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Using the stars as her guide, she followed them south, waiting for the small fork in the road that would eventually lead her back to the cottage.
Her feet throbbed and her legs ached and stung, but she wore a satisfied smile as she walked along at a more leisurely pace. It did not matter that it was dark, and anything could be lurking in the gloaming that fogged away to either side of her, for she had endured the panic and fear and found her way home again. There was no room for further concern.
Och, but ye’ll wish I’d stayed lost a while longer, Angus Murray! she scolded inwardly, humming a song to herself to bolster her courage. What sort of lad would let his wife stay out in the woods until nightfall and nae come lookin’ for her? She was the one who had put herself in danger, and no matter how she thought about it, she kept coming to the same conclusion: she should have stayed to talk through their dispute instead of disappearing like she used to do when she was a child.
“I’ll do better, Papa,” she whispered, certain that he was watching over her from the heavens. Indeed, she liked to think that he was the one who had guided her back to the road.
The sky had edged closer to being pitch black as she came to the fork in the road, and took the narrow, meandering path to the right. Her hand itched for a lantern to help her along, but she had not thought that far ahead, nor had she thought to grab her cloak before she left. Cold had already begun to set into her bones, her teeth chattering as she hurried on.
At last, with a sigh of relief, she saw her beautiful home. The quaint stone cottage with its greenish slate roof occupied a large glade in the forest, bordered by a white, wooden fence that kept her precious herb and flower garden mostly safe from rabbits. The squirrels still liked to torment her, though, and she spent more time than she cared to admit, sprinkling salt so the slugs could not devour her hard work.
“I’m home, love,” she murmured excitedly, pushing through the garden gate and heading up the flagstone path to the front door. She was determined to set aside her former annoyance and throw herself into her beloved’s arms.
However, upon entering the house, she was met with a thick silence. The fire had smoldered down to embers, and though a lantern glowed on the kitchen table, there did not seem to be any sign of Angus.
“Angus?” she called for him, regardless. “Angus, are ye here?”
No warm, welcoming voice echoed back, and no thud of footsteps came to greet her in the low-ceilinged kitchen.
“Angus?” she repeated, in a thinner, more disappointed voice.
Nothing.
Feeding a taper into the lantern, she went around the kitchen, lighting a few more candles to make the place feel less lonely. She put one in the window, so Angus would know she was home, if he was watching from afar. Next, she distracted herself with the fire, stoking it back up to hungry flames that graciously began to thaw her frozen body.
That was when she saw it. Or, rather, saw the absence of it—her cloak. A fond smile worked its way onto her lips as she pulled a milking stool closer to the fire and sat down, putting her palms up to the flames to get their full effect.
“Och, ye pest.” She chuckled. “Ye did come after me.”
She did not let it worry her that he had yet to return, for the forest was not a frightening place for a powerful, hardy man like her husband.
It could not have been more than half an hour before she heard the familiar squeal of the garden gate’s hinges and the steady beat of footfalls on the path.
She held her breath as the cottage door opened and footsteps approached, sounding slow and weary. A thrill vibrated through her, knowing it would be a matter of moments before she heard his voice and could drop the ruse.
“I’m sorry, Angus,” she said, with her back still turned, unable to hold back any longer. “Ye were right in all that ye said, but ye should remember who ye’re wed to. Me spirit cannae be tied down and I willnae remain dormant, but I’ll rethink the matter with Laird Grumpy.”
Slowly, excitedly, she turned, eager to see his handsome face and to maybe hear a compromise from his lips. He stood much further away than she had expected, doused in a spot where the shadows were thickest, away from the pools of light spilled by the candles.
But she did not need any light to know that it was not her husband. He was taller and narrower in the shoulders, with a stooped sort of posture. The slightest hint of candlelight caught the edges of long, braided hair—much too fair to be Angus.
“Who are y-ye?” she breathed, terror cold on her tongue.
The figure did not move, though she could see the gleam of intent eyes, fixed on her like a beast choosing prey.
“Me husband is on his way. He’ll come through that door at any moment. So, whoever ye are, ye ought to leave while I’m feelin’ generous.” False bravery overcame the tremor in her voice as she stood from the milking stool, seizing the fire’s poker in her hand and raising it in defense of her life… or whatever else this man was after.
Again, the figure did not move, yet she could have sworn she heard the hiss of a soft, chilling laugh. Did he know where Angus was? Had he done something to Angus? Had he confirmed that he could come here, safe in the knowledge that he would not be disturbed?
“Daenae come any closer!” Melissa warned, slicing the poker left and right. “Who are ye and what are ye doin’ here? Answer me, at once! Do ye nae ken who I am? Me sister is Lady Millar, and there’ll be an army after ye if ye touch a hair on me head!”
The figure took one small step forward, his shoe scuffing on stone. That tiny movement forced Melissa’s survival instincts to the fore. She had to run. She knew that, yet he was standing between her and the only door that was not locked. If she took even ten seconds to fumble for the bolt that held the back door shut, he would catch her.
Backing away from the stranger, poker still raised like a fencing foil, Melissa skirted around the rear end of the kitchen table, putting it between her and the unsettling intruder. It would have to be the back door. She had no other choice.
“Ye’ll live to regret this,” she threatened, spinning around and darting for the bolt.
Behind her, she heard him reply in a husky, gruff voice, “Nay, I daenae think I will.”
At the same moment, she heard him sprinting for her. Her mind immediately kicked her into a different plot, prompting her to duck and leap backward. His arm sailed over the top of her head: his fingertips lightly skimming her hair. But, the path to the front door was open now, and all she had to do was run for it.
Wrenching it open, she sucked a lungful of crisp night air into her lungs and took off down the garden path. She would have made it to the gate and beyond, had it not been for the loose flagstone that she had been asking Angus to fix for months. Her toes caught on the raised edge, and, suddenly, she had no purchase on solid ground. She was falling down, with no way to right herself.
Perhaps, she could have scrambled to her feet again, and still made it to the security of the forest and its dense, eerie darkness, but the garden path had one additional trap waiting for her. Her hands, too shocked by the sudden lurch, had no time to come out in front of her to break her fall. Instead, a decorative rock decided to try.
A sharp pain blasted through Melissa’s skull, erupting from her right temple and blazing across her eyes in a flare of white light. The flash vanished as quickly as it had appeared, giving way to bleak and impenetrable black.
She was aware, for just a moment, of her body twitching on the flagstones, then nothing but the empty dark of oblivion.
