Skye paused and thought about the man, remembering his broad shoulders and the strong angles of his face. “His name is Arran Gilroy, and he claims he is the Laird of Clan MacArthur.”
At the mention of Clan MacArthur, Helena blinked her eyes, surprised. “Grayson has stepped up his efforts, then,” she muttered. “Why send a young Laird to do the job any hired man could do? I fear there is more to this than we ken.”
“I agree. We’ve definitely not dealt with the likes of him, and I fear we willnae be able to outsmart him. So, we have to go. We cannae wait a second longer!” Skye pleaded.
Helena shifted her gaze toward her, and finally, she nodded. “Ye’re right.”
She stood up, grabbed her own bag, and gathered a few things.
Skye’s heart ached when she saw her mother grab her needle, threads, and the kerchief she was working on. Those items brought her comfort.
“But ye must promise me, Skye,” Helena continued. “If this man, Laird MacArthur, finds us, I want ye to run. I want ye to run as fast and as far as ye can. If Grayson gets me back, there’s a chance for ye—a chance that ye can have a life. Ye’re an experienced healer now. Ye’ll find a place, and maybe a husband—maybe ye’ll even have children.”
Skye shook her head. Her mother had suggested this to her many times over the years, and she had always refused. Helena loved her so much that she would risk her own life so that Skye could have a chance at happiness.
“I willnae do that, Maither. I couldnae live with meself. If ye go back to Blackwell, then I will go with ye. We stay together, nay matter what.”
The guilt and the fear of another futile attempt to find a hiding place showed on Helena’s face, but she did not argue. She finally stood up. They grabbed their bags and cloaks and opened the door to leave.
Because this was not the first time they’d made a hasty escape, neither woman rushed out of the cover of their home. Skye hugged the outer wall and carefully looked around the corner of the structure. She looked toward the forest in the direction of the village and did not see or hear anyone coming from that direction. She breathed a sigh of relief.
She returned to the doorway, nodded to her mother, and then did the same at the opposite side of the cottage. She saw clearly into the moor. No one was there either.
They would stick to the moors. The path was not easy, but it was foolish to take the road in either direction. Darkness would be upon them in a couple of hours. Dunefall was the closest town after clearing the marsh, but if they hurried, they might make it before sunset.
Skye grabbed her mother’s hand, and without looking back, they walked into the damp marshland.
Flanked by two of his clansmen, Arran looked down at the small dwelling from his perch on the hill and saw no movement. But there was smoke rising from the small chimney.
There was something not quite right about the brown-haired girl, and one of his men had observed that she and the blond healer had parted ways as soon as they left the crowd. He very much wanted to question both healers, but the blond was closeted with a Mrs. Smith, whose wails gave testimony to the activity in that cottage.
He’d learned that this was where the beloved healer of Braewall lived with her ailing mother by pretending one of his men had an abscessed splinter. It was a common enough wound among soldiers, but not one so debilitating that it would require play-acting on someone’s part.
After scanning his surroundings, he urged his mount down the hill. As he neared the cottage, he thought it odd that Sorcha did not come out to see who approached.
“Lyle, check behind the cottage. Douglas, follow that path there and check if ye see anything.”
The men steered their horses; one went left, and the other went right. Arran dismounted and tied his reins to the post outside the door. He hesitated and wondered if he should knock.
Nay.
He opened the door and entered boldly with one large step. He looked around, and as he suspected, the cottage was empty. There was a hearth with two chairs in front and a small table in the front room. Modest cooking pots hung from a single shelf on the wall, and two cabinet doors hung open, the contents inside askew.
Beyond that, two beds filled the other room. A couple of dresses hung on hooks, but several of the hooks were empty. There was no doubt the women had left.
Douglas entered the cottage and announced, “Lyle found nothing in the woods, but there’s a path leading into the marsh. There are recent footprints, and Lyle says the imprints are fresh.”
Arran nodded. “Then that is where we should go. There are plenty of places two people could hide in there, but we are only an hour or so behind them. They cannae have gone far.”
The three men mounted back up and steered their horses toward the marshland, with Lyle in front to lead.
“I willnae lose them now, Lyle,” Arran warned. “I’ve come too far.”
“Aye, me Laird,” Lyle replied somberly as he rode ahead slowly.
After half an hour had passed, they discovered that the path they followed led them back to almost where they’d started. Small, broken branches, footprints in the moist earth, and even a stray thread had been planted. They’d traveled in a circle.
Arran muttered a curse under his breath, but Douglas chuckled. “It seems these two are serious about nae getting caught today, me Laird.”
