Sorrell doubted that. There were moments she still had trouble trusting James, but her mum had insisted he was a good man, and she always had been a good judge of a person’s true nature. It didn’t help that James was her da’s bastard son and that her da had given him leadership of the clan before he died. But so far he was proving to be a good chieftain and he treated her and her sisters good as well. She couldn’t fault him when it came to Snow. He was protective of her. It would upset him when he learned what happened. Though, he might find it difficult to get any results since he was in a dispute with Walsh MacLoon, chieftain of the clan, who could prove reluctant to reprimand one of his own.
That left only one thing for Sorrell to do… see for herself that Peter got what he deserved.
Sorrell headed to the bedchamber door.
“Let James deal with this, Sorrell,” Willow cautioned.
“I’ll let him know,” Sorrell said and hurried out the door. And she would, after she was done with Peter.
What she lacked in stature, being far too petite to her liking, she made up for in her determined nature. When she set her mind to something, there was no stopping her. Peter might be larger than her, nearly a full grown man at ten and four years, not that he acted like one, but she wasn’t afraid to confront him. A mud ball or two, maybe three, in the face might have him thinking differently.
The chill of autumn hit Sorrell as she walked out of the keep, her own fault, since she hadn’t bothered to grab her cloak. The days had been far too chilly and the nights far colder than usual, sure signs that winter would arrive early this year.
She hurried her way through the village, anxious for revenge, when sorrow suddenly tugged at her. The Clan Macardle had always been a strong, thriving clan. Now, however, it was small compared to the surrounding clans, a fault of her father’s, though not intentionally. She and most others realized too late that her father was not of sound mind as he once had been. By the time it was realized and addressed, her father had caused several insurmountable problems that James continued to work hard to rectify. He was doing his best, but Sorrell feared it might not be enough or that another more power-hungry clan might seize the opportunity to attack and conquer them.
Whatever the future held, she would stand and fight for her clan and protect her sisters as she was doing now for Snow.
Peter could often be found in the woods that connected MacLoon land to Macardle land. He and his cohorts would assemble there and create whatever havoc they could. It wasn’t far from the plot of land where her parents were buried, the land presently in dispute between the Clan MacLoon and Macardle.
Sorrell pushed the strands of her unruly red hair out of her face, squared her slim shoulders and rushed her steps. Her anger had been mounting steadily, thinking of Snow and the fear she must have suffered being struck again and again, not being able to defend herself, not knowing what or who had hit her or when it would stop.
She could almost taste revenge on her tongue, and it tasted sweet.
Sorrell came to an abrupt stop when she spotted Peter on the fringes of Macardle land. He was a good head and a half taller than her and bulky in size. His features still lingered between that of a lad, soft in spots, and manhood, muscles in other spots, and his foolish actions attested to that.
She didn’t wait. She scooped up a handful of mud, last night’s rain had produced, shouted out his name in a challenging manner and when he turned, she threw the mud ball with a force that one would not expect from such a petite lass.
It hit him right between the eyes, splattering in his eyes and causing him to stumble around blindly.
Once again Sorrell didn’t wait. She formed another mud ball and gave it a solid toss, hitting Peter in the side of his head just as he found his footing and sent him stumbling once again. Another mud ball followed that one and slammed into his cheek. By the time she finished, Peter’s face was covered with mud as well as his shirt.
“Only a coward throws mud at a blind woman,” Sorrell called out. “Attack my sister again and you’ll find yourself eating the mud.”
Peter wiped the mud from his face, the whites of his eyes glaring and his nostrils flaring with such anger that he looked ready to explode.
Sorrell didn’t care. He hadn’t gotten half of what he deserved and she was ready to finish it and pummel him senseless.