Journey to Bongary Spring by Kasey Stockton

Chapter Fifteen

Isobel cupped her hands in the creek and brought them to her lips, closing her eyes and drinking the fresh, cool water. Wiping her mouth with the back of her wrist, she stood tall and looked to the men grouped by the horses up the rise. Kieran hadn’t come close to her since leaving the campsite where they’d run into the redcoats again a few days prior. He was not overly obvious in his avoidance, but the subtle shifting away from her, of not putting himself in a position where they would hold a conversation, was a stark contrast to their friendly interactions from before.

It was a shame he was so bent on avoiding her now that she no longer harbored romantic notions where he was concerned. She wasn’t even able to put his mind at rest on the matter and tell him that she’d never force him into a union simply because the redcoats believed them to be married; Kieran hadn’t made such a private conversation possible.

They were a day’s ride from Castle Moraigh now, hoping to arrive by nightfall, and Isobel was fatigued beyond anything she’d felt in her life. She was certain she would sleep for a week if allowed to do so, but she had no false notions where her chief was concerned. He was going to be angry with her.

“Did ye fill yer flask?” Ian asked, striding down toward her and pausing at the water’s edge.

Isobel nodded. “I was considering the merits of wetting my feet in the creek as well but decided against it.”

“Ye dinna want to freeze,” he said, casting her an odd look.

“Nay, but they ache.”

“As does my arm.” He touched it tenderly, then scrunched his chin as though giving it deep thought. “Perhaps the cold water would soothe it.”

“It might, but then ye’d freeze,” she countered, throwing his excuse back toward him.

“Which would make riding awfully uncomfortable.”

“Ye mean it would make riding even more uncomfortable?” she asked.

Ian laughed. “Och, aye. ’Tis no’ so bad when ye’re used to it, but I havna ridden this much in a long time.” He leaned in and lowered his voice to a whisper. “I’m growing weak.”

Isobel laughed, her mouth stretching into a grin. It felt good to laugh, rejuvenating even. Footsteps approached them from behind, and they turned to find Hugh, an unhappy expression on his face.

“We need to cut through the woods and get to Glen Ellen. There are too many signs of recent camps for Kieran to feel easy continuing on this way.”

Ian scoffed. “Uneasy staying on our own land?”

“The camp just back there had a smoldering fire. Whoever made that could still be nearby.”

“But cutting through Duncan lands is reckless. What does Kieran think it means? Redcoats?”

Hugh shrugged. “Could be. Or it could be harmless, but we best avoid them if we can.” His gaze flicked to Isobel and back. “Captain Hunt was a threat. McEwan willna like it if we aren’t back soon. All of us.”

Isobel swallowed, taking his meaning. Surely they were only being cautious. Weighing the risks and choosing the better path.

Ian seemed less convinced. “If we’re concerned about Isobel’s safety, cutting through Duncan lands doesna feel like the right choice.”

“We have enemies on both sides, Ian,” Hugh said impatiently. “There is no safe option. We must choose the quickest.”

Isobel’s chest went cold, and she looked up the rise, catching Kieran’s stormy gaze. He held her a moment, trapped, before turning to speak to Rupert. She swallowed, returning her attention to the men before her. “If Kieran thinks it’s best, then we ought to listen.”

Ian made an irritated sound but nodded.

Hugh slapped his good arm. “We’ll stay alert.”

“Yes, verra wise. Staying alert saved my arm the first time.”

Hugh had no response for this, but he looked at Ian as though he wished to say something. Isobel lifted her hem from the muddy bank and turned away, making her way back to Teine. She stuffed her canteen in her saddle bag and looked about for a mounting block of some sort, but there was nothing useful in the vicinity.

“I’d give ye a hand, but I canna give ye two,” Ian said regretfully.

Kieran looked their way sharply, assessing the situation. He didn’t move to offer his help, instead looking at Hugh.

“Allow me,” Hugh said, lacing his fingers together.

Isobel put one hand on his shoulder and wedged her foot on his laced fingers before jumping up into her saddle. “Thank ye, Hugh.”

He shot her a smile, wiping his hands on his kilt.

“What I dinna understand is their interest,” Ian said, shaking his head. “Isobel’s a bonny lass”—he shot her a smile, forcing a blush to her cheeks—“but no English officer would cross a county for a bonny Scottish face, aye?”

“Isobel’s the distraction,” Kieran said. “Hunt has other motives.”

“Ye ken what they are?” Ian asked, his eyebrows lifting.

Kieran shook his head. “Nay, but I suspect he’s fearful of another uprising. They all are.”

“We aren’t Jacobites,” Rupert said, his face contorting in disgust and surprise.

“Was the rising of nineteen no’ the end?” Hugh added.

Kieran blew out a breath, appearing to weigh his words before speaking them. “It was the end for some but an agitator for many.”

A quiet settled over the party and they spread out, following the stream until they found a good place to cross over. Kieran crossed first and forged ahead, glancing over his shoulder only when everyone had passed. Isobel had been placed in the middle, two men ahead of her and two behind, and no one spoke.

There was a sense of familiarity about the situation they found themselves in, and Isobel sent a plea up to heaven that they would pass through to Glen Ellen unscathed. Ian’s bandaged arm just ahead of her was a stark reminder that Duncans needed no reason at all to pose a threat.

* * *

Miles Duncan crouched, dipping his canteen into the thin stream before gulping the water down and filling it again. He’d only been in the woods for a few hours and already, he felt at home, peaceful among the trees, shrouded in the smell of damp earth and sweet beech. Drawing in a deep breath, Miles scanned the perimeter of the trees, certain he’d heard a sound that wasn’t owed to the natural wildlife. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

“Did ye hear that?” he asked Tavish who rose from cupping his hands in the stream and tilted his head to the side.

“I hear naething.” Tavish shook out his fingers and water droplets sprayed over the ground. He regarded Miles with a look of mild amusement. “Did I get in yer head?”

“Nay, for there is no danger awaiting me in these woods, Tavish.” His lips flattened, and he ignored the triumph on his friend’s face. “I canna live in fear of meeting a McEwan on my own land.”

“Ye can if ye wish to protect yerself.”

“How can I be of any good to the people I’ve been charged with if I remain locked away in Dulnain?”

“Ye command others to do that for ye,” he said, as though this were the most logical thing in the world.

Miles pressed his lips together. Tavish had taken to this rise in power much easier than Miles had. The role of laird and all it encompassed would be better suited to Tavish, and sometimes Miles wondered if Tavish felt similarly—if he thought the mantle should have been placed on his shoulders. He was kin to the old laird, after all. But their chief had had Miles in mind, and Miles was too soft to refuse the man.

If he were being honest with himself, though, he’d agreed to it simply for the change in scenery Dulnain provided. His home had grown into a vast, empty mausoleum, suffocating in its silence. His brother-in-law had likely given him Dulnain simply to get him out of the man’s castle. That, and he knew he could trust Miles.

But sitting about and waiting for the feud to fix itself wasn’t good for him, either. The feast would swivel them one way or another, he was certain, but he could no longer sit back and bide his time. He needed to take action, to do something to keep his mind from everything he’d left behind.

Shaking the melancholy thoughts, Miles tucked his water flask back into his saddle bag. The crunch of a twig snapping startled him, and he swung around, his belly filling with ice. Four men and a woman sat on horses, lined up and facing him and Tavish. The men sat tall in their saddles, puffing out broad chests under their stone faces, a contrast to the small, fair woman whose plaid was wrapped about her shoulders and over her hair. If not for her delicate features and porcelain skin, Miles would be unable to guess at her age. But youth shone through the graceful slope of her nose and flawless complexion, and Miles guessed that she wasn’t much younger than himself.

He and Tavish were woefully outnumbered, and none of the faces directed his way looked friendly, except for the woman. She merely looked hesitant.

Exactly how he felt.

“Good day,” Miles called, uncertain how to proceed. He wasn’t familiar with these people, but he hadn’t been in the area long enough to be familiar with all of the people who lived near his land.

“We’re only passing through,” a man replied. He was positioned in the center, had made himself the speaker for the group, and had the stature of a warrior. He appeared to be the sort of man Miles would want on his side.

The rest of the men appeared similarly—but one was injured. Trepidation skittered through Miles, and he cleared his throat. “Have ye had trouble?”

The leader looked confused, but he glanced at his friend’s bandaged arm, and comprehension fell over his features. “We ran into trouble a few days ago, aye, but that was far from here.”

“Are ye travelers, then?”

“Nay,” the man said. “Och, I suppose we are. We’re just returning home.”

“Where is home?” Miles asked.

He hesitated, looking over Miles and Tavish with a keen eye before continuing. “Castle Moraigh.”

Tavish grunted softly, but Miles ignored him. The scenario before him could play out in many ways, but he had a feeling the way he treated these McEwan men, who were trespassing on his land, could greatly influence his reputation among their people. He needed to tread cautiously.

“Will I be seeing ye at the feast tomorrow evening?” He stepped forward, making himself vulnerable in a way he hoped he would not later regret. “Miles Duncan, Laird of Dulnain.”

Tavish swore quietly, but Miles ignored him. It was up to his friend whether or not he wished to give his name.

The air between them was thick and heavy, and Miles watched the riders uneasily. The large one who had spoken to him made a move, and Miles had to make a concerted effort not to pull out his dirk. The man slid down from his saddle and took a step forward. Bowing, he lifted his eyes to meet Miles’s. “Kieran Buchanan of Castle Moraigh, and I will see ye at the feast.”

He turned and nodded to his men, and they all dismounted, sharing their names as they bowed politely.

“Rupert McEwan.”

“Hugh McEwan.”

The injured man appeared unbalanced, but he managed to get down. “Ian McEwan.”

“Isobel McEwan,” the woman said, holding his gaze. She watched him so expectantly it was startling, her deep brown eyes like pools of dark, fathomless water.

“We look forward to the feast,” Miles said, trying to draw Tavish into the circle. “We’ve been hearing reports of unrest, and I’ve been eager to inquire if ye’ve similar struggles.”

Kieran’s gaze narrowed. “Between the McEwans and the Duncans?”

“Nay—well, aye, but that’s no’ what I refer to.” He took a breath, calculating the risk of saying too much against the amiability these men had thus far shown. “I’ve been hearing tales of unruly redcoats.”

There was a general murmuring among the McEwans, and Miles chose to take a chance on a hunch. He nodded toward Ian’s bandaged arm. “Is that what gave ye the injury?”

“Nay,” Ian said, his eyes turning fierce. “Ye can blame this on yer own people.”

Miles sucked in a silent breath. He’d miscalculated, and he glanced at each of the other faces, tripping over Isobel’s again. The woman was so focused on him, it was unnerving. Must she stare so?

“What was the nature of yer disagreement?”

“There wasna a disagreement,” Ian said bitterly. “We merely passed through their land on a lane that was open to all. Much as we’re doing now.” The challenge was set, and Miles knew they waited to see what he would do with it.

But these men had not been incendiary. They’d been cautious, polite, and willing to meet him on level ground. He hated what he was about to do, but he could see that in this case, he was likely not facing the inciters. He was on the wrong side.