This cottage was bigger than Coira’s, having three rooms that Sorcha could see. Clara’d taken the bairns into one of those and Sorcha listened to the soft words of love and comfort between Clara and her children as they went off to sleep. Memories of her mother’s voice, soothing and loving, echoed over her then. As her words did in that moment.
Honour. Loyalty. Courage.
Sorcha swallowed against the sense of loss and emptiness and searched for the courage she’d always sworn to her mother she would demonstrate. Sipping the fragrant brew, she let the warmth wash over and through her. She’d survived her father. She’d survived her mad flight into the night and the journey to this place. With several deep breaths in and released, Sorcha gained control over herself then and by the time Clara joined her there, she was ready to speak about her mother and her own future.
‘When did she pass?’ Clara asked. ‘I have not seen her since I was a lass, when she lived at Cluny Castle.’
‘She passed two months ago,’ Sorcha said. ‘She had been ill for some time.’ Sorcha frowned then. ‘So my mother was your mother’s cousin? I thought she was yours.’ Her mother had spoken of Clara in the last weeks of her life and Sorcha had thought their connection was closer.
‘Aye, our mothers were cousins and your mother stood as godmother to me,’ Clara explained. ‘Though your mother often spoke of you in her letters to mine, we never had the chance to meet you.’ Clara stood then and brought the pot of tea closer to fill her cup once more.
‘And your mother? Does she yet live?’ Sorcha asked. She had too little knowledge of her distant kin and needed to know it.
‘Nay,’ Clara said with a slight shake of her head. ‘She passed some years ago. Just after I married James and moved here.’ Clara smiled then. ‘I came to visit my brother here and met James. I never left.’
‘Ah, so your brother lives here as well?’ Sorcha asked. She’d had so few kin in Knap, mostly her father’s, and no siblings to call her own. How might it have been if she’d had brothers or sisters?
‘There was trouble here—the clan split in two as Brodie battled his cousin,’ Clara explained. ‘Conall died in the fighting. But his widow still lives here.’ Clara drank down the rest of her tea and put the cup down on the table. ‘I could spend hours telling you the Mackintosh and MacPherson clan histories and lay out all our relatives on either side,’ she began. ‘But that would simply give you more time to avoid telling me the truth, lass. How did you come to be standing at my door, more than a hundred miles away from your home?’
Sorcha saw the strength of will in Clara’s gaze. There was no way to avoid it any longer. Truth be told, the sooner she had things arranged, the better she would feel. On the last part of this journey, she had accepted that the convent on Skye would be the best place for her. Other than embroidery and prayer, she had few skills to offer as a man’s wife. The jewellery and coins she carried would make the perfect offering to allow her entrance—no one would recognise them or her.
‘I am journeying to a convent on Skye to seek refuge there.’ It sounded reasonable when spoken calmly in spite of the pounding beat of her heart and the tightness in her throat. She clasped her hands together on her lap to keep them from trembling as she revealed the next bit. ‘My father believes me dead, so he will not be an impediment.’
Her words met sheer and utter silence. Clara’s gaze did not falter even then and Sorcha thought she might have stopped breathing. Then her cousin’s lips moved but no sounds came forth.
‘’Twas my mother’s plan, truly,’ Sorcha added. ‘To protect me from him.’ She shrugged. ‘And I have no skills or talents to offer for my keep anywhere else.’ Just the few days spent with Coira and Darach proved how ill prepared she was for a life outside that of a noblewoman.
Clara shook herself free from the hold that the shocking news had caused and stood. After checking on the bairns in the other room and pulling the door closed, she crossed her arms over her chest and nodded. Her intense stare worried Sorcha.
‘Tell me the rest of it, Sorcha. We must have our plan in place before the bairns wake and James comes home.’ Now it was Sorcha’s turn to be surprised. ‘I think that Saraid fits you well as a name. Saraid MacPherson, my cousin whose betrothed died and who has come to visit with me for a wee while.’
Whatever she had expected, this was not it. Her cousin listened to her explanation and did not take long to come up with a story, a whole life in truth, and all before the three children woke. By the time James, the village blacksmith, arrived at the cottage, Sorcha allowed herself to hope that she was on the right path.
And she doubted not that if she needed guidance Clara would be the one giving it now.
Alan noticed her first when he entered Brodie’s hall.
She stood near to James and Clara, but not with them. It was almost as though she was trying to stay out of sight. She nodded if they spoke to her, came closer when they beckoned and then crept ever so slowly back away. She seemed to prefer the shadows over the light.
He strode past her and the others and climbed the steps up to the chieftain’s table. Waiting for Brodie’s nod, he glanced once more over to the corner and noticed she yet remained there.
‘You know that is not necessary,’ Brodie called out to him. ‘Come. Sit. Eat.’
‘I would not wish to abuse my welcome here,’ he said, the sarcasm coming easily between him and the mighty Brodie Macintosh.
It was always good to have one of the most powerful men in the Highlands beholden to you twice over. No matter his uncle’s demeanour or behaviour, Alan Cameron would be welcome here at Drumlui Keep and any place that Brodie controlled. He knew it and mayhap that was why this place felt more like home than Achnacarry or Tor did.
Servants served him from platters and filled his cup with a fine red wine. He nodded to several there in greeting, knowing he would speak with them later. The meal was pleasant, the company more so, but his gaze kept returning to...her.
It was not that she was a spectacular beauty that drew his eye. It was not that he recognised her, for indeed he did not. So, what did draw him to her?
‘I see you have noticed our newest guest there,’ his cousin Arabella whispered to him while Brodie’s attention turned elsewhere. At first, he was tempted to deny it. Why bother when his cousin was right?
‘Aye. Who is she?’ he asked.
‘Clara’s cousin, recently widowed,’ Arabella explained. ‘Staying with James and Clara and helping her with the bairns.’
As Alan watched, the woman under discussion lifted her head and smiled. Though it was too far for it to be for him, he smiled as though remembering her. He could not help himself. He reached for his cup and drank deeply from it, swallowing the rest of the wine down. He could not see the colour of her eyes nor hear the tone of her voice, but the need to know both of those things and more about her nearly forced him to his feet. Only the soft chuckle from Arabella brought him under control.
‘She is lovely, is she not?’
‘Other than Clara’s cousin, what do you know about her?’ He tried to say the words calmly—hell, he even tried to convince himself it mattered not. The feeling in his gut and the way it was hard to take a breath said otherwise. What the hell was happening here?
‘She is called Saraid MacPherson. That is all I know. Clara brought her here to make her known to Brodie and me a few days ago,’ she said. ‘Why do you not speak to her yourself, Cousin?’ Arabella gave him a puzzling smile before nodding in the direction of the woman.