Chapter Twenty
Lachlan had never known a woman like Helene.
They were nine days into their journey, and true to her word, not once did she complain.
Despite the summer heat, getting caught in a sudden shower or two, or dealing with periodic encounters with swarms of flies, she hadn’t voiced the slightest protest. Even the toughest of his clansmen would have found something to whinge about.
Helene demonstrated resilience through and through.
Tolerance for the hard earth as her bed.
Long days in the saddle. The absence of freshly laundered clothes.
Going without a bath to wash away the day’s sweat and grime at the end of each long day.
Meals were hardly sumptuous, but rather bland and basic.
Stewed rabbit, fish, root vegetables, and wild berries.
Cook’s rations of cheese, nuts, smoked venison, oats, bannocks, and bread had served them well, meted out sparingly and without waste.
Lachlan insisted on setting time aside each evening to hone Helene’s skills with the blade, and to empower her with the means of defending herself from a physical attack. Hardly ladylike pastimes. Better she possessed some knowledge and skills in self-defence than none at all.
He glanced sidewards and down at her hands holding her horse’s reins. Those delicate hands were made for crafting needlepoint, for holding and reading books, for playing the pianoforte. Not for wielding a lethal weapon. Still, needs must.
They’d made good progress south through the Highlands, crossing into the Lowlands and forging on towards London.
If he’d let Helene have her way, her dogged determination would have driven their horses harder, faster, and further.
He reminded her the beasts would drop dead from exhaustion if pushed beyond their limits.
Time-saving tracks and pathways ensured they’d arrive at their destination in three to four days’ time.
Encounters with other travellers had been few and far between, and fortunately none saw through Helene’s disguise.
Passing her off as a deaf mute meant people made no attempt to engage her in conversation.
Instead, all communication was through Lachlan.
He spent hours ruminating over what Helene was running to in London.
What was so damned pressing and urgent that a woman of her breeding willingly suffered the indignity of traversing the countryside on horseback, and in so primitive a manner, rather than comfortably seated, as she rightfully deserved, within the plush interior of a horse-drawn carriage?
She might have pleaded ignorance as to the reason why her father wanted her home, but Lachlan was not so naive as to believe her.
He’d witnessed proof of his suspicion in her telltale, if not distressing, reaction to her father’s brief missive.
She’d read between the lines and reacted adversely, the blood having drained from her face.
Her pained expression, shallow breaths, the trembling of her hands, and her body on the verge of collapse were collective indicators of her being privy to an existing problematic situation.
A worsening situation, by all accounts. Something confidential.
Something secret. Something her father did not wish for Lachlan or anyone else to discover.
Helene, come home! Lachlan had glimpsed those three words when retrieving and handing the parchment back to her.
It was only natural one might react with alarm or anxious concern over receiving such a cryptic command.
A command that offered no deeper explanation.
Helene’s reaction indicated she understood the broader message within the context of that shakily handwritten note. Of that, Lachlan was convinced.
He’d shouldered many an affront and insult in his lifetime, most of which were addressed and settled with a sword, but never had he suffered such a cutting injury as the blow of Helene’s bribe.
Please! The desperation in her whispered plea had shredded Lachlan to the core. In return, I’ll do anything. She’d offered to trade her virginity for his services as her personal escort and guide.
Christ! Did she still think so little of him? Did she believe him to be idiotically shallow, so easily persuaded and bought? Had she not learned anything of his moral fibre since setting foot on MacLanoch soil?
If ever he were to bed her, it would be because she wanted him as much as he desired her. Not because she offered herself to him as a reward for his services rendered.
What was her situation that made it so dire, so desperate that she’d part her legs for him? It surely must have something to do with her furtive dealings with Cuthbert. And the money? What did she intend doing with it? What problem would it solve? It rankled not knowing.
Lachlan rubbed the back of his neck before lifting his gaze to assess the position of the sun.
Four hours of daylight remained. Ample time to reach the abandoned church not far down the track.
A nearby spring would serve their needs and provide water for tonight’s broth, in which he’d use the last of the salted venison.
He glanced her way once again. She looked tired, weary, with shoulders slumped forward. He hated seeing her like this, hated not being able to make the journey more tolerable for her, and hated that she didn’t trust him enough to share whatever burden she bore.
‘We’ll make camp soon, lass.’
She nodded, and in her eyes he saw relief.
Two miles on and Lachlan deviated off the path, leading them both into the protection of dense woodland. They reined in their horses, and he pointed to a stone structure almost completely shrouded in vegetation.
‘’Tis where we’ll spend the night, lass.’
‘An old farmhouse?’
‘Nae. ’Twas once a house of prayer and worship.’ He pointed to the south side of the building. ‘There. Do ye see the graveyard beneath that cathedral of trees?’
Remnants of tombstones jutted out from the earth like broken, decaying teeth. Not one of them stood straight. Other headstones lay fractured among the tall grass.
‘I see it,’ she said. ‘Those burial stones look ancient.’
‘As is the church.’
‘You’ve sheltered here before?’
‘Aye.’
Lachlan dismounted, assisted Helene in doing the same, and then tethered the horses to a tree. ‘Wait here while I check ’tis safe to go inside.’
He approached the entrance, where mangled rusty hinges hung limp from the timeworn stone. The wooden door had long ago disappeared, perhaps stolen and used on another dwelling, or pilfered as firewood to warm someone’s hearth.
Lachlan ducked his head beneath the low archway and crossed the threshold.
Inside, his gaze made a wide sweep of the empty building’s two-cell structure with its small chancel.
Several birds, startled by his presence, took flight through narrow, paneless windows in the walls.
Through those windows and the building’s entrance, daylight illuminated the nave where once a congregation would have sat.
At one time, floorboards would have covered the hard-packed earth. They too had perhaps been repurposed. Animal droppings littered the ground here and there. Easy enough to clear away. The long grass, once cut, would soften the floor beneath his and Helene’s bedding tonight.
He glanced up at the ceiling, still intact, and gave a nod of thanks to the medieval stonemasons who’d built the church. Tonight, Helene would sleep with a rock-solid roof over her head.
Lachlan stepped outside to see Helene rubbing her hand in one spot over her horse’s shoulder. It put its head forward and down and exhaled a deep, fluttering breath through its nostrils. A response akin to a sigh.
‘I see ye ken how to relax the horse.’
‘I do. Something our stable hand taught me as a child when I learned to ride.’
‘Well, ye keep doing what ye’re doing,’ he said with a smile. ‘I’m sure the horse’s muscles are as sore as ours after another day’s ride.’
‘I’ll go fetch them a drink if there’s water nearby,’ she offered, still massaging her horse’s shoulder.
‘There’s a brook a wee way into the woods over there.’ He pointed. ‘I’ll come with ye.’
‘That’s not necessary. I’m sure I’ll have no trouble finding it.’
Lachlan took this as her way of requesting privacy to tend to her needs. ‘All right, then. I’ll unsaddle the horses and prepare our camp inside the church.’
She merely nodded and retrieved two empty waterskins.
‘When ye return we’ll water the horses, and then I’ll refill the skins, aye?’
She nodded again without looking at him and set off in the direction of the brook.
Lachlan watched her retreating. She’d grown quieter with each passing day, more withdrawn, and seemingly lost to her own thoughts. If only he could remove her oppressive cloak of sadness and raise a smile to her face.
*
The rippling sound of water led Helene like a compass in the direction of the brook.
The snap and crunch of twigs beneath her footfalls punctuated the air, and she heard the hum of insects, the chattering of squirrels, and the ever-present symphony of birdsong.
A rabbit scampered beneath the underbrush ahead of her, followed by another.
Shafts of late-afternoon sunlight speared down through the trees, casting tall shadows on the lush forest floor. There was not so much as a whisper of a breeze, so that every branch, leaf, fern, or blade of grass remained as if frozen in time.
The peace and tranquillity of her surrounds, together with a lungful of fresh air, worked its magic to lighten Helene’s disturbing thoughts.
Obsessive overthinking about her sister’s well-being had sent her spiralling down into depression.
Would she, could she, ever atone for the darkest sin of her past?