Page 99 of The Forest Bride
All of it wove together—desire, thrill, fear, and uncertainty; losing him, finding him, not knowing where it would lead. All blended into an immensity of love that she could not define, would not limit, just let it flow over and through her. And she knew utterly, deeply, that she would always be with him, knew in the very center of her soul, her body and her being, that she had always been his, and he was hers. Troubles and wondering vanished until she stirred out of the sweet mist that had taken her over.
She kissed him simply then and lay quiet in his arms, listening to his breathing and the steady thud of his heart. In that moment, her dreams had come to be, here beside him.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Lilias
She stumbled intothe narrow cave on hands and knees. Standing to find the space was a natural vault just a bit higher than her head, she felt as if she entered a sanctuary as peaceful as a church, and as safe, too. The cave, a slim cleft tucked under a rocky overhang, was obscured hidden by a curtain of flowering vines and tall scrub and grasses. If she had not climbed a steep hill to avoid running across the glen floor, she might not have noticed it. But she had tripped on some rocks, turning her ankle and falling to her knees. Wincing as she looked at her bruised ankle, she glanced up. And there was the cave opening.
All the way across hills and moors, following a westerly direction from Loch Roskie, she had done her best to keep to the hills where it would be more challenging for pursuers to spot her. Most of a day and into a night, she had walked over hills, stopping to rest now and then, growing exhausted. She had taken the food left on the tray Dame Brigit had brought to her room, and ate sparingly to make it last.
But she had found plenty of clean, cool water to drink, and found some edible mushrooms and plants too—Lady Rowena Keith had taught her well, and she had been very cautious about such matters. Finally, she found the long narrow glen that matched the crude little map drawing. And after that, she discovered the low cave just as the light lowered for the dayand a rainstorm blew through the glen with frightening power. But she was dry, and warm enough in her cloak, and she would be able to sleep a little with the rain drumming outside. In the morning, she would venture onward.
Just before she had found the little cave and the safety she needed, she had seen the track of a meandering river in the distance—and she thought she heard the dim rush of a waterfall. Or was that just rain? Even so, Dame Brigit’s map had proved a godsend.
The cave was dark and narrow, an arched vault like a flat bubble in the middle of an expanse of rough rock. Red sandstone, she thought, running a hand over textured pinkish stone, streaked with red in places, brown in others. Iron and ochre and copper gave it color, her father had once told her. The raw stone reminded her of the walls of one of his castles. But the castle was held by the English now and her father could not go there or anywhere these days for fear of his life and the end of the cause for Scotland. He had sent her to the safety of the Keiths of Kincraig. Later, he sent an escort to take her to Ireland.
Instead, she sat in this cave, alone and all but lost, wondering what to do.
She leaned her back against the rock wall, glad to take weight off her ankle. When she had first crawled inside, her heart was thumping hard, but she felt calmer, though hurting a bit. Wincing, she bent her knee to look at her ankle. Easing off her boot, then her pale woolen stocking, she saw a bloody gash just above her bruised, swollen ankle. Wiggling her toes, she rolled her foot a little and squealed in pain. She did not think it was broken, but she could not be sure.
Cushioning her ankle in her hands, feeling some relief from that little bit of warmth, she was afraid that standing, let alone walking, would make the injury worse. Thank heavens for thecave and the rain; one provided shelter, the other a reason to stay inside for a while.
How ironic that she had helped heal Sir John’s injured foot so that he was able to walk more easily, and might even be strong enough to ride out to search for her. And here she sat, nursing a twisted ankle, unable to continue her escape.
She sat shivering in the chilly cave, wrapped in her cloak, and ate what was left of an oatcake from her breakfast, and a few mushrooms she had plucked, glad she had not devoured all of it earlier in her hunger. She drank a few sips from a small silver flask that she had taken from her room at Roskie, filling it more than once that day.
Taking Brigit’s folded map out of her little belt pouch, she studied it in the fading light. From what she could tell, Brechlinn Castle lay south of the falls. If she could find the waterfall, she could follow the river down to the loch and find the castle there.
But she could not walk far—her ankle ached and her body was exhausted. She had to rest. And the storm was fierce, pounding the ground, shaking the bracken, filling the sky with flashes of lightning and thunder. She would stay here, sleep for a while, and surely everything would seem better in the light of morning.
Chapter Twenty-Six
In the darkness,Duncan rose from his bed, moving carefully lest he wake her where she slept, comfortable and warm beside him. As he dressed, he heard steady rain, but not the rumble of thunder, and no vein of lightning showed in the grim sky; the quality of the gray darkness told him dawn was near.
Sitting on the bed to pull on his boots, he heard Margaret stir, then sit up in the shadows within the curtained bed. Her hair had a bronze sheen in the low glow of the brazier, and swept down in tousled waves over her bare and beautiful body above the rumpled blankets.
“Are you leaving?” Her voice was soft and thick with sleep.
“Aye. Rest,” he murmured. He leaned to kiss the top of her head.
“I cannot rest. I should not be in here.” She slid her legs over the side of the bed, stretched for her shift and gown discarded on the floor and tugged them on. Sitting beside him, she braided her hair into one thick, messy plait. He stood, taking up his belt to fasten it around his hips.
“Are you going out on patrol? Wait for me,” she said.
“I will not take you with me, dearling.”
She sighed. “Do not go out alone. It is not safe. I feel it.”
He stilled, hands on the buckle. “Do you, now? I will take Lennox or Constantine if I can stir them from their beds.”
“Good. I must go back to my bedchamber. I hope Agatha is sleeping. I would not want to explain where I have been.”
“Some may wonder where we were last night. We missed supper. Thankfully no one came looking for us.” He raised her chin with a finger and kissed her lips lightly. “We are betrothed, love, with all the privileges that brings. In Scotland, it is significant.”
She tilted her head. “Do you mean that betrothed couples who lay together are considered married in Scotland—if they have—done the act?”
“Aye.” He smiled. “If there is intention to marry, under Scots law it becomes a marriage with the act, as you say. The law recognizes such marriages. Most couples will fix it further with a ceremony, whether a private handfasting or the blessing of a priest before witnesses.”
