by Carmen Caine
And then he dropped her hand and turned back to Ewan.
“Ach, Ewan, you’re a daft one,” he said, forming the words with difficulty. “Ye’ll take care of the lad, I know it.”
“Aye,” Ewan nodded, his eyes damp and red-rimmed. “Forgive me. I should have seen them coming—”
“Nay, ‘twas never your fault … I dinna wish to waste my … life’s breath arguing with ye,” he said between short gasps. “Dinna let me see … ye again until you’re old … and gray, aye?”
Ewan bowed his head and began to weep.
Merry choked.
Alec heard the sound and gave her a weak smile. “Dinna shed a tear for me, lad,” he said in a voice so soft that she could hardly hear it. And then he attempted to grin. “Will ye … tell me your name now?”
She fell to her knees and grasped his cold hands between hers. “Merry,” she gasped through her tears. “Merry MacLeod.”
“MacLeod,” he repeated, holding tightly onto her hands. “Merry. Your name … will be the last upon my lips. Merry. Aye, ‘tis as soft … as sunbeams in the spring. I love ye, lass.”
His hand was cold and clammy, and then Merry could not hold the tears back. They flowed down her cheeks like a river.
“I love ye, too, Alec,” she gulped.
It was the truth. Aye, she didn’t love him like Ewan, but she did love him all the same.
Again, he tried to smile, but the effort was far too taxing. And then his pale face lost even more color and turned gray as the death rattle settled upon him. It wasn’t long before his eyes dimmed and then shut.
And then, with one last gasp, his chest stilled.
Merry silently wept, and Ewan’s head sank against his chest.
They remained where they were for a time, and then Ewan carefully eased Alec back onto the pillows. And then drawing up the plaid, he covered Alec’s head.
“’Tis been a grim day,” he whispered hoarsely.
Kissing his own fingers, he then laid them briefly on the shroud covering Alec’s head. And then drawing a small leather money pouch from his own sporran, he presented it to the old woman.
“Coins for his eyes and to pay the monks to accompany his earthly body home,” he said. “What’s leftover is yours for your aid, kind lady.”
She eyed the pouch and then took it from his hand. “What’s in here belongs to Sorcha, not me,” she said, and then she turned a sharp eye on him. “His death is not your fault, lad. A man’s fate is his own.”
Ewan nodded grimly.
And then Merry crossed herself with a trembling hand, unable to tear her eyes from Alec’s shrouded body until Ewan gently pulled her away, gathering her close in the circle of his arms.
She stayed there a time, taking comfort in his strong embrace and resting her cheek against his chest, until finally, she remembered he was still injured himself.
“Ye should rest,” she said, lifting her face to meet his.
“Aye, but Alec—” he began, glancing back toward the bed.
“There’s monastery not far from here,” Sorcha said from the fire. “I’ll ride to the monks in the morning. I’m sure there are those able to take him home to his clan. ‘Tis time to take your rest, ye have a wound of your own to heal, aye?”
Ewan nodded, but he didn’t stay inside. Instead, he moved to sit on the stone steps under the roses, and after a moment, Merry joined him. Draping a soft woolen plaid about his shoulders, she sat by his side and leaned her head tiredly against his broad shoulder.
A dim, soft light flickered through the cracks in the doors and shutters, and in the moonlight, she could see long fingers of mist stretching toward the house, giving it an eerie feel.
And then the reality of what had happened struck her.
Alec was dead.
She wouldn’t see his lopsided grin again nor experience his pleasantly boyish charm. He was truly gone, and it had happened so quickly.
A sudden pang of guilt jolted through her, and she gasped in horror. “’Tis my fault,” she said, her voice breaking with emotion. “Ye both left Carlisle to ride after me.”
“Nay,” Ewan leaned down to whisper hoarsely in her hair. “The fault is mine. Ye only left Carlisle because of my foolishness.”
“Nay,” Merry disagreed, but Ewan silenced her by placing a finger upon her lips.
He pulled her head down against his chest then and, swathing the plaid over her shoulders to ward off the chill, settled back with her against the cottage door.
Neither spoke then. There was truly nothing else left to say.
* * *
Ewan woke as dawn painted the sky bright pink, surprised to discover that he had actually slept. Merry lay across his chest. For a time, he simply studied her sleeping face as the sunlight flooded the clearing.
The events of the day before seemed only a dream. Nay, not a dream. A nightmare.
And then he spied Sorcha riding across the clearing on a white highland pony. She was heading into the forest. The lass was an unsettling one. He was inclined to believe she truly was a witch. But she had eased Alec’s pain, and for that, he was ever in her debt.
Gently easing himself out from under Merry, he stepped inside the cottage.
The old woman sat by the fire wrapped in a shawl, her wrinkled hands folded over the head of her walking stick. Alec still lay on the bed, shrouded with a plaid.
“Sorcha left for the monastery.” Catriona greeted him with a kind smile.
“Aye, I saw the lass.” Ewan nodded, and then spying Alec’s sporran and sword lying next to the bed, he walked over to trace his fingers along them.
He still couldn’t believe that he had to bury Alec. Not after all they’d shared together. He closed his eyes, feeling a wave of sorrow wash over him. He’d buried too many. He was done with it.
It was time to lay his sword down.
But then a ripple of anger coursed through him. Aye, he’d lay his sword down after he’d avenged Alec’s death.
Once more, he dipped his head in respect and then excused himself to care for the horses.
Sorcha returned a short time later, followed by two friars with an ox-drawn carriage.
And it seemed as if only a moment had passed before they had settled Alec into the back of the carriage to begin his final journey home. One of the monks led them in prayer, and then crossing herself, Merry placed a garland of wildflowers and heather upon Alec’s shrouded body.
And then it was done.
Within minutes, the carriage had disappeared into the forest, leaving Ewan to wonder if it was all just some kind of horrible dream.
The old woman waved them back into Heather House and offered them a humble fare of nettle broth and bannocks. They ate in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. And then rising to take their leave, Ewan and Merry thanked the women for their aid, and soon they were upon their horses, trotting away from the lonely, little cottage.
It was when they’d left the glen some distance behind them that Merry halted Diabhul with a deep scowl marring her brow.
Riding up to her side, Ewan pulled rein. “Aye, lass?” he queried softly.
“Those women,” she said, shaking her head. “I canna decide if they were keen in the old ways or if they were mad.”
Ewan hesitated.
He’d always believed only in what he could see, but he couldn’t help but think something else had occurred in Alec’s death.
“Some say if ye live too long alone in the wilderness, madness seizes your soul,” he said quietly then. “But I dinna know, Merry. I’ve been caught in battle-madness, and I’ve seen many a man die, but Alec’s death … ‘twas different. For the first time, I wonder if the old ways do exist, but I am not a wise enough man to know. I only know for certain that I dinna belong there, in that place named Heather House.”
“Aye.” She nodded in agreement.
And then he leaned over and cupped her cheek with his hand. “We’ll end the sorrow, Merry, I swear it. And I’ll take
ye home with me to Mull. We’ll spend the rest of our days in peace, walking the beaches and listening to the selkies, aye?”
“Aye,” she agreed, but her fists were clenched. “After we see Alec’s soul at peace. I would have Cunningham pay for his death.”
“I’ll see Alec avenged,” Ewan swore between his teeth as his anger rose to consume him like fire. “Aye, I’ll see that Hugh Cunningham pays with his life.”
They fell silent after that, and rode, subdued, the remainder of the day.
As dusk settled, they made camp near a cankered, twisted pine perched on the edge of a loch.
The last traces of daylight falling behind the surrounding hills found Ewan sitting by the fire, staring into the flames, lost in thought. Anger and sorrow came in waves, an anger that consumed him and a sorrow that threatened to weigh down his soul. He’d lost too many. He couldn’t lose anymore. His soul could no longer bear it, not when he’d finally begun to feel again.
A light touch on his shoulder shook him from his thoughts, and he glanced up into Merry’s earnest brown eyes.
Holding his gaze, she knelt before him and rested her hands upon his knees. “I wish I could take your pain away,” she said, her eyes bright with unshed tears.
Catching her hand, he brought her fingers to his lips. Heaving a sigh, he whispered, “Ye do, Merry, more than ye can ever know.”
And then settling back, he gently tugged her down by his side.
They gave way to a crushing weariness then, and resting his head against a saddle, Ewan didn’t let himself think. He just lay there under the sapphire sky with Merry’s head resting upon his shoulder.
The night was a peaceful one. The waves lapping the loch shore mingled with the occasional hoot of an owl in a hypnotic way, and gradually, Ewan felt the tension melt from Merry, and her slow breathing signaled she had fallen asleep.
Tapping the hilt of his sword to reassure himself it was within easy reach, he then cradled Merry close to his chest and closed his eyes, promising himself it would only be for a moment.
But it was much more than that. To his surprise, when he opened them again, the rays of the morning sun had just broken over the tops of the surrounding hills. Astonished that he had slept well yet again, he softly kissed Merry’s short ebony curls still resting on his shoulder. She still slept, and he felt his heart tug. The lass was fair exhausted. Not wanting to wake her, he lay there in the green ferns, watching the hawks circle lazily and listening to the chorus of the morning birds.
It was such a serene moment in time that he didn’t want to move, lest it end.
And then to his utter astonishment, he found himself waking up once more. How could he have fallen back to sleep so easily?
But then, he sensed a shadow crossing his face, blocking the sunlight.
Instantly alert, he kept his eyes closed as his fingers curled around the hilt of his sword. Merry still slept by his side, her hair tickling his cheek, and he felt the weight of her arm resting across his chest.
Ach, he couldn’t prevent her from suffering a rude awakening.
But he couldn’t wait a moment longer.
With a fierce battle cry, he swiftly unsheathed his sword and arcing it up, leapt to his feet.
Chapter Twelve – A Lass Once Again
There was a resounding clash of metal on metal, and then Ewan recognized the flash of Clan Gray plaid and saw his cousin’s laughing gray eyes staring back at him over crossed swords.
“Julian!” Ewan expelled his breath in relief, and dropping his sword, clasped the man into a bear hug.
Julian clapped him warmly on the back and then held him at arm’s length to inspect him with a shrewd gaze as Ewan did the same.
Julian hadn’t changed much over the years, except perhaps, a few more wrinkles in the face. His jaw was firm, his body lithe, and he still wore his blond hair loose about his shoulders. And, as ever, his lips were quick to shift into a charming smile. Pushing his hair back from his face, Julian shoved his sword back into its scabbard and reached out to draw Merry to her feet from her startled, crouched position.
“Merry, ‘tis right pleased I am to see ye again, lass,” he said.
“Lord Gray.” Merry choked in surprise.
“My apologies for the rough awakening.” Julian’s gaze swept her from head to toe as a gleam of amusement entered his eye. “I sought to surprise Ewan, but there’s little chance of doing that healthily with this fierce warrior. ‘Tis fortunate I thought to draw my sword, or else I’d have lost my head, aye?”
“Nay,” Ewan disagreed with a slight smile. “Not so fierce a warrior, Julian.”
“But ye would have sliced my neck!” his cousin protested, throwing his head back in a laugh. And then his keen eyes shifted between Merry and Ewan a moment before adding, “Ruan will be pleased to see ye, Merry. He was fair concerned to learn ye’d run off.”
“Aye,” she cleared her throat, still looking a little stunned.
But Ewan lifted a curious brow. “And did Ruan receive my letter?” he asked.
Julian shrugged. “Not when I’d left, but I havena seen the man for almost a sennight. I was on my way to meet Archibald when I saw Diabhul grazing on the moor. ‘Tis fortunate he escaped his tether or else I never would have found ye.”
At the mention of Diabhul, Merry excused herself and swiftly ran off, and Ewan couldn’t resist allowing his eyes a quick appreciative dip over her slim figure as she left.
Julian didn’t miss it. With his cheek creasing into a grin, he began to nod slowly. But when he spoke, he only said, “I was on my way down to Carlisle to rescue ye when I’d heard the task was already done.”
“Aye,” Ewan said with a nod, moving to kick the fire back to life.
He told him then of Merry’s brave rescue, Cunningham’s betrayal, and Alec’s death.
“Hugh Cunningham,” Julian repeated the name grimly. “He’s riding with the Galwegians to fight for the Prince. I saw him not a day ago. ‘Tis like the devil’s spawn to play both sides.”
“I’ll see him hanged for what he did to Alec,” Ewan swore.
“Aye, but ‘tis really a matter for Cameron, lad,” Julian replied with a note of caution. “‘Twas at Cunningham’s bidding that the Galwegians came to our call.”
“Are ye telling me that Alec’s death will go unavenged—” Ewan began in an angry tone.
“Nay,” Julian interrupted with a mirthless laugh. “Much can happen in the foggy field of battle, aye? I’ve ridden hard lately and have learnt that the Duke of Montrose has mustered an army sufficient in number to fight the prince. They’re on their way now to Stirling with the king. But his force is small compared to ours, if we can engage him afore the northern clans arrive.”
Ewan fell silent. War. Another war.
Julian read his expression. “Aye, there is no stopping the king now, I fear,” he said quietly.
“And our men?” Ewan asked grimly. “Where are we mustering?”
“Even now the Earl of Angus is bringing the prince’s army to Stirling, pressing on from Falkirk to the plain above Torwood Bridge,” Julian replied with a tired yawn. “He’s not far from here, I’d think.”
Ewan scowled.
He’d never cared for Archibald Douglas, the Earl of Angus, Lord of the East March. He cared for him even less after the man had let him rot in Carlisle for a month.
Julian read his face and sent him a commiserative smile.
“Can ye trust him?” Ewan couldn’t help but ask. “The man has betrayed us afore. More than once he’s brought Englishmen to our land.” Aye, he’d fought the man himself at the Battle of Lochmaben not that long ago.
Julian chuckled. “Aye, but remember, the man betrayed James, Ewan. Not Scotland. He’s fought to get rid of the king from the beginning, and if there’s one thing I trust, it’s Archibald on the opposite side of the battlefield from the king.”
“I suppose,” Ewan grunted reluctantly and then switched subjects. “Are ye coming with
me to Stirling? I shall see Merry sent home, but I would see Ruan first.”
“Nay, my task is not yet done, lad,” his cousin said, clasping him upon the shoulder. “But I’ll ride with ye until the crossroads.”
A few years ago, he’d been quite surprised to discover that his scandalous cousin had actually created his unsavory reputation to mask his activities as a spy for Scotland. He gave Julian a nod, grateful that Scotland had such a man fighting for her.
Merry returned then, and Julian shared with them a quick meal of honey-spiced almonds and salted beef.
“And how fares your wife and son?” Merry asked when they’d finished.
Julian’s eyes lit with a smile. “I miss them sorely,” he replied. “But they’ll return home from the continent by midsummer. I can only hope matters have been settled by then, and I can return to Castle Huntly and sleep the day long.”
They all laughed then, knowing that Julian would never be satisfied with such a life.
And then as white clouds passed lazily over the sun, they saddled their horses and headed once again toward Stirling.
Less than an hour later, they’d arrived at the crossroads only to hear the sound of jingling bits and the snorts of many approaching horses.
“’Tis Archibald,” Julian announced with a grin and waved his hand.
He’d scarcely spoken before a horseback party of men with upright spears rode around the bend in the road. They were led by the sturdy built red-haired, broad-faced Archibald Douglas, the Earl of Angus and Lord of the East March.
Archibald drew his mount up before them. “Well met, MacLean,” he greeted him with a broad grin. “Last I heard ye were in Carlisle, in a bit of trouble with that Montgomery.”
Ewan drew back as if he’d been slapped. “Alec’s dead,” he answered curtly.
Archibald blinked in surprise. “Then they hung him that quickly, aye? I thought we had more time.”
Ewan clenched his jaw. The man had let them rot in a dungeon for over a month. How much time had he wanted? But he knew there was little to be gained by mentioning it now. Instead, he answered, “Nay, Alec died not even two days ago by the hand of the Cunninghams. ‘Twas a cowardly ambush.”
