Claiming His Highland Bride

Thinking that was the end of their discussion, he lifted the latch and pulled it open. As he tugged it to close behind him, Arabella called out to him. He slowed to hear her words.

‘My informants have told me that the widow Saraid MacPherson plans to enter a convent on Skye when she leaves here.’

The door was closed with some force so Alan knew there was no chance of saying anything back to her. Or asking her any questions. He walked away, listening to the laughter coming from inside the chamber—his cousin’s and Brodie’s, too. He thought about his experience with women and let out some words that would rival even Rob Mackintosh’s best, or rather worst, efforts.

He’d searched for his cousin and found her, but got captured, too.

He’d fallen in love with Agneis, but lost her to Gilbert.

He’d searched for, found and lost Fia Mackintosh, who then turned down his offer of marriage.

He’d searched for the MacMillan girl and found that she’d died.

Alan shook his head and let out an exasperated breath then as he realised that even showing interest in a woman seemed to move them out of his reach. As Saraid MacPherson would be when she left Glenlui and travelled on to Skye.

A nun.

A bl—

Alan stopped at the blasphemous words he almost thought and laughed at the irony of his situation instead.

The man known throughout the Highlands as the best tracker of all manner of things seemed to lose the women he wanted to find and find the ones he could only lose.

As he made his way to the chamber he used here, he could almost hear the Fates laughing at him.

Chapter Five (#u4ba1be2e-826f-55a5-9d56-b6ebdf077d0c)

Sorcha followed the two older children out of the cottage, carrying Robbie on her hip in the way she’d watched her cousin do. The bairn was a happy one, content to gurgle and drool and smile most of the day. This morn, while the weather was clear and brisk, Clara announced it was a good day to walk to the baker’s and miller’s cottages and see to some other errands.

So, while Clara finished up inside, the four of them followed the path from Clara’s cottage back towards the road leading to the village’s centre and then the keep in the distance. Wee Jamie and Wee Clara chattered and called out to children along the way. Sorcha had met many of those who lived here over the last weeks.

With Clara’s introduction, no one thought she was anyone but the widowed MacPherson cousin. Even James had not been told the truth and, for that, Sorcha felt guilty for asking her cousin to keep it from him. But, until she left, she wanted no one else privy to her true identity. If they knew not her true name or what she’d done, they could not be punished or be held responsible. Clara assured her it would all work out, though Sorcha was not so certain. She’d almost reached the first place on her list when Clara caught up with her.

‘I finished sooner than I thought,’ her cousin said, holding out her hands for the bairn. ‘Was he fussing?’

‘Nay,’ she said. As it turned out, there was little demand in their household for the fine embroidery skills of which she could boast. Of all the tasks she’d tried to help Clara with, seeing to the babe was the most pleasant and one which she could claim she could do. Or at least until he was hungry.

That happened the moment he saw his mother. As though the sight of her reminded him that he had not eaten for several hours, Robbie scrunched up his little face and cried out his displeasure. Clara just smiled and shrugged since this happened several times each day.

‘If you will see to getting the flour from the miller and collect my loaves from the baker, I will take him home,’ Clara said. ‘And bring the other two along with you, if you would?’

Sorcha smiled and nodded, trying to exude confidence when she really wanted to beg Clara not to leave her alone in the village with the children. The bairn was easier in that he did not yet walk on his own. The others, well, they had a habit of scampering off so quickly she could hardly keep up with them.

That had been the latest in her series of discoveries of her lack of experience and knowledge on the simple matters of living. She’d been brought up in a cocoon, surrounded by servants instead of friends and kept apart by her father’s orders and mandates. In her early years, she’d run playing with some of the servants’ children, but her father stopped that.

And with just that moment’s inattention, Wee Jamie and Wee Clara ran off. Sorcha chased them towards the miller’s and caught up with them, taking the little lass’s hand in hers to keep her near. The miller handed her the sack of flour and she walked over to another path and down it, the smell of baking bread leading the way. No sooner had the man offered them each a piece from a fresh and hot loaf then the children both took off running. By the time she gathered up Clara’s bread and the flour and stepped outside, they were gone.

Turning this way and that, she listened for the sound of their laughter. Nothing. The area was silent but for the sound of winds flowing through the trees around her. Glancing in as many directions as she could, she could not see them. A noise caught her attention and she ran off in that direction, calling out their names. Another noise took her down another path and then another until she realised two things—she was well and truly lost and the children were nowhere to be found.

Her chest tightened with fear and worry and it became hard to breathe. The weight of the flour and the loaves made her arms shake and her legs felt wobbly and weak. She put the bundles down on the ground and shook out her arms to make them stop trembling as she tried to come up with a plan. The sound of a horse’s approach made her turn and run towards the road there. Mayhap whoever was coming could help her?

A dark horse trotted closer as she ran out into the road and threw up her hands. Its rider cursed and pulled up hard, bringing them to a stop before her and scaring whatever breath she still had right out of her.

‘What kind of fool...?’ he yelled first. ‘Saraid MacPherson?’ She sucked in a breath and met the angry gaze of Alan Cameron.

‘The children,’ she gasped.

He jumped from the horse, landing so close to her she could feel the heat of his body. Clutching her shoulders, he pulled her up and searched her face.

‘What children?’ he asked. Looking past her and into the distance, he shook his head.

‘Clara’s wee ones,’ she forced out, her lungs finally able to take in air. ‘I’ve lost them.’

A myriad of expressions moved quickly over his face, from surprise to confusion to disbelief. ‘How did you lose them?’

‘I was running errands for Clara,’ she said. She remembered the dropped bundles off the road and ran to retrieve them, calling back to him. ‘I turned my attention from them for but a moment and they ran.’ Grabbing up the sacks, she ran back to where he stood watching her. ‘I just pray that nothing has happened to them. I could never forgive myself...’ He took the items from her as though they weighed nothing and checked inside the sacks before shaking his head.

‘The miller’s is on the other side of the village. How did you get here?’ he asked.

‘I did not pay heed to where I was running. I only followed the sounds I thought were the children.’ Then, she whispered her most embarrassing admission. ‘And, as you can see, I am lost.’

He walked back to his horse and climbed up on the massive animal. Leaning over, he held out his hand to her.

‘Come. I will take you to Clara’s,’ he offered. ‘The children know their way and are probably there already.’

Sorcha looked up into his eyes and saw compassion and not pity or mocking. In the light of the sun, those eyes were a blend of blues and greens and greys and not the pale blue she’d thought. Much as some described the mixed colour of hers, too. Taking his hand, he guided her to step on his foot as he lifted her up and guided her behind him. He gave her a moment to settle and then touched his legs to the horse’s sides. Unused to riding this way, she grabbed at his plaid to keep from swaying too much and unbalancing both of them.

Still, this close, she was overwhelmed by him. His size. His nearness. His scent. Him.

‘You made only one bad turn,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘If not for going in the wrong direction right there...’ he pointed off to his left ‘...you would have circled right back around.’ When she leaned over to look past him, she began to slide off the horse. ‘Hold tight now.’ Without thinking, she reached around his waist and held on.

Because of his size, her hands barely made it around him. And the action forced her to rest her face against his back. His muscles rippled under her cheek as he controlled the horse. His long hair, pulled back and tied with a strip of leather, tickled her nose as she rested there. When she realised what she was doing, she eased her grip on him, sliding her hands back to rest on his hips.

‘I am sorry to take you from your own tasks,’ she said.

‘Since my destination is yours, you are not.’

Sorcha remembered his offer of help last night to James. What was the nephew of the Cameron chieftain doing working with the Mackintosh’s village blacksmith?

‘Have you known James a long time?’ she asked, trying to understand his connections to this place and these people.

From his place at the chieftain’s table and the call for him to speak with those closest to Brodie—a call delivered by the man known for his loyalty to the laird—he was well known and well regarded here. Was he to the Lady Arabella as Padruig was to her mother? One of her kin who stayed on for years as a faithful friend?

‘Aye, for years.’

Uncertain if his curt reply was due to the riding or not, she held any other questions she would have asked back. But her curiosity got the better of her as they rode through the centre of the village and many called out greetings to him. Especially the women.

‘Are you a blacksmith then?’ she asked when they slowed and he would be able to hear her words. The question she truly wanted answered involved personal details she would ask of Clara and not dare to speak to the man directly.