by Sandra Hill
"So, yer the one?"
Rurik just about jumped out of his skin at the crotchety-voiced inquiry, which was accompanied by a high cackle.
Spinning about, he saw Maire's old mentor witch, Cailleach, sitting on a pile of wooden shields, watching him. He was the last one on the exercise field, where he'd just donned his tunic and was buckling his belt. The old crone must have come up behind him. He shouldn't have been startled by her presence. There were witches everywhere. In fact, many people were complaining about them… except Toste and Vagn, who claimed to have tupped a few of them already, though Rurik could hardly credit the truth of their boasts, especially when they claimed to have been ensorcelled into performing some perverted acts. Those two wouldn't have had to be ensorcelled into doing anything of a sexual nature, perverted or not. On the other hand, they had been avoiding lies of late, like every other man within miles of Beinne Breagha, Viking or Scots, because of Maire's outlandish tale connecting falsehoods and shrinking man parts. So, mayhap they were telling the truth.
"The one what?" Rurik finally managed to answer.
"The one Maire has gone weak-kneed over?"
Rurik's lips turned up with pleasure. "Maire is weak-kneed over me?"
"Aye, and well ye know it, too. A rogue like you specializes in such nonsense. Truly, if women knew what men were thinking half the time, they would be slapping their faces right and left." She chuckled… rather cackled… at her own joke, then continued, "Ye delight in turning a lass's fancy just for the fun of it."
"You don't know me well enough to determine my motives."
"Oh, I know ye, boy. I know ye better than you think."
"Boy? I am no boy. What do you here anyway?" Rurik snapped at Cailleach. "Other than offer insults."
The old biddy cackled a few more times before submitting, "I know ye like my Maire well enough to bed her, but I wonder…" She let her words trail off and narrowed her rheumy eyes at him, studying him as if he were a piece of meat for sale at market.
"Well, spit it out, witch, what is it that you wonder?"
"I wonder… do ye love her?"
That question stopped Rurik cold. "You overstep yourself. What business is it of yours how I feel about Maire?"
" 'Tis very much me business. Maire has suffered these past years. I do not want her to suffer more."
Rurik stiffened with affront. "I mean her no harm."
Cailleach shook her head sadly at him. "That may not be your intent, but I suspect it is inevitable."
Rurik was uncomfortable with this conversation and started to walk away.
"You did not answer my question, Viking. Do ye love her?"
Rurik turned slowly and eyed the pestsome witch. "Nay, I do not." He raised a hand to halt her next words. "But I care about her. I do. Methinks I am incapable of love. That capacity, if I ever had it, was burned out of me as a child."
Cailleach nodded knowingly. "In the Northlands… Kaupang. Aye, I ken how that might be."
Rurik's head jerked up. How did she know where he'd spent his youth? Fine hairs stood up all over his alert body. Truly, the witch gave him a creepy feeling; she knew too much. But he would turn the tables on her. "Can you remove this blue mark?" he asked, touching his forehand and running a forefinger down his nose and through the center of his chin.
The witch laughed. She had the nerve to laugh at him. Then she shrugged. "Mayhap I can. And mayhap I cannot."
Rurik clenched his fists to keep from reaching for the witch's scrawny neck.
"Getting rid of that mark is important to you, isn't it?" Cailleach inquired amidst a few more cackles.
"What manner of question is that? Yea, I want the mark gone. Is there aught wrong with that?"
"Not if ye do not make it more important than everything else. Some say the peacock must lose its feathers afore it can truly sing."
"Are you daft, old lady? Stop speaking in riddles."
"Aye, I will speak plainly to ye, lad, and make sure ye listen well. Yer life is about to be turned upside down. We shall see what kind of man ye are when ye finally land on yer feet. We shall see if ye deserve Maire. Or if that bloody mark is all ye care about in this world."
Oh, that was unfair… to lay the blame on him. Why was it such a bad thing that he wanted his face restored to its former appearance? Who said it was the only thing he cared about? He was not that vain and self-centered. Just because he could not love, that did not mean he could not care.
Rurik closed his eyes to calm his roiling temper. When he opened them, the witch was gone… though he thought he heard the sound of cackling laughter in the distance.
Little did the witch know. His life was already turned upside down.
"Can we go celebrate now?"
Rurik's warm breath whispered into her ear, causing incredibly sensual currents to ripple through her body. For a moment, Maire paused and relished the exquisite sensations that caused her breasts to peak and heat to pool between her legs.
Finally, inhaling sharply for composure—a futile exercise—she turned in her seat at the high table and addressed the rogue, "I thought we were already celebrating… for two hours, to be precise. What else do you call these massive amounts of food and ale, not to mention lute and bagpipe playing, singing, juggling, and more of Bolthor's sagas than any sane person should be required to hear?"
Even Rurik, who was not an overly modest man, had said, "Enough!" when Bolthor had told not one, or two, or three, but four different sagas about Rurik's heroic deeds during today's battle. And Toste and Vagn had yelled, "More than enough!" when Bolthor had attempted, instead, to tell a saga entitled "A Tale of Witch Swiving," immediately after "Ghostly Seductions."
Rurik laughed, his mouth still way too close to her ear. "I had in mind more of an intimate celebration."
She knew what he meant, and, truth to tell, her thoughts had been wandering in that direction all day. But she had things to tell him first. Taking one of his hands in hers, she twined their fingers together, marveling at how small her hand—which was not all that small—looked in his much larger one. At the same time, she delighted in the pressure of his callused palm against hers, and the beat of his pulse where their wrists met. Maire feared she was a lost cause where this man was concerned. Bracing herself, she started what had to be one of the most difficult conversations of her life. "I have wanted to thank you. You saved my clan, and for that I will be forever grateful."
"You are welcome, m'lady," he said graciously, then waggled his eyebrows at her, adding, "Perchance you would like to thank me in a more private place. Methinks a little chain mail exercise would not be amiss."
Maire's face flamed at his reminder of her outrageous conduct of yestereve. "Rurik, I must know. What are your plans now?" She couldn't believe she'd asked that question. She'd promised herself that she would not, even though it had been foremost in her mind all day.
"I don't know," he answered honestly. "Well, actually, I do know, but must we discuss this tonight?"
Her heart sank at the seriousness of his tone. But he was right. This was a night for celebration. She could learn of his plans later.
There was a critical matter to be discussed, however.
"About Jamie…" she began.
Rurik groaned.
"I told you afore you left for the MacNabs that there was something important I had to tell you. Well, this is the time—"
"Speak of the little devil," Rurik said, chuckling.
Jamie and his little band of urchins were swaggering across the cleared area in the middle of the great hall where some ring dancing had just ended. The rascals… six in all… were wearing miniature tunics, like the Vikings wore, and each had their hair braided clumsily on the sides of their faces. But they'd added a new touch this evening… blue, jagged lines down the center of their faces… probably made with blueberry juice, Maire guessed.
She felt Rurik stiffen beside her. Alarmed, she looked at him and quickly advised, "Now, don't be getting your whisk
ers in a twist again. They're not mimicking you. They're emulating you. You're their hero of the day."
But Rurik wasn't angry this time. She could see that. Instead, his head was tilted to the side and a puzzled expression caused his forehead to furrow. "I'm not upset… precisely," he murmured distractedly. "It's just… his black hair."
"Hair? Jamie's?" Oh, God! Oh, no, not now! Not this way!
"Something's been nagging at me for days, especially today after the battle," he explained, turning to stare at her. "All of the MacNabs had red hair. Every single one of them."
Maire tried to pull her hand out of Rurik's grasp, but he would not release her. Maire felt a desperate need to run from the great hall, even if Rurik followed after her. "Rurik, not now. Let's go outside and discuss this. Not here."
It was as if he didn't hear her. "And you have red hair, too," he pointed out, as if speaking his thoughts aloud unconsciously. "So, how is it possible, Maire, that…"
Her heart thumped madly in her chest.
"… that your son has black hair?"
He looked at Jamie, playing a running tag game with his friends, then back at Maire, then at some of the curious faces of people in the hall, including his own Viking comrades, who were noticing his distress.
Everyone's actions seemed to have slowed down. A sudden chill hung in the air, and Rurik's face filled with understanding, and then horror.
He pulled his hand out of her clasp and put his face in both hands. For several long moments, he stayed thus, and Maire's heart sank with dread. "Please, Rurik, let us go outside and discuss this in private."
Finally, he lifted his head, and he gazed at her with contempt. 'Tell me," he demanded in an icy voice.
"Aye, I will tell you," she agreed on a long sigh. She barely stifled a sob as she admitted the long-withheld news, "Jamie is your son."
A son? I have a son?
For five long years I have had a son and never knew!
How many people know? Am I the only one in ignorance?
Oh, God! That foul-mouthed, arrogant, precocious, filthy—in essence, adorable—Scots-child is mine. Mine!
How could she? How could she keep this from me?
Rurik was so angry he feared what he might do. But even in the midst of the red haze that nigh blinded him, Rurik realized that his loss of temper could ruin the celebratory feast for all of the Campbell clan, and that he did not want on his conscience.
He grabbed Maire by the wrist and led her forcefully away from the guests, smiling right and left as he passed through the crowd toward the stairway leading to the upper bedchamber. Only he knew how brittle was his tight-lipped smile, and only Maire knew how painfully his fingers dug into the flesh of her wrist.
Once out of view of her clan and his Viking friends, Rurik practically dragged her up the stairway, down the corridor, and through the oaken door to her bedchamber, which he slammed after them. He shoved her away, fearing he might do her bodily harm, and only then did Rurik relax his tense muscles and press his forehead against the door.
Tears filled his eyes—tears, for the love of Freyja!—but he could not say if they were signs of hurt over Maire's betrayal, or signs of happiness over his instant paternity. So many emotions overwhelmed him, one after another, that he could scarce keep track.
"Rurik, I'm sorry… I can explain," she offered, placing a hand on his shoulder.
He shrugged her off and turned so abruptly, she almost fell backward. "Explain? Explain?" he shouted. "How can you explain not telling a man he is a father?"
"You weren't here," she pointed out with infuriating logic. "As you must recall, you left Scotland afore I could have known I was quickening. Then I married Kenneth, and it seemed more expedient to just let him be father to Jamie."
"Expedient? Expedient?" he sputtered angrily. " 'Tis obvious that the man knew Jamie was not of his seed." An alarming thought occurred to Rurik then. "Did he mistreat the boy?" Oh, he would never forgive her that negligence. Never!
She shook her head vehemently. "I would never have allowed that. He just ignored him most times, even in the beginning when he had no reason to doubt his fatherhood. 'Twas only later that Jamie's appearance made it obvious he was no MacNab. Nay, Rurik, you must believe me. Kenneth never struck Jamie. He only…"
Rurik divined her unspoken words. Kenneth had only struck her. He closed his eyes and inhaled and exhaled several times for calm. Because his seed had taken root in a woman's body, she had been subjected to physical punishment from another man. Did she not know how he would feel knowing that? But, nay, he refused to take the blame for her sins.
"So, you did not tell me in the beginning because I was far away, and because you had a new husband to appease," he said in a surprisingly calm voice as he opened his eyes and speared her with a glower. "What is your excuse for not telling me these past days I have been here in Scotland?"
"Fear."
Well, that made sense, he supposed. "Fear of what?"
"You."
That made sense, too. "I do not make a habit of beating women, even when I am sore angered."
" 'Twas not fear of physical pain that locked my tongue. 'Twas fear that you would take Jamie away from me."
His head jerked up at that unexpected admission. "Why would I do that?"
She shrugged. "Revenge."
He cocked his head as he continued to study her. "You do not think much of me, do you?"
"Men have this thing about carrying on their line. I feared you would develop an instant attachment to your son, and be unable to separate yourself from him. Since you have made your opinions of Scotland clear on many an occasion, 'twas obvious you would not be staying here. So, really, any sane-minded woman would harbor the same fears."
Sane-minded? Hah! Devious, seductive, secretive… yea. But sane-minded? I have my doubts. "Who else knows?"
"Well, I do not think the MacNabs ever knew for sure, though Kenneth probably discussed his suspicions with his brothers at one time or another. Certainly, they never made a connection with you." She took a deep breath, then went on, "But on the Campbell estates, everyone knows."
"Everyone?" he shouted.
"Well, forgive me for pointing this out, Rurik, but you and Jamie are identical in appearance, except for the difference in years. They could not help but note the similarity."
"Your sarcasm knows no bounds, m'lady. Truly, you tug the wolf by the tail when you risk my wrath thus." But her words remained imbedded in his brain. What a sightless fool he must be… not to have seen what everyone else did. Had they been snickering behind his back every time he passed by? Was he once more, as he'd been as a child, a pitiful subject for mockery?
"Rurik, I've told you that I'm sorry. You have to admit that I tried on several occasions to broach the subject. What else could I have done?"
"Thor's Blood! You could have told me."
She stared at him, chin raised with more bravado than she had a right to display. "What will you do now?"
He glowered at her, his chin raised also, unable to express his bone-melting fury. "I do not know," he said, opening the door behind him. "I just know that I cannot bear to be in your presence now. You revolt me."
She flinched, as if he'd struck her, and tears immediately welled in her green eyes, but he steeled himself not to care.
"One thing I do know," he said in a scathing tone before he exited the chamber, "you will pay for this perfidy. You will pay."
"I tol' ye I had somethin' important to tell ye," Jamie said matter-of-factly as he plopped down on the ground beside Rurik.
So, the boy had known, too… or suspected. The situation got worse and worse. For the past hour, Rurik had been sitting at the edge of the loch, staring out over the nighttime waters, thinking… thinking… thinking. And not a solution in sight.
"Shouldn't you be abed?" he asked the boy.
"Me mother sent me to find ye. She said ye might need me?"
Damn, but that witch was going to drive him barmy
. Could she not leave him be till he'd settled his thoughts?
"Do ye?"
"Do I what?"
"Need me."
Rurik's shoulders slumped. How did he answer a question like that? "What I need is to be alone for a bit."
"To settle yer temper?"
He shook his head at the boy, and tried to see him more clearly in the moonlight. Did he really resemble him? Was there a miniature version of himself walking the earth? Why did his heart swell with pride at such a prospect?
"Are ye gonna beat me mother?" the impudent lad inquired. "If that's what's on yer mind, I gotta tell ye… I won't allow it."
Rurik chuckled. The boy did have balls… even if they were small ones. "And how would you be stopping me?"
Jamie made some punching motions in the air. "I'd beat ye to a pulp with me bare hands, and kick ye in the shins, like I used to do with me fath… I mean, Kenneth… and put slugs in yer ale."
A sadness swept over Rurik and squeezed at his heart that his son had witnessed his own mother's abuse. Had he learned early on to dodge his fath… Kenneth's fists, just as Rurik had developed survival skills as a child? If so, Rurik felt new anger boil up in him. He had always sworn that no child of his would go through what he had. 'Twould seem the choice had been taken from his hands.
"I do not beat women," Rurik told the boy flatly.
Jamie let out an exaggerated sigh of relief. "Guess I'll be goin' a-Viking with ye after all, then."
Rurik had to laugh at that. "What would make you think so? That is the last thing on my mind."
The child blinked at him several times before blurting out shakily, "Don't ye… don't ye want me?"
Rurik put his face in one hand and rubbed his fingertips across his creased forehead. When he looked up, the boy was gazing at him as if he'd asked the most important question in the world. "Of course I want you." And, to Rurik's amazement, he realized the truth of his statement.
"Well, then?" Jamie asked, putting his hands on his tiny hips with impatience…just as his mother was wont to do on occasion.
