When Fate Dictates (5 page)

Persuaded – and in need of something to dull
my pain – I took a tentative sip, gasping as the fumes constricted
my throat.

“You still not used to whisky then?” he
teased, as a broad grin filled his face. Unable to respond
immediately, I shot him a sharp angry glare. “You may have supped
the odd dram lass, but you definitely are not used to drinking,” he
said, not waiting for my reply.

I set myself the task of finding dry kindling
for a fire. The sun had obligingly risen strong and warm in the
early morning sky and the air around me stirred with little more
than a breeze. I combed the ground for anything that looked
remotely suitable for burning. Having been marginally successful in
my quest, I returned to the small makeshift campsite to find Simon
sitting on the edge of the loch, hands clasped around his knees.
Hearing my approach he turned to me with a smile sweeping over his
face and patted the ground next to him.

“Come, sit with me,” he said. Gathering my
sodden skirt I sank wearily next to him. There was a long silence
as we sat looking at the reflections in the water of the loch.
Simon was the first to break the tranquility. “We should ride under
the cover of darkness,” he said thoughtfully. “We covered our
tracks when we crossed the river but the military will be looking
for their horse and money. I can’t hide it if we are out riding
with it for all to see.” He rubbed his head in frustration. “You
will need to get out of those wet clothes or you will catch your
death. There is a cotton shirt and pair of trousers in the
saddlebags, not quite as lass-like as you may wish for, but dry at
least.”

“You want me to wear trousers?” He nodded
absently.

“Thank you Simon, but I will be fine with my
dress.”

“No, Corran, you will not be fine in that
dress, you are soaked to the skin in it. Now take it off and it can
be drying while you sleep,” he raised his hands to his head
again.

“Will you stop rubbing your hands through
your hair like that? You do it whenever you are frustrated and
right now you have no right to be annoyed. You can’t expect me to
wear men’s clothes.” Much to my shame I realized that I had
actually stamped my foot. A flush of embarrassment filled my
face.

“Bloody hell lass!” he exclaimed. “Will you
just for once do as I ask?”

“I don’t need the clothes. I am fine,” I
barked in reply, making a decided effort not to stamp my foot
again.

He sighed heavily, lifting his hands to his
head. He checked himself and then dropped them back by his side.
“If you are as fine as you say you are, then please explain to me
why you are turning a rather odd shade of blue?”

I knew I looked a sight and was in imminent
danger of freezing to death, but I objected fervently to being told
what to do. I also disliked intensely being treated as a child,
even though I had to admit, if only to myself, that stamping my
foot was a rather childish thing to do. So therein lay my real
objection to changing into the dry trousers. It was not what I
would look like in them; it was the simple fact that I was not
prepared to be told what to do. The question that remained however
was in whether I was prepared to suffer the unpleasantness of the
wet gown and possible death for the sake of my objection. The sun
had risen warmly but the air still held the icy chill of winter.
The colder I became, the less convinced I was that freezing to
death was a worthy way of proving my maturity. I shivered
involuntarily and glanced at Simon to see if he had noticed.
Shaking his head in disapproval, he frowned, leaving me in no doubt
that he had noticed the shiver.

“Eee lass you are a foolish, stubborn one,”
he muttered, getting up from the bank of the loch and strolling
over to the horse. Removing a bundle of cloth from one of the bags,
he dropped it next to me. “Put these on or by God I will do it for
you and I shouldn’t think you would like that very much.”

I needed no further encouragement as the
shivers had taken hold of my body so forcibly that my teeth were
chattering. His large frame stood over me, arms crossed and
eyebrows raised.

“Well turn around then,” I snapped, reaching
for the trousers and shirt.

“Alright, but you had better be out of that
wet gown when I see you again,” he ordered, turning to retrieve the
wood and retreating to the bank of the loch to build the fire.

Removing the wet dress was by no means an
easy task and I rather wished he could have helped me. It clung to
my body like a limpet and the added disadvantage of an injured arm
meant that it took me much longer than it normally would to change
out of the heavy dress and shift. Eventually, however, I did manage
to extract myself from the gown; and the crisp dry cotton shirt and
woolen trousers proved a very welcome exchange, although I was not
prepared to admit that to anyone but myself. Self-consciously I
gathered the bundle that was my soaking dress and shift and took it
over to the fire. One corner of Simon’s mouth quirked up as he saw
me. Outraged, I dropped the bundle and swung my good arm to slap
him, but he caught it before it reached him. He was now smiling
broadly down at me.

“Now that wouldn’t be a good idea, would
it?”

“Let go of me,” I insisted.

“Are you going to try and slap me again if I
do?”

My eyes were wide with indignation but his
grasp on my arm was firm, leaving me in no doubt that he was not
about to let me vent my frustration on him. Eventually, I shook my
head and he released his grip on my arm. We faced each other, his
eyes twinkling with amusement, mine burning with defiance and
anger.

“There are worse things in the world than to
wear a pair of men’s trousers,” he said, throwing his head back and
laughing heartily. Anger and humiliation burned in my face as I
retrieved my sodden dress from the ground and flung them untidily
over a rock by the fire.

“Are you going to get some sleep?” he said,
absentmindedly prodding the fire with a stick.

“No thank you, I will be fine,” I said,
immediately regretting my haste to decline the opportunity to rest.
With the throbbing in my head and ache of my arm, I felt thoroughly
exhausted and actually longed to wrap up in a plaid and lie
down.

“Are you planning on catching up on your
sleep while we ride then?” he replied flippantly.

I shot him a defiant stare, my eyes once
again burning angrily.

“You think I could sleep on horseback?” I
barked.

“Well you wouldn’t be the first,” he broke
off, his eyebrows raised in jest. “And you won’t be riding alone.”
A teasing smile spread across his face as he handed me a plaid,
adding, “Besides, it’s not like you have never slept in my arms
before.”

I snatched the plaid from him and wrapped it
tightly around me. Refusing to meet his eyes, I turned my back on
him, looking for a suitable spot to lie down. I heard him rise and
fumble in the saddlebags. He came back over toward me and stretched
a rough woolen blanket between two bushes creating a canopy above
me. “It might rain. This will not keep you totally dry but it
should keep out the worst if we do get a shower.” He bent down and
patted the top of my head affectionately, “Sleep well, Corran.”

I awoke just before sundown, to the ache of
my arm and the cramp of hunger in my stomach. Using my left arm to
steady myself and my thigh muscles for leverage, I pushed myself up
from the ground. A quick glance around the camp told me that Simon
had packed up the saddlebags and killed the fire. The blanket above
me was gone and I watched him as he fixed our newly acquired
possessions to the horse. Its ears stood up as he stroked his hand
over its head, whispering something as he did. He turned to see me
watching him and smiled softly. “Are you alright lass? You look a
little pale,” he said as the shadow of a frown passed over his
eyes.

I nodded, touched by his obvious concern.
“It’s just my shoulder that pains, but I am sure it will be fine in
a bit,” I said, casting a concerned eye over the rock on which I
had left my dress. “Where are my clothes?”

“They are not dry enough for you to wear yet,
but I think your boots will do.”

He strode purposefully toward me, holding my
boots out to me. I nodded, taking them from him and bent to put
them on. A sharp pain pierced my shoulder; I moaned loudly,
dropping the boots and grabbed my shoulder with my left hand.

“Let me look at that arm?” he said.

Slowly, I moved my hand from my shoulder. He
took my hand and raised my arm in front of me. I winced with the
pain, but bit my bottom lip. Looking deeply down into my eyes, he
held my gaze steadily.

“This is going to hurt Corran,” he said, not
moving his eyes from mine. Before I had time to realize what he was
doing, he was pushing hard against my shoulder joint with the palm
of his free hand. I gasped with the pain as the joint popped neatly
back into place. “Are you alright?” he asked.

I nodded, sagging to the ground and fighting
to catch my breath.

“It shouldn’t hurt so much now, but tomorrow
you will feel like you have been trampled by a horse.”

“Oh that’s fine then,” I quipped
sarcastically.

Grinning, he ruffled the hair on the top of
my head. “You are not the first to put your shoulder out lass and I
wager you will not be the last.”

I scowled up at him. “Simon, you do know I am
not three years old don’t you?”

“Aye.”

“Well then would you please stop treating me
as if I were? I warrant you I can look out for myself as well as
the next one.”

He laughed out loud, a deep throaty laugh
that did nothing to improve my mood.

“I am sure you can Corran. In the meantime,
and while you are with me, it would be helpful if you would just
listen to me and do as you are told,” he choked through his
amusement. “Now, do you feel strong enough to ride?” I had to admit
that my shoulder was feeling much better. I was however, not
particularly inclined to thank him for it just at this minute.

“I will be fine to ride,” I replied,
straightening my shoulders and raising my eyes to meet his.

“Right then, get your boots on and we’ll be
gone.”

******

The evening settled swiftly, the moon pitched
high and full in the sky. Our pace was steady and calm as we
finally rode into Dundee.

“Are you alright Corran?” he asked, helping
me off the horse.

I nodded, unconvincingly. “You don’t look
alright,” he said.

“I feel as though we shouldn’t be here. What
if the Red Coats find us? I am afraid of all these people,
Simon.”

“Just follow my lead and you will be fine.
Don’t worry, Corran. This is a big place and it is easier to hide
amongst people in a city than it is to hide amongst trees in a
forest. Trust me, I won’t let any harm come to you.”

I took his hand and let him lead me through
the doors of an inn. He walked with the arrogance of a man who had
nothing to fear or hide. I clung to his arm like a timid,
frightened creature.

“You, man,” Simon said, summoning a shifty
looking individual, huddled in a darkened corner of the room. The
small, untidy creature scurried toward us, mopping frantically at
his brow as he came to stand breathlessly beside us. “Are you the
owner?” Simon asked.

“Aye,” he rasped, wiping fervently with his
dirt-stained cloth at the new beads of sweat that had formed on his
forehead.

“Good. The lady and I have need of a room for
the night,” Simon boomed.

He raised his eyebrows in suspicion of
Simon’s request. “Just the one room, for the one night, or will the
lady and you require separate rooms and a longer stay?”

“Just the one room and the one night for now,
and don’t let me hear you disrespect the lady again, you
impertinent scrawny little ferret,” Simon growled dangerously,
thrusting a fist full of coins into the palm of the owner’s
tobacco-stained hand. The yellowed, sunken eyes of the grubby man
lit up immediately.

“Ahh, yes, thank you sir, that is most
generous and err... forgive me my, err... disrespect to your lady,
sir. You will find the room to the left at the top of the stairs,”
he groveled, hurriedly tucking the coins into a leather pouch round
his waist.

“Mrs. Brun and I require a meal and a jug of
ale in our room,” Simon said, taking my arm and turning toward the
stairs. “Let’s hope your cooking is better than your manners,” he
added, throwing his voice for all to hear. A gruff murmur of
laughter rumbled across the room and I ducked as someone, without a
particularly good aim, threw a crust of bread at the dark-haired
owner.

“Why did you just make fun of him?” I
whispered, hooking my hand into the crook of his arm.

“To knock him down a peg,” he answered
bluntly.

The floor of the room was covered with straw
that smelled sweet and fresh, like a meadow on a spring day. The
walls were bare stone; a tiny window lay behind closed shutters and
a fireplace, set in the center of the wall, waited patiently for
the spark that would ignite its warmth. I frowned at Simon. “Mrs.
Brun? When did I become Mrs. Brun?”

He smiled, “Well, I don’t think it will do
too much good to announce who we really are.”

I nodded, thinking how odd it felt to be
called by a name other than the one I had been born with. “What
will you call yourself then?”

“Mr. Brun,” he said, a twinkle of mischief
glinting in his eye.

“Oh,” I said, understanding him. “So we are
to tell folk that we are married?”

“Aye, that is exactly what we will say.”

A knock on the door interrupted our
conversation. Simon opened it to find the owner cowered in the
doorway, a tray balanced precariously on his long scrawny hands.
His shifty eyes darted around Simon, as he opened the door, trying
to see past his large frame and into the room.