Page 61 of Highland Ruse

Grudging.

Yes, that was the ideal word to describe Delilah’s mood as she trudged from the castle to the outlying village. Two massive warriors carefully held a large kettle of savory venison stew, followed by a wheeled cart laden with bread still hot from the oven. Beside them walked Rhona, the aged seer who carried a basket of herbs looped around her forearm.

Delilah hated being captive when she should have had the advantage. Her failure sat in her mind like a pebble in one’s shoe. The wind jerked her skirts against her until she felt as though the fine silk were beating her legs. Hair whipped into her face. She irritably shoved aside the offending tresses and pressed onward.

One and a half weeks.

Elizabeth would arrive at Edirdovar Castle in only one and a half weeks. Perhaps there might be a way to still succeed.

The rhythmic squeaking of the cart ceased, and Delilah realized the men had stopped in front of a simple thatched roof house. A small shadow in her peripheral vision darted behind a nearby building, but not before she caught the glimpse of the child’s blonde hair.

It was not Delilah who strode toward the door to rap upon its rough surface. Rhona knocked firmly with her gnarled fist and then stepped back, a smile drawn tight across her face.

The door did not open.

The rest of the party waited without complaint while the drag of time scraped over Delilah’s fraying patience. She almost suggested they move on when the latch was thrown on the other side and the door creaked open.

A woman stood in the doorway, propped against a makeshift crutch. Her face might have been comely once, but it was difficult to tell with the jagged pink scar running from her right brow to her chin and leaving the eye there milky and sightless. The remaining blue eye sparkled with recognition and she gave a gracious nod. “I wasna sure ye’d make it today with the storm coming in.”

“We’ve got venison today, Agnes,” Lachlan, the dark-haired warrior said. “Ye know I couldna let ye miss out on yer favorite.”

“Aye, ye wouldna.” She gave a reserved smile before moving back with an awkward hop. It was then Delilah realized only one shoe peeked out from beneath the woman’s homespun skirt.

The men and Rhona entered the house with a familiarity Delilah tried to mimic. Despite the air of confidence she attempted to portray, she felt very much the stranger in the confines of Agnes’s home. Truly it was little more than a room with a pallet by the fire and a simple table and chair at its center. The air within was thick with the smoke of peat.

Rhona swept toward Agnes and immediately pressed at the massive pink scar. “Have ye been putting on the poultice I gave ye?”

The woman winced. “I try, but it is difficult to breathe when I do.”

“Ye’re no’ supposed to put it over yer mouth and nose.” Rhona tucked her frizzy white hair behind her ear and regarded the scarred woman with chastisement.

A flush crept over Agnes’s face and she flicked an embarrassed glance toward Delilah. “I dinna do it like that.”

“Well, then.” Rhona pushed aside her bright purple cloak and took several herbs from her basket, setting them on the table beside the bowl of stew and bread. “If ye dinna like the scar, then ye need to use the herbs.” Her voice was sweet, but there was something beneath it that made Delilah want to stand protectively in front of Agnes.

“Agnes is still bonny, even with the scar.” Lachlan gave her a cheerful wink. “I gave ye an extra bit of venison, but dinna ye go telling the other lasses. I canna have them getting jealous.”

Agnes gave a good-natured laugh, and the harshness of the scar on her face lightened to reveal how young she truly was. “Thank ye for coming by today, and every day. I dinna know what I’d do without ye.”

Delilah made her way to the door, feeling like an awkward, useless appendage to the party. Agnes stopped her with the gentle grip of her arm.

“Bless ye, my lady.” The woman lowered her head with a reverence Delilah did not deserve. “I know ye’ve no’ anything to do with what happened, but we all appreciate ye helping us nonetheless.”

Surprise caught at Delilah’s tongue and held it in place. In the end, she nodded and squeezed Agnes’s hand before exiting the simple home after the others. A little blonde head peeped out from behind the cart.

Little Claire followed them through the course of the day while they delivered food to people in all states of debilitating injuries—from lost limbs to blindness to overall blatant pain. With each new person they visited, Delilah came to appreciate how Kaid insisted his men and Rhona go every day to aid those who were too injured to come to the castle for food.

Each person they visited was kind and grateful, and every one personally offered Delilah their thanks for her assistance.

It should have made her feel good—if she were Elizabeth, the woman they thought her to be. But she was a fraud who’d been asked to go rather than volunteering. The knowledge knotted like rough rope in her stomach as the day wore on. She did not deserve their gratitude.

In the end, she would have to turn in the man who fought so hard for their freedom and safety. She would leave these battered people vulnerable.

Something tight and uncomfortable squeezed around her chest at the very thought. When she looked up, she found Rhona’s gaze on her.

“If ye’re unwell, ye travel with a healer.” Rhona spoke in the same over-sweet tone she used with the villagers.

“I’m well, thank you,” Delilah answered. Never had she been more grateful for her knowledge of Gaelic. She’d used it exclusively since her capture. Poor Leasa did not speak any and spent most of her time with Donnan who could translate for her.