Chapter 5
Her hand itched to strike him, but pride would not let her give him the satisfaction of seeing her lash out. Instead, she drew herself up, her voice sharp, certain. “Hear me well, Rhodes of Clan MacBrair… I will never wed you.”
Before he could say a word, she turned on her heels and hurried out the door.
Murmurs of the men in the hall rose as she entered and rushed through it, her curls flaming about her shoulders, and Sprig’s small head peeking from the pouch of her cloak as if sharing her outrage.
She did not slow, did not falter, until she burst into the cold daylight.
Her boots carried her swiftly down the path through the village. She ignored the stares, the whispers.
“His audacity,” she muttered under her breath, words tumbling fast and furious. “To command me as though I were a sheep to be herded. And to kiss me as if he had the right.”
Her breath came quickly, her cheeks still burning, but whether from anger or something else entirely, she refused to name it.
“It was not even—” she cut herself short, pressing her lips together as if silence could still the memory. He was infuriating. She should not be thinking of the warmth of his mouth or the strength of his hold, and yet the thought would not leave her.
The forest closed around her, its hush a balm after the press of so many eyes. Snow lay in light patches beneath the trees, and her steps quickened, eager for the solitude of her cottage. Sprig shifted in the pouch of her cloak, his head poking out as if to share in her indignation.
Catching sight of movement ahead, she slowed her pace.
An elderly woman sat on a fallen log, her cloak wrapped tightly about her thin frame, wisps of silver hair spilling from beneath her hood. Her shoulders curved with weariness, and her hands, knotted with age, rested heavily on her knees.
Concern swept through Fawn, and she did not hesitate, she strode forward, calling out, “Are you well, mistress? The forest is no place to linger in the cold.”
The woman lifted her gaze. Lines marked her lovely face deeply, but her eyes were clear and sharp, studying Fawn with quiet intensity before softening.
“I’ve walked far,” she admitted, her voice edged with fatigue. “Longer than these old bones should have allowed. I needed to rest.”
Sprig let out a tiny mewl, as though echoing Fawn’s concern. Fawn stroked his head absently and glanced back at the woman. “You should have shelter. The air grows colder each day. Have you no home nearby?”
The woman gave a faint smile, tinged with sadness. “No home now. No kin, either. I go where the path leads me.”
Something tugged in Fawn’s chest, an ache of recognition. She knew too well the sting of loneliness, of whispers that kept others at bay.
She sat down beside the woman, brushing the snow from the log with her cloak. “Then perhaps the path has brought you to the right place. I can see you settled in the village, if you wish it.”
The woman studied her again, her gaze moving briefly to the kitten nestled close, then back to Fawn’s open, unguarded face. For a heartbeat, sorrow clouded her expression, but it passed so quickly Fawn wondered if she’d imagined it.
“You’re kind,” the woman said softly. “Kind in a way the world too often forgets.”
Fawn shook her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Not kindness. Just what’s right.”
They sat together in the hush of the forest, the sound of distant ravens carrying through the trees, until Fawn rose and offered her hand. “Come. I will take you to Clan MacBrair village and see about getting you settled.”
The woman hesitated, then with trust or fatigue winning over, placed her thin hand in Fawn’s. Her grip, though frail, was steady.
“My name is Elune,” she said.
“And I am Fawn,” came her reply. “It seems your path has led you to me, Elune.”
Sprig gave a soft, approving purr as if sealing the moment.
The two women walked slowly through the forest, Sprig content in his pouch, his small head poking out to watch the play of light and shadow through the multitude of barren trees. Elune leaned lightly on Fawn’s arm, her steps steady but unhurried.
“You live alone?” Elune asked.
“Aye,” Fawn said. “Though I’m never truly alone. The creatures of the forest find me when they’re in need. I mend what I can, feed those who cannot find enough for themselves. They give back in their way, keeping me company, warning me when danger comes.”
Elune’s eyes warmed as she listened. “So, it isn’t only the forest animals you care for.”
Fawn glanced at her, puzzled.
Elune smiled, soft and knowing. “You’ve a generous heart, child. That is rarer than you realize.”
Heat touched Fawn’s cheeks, though she quickly looked away, brushing a curl back from her face. “I do only what anyone should.”
By the time they reached the village, a few villagers paused in their tasks to stare, whispers slipping between them at the sight of Fawn leading a stranger. Fawn ignored them, her chin lifting as she spotted Sara outside her cottage.
“Sara!” she called.
Sara turned, her expression brightening until her gaze settled on Elune. Curiosity sparked in her eyes as Fawn drew her forward.
“This is Elune,” Fawn said. “She’s traveled far and has no home. She needs a permanent place, a home. There must be room here among the clan.”
Sara’s brow creased gently. “That’s not for any in the clan to decide, Fawn. You’ll need Lord Rhodes’s permission for her to remain. No one makes their home here without his word.”
Elune’s face shadowed with unease. “I wouldn’t cause trouble. If it’s too much to ask—”
“You’ll cause no trouble,” Fawn said quickly, her voice firm. Under her breath she added, “Enough trouble is already brewing.”
Sara glanced between them, worry pinching her pretty features, but when Fawn turned toward the keep with determined steps, her arm still hooked with Elune, leaving the elderly woman no choice but to follow along, curiosity had Sara falling into step with the pair.
Together, the three women approached the looming doors of the keep, the fire of Fawn’s resolve as bright as the flame in her hair.
The keep doors groaned as they opened, the warmth of the Great Hall spilling over them.
Warriors sat at the long tables, their voices dulling to murmurs when they saw who entered.
Fawn’s curls gleamed like flame in the torchlight as she strode forward with Sara and Elune beside her, Sprig’s head poking curiously from the pouch of her cloak.
Boyce’s eyes widened when he spotted them. He rose swiftly and went to his wife, his expression tight. “Sara, what are you doing here?”
“She came with me,” Fawn answered before Sara could speak. “There is something Rhodes must hear.”
Rhodes sat in his chair, broad shoulders filling the space, his dark gaze fixed on her with the same unwavering intensity that had haunted her since the woods. He glanced at Elune, studying her as though weighing her appearance in an instant, before returning to Fawn.
“You’ve brought me a guest,” he said, his voice flat as if it mattered not to him.
Fawn lifted her chin, schooling her tone to calm courtesy. “This is Elune. She has traveled far, she is weary, and she has no home. I ask that she be allowed to make one here, among your people.”
Rhodes leaned back slightly, his expression as impassive as stone. “What could she bring to my clan? Every person here must serve in some way.”
Elune straightened, drawing her cloak back from her hands. They were gnarled with age, her fingers twisted from endless years of work.
“Once, I was a skilled weaver,” she said, a nervous tremor in her otherwise smooth voice. “I clothed my kin, made fine work for trade. These hands cannot weave as they once did… but I can still teach. And I can still work some.”
Fawn looked at Rhodes, expecting at least a small bit of acknowledgment. Instead, his face remained hard, indifferent. Her jaw tightened.
“She needs a home, Rhodes,” Fawn pressed, her voice sharpening. “That should be reason enough.”
“You speak as though the word of one lass is a command,” he countered coolly.
“I speak because it is right,” she snapped. “Would you turn away an old woman in need, knowing you have the means to provide?”
A murmur rippled through the hall, men glancing uneasily between their laird and the stubborn woman before him. Rhodes’s gaze did not waver. He let the silence stretch until the air seemed to tighten.
Then, slowly, he rose.
“I’ll let her remain,” he said, his voice carrying clearly through the chamber, “on one condition.”
Fawn’s stomach sank at the gleam in his eyes, the sudden twist in her chest warning her too late.
“What condition?” she demanded.
“You marry me.”