Page 3 of Her Highland Destiny

He nodded. “Come, you should be inside.”

Cassandra glared at the house. If it was time, she wanted her family to be no part of it. She didn't want their cajoling and honeyed platitudes sending her on her way. “Don't tell them.”

He stared down at her for a long pause. His face smoothed for the first time since the awful conversation. “Of course.” His expression turned playful and he offered her a deep, groveling bow. “I am eternally at your service, my lady.”

She ruffled his dark curls, so like her own, but shorn close to his head to give him an advantage in battle. “I'll hold you to your word to keep mum about telling the rest.” Despite her attempt to continue the lighter tone, her voice came out flat and Phillip’s mood sobered.

He rose and nodded.

They parted ways at the house as nonchalantly as possible with Phillip striding toward the solar and Cassandra climbing the polished wood staircase to the long hall. A sudden warmth spread over the right side of her hip, like a breath fanning over her skin. A gasp choked from her and she drew back, away from...from nothing. She clasped her hands against the warm spot and looked at the fabric there. Naught showed against the pale pink linen. Its smooth surface lay cool and unassuming against her body, as if the sensation had never happened.

Strange.

She ran to her room on shaking legs and her hands slipped over the latch in her haste. She needed to be alone, to breathe, to relive that moment in the orchard when she experienced the power of the earth weeping even as she wanted desperately to forget it. Her mind swam so fast, it felt as though bits of it were flying loose.

What was happening to her?

Finally she burst through the door and secured it behind her. She grasped the heavy, voluminous skirt of her cote in her fists and yanked it up, over her legs and up past her hip. A mark showed upon her skin where the warmth had flared. It was in the shape of a dagger with the point tilted down to her left foot, mottled brown as though it were simply a birth mark.

But what was the meaning of it?

She stroked a hand over it. The mark was not raised or indented. Nay, it was flush as if it had always been part of her skin.

An image flashed in her mind. Green and blue waters, fed from a nearby waterfall. Grass hugged against every side. The apparition was so close to her, the damp cool air kissed at her skin. A sparkle glinted in the shallows of the colorful water. A green gem? She stepped closer and her feet shuffled under the soft grass underfoot. She dropped the hem of her cote and stretched her hand to the water, reaching, reaching. Her fingers dipped into the icy pool. The vision rippled and disappeared.

Cassandra cried out in disappointment and stared down at her outstretched hands where evidence of having touched water glistened in a slant of sunlight streaming in from the open shutters. Wherever that was, she needed to find its location.

Now.

“Lady Cassandra?” a quiet, feminine voice said. The maid who had been both companion and servant to Cassandra in their twenty years growing up together stood in the doorway.

“I fear I must leave at once, Mary. Please, be so kind as to fetch Phillip.” Cassandra looked out to the long road winding from their small manor. The trail pulled at her, beckoning with urgency. “And tell no one else of my departure.”

Edinburgh, Scotland

The seventh knight staggered back and scrambled to kneel in resignation before Fergus the Undefeated. The conquered knight leaned heavily against his blade, and gasped to reclaim the breath knocked from him. Rain pattered down on their chain mail, leaving the padded clothing beneath soaked through to the skin. The squires would be required to apply a solid rubbing of oil to the chain that evening.

Six others had come before the newly fallen man, and each had clamored with as much haste to draw the line of surrender in their battle. Fergus had purposefully made sure never to hurt another of his fellow knights at practice, but apparently his efforts had not subdued their fears.

He clasped the man’s lifted hand and aided him to his feet. “Ye did well.” Fergus clapped him on the back and instantly regretted it when the man winced.

“Sir Fergus.” A young man with tousled blonde hair stood bravely in front of him. His chain mail was new enough to reflect the gray sky with a gleam like freshly wrought silver. “I would be honored to fight ye, The Undefeated.”

“Ye may want to try when yer armor shows the effects of war a bit.” Fergus made to flank the young knight, but the lad cut in front of him once more.

The young man set his chin stubbornly. “I’ve been watching ye for years and now I can finally have my chance.”

“For years?” Fergus chuckled, flattered despite himself. Who was he to stop a lad from his dream? “Ready yerself.”

The young man’s eyes went wide in his face with eagerness. He shoved his head into the equally new helm and held his sword. Fergus huffed out an exhale and concentrated on his opponent the way he always did during battle, utilizing his gift.

He shoved through the emotions and thoughts and fears emanating from his foes; those were merely distractions. Nay, he wanted the movement of energy around them, the tick that would betray the move they thought before their body had time to execute.

Likewise, Fergus directed a fraction of his attention on himself, to absorb the force his body created with each move, masking them completely from even the most astute of opponents.

The lad’s intended movements radiated from his left arm. Fergus blocked the hit before the young knight could attempt the strike.

The wind shifted and carried with it a sweet, familiar fragrance. Apples. Fergus’ nostrils flared at the aroma. There were no orchards nearby, at least none he’d noticed, and it was nearly too late for apple season. A hum crackled in the air and brought on a wet, earthy scent, like rain. Fergus’ hair stood on end.