It felt better than Ian could admit that there was someone he knew, someone from his clan who was there for him. “Aye, thank ye, Owen. How is Bruce’s campaign?”
“The east and most of the Highlands are ours. We’re moving to put the decisive blow to the MacDougalls and fight the scattered English troops that are coming.”
“Good. What of Dundail?”
“All fine. What are ye going to do now? Join Bruce?”
Ian closed his eyes for a moment. The truth was, he had no idea what he’d do. He’d committed himself to a life of misery for being a killer, and now he had to go through with his punishment.
“I’ll go home,” he said. “Protect my lands. Continue training my people to protect themselves. They are nae warriors. And they need to be, especially these days.”
“Aye,” Owen said. “They do.”
Days passed in dark, torturous waiting. Waiting to get better. Waiting for the pain in his soul to subside. Waiting for his head to stop spinning around Kate.
He couldn’t help wondering if she was all right. If her inn worked like she wanted it to. Wishing she were here. Remembering her every word, every touch, every smile.
It must have taken him half the moon after Owen’s visit to finally be able to rise and walk.
He went to the underground storeroom, the last place she’d been in his world. He searched for her presence, and thought he could smell her scent—although he knew it was impossible. He found the rock. It was just like Kate had described, the handprint and the carving right there. And next to it, the head scarf she’d worn when she’d cooked. He took it in his hands and studied it. There was a thin golden hair that glowed silver in the light of his torch. Ian stroked the strand of hair, then buried his face in the scarf, sucking in the scent of her that still remained. His whole being expanded, and everything brightened up around him.
He’d never see her again. What a fool he’d been to chase away the one thing in his life that made him feel whole. He wrapped the scarf around his wrist and tied it. He’d keep it with him always as a reminder of the woman who’d loved him without conditions.
In two sennights, he went home to Dundail. On the way, he saw her ghost in the woods. A flicker of blond hair from behind a tree. Heard her voice calling for him. He knew he was wishing for her to be back—there were no ghosts, and she wasn’t here. But even thinking of her like that brought him some small satisfaction, some sort of relief from the agonizing black hole that had taken the place of his heart.
When he arrived home, Cadha met him with an angry cackle, berating him for almost dying for the second time. Without hesitation, and without listening to him, she sent him straight up to his bedchamber. She made a fire in the fireplace and told him she’d bring him bread and cheese, and that Manning would make stew whether he wanted it or not.
Ian would normally object, but he was exhausted and still in pain and had no strength to argue with Cadha about unimportant things.
What was important was that Kate wasn’t here. She’d have made a magical stew for him. Although, Manning’s slop did taste better this time, surprisingly.
The next few days passed, similar to one another in their gray indifference. Under Cadha’s strict supervision, Ian was regaining his health. He had created a training plan for his people, and when he felt well enough, called upon them to come and train in sword-fighting every day. He was still stiff and aching, but he made himself move and supervise the practice.
The tacksmen had come a few days after his arrival with more rent than Ian had thought he was entitled to—they had changed their ways and were no longer stealing from him. It seemed, his people were thankful for his protection and had united in spirit against the enemy.
It was a late August night, after the training, when Ian sat on the edge of the loch, mindlessly throwing pebbles into the deep waters. The loch was still, its surface a pink-and-violet reflection of the sky. Mountains on the other side were black against the sunset, looking like the backs of sleeping giants.
The English hadn’t returned yet, and Ian had heard rumors they’d been called back south by their king. But it didn’t mean they wouldn’t bother them again. It didn’t mean the war was won.
“’Tis a lonely life,” said a male voice behind him.
Ian looked over his shoulder. Manning stood there, wiping his hands on the clean apron that had become a habit for him.
“I ken what a lonely life is,” he added.
Without an invitation, he sat on the shore next to Ian.
“Aye. I suppose a lonely life isna new to me, either,” Ian said.
“Yer father was so lonely without yer mother. He was a different man before he lost her.”
“Then ’tis in the family.”
They kept silent for a moment.
“Ye’re just like him now,” Manning said. “After the lass left. After ye came back alone. Lifeless. Like ye lost yer heart somewhere.”
Strangely, Manning had described precisely how it felt to Ian.
“’Tis what I deserve,” Ian said.
A weak breeze ruffled the almost still surface of the loch, bringing the scent of fresh water and fish. Crickets chirped, unaware of the human misery. Manning’s wrinkled face smoothed.
“’Tis a pile of horse shite if I ever heard one.”
Ian chuckled. He’d heard Manning swear countless times, but never had his words been supportive.
Manning spat on the ground between his bent knees. “Ye dinna deserve anything like that. ’Tis enough of suffering for this family.”
The old man sighed and shook his head.
“I’ve been in service to the Cambels my whole life. I havna marrit because of it—nae that I regret it, mind ye. I saw
