Journey to Bongary Spring by Kasey Stockton

Chapter Two

Kieran Buchanan stabbed his shovel into a mound of dirt and slicked sweat from his brow. The mid-morning wind was cool, nipping at his exposed skin and turning his perspiration into icy beads that dripped down his neck and gathered on his temples. The exertion of mucking stalls had always been a sure way to warm him quickly, and he’d had twice the work today clearing the main path of the coo’s manure. He wiped his hands on a rag and reached for another oatcake from the basket Mrs. Crabb had sent out earlier.

“’Tis looking to be a braw day,” Ian said, coming around the corner of the stables and reaching for an oatcake. He took a bite, and crumbs littered his dark beard. “Ye finished here yet?”

“Almost.” Kieran shoved the last bite of oatcake into his mouth and reached for his shovel. “One stall left.”

Leaning against the stable wall, Ian crossed his arms over his broad chest. “We’re down four men because of the coo drive, so ye’ll be sparring with me today.” He grinned widely, an impish light in his eyes. He was three years Kieran’s junior but possessed of a similar physique, and it was the young man’s objective to surpass Kieran’s skill in both blades and fists.

He had a long way to go, and he would look much more intimidating without the oat crumbs clinging to his dark, nearly-black beard.

Kieran hid his amusement. Shoveling the last of the manure into the barrow, he wheeled it outside and around the back of the stables.

“D’ye think Miss Isobel will be watching today?” Ian asked.

Kieran nearly missed his footing. He recalled the blonde woman’s face that morning after she’d stepped in the manure, and a smile caught his lips. She’d been so startled, and her cheeks had blushed the most alarming, mottled red he’d ever seen. “I dinna ken.”

Ian rested one hand against his belted waist, his great kilt flowing slightly behind him in the wind. “I hope so.”

“Ye’ve got yer eye on the lass?” Kieran asked. She was bonny, small of stature with dark eyes and fair hair, but so quiet. He’d known Isobel McEwan for years, but he couldn’t say he truly knew her well. She was nothing more than Marion’s shadow: constantly nearby, always a step behind the chief’s daughter. With a character so timid and reserved, she didn’t appear to know her own mind.

“Aye,” Ian said. “Half the men of Moraigh do as well.”

Kieran looked up and found Ian’s blue eyes watching him. Och, the man was gauging his interest in Isobel, if Kieran had his guess. Did Ian believe this to be another competition? He couldn’t be further from the truth.

It was impossible to chase the lasses when one’s mind was only bent toward exacting revenge.

“For yer sake then, I hope she’ll be watching.” Kieran shot Ian a wink before dumping the manure and returning the barrow to its place. He might not have his eye on Marion’s shadow, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t do his best to pummel Ian during training today. The lad could use a swift knocking down.

“The Kilgannon men will be here in less than a fortnight,” Ian said, brushing his hand over his beard and scattering the crumbs to the ground.

“Aye. For the feast.” Kieran lifted the final oatcake from the basket and took a bite before he followed Ian from the stables toward the front side of the castle. Young Rupert was meant to continue his training, and with his father up Glen Ellen with the coos, it was up to Kieran and Ian to continue the work. Young Rupert was a handful of years younger than Kieran and had so much to learn.

“Nay, ’tis not for the feast but for the women.”

Kieran looked to his friend. “What did ye learn?”

“Naething. What other reason would Alexander McEwan have for inviting his brother and nephew to Moraigh if not to form an alliance?” Ian tapped the side of his head, lifting his eyebrows.

It was only conjecture, but it was sound reasoning. Kieran knew the McEwans who lived at Kilgannon though, and he would not wish an alliance with those unruly halfwits on anyone, let alone gentle, soft-spoken Marion or Isobel. What a shame.

“I have two weeks to win the lass over,” Ian said.

Kieran paused on the path toward their training location. The sloping lawn spread out before the castle and dropped off at the water’s edge. He rested his hand on the hilt of his sword and peered at Ian. “Ye’re serious?”

“Och, aye. I want a wife, and Isobel is as good as any. Bonny to look at, and she willna talk much. What more does a man need?”

Kieran nodded absently, pulling his sword from its sheath and testing its weight as they continued down the lawn. He hadn’t allowed himself to think much on what a man needed, for he had more pressing things on his mind than lasses and marriage. It was hard to think of anything so trite when his sole focus in life was revenge.

Young Rupert came their direction followed by Hugh and a few other men, and Kieran redirected his thoughts to the matter at hand.

Unrest had spread through the fermtoun on the other side of Glen Ellen, and people were growing anxious. Angus Duncan, the last laird who possessed the glorious estate which sat on the opposite bank of the loch from Castle Moraigh, had governed his people with a solid fist, and no one knew what to expect from his successor. Angus had had no children, so the new laird of Dulnain had been specially selected by the Duncan chief. And given that the new laird was closer kin to the Duncan chief than even Angus had been, it didn’t bode well for the McEwans. Until they took his measure, they needed to be alert.

“Enough thinking of bonny lasses, Ian,” Kieran said. “It is time to fight.”

* * *

Isobel was uncertain exactly how she managed to navigate her way to the chamber she shared with Marion, but she let herself into the room without knocking and closed the door behind her.

Marion stood near the tall mirror, struggling to tighten her stays. She caught Isobel’s eye in the mirror and puffed up her porcelain cheeks, blowing a breath through her teeth. “I’m glad ye’ve come. I’m useless on my own.”

“Not entirely useless,” Isobel argued, scurrying over to her cousin—albeit a distant claim, they were cousins nonetheless—and worked the laces until she got them just right. She picked up the farthingale and began tying it at the back. “But ye’ll need to come up with an alternative soon. Perhaps Jenny can take over.”

Marion’s pale blue eyes flicked up and stared at Isobel through the mirror. “Where will ye be?”

“Married.” The word was bitter, rolling from Isobel’s tongue as though eager to escape her mouth.

Marion spun, ripping the laces from Isobel’s grip. She took Isobel’s hands in her own, her eyes wide with hope. “Kieran, then? Has he spoken to ye? Has my blasted cousin seen sense?”

Isobel couldn’t bear the frank stare, the way Marion’s pale blue eyes seemed to look past her exterior and seek her soul. It was almost mocking how Marion stood in dishabille, her bare arms and legs bathed in the morning light streaming through the window, but Isobel, swathed in soft wool from her neck to her ankles, felt exposed.

She cleared her throat, disengaging her hands and spinning Marion back to face the mirror so she could focus on tying the farthingale in place. “Nay, ’tis naething like that. Yer father wants peace with the Duncans.”

Marion stilled. “What has that to do with ye?”

“I am to marry the new laird of Dulnain.”

Marion gasped. “He canna make ye.”

The laugh that bubbled from Isobel’s chest was wry. She’d yet to retain feeling since the requirement had fallen on her ears, to fully grieve what this meant for her. Instead, she held to the things she could not change. “I owe yer father my life.”

“I will speak to him,” Marion said, her voice the same steel her father had used just minutes ago. Was she aware of how similar she was to the man? “Or to my mother. He canna force ye.”

It was sweet of her to be so outraged, but they both knew it would amount to nothing. McEwan’s word was final. Tilting her head to the side, Isobel held her friend’s gaze. “Dinna fash. It’ll work itself out.”

“But Kieran,” Marion said, her shoulders deflating. “If ye wed another, ye and he could never be.”

Marion’s disappointment was one tiny oat in the oatcake that made up Isobel’s devastation. Isobel’s heart pulsed for the man, and it had from the moment she’d first laid eyes on him. His handsome, brawny figure only made up part of her appreciation for him. He was thoughtful toward the other men and gentle with the animals in a way that spoke volumes to his character.

Running a finger absently over the thin leather bracelet on her wrist, she swallowed hard. She’d been in love with Kieran Buchanan since the first day she’d been brought to Moraigh.

Swords clanked outside on the grass, and Marion sucked in a quick breath, looking toward the open window. “That’ll be him now. I love my cousin, but he is blind when it comes to ye, Isobel.”

Isobel lifted the purple wool skirt from the edge of the bed. She appreciated Marion’s compassion, but could the woman not see how she was making this more difficult for Isobel to accept? “Come and dress before someone else walks in on ye.”

Marion didn’t appear fooled by the misdirection, but she quieted, allowing Isobel to help her dress and pin her hair to the sound of loud grunts and metal clanging. Having the men train on the strip of earth that butted between the castle and the loch, in plain view of anyone who cared to watch from the other side of Loch Gileach, was nothing more than a show of strength—and a successful one at that. The McEwan men were tall, broad, and defended their land with determination. They were not to be trifled with, and they wanted their opponents to know it.

Isobel had always taken great comfort in the McEwans’ attention to training. One did not watch their house burn without it forever changing one, and Isobel would carry a degree of fear with her always. It was good to be alert and better to be surrounded by those who could protect her were the same to ever happen again.

But who would protect her in the midst of Duncan land after she married the laird of Dulnain? Surely a Duncan laird wouldn’t prioritize his McEwan bride.

Marion drifted toward the window again, looking down on the lawn and the men training there. She placed her hands on the rough, stone window ledge, her dark eyebrows knit together in thought and her lips pressed together. It was not the woman’s fault her father required this sacrifice of Isobel, but she looked troubled, nonetheless.

“Yer father could not have allowed me to remain unwed forever, ye ken,” Isobel said softly, her fingers clenching and unclenching a handful of her skirt’s rough fabric. “I only hoped I’d have more time to win Kieran’s heart.”

“Who is to say it’s too late?” Marion asked quietly.

Isobel crossed the room, peering through the window and down at the men. She spotted Kieran at once, his tall, dark head sticking out to her above the others. He had a finesse in his movements that could not be rivaled, a smoothness to his footwork. “It’s too late. Anyone with half a brain kens that,” she said playfully.

Marion’s lips quirked a smile. “So I possess half a brain for hoping otherwise? Ye do yerself little credit.”

Isobel shook her head, smiling despite herself. “Ye take my meaning well enough. I’ve been holding on to hope, but if Kieran hasna fallen for me by now, he’s likely not meant to. It is my duty to forget him.”

“Will ye forget him?”

“I must,” Isobel said bravely, her heart yearning for Kieran as she watched him gain ground against his opponent. They broke apart, and grins flashed over both men’s faces as they took their places to begin again.

Isobel stepped away from the window and leaned her back against the thick, burgundy tapestry lining the wall. She closed her eyes, her breaths coming rapidly. It was foolish to hurt so fiercely over the loss of a love that had never been returned to her, but that foolishness didn’t make her feelings any less real. She drew in a deep breath, pushing Kieran from her mind. Her brave front was precarious, likely to crumble if she did not take greater care.

“I would replace ye if I could,” Marion said quietly, the trace of apology further softening her buttery tone. “But I’m meant for other things. We are both of us currency, are we not?”

“Aye,” Isobel agreed, setting her gaze on her friend. “If only I could find a way to cut out my heart so it wouldna hurt so keenly.”

Marion nodded, her gaze drifting to the loch. “It is a shame the wretched Duncans willna sell Father back his land. It would be a quick journey to take the waters of Bongary, and ye could return before the feast.”

Isobel’s body stilled. “Ye think the holy spring could heal my heart?”

Marion’s eyebrows drew together. “It healed Mrs. Crabb’s husband of his melancholy, did it not? Why would yer heart’s malady be any different?”

“That was years ago,” Isobel said, but her mind was whirring. She’d gone to Bongary Spring once as a child when her mother’s friend, Mrs. Rae, had needed to take the waters. The woman had been unable to get pregnant after four years of marriage, and they’d trekked to the holy well in hopes that it would help her conceive, and it had worked.

It had worked.

“It was only a thought,” Marion said distantly.

But Isobel couldn’t think clearly. She could recall Mrs. Rae coming to their house, sobbing without relent, and announcing her happy news. That was twelve years ago now, and last Isobel had seen of the Raes, their young son was healthy and strong.

If Bongary Spring could heal Mr. Crabb’s melancholy and Mrs. Rae’s womb, could it not heal Isobel’s broken heart as well? She only needed to remove Kieran from it so she would be free to marry another without carrying her love for Kieran into her marriage. If she had no heart, no feeling, she couldn’t hurt.

But how could she get to the spring?

Marion squeezed her arm, pulling Isobel from her thoughts. “Shall we walk down to the glen? I have a mind to gather harebells.”

Isobel agreed. The walk would be perfect to give her time to devise a plan. She wasn’t yet sure how she would manage it without crossing through Duncan land, but she was going to find that spring.

She helped Marion wrap her long, woolen arisaid over her shoulders, tucking it down around her sides and securing it in place with a belt. Isobel hardly wore shoes outside of the house—indeed, what was the point?—but a trip up the glen would require more coverage for the bare, rough, soles of her feet. After the incident that morning with the manure, she was eager to obtain her shoes.

It was the work of a few quick minutes to gather her thin, leather shoes and tie them on before wrapping her own arisaid over her shoulders. Marion laced her arm through Isobel’s in the corridor and led her down the stairs and out through the front door of the castle, always walking just a half step before her.

Or perhaps it was Isobel who walked a half-step behind her friend. Regardless, they’d fallen into the pattern, and it was comfortable for Isobel. She wasn’t entirely certain Marion was even aware of it.

Cold, bitter wind slid over her skin the moment she stepped outside, and Isobel was uncertain whether it was due to the weather or the attractive man before her that her neck was suddenly awash with prickles. Three men stood on the lawn watching Kieran bring his sword down against Ian McEwan. Ian’s black brows knit together, perspiration shimmering on his freckled forehead as he struggled to push Kieran’s sword away.

A smile flickered over Kieran’s mouth, and he stepped back, shoulders heaving, and broke the contact. He sheathed his sword.

Marion tightened her grasp on Isobel’s arm. “Shall we approach the men and compliment Kieran’s footwork?”

Isobel’s feet stuck in place as though her shoes had been sewn to the ground. She leaned forward and lowered her voice, spinning her ring with her thumb in an old, anxious habit. “Nay, Marion. I came out here for flowers, not to woo a man I canna obtain.”

“Who’s to say ye cannot? If ye have a match prior to the laird of Dulnain’s arrival, certainly my father would be willing to consider it.”

“We’re currency,” Isobel said, her voice flat. “Ye stated as much yerself.”

Marion’s icy blue eyes shone in the sunlight, looking pale and clear against her raven hair. There was something in her gaze that gave Isobel pause, but she couldn’t decipher exactly what it was. “Ye dinna plan to do anything foolish, do ye?”

Marion shook her head slightly. “Of course not. If my mother taught me anything, it was the value of a well-placed comment paired with a tactful retreat.”

That explanation was impossible to decipher, but Isobel didn’t feel it was within her power to figure it out yet. Kieran had turned away from Ian to walk toward the awaiting men and looked up, catching her eye. His gaze flicked to Marion.

“Let’s compliment his footwork,” Marion whispered, pulling on Isobel’s arm. “Will ye come with me?”

As though Isobel had much choice in the matter. “I dinna wish ta compliment anyone,” Isobel hissed. Her heart raced the closer they drew to the men, and she caught Kieran’s eye yet again but quickly looked away. She followed Marion down the sloping lawn, the woman’s hand like an unrelenting claw around her forearm, and words escaped her.

Kieran and Ian reached the younger group of men just before the women did. Kieran bowed, Ian following his example. Hugh, Young Rupert, and the others turned, their eyebrows shooting up when they all laid eyes on Marion. She was beautiful; it was no surprise Isobel paled in her shadow.

“Ye’ve been working hard,” Marion said.

“Aye,” Ian agreed, clapping Kieran on the back. “The old man here keeps us on our toes.”

A look passed between Hugh and Young Rupert. Old man? Ian could only be three or four years younger than Kieran, surely.

“Is there something we can do for ye?” Kieran asked, his deep voice smooth and lilting, immediately traveling the distance between them and settling under Isobel’s skin. She desired so badly for him to speak directly to her, to make her the object of his full attention. He looked to Marion, his gaze never straying, and Isobel swallowed down her jealousy. She understood the cousins were close, but that didn’t change her desire for his attention. What she wouldn’t give to have him look at her that way.

“Nay, but I thank ye,” Marion said.

The men waited, blinking at them with expectation. Kieran’s chest still heaved from the exertion of fighting, his shirtsleeves billowing in the breeze, and Isobel struggled to tear her gaze away.

Marion’s elbow dug into Isobel’s side, and she clenched her teeth. She wasn’t going to tell the man that he fought well or that she admired his quick steps. He would consider her too forward, and she couldn’t risk word of her flirtation reaching the chief—not now that she’d given her word she would marry the laird of Dulnain.

A few beats of uncomfortable silence descended on them. The men were bound to think Isobel and Marion daft if they did not speak or leave soon.

Marion pasted a grin on her lips. “Good day, then.”

A murmur of assent followed the women as they made their way back to the path and skirted the edge of the castle. Isobel shot a glance over her shoulder before they disappeared from sight. Kieran’s hand was resting on Young Rupert’s shoulder as he spoke earnestly to him, his attention already given to more important things.

Only Ian still watched them as they walked away. Isobel looked away swiftly.

“That didna go the way I planned,” Marion sulked. “Ye could have offered one paltry compliment.”

Not if she wanted to overcome her feelings for him. Resolve thickened in Isobel’s chest. It was time to do something about the way her heart stuttered when she was around Kieran and remove the warmth that filled her body whenever she was in his presence. Isobel could certainly travel the distance to the holy well and back before the feast if she was quick enough. It was dangerous, but she could withstand the rigors of the journey for such a worthy goal.

She needed to devise her plan.

The healing power of Bongary Spring was going to make her forget that Kieran Buchanan had ever held a piece of her heart.