“There are bandits here-abouts,” he said. “The three of us wouldnae be able to stand off a band o’ them. But I can share me own heat w’ ye, if ye’ll trust me.” Aaron got up and walked around the rock, lay down with his back to her.
It wasn’t long before he felt her snuggle up against him. Her shivers stopped, and her body relaxed against his. He smiled as he drifted off to sleep.
The next day, Skye rode pillion behind Arran. He had taken her small dirk. In all events, it would do her no good to try to run. Douglas and Lyle were clearly loyal to him, and Colin had rejoined them not long after they had stopped for the night.
She drooped, dispirited, against his back, dreading what was to come. She roused when Arran shouted, “Laird MacArthur here to see Laird MacKeith,”
The large, double-panel door to the courtyard opened, and Arran rode inside. Fires in the courtyard illuminated several gathered MacKeith clansmen. Chatter and laughter rang out in the night air, a few iron pots hung from their frames, and the smell of rabbit stew drifted in the air.
Upon spotting him, everyone turned and stared. Skye heard whispered exclamations of “She’s back! He finally caught her!” here and there. She looked around, noticing the looks of shock and sympathetic nods.
Arran stopped his horse and dismounted. He reached up and pulled her down with his hands around her waist. In no time, the great doors to the keep opened, and Grayson Blackwell sauntered out with his arms open wide and a large smile on his face.
Laird MacKeith was not a tall man, and years of overindulgence in food and ale showed in the circumference of his waist. His dark but sparse hair was clipped short, and his beard was gray and unkempt. But it was his eyes that chilled Skye to the bone. They were small, beady, and often emotionless. Arran’s hands, still around her waist, tightened, and his expression hardened.
“Arran Gilroy!” Grayson shouted. “Me happiness kens nay bounds, as ye have completed yer task. At last, me precious daughter and I are reunited.”
His act didn’t fool Skye. She could detect the undercurrents of triumph and a foreboding promise of retribution in his jubilant tone.
“I see that yer maither isnae with ye,” he added in a grave tone, his mood changing like the direction of the wind. “I will ken the reason.”
Skye shuddered, and Arran placed his hand on the small of her back. She thought the gesture was meant to keep her from ducking and running, but when she looked at his face, she saw that his cautious gaze was fixed on Grayson.
Grayson smiled again, and with a flourish, he pointed to the entrance and said, “Welcome home, Daughter. Both of ye, come in—we will dine together. Ye must be feeling quite weary after yer journey here. Skye, go with yer women to freshen up. Laird MacArthur, with me if ye will. We have much to discuss.”
Skye felt a fleeting panic when Arran walked away from her. But she did not demure. She did not know the women who came to her, both of whom looked as if they broke rocks for a living rather than acting as ladies maids.
“I’m sorry, me lady,” one of them said. “We’re washer women, asked to watch that ye daenae flee. Ye’ll have to forgive our ignorance in the ways of waitin’ on ye.”
“Ye’ve clean linens and gown in yer rooms,” the other one added. “We’d just been doin’ yer things the day ye left.”
“Daenae fret,” Skye returned. “If there’s a basin of water, I’ll do it meself. I’m used to it. Tell me what has happened since I’ve been gone.”
The washer women did not have much in the way of court gossip to share. “There was a terrible commotion,” the first said. “And nay one was allowed to go home for days and days.”
“Aye,” said the second, “Bessie’s wee one died of the croup because Bessie couldnae go home to tend him. And so did the granther who tends the gardens.”
“But then we were let out, because it was harvest time, and the crops like to rot in the fields. Good thin’, too, as supplies were near out in the castle.”
“Ye dyed yer hair,” the first washer woman said. “Canny.”
“For all the good it did me,” Skye said bitterly. “Laird MacArthur seems to be a persistent hunter. Despite all, he found me.”
“And yer maither?” asked the second washer woman.
Skye felt her skin goosepimple despite the warm bath water and the fire on the hearth. “Dead,” she stated, running the cleaning cloth down her arm. “Dead, and beyond his reach. He’ll harm her nay more.”
The two women murmured words of respect for the dead, and no doubt made signs against ghosts behind their backs. But they helped Skye into her fresh chemise and gown handily enough.
Then they escorted her back to the dining hall, leaving no opportunity for escape.
“There she is,” Grayson drawled as he lifted a mug of ale to his lips.
Skye took her usual place at his right, and Arran sat directly across from her. Her eyes were downcast.
“Brown hair suits ye, Daughter, but I prefer red. Ye’ll nae dye it again.”
Skye shifted uncomfortably in her chair, and she bit her lower lip to keep from blurting out a retort.
