“I’m thinking there will be others anxious to see you, too,” James said to Arran, slapping him on the shoulder.
They walked through the gate and into the fort yard. Fiona Ferguson stood by a cauldron set over a fire, a stick in hand as she stirred the contents. She glanced up and met Arran’s gaze. Her mouth slipped open and she stared at him as if seeing an apparition.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Ferguson,” Arran said.
Instead of smiling, as Arran had assumed, her eyes grew large and she looked toward the tent community with apprehension and something akin to fear.
Something was wrong. Very wrong.
“What?” he asked her. “Is it Eleanor?”
She wiped her hands on her apron and nodded. “Aye.”
It felt as if the ground tilted under his very feet. He reached out and put his hand on her shoulder. “Where is she?”
“In her tent.”
“Take me to her.” He didn’t care if Eleanor had the black plague and she was contagious. Nothing could keep him from her side.
It had been two days since Chait had cornered Eleanor near the woodpile. She hadn’t strayed far from her tent since that fateful day, keeping Miriam close. The little girl was peacefully sleeping on Nicolette’s cot, even now, oblivious to Eleanor’s concerns.
Eleanor sat on her own cot, her feet drawn up beneath her like she saw the Indians sitting around their campfires. Mr. Barlas had been kind enough to spare some of his paper and a charcoal pencil. It was all Eleanor had, but it was enough. Someday, when she had a new journal, she would slip these pages inside. She still mourned the loss of her other journal, and all those she’d left behind at St. Mary’s Isle Priory. But for now, she would use what she had and pour out her thoughts and feelings on the paper.
As she wrote, her gaze traveled to the closed flaps of her tent. Each little sound made her look up. At any moment, she feared Chait would force his way into her camp to demand she stand before the priest and become his wife.
If she didn’t, she was certain he would follow through on his threat and ruin her reputation to force her hand. The very thought sent a shiver up her back. She wouldn’t put it past the man. There was something about him that made her cringe, and she wondered how she had ever enjoyed his company.
Nicolette and Isla had gone to Fiona’s tent to watch after her children while Fiona washed her family’s clothing at the communal cauldron near the lake. Fiona was aware of Chait’s threat and had promised to keep her eye on Eleanor’s campsite, in case the man forced his way into her tent.
A commotion in the fort yard made Eleanor’s breath slow. She stopped scribbling on the paper and listened closely. It was hard to make out what was being said, but it sounded as if several people had been stirred into motion.
Panic seized her, and for a moment, she feared the Nor’westers were descending upon the fort to exterminate the colonists once and for all.
But no one was screaming or yelling. There had been no call of alarm. No gunfire.
The sound came closer, as if people were moving in her direction. Eleanor set down her paper and stood from the cot. Her body was sore from sitting in the same position for so long, but she hardly gave it thought as she untied one of the strings holding the flaps of her tent in place so she could peek out.
Fiona strode toward Eleanor’s tent—and beside her was—
“Arran!” Eleanor cried out his name, heedless of Miriam sound asleep on the cot.
She tore at the canvas strings, trying desperately to open the flaps. Her hands trembled and her heart pounded erratically. Butterflies filled her stomach and warmth flooded her limbs. Arran had returned! It was almost too good to be true. Tears of happiness filled her eyes as she struggled with the confounded strings.
Finally, the flaps were free and Eleanor burst out of her tent.
Arran walked with purpose toward her and when she appeared, he stopped in his tracks.
She had never seen anything more beautiful or wonderful in all her born days. He was taller and broader than she remembered. His hair was longer, though he wore it tied back in a queue. Several curls escaped and teased his cheeks and forehead. His brown eyes were focused on her, and her alone. Love and relief radiated from them now and his wide mouth turned up in a smile that could have rivaled any sunrise or sunset she’d ever seen.
“Eleanor.” He said her name like it was a prayer.
She ran the short distance between them and pressed herself against him, wrapping her arms around his neck. He pulled her close, lifting her feet off the ground, embracing her in a hug so powerful, it took her breath away.
“Arran.” She said his name on the breath of a cry.
He kissed her then, right there, in the presence of the entire fort. His lips were searching, fervent, and hungry. She responded with all the passion and love she’d stored in her heart these many weeks. She could not get enough of him. His strength empowered her and made her feel as if anything was possible again.
And perhaps it was.
