Iain kept his arm about Lorne’s waist as his gaze encompassed Robert, James, and Rory. ‘When I left Kinlochalen that day, I was one of God’s angry men, filled with a sense of outrage and injustice, and mad for revenge. I vowed I would not rest until Ewan Galbraith and Edgar McBryde were hung from the Gallows Tree—and, in part,’ he said, looking directly at Rory, ‘I succeeded. I realise you must hate me for that, and must have wished me dead and rotting in hell a million times over. But your father was a villain. He got what he deserved.’
‘I know,’ Rory agreed quietly. ‘I don’t hate you, and I have no intention or an overzealous determination to avenge my father. Killing was his way of doing things—and my brothers’—not mine. Strife goes on in the Highlands—murder and pillage—and yet life goes on.’
‘As it always will,’ Iain responded quietly. ‘I owe you a debt of gratitude. Thank you—for what you did for Davie that day—and thank you for telling me. I am grateful. You have done more for me than you will ever know.’ He put out his hand. ‘Have I your pardon?’
Rory took the outstretched hand. ‘Yes—freely and gladly given.’
‘Thank you.’ Taking Lorne in his arms, Iain held her tenderly to his chest. ‘What a stubborn fool I’ve been. Why did I silence you when I should have listened? I love you, Lorne. I love you more than you will ever know, and I swear that I will spend the rest of my days making amends for making you suffer. He raised his head, his silver gaze going to the faces of the silent Highlanders, who had not moved from the hearth, their minds and bodies still vibrating from their recent encounter with Kilpatrick, and recuperating their energies for their long ride to Drumgow.
Lorne followed her husband’s gaze, and she smiled softly. The strange, almost unreal picture they all presented was one that would remain for ever in her mind.
A servant appeared carrying a salver of brandy and goblets. After placing it on an ornately carved, dark oak dresser, he went out. Releasing his hold on Lorne, Iain poured the brandy into goblets and offered them to those assembled with a fleeting smile. This was the first courteous gesture he had made to the McBrydes, but it was enough to show that he wanted no more animosity, and that whatever happened in the past was done with now.
When her brothers were on the point of leaving for Drumgow, Lorne took Robert aside and faced him squarely. ‘I hope you return safely to Drumgow, but before you go it is important to me that I have your blessing. Do I have it, Robert?’
‘Aye—reluctantly, mind—ye have it—and ye can see how love makes a man weak. The two of ye have one heart—I can see that.’ Placing his finger beneath her chin, he tilted her face up to his and gazed deep into her eyes, the same emerald green as his own. ‘So, you see, sister, that’s the way of it. In the end, the daughter of Edgar McBryde has her way.’
‘Aye, Robert,’ she whispered, swallowing down the lump of emotion that had risen in her throat, her heart aching with gratitude and sadness of their imminent parting. ‘So it would seem.’
Outside the house Iain came to where Lorne was standing as she watched her brothers and Rory mount their horses. In the spirit of a new understanding, which saw an end to the bad blood between them, they bade each other farewell. Iain’s eyes met Lorne’s of their own volition, before returning to the departing men, and with his arm around her waist they watched them go their separate ways. When they were no longer in their sights, their eyes met once more and held for a long moment. It was as though a deluge of unspoken rhetoric passed between them, grave and joyous both.
After supper, finding themselves alone, with an embarrassed cough John said to Lorne, ‘I’d like a word, my lady, if ye please.’
Lorne glanced at him inquiringly. Having watched him struggle with his emotions ever since her brothers’ and Rory’s departure, she had waited for him to speak to her. There was a change in him, a softening, and she had Rory to thank for that. ‘My name is Lorne, John. I wish you would use it, for I would dearly like to be your friend.’
Soberly, awkwardly, he looked at her. ‘Aye, to be sure.’
‘John, what is it that you want to say to me?’ she prompted gently.
He coughed again, this time nervously. ‘Something told me that I ought to make amends. Ye might call it a tribute of a repentant conscience.’
She smiled softly. ‘Conscience? What a strange word to hear on your lips, John.’
‘Aye, maybe. I confess it dinna come easy for me, but ’tis correct under the circumstances. That day in Kinlochalen—I accused ye wrongly, and I deeply regret having done so.’
John’s frankness startled Lorne. He could see that and a faint smile curved on his lips. ‘I’m not being very subtle, I fear, but this isna easy for me. I wouldna blame ye at all if you refused to forgive me. My conduct was inexcusable.’
‘It was indeed,’ Lorne agreed. ‘But you believed what you saw and behaved accordingly.’ She put out a hand and placed it on his arm, speaking from the heart. ‘We will say no more about it, John. It was a long time ago and best put behind us. ’Tis over and done with.’
They were silent, looking at each other, and Lorne felt a curious warmth for this man she had every reason to despise. She knew his apology had not been easy, and she could tell he was completely sincere—as remarkable as it might be.
With a trace of humour playing across his lips, his eyes beneath the woolly brows twinkled into the warm green ones. It was easy to become mesmerised in their clear depths, easy to see why Iain loved her so. ‘Do ye think we might be friends?’
She smiled. ‘I think it highly possible.’
He drew a long shuddering breath of relief. ‘Heaven be praised.’ He regarded her narrowly. ‘Perhaps we should allow ourselves a small celebration to honour our new relationship—over some excellent brandy in the parlour, perhaps—just the two of us?’
‘Why—thank you, John,’ she laughed, responding to his humour and enjoying the light repartee. ‘But I am afraid I must decline.’
‘On what grounds?’
‘On the grounds that I am a very respectable and satisfied married woman—and a heavily pregnant one, in case it has escaped your notice.’ She laughed, placing her hand on her swelling abdomen and favouring her husband with an adoring smile when he chose that moment to enter the room. She moved towards him.
Iain looked from one to the other, unable to lay a tight rein on his broad grin, for he was highly delighted to see the friendly demeanour John was displaying towards Lorne, and that the tension and bitterness that had marked their relationship for so long had disappeared at last. He paused for a moment, his hand lightly placed on the small of his wife’s back, while his eyes searched hers, delving into those smiling green depths for some clue to the game she had been playing with John before he had interrupted them.
‘What’s this? My two favourite people speaking to each other at last? Why, you seem almost civilised. I don’t know if I can stand it.’
Lorne’s lips curved softly beneath his stare, and she stretched up on her toes to place a soft kiss on his lis. ‘You have no choice in the matter, my love,’ she replied, her voice low and trembling with happiness. ‘None whatsoever.’
The great hall hadn’t seen such a gathering since the Earl had brought Lorne McBryde to Castle Norwood as his captive, but whereas that had been a time of strife, the christening of Charles David Monroe was a joyous occasion, with family, friends, tenants and neighbours all invited. The baby slept with the total abandonment of love and trust in his crib, in spite of the noise of so many voices raised in toasting his arrival, wishing him good health and a long life.
At the long table groaning with food sat Agnes and Hugh, their heads close together, talking softly and secretly as lovers do. Agnes raised her hand and touched his cheek, and looking their way Lorne saw Hugh’s ruby ring sparkle on her finger as it caught the light. Smiling, she leaned into her husband, who sat beside her on the bench, sighing contentedly as his arms closed round her, his warmth and his strength soothing her.
‘I’m so glad Agnes is to marry Hugh and will live in Scotland. It means we’ll see each other often.’
‘So you will, my love.’
‘Life is so good to us. I didn’t know it could be like this.’
‘There are many things I couldn’t have imagined when I brought you to Castle Norwood as my captive,’ Iain murmured, placing a kiss on her shining head.
Lorne turned in his arms and looked at him, loving him, and said with tender solemnity, ‘I bless the day you did, Iain Monroe. I would not have my life any other way.’
Wanting her with a yearning that went beyond flesh, Iain knew as he looked into her eyes that she represented every hope and every dream he cherished in his heart.
ISBN: 978-1-4268-4483-6
TRAITOR OR TEMPTRESS
Copyright © 2007 by Helen Dickson.
First North American Publication 2009.
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