Chapter Twelve
Lachlan sat outside the stone hut before the open fire, elbows resting on his knees and face buried in his hands.
Try as he might, he could not unsee the horror of this afternoon’s events.
The stampede, Helene standing in harm’s way, and Donnie putting his young life at risk to save the Sassenach.
The two of them could have drowned before he’d intervened.
His hand went to his stomach to settle another wave of nausea.
How would he have explained her death to her father?
Then came the guilt for having laid blame at Helene’s feet. She was as innocent as the newborn calf that had given rise to the whole unfortunate incident. The hand on his stomach clenched into a fist. If only he’d escorted her to the river.
The kiss he’d forced on Helene was born of anger over his failings to keep her safe. He swallowed past the thickness in his throat, a consequence of his shame.
His head drooped lower. He’d broken his word not to kiss her, and because of it he’d brought dishonour upon himself, his family, Cuthbert’s family, and worst of all, Helene and her family.
He’d inflicted a stain on her virtuous reputation.
Self-loathing stripped him of his pride and dignity.
Helene was sure to tell his mother and auntie.
How he’d face their disappointment, he did not know.
His threat of violence had curbed Cuthbert’s attentions towards Helene. Contempt hurled at his cousin now sat squarely on Lachlan’s shoulders.
Good God! Helene. What must she think of him?
Damn him for giving credence to the byname the Scoundrel Scot. She’d surely want to leave for Drumocher at first light and prepare to return to London.
Lachlan’s head snapped up at the sound of the cottage door opening.
He shot to his feet in anticipation of seeing Helene.
Greer appeared first, with an encouraging smile and a nod.
In her hand she held Helene’s wet clothes and proceeded to drape them over a length of rope strung between wooden poles staked into the ground close to the fire.
Next, she went to the cooking pot to stir its simmering contents above the fire.
Mairi emerged from the hut with her arm in the crook of Helene’s elbow.
Relief surged through Lachlan to see the Sassenach on her feet and dressed in warm dry clothes, borrowed from the womenfolk.
At least she wouldn’t catch a chill. The fire’s flickering flames illuminated her natural beauty, and her hair, still damp, had been neatly combed.
It fell like a dark velvet curtain well past her shoulders and framed a face left pale from her harrowing near-death experience.
She looked vulnerable, but Lachlan knew better.
Her actions thus far demonstrated the strength of mind and resilience to overcome adversity.
She was kind, and a lass with principles and a strong sense of what she believed to be right and wrong.
Admirable qualities, without a doubt. She seated herself on a stool the furthest away from him.
‘Are ye feeling better, Helene?’ It was all he could think to say until which time he’d apologise to her in private for the way he’d behaved before she’d fainted in his arms.
‘Yes, thank you.’ A toneless response without meeting Lachlan’s gaze.
Very telling. Her opinion of him had sunk lower than the dirt beneath his boots. He deserved nothing less. His heart beat a dull thud inside his chest, and the need to repair her trust in him, if only to salvage his pride, burned brighter than the fire’s flames separating them.
Never, until now, had he wanted to strive so hard for anyone’s good opinion, and it rankled knowing that, in Helene’s eyes, his word was as hollow as the log upon which he sat.
He could not deny having taken a shining to the lass, and it mattered to him that they’d fallen out so early in her visit to Drumocher.
Mairi placed in Helene’s hands a bowl of steaming stew. Lachlan had no appetite for food; nonetheless, he accepted what Mairi offered him, something to focus on instead of Helene.
Her presence drew the company of others.
They engaged her in conversation about all manner of things, from the afternoon’s drama to life in London.
The herd boys sat at Lachlan’s feet, begging him to retell stories of clan battles and victories, asking questions about cattle droves to markets in the Lowlands and eager to hear about the border reivers.
All the while, Lachlan stole surreptitious glances over their heads at Helene, listening to her animated voice and watching the lift and curve of her lips when she smiled and the graceful movement of her hands, as expressive as her face when she talked.
Now and then her slender fingers combed her hair as a means of drying it in the heat from the fire.
His fingers itched to perform the task for her, to cup his hands at the nape of her neck, testing the weight of those silky tresses.
As the evening wore on, colour returned to her pale cheeks.
‘M’lady. Will ye promise to stay with us here in the shielings?’ asked Mairi. ‘At least for the next two or three days?’
Helene’s gaze fell to her lap, and her fingers picked at the fabric of her skirt.
Lachlan held his breath, wondering if she’d speak out against him.
Her silence said she wished to return home because of his dishonourable behaviour.
There was no question Lachlan should do right by her and take her back to Drumocher tomorrow.
For selfish reasons, he wanted her to stay, and so he spoke up for her.
‘I ken ’tis been a trying day for ye, Lady Helene, and I’m truly sorry for the frightening and .
. . unexpected mishaps ye suffered this afternoon.
Nothing of the sort will happen again. My wish is for ye to stay, as Mairi has asked, and enjoy what the Highlands and these good people have to offer ye. ’
A larger crowd had gathered around them and stood silent, intently watching and listening in on the conversation. All eyes were on Helene, awaiting her response.
She lifted her gaze and seemed to consider the people about her. With a tilt of her chin, she announced, ‘Well! If you all pegged me to be some lily-livered Sassenach who runs at the first sniff of discomfort or danger, then you’d be wrong. Of course I’ll stay.’
Her mettlesome announcement drew a cheer from the crowd, and in his mind’s eye, Lachlan reached out to embrace Helene. She was indeed a braw Sassenach.
She met his gaze for a matter of seconds before Donnie and his mother distracted her. They exchanged a few words before the lad joined the herd boys at Lachlan’s feet.
It wasn’t long before the singing started.
Songs Lachlan remembered from when he was a boy.
Memories stirred, triggering a range of emotions.
Happy mountain sojourns with his father, learning the lie of the land, hunting, fishing, and swimming in the burns.
Learning how to swing a broadsword and strike a lethal stab with a sgian-dubh.
He cast his gaze over the gentle folk around him. It was at this very shieling, in wilder times, when he and his father’s men had fought off a hunting party whose aim it was to assault the women and girls and then make off with cattle and produce.
His eyes lit on Helene. He would do anything to protect her and keep her safe.
The hour was late, and one by one, families returned to their shelters or to sit for a while longer around the peat fires dotting the landscape.
Helene stood and, accompanied by Mairi, retired inside the stone hut.
Lachlan thought himself a fool to hope she might at least turn and bid him goodnight.
He’d find the opportunity tomorrow to apologise for the upset he’d caused her.
Greer gave the remaining herd boys their marching orders, reminding them they must soon swap shifts with the boys keeping watch over the cattle and goats. ‘That wily fox might return,’ she warned. ‘’Tis up to ye to prevent another rumpus, ye hear?’
When the boys scattered, she pulled her arisaid tightly about her and smiled at Lachlan.
‘The lads have made ye a lean-to shelter, m’lord, just as ye asked.
I ensured they used fresh new heather. Ye should be comfortable enough, but if ye’re not, there’s me and plenty a family here who’d be honoured to give ye sole use of our dwelling. ’
‘Thank ye, Greer.’
‘Good night, m’lord.’
Lachlan eyed the lean-to, perfectly positioned beside the door of the small cottage where Greer, Mairi, and Helene would sleep. If there was any threat of someone getting to the women, they’d have to first deal with Lachlan.
He remained seated in solitude, staring into the fire. Mesmerizing flames flickered like fingers beckoning his return to the past, trapping him in a time when he’d given his heart to a bonnie red-headed lass.
A block of peat turf shifted, and the fire hissed.
Lachlan’s attention snapped back to the present.
He stood and shook his head to rid himself of painful memories, bracing himself for the usual follow-on feelings of humiliation and deep hurt synonymous with betrayal, and for the memory of the shame her actions had thrust upon her grandparents, Ross and Aila.
To his surprise, he felt nothing. His pulse was steady and calm. His mind clear, his heart open and free. The past remained in the past, dead and buried, along with the lass who’d been his betrothed.
He walked with a sense of light-headedness to stand beneath the overhanging branches of a lone tree and leaned against its solid trunk. When, or at what point, had he finally let her go?
The snap of a twig had him whirl around.
‘Helene!’
‘Lachlan.’