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CLARE CONTINUED TO walk with her sister up the glen toward the cottages. The pain in her broken heart was so great, she dared not even look at her sister for fear it would show. It was the first time in a fortnight she allowed herself to think of Alcott and now she actually said out loud that he was dead. With those words she managed to shatter her self-imposed illusion that somehow it was all a mistake.
All she had of him was his last letter. The other missives disappeared and she was desperately searching for them when Marlow brought the news of Alcott’s death. Thankfully, his last letter was in the pocket of her brown robe when she was rescued and she still had it. Now, she kept it under the leather belt that held up her pleated MacGreagor plaid. It was all she had left of him—all she would ever have of him, and her heart ached so deeply she wanted to die with him.
Clare glanced at her sister’s concerned look and pushed the painful and unwelcome thoughts of Alcott to the back of her mind. “I would like to go riding, if it is allowed.”
“It is allowed, although Neil does not let us go without lads to protect us. It is not safe.”
“Would Brendan take us?”
“I will ask him, but sister you just rode most of the way here from England. Was it not enough?”
“Not nearly. I have not been on a horse in years and I did so love it when I was learning to ride.”
“I see. Very well then, we must have two lads to take us but Brendan will choose the other lad for us.”
“I would also like to learn weaving, would that be allowed?”
“Sweet child, you may do nearly anything you wish.” Greer paused to think for a moment. “Our best weaver is Kadick. Would you object to her showing you?”
“Of course not. I hoped to become her friend on the journey here, but she was never without Donnahail. He truly loves her, does he not?”
“I have never seen anything like the two of them. It is as though they were always meant to be together. That settles it then, we will visit Kadick and ask if she is willing to teach you.”
Clare was pleased. What she needed was something to do so she could forget the constant, unbearable agony in her heart. Alcott was dead and there was nothing she could do or say to bring him back. Time heals all wounds, or so the nuns said when she was little and missed her mother. Then later her hurt turned to bitterness and the nuns taught her forgiveness, which was a much more difficult lesson to learn. Time would indeed erase the memory of Alcott, if she could manage to outlive the suffering.
“Speaking of Brendan ...” Greer said, spotting her future husband walking toward them. She waited for him to arrive, gave him a quick hug and then let him take her hand. “Clare would like to go riding, will you take us?”
“I will be honored, but Greer I bring bad news. The king of England was not ill, he was done in.”
*
KADICK WAS MORE THAN willing to teach Clare and even asked Slade to build another loom. She went to the cottage for two days and carefully watched Kadick’s every move until she thought she had it memorized. But when she tried it on her own, it was a lot harder than it looked.
Kadick was a good sport about it, although it meant putting her work behind, and with so many new women to clothe, the work appeared to be never ending. By the end of the second day, they decided Clare should begin the next day with smaller plaids for the children and then move up to the more difficult work. Kadick was pleasant but Clare was not convinced she had the talent necessary for weaving. If not that, what?
As she left Kadick’s cottage, Clare had to admit she was not concentrating well and it was time. She needed to go off by herself and mourn the loss of the man she loved. It was indeed time to let go and to let herself feel something. She was no good to anyone with it all held inside so tightly.
She did not mean to wander so far away, but once she began to walk through the forest, she kept right on going until she heard a disturbing clicking noise. She stopped, turned to face the direction she believed the noise was coming from, and tried to find its origin.
With a finger held to his lips to caution her to be quiet a man slowly stood up.
She was not afraid of him, after all he wore a MacGreagor kilt, but when he pointed and she looked, two Haldane warriors were walking through the trees only a few yards away. They had not spotted her, so when the MacGreagor motioned for her to get down, she quickly obeyed.
Then she watched the MacGreagor return to his hiding place behind a tall bush and waited. The wait seemed endless, but after a time, the MacGreagor stood back up and came to her.
“It is safe, you can stand up now.” he said, offering his hand.
“You speak English?”
“If you can understand me, then I suppose I do.”
“Have you been watching me?”
Tristan raised an eyebrow. He possibly just saved her life and instead of being grateful, she was accusing him of something. “Nay, they have been watching you. I have been watching them. I suggest you go back with the others straight away, if not sooner.”
”I intend to.” She was quite annoyed. First, he unnerved her with that clicking noise, interrupted her solitude and now he had mocked her...twice.
“Good.”
“Good what?”
“It is good that you intend to go home.”
She started to walk away, paused and turned back. “Which way?”
Tristan pointed west and then watched her turn and begin to walk back through the thick foliage. When her skirt caught on a bush, he rolled his eyes. “I suppose you need my help.”
“I can manage.” Clare yanked and yanked on the cloth but it would not come free. “Tell me, have you learned any other English words save ‘suppose?”
He was not impressed with her tone of voice, covered the distance to her in short order, unhooked her skirt and put both hands on his hips. “I suppose not.”
She had no idea why this man irritated her so, but she was happy to be hurrying away. Moments before he interfered, she was about to cry and let her heart believe Alcott was dead. But now he ruined it.
Of course, it was not true he interrupted her solitude; the Haldanes were actually to blame for that. Suddenly, Clare was ashamed of herself and made a mental note to apologize the next time she saw him, whoever he was.
She abruptly stopped and turned around. Clare expected to see the MacGreagor right behind her, but he was not there and even after searching the woods with her eyes, she could not see him. “How long do you suppose the Haldanes have been watching me?”
“I thought you did not like the word suppose.”
He made her smile.
“Go home little lass. It is not safe here.”
Still he had not given up his hiding place and she did not know in which direction she should nod, so she just turned around and started walking again. “Forgive me for not thanking you earlier.”
There it was finally—a show of appreciation. The English woman might not be so ill mannered after all. She was as beautiful as he had heard, but Tristan paid little attention to the other men’s gossip, because he was not certain he should have a wife. He learned scouting from his father, loved calling the forest his real home and could not always abide the confines of a cottage which, if he was not mistaken, wives were quite fond of.
More importantly, the clan’s scout was on the first line of defense and was often killed by an enemy even before a war began. His father died at the age of twenty-seven and his mother lived another fifteen years, mourning the loss of her husband every day. Why then, would a good man do that to the woman he loved? Yet his parents loved each other very much and his mother always claimed the years she had with her husband were worth the pain of losing him.
Tristan stood up and continued to follow Clare through the forest, ready to crouch down should she stop again. Women were always unpredictable and usually unreasonable. His thoughts sparked a memory and brought a smile to his lips. When he complained that his mother was being unreasonable, his father confided, “You think lasses are unreasonable, and I think it—but lasses do not believe it.”
He quietly slipped from tree to tree, watching Clare and protecting her in case the Haldanes came back. But before she reached the edge of the forest, Clare stopped again. He meant to remain quiet and let her be, but she took a very deep breath and then wiped a tear off her cheek. “I am here,” he found himself saying.
She did not turn to look at him. “I know, I heard you.”
“You heard me?” He left his hiding place and walked to her. “This is very serious. I have spent years practicing to be quiet and now I am caught by a woman whom I was not even trying to sneak up on.”
She turned and tried to smile, “Unfortunately for you, I was raised in the Abbey where silence was required on most occasions. It sharpens ones hearing, you see. At times silence is so tedious, the sound of a mouse skittering across a floor is the height of excitement.”
His was a crooked smile, not at all unpleasant and Clare noticed. His hair was not dark like Alcott’s and his eyes were blue instead of brown, but his hair was clean and his eyes were brightened by his smile. At length Clare turned away. “I did not mean to stare. I have not been this close to a man in...Well there were always the clerics, but you are pleasing to look at and the clerics were not.”
He was flattered and surprised by her openness. “I am happy to please you. Why were you crying?”
“I am fine now, thank you. I must get back before Greer begins to fret.” With that, she walked into the glen and headed home.
Tristan did not take his eyes off her until one of the other men came to protect and walk her home. But before she accepted the other man’s assistance, she looked back and something in his heart began to stir.
