Belle knew that her mother loved her. But she also knew that the woman was disappointed she had not grown up different. That Belle couldn't seem to see the world as she did.
"Ah'm comin', Ah'm comin'!" she called.
The words were staunch and as trudging as her steps, but Belle made it across the meadow all the same. Luckily, there were no patrols at this time of the afternoon. Belle had seen the last go by a while ago, ignorant of her presence on private land. Technically, she had no right to be wandering the rough little thicket. But, if no one else was to enjoy it, why was her own pleasure such a crime?
"Ah would 'ave bin back for dinner," Belle defended as the pair of them trundled up toward the little hut they called home.
"Ah need ye before then, Arabelle. Dinnae ye ken the work it takes to run a house? Come. Ye'll wash the clothes whilst ah make us supper."
Sighing, Arabelle rolled her neck and pried the piece of long grass from her lips. In a fit of rebellion, she thought back to her brother. The boy with the sweetest smile and funniest freckles.Hewould not have made her wash clothes. He would have come home from the militia with pretty coins and sweet treats and taught her new games in the woodlands nearby. A year before he had perished in battle, he had promised to teach her to swim.
Belle was forced to adjust her thoughts when her mother dropped the end of her shawl. The woolen knit, loose in places and rubbed raw in others until they were fluffy snags, trailed over the heather and moor. When her mother, Elise, bent to take it back up, her face twisted in pain.
Concerned, Arabelle reached forward and wrapped the shawl back into place. This time, as they walked, Belle watched the dogged uncertainty of her mother's feet and felt a flicker of fear.
Perhaps itwastime for her to behave more like an adult. She had never meant for her mother to work herself to the bone. And the cleaning of a few dresses could hardly be as dismaying as a future left entirely alone...
"Dinnae fash, Ma," Belle said, taking the other woman's arm. Her hand patted her mother's wrist and navigated the both of them around a steeper slip of land. Above them, just over the crest of a shallow hill, rose the roof of their little home. "We'll getcha inside and put a pot on.
"An' ah'll do me best to be better," she added. "I promise."
"You are sure of your placing such trust in him, my laird?"
As counselor to the laird of Anderson, Henry Munro was not of a status where questioning his superiors was considered acceptable. Yet, he and the laird had shared so many years in the other’s acquaintance that there were times in which the veil of etiquette could be dropped.
He knew that he had assessed the situation fairly when the laird glanced at Henry over the rim of his fur-lined cloak. The two of them were hurrying along the stone corridor but, even in haste, Henry could recognize the glint in the man's eye. It was a proud look. One of dignified tenderness that the boy he had taken in all those years ago was now showing concern for his welfare.
Or at least for the welfare of his trade in the Highlands.
"I am sure, Munro." There was no doubt, no qualm in the laird's baritone as it rolled ahead of them through the hallway. "Laird Henderson is our strongest ally to the north and one who will see our assets well-guarded. I fear this skirmish no more than I did the last."
Henry felt his teeth gnash together, but he said nothing further.
Anderson's primary home and lands were situated in the Scottish Lowlands. With rolling hills and more temperate weather, he lived adjacent to the privileged English soil while never giving up his birthright as a Scot.
As if as a reminder of his heritage, the laird retained several hundred acres to the north, rich in resources for masonry and stone. It was true that his ally Laird Henderson had defended such reserves on his behalf before. In exchange, the two men perpetuated a fruitful trading partnership and long-term friendship.
But even the strongest of relationships could be tested when new ores of silver were rumored to be buried deep in the heart of Anderson's land.
Henry knew it. He had seen it before. Commerce and currency were the only things men could truly be loyal to.
This was why, in his opinion, the nobility of the Highlands was failing. Splintering and being wedged apart by feuds over territory, supplies, and women.
"Your lairdship!"
The call came from behind them. Each man spun on his heel to assess the servant rushing down upon them. The scrawny young man seemed only just out of his development years and barely came up to Henry's shoulders. The mandatory short sword at his waist twisted about his legs, and he struggled to hold on to its hilt with one hand while a letter waved high in the other.
"A missive, my laird!" the boy called again.
The soles of the servant's boots scraped to a halt upon the grey stone, and Henry scowled.
"My thanks, boy." Laird Anderson seemed unconcerned at the child's lack of dignity.
Henry was not so forgiving.
"Stand up straight," he instructed the messenger as Anderson took the offered parchment. It was rolled into a tube and sealed with a patch of maroon wax.
As the laird broke the seal, the boy snapped to attention.
