed in the right direction. He skidded to a halt when he came into a clearing and spotted a silhouette.
“Lilly?” he said.
The silhouette moved, and he realized that it was two people, one behind the other. He could hear their labored breathing.
“Lilly, are ye alright?” he asked softly.
A bitter laugh rent the air, and he froze. “Ye ask the sassenach if she is well, but have nay words for me?”
Rua barked in recognition, confirming to Kayden that he was not mistaken.
His body went tight with readiness, hand drifting towards the dirk at his belt. His breath fogged faintly in the cooling air. Then a figure emerged from the shadows, slow and unhurried, as though the clearing belonged to her and not to him.
A woman.
Not cloaked like a traveler. Not dressed like a villager. The cut of her gown was familiar in a way that struck him hard. She had donned a Highland woman’s dress, practical and dark, meant to blend into night and mud. Her hair was bound beneath a hood.
She stopped several yards away, just beyond the reach of the reeds, watching him.
Kayden took one step forward. “Who are ye?”
The woman did not answer at first. She tilted her head slightly, as though listening to him. Then, slowly, she reached up and pushed back her hood, knife still pointing at Lillian’s throat.
The world narrowed to a single point.
Sorcha.
Kayden’s blood turned to ice so fast that his limbs grew heavy. His mind rejected it before it could accept it, as if the name itself were a lie, as if his eyes were traitors.
But the curve of her cheek, the shape of her mouth, the fierce set of her jaw… it could not have been an illusion.
His sister’s face looked older than it should. Sharper. Hollowed in places that grief had carved out. Her eyes, once bright with laughter, were dark now, burned down to embers.
Lilliana’s breath hitched.
Kayden did not look at her. He could not. If he shifted his focus even for a heartbeat, the world might tilt, and this might vanish like a nightmare.
“Sorcha,” he said, voice rough. “This isnae possible.”
Sorcha smiled, but it held no warmth. “And yet,” she drawled.
Her voice was as he remembered it. It was low and sure, with steel hidden under softness. But there was something broken in it, like a violin string drawn too tight.
Kayden took another step forward without realizing it, boots sinking slightly into damp earth. “They told me ye were—”
Sorcha let out a shrill laugh. “Rumors of me death may have been grossly exaggerated,” she said calmly.
His mouth went dry. Rage rose behind his ribs, hot enough to burn through the shock. “Ye let me bury someone else.”
Her smile faltered. Something vulnerable crossed her face, so quick he might have imagined it. “Did ye think I had a choice?”
“Ye always had a choice,” he snapped, then checked himself with effort.
Sorcha’s gaze flicked back to Lilliana. The look she gave her was not that of a stranger. It was personal.
Kayden shook his head in disbelief. “I mourned ye, Sister.”
“Did ye? Is this what ye call mourning, Braither?” She pressed the knife harder against Lilliana’s throat, where a thin red line beaded.
Lilliana cried out in fear.
“Nay! Daenae hurt her, Sorcha,” Kayden bellowed, holding out a hand to stop his sister. “She hasnae done anything to ye, Sorcha. If ye want to punish someone, punish me.”
Sorcha made a bitter sound. “So ye choose the sassenach over yer own sister? After everything the English did to me!”
Kayden shook his head again. “I didnae ken,” he whispered. “I thought ye were dead.”
Sorcha pointed the knife at him, still holding onto Lilliana with one hand. “Ye didnae even look for me, Kayden! How would ye ken if I was dead or nae?”
Kayden hung his head. “We were told that ye had died, that they took yer body. I asked for it back—nay, demanded it. They arrested more of me men and tried to grab more women. I had to pull back.”