Chapter Thirteen
Five days later, on the morning of their departure, little Alistair presented himself at Lachlan’s feet and thrust his arms high as a signal to be picked up. He grabbed Lachlan’s neck in a vice-like grip and burst into a babble of Gaelic.
‘Aye,’ promised Lachlan in their native tongue. ‘Next time I visit I’ll teach ye how to catch a rabbit.’
Alistair spoke again.
‘What?’ The boy’s request took Lachlan aback. ‘I’ll not teach ye how to swing a broadsword. Ye’re too young for that.’ He set the boy down and ruffled his hair. ‘I’ll teach ye when ye’ve the height and strength to hold one in yer hands.’
The lad ran off, swallowed up in the crowd who’d gathered to bid farewell to Lachlan and Helene. Donnie wrapped his arms around her. A touching sight. The two had formed a strong attachment. Sad to think they were unlikely to ever meet again.
Mairi stood next in line to say her goodbyes and handed Helene a small woven bag. ‘’Tis a mixture of the herbs we gathered yesterday. Do ye remember my instructions on how to use them?’
‘Yes, I do. Thank you, Mairi. You’re most kind.’
Lachlan sensed something amiss with Helene. Her voice had dropped to almost a whisper, and she gave him a surreptitious glance before pocketing the bag.
Yesterday, when he’d escorted the two women deep into the woods, he’d kept his distance, giving them space to chatter as lasses do.
He’d assumed the herb gathering was for Mairi or Greer’s use, but now, having just witnessed the exchange between Helene and Mairi, he passed it off as no concern, thinking the herbs were a tailor-made remedy for ailments of the female kind.
As they set off for Drumocher, Lachlan reflected on his time spent at the shielings, happy to see the lads and lasses looking robust, and satisfied with the well-being and happy temperament of the women, all thriving on Highland air and food.
Stocks of cheese and butter, as well as generous lengths of linen and woollen cloth, would see the families through the harsh winter months ahead.
Cattle, fat and glossy, were sure to fetch a handsome price at the late-autumn sales.
Observations of Helene sat uppermost in Lachlan’s mind.
The cottars and their way of life were well beneath her station, and yet she’d embraced them without judgement.
It was unheard of to see a woman of her gentle breeding take up the long wooden stick with plunger attached to agitate buttermilk in a tall iron-banded churn.
Her brow had glistened with sweat from the warm, heavy work, and yet she’d laughed and chatted alongside Mairi without complaint.
She’d watched with keen interest as the clan elders of the shielings sat hunched over their knitting, spun wool, or worked tapestries. The old women imparted their knowledge, technique, and experience, which Lachlan had gladly translated into English for Helene’s benefit.
Her eyes and ears had been alive to the people about her, especially so when the singing started.
From the herd boys along the glen, to songs sung by the cheesemakers, and those tending fires and preparing meals, but it was the singing of the dairymaids to have brought tears to her eyes.
During the evening milking, each song would begin with one clear, angelic, if not haunting, voice.
Others would join in and harmonise to create the most beautiful sounds.
These songs, sung for generations, seemed to have made quite an impression on Helene.
‘It’s very moving,’ she’d remarked.
Those wistful words, with an expression to match, were etched in Lachlan’s heart and mind. He was glad to know the experience touched her as deeply as it had always touched him.
‘What are you smiling at?’
Her words startled Lachlan, bringing him to a standstill. ‘I was smiling?’
She stopped on the path a few paces ahead of him. ‘Actually, you made a kind of snorting laugh sound. What were you thinking about just now?’
‘Nothing.’
Helene’s hand on his chest prevented his forward progress, and her raised brow said she didn’t believe him.
‘All right then. I was thinking about young Alistair, when I taught him how to guddle trout from the burn.’ Lachlan was hard pressed to hide his mirth.
Helene stood there with both hands on her hips, head cocked to one side, and stared him down. ‘I think it’s not so much the act of guddling trout you laugh at, but rather the moment you hurled one from the burn and into my lap.’
Try though he did, Lachlan could not hold back a burst of laughter.
Helene shoved him playfully in the shoulder. ‘All well and good for you to stand there and laugh, but it was not so funny for me to deal with a fish flapping about on my person.’
Lachlan doubled over, hands braced on his knees, laughing as he said, ‘I dinnae ken who was more terrified. Ye or the trout.’
‘Me, of course!’
No sooner did Helene dissolve into laughter than Lachlan cut her off by taking hold of her arm. ‘Listen!’
She went still. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Can ye hear it?’
‘Hear what?’
Lachlan looked about him, at the sway of the treetops and a dense mist rolling in. He listened to a distant sound carried above the wind, a sound so ominous as to rival pounding surf against rocks in a violent storm.
‘What is it?’ urged Helene.
‘A squall.’
Lachlan’s gaze made a quick sweep of their surrounds. He knew every inch of the landscape, and if they were to flee the impending tempest, then they had no time to spare.
He grasped Helene’s hand in his. ‘Run!’
Minutes later, their lungs heaving from exhaustion, he pulled her into a crevice in the mountainside. He shifted his position, protecting Helene so that his back was to the opening of the crevice. Outside their rock shelter, the wind had whipped up into a frenzy.
There came the loud snap and crack of a branch.
Helene jumped with fright and slapped her hands over her ears.
When it crashed down close to the entrance of the crevice, she threw her arms around Lachlan’s waist, her head pressed hard against his chest. He was quick to embrace and comfort her, for the worst was yet to come.
‘’Tis all right, lass. We’re safe enough in here.’
Her body trembled against his. ‘Storms! I fear storms.’
Lachlan pulled the vast length of his belted plaid around himself and Helene, drawing it up over their heads. He inched her back as far into the crevice as they could go.
On cue, the rain arrived and struck with such force as to cause a waterfall at the opening of their shelter. Outside, the elements groaned, leaves thrashed about on their limbs, and the wind whistled through every splintered fault in the mountain’s cleft.
The loud storm raged on, rendering conversation impossible.
Lachlan kept Helene safe and secure within his arms, wrapped in the tight cocoon of his plaid.
Inside the crevice, he stood as the buffer between her and the gusts of wind at his back.
Her body flinched at the destructive sounds of nature’s tempest.
He glanced down to see her eyes shut tight, prompting him to drop a soft, reassuring kiss on the crown of her head. Her frown fell away, and her tension seemed to ease.
Moments later, the wind and driving rain abated as abruptly as it had arrived.
‘Is it over?’ she asked without lifting her cheek from his chest.
Lachlan drew on his Highland experience and answered in truth, ‘Nae, lass. ’Tis only just begun.’
She looked up, wide-eyed. ‘But all is silent.’
He said in a voice so as not to alarm her, ‘Aye. A temporary lull. The tempest is catching its breath. Listen.’
In the distance, wind howled across mountain tops. Despite it being mid-morning, light inside their safe haven turned ash-grey. Moments later, mist swirled about their feet, and outside their sanctuary the approaching storm whipped itself into a fury.
Emerald eyes darkened with fear, and she clutched him tight.
Lachlan took her chin gently between thumb and index finger. ‘Ye’re safe, lass. There’s nae need to be scairt.’
‘Kiss me.’
Her request took him by surprise, and his hand dropped from her face.
‘Kiss me, Lachlan.’ A desperate plea. ‘Take my mind far from here.’
Would that I could. ‘Nae, lass.’
There came the sudden roar of the storm outside.
Helene braced her hands on his shoulders, inched up on her toes, and pressed her mouth to his.
Lachlan took hold of her wrists and pulled away, the heavy plaid falling into place at his back.
She’d gone completely pale, and he saw tremors in her hands and fingers, and her chin and lips trembled.
Another tree splintered beyond their sanctuary, and she cowered back, wide-eyed, like some timid creature that had dwelled in the crevice for all time.
To his dismay, this lass, who’d showed stalwart courage under threat of having her hand lopped off with his broadsword, was terrified of a storm. He’d vowed to protect her, and would do so by any means, even if by way of a kiss to distract her from what he witnessed to be debilitating fear.
He took her face between his hands and commanded her focus.
One quick brush of his lips over hers and she leaned into him.
He slid one arm around her waist, pulling her hard against him.
His free hand cradled the base of her skull, tilting her head as he bent to her mouth, pressing his lips firmly against hers.
Her arms came around his waist, fingers splayed on his back.
His tongue traced her lower lip, and the vibration of her whimper against his mouth sparked a fire in his groin.
Soft lips parted on a breath, offering him the opportunity to deepen the kiss, to touch the tip of his tongue to hers.
She drew back, hesitating for only a moment before returning to his lips, her tongue mimicking his exploratory move, but with the stumbling innocence of a novice.