by Paula Quinn
He raised his head, dark eyes full of indignation, and whimpered. As she walked towards the door, the whimpering became louder. She turned around. The whining stopped; the tail wagged again.
“He doesna want ye to go,” the lad said.
She shook her head. “I ken what he wants. A nice comfortable bed in my chamber.”
She considered the stable hand. He wasn’t a big youth, but he looked capable. “Can ye carry him indoors?” she asked.
*
Ewan assured Kendric he knew exactly the person who would happily take care of the stag. He left the chamber and returned to the courtyard, glad to find Fynn there among a group of men gathered around Ailig’s body laid out on a litter. Their boisterous laughter intrigued him and he soon understood the reason for the amusement. Fingers gripped tightly around the bloody wrist of the severed hand, a grinning Fynn held it up alongside his own mutilated arm.
It struck Ewan as macabre, but the MacCarrons seemed to find it funny. Another gleeful fellow brandished Ailig’s badly dented sword which hadn’t fared well from its encounter with the stone courtyard.
A hush fell when they gradually realized he had joined them. Fynn hastily bent to place the hand atop the corpse. The smile disappeared and he became again the sour-faced clansman. Ewan hoped he wouldn’t always be seen as a negative presence. “Naught wrong wi’ a bit o’ fun,” he said with a smile. “Especially after a day like today.”
The tension eased as men muttered their agreement.
“However,” he announced, “The Camron has decided Niall will be allowed to return home and he’s to take the body with him. Let’s get it down into the vaults.”
Men immediately stepped forward to pick up the litter and carry it away, leaving him alone with Fynn. “I’d say Morley wasn’t well liked.”
“Goes back aways, apparently,” his clansman replied. “The Morleys of Glen Nevis have been at feud wi’ the MacCarron chiefs on numerous occasions in the past.”
Ewan tucked away that bit of clan history. It was essential a laird know who could be depended upon to stick by him through thick and thin. It was gratifying to be sure that Fynn Macintyre would be one such compatriot.
He slapped a hand on his clansman’s shoulder. “Now, my friend, Kendric has decided to give ye the special responsibility of aging and roasting the stag Ruadh brought down.”
He was suddenly reminded of the day he’d given Andrew the toy sword. He thought the beaming Fynn was going to smother him in an embrace as the bairn had done. “Can ye handle it?” he asked.
“I havna seen it yet. I hope they waited a day afore they butchered it. The meat’ll be tough otherwise. I assume they’ve stored it somewhere cold, but not too cold, mind. Do they have a spence? Of course. Every castle has a larder, although mayhap the MacCarrons…I’ll hafta make sure. Can David assist me? Wait!”
He finally took a breath, but resumed his monologue and set off walking at the same time. “Two, mayhap three weeks until it can be roasted, ye ken. I hope The Camron doesna mind waiting. Important not to cook venison until ’tis well-aged, especially a big stag. How big is it?”
Tired of trying to keep pace, Ewan grabbed his arm. “Stop. Do ye even ken where ye’re going?”
Fynn frowned and looked at Ewan as if he were the one who’d gone a bit daft. “To find the spence.”
“In answer to yer question, The Camron wants the venison served at a wedding…or two. So three weeks works well.”
Fynn gaped. “Two weddings?”
Ewan winked. “I assume ye can convince the lovely Lady Jeannie to wed with ye afore then?”
Fynn puffed out his chest. “Aye, laddie, that’ll be no trouble at all.”
“That’s settled then, but leave the larder for the morrow. Time now to bathe and dress for dinner in the hall. ’Tis a night for celebration.”
He held the edge of his plaid as close to his nose as he dared. “This is fit for naught but the rubbish heap, and ye dinna smell too sweet yerself.”
“I’ll remove my things,” Fynn said as they entered the guest chamber.
“No need,” Ewan replied. “They’ll find separate quarters. We’ll share until then.”
When scullery lads brought kettle after kettle of water for the bath, it was a relief to strip off his soiled garments, though he fretted over the beloved plaid.
His dismay must have been apparent on his face.
“Mayhap the laundresses can salvage it,” Fynn suggested, gathering up the discarded clothing. “I’ll teck it down to the laundry, and fetch yer belongings from the stable.”
Ewan privately thought leaving his and Fynn’s raiment for the maidservants to pick up was a more practical idea. However, he did need his second plaid. His kinsman seemed to prefer absenting himself while his lord bathed, so he said nothing as the man left.
He sauntered into the boudoir where he found a cake of Castile soap. Inhaling the aroma of the unexpected luxury, he stepped into the wooden tub, content to discover the water was still pleasantly warm. He lay on his back and ducked his head, which necessitated bending his knees in the too-small tub. Resurfacing, he rubbed the soap in his hair, wishing Shona’s long fingers were massaging his scalp, then ducked down again and rinsed off the lather.
He lay back in the tub and lazily trailed the soap over his chest and belly. The pleasing notion of his betrothed’s hands on his manhood produced the predictable result as he cleansed the intimate parts of his body. He chuckled at the memory of Fynn’s consternation when he’d come upon him easing his needs. Perhaps it was as well the man had left.
He heard the outer door open and close as he was getting out of the tub. Assuming it was Fynn, he grabbed a drying cloth, started rubbing his hair and walked into the chamber.
He resisted the temptation to cover his obvious arousal with the towel when he almost walked into Walter.
Gilbertson’s reaction wasn’t what he might have expected. There was no embarrassment in his undisguised assessment of Ewan’s body.
“Yer pardon, my laird,” he said, without a hint of subservience. “I knocked but there was no answer. I took the liberty of bringing this.”
Ewan’s gut clenched. A MacCarron plaid? It went against every instinct.
Walter nodded to Ewan’s groin. “’Tis clear ye’ll make a fine husband for our Shona as far as yer bodily endowments are concerned, and ye’ve proven yerself a courageous leader this day, but if the feud is ever to truly end…”
The frank exchange should have been fraught with tension and uncertainty, yet in that moment Ewan recognized Walter as a true friend, a man he could count on to give him honest advice. He reached for the plaid and draped it over his shoulder. “How do I look?”
Walter grinned. “Like a Mackinloch pretending to be a MacCarron.”
Ewan threw the wet towel. Still smiling, Walter caught it handily. Colin had never been one to indulge in horseplay, but suddenly Ewan had a brother and it was a heady feeling.
“I’ll wear it on one condition,” he said. “It’ll be pinned with the Mackinloch clan brooch.”
“Fair enough.”
*
Feeling refreshed after Moira helped her bathe and dress, Shona patted Ruadh’s head. “Ye’re spoiled, dog, but I dinna care if it helps ye heal faster.”
The hound woofed his agreement without bothering to raise his head from the mattress and seemed not to mind at all when she and her maid exited the chamber.
To her surprise, Jeannie met them in the hallway. There were faint bruises on her aunt’s cheekbones she hadn’t noticed before. “Ye should still be in bed,” she cautioned.
Her aunt linked her arm. “I nearly died this day, Shona. I dinna intend to spend my life in bed.” She winked the good eye. “Unless o’ course I’m with…”
Moira’s cheeks flushed and she hurried ahead.
Shona held up a hand. “Enough. I get the message. Ye are in lust with Fynn Macintyre.”
Jeannie squeezed her arm. “Aye.
Do ye think he’ll ask me to marry him? Mayhap we can be wed the same day? He’s perhaps a confirmed bachelor. Even if he doesna ask me, I’ll willingly be his leman.”
Shona called a halt and put her hands on her aunt’s shoulders. “Of course he’ll ask ye to be his wife. He’s an honorable man, like Ewan.”
“And ye’re sure ye love this Mackinloch?”
“With all my heart,” she replied, knowing it to be true.
They resumed their walk along the same hallways where fear had held sway just hours earlier. “’Tis wonderful to have our home back to normal,” she said.
“Aye,” her maid sighed in reply.
She’d thought Moira too far ahead of them to hear and hoped she hadn’t heard Jeannie’s remark about becoming Fynn’s leman. It wouldn’t do for servants to gossip about such things.
When they entered the hall, Moira bobbed a curtsey and went off to sit at a servants’ table.
Shona was startled when everyone in the hall got to their feet and cheered. The show of love and respect was a vindication. They were letting her know they believed Mungo Morley had lied. She inhaled deeply as a weight lifted from her shoulders—one she’d carried since her father’s death. It hadn’t dawned on her before that the clan also bore the burden of uncertainty surrounding his fall from the tower, but they knew the truth now—Beathan MacCarron had been murdered and they could grieve his loss appropriately.
They cheered for Jeannie too, and she waved her thanks, looking younger than she had for years. The lingering fear of Ailig had been taken away.
Shona was surprised to see her uncle seated at the head table, though he looked pale and tired, and not very comfortable with one leg still completely encased in a cast. She thought to scold him as she and Jeannie took their places at the head table but her aunt touched her arm. “He wants to be here,” she whispered. “’Tis his right to celebrate with the clan.”
As folk regained their seats at the benches, the chatter gradually resumed, but many besides Shona kept turning to the entryway, including Jeannie and Moira. Expectancy hung in the air.
Her uncle enveloped her hand in his big paw. “He’ll come,” he assured her.
Impatience to see Ewan again was evidently written on her face. Small wonder with so many intense longings coursing through her body. A hush fell over the crowd when he and his kinsmen finally appeared. They hesitated only a moment before Ewan strode to the head table.
Shona’s heart raced as a fever swept over her body. Mayhap she’d fallen foul of some noxious disease lingering in the musty library. Her fellow clansmen and women were evidently as gobsmacked as she was. It took them a moment but soon benches scraped on stone as they stood and cheered loudly. The son of the laird of a clan they’d been at war with for generations, marched through the hall of their stronghold wearing a MacCarron plaid.
Almost dizzy with happiness, Shona risked a glance at her uncle, the only person still seated. Fists clenched atop the ancient table, he smiled broadly, his eyes moist.
The cheers grew to a crescendo when Kendric beckoned Ewan to the head table and he took his place next to Shona.
“Thank ye,” she whispered hoarsely, aware of the cost to his pride of wearing her clan’s plaid.
He took her hand. “I suppose I’ll get used to it,” he replied with a wry grin, nodding to acknowledge the applause.
Curious stares greeted Kendric’s next gesture. He beckoned Fynn to take his place beside Jeannie. When Macintyre obeyed and took his lady’s hand, it gradually dawned on the crowd what was happening. The cheering began again, accompanied this time by the banging of tankards on tables. It was clear Fynn was held in high esteem, which would certainly make life easier for Ewan. The most important thing though was the glow of happiness that lit her aunt’s face.
Kendric held up a hand and the din slowly subsided. “I have one more happy announcement,” he declared. “It seems Lady Shona’s maid and Laird Ewan’s kinsman intend to wed.”
All eyes sought the pair, who both blushed deeply. Shona worried David might not yet have asked for Moira’s hand, but he grinned, swept Moira into his embrace and kissed her lustily. She entwined her arms around his neck and kissed him back with equal fervor. The rafters echoed with the cheering and whistling that ensued.
Marking Time
In the days that followed, Ewan spent countless hours in meetings with Kendric and the clan elders, but Shona was never far from his thoughts. He enjoyed sharing an account of the deliberations with her on the rare occasions they had time to themselves. They’d agreed it would be deemed inappropriate to meet alone in their private apartments, so a quiet corner by the window of the sickroom became their trysting place. They sat in separate chairs until they were sure her uncle was asleep, then she moved to sit on his lap.
The warmth of her lovely bottom pressed to his arousal was sweet torture, but it was better than no contact at all. It seemed like the day of their wedding would never arrive.
“Yer uncle is a more reasonable man than my father,” he admitted in a whisper, but acknowledged privately that was perhaps just the way of the world. Kendric’s ready acceptance of many of his ideas for the future of Clan MacCarron caused him to wonder. Had Duncan Mackinloch deliberately rejected some of his suggestions because he was afraid his second son might plot to usurp Colin’s right to succeed as laird?
While Ewan hadn’t seen eye to eye with Colin and knew in his heart he’d make a better leader, he would never have challenged his brother’s birthright.
“We settled on preliminary plans for the improvement of defenses and the refurbishment of the hidden chamber,” he told his betrothed. She laughed when he mentioned discussion on both topics was liberally sprinkled with good-natured jests about the diminished threat of the Mackinlochs. Her genuine amusement warmed his heart and caused him to realize Kathleen’s tittering seemed false in comparison. Shona enjoyed his company, and they shared a similar sense of humor. Gratifying, too, was her interest in matters concerning the future wellbeing of the clan, and she wasn’t shy about offering suggestions.
“Tempers frayed during discussions regarding raising money to pay the agreed-upon installments for the purchase of Loch Alkayg,” he conceded.
His frustration ebbed when she replied, “Is there a Highlander anywhere who doesna balk at the prospect of spending coin?”
She grimaced at the news they’d discussed improving all the castle’s cesspits after it came to light the entire drainage system hadn’t been cleaned in living memory.
In an obvious effort to change the subject she asked, “Did ye remember to bring up the library?”
He nodded. “The elders looked at me curiously when I spoke of it. It was clear some had never set foot in the place and others admitted they didn’t know of its existence.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m nay surprised. It’s a well-kept secret.”
“Weel, they ken about it now. Kendric mumbled a promise to be more conscientious about recording recent events.”
She lowered her voice. “Ye should have pointed out he has time at his disposal now he’s lying injured.”
All in all, he was pleased with the way the Clan Council supported him taking Kendric’s place until he recovered. Mayhap when the older man passed on, the clan might consider naming him The Camron.
He chuckled at his own folly. As if the MacCarrons would choose a Mackinloch.
*
Ruadh loved a lazy life, yet he soon insisted on hobbling about on unsteady legs. Shona worried he might loosen his stitches, but the ostler assured her he’d be fine. In his opinion, exercise was good. She laughed when the dog gave the old man a baleful look, as if he’d understood the word exercise.
She appreciated his company when she went for a walk in the kitchen gardens.
Ewan was involved in many discussions with Kendric and other clan elders and she deemed it a good omen for the future that he shared his impressions of the meetings with her. He respected her. It never o
ccurred to most of her fellow clansmen that a woman might have worthwhile opinions.
Rumor had it Ewan, Fynn and David were spending many hours watching over the aging of the deer meat and assembling the ingredients and equipment needed for the cooking.
“It sometimes seems the three bridegrooms are more interested in the food to be served at the banquet than in the ceremony itself,” Jeannie complained one day as she watched the seamstresses working on yet another fitting for Shona’s wedding gown. “Mackinlochs must think the MacCarrons have never roasted a deer before.”
They fell into the habit of taking turns with dress fittings. As soon as the lasses were satisfied with the progress on one gown, they moved across the hall to the next fitting, Ruadh dawdling behind.
Kendric declared it was more appropriate the maid’s marriage to David take place the day before Shona’s wedding. “Her family will want to be in charge of those festivities,” he pointed out. “It’s their right.”
Moira was openly relieved by the decision.
The laird’s health improved. Cummings cut away the top part of his cast and he was able to walk a few steps each day with the aid of crutches tucked under both armpits. He didn’t conceal his frustration with the crutches, but conceded they were a necessary evil. He still complained of pain in the hip and the physician acknowledged it might never go away. “Fyking Morleys,” Kendric often muttered. “I suppose we’ll have to convene a trial for Mungo soon.”
Shona suspected he was delaying the inevitable until he could preside without anger getting the better of him. She toyed with the notion of suggesting Ewan act in his stead, but her betrothed wasn’t exactly impartial when it came to Mungo Morley. Still, she felt the matter should be resolved before her wedding. She didn’t want to be worried about it during the festivities, but was reluctant to raise the issue with her future husband.
Donald assigned servants to clean every nook and cranny of the hall. Banners were taken down, aired and repaired when necessary. Boys crawled along rafters on hands and knees sweeping away cobwebs. Hunting trophies, shields, swords, tapestries: all were removed, cleaned and put back in place. The hearth and chimney were scrubbed and pumiced. Ivy was ripped from the castle walls and festooned from the rafters.
