They fell silent then, listening. For a long breath, nothing answered but the drip of water and the faint rustle of leaves above. Then a shout, and the bark of a hound. A man’s voice carried through the trees, indistinct but answering.
“They’ve heard,” Ciaran muttered, relief tight in his chest.
The forest noise grew, deliberate now as boots thudded over sodden earth and branches snapped beneath hurried strides. More voices rose, calling back and forth, guiding each other through the dense wood. Claire’s hand pressed against the wall as though she would climb to meet them, her breath coming quick.
“You’ll be out first,” he said to Claire.
“Good.” Her reply was quick, clipped, and she didn’t look at him.
Ciaran’s jaw tightened. Aye, she was angry still, or wounded, mayhap both. He didn’t blame her.
This, he thought grimly, could very well explain why he had never honestly pursued a wife, why marriage had always beenduty in the abstract and not made anything more. He was unfit for wooing, for softness, for the careful tending women seemed to need. He had been bred for war, raised to command, trained to fight. In those things he did not falter. But here, in this—God help him—he blundered.
He forced his mind toward the practical, barking a warning up to the searchers about the pit’s edge.
“Mind your steps!” He bellowed upward. “There’s a cavity here—deep enough to swallow ye whole. Keep back from the edge!”
The noise above shifted—men muttering, boots grinding to a halt, a torch held higher to cast its light fully down into the pit. At last, faces loomed above, grim with relief as they spotted the pair below.
He felt relief, aye, but more sharply he felt the silence between himself and Claire, and the sorrow of knowing it would follow them long after they were pulled from the earth.
The ache of it was too familiar. For nine long years the face of the woman at Berwick had stayed with him, etched sharp in his memory, though her voice had not. He had forgotten the sound of it, forgotten the strange warmth and serenity of her small voice. Somewhere along the way, without realizing it, he had given her Claire’s voice—had bound the two together in his mind. And now, it would be lost again.
***
Two mornings later, while Alaric and Ivy, and the entire MacKinlay army prepared to leave for Braalach, Claire, with little to do for having so few possessions to pack, approached the sick house, meaning to say goodbye.
The yard was alive with sights and sounds, the snort of horses, the creak of leather, the din lively, the MacKinlaysanxious to be going home. The MacKinlay banners stirred in the stiff breeze, crimson against the blue sky. Men were already mounted, and lines of foot soldiers had formed just beyond the gate, their voices raised in good humor as they waited on their laird.
Claire paused just inside the door, breathing in the scent of peat smoke and herbs. Her gaze drifted around the long, narrow space, taking in the changes, it being a far cry from the drafty, dim place she’d first walked into weeks ago. A small but proud smile curved her mouth when she spotted two men, Will and Malcolm, leaning over the space between them, using sticks to carve out Xs and Os on the tic-tac-toe board they’d scratched into the dirt, just as she had taught them.
A week’s worth of victories lived inside this place, and now she was about to abandon it all, and was filled with a niggling fear that all of her hard work would be erased as soon as she was gone.
Her sad reverie was broken as Cory appeared at her side, buckets in hand. Claire scooted out of the way, as she’d been half blocking the doorway.
The young boy eyed the plaid she was wearing—a gift from Ivy just last night—and a frown scrunched up his face. He set down the buckets.
“Ye’ll be a MacKinlay now,” he surmised, referring to the red, gold, and beige of the wool.
Claire nodded and shrugged at the same time. “I guess so.” She wasn’t so sure, though; she had no idea where she belonged, if anywhere.
As always, she was touched by the earnestness on his young face. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without you,” she said. “You’ve been the best translator and a very good friend.”
His ears went red, but he grinned a bit. “I just said what you said.”
“And you said it perfectly.” She offered her hand and then had to lift his into hers when he didn’t seem to understand, and then gave it a firm shake, surprised by the lump in her throat. “Thank you, Cory. I will miss you.”
His grin softened into something shy and proud. “Aye, it willna be the same here when ye’re gone,” he said.
When Cory had retrieved the buckets and moved on, Claire moved to the corner where Callum lay. His breathing was steady this morning, though still not robust. Once more, she wondered how he was alive at all. She lifted the blanket covering him and inspected the bandage covering so much of his midsection, which was still holding though still precarious, though he had a chance if someone kept on with him, cleaning, dressing, watching. He stirred when she reached out to swipe the pale hair away from his eyes, his eyelids heavy but struggling open.
“You’re awake,” she said softly.
“Aye,” he rasped, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.
She couldn’t bring herself to say goodbye, and said only, “I just wanted to check in on you.”
He nodded, barely, and closed his eyes again.
