‘Not my uncle this time.’
‘Truly?’ Jamie laughed then. ‘So then, who is The MacMillan to marry?’
Her thoughts scattered at those words and she fought to pay heed and listen. As her stomach threatened to heave, Sorcha forced herself to remain silent there in the shadows. Oh, she’d known of her father’s desire for a son. And of his need to hold his claim to Castle Sween. Worse, she knew that his planned alliance with The Cameron was for a reason bigger than even that.
‘Another Cameron cousin. One who has proven herself fertile and able to bear sons.’
The loathing in his voice surprised and puzzled her. To whom did he direct such disgust—her father, his uncle or this cousin who was, no doubt, a pawn in the machinations of the other two?
‘Well, the only good thing is that she is old enough to have been married and had bairns.’ Jamie’s tone had changed and his voice had grown softer as he spoke. ‘When does this marriage happen?’
‘They are to be wed within a fortnight and to return to Castle Sween then.’
Pain pierced her at that revelation. Why she was so shocked or horrified, she knew not, for her father had made no secret of his desires for a son. But, to do so within months of her mother’s passing and within weeks of her own was an expediency that bordered on indecent.
Jamie asked another question, but Sorcha could not listen to more. The fear of Jamie revealing her true identity to Alan, the reality of her father’s disregard and the irreparable loss of everything she once was struck her in that moment. Without care for the rain or being seen, she walked from the shadows of the cottage and away.
Just away.
The rains that had been more like a mist now turned to angry downpour and she saw others scattering off the road ahead of her, seeking refuge from it. But she welcomed it.
Her every tie to her own life was now gone. Her father had not even paused in his own plans to mourn her loss or her mother’s. She’d known the fact of it, but she had not believed he would so simply and quickly move on so clearly with such a clean break.
Her mother’s plan to protect her had worked. With his attentions elsewhere now and his intentions on a bigger plan with The Cameron, he would not even seek her.
Somehow, her own part in this made it worse. With few choices and none of those acceptable to her, she’d chosen to flee. Chosen to leave behind everyone and everything she’d known. But only now was the true understanding of that choice becoming real to her.
She began to run then, with the rains slashing across her as she splashed through growing puddles along the road. Sorcha ran and ran and ran until she could no more. She stumbled off the road and fell to her knees there, wondering if the rains would wash away whatever was left of the once Lady Sorcha MacMillan.
* * *
Alan only noticed her when he saw her run from next to Jamie’s cottage. The rains, which had been mild until now, turned fierce and would drive them inside until the worst passed. They put the tools away and sought the dryness of the croft. Clara was waiting for them.
‘What happened?’ she asked.
The way she placed her hands on her hips told of a coming storm of a different kind than the one that began to rage outside. They both shrugged and shook their heads.
‘We were working and talking as we usually do,’ Jamie said. ‘Where did Saraid go just now?’
‘That was my question of you both. She’s been out of sorts all morn and I saw her go outside. When I went to get her, she was running down the lane there.’ Her hands were still on her hips which told Alan she was not done. He did not have to be married to her to understand that much. ‘What were you speaking about?’
Jamie shrugged, but the guilty expression in his eyes as he looked at his wife spoke of a shared knowledge of something to which Alan was not privy.
‘Do you think she is ill?’ Alan asked, looking down the road and not seeing Saraid. ‘Does she need aid?’
He left before waiting for her reply, grabbing his shirt and pulling the plaid at his waist up to cover him.
Alan considered getting his horse, but decided to follow on foot instead. The road was growing worse by the second and would be covered in puddles and holes quickly during a storm like this. He had a better chance of seeking her on the ground.
He did not bother to call out her name. The winds and the heavy sheets of rain pouring down would be too loud to yell over. Alan trotted along the side of the road, searching for her. About a mile from the cottage and far enough along to be outside the village, he spotted her, kneeling just off the road.
‘Saraid?’ he said as he approached. ‘Saraid.’
From her drenched condition and the rain that yet poured down on both of them, he could not tell if she was crying. Pale and silent, Saraid did not object when he lifted her to her feet and guided her under a stand of thick trees that could block some of the storm. Once they were out of the worst, he turned her to face him.
She’d lost the kerchief she usually wore and her hair was now matted down by the rain. Her eyes were vacant and she did not answer him. He needed to get her out of this storm. Alan glanced around and noticed a shelter in the field, one where hay was kept to feed the horses that were used to work the fields. With little help from her, he half-dragged and half-walked Saraid towards the shelter, whispering to her the whole way.
Her whole body quaked with shivers by the time they entered the small place, a tarp pulled over a simple frame of wood to keep the bales of hay covered. But it kept the rain off them and Alan suspected that was exactly what she needed at this moment. The only good thing was that it was a summer storm rather than a winter one and it might blow over quickly. The winds that rose just then belied his hope.
