Page 14 of Fire in his Highland Heart

Douglas swallowed. “Aye. Ye should...put as much distance in as ye can taenight. I’m sure Marianne will have a search party assembled come morning.”

“I’m still afeared,” she admitted.

Her brother nodded. “Aye. But yer strong, and I ken ye’ll survive.”

“Ye cannae ken that surely.”

Douglas cocked his head. “Aye, I do. Remember when we went swimming, about eight years ago? In that little beach where the secret cove is.”

This was a painful memory for her, but she nodded nonetheless.

“Ye swam out too far. A rip tide took ye away. I was afeared, too. Ye didnae come up for a long time. I thought surely we’d lost ye. But we didnae. Ye let the tide take ye out to sea, and when it was safe tae do so, ye swam back. Three miles up the coast--and ye walked back in naught but yer shift—and ye were alive.”

“Douglas, I thought I’d drown.”

“I ken. But ye didn’t. Ye were strong and ye came back. I think ye can do it again.”

“This is no simple rip tide,” she admonished.

“Nay, ‘tis much more dangerous. But...ye’ve survived this long. God must have somethin’ in store for ye.”

“Ye suddenly seem to have a lot of faith in the Almighty,” she quipped.

He shrugged. “I havenae much else,” he said softly.

In that moment, Arguen felt the tiniest bit guilty for teasing him. Making light of dangerous situations was never a wise idea.

“But ye should go. No time for dawdlin’,” he said.

All she could do was nod. This was it. Here she was, saying goodbye to the only real family she had left in the world. “Give me love tae Mistress Adair,” she said feebly, fighting back tears.

“I promise,” he said quietly. “Aye. Now go. Get ye gone. And write tae me when ye can.”

Arguen gave his hand one last affectionate squeeze, then whirled off into the night, free at last.

Or so she hoped.

Chapter Six

The irrational side of her mind wished the talking bear with her mother’s voice was real. At least she’d have some formidable companionship during her journey. So far, her plan was to travel at night, unseen, and sleep hidden during the day. It was risky to travel at night, especially across unfamiliar territories, but she couldn’t risk being seen by tenant farmers or traders. Too many of them knew her by the sight of her hair and eyes, and they’d no doubt tell the laird they’d seen her out and about. An honest mistake for anyone who didn’t know she was technically a fugitive, but she shuddered to think of the consequences if someone were deliberate in tracking her.

But there was no such thing as a talking bear. Wild boars, however, were a very real thing, and Douglas had packed her a not unformidable knife in case of attack.

Even though no one else was traveling at this hour, Arguen preferred to walk parallel to the main road in the brush. The mud would surely show her tracks, and hounds could effortlessly pick up her scent like that. Every chance she got, she stepped in a puddle, picturing the hounds losing the smell of her.

She’d extensively studied the map that had been drawn for her, in case she had to let it go. There also wasn’t much else to do in the dungeons. When the sun shone through the small window of her cell on those rare occasions, she traced her finger over the ink, as if telling her muscles to commit it to memory. Now she could see it clearly in her mind’s eye, and if she had to, she could trace it with a pen on parchment or her finger in the dirt and reproduce it perfectly. After Malcolm had kissed her goodbye, she ran—literally ran—to the edge of the forest, and she didn’t stop running until she was well in. Anything to put distance between her and Bruckstone Castle. After Marianne’s threats, which were not so empty after all, she didn’t want to be caught. The Englishwoman would take particular pleasure in torturing her, both physically and mentally. The thought of that alone spurred her onward. She would not stop until dawn, remembering her mother’s words: the dawn is coming. For everyone’s sake, Arguen hoped it would be a glorious one.

Malcolm scarcely heard any of the words out of his wife’s mouth the next morning. She read through her correspondence as they broke their fast that morning, occasionally sharing some tidbits of information she found of interest, but they went in one ear and out the other. He could barely eat, thinking about—no, fretting over—Arguen’s escape last night. Had she made it very far? Had she been robbed, or worse, raped? Murdered? Had a wild beast torn out her throat? All of it was possible, but he hoped and prayed to God that she kept her wits about her and that she was staying out of trouble. He also wondered if God could even hear his pleas over Marianne’s prattling.

Suddenly, he felt a thwack on the back of his hand, and looked up curiously. Marianne had whacked his hand with her stack of letters. “Husband, have you heard a single word I’ve said?”

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Sorry, wife. I must have a whisky headache.”

She rolled her eyes in disgust. “You Scotsmen have no control, do you?”

“We Scots can say the same thing about yer Englishmen and mead.”

“Well, now you’re just being crass. I was telling you that my father is thinking of sending my sister for a visit this winter. No doubt to find another Scottish husband. Are there any more single men at Bruckstone?”