Sorcha tried not to smile as she watched the lady try to figure out how to circumvent the rationale she’d just used. It was true—an applicant to holy orders or the religious life did not choose their service. That choice was left to those in charge...and to God. Even Arabella Cameron, Lady Mackintosh, would not argue against God’s right in this.
Or would she?
A smile lit the lady’s face then, but it did not reach her eyes. Sorcha understood then that she would agree with Sorcha’s words even while still questioning Sorcha’s motives and actions. It was there in the way her mouth curved while her eyes remained unmoved.
Had she just made an enemy of Lady Mackintosh?
‘Worry not,’ the lady said as though hearing Sorcha’s thought. ‘You must do as your faith and honour demand.’ The lady walked to the door and lifted the latch, dismissing Sorcha by her action. ‘If I can be of service to you in your path forward, you have but to ask.’
‘My thanks, my lady,’ Sorcha said as she curtsied and then walked past her. ‘I am grateful for your interest and your concern.’
As the door shut behind her, Sorcha understood her time here was limited. A few more weeks, a month, at best. If the lady chose to intervene or interfere and contact The MacPherson, it could be even less time than that. As she retrieved her cloak from where she’d left it in the keep, Sorcha decided to put a few of the coins back in the garment. Better to send back for the rest when she arrived at the convent than to need coins to travel quickly away from Glenlui and not have them at hand.
* * *
Arabella closed the door behind the enigmatic young woman.
This Saraid MacPherson was hiding something. Oh, Arabella could feel it, hear it and almost smell it when she answered the questions put to her. But, at the same time Arabella sensed intelligence and something deeply honourable about her. A loss and pain lived within this young woman as well.
Was she a danger to the Clan Mackintosh? Arabella did not think so.
Was she lying about her connection to the MacPhersons? Arabella thought not.
That clan, like most of the largest and powerful families in Scotland, had many branches with even more septs and connections. Saraid could very well be a cousin of a distant or smaller branch who had no contact at all with the chieftain or his closer relations. When Fia served Arabella before her marriage to Niall, she used to jest about counting the number of Mackintosh cousins when bored. She’d once reached seventy before stopping.
So, even if Arabella were to contact Brodie’s uncle, there was a good chance he might not know of this Saraid. Though part of her wanted to do that—reach out to the chieftain—another stronger part warned her from taking that action. Going back to the window, she watched Brodie and Rob fighting below. Saraid walked out of the keep and faced the yard, standing separate and alone there.
This woman had faced not only sorrow, but also danger and loss. Something in her demeanour told Arabella that the danger yet existed. If Arabella meddled, as her husband would call it, it could bring irreparable harm to Saraid and possibly her cousin Clara. As she watched the scene below, wincing when Rob landed a particularly strong punch on Brodie’s jaw, Arabella observed what she needed to see to make her decision.
Alan noticed the young widow as though he’d been watching and waiting for her to come outside. He walked to her side and, after a few words were exchanged, led her to a place by the fence where she could see the battle rage. They continued to speak, with Alan pointing out various moves and steps and Saraid nodding and engaging with him.
There was something between them that she had suspected when they were at table and that she could see now even more so from this distance. Alan’s request for her to help the widow spoke of an interest that he’d not shown in a woman in a very long time, since he was more boy than man and in love with the young woman who would eventually marry his uncle.
Though Saraid had plans to enter the convent, Arabella saw the cracks in the edges of her resolve in the matter. There was some very crucial reason for the widow’s decision to do it, but the way she looked at Alan and now stood closer to him spoke of another kind of desire on her part. So, what was forcing the young woman to a life behind the walls of the convent? What would make her give up on kith and kin, and a possible marriage and family of her own?
The cheering of the crowd below drew her attention back to her own husband who, it appeared, had not fared as well against his cousin as he had in previous fights. Those watching began to drift back to their tasks and Brodie and Rob returned to work with the warriors there in the practice yard.
Alan and Saraid yet stood talking quietly there, as though they had not noticed the others had gone and the fight was over. Because they had not.
Arabella did not need to see more to understand what was happening between the two. As she went off to seek out her husband and soothe his wounded pride and his jaw, she wondered how long it would take Alan and Saraid to realise it.
* * *
One moment he’d been pointing out the best moves of the two extraordinary warriors as they fought inside the fence before a large and raucous crowd and the next they stood alone. The fighting was done and the crowd gone. Alan glanced around and saw no one taking note of them. Brodie and Rob were now working with the men on the other side of the yard. Most of the others who’d watched were now back at their chores or duties.
As soon as he’d seen Saraid come out of the keep, he’d known it had not gone well with Arabella. He could not say what had happened, but the guarded expression, the way her usually bright eyes were hard somehow, spoke of something gone awry. And he wanted to fix it.
‘What did you think?’ he asked, nodding towards the two men across the yard. ‘Impressive, are they not?’
‘They are,’ she agreed. ‘I cannot believe they were both on their feet as long as they were.’ Whatever had agitated her dissipated as she watched the scene before them.
‘They push each other to be better and better. I would hate to face either of them across a field of battle.’
‘Yet you fight them here,’ she said, glancing at the yard.
‘Aye, but we are not trying to kill each other here.’
They observed the two for some time before Mistress MacPherson began her questions. If she thought they were too personal or prying, she gave no sign of it.
