Page 63 of Ruining a Highland Healer
Torrin nodded. He felt it too.
A tension hung in the trees, subtle but ever-present. Not the natural wariness of prey hiding from predator. Not the charged silence that sometimes blanketed the Highlands before a tempest. There was a strangeness in the air. Years of watching over his shoulder, preparing for the sudden appearance of an enemy, had taught Torrin these instincts, instilling them deep in his mind.
The farther they got, the more he felt this strange unease. Just as they rounded a bend in the path, Torrin raised a hand, slowing their pace. The horses stepped more deliberately, their breaths misting in the cold air. Around them, the trees began to thin, giving way to a gentle hollow veiled by mist.
Then he saw it; a flicker that was barely there. There was a glint of metal half-hidden in the underbrush below, where no light should catch so cleanly. Torrin’s eyes narrowed. He dismounted in a fluid motion, gesturing at Valora to stay behind him. Quietly, she slid off her saddle and followed, crouching low beside him behind a tangle of heather and pine.
The hollow stretched out below them, shallow but wide; a natural basin nestled beneath the ridge. Smoke curled faintly from a half-concealed firepit. Tents had been pitched beneath a canopy of tree branches, their muted greys blending with the mist. Men moved quietly among them—soldiers, not woodsmen. There were too many of them, and they all moved with the trained motions of soldiers.
And on their cloaks was stitched the red and black sigil of Clan Keith. There was no mistaking it, even from a distance.
Torrin’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Keith’s men,” he said.
Valora was already counting. “Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, an’ that’s just what we can see.”
“They’ve been here at least two nights,” Torrin said, noting the freshly cut wood stacked by the fire, the deep-set trenches for drainage. “They’re nae enough fer a siege, but they’re enough tae deliver a message… a quiet one.”
He watched as a man in a long cloak stepped from one of the central tents, speaking to a younger soldier who was quick to follow the orders he had received. Torrin watched as the younger soldier began to prepare the horses, and he couldn’t help but think they were about to start moving again now that the weather had cleared.
“We ride fer the castle,” he said at last. “We keep hidden an’ quiet, as much as we can.”
Valora gave a single nod, already stepping back towards her horse. “It looks like they’re movin’.”
It wasn’t a question. Valora had seen what he had seen, too, and she knew what it meant.
“Aye,” he said. “So we move faster.”
A gust of wind stirred the trees above, and somewhere deeper in the wood, a crow called—a raw, rasping sound that echoed too long. Torrin stared one last time at the camp below. It looked peaceful to him, like a camp his own scouts could have while on a mission or a camp where he might have once been himself.
And yet he knew it was only an illusion. This camp was nothing but a herald of war.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
After returning from the village, Torrin’s first action had been to notify the council of what he had seen. Now more than ever, it was paramount that the wedding take place soon—soon enough that the soldiers Keith had sent wouldn’t have the chance to attack first.
Everything had already been arranged, of course, both with his council and with the priest, so Torrin would simply have to wait until the end of the week and use the little time he had to prepare for an attack. He would train his men, he would have new swords and shields forged, and new armor made for them.
Now, in his chambers with Valora next to him, the thought of war still troubled him, weighing heavy on his mind. The rain had returned; not a storm, but a steady, pattering rhythm against the castle walls, soothing in its persistence. The scent of peat smoke, damp wool, and pine filled the air, warm and faintly bitter.
Torrin lay on his back atop the thick wool covers, one arm under his head, watching the glow of the flames in the hearthdance across the curved ceiling stones. Beside him, Valora sat curled against the pillows, a small leather-bound book resting on her lap. Her brow furrowed slightly as she read, lips parted in concentration and mouthing the words she read quietly, the soft golden hue of the fire turning her hair to a shimmering gold.
He watched her quietly for a moment.
There had been no alarm raised after their return, no sign that Keith’s men had moved from the shallow valley. But even so, Torrin hadn’t found rest. His body was weary, yet his thoughts churned—too many questions, too many pieces of the puzzle still remaining hidden to him.
He shifted, sitting up slowly. Some time during the night, he had begun to get thirsty, but now the thirst had crept up to him out of nowhere, leaving him parched. A carafe sat on the low table near the hearth, beside a pair of silver cups. He crossed the chamber in bare feet, the stone floor cool under his soles. But as he poured a measure of ale, a flash of white near the chest where Valora kept her belongings caught his eye; a corner of parchment, small, folded, tucked beneath the hem of Valora’s riding cloak where it had been laid over the wooden box earlier that evening.
He bent and picked it up.
The paper was fine—vellum, not village stock, sealed once and now broken. There was no name written on the outside and Torrin might have left it, unread, had it not been for the line visible at the fold’s edge:
Ye will do what is required, or I will send Althea in yer stead.
His fingers tightened around the paper. From the corner of his eye, he glanced at Valora, but she was too absorbed in her book to notice him. For a moment, he considered putting the note back where he had found it, as he didn't want to invade her privacy and whatever it was, it was clearly about her and her sister. But something about the way that one sentence was phrased had caught his curiosity, and he decided to open it.
Torrin stepped into the firelight, unfolding the note with care. The hand was firm, elegant. Though he didn’t recognize it, from the contents of the note it was immediately clear to him who its sender was.
It was a note from none other than Laird MacNeacail, warning his daughter that if she didn’t succeed in marrying Torrin, then he would be sending Althea to take her place instead. Torrin found himself rereading the same few lines again and again, his mind stuck in a loop.
