Page 39 of Darach

Charlotte drew back. “I’m not so sure that’s a good thing.”

“You’ve naught to fear, my lady.” He frowned. “I’d never permit anyone harm you.”

“You let everyone depend on you––me, the laird, his wife, your clan––but it seems like you don’t have anyone to be there for you since you lost Kendric.” She rose to her feet and briefly touched his shoulder as she moved past him. “Why isn’t there anyone for you to rely on, Chieftain? Who protects you?”

She left his chamber without another word.

Darach waited for a moment before he tidied up and carried the basin to empty it outside. Seeing the water stained pink with her blood sink into the charcoal pit where they emptied their wash basins made his gut clench. Remembering what she’d said tore at him, as every hard truth did. Kendric ever had been his strength and shield against the harshness of the world. He’d believed the bond between them a thing that could not be broken. Yet so easily his brother had abandoned him when he’d run off to be a mercenary. He’d never once admitted to his betrayal of the clan or made any amends for what he’d done. Since that terrible night when Kendric had left, Darach had never again relied on anyone, and while he had always known that, he’d never reckoned why.

How had Charlotte seen that so clearly? Darach turned to look up at the garrison tower, and the basin fell from his hands as he again endured the pain of losing the brother he had loved most. After so many years that wound remained open and raw, and so it likely always would.

“Eventide, Chieftain,” Taveon said as he came to stand by the pit. “’Twould seem you’re in need of a new wash basin.”

“What?” Darach glanced down and saw the broken pieces of what was left of his. He hadn’t even realized he’d smashed it. “Och. Aye.”

The war master crouched down and began gathering the largest shards. “’Tis good to smash some crockery now and again, if ’twill keep you from doing the same to Camdyn’s ribs or head.”

“I’m no’ angry with him.” He didn’t want to say Kendric’s name, or dwell anymore on the harm his turncoat brother had done to the clan and him. Instead he bent down to help clean up the mess he’d made. “Did you see Charlotte training?”

“Aye. She did well. So did you, for no’ stepping in as doubtless you wished.” Taveon carried the smashed pottery over to a rubbish barrel and dropped them inside. Once Darach had done the same he said, “The laird sends me on the morrow to haggle with Ramsay MacAnvoy over some nags he desires for less coin than they’re worth.”

“Bid him buy his mounts from the lowlands,” he suggest. “He’ll pay half what we ask, and spend twice more on feeding and doctoring such poor beasts.”

“I shall borrow your words to persuade him loosen his purse strings,” the war master said, sounding unworried. “Or you might ride along with me to his stronghold. ’Twill do you good, and we’ll stop at that tavern you like on the journey back.”

He shook some tiny shards from his fingers. “You neednae coddle me, War Master.”

“If I wished to play your màthair, I’d be speaking to the lady.” His mouth hitched. “She doesnae want Camdyn, Brother, nor he her. Dinnae see what ’tisnae there.”

“As you say.” Darach glowered at him. “I cannae go with you to MacAnvoy’s, but ride with at least two guards. We’ve yet to capture that fack bone cobbler, and your broad back makes a fine target.”

As he walked up to the entry to the garrison hall, he saw the war master walk back to the pit and bend to pick up something. Not wishing to see more proof of his foolishness, Darach went back inside.

Chapter Ten

By the time Charlotte returned to her room her hands wouldn’t stop shaking, but she couldn’t blame it on the cool night air. She added some wood to the fire and after washing up stood before it to undress and put on the lightweight linen shift she’d been using as a nightgown. The radiant glow of the flaring flames caressed her skin, but the growing chill inside her seemed immune to the heat. Every time she thought about the target she had hacked apart, she wondered what she would do once she held a real blade in her hand. She also remembered how fast she had put a knife to Camdyn’s throat when she’d thought he meant to hurt Emery.

Is that who I really am underneath it all?

She climbed into bed, huddling until her body warmed the linens. Ever since her mother had abandoned her Charlotte had been more relieved than hurt, but Leona had never tried to hide who she was. Her complete disinterest in being a mother had firmly established the boundaries of their relationship. She’d never once seen her parents touch, much less kiss or hug. For his part, her father had loved Leona with the fawning, perpetually dismayed eagerness of an acolyte about to be excommunicated. He must have known he couldn’t keep her happy, as that was exactly what had happened to him when her mother had run off with her rich lover to France. After the divorce her father had become like a ghost of himself.

Charlotte would not do that to Darach. Even if he couldn’t marry a mortal woman, he deserved to be loved by one who wouldn’t prey on his emotions so she could use him like a body shield.

Slowly she began to drift off, her thoughts untangling as she thought of the public gardens near her apartment, and the woodland walks she often took to gain inspiration from the birds and flowers in spring. She found herself climbing up a broad series of stone steps to a terraced area that had sloped beds bursting with blooms. As she walked along she let her fingertips trail over the delicate petals and breathed in their sweet scents. Now and then she would pass a worker, and their stares made her uncomfortable, so she kept heading up toward the highest terrace.

I don’t need a blade. I need a paintbrush.

The warmth of the sunlight didn’t quite dispel the chilliness biting at her, but she ignored that as she climbed higher. The gardeners that she passed kept staring at her, and some muttered things that buzzed a little in her ears. She didn’t know why they disliked her presence; all of the gardens were on public land. This was where she was supposed to be. It was her first and best retreat from the world, since the day her mother had heartlessly made it clear that she’d neither wanted or cared about her, and set her father on the path to committing slow suicide. Until she had escaped into art, Charlotte had drifted aimlessly, unable to find any place for herself. That was why she had begun creating new worlds: so she could live in them.

I’m an artist, not a killer.

At the top level all the beds appeared bare, as if they hadn’t been planted yet, but Charlotte saw an overlook at one end. She had to hoist herself up onto a ledge to get the best view of the woodlands, but once she stood there she understood why she had come to this place. They couldn’t see what she did: the shadowy spaces in and around the gardens, where things that hated the light hid themselves. That was what she needed to do in the other place, the place where they had offered her sanctuary. She needed to see for them.

“I’ll find you,” she murmured, her hair blowing and her shift billowing as the wind picked up and tugged at her. She closed her eyes as they stung. “I know you’re still in the future, but you’re here, too. I can sense it.”

“Is that really what you think, my precious?” a soft voice asked. “Or are you pretending you’re not a killer like me so you can have him?”

She glanced over her shoulder at the hooded man standing behind her, a bloody knife in his hand. Suddenly the gardens vanished and she was on the rooftop of the hotel where he had attacked her, and he was striding toward her. She didn’t have the sword in her hand, or any way to defend herself.