Pledged to a Highlander (Highland Promise Trilogy 1)

“Do you think my da could have possibly survived?” Royden asked, interrupting her thought.

This was a chance to give him some hope and why not use a witch’s words to do it. “If I remember right didn’t the witch tell Raven you all would be reunited?”

“She did,” he said, a bit of hope heard in his words.

“She was right about you all being torn apart, so I would think she would be right about you all reuniting.”

Royden’s brow narrowed. “I know it’s been some time, but I don’t recall telling you what the witch said to Raven.” He shook his head. “Raven told you, didn’t she?”

Oria nodded. “In the woods one day when she, Purity, and I met. She told me that you would probably tell me, but I didn’t think you would.”

He looked surprised. “Why?”

“Did you plan on telling me?”

“I asked first,” he said, a command in his tone.

“That answers it for me and as for why? You tried to protect me from everything.”

“It is my duty to protect the woman I love,” he said his brief explanation enough.

“Aye, I understand that, but when you’re not there, what do I do?”

Her question startled him, his brow shooting up.

“You wished to see me, sir?” Mildred asked.

He was glad for the interruption since he had no answer for his wife and that disturbed him. What if he wasn’t there to protect her again? He had seen it for himself, the remnants of what happened to women in raids and attacks. It sickened him to see what some men were capable of doing and one thing that he actually admired about Platt was that he had forbidden the men to harm any of the women at places they attacked. They had looted places, stripping villages, but had left the women unharmed.

“Royden,” Oria said, giving his arm a gentle squeeze.

He shook his head. “Sit, Mildred, I wish to talk with you.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong, sir,” Mildred pleaded, tears glistening in her aged eyes.

“Of course, you didn’t,” Bethany cajoled, slipping an arm around the woman and leading her to the table nearest the hearth while her helpers placed a jug of ale on the table. Knowing Mildred favored ale, Bethany filled a tankard and placed it in front of her.

Oria filled a tankard for Royden and nodded for him to take a seat opposite Mildred, sliding along the bench to sit next to him.

Royden sat and was pleased when his wife moved to rest her arm against his and her leg against his leg as well. It felt good to be sitting close with her again and he found his frustration easing.

“Bethany tells me you were tasked with collecting the weapons off our dead warriors,” Royden said. “I regret that you had to do such a horrible task.”

Mildred’s shoulders slumped, the worry draining off her that she had done something wrong. “It wasn’t an easy task, sir, but I was glad for it, since I could treat our fallen warriors with respect as I took their weapons and I could say a prayer for each one of them as I did.”

“I appreciate how brave you were, Mildred, and how kind and respectful you were to our fallen warriors. Bethany also said you never mentioned seeing my da among the dead.”

Mildred downed more ale and looked about before leaning over the table closer to Royden and keeping her voice to a whisper, “I thought it best—safest—to say nothing to no one. I feared what might have happened if I did, not only to me and those told about it, but most of all to,”—she lowered her voice even more—“your sister.”

“Raven? What has Raven to do with my da?”

“I saw her struggle to drag your da away and then that Macara lass, the one with the claw-like fingers, suddenly appeared and helped her drag your da into the woods. I don’t know what happened to them after that.”

“Did you see how badly my da was injured?” Royden asked.

Mildred nodded and wiped at her eyes with her sleeve. “He was bad, sir, blood covering his chest and he not moving as the two lassies dragged him away.” She sniffled back unshed tears as she looked to Oria. “I saw how you fought those men, bit the one, and how he slashed your face, but you didn’t stop fighting when the two men dragged you off to put you in that cart. Blood poured down your neck and covered your clothing, but you kept fighting the two of them. You were a sight to see and it gave me strength. I cried out when I saw that man who slashed you knock you out with one hard blow of his fist, then toss you in the cart. You’re a brave one, Mistress Oria.”

“No braver than any other who fought that day,” Oria said, having felt the muscles in her husband’s arm grow tighter and tighter as the tale unfolded.