“She doesna want to stay.” Brogan fisted his hands at his sides, trying hard not to start punching people.
The men looked even more confused by his words, exchanging glances that only served to anger Brogan more.
“And I’ll no’ be talking about it another second,” Brogan said. “I’m leaving, and if ye want to come with me, then mount your blasted horses.”
No one moved. With a frustrated growl, Brogan marched down the pier toward where they’d tied their horses, ready to get the hell out of there before the dragoons arrived, pistols blazing.
Behind him, he could hear the clomping of the men’s boots.
He snapped his fingers, then winced, for he realized Fiona had taken Milla with her. Traitorous dog. Brogan’s chest swelled then with emotion, and he tried to bolster himself against it, but it beat at him as though he were being rammed repeatedly by the bow of the ship.
He had to leave everything on this damned pier.
By the time he climbed up on his horse, he needed to be back to the cold, distant man he’d been months ago when he’d first seen Fiona on the road. She’d changed him. Made him soft. Made him feel. And look where that had gotten him.
A goddamned broken heart.
Lord, he was a fool. A simpering, idiotic fool to have let love in. To have believed he was worthy of someone else’s desire, love, admiration. To feel for a moment that he could lay his bare chest open.
She might as well have pulled the dagger from her belt and thrust it into his heart. Else he’d have done it himself. He practically had. For he’d pushed her away to begin with. But she’d hardly pushed back. Not the way he’d needed her too.
Aye, on that pier when he’d given her the chance, Brogan had needed her to fight for him the way he’d fought for her.
That was what he desired most, to be worth fighting for.
And she’d just proven he wasn’t.
If the woman he loved, who professed love to him, if everything they’d gone through had meant so little, then he was doomed.
For he was certain never to find a love like that again. Never to find a woman who meant so much. Never to allow himself. Staring back at the ship, he pulled out the invisible iron and built a solid wall around his heart.
With a grunt and a grimace, he turned his horse.
“Where are we going?” Sorley asked.
“West coast. We’ll join the MacPhersons of Cluny, that’s where ye came from, aye?”
“Aye.”
“If the prince does come back, then we’ll be ready.” Every word tasted like gunpowder on his tongue.
“What about Clan Grant?” Keith asked.
Brogan stilled and turned to his cousin, seeing the hope etched on his face.
“After what happened at Culloden, my da is no’ likely to turn his tail on King George. He’ll only see the loss as bolstering his choice to have turned in the first place.”
“But we’ve allies in the clan at Glenmoriston.”
“Ye mean the ones that were so easily swayed to abduct…” Lord, it was hard to say the words. “My wife?” The words stung him to say, and he could see that they stung Keith too. “The ones who attacked James and Dugall?”
“A few bad apples dinna ruin the whole barrel,” Keith said.
“And sometimes they do, cousin,” Brogan snapped. “Sometimes the rot spreads, and I for one dinna want to be around to see it. But I willna hold ye back from doing so.” He glanced at each man. “Any of ye, if ye wish to go back to your clans, ye need no’ follow me. Our mission was to find the prince. To see that he was protected, and we have done that. Our mission is complete, our duty done.”
“A soldier’s duty is never done,” James said. “Especially when the enemy has yet to be defeated.”
The men all nodded their agreement.
“Well then, I would be honored to ride with all of ye again,” Brogan said, holding out his fist.
The men placed their fists against his, the circle of seven.
They pulled apart, turning toward the road that would lead them west. Somewhere behind them a dog barked, and he imagined Milla on the deck of the ship, paws up on the rail, looking back at him.
* * *
The moment Fiona’s foot settled on the ship, she knew she’d made a terrible mistake. How could she have turned her back on Brogan? How could she have walked away so easily?
She should have fought for him. Fought against his judgment.
The way her heart wrenched in her chest felt as though she’d stood with her arms wide and allowed the dragoons she’d been running from for all this time to lodge their bullets in that sensitive beating organ. This was wrong. Being away from Brogan was wrong.
Nay, this wasn’t just being away. She’d left him. Again.
And once this ship set sail in a matter of minutes, there was no telling if she’d ever see him again. In fact, there was a good chance she wouldn’t. The distance between them would grow physically and metaphorically. The danger the two of them were in would grow decidedly one-sided as he suffered on Scottish soil at the hands of dragoons while she was safely ensconced at the French court, fattened up on savory foods that smelled like heaven and wine that poured from never-ending fountains.
Delivering messages there would become more about intrigue and flattery than what she was used to here, running in the wild, one with the wind and trees.
Slowly, she’d lose who she was. Forget what she’d always wanted.
A life like that would only have been bearable if she at least had the man she loved. But knowing he was over here, surviving on dried meat and stale bannocks, and running from bullets, just soured all of it.
Fiona pulled the emerald ring from the chain around her neck, staring down into the gemstone where it caught the light just right.
When the prince had presented her with this ring what felt like a lifetime ago, she’d been honored and proud to wear it. And she was still proud of what she’d accomplished. Of who she was and what she represented.
But that girl, that honor, belonged on Scottish soil.
How could she honor her vow, her country, if she abandoned it? Aye, she’d made a pledge to put the rightful heir on the throne, and that was not something she was going to give up, but how could she be of use from afar? There were still messages that needed to be delivered on Scottish soil. Messages that would come from France that she could use to spread the word about the next uprising. How was she to make sure they made it to the right people? She had allies here, connections, more so than most.
“Fiona,” a familiar male voice said softly from behind.