The Raven's Wish

by King, Susan

"Ah, look, those two cannot be wed too soon," Ewan drawled. Another of her cousins laughed, and strong hands hoisted her to her feet, taking away the plaid. The chill air felt like wind from heaven.

  She rounded on her cousins, who grinned. "How dare you do this?" she demanded, as Ewan took her arm. "Let me go!"

  "Dear one, I cannot," Ewan said. "This marriage will be done, if we have to force it."

  "Force if you must, you get no consent from me!" Beside her, Magnus and Callum lifted Duncan to his feet and undid his bonds. He shook his head as if he were dazed, then spoke to Kenneth, standing near him. Her dark-haired cousin replied softly and turned to Elspeth.

  "Hush now, and let the priest marry you to the lawyer," Kenneth said.

  Father Patrick now came toward him, stoop-shouldered and white-haired, shuffling beside Hugh, who spoke to him in a raised voice. Then Elspeth remembered that the old priest was deaf—and nearly blind. Likely he had not heard her call out to him, and may not have noticed that the bride and groom had been bound and brought here against their will.

  "So, he is the best priest for the task," she said low.

  "Certainly," Ewan said. "Ah, girl, surely you will accept and be pleased with the husband we have chosen for you."

  She curled her lip. Yet secretly, her heart beat oddly fast. Glancing at Duncan, she saw that he now leaned against the wall, looking at them with a wary expression. In the moonlight, she noticed a trickle of dried blood on his forehead.

  "Not drunk, but hurt!" She turned an accusing glance on Ewan, then Kenneth. "What have you done?"

  "We tapped him a bit on the head. He would not have come with us otherwise. Callum was careful," Ewan explained.

  "You truly are idiots, all of you," she snapped.

  Kenneth bent toward her, his long dark braid brushing her shoulder. "We want you to be married to his man, and we think you want it, too, so we are seeing it done. He was planning to leave for Edinburgh tomorrow, so we had to do something fast. Abductions are easy enough to arrange, and not uncommon for a wedding, and often result in a happy marriage. Hugh agreed it should be done."

  Elspeth looked again at Duncan, and as he glanced at her, she blushed—not from anger, but with sudden, breathless anticipation. He came toward her, and her heart leaped like a doe.

  He was fully capable of refusing the marriage now that he was recovering from the blow. Yet he had not argued, and seemed willing to go through with it.

  "Elspeth." He stood close to her, leaning down to speak quietly. "You know what they mean for us to do here."

  "I know. But I did not—"

  "Mo caran," he murmured, lifting his hand to brush her cheek. "This will be a good thing, I promise you."

  "I am afraid," she said quickly, surprising herself.

  "I will not take you out of the Highlands, if that is what you fear."

  She shook her head. "It is not that. I fear for you."

  "No need. I am not afraid to marry you." He gave her a wry smile and stepped away.

  "Duncan—"

  "Here is Father Patrick!" Hugh said loudly, bringing the old man forward to stand with Elspeth and Duncan, and the rest of the cousins, near the weather-stained, moonlit altar.

  Surrounded by a tight circle of determined men, Elspeth tipped up her head to look at Duncan, who took her hand in his.

  Father Patrick was old and impaired, but he had an intact memory and a nimble tongue, intoning the ceremony in Latin and Gaelic so quickly that Duncan was asked if he would take the woman before Elspeth had even formed her response, for she would not go quietly into a forced marriage of any sort.

  "I will," Duncan murmured.

  "He will," Hugh and Magnus said together.

  The priest asked Elspeth a similar question, and she tried to yank her hand from Duncan's when his grip turned to iron.

  "I will no—" she began. Ewan clapped a hand over her mouth.

  "She will," he said.

  "Oh, she will," Kenneth told the priest loudly. The old man nodded, while Elspeth stomped on Ewan's foot. Married! She could hardly believe it.

  Father Patrick intoned the blessing and sketched a cross in the air. Then Hugh thanked the old man and led him away, and Ewan took his hand from Elspeth's mouth.

  "Good," Kenneth said. "The thing is done."

  "My wedding day, and not even a wish for luck?" Elspeth fumed as she looked at the men gathered near her. "Not even flowers for my hair? And all of you, proud of this." She fixed each with a glare and whirled toward Duncan. "And you!"

  He tilted a brow, then leaned down and kissed her lips, quickly and tenderly, so that her breath caught in her throat, but she would not let on that it meant anything. "That, for luck."

  "This cannot be a legal marriage," she said.

  He nodded as if considering that for the first time. "I wonder. A marriage must be registered with the archbishop to be recognized—Fortrose on the Black Isle would be the place for our location. And since the Church has lost so much power in Scotland, marriage vows said by a priest might be questionable—"

  "There, see!" Elspeth said.

  "But we have several witnesses, and that is enough," Duncan finished.

  "It is not registered, and the Church ceremony may not be approved," Elspeth told her cousins. "This is not legally done."

  Hugh laughed outright. "We saw a wedding, and we say you two are wed, and I am chief, and that is good enough." He turned toward the others. "We shall go home now with our cousin and her new husband, and share a few drams of Glenran's finest uisge beatha in celebration!"

  "A few drams will likely kill Duncan after that head knock you gave him," Elspeth said.

  "Then you will be a rich widow," Callum said. He clapped Duncan on the shoulder. "I am sorry to have hit you, man, but you seem none the worse for it. And you are wed now, and that is what is most important."

  "Indeed. Fetch the horses, lads, if you please. My head is aching and I wish to go home…with my wife." Duncan looked at her and lifted a brow. "Will you go with me, Elspeth?"

  She drummed her fingers on her folded arms. "I will join you when all the seas turn to ice," she said between her teeth.

  "It is a chill night," he mused. Someone laughed.

  "This was dishonorably done. I said I would not marry you in the Highlands or the Lowlands."

  "And this place is neither," Hugh pointed out. "It belongs to the Church."

  "Clever lads," Duncan said, nodding.

  "Still, we are likely not legally married," she persisted.

  "Long-robe, your wife does not lose her anger easily," Callum said amicably.

  "So I am learning," Duncan said. "But for now we are wed, and that is good enough until we can sort out the rest."

  "Girl, you will thank us for it one day," Kenneth said.

  Elspeth turned on her heel and stomped out toward the waiting horses.

  * * *

  The dream came to him again, slightly different this time. Standing by a dark sea, Duncan saw the waves rising over Elspeth. He swam with hard, strong strokes, came close enough to grab her, but lost his hold. The sparkling dark surface of the water sucked her under. He called her name—and he woke.

  Sweat dampened his skin, and his head ached in dull reminder of Callum's wedding gift. The room was dark: he had slept from afternoon well into evening, after succumbing to one of Flora's infusions for headache.

  Shoving away the coverlet, he sat up in trews and loosened shirt. The dream still spun in his mind, and he had to be certain that Elspeth—his wife, for love of heaven—was safe. He had to see her. He set his bare feet to the floor.

  When they had returned to Glenran after the wedding, Elspeth had gone up to her room and had locked the door, refusing to admit any but Flora, who had come downstairs now and then to dutifully scold and repeat a little invective for the cousins' benefit. Elspeth sent no message to Duncan, who sat in the hall with a foul-smelling poultice on his head for Flora's sake, who had fussed over him. Duncan had let Elspeth
be, waiting for her temper to cool; there was no point in approaching her until then.

  Robert Gordon had sat with them in the hall, sharing strong drink and listening to their accounts with a gleam in his pale eyes. When he raised his goblet to toast the day, Duncan felt sure that Robert enjoyed the turmoil more than the wedding news. He gave no congratulations, asking only how many witnesses were there.

  Now, opening the secret passageway in his room, Duncan moved up the stone steps toward Elspeth's chamber, feeling along the wall for the door leading to her room. He knocked, then pushed the door open carefully.

  The dark room showed only a soft orange glow from the hearth. Stepping soundlessly into the chamber, Duncan felt cool air sweep gently over his bare chest, where his shirt gapped open, as he approached the bed.

  She slept soundly, lying on her side, her breathing steady and soft. Placing his hand gently on her bare shoulder, he felt the lift and fall of her body. Safe. The feeling swept through him. She was safe—and he felt unaccountable relief, for logically he knew there was no threat.

  He wondered at the impulse that had sent him here, as if compelled by some irresistible instinct. But he had unrelenting pride, and would not ask her forgiveness, having committed no offense; nor would he coddle her childish anger.

  Sighing, he took his hand from her shoulder and turned to leave.

  * * *

  Elspeth opened her eyes and saw him in the shadows, as if he were part of her dream. "Duncan?" she breathed.

  "Aye," he whispered. "Sleep now."

  But she sat up, shaking away sleep, wrapping the sheet around her nudity, and halting as she remembered the day's events. She was married now—to Duncan. She curled her arms around her knees under the sheet. "What do you want?"

  "I had a foolish dream," he said, standing in the darkness. "I came to see that you were safe. That is all." He stepped back.

  She reached out quickly and touched his arm. He turned, caught her hand in his, a desperate, sudden, needful grip that rushed keenly through her body like lightning. She looked up, her hand in his. He loomed there, tall and wild and powerful.

  "Do you want me to leave?" he asked.

  She shook her head. "Stay," she whispered. "Tell me your dream."

  "Foolish. Likely the result of Flora's posset."

  "Dreams are rarely foolish. There is always some meaning to them. I was dreaming too, when you came in—by the small door? I locked the other," she added.

  "Did you dream about holding your temper?" he asked in a wry tone.

  "My anger is properly deserved—by all of you."

  Duncan reached down and took her by the upper arms, pulling her upward so that she hastily scrambled to her feet, dragging the linen covering with her, so that she grabbed at it.

  "I have heard enough of your indignation," he said. "I accepted the marriage, and expect you should do the same, for it is done, and with good reason if not good method. Your cousins love you well and want the best for you. Yet you behave like a spoiled and truculent child."

  "The marriage is not even legal." She glared up at him, masking the hurt she felt at his harsh and honest words.

  "I will register it as soon as I can, if it bothers you. Odd for a Highland girl who goes reiving in the night to moan about legality."

  "Odd for a lawyer to ignore it. Perhaps you have been too long with the wild Scots."

  "Wild Scots indeed." His grip tightened on her shoulders. "The MacShimi could have let you go to Ruari MacDonald, or give you any husband—a total stranger." His eyes were night-dark blue, intense and deep. "What your cousins schemed was brashly done, but it was well meant. They know you will be safe with me. Am I so poor a choice in your eyes?"

  "I did not want to marry." She glanced away, for that was not entirely so. This man made her think otherwise, and all unexpectedly. Yet her stubborn pride held her to her argument.

  "But we are wed now, and we may as well accept it."

  She scowled at him. The heat of his hands on her shoulders seemed to burn through her skin. Through the nubby linen sheet she could feel the hardness of his chest against her, could feel the distracting pulse of his heart so close to her own. She sighed then, frustration, yearning, all of it rushing through her.

  "How can I accept what could bring you harm?" she asked.

  "That threat of the heading block does not bother me," he said. "Understand that. Or is there more to this damnable vision of yours, so that our wedding worries you so?"

  "You will only be safe if you leave Glenran, and me."

  "Mo cuachag," he murmured. "You do deserve that name—cuckoo, for you repeat this warning, though I do not need to hear it. Stop, now."

  "Will you listen? Will you leave, for your own sake?"

  He sighed, set her down on the bed, where she sank into the feather-stuffed mattress and grabbed the sheet against her. Duncan sat beside her, his weight pushing down the bed so that she leaned against his arm. "Speak then," he said. "If there is more to this, best say it all. Tell me the whole accursed thing."

  "I cannot tell you all of it," she said. "Just the warning."

  "Elspeth," he said, his voice a low rumble, "tell me."

  Chapter 17

  `Your faith and troth ye sanna get,

  Nor will I twin with thee,

  Till ye tell me the pleasures o heaven,

  And pains of hell how they be.'

  ~"Sweet William's Ghost"

  "Whatever you saw, I want to know it," Duncan said again. "Ravens and their wishes for me, phantoms in the sky—none of it frightens me. Just say it out."

  "But it is an awful thing to hear of your own death."

  "You are the most stubborn woman I have ever met. This fear of yours will not destroy me—though it could harm you, your own self, girl. Do not give this thing such power. Tell me."

  She watched him for a long moment. Then she drew a breath and began.

  He listened, brow furrowed, watching her in the darkness. While she spoke, he nodded, silent, strong and solid beside her, without comment or condemnation, and she poured out what she had withheld from him—the ravens she had seen that first morning; the appearance of the dark man on the horse; the startling image in the streambed when she had seen Duncan with his head bound, his shirt pulled down, an axe behind him. And she revealed more.

  "I saw myself at your shoulder," she said low. "And I felt that somehow I would be the cause of your execution." She whispered the last.

  "You could never me to come to the headsman," he said softly.

  "I felt it, so strongly"—she inhaled, a half-sob—"and I knew you must leave, and that we must stay apart. But Bethoc told me that we would marry. She saw that, and more."

  "What else?"

  Elspeth lifted a hand to his chest, tracing the path of the scar that ran from his heart to his shoulder. "I touched you here and saw men, dirks, and terrible killing." Beneath her fingertips, she felt the thunder of his heart. "Bethoc saw the same, and felt the sorrow in your past. Men in steel helmets, too, riding with lances." She glanced up. "Border reivers?"

  He lifted a brow, silent. She went on. "Bethoc said"—Elspeth paused, looked away—"that you were my destiny. That you are my heart, and I am yours." She blushed, but felt relieved to say it aloud.

  Duncan smiled and placed his hand over hers on his chest. "There she speaks the truth. You are my heart. Mo cridhe." He cupped her cheek, and she leaned her head there. "And did Bethoc see the grim headsman for me?"

  "She did not, but she thinks my vision is a true knowing."

  "Elspeth, listen." He sighed. "Do you know the conditions set for a human pledge?"

  She frowned. "I know that you are both the cautioner and the pledge for our bond. You gave your personal promise that the Frasers will keep to our signed word."

  "And a human pledge is held responsible if the signed party does not honor the bond. This system works well with the Highland Scots, who have little regard for the law, but who do care about their kins
men and friends."

  "A fine might be asked of you if the bond is ever broken," she said.

  "A large fine. And the pledge can be executed in payment of the debt."

  "Executed." The words hung in the air between them. "Duncan, I am afraid."

  "Do not," he murmured. "The bond will never be broken." His voice was velvet deep, a comfort as he leaned down, his face so close to hers that she angled gently for his kiss. His lips touched hers, his hand slid along her cheek. The graze of his fingers sent a shiver through her. Their lips clung and held. He traced his lips to her ear. "I am not afraid of your vision," he whispered. "And I want you to dismiss it."

  She slid her arms around his neck and closed her eyes, resting her forehead on his shoulder. "I cannot."

  Circling his arms around her, he sighed and stroked her hair. "Listen. Before I came here, the Council sent your clan word of my arrival. You may have heard something of bonds and pledges, perhaps in discussions with your cousins. I think that you put it all together, and imagined my execution."

  She shook her head, pressed against his shoulder. "I did not imagine it. I am a seer, Duncan. My visions prove true, though you do not believe that."

  He hesitated. "I will admit that you seem to be able to know some things with your seer's mind. Things from the past."

  "You admit that?" She blinked up at him.

  He nodded. "When you touched my back, and described a night that happened years ago—I was startled. But perhaps the past is like a well. Seers draw knowledge from the waters."

  "I see the future as well as the past."

  "It is not easy for me to believe that anyone can see the future." He blew out a breath, thoughtful. "When I first came to Glenran, just the lawyer you expected, you could have guessed there was a risk I might lose my head for the Frasers and their bond."

  "I knew nothing of pledges and bonds before you came," she said. "You do not believe me." She straightened away from him, though he did not release her.

  "And if I believed you," he said softly, "would I run from you to save my neck? You have been warning me away for weeks. Have I gone?" He waited, and she shook her head. "Nay, and it is because some charm about you makes me want to stay."