Claiming His Highland Bride. Terri Brisbin
then. ‘Her hair is dark brown and her eyes are blue mostly.’
‘I need some time to examine her belongings. How far downriver have your men searched?’
‘Storms raged until late last night, so not far yet.’
‘There were storms the night she disappeared?’ Alan glanced at the swollen, raging river and suspected something other than kidnap then.
‘Aye. Heavy rains, lightning.’ The laird pointed over towards the river. ‘A bridge upstream washed out yesterday. Some farmers said they’d never seen such storms or such a flow as it is now.’
Alan was filled with a strange sadness then, for he suspected the lass was not just missing but was, indeed, dead. If she left her tent for any reason and lost her way or her footing, she would have been washed away in a moment.
‘I want to search her things,’ he said. ‘If you will gather the searchers, I would speak to them as well, my lord.’
* * *
Alan spent the next hours examining the woman’s belongings, questioning her maid and the men who’d gone off searching for her and walking the course of the river for several miles himself. His uncle stood with a knowing look in his eyes and The MacMillan glared at him the entire time, giving no hint of warmth or true concern over his daughter’s loss.
From the few bits of conversation he’d overheard between the two chieftains, Alan wondered which one was the more ruthless man. He also came to realise that the lass mattered not to either of them, but the marriage and the alliance did. That was all that seemed of importance to them.
* * *
By nightfall, Alan had finished his work and stood before the chieftains and their men to tell them what he’d discovered. The conclusion was not difficult—Sorcha MacMillan was dead. Something bothered him about it though. Though the others had missed the signs, he’d found them easily. Torn scraps of the gown she’d worn to bed. Bits of ribbons she used to tie her hair in braids. He’d even discovered one small braid of her hair entangled in the bushes near the river. Almost as though a path had been laid out before him there, leading him to one conclusion.
As his uncle and her father stood waiting on his words, Alan understood that less experienced searchers might not consider the signs he’d seen as easily found. Even without finding her body, for the strength and flow of the river might have carried that miles and miles down through the glen, he was certain of his findings.
‘My Lord MacMillan,’ he said quietly, holding out the ribbon he’d found, ‘I fear that your daughter is dead.’
If Alan had expectations of an emotional display or even a few kind words expressed over the loss of a beloved daughter, they did not come to fruition. If anything, the hard man turned harder still with an iciness in his gaze that had nothing to do with the chill weather around them. At his uncle’s nod, the chieftain followed him away from their gathered men to a place a short distance from the tents. Although they turned and left quickly, it was not so quick that Alan missed the knowing smile on his uncle’s face.
Gilbert Cameron was not displeased by this death.
Once more it would seem that his uncle would be the one benefitting by a young woman’s death. As he waited on his uncle’s orders, he offered up a quick prayer that this lass, like the ones before her, was in a better place than she would be as Gilbert’s wife.
Two weeks later—near Glenfinnan
Weariness and cold unlike anything she’d ever experienced sank into her bones and her soul. She’d followed Padruig for days and days, into the dark storm and away from her father. She had followed him across lochs and around them. Followed his unrelenting steps towards freedom.
And now she watched as some villagers buried him in the ground.
Sorcha had held on to hope, even in the terrible days after her mother’s passing. Even when her father had forced her to accept the betrothal to the ruthless and brutal Cameron chieftain. Her mother had sworn there was a way to escape it, but now, at her weakest moment in the last two months, Sorcha was not able to find the strength to cling to that hope.
Tears she’d held in for so long threatened to spill and yet she could not allow the weakness to gain control over her. Sorcha knew that holding in her fears until she was safely at her destination was the only way she would survive. The burial completed, she nodded to those watching. They thought he was her father. She would not cry over her father, but they did not know that.
‘What will ye do now, lass?’ the miller’s wife asked as she stood by the grave. ‘Do ye hiv kith or kin nearby?’
‘Nay,’ she whispered as she shook her head. ‘My mother’s kin is out on Skye.’ Padruig had revealed her mother’s plan to her within hours of their escape from Ballachulish and it included fleeing to her mother’s sister on Skye—and life in a convent. But she must not reveal that to anyone.
‘Is that where ye were journeying to when he passed, then?’ the woman asked. The concern lacing her tone and words removed some of the chill on Sorcha’s heart. Coming from a stranger, it surprised her.
‘Aye.’
‘This road is the way there, so if ye bide awhile ye might find someone travelling there and go wi’ them.’ The woman, Coira, nodded and smiled. ‘Ye wouldna want to travel on alone, lass.’
Sorcha shook her head and shrugged. She must decide how to proceed, but right now, it seemed any decision was not within her power to make. She needed to rest and clear her thoughts before taking another step towards...anywhere.
‘Is there a place where I could stay here? Or nearby? I have some coins and could pay.’ That did not include the fortune sewn into the hem and lining of her gown. She knew better than to reveal that kind of wealth to anyone, be they beneficent strangers or kin.
‘Och!’ Coira said, sliding her arm under and around Sorcha’s then. ‘Ye can stay wi’ us, lass. There’s always a place to sleep and a crust of bread to share with someone in need.’
‘Your husband will not mind?’ she asked. That husband had helped bury Padruig when Sorcha had discovered him dead this morn. ‘He and the others have helped so much already.’
‘Nay, Darach is kind-hearted under that gruff manner. Something about ye touched him, lass. Our first daughter would have been yer age now and I think he sees her in ye,’ Coira admitted. So many bairns died too soon and theirs had been one. Her own mother had lost six bairns during carrying and their first years, so Sorcha understood the loss.
Sorcha followed the woman away from the graveyard to a small cottage that sat next to the millhouse there on the stream. Coira opened the door and bade her enter. Peat burned there in a hearth built into the one wall and she appreciated the warmth it gave off. Too many days on the road, exposed to the Highland winds and rain, had left her cold and damp. She moved to stand nearer to it and watched as the woman retrieved a pot from over the fire and poured some of its contents into a cup.
‘Here now, lass,’ she said. ‘This will warm ye. Have ye eaten yet?’
‘My thanks.’ Sorcha accepted the cup and sipped the warm brew within. It was hot enough to spread the warmth through her and sweet, too. ‘I did eat something.’ She put the cup on the table there. ‘I should get my bags and bring the horses here.’
As she turned, she lost her balance and swayed. Coira grabbed hold of her and guided her to a stool. Pushing her hair from her face, Sorcha fell hard on to it.
‘Dinna fash, lass,’ Coira said, bringing the cup to her. ‘Drink and take a bit to rest.’ The woman walked to the door and called out to someone. ‘Kennan! Fetch the lass’s horse and bags. See to them!’
‘Kennan?’ she asked,