There was no good solution. If she chose to remain in Castleton, Drake would worry about them being on the border between England and Scotland. If she chose to go to Dunscaith Castle on the Isle of Skye, where Kinsey lived with her new husband, Mum would be forced to leave the manor she’d worked so hard to make a home.
Clara didn’t care where she went. She would find a way to be happy. She always did. Even if the feeling had to be falsified for a while.
She was not happy now. How could she be when the fate of her well -being was tearing her family apart?
Tears welled in her eyes, and she suddenly found herself envious of how Kinsey had decided simply to leave. She’d resolved to go and then did it.
An offer edged into the back of Clara’s thoughts. One she’d tucked away and never allowed herself to think of again.
Several months prior, Clara had aided a nun with a cut on her foot. The woman was from a village outside of Glasgow and said they were in sore need of someone with knowledge of healing for their infirmary. Most young women accepted into the convent had a payment to offer, usually a dowry, in exchange for their place among those hallowed walls. But the nun had said Clara’s skills were strong enough that such financial considerations could be set aside.
It had been tempting even then, to slip away from the manor, to be one less burden for Drake to care for. She’d stayed for her mother, to help her look after the manor.
Except now she’d become a burden to them both.
Her mother could go to Dunscaith or stay where she was. The choice would be hers to make for herself.
And neither of them need worry after Clara, as she would be in a convent.
The very thought lifted the weight of concern from Clara’s chest, and she knew immediately that the decision was right.
Drake and their mother discussed Clara’s future late into the night. She’d been half tempted to tell them there was no need, but she knew they would brush off her words.
Instead, she waited until the house went still before slowly, carefully gathering her things. She packed her herbs and healing ointments, some food, a wineskin and cooking pot and a fresh kirtle—more for travel than for her time at the convent, as she knew she would be given a simple tunic like that of the nun she’d helped.
She considered her daggers but left them. She penned a note to her mother, much like Kinsey had. Only this time, Mum need not worry. It wasn’t rebels who Clara was joining, but nuns.
What trouble could she possibly find in such a venture?
Before she left the house, however, she returned to her room and lifted the heavy sack of daggers. It wouldn’t do to be left unarmed on the road.
With that, she slipped into the stable to pack her horse and then rode out into the dark night, determined to help her family by releasing them of the burden she caused.
* * *
Reid MacLeod should have been on a special mission for the king rather than carrying a message to Dumbarton. Not that he relished such an honor or was offended that he’d deviated from his purpose. But honor wasn’t what Reid wanted out of these raids against the English occupied Scottish territory.
He wanted vengeance.
He wanted to be in the thick of battle, to seek out Lord Rottry and make him pay for what he’d done all those years ago.
Even the thought of the man’s name made Reid’s blood pulse harder.
Carrying messages was squire’s work. However, with so many English about, a warrior needed to be sent, someone who could fight. And these missives were far too important to be diverted. But even knowing the purpose of his role didn’t allay Reid’s irritation.
He’d been all over Scotland, drenched in its icy late winter rains, slogging through the mud-sucking countryside. First in Aberdeen with the king before being sent down to the Cumberland border. There, they had received word of a massive retaliatory English raid planned on Dumbarton Castle.
Thunder rumbled overhead, like a great beast bearing down on Reid, and the thick cast of clouds blotted out the meager afternoon sun. He hunkered deeper into his cloak and clicked his tongue to hasten his horse.
More damn rain.
The impending attack on Dumbarton would happen within a sennight. Not nearly enough time to inform the king and get his men there in time. Thus the Scottish West March Warden had sent his fastest runner to the king in Aberdeen, while Reid was left to inform Dumbarton to prepare for battle. After all, Reid could fight, and the runner could not.
And Dumbarton would need all the warriors it could get.
A scream pierced the air.
Reid straightened in his saddle, immediately on high alert. The wind carrying toward him brought the odor of smoke.
A fire.
The woman shrieked again. Reid wasted no time rushing toward the sound. Toward the fire. And, unfortunately, toward the memories.
Thick plumes belched up through the trees. He followed it and came to a clearing where a small hut smoldered. The underside of the thick thatch roof was dry as tinder and now crackled with flame.
Several soldiers stood nearby, a charred torch on the ground at their feet.
Englishmen.
The raw cries of terror came from inside the burning building.
The way it’d been with Reid’s mother.
He didn’t think anymore after that. There was no logic to his next moves as he flew at the men. There was only the smooth power of his attack, practiced over a lifetime. Death would come to those who tortured and hurt the innocent.
One man fell.
A second.
A third.
The other two attacked, but they were no match for Reid, who swung his great sword with lethal precision. They fell as the door to the small hut flew open, and amid billowing smoke, a woman
