Baird turned at once. “What about her, Connor?”
Connor swallowed. “She lives past the alder trees, on the far path. She daesnae come intae the village much anymore.”
A woman stepped forward then. “She can barely walk now,” she explained. “She has nae been able tae fer weeks. If nay one went tae tell her, she will still be there… alone.”
The words settled heavily. Davina felt her chest tighten. She could picture it all too easily: a small cottage at the edge of the fields, quiet and unaware, and danger creeping closer with every hour.
Just as she expected, Baird did not hesitate. “Everyone else moves now,” he said firmly. “Head straight tae the castle. Dinnae stop. Guards at the front and rear.”
A murmur of protest stirred, but he cut through it cleanly.
“I said now.”
The wagons began to roll again, the line reforming with renewed urgency. Mothers clutched children closer. Men set their shoulders and followed.
Baird turned to Davina. “We will go fer her.”
She nodded at once. “Aye.”
Connor looked up at them, and now, there was hope breaking through his fear. “Ye will bring her back?”
Davina crouched in front of him, meeting his gaze. “We will,” she said gently. “I promise.”
Baird swung into his saddle and held a hand down for her. She took it without hesitation, mounting swiftly. As they turned theirhorses toward the narrow path leading out of the village, Davina glanced back once, watching the people move toward safety, trusting them to do what was right.
Then she faced forward again. The path narrowed quickly, hedged in by alder trees that whispered softly as they passed. Davina rode close to Baird, and the world seemed smaller and more fragile the farther they went from the village.
Mrs. MacLeod’s cottage appeared just beyond the bend, with smoke thinning from the chimney as though it, too, were tired. Davina dismounted before Baird could reach for her. The door was unlocked.
Inside, the air smelled of peat and lavender. The room was neat despite its sparseness, and everything was arranged with the care of someone who had long ago learned to make little last. Mrs. MacLeod lay in the narrow bed near the hearth, propped up by pillows. She had her white hair braided loosely over one shoulder. She smiled the moment she saw them.
“Oh,” she said brightly, as though they were unexpected guests rather than bearers of danger. “Ye’ve come a fair way fer a cup of tea, I’m afraid.”
“Mrs. MacLeod,” Davina said gently, stepping closer. “There’s trouble coming. The Sinclairs are moving through the land. Everyone’s heading tae the castle for safety.”
The old woman’s smile did not fade. It only softened.
“Well, that makes sense,” she replied. “I always kent trouble would come from that direction. Nasty hills, those.”
Baird stepped forward. “We’re here tae take ye with us.”
Mrs. MacLeod shook her head at once. “Oh nay, nay. That will nae dae at all.”
Davina knelt beside the bed. “Why nae?”
“Because ye have others tae look after,” she said kindly. “Families and children, strong folk who can still be useful. I’ll only slow ye down.”
“Wearehelping the others,” Davina corrected her tenderly. “And we will nae be leaving ye behind either.”
The old woman sighed. “Dear heart, I cannae walk. I have nae properly walked in months. Ye’ll be carrying dead weight.”
Baird’s voice was steady, and utterly without impatience. “Then the horses will dae the walking fer ye.”
She blinked at him. “The… horses?”
“Aye,” he confirmed. “One of them is stronger than he looks. The other is stubborn. Between them, they will manage.”
Mrs. MacLeod laughed in a light, tinkling sound that seemed far too cheerful for the moment. “Ye are very kind,” she chirped. “But truly, ye need nae trouble yerselves on me account.”
