Dismissing the drunkards, Sawny veered to the right, into the darker shadows. He noted the dim hallway that Addison had indicated would lead to the horse and his freedom, then tiptoed to the left and up the curved stairwell.
He continued up the second stairs and found the door on the right. The ornate wooden door was slightly ajar, and Sawny crouched low and pressed it open enough to peer inside.
Kelso’s desk was just past the crackling hearth, and Kelso sat behind it, his feet on the desktop next to a lead crystal chalice of amber whiskey. The man’s beady eyes were closed and a half-smile sat on his face. He altogether resembled a cat who caught a mouse – all he was missing was a thin tail dangling from his lips.
Sawny had no weapons, nor the strength to fight the pig hand-to-hand. Then to search for the letter . . . nay. Guards would be on him in an instant. He’d not find the letter with Kelso still in his study. Sawny cursed to himself, then made a difficult decision.
Keeping low to the ground, Sawny crept backward from the door until he was in the shadows, then he raced, half-stumbling, half-falling down the stairs until he reached the main landing. The sound of chatter and silverware came from the opening to the left — those must be the kitchens. He headed into the darker recesses, rushing past a surprised late-night kitchen maid and out the rear exit as Addison had instructed.
He burst through the door, startling a horse that had been patiently munching on the grass right outside. The beast was saddled and bridled, and Sawny wasted no time slowing. He jumped on the steed’s back mid-stride, mildly surprised that Addison had found him a horse at all. ‘Twas little more than an aging steed, but it seemed healthy and strong, and if the beast rode him away from this hellscape, then it would have done its rider a fine service.
Grabbing the reins, he flipped his sweaty hair off his forehead and dug his heels into the horse until the steed was running in a full, wild gallop. Before the drunk MacIntoshes might have figured out where he had gone, Sawny was roaring past the gate and into the warm, drizzly night. His baggy shirt whipped against his skin until it was damp enough to cling to his malnourished body.
He pushed the horse harder southwest toward the woods and never looked back.
It was time to go home. Time to go to Adaira.
Chapter Twenty-One
Adaira
Adaira woke early on the morning of her betrothal announcement to a steady drizzle of rain – the gray skies matched how she felt. Though it seemed so wrong to agree to wed Arran so soon, and even more to announce that betrothal and make preparations as she had with Sawny, she had no other choice. What other man might take her in a loveless marriage, no matter her status as the daughter of Seamus MacDonald and the granddaughter to Alistair MacDonald?
Feckin’ Highland politics, Adaira cursed. If not for the Oath of Allegiance and pressure from the Campbells, she’d have the time to properly mourn Sawny and nurse her wounds of being left at the altar.
Instead, she was preparing to marry a man she did not love for a cause she could not fully understand.
Most women would dress for this event, where the families came together and offered dowries, pledged their troth, and set the date with the priest. It was an important moment for any couple, and she should dress accordingly, yet she had little care.
Her mother would be aghast at her dire thoughts and cursing language, yet those aspects only shone a light on how frustrating these events had become to her.
Adaira rose and went to her wardrobe. The gown she had worn when she and Sawny met at the church for their preparations, her lilac brocade, hung to the side. Adaira slipped the cool fabric through her fingers as memories of that day assaulted her mind.
How Sawny’s dark hair was slicked back and tidy – so unlike his typical, unruly appearance.
His dress kilt, bright red and flattering his dark coloring, brought out the ruddiness in his cheeks.
And when he held his hand out to her by the vestibule,Christ’s blood!She could see it like he was right there now, his hand outstretched.
Why am I so plagued with these thoughts and memories?
She dropped her hand.
This time, she did not care what gown she wore or if it was wet or muddy.
She drew down her dull green bodice and skirts. She would take a tip from her memory of Sawny. Still flattering, and when paired with her deep red and green plaid, might bring a touch of color to her cheeks, too.
Adaira did her best to gather her wits about her and pinned up her hair high on the crown of her head and out of her eyes. She could do nothing about her cheeks, once so round and full of life, now leaner and sickly pale. When she felt she was the most presentable she could make herself, she exited the stale air of her chambers and joined her family in the hall below.
Fiona and Blair stood by the hearth with her mother, while her father and brothers were nowhere to be found.
Presumably, they were with Arran, awaiting her at the church. This event was nothing more than a formality. She did not need to be there to sign or say anything; her father could sign all of the official documents for the upcoming wedding. Rather, her presence sent a much stronger message to have her at the church to sign her name, solidifying this alliance with the Sleat MacDonalds, and for the Highlands as a whole.
She did not know if her father or if Arran himself had reached out to his family to confirm this marriage and celebrate their union, but if she had to guess, she would sayaye. Her father was not one to let such things fall by the wayside. And anything that her father, uncles, and grandfather could do to promote a show of force by the supporters of King James and the House of Stuart would be done.
Her mother walked her, Fiona, and Blair down the muddy pathway to the foreboding church that two months ago had seemed like a beacon.
Now it was a gravestone, one that marked the death of her love with Sawny.
