Chapter Seventeen
Alex trudged through the dark woods, pulling her horse behind her. Thick underbrush obscured the ground, snagging at her tunic and cloak. Summer’s sky warded off true night, allowing her to easily follow David, keeping his cloaked figure in sight.
“The Harborage is a safe haven,” Rory said in a low voice behind her. “A place of meeting and rest for Scotland’s agents. There is no road except that which we make ourselves.”
Alex heard the stream before she saw it running alongside a line of tall slim pines, which rose high above the thicket.
Then the underbrush began to thin out. Lush trees, silvery in the twilight, formed a canopy overhead.
As the stream widened, the earth dipped in downward swells.
Oak and pine gave way to tall, slim birch trees.
“I wonder why Abbot Matthew never told me about this place. He knows I have an appreciation for wild beauty.” She scurried down the slope and through a copse of silver trees and stepped into an open glade alight with torch fire.
Her mouth dropped open the instant after a man broke the surface of a glistening pool, clad in naught but his dripping wet hose.
Fire and moonlight reflected off his wet muscles.
She gasped, turning away, only for her gaze to settle on the shirtless form of another man seemingly asleep beneath a tree.
She chuckled and turned to Rory. “It would seem the abbot sought to shield my maiden eyes.” Then she stepped toward the gorgeous, dripping wet man. “Good evening, I’m Alex MacKenzie.”
The man’s black eyes locked with hers. A chill crept up her spine.
His eyes shone like dark moons amid an empty pale sea.
They were cold and emotionless. She waited for him to respond, but he only stared at her, penetrating her very soul.
She swallowed hard and tore her gaze free from his hold.
Her eyes traveled down his slick, lean shoulders and long, sinewy chest, still glistening with rivulets of water.
Her gaze paused on the defined lines that crossed diagonally from his hips then disappeared beneath his low-slung, wet hose.
Whoever he was, he was intense and beautifully made.
Steeling her courage, her gaze returned to his stony yet exquisite face.
She held her breath, waiting for him to speak, but then without a word, he turned and walked away from her.
Rory gently grabbed her arm. “My brother is a hard man to understand. I beg ye, do not be offended. He doesn’t mean to be so callous. Wait here, please,” he said before turning and following after who she now realized was Alec MacVie.
Rory charged after Alec. His brother had better have a good excuse for his rudeness.
Not that Rory had expected Alec to greet Alex with conventional niceties.
In fact, Alec had never been particularly nice.
He was one of Rory’s three older brothers.
He also had one younger brother and an older sister.
As siblings, they shared common traits. Each one possessed a fierce loyalty to family.
They strove to live honorably, and none doubted their own self-worth, something instilled in their hearts by their parents.
But beyond those deeply rooted convictions, they were all different—no one more so than Alec.
He had always been quiet and reserved, even as a child, but it was not only Alec’s temperament that set him apart from his other siblings.
Alec had the Sight. His dreams revealed that which had already come to pass and that which had yet to be.
But more than that, he could feel truth. He could feel another’s pain.
Over the years, those who discovered Alec’s abilities had called it a gift, although Rory had never understood their thinking.
He likened it more to a burden. Alec moved through life, shielding himself from other’s emotions.
And his dreams seldom revealed anything other than heartbreak.
Most often he saw death, destruction, or the wickedness in people’s hearts.
In fact, the day King Edward invaded Berwick, Rory and his sister had left the city limits to gather herbs.
Alec had refused to join them. Their elder sister, Rose, pressed him again and again to say why he wouldn’t join them.
When he finally yielded, he confessed his dream from the night before.
Rory could still remember the rare glimpse of feeling in Alec’s eyes when he revealed that Berwick, their beloved city, had erupted into flame.
Not believing Alec’s dream contained an explicit meaning, Rose had begged him to join their walk, but Alec refused and went to the chapel to pray.
That was where he was, in the chapel, when King Edward put the city under the blade and torch.
Alec witnessed it all, the brutal slaughter of thousands—men, women, and children.
None were spared, and only a few remained hidden.
People were dragged from their homes and churches and butchered in the streets; not even the clergy was spared.
Alec managed to escape the English blades, though he was, by no means, unscathed.
After the massacre, he retreated further into himself, becoming quieter, harder.
Rory caught up to his brother. “Alec, explain yerself. That was rude—even for you.”
Alec stopped and turned around. A flash of emotion crossed his usual mask of indifference—just for an instant. Someone who did not know Alec as well as Rory would have missed it. Immediately, tension flooded Rory’s shoulders. It was never good when Alec lost control of his emotions.
“What is it?” Rory urged, his heart pounding.
Alec did not answer. He only looked at his brother, his black eyes cold, empty.
“Alec!”
“I have seen her face before,” he said finally. “Last night in my dreams.”
Fear surged through Rory. His mind went straight to the worst. “Please say ye didn’t see her die.”
“I didn’t see her die,” Alec said, his voice flat.
Rory expelled the breath he’d been holding.
“I saw her funeral.”
He stumbled back, feeling as if he had just received a blow to the gut. He looked to his brother but received no comfort in his bleak eyes. His mind raced. He turned and stormed toward Alex.
“Come on, I’m taking ye home,” Rory said, grabbing her by the arm.
She yanked free from his grasp. “What are ye talking about? Why would I go home?”
Rory raked his hand through his hair. Then he seized her, gripping her shoulders and looked her hard in the eye. “Because ye’re going to die.”
She pulled free and backed away. “Rory, what’s come over ye?”
“Ye’re going to die—My brother saw it.”
“How could yer brother possibly know I’m going to die?”
“He has dreams, visions. I ken ‘tis hard to believe, but he sees what is to come and senses what others cannot.”
She froze, her heart quickening. “He has the Sight?” she said weakly.
Rory nodded to confirm.
Her mouth ran dry. She believed in the mysteries of the world and that the power of God moved through certain people.
Alex turned and looked at Alec sitting alone beneath the tree.
The moonlight made his straight, black hair gleam.
It fell long, well past his shoulders and down his back.
Having sensed her gaze, he lifted his head slightly.
They locked eyes and a shiver crept up her back.
He certainly had the feel of the fae. She crossed the glade, which shone silvery in the moonlight, and stood in front of him.
He did not look at her, nor did he acknowledge her presence in anyway.
Her eyes followed a path over the chiseled muscles of his bare shoulders.
He was long and lean, less powerfully built than Rory, but she remembered how he had moved out of the water like something smooth and seamless, and yet so strong.
Slowly, she sat down beside him and studied his profile.
His face was stony without appearing hard.
She could describe him as impassive, but even that didn’t quite capture his essence.
He withstood her scrutiny without flinching, without an expressive display of any kind—as though he were a fine statue carved from beautiful stone—but there was nothing still about him. Alex could sense the whirl of his mind.
“Ye fight to contain it all inside of ye, don’t ye,” she whispered. “Ye don’t want anyone to see.”
She was not surprised when he continued to stare off into some distant place her own eyes could not see.
She tapped her hands on her knees. “So, ye’re Alec, and I’m Alex—that could get confusing,” she said, chuckling, but the sound of her awkward mirth trailed off into silence.
Finally, she blurted. “So ye saw me die.”
This time the slightest movement caught her eye—an almost imperceptible shake of his head.
When he spoke, she started at the sound, having grown accustomed to his silence. “Not your death. Only your funeral.”
“Do you believe I will die?”
“Yes,” he said coolly. “We will all die one day.”
She considered his words and realized he was telling her that he did not know.
He shifted his head, and they locked eyes. She froze beneath the weight of his black gaze. “Follow the command of yer own heart, Alex, just as ye’ve always done. It’s brought ye this far, hasn’t it?” Then he stood and strode off, disappearing into the woods.
She sat for a moment, feeling shaken to her core and yet oddly at peace.
Rory came to stand beside her. “Alec has a strange effect on everyone,” he said knowingly.
She looked up at him, not having heard his approach. Confident words left her lips almost of their own bidding, as if her very heart spoke without consulting her mind. “My place is with ye, right here, fighting for Scotland.”
Rory shook his head. “’Tis to dangerous.”
“I know I may die, but so might we all. Our lives are in God’s hands.”
Rory shook his head harder. “Alex—”