What was Mary doing? What?—
A thought hit him then, one that made him shiver to his very core. Could it be possible? Was she… could she be…?
His mind rebelled against the way he was thinking, but he managed to get himself under control. Now was not the time for emotions and it definitely wasn't time to focus on anything that wasn't a solid fact. He needed to act and he needed to act now.
"Arthur!" he called behind his back. The old blacksmith had followed him out of the tavern and was standing close by, looking toward him with the new kind of reverence that the cursed pin had brought. "I need a favor from ye."
"Anythin' for ye," Arthur said in a strange, respectful voice that made Cailean's stomach curl uncomfortably. "Name it."
"Get tae the camp, or get someone who can go quicker tae get there if it's easier," Cailean instructed, not allowing himself to focus on his own discomfort either. He had a job to do and he had already spent too much time pondering, even though it had only been a moment or two when all these thoughts had been spinning in his mind. "Warn them of what's happenin'."
"I'll send one of the lads. They can be trusted," Arthur promised him. "What about ye? What will ye do?"
"I need tae go after her," Cailean said. Then, without another word, he mounted his horse and sped off into the night, praying that whatever Mary had done, it wasn't too late to help her.
Or to find out the truth.
14
Chapter Fourteen
Maeve wasn't sure if anyone was following her. She wasn't even sure if the voice that had shouted belonged to one of the Darach men or if it had simply been one of the villagers noticing her speeding away. She couldn't stop to check or allow herself to panic; she needed to make sure that she was definitely noticed and definitely being followed, or else all of this would have been for nothing. Images flashed in her mind of the night she'd found Malcolm dead — the blood on her hands as she'd blindly touched his body in her shock — and they were soon replaced with imagined horrors of other deaths. Patty. Ferda. Darren, Fergus, the cooks, Ben or Lillian, Kier or Ewan or Hamish. Her beloved mentor and savior, Senan.
Or… or Cailean. Cailean could be the one laying there, pale and cold, blood seeping from his body, if the Darachs caught up to him. And if they did, it would be her fault.
Maeve gritted her teeth. No. This wasn't possible; she wouldn't allow it.
In front of her, the hills that backed the smithy rose, hills which had hidden a place of wonder and excitement only hours before. This afternoon, riding this way had been a sign of hope and joy, proof to Maeve that she'd finally found a new start, but as she sped past the smithy and directly toward the area where Arthur had mentioned he'd seen the Darachs, that had all changed.
Sure enough, a temporary camp rose before her just past the hills, around eight or ten tents, enough to sleep perhaps fifteen men. It was a small group, yes, but one big enough to be dangerous. If they were discovered by the Darach scouts, or attacked before they could gather themselves, there would be backup here in no time, and the villagers would soon be wiped out. Not long after, the rebel camp would follow suit.
Her heart felt ready to burst out of her chest, and panic clawed inside her like a wild animal trying to escape her bones, bruising and burning her from the inside out. She wouldn't let herself stop, though, and she pushed on, riding directly to the entrance to the camp, making as much noise as she could.
"Someone's there!" a voice shouted. Torches lit around her, the flames jumping to life, and nearby, the watchman for the camp was staring at her wide-eyed. "A woman. A woman! Men! Wake up! Ye! Stop!"
Satisfied almost as much as she was terrified, Maeve tugged hard on the reins and urged her horse to turn, speeding off as fast as she could in the other direction. She felt like she was going to choke, her throat and chest tightening, her breathing coming too quickly, but she sped on as quickly as she could.
"Come on, lass," she gasped out to the horse. "A wee bit more. We just need tae get away… just far enough…"
She couldn't speak anymore, and soon she heard the tell-tale drumbeat of hooves nearby. They were following her. They were coming.
Her horse stumbled, and Maeve realized that the poor thing must be tired; she'd been out all day, and it had had no time to warm up before they started this mad race at top speed. The hoofbeats were getting closer, and Maeve knew the gap between her and her pursuers was closing rapidly.
"Faster, bonny thing, faster," she whispered to the horse, leaning forward and patting the horse's neck desperately. They were far from the camp and Broken Windmill now, and there was a line of trees ahead, indicating a forest nearby. Maybe she could lead them into the trees and keep them occupied long enough for the rebels to hide or flee or do whatever they were going to do to get away from this. And then, maybe, just maybe, she'd be able to escape too.
"It's ye, isnae it?" a horribly familiar voice called out. "Ye thought ye could escape us!"
"Ye may as well stop, lass. It'll be easier if ye do!" someone else shouted.
It had been months since she heard those voices, but she knew she would recognize them anywhere. It was those two awful men who had mocked her and coveted her in her jail cell. She chanced a look over her shoulder and, to her horror, saw that all fifteen of the men seemed to be on her trail, Rod and Brian at the forefront. Her terror at feeling that was tempered by her joy; if they were all following her, then her plan was working, and maybe the villagers and the rebels would be safe.
"We'll continue where we left off," one of them called out.
Shuddering, Maeve sped toward the treeline. As soon as she and her horse managed to disappear inside the woods, she knew she only had a few moments before her pursuers caught up to her and it was all over.
The trees rose around her like a threatening circle, not so much a protective shield as another location where her life could come to an end. She was surrounded by shadows and darkness, and fear was her only companion. What was she going to do? How was she going to survive?
She slid down off her horse's back, her mind desperately forming a last-minute plan. She patted the neck of the horse and whispered, "I'm sorry, lass. I'll come find ye, I promise."
