Journey to Bongary Spring by Kasey Stockton

Chapter Seven

Miles Duncan never asked to become the laird of Dulnain, but the responsibility had been thrust upon him after Angus’s death, and he’d accepted the burden. His brother-in-law, Ivor, the Duncan chief, needed a laird at Dulnain that he trusted, and Miles was that man.

During Angus’s time at Dulnain, strife between their clan and the McEwans had grown thick, made heavier by Angus’s quick temper and abundant pride.

Miles ran a hand through his sandy-brown hair, dispelling a sigh.

He’d known from the beginning that his position wouldn’t be easy to manage, that he would need to heal not only the long-built rivalry between the clans that currently lay semi-dormant, silently smoldering and awaiting the spark that would ignite them into another war, but he was also responsible for healing the prejudice in his peoples’ hearts.

The trouble was, Miles didn’t know how to do that.

The door to his study creaked open and soft footsteps padded inside, but Miles remained at the window, looking out between the tree branches over Loch Gileach. The sun shone high in the sky, reflecting on the water in a way that blinded him from seeing Castle Moraigh in the distance. But he knew precisely where it was and where the small, black shadow of a man would be standing atop it, watching for signs of trouble or danger.

Miles knew because he was the danger they watched for. He’d spent many hours looking out this window and watching the guards pace the turrets high above the main body of the castle. He wanted to give them reason to come down from there—to feel peace.

He wanted that peace for himself, too.

“Ye needn’t stand about and stew all day,” Mother said, coming to rest beside him at the window. Over recent years, the color had subtly seeped from her, the rosiness fleeing her cheeks like a fading sunset a little at a time until her healthy, youthful glow was gone. Her rich, brown hair turned to gray, and lines had formed in soft wrinkles on her face and hands. The only part of Mother which had remained unchanged was the striking green of her eyes. Miles claimed the same eyes—the single piece of her he had inherited.

“I’m no’ stewing,” he defended. He was nothing like a boiling pot of soup. He was more like a cool bowl of porridge that had sat untouched for too long, percolating. “If I dinna think on it, how will I devise a plan?”

“Ye’ve been invited to a feast at Castle Moraigh. I think that is enough cause for hope that the McEwans wish to end this rivalry as much as ye.”

“Aye, but the McEwans are not the only thing I worry about. We can agree to peace, but our people must enact the treaty.”

Mother placed a small hand softly on Miles’s arm, and he reached across his chest to squeeze her fingers. She smiled sadly up at him. “Take yer concerns to McEwan. Honesty is the first step in righting the wrongs between their people and ours. If he wishes for this feud to end as much as ye, he’ll be willing to work together to make it a reality.”

“I dinna ken what his wishes truly are, Mother, because I dinna ken all that he has planned. His invitation was strictly to discuss peace and to express his gratification that we have similar feelings regarding the feud, but he said naething about how he wants to accomplish peace. It is his plan I am wary of. I shall remain wary until I ken more of it.”

A sharp knock at the door preceded Tavish’s heavy tread, and he paused, bowing.

Miles nodded once for his friend to begin. He wasn’t sure he’d ever grow accustomed to the deference his new position afforded him.

“There are reports of redcoats on the eastern border, near the stream that runs along the McEwan boundary line.”

Miles’s stomach clenched on impulse, and he swallowed down the bile in his throat. “Has there been any trouble?”

“Nay. We canna tell if they mean ta go further into McEwan lands or cross into Duncan territory.”

Miles rubbed his stubbled jaw. “Keep me apprised.”

“Of course.”

Tavish strode from the room, and Miles turned, dropping into the chair beside the fire.

“Dinna borrow worry, Miles,” Mother said, narrowing her clear, green gaze at him. “Consider the things which are in yer power to control now.”

He nodded up at her, smiling despite the worry growing in his gut. He didn’t know how he was going to heal the fractured clans, but somehow he would find a way. If they were going to have a shot at protecting their lands against the crown, he must.

* * *

Isobel sat at the thick base of a beech tree, her arisaid wrapped tightly around her shoulders, while she picked at the fish Ian had presented to her on a small tin plate.

“Ye’re not fond of fish?” Ian asked, lowering himself until he was seated near her. Hugh, Rupert, and Kieran all sat around a small fire just a few yards away, closer to the bubbling stream which had supplied their dinner. The dark sky towered over them, blending in with the canopy of leaves overhead and making her feel closed in.

She looked up at Ian, his black hair falling over his forehead and his gaze seemingly caught on her. In truth, she was ravenous, but it was hard to eat when her mind was churning with possible escape routes. Kieran’s back faced her, but she watched him bend over his plate of fish, seemingly unaware that her heart beat rapidly for him. If only she could make it cease.

Bongary. That was how she would accomplish that goal.

Picking out a fish bone, Isobel sought a smile. “It isna the trout which turns my stomach.”

Ian’s hand splayed over his heart. “Och, lass. Dinna say it is the company, or ye’ll wound me.”

Isobel picked another bone from the fish, her fleeting smile passing as quickly as it came. She didn’t respond. She had nothing to say.

Ian watched her pick at her fish, his mouth pressing into a firm line. “Ye canna be too angry. Surely ye guessed McEwan would send someone after ye.”

“I guessed,” Isobel said. She took a bite of her dinner, allowing the food to settle in her stomach and give her the energy she needed to run in the night. She flashed Ian a small smile. “I only hoped I would evade ye longer.”

“Evade Moraigh’s best tracker?”

Isobel lifted an eyebrow. “That’s ye, is it?”

“The one and only.”

A shadow fell over them, looming dark and covering what little light the fire sent their direction. “I think ye’re confused,” Kieran said, stepping around to stand before them. A twinkle lit his eyes, twisting Isobel’s stomach into knots. “Moraigh’s best tracker is undoubtedly Young Rupert.”

They all looked to where Rupert wrestled with the shelter he was meant to be putting up, not making any effort to conceal his frustration over the thin, knotted rope. When Isobel glanced back, Kieran was watching her intently.

“Ye’ll set up camp,” he said to Ian, who waited a moment before rising.

Ian nodded, his gaze lingering on Isobel before he dragged it away and crossed toward Rupert, yanking the cord from his hand and setting to work untangling it. Isobel watched them interact in silence, her fish all but forgotten before her.

“Who taught ye to wield a knife?” Kieran asked, his hand resting on his side, likely where his own dirk lay hidden in the folds of his kilt.

Isobel glanced up at him, her heart pounding. Just being near the man sent her nerves to the edge, dangling from a cliff with no way back. It was utterly ridiculous. He was just a man.

He looked at her intently, waiting for her to answer him, and she swallowed. He wasn’t just a man. He was the handsomest man she’d ever laid eyes on, and he was kind. Those two things did not go together often in her experience. Kieran was an anomaly.

She could only hope her husband possessed half Kieran’s kindness if none of his handsomeness.

Lowering himself onto the ground beside her, Kieran waited.

Isobel shook herself from her stupor. The man was more likely to consider her unintelligent if she did not take greater care to speak more in his presence. “My father taught me.”

Surprise flickered over Kieran’s eyes. “Ye must have been a wee one.”

“Aye. Not more than eight or nine.”

He ran a hand over his knee. “I was wee myself when my father taught me.”

“It is a necessary skill.”

Kieran’s mouth turned up in a half-smile. “Aye.” He turned an appraising eye on her. “Dinna plan to leave in the night. We’ll be watching ye in shifts.”

Her chest hardened, resentment seeping through the cracks of her resolve. Sitting this close to the man, she could smell the earthy scent that he always carried, and she wanted to lean into him. Bitter frustration warred with the attractions she felt, and she slumped, abandoning the fish at last. She was so very tired.

But she had come so far. No, she would not give up.

Staring straight ahead, she gripped the plate tightly in her fingers. “I need to continue on.”

He seemed to hesitate before asking, “What ails ye?”

Isobel clamped her mouth shut.

“There’s only one reason ta go to Bongary Spring,” Kieran said softly.

“I canna say.”

He leaned in and lowered his voice. His gray eyes flickered against the firelight and held depth and understanding. “Ye can trust me.”

Perhaps, but she couldn’t tell him this.

Kieran swept his gaze over her slouched form, his dark eyebrows pulling together. He didn’t speak the words aloud, but his expression clearly implied his thoughts, and she agreed. She didn’t appear ill. Bedraggled and in need of a wash, perhaps, but not ill.

“’Tis personal,” Isobel said. “A monster inside me that I’ve fought for too long. I want to lay the monster to rest, to be rid of the burden of its company.”

She waited for him to lean away, for his lips to curl down in disgust, but he remained unflinching, watching her. Glancing to his men, he looked back at Isobel. “We are a day’s travel from Bongary, aye?”

“Aye.”

“And this monster ye speak of, ye canna cast it out on yer own?”

She gazed up at him, not daring to hope that the softening she interpreted on his face was his resolve. “I’ve tried,” she said, her voice raspy.

Compassion fell over his stony face. This warrior of a man, tall and strapping and without fault or apparent weakness, was conscious of monsters.

Kieran nodded once. “Very well. We’ll press on. But we must ride fast to make up for the time we’ll lose. Ye canna miss McEwan’s dinner.”

Dare she hope? “Ye dinna plan to change yer mind in the morning?”

He paused, shaking his head. “I am a man of my word, Miss McEwan. I willna go back on it.”

Isobel sank against the tree, her body relaxing. She trusted Kieran, and she knew with him on her side, she would make it to Bongary and home in time to do her chief’s bidding.

“Ye’re relieved?” Kieran asked, a hitch to his dark eyebrow.

“I’m eager. I feel this will be the best night of sleep I’ve had in a week.”

He took her plate, eyeing the picked-at fish, and rose. Reaching down, he offered his hand, and Isobel hesitated. Slowly placing her fingers in his, she allowed his hand to curl around hers and lift her from the ground. Warmth shot up her arm, encasing her in a cloud of pleasant fire.

Kieran released her quickly, stepping back and subtly wiping his hand on his kilt. Had he felt the same warmth? No, that was impossible. The feelings Isobel had for this man were entirely one-sided.

Even if they weren’t, there was nothing she could do about it now.

“I wanted to ask ye,” he said, his voice sounding oddly gruff. He reached into his sporran and pulled out a small item, fisting it in his hand. “I found this near the bank of the creek outside Glen Ellen. Does it belong to ye?”

He opened his palm to reveal a small, silver ring with a reddish-brown stone. The ring her father had given her mother in the early years of their marriage, that her parents had gifted to Isobel on her fourteenth birthday. Her heart squeezed in achy relief, a wave of comfort washing over her.

“I thought it was lost forever,” she whispered, picking it from his open palm and sliding it onto her finger. It was loose; it had slipped off more than once before. She would need to find a way to have it made smaller.

His lips ticked up in a half-smile. “I am glad I found it.”

Ian approached, his broad arms crossed over his chest. “Shelter has been erected.”

“Good.” Kieran indicated the tent on the opposite side of the fire away from the others. “That is for ye,” he said to Isobel.

She nodded, turning toward it, and left the men behind while spinning the ring on her finger. One more day. That was all she would need to survive. Just one more day and she would be rid of the burden of loving a man she could never have.