He drew back his hand. With a war cry, he rammed his fist on Bran’s chin. Blood, spit, and teeth flew out as Bran toppled into the dirt and a nice size pile of manure.
He shook out his hand. Eacharn came to his man’s side. Behind him, before the onlookers, MacLean and Caelen stood. The onlookers parted for him. No one followed him as he made his way into the great hall. He needed a damn drink.
On the table was a flagon. He went straight for it and snatched it up. He drank deeply. Hell, he drank it all. He slammed it down on the table. The clang of pottery striking wood was drowned by a sharp inhale. He turned toward it.
Rowen hurried to his side. He held out his hand, motioning her to halt. “Go away, Rowen and stay away.”
He turned from her. His rage gave him the will to end it. Much like the pains and possible bruises he’d have later, he’d have to deal with the heartbreak, too.
“Come Rowen. Someone will care for Lachlan,” the Lairdess said.
He couldn’t hear if she had departed over his roaring heartbeat drumming in his ear. When he started to the kitchen, he saw that he was alone in the hall.
It matched his mood.
* * * *
Rowen hid in the chamber. She thought she would be alone here to feel pity for herself. She stiffened when the wind rushed through the chamber from the opening door. Ailsa closed the door behind her. She ambled over to the window and Rowen.
She kept her gaze aimed out on the mountainous vista. Ailsa said nothing when Rowen felt the tension from her.
“He turned away from me. He had never done that before.”
Ailsa leaned a hip on the windowsill. “It is what is proper. Now, you must do the same.”
“But he is hurt. He needs someone to care for him.”
“That is not you, Rowen. I do not know what you two were playing at. Imagine if your brother or my husband or worse, Laird Murray or Eacharn had come across you two stealing kisses. I can see that you did not.”
Rowen crossed her arms and curled up her shoulder to ward off Ailsa’s words. “I am doing my duty.”
“Nay, you are not. Your duty is to wed Eacharn yet you sneak about with another man. Do you know what you play at?”
Rowen cringed inwardly at her sharp tone.
“I love Lachlan. I only wished to have some happiness for myself.”
Ailsa snorted. “You play at war. I shall not have my husband ride off to slay or be slain because you wish to be selfish.”
“I am not selfish. And there is no reason for MacLeans to go to war.”
“Rowen, you are not that ignorant. Lachlan is a MacLean man, his foster brother. He’s a tacksman. Murray will war against us and against your clan. You shall lose your reputation and most likely spend your remaining days in a nunnery.”
She shook her head at her exaggeration. “Oh Ailsa, you are stretching out the tale. It shall not come to that. Once I am married I shall not see him again.”
“Stretching—I am not speaking of fairies or my prowess with a dirk. If any insult is given, which it has been, then there can be nothing else. Another thing you have chosen to disregard is how can you find happiness in your marriage if you haven’t let him go.”
“I have already vowed to do that.”
“After the marriage or when you leave these lands?”
Rowen clamped her lips close.
“Do it now. For yourself and for Lachlan. I know you love him, so love him enough to let him have a chance for something.”
She hung her head. “I do not want to.”
Ailsa hugged her. “I understand. To give up the man you love…that was one thing I did not need to do, but whenever Duncan leaves, I feel myself physically torn apart. If I feel a sliver of your pain, then I know you are hurting, nay wounded.”
“I love him. I love him.” She shook her head. “He loves me. How can I live knowing he is so near? How can I live just hearing about him? To hear him wage war or marry, have children even die. I lied to myself. I lied so well that I believed I could leave him.”
Rowen collapsed against her with tears falling. Ailsa held her as Rowen let out hitched breaths and silent screams. She pulled on her and dragged Ailsa down to the floor with her. Ailsa rocked her, smoothed down her hair, and just held her.
“Continue to lie to yourself, and then one day you will discover it is true.” Ailsa cupped her by the chin. She brushed the wet strands caught in her tear tracks, and then wiped the tears from her cheeks.
Rowen held onto Ailsa’s arm as strongly as she held onto her advice. Weakened, Rowen sat crumpled on the floor. Her shoulder slumped. Her head was too heavy to lift. Her limbs were nothing but mush.
“Come splash some water on your face.” Ailsa wrapped an arm around her waist and lifted her to her shaky feet. She led her to the basin. She still held her as she poured water. “Come now.”
She threw handful of chilled water on her blistering face. She threw some more, upset she could still feel.
Ailsa held out a drying cloth. When she didn’t take it, Ailsa wiped her face.
Rowen twisted her face and took the cloth. “I can do it myself.”
“When you were acting like a bairn…”
Rowen groaned. “You have reprimanded me already and you are correct.”
Ailsa picked up a comb and drew it through Rowen’s hair. When she finished, she said, “Rowen, come down when you are ready.” Ailsa squeezed her shoulder in comfort and support. She left the chamber. The lever fell into place. Its metal screech floated through the room.
Once she regained her stubborn will, she angled her chin high and left the chamber.
* * * *
Lachlan sat at the head of one of the lower tables. His men raised their cups as Bran wobbled in and gingerly lowered to the bench. The truth was, Lachlan felt better for the fight, letting the humming energy of his rage free, even though his back cramped with each movement. Bran slammed him good and hard against the wall. It gave him something to focus on and his simmering anger blocked the throbbing.
He smirked across the hall at Bran. Stupid fool lowered his head.
Eoin chuckled, spewing out chunks of chewed meat. “Och, Lachlan, the wee lass is fearful of ye.”
“The lasses do not need to be afraid of me.”
“Na e’en yer third leg.” Gill grinned and waggled his brows.
“Not that at all. It’s a comfort to them.” Lachlan puffed up his chest. The men’s laughter floated over him. He acted as expected. If he acted as that man, then one day he’d feel like the man he was.
That wasn’t the only task he faced. Lachlan rose from his seat, having had his fill. He left the festivities and echoing voices behind him. He headed to the garrison. Once inside the dank building, he went to his chamber. Here he breathed easier. This building, with its thick stone-walls and basic furnishing, had been his home since he was a small lad. He had fought and earned respect of the previous laird and the present one. The bastard that had Gordon blood but lacked ties had received land, become a tacksman and one of the finest man in MacLean clan. He couldn’t have everything in life, but his life had been better than others born in the same circumstances.
He threw open his trunk. He gathered the belongings he needed and finished his task quicker than he had hoped. He pulled a stool before the fire and sat there. He tested out the words he needed to speak. Nothing seemed right. Either it was too simple, too foolish, or not truthful.
Giving up, he left the chamber and returned to the great hall. He must have lingered in his chamber longer than he thought because the servants had finished cleaning up. The castle dogs devoured their scraps. The growls of delight and snaps to protect their portions blended with Mrs. MacBheart’s tired voice floating out from the corridor.
He wasted no time and made his way to Rowen’s chamber. He knocked before he entered. Rowen stood at the window. Hell, she could have been standing in London for as close she appeared to him. Then he saw it—the longing and sorrow in her eyes
.
“Rowen,” he licked his lips “I’m here to say farewell. I must let you go. Know that I love you and I always will, but we both must go on without each other.” He looked down at his hands. “I will miss you. Perhaps, one day, you will think of me—of us—and feel happiness.”
She ran toward him. He met her halfway and kissed her. Her tears and his blended, ran down, and flavored their farewell kiss with salt. He felt as if chilled hands clutched his heart and ripped it from his chest. He wanted to double over from the blow of heartache.
“I love you, Lachlan. I love you.” She sniffled.
Left unspoken was their deepest wish—that life had been different, and they could be together.
He cupped her face. “I will always think of you like this.” He traced his fingertip over her face. He had to remember the silkiness of her skin, its creamy texture. The way the firelight cast her ivory skin in incandescent glow that reminded him of a sunset. The brilliant gleam of her aquamarine eyes as they caught the light. The blush of her lips, the pliant texture of her mouth, and how her small mouth cradled his own. The sound of her voice that could be cold when reprimanding and warm with joy. How just the sound of her speaking his name warmed him and banished his loneliness. He’d remember the way she saw more in him than he did. The way she had faith in him.
She had made him the man he was. She would never know.
“Farewell, my love. Find some happiness in life.” He kissed her on the forehead. He breathed in the scent of wildflowers. He forced himself to pull away and worse, to walk away. He opened the door. Standing on the threshold, he took his final glance. She stood there. Her arms crossed her middle to comfort herself. Her bottom lip trembled and tears drowned her eyes.
“I love you.” She blew him a kiss. “Farewell.”
He dipped his head, and then closed the door. Why couldn’t he be the bastard folks called him?
* * * *
Rowen perched upon the stool, unaware of Ailsa twisting her hair into a style. A day had passed since the goodbyes. She had buried the emotion-laced voice of his that cracked as he spoke. It had been easier since she woke to find him gone. He had ridden off to visit his crofters. She did not know the reason behind his departure. Her tongue was heavy from the need to learn his reasons for fleeing, but she swallowed back those words.
As much as she hated his absence, she was thankful. It gave her time to deal with her fresh wounds without having to look upon his face and having her yearning flaring once more.
“There.”
Rowen looked over her brow to the looking glass. She met Ailsa’s wide green eyes. Ailsa scrunched her face.
“Nothing for it.” She pulled free the beaded babbles she had sewn through her hair, which now slipped down her fine strands. “Let’s comb it straight and leave it free.”
“You were the one bored with my hair and I did warn you. The only thing I can say is my head will cease pounding.”
“I was certain I could do it.” She rested her hands on her hips and glared down at Rowen’s fine, limp hair. “But it seems only my hair catches hold of anything that comes near it. I had a bee in there once. Duncan got it out and found a bead I had in buried in there.”
“How does one lose that in hair? Did you comb it?”
“Most certainly and to be truthful, the last time I had worn them I had washed my hair twice. I thought it was a knot that refused to be broken up.”
“If Duncan is ever in the need to smuggle anything, he has the perfect place.”
“Rowen,” she said, her friendly tone replaced by the stern warning as she waved the comb about as if she brandished a claymore. One she would bury in her head.
Not wanting to be bleeding during the ceremony, Rowen shut her mouth. Through to be honest, Rowen luxuriated in the long strokes. Her eyes drifted close and her head tilted to the side.
“Finished,” Ailsa said.
Rowen blinked. “Thank you.” Not sparing a glance in the looking glass, she rose. She knew what she looked like.
Ailsa held out her arisaid and helped wrap it around Rowen, taking care to get the folds just right.
“’Tis time.”
Rowen stretched her mouth in a semblance of a smile. Either, Ailsa was fooled by it or chose to accept it. She opened the door and let Rowen exit first. With downcast eyes, she made her way to the church doors. The weak Scottish sun failed to break through the thick, wooly clouds. The ground was damp and muddy in places, though there was no manure on the ground. Ailsa must have ordered it cleaned. It would not be the thing to have animal droppings on the edge of her dress. It was a pretty one, too. Gold threads shined from the carefully sewn Celtic knots and the column of Celtic bands on the sleeve’s hem and shined brightly against the heather hued fabric.
She halted before the church doors. Eacharn appeared as resolute as the blade he wore at his side. His thick, black hair still held the tracks of the comb he had swiped through the locks. His blue eyes appeared clear and were steady on her. She stared at his heavily hooded right eye. His cheeks were flushed and his little double chin wobbled from his nervous gulps. Instead of his finest Highlander clothing, he was dressed as if he was at court…perhaps, an ode to the Murrays’ Freskin beginnings.
Rowen was a highlander and she would marry and die dressed as a highlander. It was her small rebellion in the marriage…at least, she thought so.
“Mistress MacKenzie, I present to you a most precious gift. A pack of Spanish Jennets for your pleasure.”
She followed the motion of his arm to the six palfreys, each held by a stableboy or groom. She gasped at the beautiful horses with their fine legs, smooth coats, and thick manes. For the first time that day, she smiled with true pleasure.
Her gaze swept over the crowd. Lachlan stood in the rear of the crowd, apart from the others.
She lifted her chin and listened to Eacharn speak his vows in an unwavering voice. Rowen peeked at Father Murray before she recited her own. She held them close to her heart. Her word when given was never broken. Women may be possessions of men, but she had her honor and she would hold to the vows through Eacharn’s lifetime.
Father Murray blessed the ring. Eacharn fumbled as he tried to pick it up. He finally pinched it between his fingers. She noticed his slight tremor and felt it as he slipped the ring on her finger. His sweat left a streak across the back of her palm.
As husband and wife, they entered the church. A white draping canopy awaited them in the front. Arm in arm, they settled underneath it as Father Murray began the nuptial mass.
Solemn Latin filled the walls. Candles flickered as smoke cast the space in an earthly mist. She breathed in the scent of burning wax and spiced incense filled her nostrils.
Eacharn held out his hand as she knelt. He straightened her skirts, and then knelt beside her. Father Murray blessed them.
Rowen prayed the Lord listened to Father Murray and blessed them. That was all she hoped for in this life. She had nothing else left.
Chapter Five
1266
Winter cold banished any heat radiating from the fire. Her feet had turned to ice and Rowen could no longer feel the hard floor beneath her. The torches crackled as the flames flapped, the edges snapping and sounding like a whip.
A gloom hung over the great hall. It was either the time of year and weak sunlight, or the man sitting in his chair. Laird Murray drummed his fingers against his thigh. Drink had reddened his face. His eyes were swollen and bloodshot. The scar cutting through his brow was stark against his flaccid skin and drew down the corner of his right eye.
“Daughter, it is winter. Snow is falling even now. You canna expect to travel to MacKenzie lands especially with a bairn. Kenny canna survive that. We canna risk my grandson. You willna wanna do that. He is safe here.”
Bran stood beside his laird’s chair. Most men learned to hide their thoughts, actions, reaction even emotions. Bran never learned it completely. He squared his shoulders and his blunted hands hung at his
side. His nostrils flared and emphasized the long length of his nose. He thought himself a braw man with his dark looks. Rowen always felt sickened when her gaze fell upon him.
“Aye, Laird. We canna ha’e something happen to the young lad. He is his father’s son.”
“He is all I ha’e left. You willna wanna risk his life?”
Chilled fingers danced down her spine. She understood their threat. “Since my husband is dead, I must return to my clan. As the law says, my son belongs to me until he is to be fostered. He goes where I go.”
“Do you plan to leave us?” Murray leaned forward in his seat.
Her heart slammed against her chest. Her head pounded. She had revealed too much. “Have you sent the messenger?”
“MacKenzie has heard of my son’s demise.”
Bran sneered, curling his lip and revealing a missing tooth. To him, Rowen did more than be at Eacharn’s side when he injured himself with a fall from the horse. She had brought—nay, she conjured death to take him.
“Na messenger has arrived,” Bran added with too much glee. The man believed her brother, her family, and her clan had deserted her in their clutches.
“Daughter, pen a missive and I shall send the messenger once dawn breaks.” Murray walked by her.
Bran sucked his teeth as he shook his head in feigned pity. He planted his hand on his hip. He thought he displayed his muscles. Rowen could see how he would turn to mush with layers of fat encircling his bones.
He drifted closer. She slowly shifted her gaze to him. The hall seemed to dim not from the light fading but the blackness that covered him. “I ken yer secret.
Rowen notched her chin. “I know yours.” She turned away from him. Every instinct screamed for her to hurry from the hall, not to leave her back open for attack. She walked calmly. Free from the view from the hall, she bunched up the edge of her leine and scurried to her chamber.
She opened the door. She must have put more force into because the nursemaid leapt in fright. Kenny squirmed, stretching out his plump arms to her. Rowen scooped him up. She buried her nose in his silky hair, smelling his sweet scent and his tender scalp. She placed a lingering kiss on his head.
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