Journey to Bongary Spring by Kasey Stockton

Chapter Eighteen

Birdsong slipped through the open window, the chatter of the swallows on the roof pulling Isobel from a stupor of sleep. Blinking against the rays of light glimmering over her, it took a moment for Isobel to recall where she was. The bed was unfamiliar, and she rolled over, her breath catching when she came face to face with a sleeping Marion, her eyes closed, dark lashes splaying over her cheeks.

Isobel had fallen asleep in Marion’s bed? She gently pushed up on her elbow and noticed her narrow bed on the other side of the room, undisturbed and unslept in.

Isobel remembered lying down to rest while she waited for dinner to end. Which only meant one thing: she’d fallen asleep, and Marion hadn’t moved her, instead opting to let her slumber. But that also meant Isobel had missed the arranged time she was meant to meet with McEwan.

Slipping quietly from the bed, she picked up her thin, leather shoes from the floor and perched on the edge of her mattress to tie them on. Marion moved, the blankets shifting as her arms reached out and stretched high above her head. She yawned, and Isobel waited for her to quiet again before speaking.

“Ye let me sleep last night?”

Marion pushed up on her elbows abruptly, her dark hair in disarray, kinking every which way. “Aye.”

Isobel swallowed her exasperation. Marion failed to realize that just because she was able to do whatever she wished, that wasn’t true for everyone.

“I went to my father’s study following dinner and he was in there with my uncle and a few of the other men. Unless ye wished for them to witness yer conversation, it was good ye waited.”

“I didna wait,” Isobel said. “I fell asleep.” Her eyes drifted closed, and she drew in a sustaining breath before leveling her friend with a look. “I’m glad ye didna wake me. I’d much rather take my reckoning alone.”

“Shall I dress and go with ye now?”

Isobel laughed. “Alone, Mari. I’m certain yer father will be verra angry. I’d rather no one was there to witness it.”

Marion worried her bottom lip. “But I need to go to his study.”

“Can ye not wait?” Isobel narrowed her eyes. “What do ye need to speak to yer father about?”

“Naething.” She pasted a smile on her face. “Ye go on, and I shall see ye later.”

Isobel crossed to the small looking glass and checked her reflection, smoothing back the tendrils which had escaped during the night. She was still dressed from the previous evening, and her stomach revolted from sleeping on her farthingale that had been tied a bit too snugly about her waist.

Isobel bade her friend farewell and left the room, closing the door behind her. She had a strange inclination that there was something Marion wasn’t telling her, but she couldn’t put her finger on exactly what it was. Though the possibility that Marion would keep anything from Isobel hurt, she also recognized that she had done the very same thing just the day before. She had chosen to keep Kieran and their kiss a secret. If Marion had something of a personal nature that she didn’t wish to share, Isobel could respect that.

Hugh was absent from the corridor when Isobel knocked at McEwan’s study door. A muffled voice bade her enter, and Isobel let herself into the room, closing the door behind her.

McEwan looked up from his desk, his eyes narrowing on her, and she forced herself to avoid cowering against his imposing stance as he rose from his seat, his eyes never leaving her.

“Ye returned.”

“I planned to do so all along.”

He held her gaze a moment longer before gesturing to the seat opposite his desk. The room held the faint scent of stale alcohol, and she wondered just how long McEwan and his brother had drunk the night before. Red rimmed the skin around his eyes, and he appeared tired—not something she’d seen from her chief very often.

“That’s hard ta believe when I got a report in the dead of night that ye’d taken off with ma daughter’s best horse.”

Was Teine not Marion’s only horse? She wasn’t about to let him know that Marion had told her to take the beast.

“I didna think ye’d let me leave,” she said.

He scoffed. “Honest, eh? Where’d ye go?”

“Bongary Spring.”

He didn’t appear surprised in the least. “The important thing is ye’re back, and ye willna leave again.”

“I have no plans to do so. I gave ye my word, and I intend to keep it.”

“Good.” He nodded, seeming to believe her. “Verra good.”

“I met Miles Duncan yesterday,” she said, and McEwan stilled, his eyes turning to thin slits. Had the others not reported this?

“Where?”

“Near the stream. We cut through Duncan lands to reach Glen Ellen quicker.”

He nodded, apparently aware of precisely where she referred. Lifting his eyebrows, he seemed to urge her to continue.

“He was polite, but didna seem to recognize my name.”

McEwan nodded. “He wouldna. He’s ne’er heard it.”

It was difficult to believe that anyone would be so desperate to align the clans in peace, that they would blindly agree to marry a relation of the chief, especially when her relationship with the man was tenuous, distant. She was merely the daughter of a cousin who had been close to him. She was more removed than most who resided within Castle Moraigh’s walls, further than Kieran Buchanan, though he didn’t even share a surname.

Something was missing. Either McEwan had promised more than a lass, or he had lied about who she was in order to entice Miles into marriage.

“How am I to marry a man who doesna even ken my name?”

“He will tonight. I expect ye to look yer best. Leave the rest to me.” He lifted his thick cup and took a long swallow before slamming it back on the desk with a heavy thud.

She stared at the cup, her thoughts a jumble. “Forgive me, but it almost sounds…”

“Dinna make assumptions, lass. ’Tis best to leave the thinking ta me.”

She rose, needing fresh air to think. Something wasn’t right. She knew that as well as she knew that the sun was shining on the other side of the stone wall.

If only she wasn’t so tired and could think straight, then she would be able to figure out what she was missing.

“Remember,” McEwan called to her, his deep voice sending a wave of shivers over her skin. “Look yer best.”

Resting her hand on the door, she nodded absently before making her escape. One way or another, she would figure this out.

* * *

Kieran pushed up from the ground and wiped his wrist over his nose, cursing at the bright red that marred his tanned skin. He met Rupert’s eye and chuckled. The lad was grinning from ear to ear. Reaching down, Rupert helped Kieran stand, and he clapped Rupert on the back.

“Ye willna tell my father, will ye?”

“Nay,” Kieran said, unable to help but grin back. “I’ll let ye show him when he returns.”

Rupert laughed. He had raw talent, that was for certain, and Kieran had helped him mold and shape that talent into skill. He felt like a proud father, though Rupert was just a handful of years younger than himself.

The din among the spectators quieted, and Kieran glanced up to find the cause of it. Simon walked down the hill toward them as if it were his land they trained upon, and Kieran’s jaw tightened on impulse. He knew Simon from the man’s previous visits to Moraigh, and he had never liked him much. Such a pompous man didn’t deserve the praise so often heaped his way. He was large, but he wasn’t skilled in his fighting, not in the way Kieran taught his men to be. Simon fought with his strength while Kieran utilized both his brain and his muscle.

Simon coming his way could only mean one thing: the man wanted to show off.

Kieran gritted his teeth. “Welcome, Simon.”

He grinned, showing his chipped front tooth that somehow only made him appear more intimidating. Kieran wasn’t easily intimidated, however, and he maintained his amiable demeanor as best he could.

“I spent too long in a carriage yesterday,” Simon bellowed, unafraid of who heard him speak. He was more show and pomp than anyone of Kieran’s acquaintance. “I feel the need to stretch my muscles.”

He was likely feeling the effects of too much drink the evening before. Perhaps the man was still a little drunk.

Turning in a slow circle, Simon lifted his arms. “Is there a man brave enough to take on a McEwan of Kilgannon?”

Kieran swallowed a scoff. Simon spoke his own name in a way that inspired reverence—or so he likely believed. He was not renowned for his ability to fight, but he obviously wished for these men to think that was the case.

Simon took his sword from his sheath and tossed it away. “No blades,” he said as if that were less intimidating. The gleam in his hungry eyes said otherwise. He was looking forward to an unruly brawl.

Rupert began to raise his hand, and Kieran grabbed his wrist, holding it down before the lad could do anything foolish like volunteering himself for a beating. Besting Kieran in one scrimmage did not mean he was up for fighting Simon, not when Kieran hadn’t given his full effort. He couldn’t. He’d been too distracted by the glint of light coming from the top window of the castle and wondering if that had been Isobel.

“I just took ye down,” Rupert said through his teeth. His eyes were bright with victory, and Kieran looked forward to reminding Rupert of his place tomorrow.

“Aye,” Kieran agreed. “Once.”

Rupert looked to Simon, sizing the man up before looking back at Kieran. “I dinna ken the difference.”

“What say ye?” Simon bellowed into the continuing silence, the men nervously shifting. “Kieran isna afraid of me, are ye?”

“Nay,” Kieran said, frustrated that the man had forced his hand. He already had a bloody nose. Wiping his wrist over his nose again, he was glad to see that the flow had stopped. Simon’s smug expression grated on him, and he immediately welcomed the opportunity to hit him. Oh, well. What was a little more blood?

Simon grinned, eager to display his prowess.

Kieran rolled up his sleeves, needing to be as nimble and free in his movement as he was able. He removed his cravat and stuffed it into the belt at his waist. Leaning closer to Rupert, he lowered his voice. “The difference is that I fight fair.”

He left Rupert sputtering and stepped into the makeshift circle created by Moraigh’s men, all halting their training to watch the fight.

“This will be the true test,” Simon said, his greedy eyes on Kieran as they slowly circled one another. “Kilgannon’s training against Moraigh’s. We shall see which is superior.”

Kieran tempered his irritation. He hadn’t learned to fight from Moraigh’s leaders. He was Moraigh’s current training leader, unofficially.

He’d learned from his father.

Simon threw a few punches at the air, rounding his shoulders as if to warm them, testing his own strength. Kieran hadn’t faced the man in a scrimmage in years, and he was reminded of the last time Simon had visited and brought his temper along with him. Kieran had knocked him to the ground with one blow to his jaw, and he had a feeling Simon had prepared to return the gesture.

Shaking out his shoulders to loosen them, Kieran watched Simon’s feet, carefully noting the pattern they would take before he came forward. Kieran was able to dodge his first two attempts to knock him in the cheek, side-stepping swiftly.

“Ye dinna want to fight?” Simon asked, his grin only widening. The man was like a cat and Kieran his cream.

It was nearly frightening. Nearly.

A motion on the rise above him near the castle caught his eye, and Kieran was surprised to see Isobel walking the path. She paused, her gaze finding his, and the concern on her brow sent a quiver of uncertainty through him.

It was quick, but the distraction was just enough time for Simon to step forward and smash his fist into the side of Kieran’s face.

Kieran stepped back, black stars glittering in the edges of his vision. He clocked Simon’s movement, sidestepping another fist, only to take a punch in the gut that stole his breath. Gasping for air, he moved quickly, jumping out of the way. Simon made a victorious bellow, and Kieran wanted nothing more than to wipe the grin from his face.

He smarted from the hit to his cheek, wishing Isobel had not witnessed his failure. He moved forward and landed a punch to Simon’s ribs, effectively silencing the man’s braying, but Simon retaliated with another fist on Kieran’s cheek in the same area he’d hit before. Pain sliced through his face, doubling the dark stars lining his vision and closing out what he was able to see. Simon disappeared from view. A sudden jerk behind his knee made his leg buckle, and he went down hard, his shoulder slamming into the packed earth.

Simon whooped again, his triumphant voice grating on Kieran’s nerves. He was down, the fight was over, but he wished it wasn’t so he could have another go at Simon’s smug face.

Rupert reached down and took Kieran’s hand, helping him stand. He brushed dirt from his side and nodded, conceding the win to Simon, who stood, grinning.

“Kilgannon has a thing or two ta teach Moraigh, it seems.”

“It would seem so, aye,” Kieran said. If Moraigh men wished to learn how to fight unfairly.

Simon paused, giving him a faint look of confusion before he shook it off.

He wasn’t Kieran’s enemy. Yet, he fought like one. Turning away from the group, Kieran started to climb the short rise toward Moraigh. He would go to the well and wash the blood from his wrist and face before returning to the men. Warm blood oozed from his cheekbone, and he was certain it looked worse than it was. He didn’t wish to look bloody in front of the men he was meant to inspire confidence in.

“Running away?” Simon called, setting his back up.

Kieran shook his head. “Cleaning up,” he clarified. He tried to sound composed, uninterested. He wouldn’t do Simon the favor of acting injured regardless of how sore he already felt.

Simon said something that Kieran couldn’t quite hear from his distance, and a few of the men laughed politely. They were undoubtedly uncomfortable, their allegiance to Kieran strong. Simon was the chief’s nephew, but so was Kieran, though they resided firmly on opposite sides of the family. Where rank was concerned, Simon likely felt he commanded more authority, given his surname of McEwan. Though Kieran came from McEwan’s wife’s brother, anyone could plainly see McEwan’s preference for Kieran was strong.

Isobel stood at the well, filling a bucket with cool water. She paused when he approached, her mouth pinched as she raked her dark, fathomless eyes over his injuries. “Ye look like ye fell into Mrs. Crabb’s kitchen knives.”

“What a compliment. I’ll pass it on to Simon.”

Isobel scoffed, returning her attention to the bucket. Once it was full, she lugged it toward the ash tree and indicated the second bucket she’d overturned and placed beside the tree.

Kieran pointed to himself.

“Aye,” she said, nodding. “Sit. Mrs. Crabb can wait for more water. Ye need this more than she does.”

He obeyed her, stepping into the chilly shade. Isobel gestured to his neck. “Ye aren’t wearing a cravat?”

She began unfastening the small, tartan shawl around her shoulders and he set his hand over hers, stilling it. “I have my cravat.” He pulled it from where he’d stuffed it into his belt, and she took it from him, dipping it in the water.

Kieran was silent and still as Isobel worked, afraid that any movement would break the spell that surrounded them. The ash tree blocked his view of the men, but he could distantly hear them resuming their activities, the clanging of metal swords and grunts punctuating the stillness around them. Isobel’s face was passive, but her eyes were tense. They were brighter outside, the dark pools looking more like shiny, amber rocks.

Her gaze flicked to his, and his body turned to stone, his breath caught. What was this madness, and how had this woman come to have such an effect on him?

“Ye need to relax,” she said, running her fingers lightly over the corded muscle on his forearm. “Each time ye tense, the blood pours anew.”

Kieran felt like a foolish young lad. If he’d hoped to hide his reaction to this woman, he’d been doing a poor job of it.

Isobel dipped the cravat again, ringing out the pink water and returning to the cut on his cheek, near his eye. “Ye should have chosen swords.”

“And let the man run me through?” He scoffed. “Ye’d be cleaning up more than my face.”

Her mouth flattened. “Simon wouldna do that.”

Kieran lifted an eyebrow, but Isobel merely ignored him. Silence descended upon them once more, and he took the opportunity to watch her work, noting the faint dusting of freckles over her nose and the sweep of her pale eyelashes over dark eyes. Her beauty was so unique, he wondered why he’d failed to notice it before.

He’d always thought her bonny, of course, but never allotted her more than a passing thought in his mind. Now he couldn’t seem to remove her from it.

“Why’d ye do it?” she asked quietly.

“If I hadn’t, Rupert woulda.”

Isobel cringed. She gently wiped at his face, removing the excess of blood that had dripped down his cheekbone and run along his jaw. He grew still, quietly enjoying the soft strokes of his sodden cravat, her fingers gently massaging every bit of his face and sending warm tingles through his body. His pulse thrummed, and he hoped she didn’t notice the steady pulsing against his throat.

She bent to dip the cravat in the bucket of water again and he expelled a pent-up breath, his chest moving much more rapidly than sitting still allowed for.

“I’m nearly finished,” she said, reaching for his nose. She wiped the blood away and returned to his upper lip, gliding the cravat along his mouth, her touch sending a need directly to his chest, fire building in his belly.

His mouth was dry, and he opened it to ask her to step away, to cease the ministrations that equally ignited him and frightened him, but she shook her head. “Nearly finished.”

He couldn’t take it anymore. His need was growing the longer her fingers wiped his lip, and he wanted nothing in the world but to pull her down onto his lap and reenact the kiss they’d shared in the woods just days before. He knew the taste of this woman, and it made it more difficult to keep his hands gripping the tree at his side.

“Almost,” she said quietly, her focus on his skin as her word trailed away.

Kieran closed his eyes, the reality of his musings hitting him in the gut in a far from pleasurable way. His thought from a moment before came back, slamming into him. He wanted nothing more than to kiss this woman. Nothing. When Isobel was nearby, he was unable to focus, unable to see enemies around the corner, or Simon’s fist coming directly at him. His mind was full of her, clouding his desire for justice and the need to avenge his father’s death.

It was equally as heady to be rid of the revenge which had plagued him so long, even for a brief moment, as it was terrifying. How did this petite, fair woman command such hold of his thoughts? Of his heart?

He took her wrist, circling it in his hand and tugging it away from his lips. Holding her startled gaze, he searched her eyes for any indication that she had intentionally derailed him but found nothing. She held no artifice. She merely captivated him.

“Have I done something to hurt ye?” she asked.

Kieran shook his head. He fought against the impulse to tug her closer. They were mostly hidden; no one would see them under the sprawling branches of the tree. He could do it. Pull her close, lose his mind in her lips, give of himself.

But Isobel tilted her head to the side, concern crowding her features, and snapped him from his madness.

He released her, standing and taking a step back, hoping to remove himself from the cloud she pulled him into.

“Kieran, what is it?”

“Ye,” he said plainly, swallowing against a sandy throat. “’Tis ye, Isobel.”