Becca St.John (2 page)

She looked for clouds. A few lined the western horizon. It would be wet soon enough, long enough. She wasn’t so foolish as to expect any different.

Just let it be dry for the night, for my lad.
She sent the plea to heaven, assured her request was not too greedy.
Just one dry night, please.

Wind kicked up, of a sudden, whipped her hair, smelled of rain. Perhaps a bit greedy. It always rained in the highlands. “Pull your hood up, son.”

She needn’t have worried. The weather managed to stay dry two blessed nights, with two days of adventure, including Deian’s first hunt. Which he’d yet to stop speaking of. They’d caught a hare, fresh meat cooked mid-day. She’d not risk a fire at night.

Her stomach growled at the memory, as she tried to remember what was in their meager store of food.

“I got him,” Deian piped up, as if she hadn’t been there helping him to aim, steady the bow, “clean through the eye,” and gutting the carcass.

“That’s enough, son. It’s time you slept.” She settled him between herself and a great standing stone.

She yawned, tired, for she’d been on the alert most every night, with naught but a wee bit of sleep. Something tickled her thoughts, something to work out, to keep her awake.

Och, yes, their meager store of food. What did they still have? A half-bag of oats, bannock cakes, some dried meat, and only a wee bit of salted fish because she didn’t really know what to do with it. All told, their food should last a week, possibly two if they were careful, but she didn’t know how long it would take them to get across the highlands.

She’d never been away from the lands of Glen Toric, didn’t know what to expect. Their course, east and south, the only certainty. Every night she climbed to the highest point, to judge the best route. Find a way around water, avoid climbing the worst of hills and mountains. No straight lines for them.

“Will you tell me the story of Seonaidh?” Deian mumbled through a yawn.

“Hush now, try to sleep.”

He never asked questions, never spoke of Glen Toric. Did he not miss their home? Ingrid or Deidre? Deidre’s daughter, Eba? Did he know what had happened? That his own mother had murdered Deidre?

Seonaid refused the memory. Murder was too harsh a word. She’d saved Deidre from an ugly execution. Not that a child of five understood such a fine difference.

“Please, Ma, tell me the story of your name.”

It wasn’t a story for settling young lads to sleep.

“I promise I will sleep after the story.”

“I’ll hold you to it.”

“I’ll sleep.” He yawned again, halfway to his promise.

“All right, I will tell you one more time.” For she must have told him a dozen times on this journey. “I am named by my ma, who grew up on the Isle of Lewis out in the western islands.”

“How come she was from there?”

“Because that’s where her parents were from.”

“How come she married your da?” Deian sat up, confirming the story did little to help him sleep.

“You know that bit.”

“Your da fought with her da and then they met.”

“Aye. And that’s enough for tonight. I’ll tell you more tomorrow.”

“You haven’t even told the good part, about the strong man who goes into the water.”

“Tomorrow.” Seonaid stood firm, tucking his cover around him.

“I wish…”

“No.” He needed to sleep but she didn’t blame him for wanting to stay awake. They’d been enjoying each other’s company. A revelation, that she could have fun on this journey, more exodus than adventure.

But it was more than that. The days had been warm, the sky dry and she felt free. Nothing to hide. No more pretending. All her ugly secrets revealed, poured out on the courtyard at Glen Toric. Landed there. Gone, finished. As dead as her brother.

As long as she never went back.

She shifted, resettled on the hard ground, looked over to find Deian asleep, sprawled out with a child’s abandon.

A brook babbled just below them, lulling its sleepy tune, washing all thoughts away. The scent of rain rode the breeze. Further off, clouds gathered, no doubt headed their way. Not just yet. They had until morning, perhaps even longer. When it did come, there would be no cover, no place to escape it.

The rain would turn adventure to trial soon enough for the tyke. At least they’d sleep dry tonight.

The sparkle of stars, a river full of bounty, and the sweet scent of heather offered a new home. Seonaid rolled to her back, reassured by the steadiness of the night sky, calmed by the deep croaking of frogs.

She made a pledge to herself. No more talk of leaving, of what was left behind. They wouldn’t run away. They would run to a place, a new home where no one knew who they were or where they came from. She’d gotten them this far. Barely into summer, she would get them to their destination before winter.

Her breath deepened, lids slid down. Content with a future that beckoned.

Startled, she woke to a sound, something, like a shoulder tap, alerting her. She listened hard. Heard nothing but the gurgle of the river, the scurry of a rodent.

Two sleepless nights rattled her, turned normal shadows into great huge grotesque shapes. Fear slithered into her gut. She shook it off. A dream, that’s what it was. Imagination, no doubt. She should stay awake.

Still, greater predators were out there. The moon had yet to rise, and the stars too dim to see truthfully. Anything could be creeping up on them.

Tucked between her and the standing stone, Deian breathed quietly. Seonaid eased to her side, lifted her bow, slid an arrow from the quiver, notch to string. Taut, steady, she scanned the night, ready to fire on whatever was out there; serpent, beast, man, anything.

A bird whistled.

A bird, in the deep of night.

Again, a warble cut through the dark. The MacKay clan signal.

A MacKay.

Or not.

A bird’s song. Anyone could sing a bird’s song. She squinted into the night. They were still on MacKay land, though not even a croft to be seen by hilltop.

Lochlan would have known the song, could have shared it with anyone.

Surely it was an animal.

Or one of Lochlan’s men survived to hunt down women.

Another movement, slide of a paw or claw. Her heart raced. She wanted to cover Deian, to put her body over his, protect him, but she had to be prepared. She strained to see through the gloom, to shoot, attack, defend before danger reached them.

Branches crashed to their left, a big careless noise, pinpointing the source of danger. She grabbed Deian, lifted him straight up with his cover and ran in the other direction, through the underbrush, along an animal path she’d noted earlier. She ran with all her might. Deian, bright lad that he was, didn’t fight, but clung to her so she could get a better hold on her weapon.

Hard steps pounded the earth, unencumbered by a child or tears, racing toward them. A body crashed into hers, pitching her forward. Deian, she mustn’t land on Deian. Their assailant grabbed both mother and child in an iron grip and twisted to take the fall as they hit the ground.

Oh mother of God, save us!

“Seonaid! Are you all right, lass?” Padraig, out of breath and panting, had the nerve to ask.

Padraig? Padraig was there?

Deian scrambled to stand, shouting, his voice high-pitched, excited. “Padraig! You’ve come for us!” He’d been missing someone after all.

“Aye, lad,” Padraig huffed, his chest still bearing her weight.

“Let me go!” Seonaid pulled free, fought for stable ground.

“You were the ones on top,” Padraig grumbled playfully.

He winked at Deian. She just knew it, even with the pitch of night making it impossible to see. She knew he would do something like that, given the chance.

But he surprised her when he asked, “Your ma was from the Isle of Lewis?”

“You were listening? How long were you out there?”

He rose up over them. Such a great, grand man, far taller than herself, so she had to tilt her head back to look up at him. Where she was slight of build, he was strong and hard and large as that stone that protected Deian when he slept.

“Not so long, really, Seonaid.” Like a child he was, like a child promising to be good.

“You’re terrible, sneaking up on us, waking Deian.”

But that’s not why he was terrible. Sneaking up on them, scaring her, she would get over that. No, he did something far worse.

He made her feel safe, secure, when she could not afford to feel such things. He wasn’t there to watch over them, to make their travels easier. He was there to take her back.

She couldn’t go back, Deian couldn’t go back, not now, not ever. And she already ached from their first good-byes. Now she would have to bear another.

He shouldn’t have come.

“I don’t know what you’re doin’ here, and at this time of night, but you best be goin’.”

She turned away, leaving the mountain of a man to follow, her own traitor of a son riding on his shoulders. Just as she glimpsed peace, her wounded heart ripped open again.

vvvvvv

He knew she’d get into a tizzy. No easy woman, their Seonaid. He chucked Deian under the chin, as they sat on the hard ground waiting for her to return from the water. Despite his displeasure, she’d gone for a morning wash without waiting for the dawn.

“I donna’ want you to go,” Deian told him.

“Oh, aye, but your mama does,” he groused. The woman didn’t know what was good for her.

He’d tried to stay in the background, to follow quietly, near enough to take care of any problems, out of sight if none arose. But the night had been so dark and there were quiet, stalking animals that could do her and her lad harm.

She should be grateful he was there, with them, to watch over them.

To convince her to return to Glen Toric.

Foolishness, leaving her home, her people, all for something that was no fault of her own. They were victims, she and Deian. The whole of the clan knew it. She’d best return. He’d convince her of it.

Perhaps not.

He watched her carry bladders of water, her face hard and closed. He knew better than to offer his help. Too bloody independent. Let her tell him off for making the fire while she was gone.

“I’m not likin’ the idea of a fire.”

“Aye, well ’tis made now. There’s naught but a wee bit of smoke and we’ll have it out and move on before anyone sees.”

“If you say so.” She dropped the water containers and rummaged in a saddlebag. “I’ve oats.” She held up a heavy bag.

“That’s my lass.”

She frowned, he sighed. No, she wasn’t his lass, but that wasn’t his fault.

“Come on, lad,” he rousted Deian. “Best we freshen up before we eat.”

“I donna’ need to,” Deian argued, but Padraig lifted him up.

“Oh, aye, you need to.” He looked him in the eye and the boy stopped arguing.

If only his mother were so easy.

Down by the river, Padraig put the boy down, shucked his boots, pulled his tunic over his head and lowered his trews. “Come on, then.” He stepped into the frigid waters.

“It’s cold,” the boy said, with naught but a toe immersed.

“Aye, and here I thought you were growin’ up to be a big strong lad. Guess you’re still at the wee mite whinin’ age.” He dove in, came up with a roar, shaking his head like a wet dog. “Aye, a brisk dip will cure anything.” He laid full length in the shallows, river flowing over him. The current nudged him to the bank. He saw the boy stripping down, tiptoeing into the water.

“Do you swim, lad?”

“Aye.”

“Can you float?”

“Aye.”

“I’ll not let you get too far then,” he promised. “We don’t want to miss any of that porridge.”

Deian scrunched down on his haunches.

“Thata’ boy. Refreshing.”

Deian shot back up. “Itt’s-ss-s co-co-co-colllld!”

“Aye, a mite.” It was freezing, always was. The boy had to learn how to clean up, cold water or no. That’s what made their people strong. “Easier to be in all the way now.”

“I don’ w-w-w-want to g-g-g-o in m-m-more.”

“Come on.” Padraig rose and crossed to the lad, lifted him. “Just long enough to let the water wash away the grime.”

By the time they got back to Seonaid, they were wet and laughing and hungry. It didn’t faze him that the porridge had the consistency of a weak soup. That the lumps hid uncooked oats, made no mind. That she cooked enough for ten, well, that was a sad waste of oats. But no one ever thought of Seonaid for her cooking.

He watched the shift and sway as she crouched down, trying to stuff cookware into a horse pack. There was something to be said about a woman who dressed in trews like a man. He tilted his head, entranced by her movements, took in the whole of her, frowned.

Something wasn’t right.

He studied her, searched for a reason to think that she looked different, when she was the same Seonaid as always. Her feet were covered in boots to her knees, with leather cords crisscrossed up to the top. They fit close to her legs, while her braes fit loose, billowed where they came out of the boot. How far her legs went, he couldn’t see, but the lass was well-proportioned and tall.

He shook his head to disrupt the direction of his thoughts.

Her legs were folded beneath her, like a resting colt’s, as she sat on the ground filling the saddlebags. Her tunic covered her backside, her belt barely hinting of her narrow waist, but he could just see the soft outline of her breasts, as their weight pressed against the soft wool of her tunic. Again, his thoughts, his gaze, pinioned right where they were.

“What?” she snapped, shattering his dreaming.

He snapped, too, met her hard stare. “You look different.”

She blushed as she turned away. Ah, so something
was
different. He shifted his focus from the silhouette of her breasts to her shoulders, wide but without the bulk of a man’s. On up to the sweet curve of her neck, the strength in her jaw. Stubborn in looks as well as manner. He snorted. She looked over her shoulder, he turned away until he guessed he’d be free to look some more.

He knew her eyes, clear blue as the sky on a summer’s day, were ringed by the darkest of lashes. He hadn’t realized those lashes were so long.