Arran shot him a furious look but did not chastise him. Instead, he asked, “Douglas, think like a woman—a woman on the run. What would ye do if ye were her right now?”
“Why do I have to think like a woman?” Douglas argued, but then paused. “Wait, why do ye think I can think like a woman in the first place? Ye need to ask Lyle.”
“Daenae be offended, friend,” Arran reassured him. “I have found that the fairer sex is much smarter and craftier than most give them credit for.”
Lyle laughed. “Ye are correct, Arran.” He smiled before continuing. “The marsh is nay place to be at night. So, the woman will want to get to the nearest village before sundown.”
“And how smart are ye, then? Where is the nearest village, ye bampot?” Douglas asked.
“It’s Dunefall. If we ride north and ignore any distractions, we should find the elusive Sorcha and her maither.”
Douglas laughed. “So, this is what it is to think like a woman. Who’d have thought it of ye Lyle! Should we be checkin’ ye out next time ye visit the jakes?”
“Me parts be as manly as any ye have, Dougie. I have six sisters back home. But it doesnae take havin’ female relatives to figure this out. All ye need is an understandin’ of how scary the world is after dark when ye’re armed with naythin’ fiercer than a fryin’ pan.”
Colin, one of Blackwell’s men spoke up. “That’s the God’s own truth. And the marshes be a fearful place by night, even for a fullgrown man. Why, I’ve a mind to tell ye a tale. . .”
Arran, tuning out their banter, turned his horse and trotted north. And Lyle was right. It wasn’t long before he saw two women carrying sacks, walking ahead. He slowed his horse to a walk and then stopped. Neither woman turned around.
He dismounted and yelled, “Ye there! Stop!”
The figure on the right turned and replied pleasantly, “Aye, what do ye need, Laird MacArthur? Are ye or either of yer men hurt?”
Arran almost rolled his eyes. “Nay, Sorcha. We dinnae need help. Or should I call ye Skye?”
The only emotion that flashed across her face was confusion. “Skye?” she echoed. “I dinnae ken who ye’re speaking of. Me name is Sorcha, and this is me maither, Helena. As ye ken, I am a healer, and we are traveling to Dunefall. There’s a woman in hard labor, and I cannae be delayed.”
Arran was impressed by how convincing she was. “So, this is Helena, yer bedridden maither? She doesnae look like she’s ailing to me.”
Skye’s confident facade faltered. “Uh… well, she has good days and bad days. This is a good one.”
“Enough with the lies. Stop the act, Skye. I ken who ye are. And that is Helena—I can tell by the scar.” Arran spoke those last words less gruffly. He winced inwardly. It was a nasty scar. A hair’s breadth lower and she would have lost the eye.
What man would hit a woman?
Reluctantly, he walked over to Helena and gently took her hands in his. “Lady MacKeith, I dinnae wish to harm ye. Please dinnae resist. I willnae bind yer hands if ye promise nae to run or resist.”
Helena nodded, accepting her fate.
Before he turned back around, he heard Skye’s voice, desperate but determined. “Step away from her, Arran Gilroy!”
She darted behind him, and he felt a small dirk digging into his back.
Lyle and Douglas stepped forward, both ready to assist their Laird if needed, but Arran motioned for them to step back.
“Ye are very brave, Skye, but I’m nae sure ye’ve planned yer next move very well.”
“Release me maither, ye insufferable clod!”
“Now, that I willnae do, lass,” he replied softly. “For ye see, I cannae go back to Blackwell without her.”
“But ye ken his character, and ye ken he doesnae want her for love or duty. There’s nary a loving, honorable bone in his sorry body!”
“Ye are right, Skye, but there’s more than ye ken. I must take ye and Helena back to Laird MacKeith. Even if ye kill me now, ye willnae be able to escape. Colin, Douglas and Lyle will finish what I started, and they will take ye both to Blackwell.”
Skye’s eyes flickered from him to the road ahead and back, clearly searching for an escape. A long moment passed, and Arran kept his men at bay and allowed her to think. Finally, she broke the silence.
“Arran Gilroy, I want to make a deal.” Helena gasped, but Skye continued. “I’ll let ye to take me to Laird MacKeith, but ye let me maither return to Braewall. Tell his lairdship that she perished in the bog – which will be the truth if ye do nae send someone back with her, for she’s stayed close within our cot.”
