Journey to Bongary Spring by Kasey Stockton

Chapter Nineteen

Isobel remained near the ash tree, watching Kieran walk abruptly away from her. The wet cravat hung limply from her hand, dripping water onto the ground below. Kieran was mostly cleaned of blood, and she watched him scrub a hand over his wet face before wincing and dropping his arm again. He pulled the edge of his great kilt around his shoulder to his face and dabbed at his cheeks, keeping his back straight as he returned to his men, his pride intact.

As he left Isobel behind.

She shook her head, muttering softly to herself about what a foolish lass she was. Did she truly expect Kieran to accept her help so easily, to revert to the role of friendship they’d fallen into on their journey?

Of course not. The man was a warrior. As evidenced now by his strong arm pulling out his sword and testing the weight of it before slicing through the air. He said something to Rupert and Ian, and they both laughed.

Ian looked up to where Isobel stood, but she didn’t believe he could see her as easily as she could see him through the branches. She turned away, rinsing the cravat and dumping the pink water, working to rinse the bucket and fill it again for Mrs. Crabb.

Isobel hadn’t been asked to fetch water in years, but when Mrs. Crabb had voiced the need, she’d jumped at the opportunity, eager for any excuse to walk outside and steal a glimpse of Kieran. She didn’t regret her actions now, but she was surprised Mrs. Crabb hadn’t sent anyone after her. The woman was likely wondering where her bucket was.

Pausing just before she descended the kitchen steps, Isobel wiped a loose tendril from her cheek and tucked it behind her ear.

“Can I take that?” Ian asked, sidling up beside her and snaking the bucket’s handle deftly from her hands.

“Ye need to rest yer arm,” she scolded.

Ian laughed, his injured arm hanging in a sling. “I’m no fool. At least, not when it comes to my injury. Dinna fash, lass. I’m letting it heal.”

“How are ye a fool then?” she asked, walking beside him. They made their way down the stone steps and to the kitchen door. She pulled it open.

“Caring for a lass that doesna even see me,” he said, holding her gaze for a brief moment before slipping past her and into the kitchen. It took her breath away, the implication that he cared for her. If he’d been referring to her. But that couldn’t be, surely. Did he not know that she was promised to another?

Though one would question if Isobel was aware of her own betrothal had they witnessed her mooning over Kieran just a few minutes before.

She glanced over her shoulder and paused when she found Kieran looking up the rise at her. His face was trained toward her, his eyes smoldering even from that distance, and it sent a chill through her body. The sun shone off the glassy water in the distance, and a disturbance on the loch caught her eye. A small boat was crossing, a handful of people inside, and Isobel’s heart stuttered.

The only men who would cross the loch in a boat had to be from Dulnain. She swallowed, the blood leaving her face as she realized what was about to happen. It was time for Isobel to don her best gown, beg Marion’s help with her hair, and meet her future groom.

* * *

Entering enemy territory under the guise of a celebration was terrifying. Miles had no idea whether he’d been lulled to Castle Moraigh under false pretenses, or if Alexander McEwan truly wished to broker a truce between their neighboring clans. Reaching for his mother’s hand, Miles gave her fingers a squeeze, and she returned the gesture.

The McEwan men’s report at the creekside had only caused Miles further worry. Fear that it was all in vain, that nothing would heal the fractured hearts of the people, caused him apprehension. He couldn’t help but fear this was all part of McEwan’s plot to obtain revenge on the Duncans. The idea struck him that McEwan could wonder the same thing, could worry that Miles approached his castle with ulterior motives.

So Miles had done the only thing he could think of which would prove where his motives lay in this situation: he’d brought his mother along and hoped he wouldn’t later regret it. No self-respecting man would invite his mother to a dinner during which he intended to put his safety in jeopardy by starting a brawl. He hoped his actions would prove to McEwan that he was serious about creating peace.

“Quit fretting,” Mother said softly. “Ye’ll see. This is good.”

He swallowed, nodding as the sun began its slow descent behind him. Tavish grunted from where he sat beside Magnus, rowing their oars, and Miles ignored him. His friend was wary of this plan, hesitant to trust the motives of the McEwan chief.

“He’ll see, too,” Mother whispered, indicating Tavish’s scowl. “One way or another, yer people will see that this is what’s best for them too.”

Miles closed his eyes and nodded. He certainly hoped she was right.

* * *

Marion peeked around the corner, watching her father’s heavy footsteps lead further away, Hugh close on his heels. She couldn’t believe her luck; she’d passed at the precise moment Father had vacated the study. But she’d seen the laird of Dulnain crossing the loch against the setting sun and knew her father would go down to welcome the man to Moraigh. He had a purpose for this dinner, though Marion was certain her father was the only person who knew the extent of what that purpose might be.

Shaking away those thoughts, she listened for the receding footsteps to disappear. Once she had her hands on his small leather book and could get a sufficient look at what was inside, she was certain it would answer some of the questions she had.

When the corridor fell completely silent, Marion slipped around the corner and through the study door. Her chest heaved as she leaned against the heavy, wooden slab and waited to make certain no one was in the room. It was silent, and she was grateful. Crossing to the bookcase, Marion pulled down the small leather book and flipped it open, moving to the window to use the fading light to better see.

It was a ledger. She’d been correct about that. Columns indicated what money came in and in what increments. There was no clear pattern to the amounts, and she couldn’t decipher exactly what the money was for.

The names weren’t listed at all, only small descriptions. Fairy tree. Well. Bluebonnet.

Flipping through the pages, Marion couldn’t make sense of them. There were dates, but they were sporadic, stretching years back, as though Father had used this ledger to record in for the last seven years.

Shaking her head, Marion lowered the book and stared out the window. What did money and the fairy tree have to do with forty pounds, three years ago? And furthermore, why was this information important now? Important enough for Father to keep it hidden?

She needed more time to think, and she needed to escape before she was found with the book. It had done nothing more than incite further questions; none of it made any sense at all. If the years were any indicator, however, Father was in deep with whatever this was. Fear snaked through her belly, tightening her chest.

Marion returned the book and stood at the door, listening for footsteps before making her escape. She ran up the stairs and slowed her steps in the corridor so as not to give Isobel reason to question her. She was disappointed but resolute. It was time to include her mother in this.