Page 47 of Reviving Her Highland Spirit

It would be easy enough to hide in a forest like that. The riders ahead took a sharp turn, forming into single file along a narrow path. Maggie waited for a few heartbeats, making sure that they were well ahead of her, and then followed. They’d slowed right down, the terrain almost impossible for a horse and rider to navigate, and Maggie slipped down from Stardust’s back, creeping along behind.

The forest was dead silent, with hardly any birdsong or animal sounds coming from its depths. Maggie shivered. She couldn’t imagine Callum being brought up in a place like this. What sort of childhood must he have had?

Was he even here? Perhaps he was sensible enough to just run for his life after all, and Maggie had overestimated him.

No, she hadn’t, she knew that much. He was here. He’d come home, desperate to warn Rufus.

She was so caught up in her own thoughts of Callum that she nearly ran into the group of riders, just managing to duck off into the forest to her left.

They’d stopped, with Ian murmuring to another soldier. They pointed out the path to the right, then the men started dismounting, carefully tethering up their horses. Maggie did the same, securing Stardust near a delicious path of greens. She crept after them.

The group of men delved into the thick of the forest, cutting through undergrowth, thorn-bushes, and dense clumps of trees that couldn’t be got through and had to be gone around. Maggie’s journey was a little easier - she simply followed the trail the soldiers had made. She could see why they’d left the horses behind. They couldn’t possibly have forced the horses through this. The forest was simply too thick.

It was, in short, the perfect place to hide. Very little light penetrated the dense forest canopy, making it all dark-green and gloomy, unsettling and unwelcoming. Maggie felt ill at ease.

What must it have been like, living here year in and year out?

Margaret suddenly realized that she’d lost the soldiers. She could no longer hear or see them. Cursing herself and her lack of attention, Margaret hurried on, following the trail of trodden-down grass and hacked-aside branches. Just when she was starting to think that she’d lost them altogether and got herself hopelessly lost in this awful place, she stumbled out into a clearing.

The clearing wasn’t particularly bright, but after the dense green darkness of the forest, it seemed almost dazzling. Maggie squinted, glancing around and trying to get her bearings.

The clearing was almost filled by a crumbling, squat old croft house. The place was half-rotten and overgrown, and it seemed ridiculous that anyone could live here. The roof was almost caving in, for heaven’s sake.

But even as she thought that, Maggie heard angry voices from inside. Someone was shouting. There was a tremendous crash and a scream of pain.

The door burst open from inside, and a man came stumbling out, his face gray, clutching a bloody wound on his forearm. He glanced up, and saw Maggie. He stopped dead, sucking in a breath, eyes widening.

He was a McAlister man; Maggie recognized the tartan, and thought that he probably recognized her. He opened his mouth to say something - maybe to shout out to Ian, to warn him, or else just to tell Maggie to go home at once before she was hurt.

Maggie had no intention of listening to him.

She dashed past him, following a rough path carved through the overgrown front garden to the half-open cottage door. She shoved the door open and stumbled inside, nearly tripping over the threshold and landing on her face. She regained her balance and straightened up, blinking in the gloom of the croft, and looking around.

Everyone was looking at her. There was perfect silence.

Near the hearth, an upset cauldron of stew was spilled all over the floor, the gravy, meat, and vegetables all spoiling and congealing together. Some of it had splashed on Ian’s boots. Ian was looking at her, face ashen. His sword was drawn, as was everyone else’s, and he was ready for action.

As if drawn by magnetism, Maggie looked towards the far corner of the room, where Callum and Red Rufus stood.

Callum was pale, a vivid red cut on his cheek oozing blood down to his jaw. His hair was disheveled, fighting its way out of its knot, and his eyes were wide. He had a sword drawn, and there were flecks of blood on the blade. No doubt he was to blame for the injured man outside.

“Lady Maggie…” Ian began, breathless. “Ye mustn’t be here. Ye…”

“Don’t kill them,” Maggie pleaded. “Ian, please. Just.. just take them back tae the keep, and we can question them there. Please don’t kill them.”

Ian’s face hardened. “Ye don’t know what ye are talking about.”

“Please, Ian. Don’t kill Callum. I can’t bear it.”

“Maggie, leave,” Callum whispered. “This isn’t your fight. Ye will get hurt. Please, just leave me.”

Ian looked sharply at Callum, brows drawing together.

“Ah, so it’s the wee welp, then,” came a rusty, raspy sort of voice, and Maggie found herself looking her half-uncle full in the face.

The sketch of Red Rufus McAlister that she’d found in the book in the library had been reasonably accurate. Red Rufus was an ageing man, but could have been quite handsome at one point, had it not been for his sneer of pure hatred and anger. His small eyes fixed unblinkingly at Maggie, as cold as a snake’s. He had vivid red hair which was now graying, and a face lined from years of hatred and bad living. He was well-built for a man of his age, and if he chose to put up a fight, no doubt he wouldn’t go quietly.

“I can’t decide who ye look more like,” Rufus said thoughtfully. “Ye whore mother, or ye bastard father.”