As laughed hysterically at the cat’s antics, the realization that Helena’s painting was of a shield with Solomon’s knot on it sank in, sobering them both.
“Let’s do another one,” Alice suggested, pulling the canvas down and putting a blank one onto the easel. “Try to paint something happy this time.”
They painted until darkness fell and only the fire and candlelight provided any sort of light. This time, Helena’s painting was even darker—a Caoineag or a Highland banshee following a wounded soldier on a blood-stained battlefield.
To their surprise, the chamber door opened and an unexpected guest entered. It was Felicia, who paused, glancing at their canvases quietly. She seemed contemplative, and Helena was going to ask her what she thought when she turned to Alice.
“Dinner is almost ready,” she said curtly, before turning back to Helena. “Yer paintin’ is really good.”
Then, she turned around and walked out.
Helena and Alice grinned at one another. Helena was relieved… Felicia seemed to be coming around.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The air in the camp was thick with the scent of damp earth, sweat, and the smoldering embers of dying campfires. The sun had barely begun to rise, casting a muted, grayish glow over the encampment, where hundreds of warriors moved about, preparing for the battle ahead.
Alexander stood at the center of it all, clad in dark leather and chainmail, his broad frame tense as he surveyed the gathered men. Michael stood beside him, his arms crossed, his eyes narrowed as he took in the troops.
The men were as ready as they’d ever be, but something about this fight sat wrong in Alexander’s gut.
“They’re waitin’ for us,” Michael muttered, glancing toward the tree line beyond the open field. “I can feel it.”
“Aye,” Alexander agreed, his voice grim. “It’s too well planned. Too well-timed.”
His jaw tightened as he turned back to the map laid out on the wooden table in the commander’s tent. The makeshift structure flapped slightly in the breeze, the scent of damp canvas mingling with the smoke from the torches burning outside.
He pointed at the valley marked with ink. “They want us funneled here. It’s a trap.”
Michael exhaled sharply through his nose. “And yet we have nay choice but to walk straight into it.”
“Unless we outmaneuver them.”
Michael gave a short laugh. “They’ll see us comin’ from a mile away. If we go through the hills, we risk bein’ flanked. If we go through the valley, we fight on their terms.”
A deep voice cut through their conversation. “There’s more to this than a simple uprising.”
Both men turned to face James, one of the most seasoned warriors among their ranks. He was a large man, with weathered features and graying hair at his temples, his brown eyes sharp with experience. He carried himself with the air of someone who had seen far too many battles and survived them all.
Alexander studied him. “What do ye ken that we dinnae?”
James stepped forward, glancing at the map. “Word’s reached me that the Frasers might have had a hand in this.”
Silence fell over the tent, heavy and sharp.
Michael swore under his breath. “The Frasers?”
James nodded. “Aye. It’s too much of a coincidence. They’ve been stirrin’ unrest for months, seein’ if they could weaken us from within. This uprising, the way it’s been organized, reeks of outside influence. Someone’s fundin’ it. Trainin’ these men.”
Alexander clenched his fists at his sides. “And ye believe it’s the Frasers.”
“I’d wager me life on it.”
Michael ran a hand through his hair. “It makes sense. They’ve been wantin’ to break our hold for years. If they can turn our people against us, then they willnae even need to send their warriors.”
Alexander’s expression darkened. If this was true, if the Frasers were behind this, it was more than an act of rebellion. It was an act ofwar.
Before he could speak, the sharp blast of a horn cut through the air, the deep sound sending a ripple of tension through the camp. A moment later, a soldier burst into the tent, breathless, his face pale.
