Love Conquers All: Historical Romance Boxed Set

by Laurel O'Donnell

  “Aye, he has,” Donall agreed, his tone grim. “As his brother, my heart sympathizes. My duty as laird demands I punish him. Perhaps in the execution of his penance, he will come to suffer less.”

  At a nod from Donall, Gavin left the window embrasure to join them, the bejeweled reliquary casket held in his hands.

  Light reflected off the glittering gemstones embedded in the small chest’s silver-and-enamel casing, each jewel shooting off beams of color.

  Rays that streaked straight at Iain’s aching eyes. He blinked as multihued dots danced across his vision. But when his sight cleared, a cloud must’ve passed over the sun, for the room lay in shadow.

  His relief proved fleeting.

  The stain on Gavin’s cheeks and his downcast eyes bode ill.

  He knew something Iain didn’t.

  His gut clenching, Iain glanced at the reliquary casket. For centuries the MacLeans’ most prized possession, it contained a holy relic of inestimable value: a fragment of the True Cross.

  A horrible thought popped into his mind. Steeling himself, he eyed his brother.

  “Dinnae tell me you’d see me martyred?”

  Rather than answer, Donall turned to a nearby table and poured himself a cup of wine, draining it in one long swallow. His face grim, he dragged the back of his hand over his mouth.

  “You would have to commit a more grievous sin than burning the chapel for me to pass such harsh judgment on you.

  “Even then, I could no’ be so cruel.” He leveled a look on Iain. “No’ to you.”

  “Then what is this about?”

  “The consequences of your deeds.” Donall began pacing the chamber, his strides taking him back and forth between the hearth and the now-empty window embrasure. “I would make a pilgrim of you, no’ a martyr.”

  “A what?” Iain almost choked. Never had he heard anything more ludicrous.

  He wasn’t even a devout man.

  Truth be told, he believed in scarce little beyond that the sun rose each day to plague him.

  He stared at Donall, his brows arching ever higher. “I did no’ mishear you? You mean to make a penitent of me?”

  The sort that roams the land in a heavy cloak and wide-brimmed hat, a wooden staff clutched in one hand, a beggar’s bowl in the other?

  The image froze his blood.

  “A pilgrim and an emissary of goodwill,” his brother amended.

  Iain stared at him, seeing little difference.

  His stomach plummeted. “I’ve ne’er heard anything more pointless. You’d be wiser to order me to clean the cesspit.”

  “Not so.” Donall stopped pacing. “Your pilgrimage will appease the saints, and the old ones before them, for the destruction of a sacred place. It is also my hope that the journey will teach you to master your temper. I, and everyone beneath this roof have tolerated enough.”

  “I have reason to-” Iain bit back his argument.

  His brother had the rights of it.

  He had become the bane of his clan, fouling the mood and robbing the smile of anyone fool enough to near him.

  A fate he could blame on no one but himself. So he dragged a hand down over his face, carefully avoiding the still-aching lump on his forehead.

  “Have done,” he gritted, meeting Donall’s eye. “Tell me of this penance.”

  Donall held his gaze. “It is more a mission of goodwill.”

  “Toward whom?”

  “The deserving brothers of Duncairn Cathedral.” The words held a subtle warning.

  Refusal would not be tolerated.

  Iain frowned. “I have nothing to say about this?”

  “Your actions spoke for you. Truths that cannae be undone.”

  “I’ll no’ argue that.”

  “Try to see the journey as charitable.” Donall struck a different tone. “You’ll know Duncairn’s status. More of St. Columba’s relics are sheltered within its walls than anywhere else in the land. A foster brother of our father once served as bishop there. Da himself was a generous benefactor.”

  “Could you no’ choose a more distant place?” Iain stared at his brother, disbelieving. “Duncairn lies in the heart of the mainland. I would need two full moons to near its boundaries.”

  “Time is no’ important. Nor the hardship of the journey.” Donall remained firm. “Duncairn is needy. The English have repeatedly fallen upon the cathedral and its holdings in recent years. So have the Disinheriteds, those landless Scottish lords who serve them. Together, they’ve ransacked and stolen, burned orchards, and even cut down sleeping churchmen.”

  “Holy men have been slaughtered while washing the feet of the poor.” Gerbert shook his head, clucked his tongue. “Churchmen are easy prey, nae match for warrior robbers.”

  “So they need my sword arm?”

  “Only if they are attacked when you are there. They are receiving spearmen from other clans.” Donall signaled to someone outside the open door and one of his younger squires entered the room, two leather satchels clutched in his hands.

  The lad deposited them at Iain’s feet before almost stumbling over his own in a hasty retreat.

  Iain cocked a brow. “You are so eager to see me gone that you’ve packed for me?”

  “Those are gifts.” Donall resumed his pacing, his hands clasped behind his back. “Duncairn has lost much. Marauders have stolen silver cups and salvers, golden crosses, an illuminated manuscript with jewel-set bindings, and more.”

  Halting beside his wife, he slung an arm about her waist and drew her near. “The thieving bastards snatch anything of value they can carry.”

  “So we are to replenish their coffers?”

  Donall nodded. “Our collection of relics and treasures is ample enough for us to easily restore a portion of their lost wealth.” He paused to rub his forehead. “In doing so, we can attempt to atone for the sacrilege you committed by setting fire to the chapel.”

  Iain frowned. “You’d send them our greatest wealth? So I am granted remission of my sins?”

  Nae, he does this so you can reclaim the life you should have had.

  The words, feminine and sweet, came close to Iain’s ear. Soft as a sigh, and in a soothing, sympathetic tone. Iain glanced at Lady Isolde, but his brother’s wife hadn’t spoken.

  Nor had she left her husband’s side.

  Amicia still fretted across the room, too hampered by sniffles to whisper in his ear.

  So who had?

  A chill icing his skin, Iain turned to his brother, only to find Donall’s gaze on the reliquary in Gavin’s hands.

  Iain looked at it, too. And the longer he did, the more the tiny chest seemed to glow, its glittering gemstones staring at him like so many colorful eyes, each one brimming with accusation.

  Brought back from the Holy Land by a distant forebear who’d gone on Crusade, the casket and the holy relic contained within had been in the MacLeans’ possession for a long time.

  By all reckoning, at least two hundred years.

  It was the clan’s greatest treasure.

  His father and every MacLean laird before him would roar in their graves if it left Baldoon.

  Some even claimed tragedy would visit the clan if ever it did.

  “The tragedy has already come to pass,” Donall said, confirming Iain’s suspicion that, at times, his brother could read minds. “A heavy sacrifice must be made lest greater ill befall this house.” He paused, his dark eyes narrowing. “Or would you rather I ordered you tossed o’er the cliffs?”

  “Nae.”

  For reasons I cannae explain, I find I am no’ so eager to die, after all.

  “So my penance is to deliver our family’s most valued treasure into the hands of Duncairn’s holy men?” Those words he spoke aloud.

  His brother nodded.

  “Taking gifts to Duncairn to replace what they’ve lost is your duty as my brother, and son of this house.” Donall regarded him for a long moment, then slid a meaningful look at Gavin. “He will accompany you
.”

  “MacFie?” Iain glanced at the burly Islesman.

  Gavin stood head and shoulders over most men. He had an honest, open face, and warm hazel eyes. He was quick to smile and never spoke poorly of anyone. His thick auburn hair could be called unruly, but he kept his beard neatly trimmed.

  He also swung a wicked sword, when fighting on the side he deemed worthy.

  At the moment, he shuffled his feet in the floor rushes and looked more uncomfortable than Iain had ever seen him.

  His ill ease fueled Iain’s own.

  Iain looked back to his brother. “Do the good saints have a score to settle with him as well?”

  “Nary a one.” Donall sounded tired. “Gavin goes along to keep an eye on you.” He paused, and a look close to sympathy clouded his face. “He has orders to make certain you fulfill your penance.”

  “At last, the whole of it.” Iain folded his arms. “I knew there’d be more.”

  “So there is.”

  “Then speak. Dinnae spare me now.”

  “I want you gone before daybreak,” Donall said, his voice surprisingly soft for such harsh words. “On your journey into Scotland’s heart, you will stop at every sacred place you happen upon. Be it Christian or of the old ones. Holy well or tree, hallowed cross, martyr’s shrine, ancient cairn, or standing stone, I care not. At each such site, you are to kneel and pray to be purged of your temper.”

  “You’ve charged MacFie with assuring I do?”

  “So it is.” Donall gave him a tight-lipped nod.

  The MacFie’s face turned nearly the same shade as his unruly hair.

  The regret in Donall’s eyes hit Iain harder.

  “Is that all?” Iain managed, his voice blessedly void of emotion.

  Donall lifted a hand, and for a beat, Iain thought he’d reach for him, perhaps grasp him in a brotherly embrace – something he could’ve used – but Donall lowered his hand as quickly.

  “There is more, aye,” he admitted, the words thick and choked-sounding, as if dredged from the darkest corner of his soul.

  Iain waited, his defenses already throwing up shields.

  “I loathe that we’ve come to this.” Donall’s lairdly reserve broke. A shudder ran the length of him, and when it passed, he was once again all clan leader, his face expressionless.

  “This clan has suffered greatly from your moods and temper. You must now bear the fury of the storm you’ve called upon yourself.”

  Iain stared at him, hoping no one else heard the roar of his blood, the knocking of his heart.

  “Meaning?” He folded his arms. “What else is there to say?”

  “That you, Iain, younger son of the great House of MacLean, shall ne’er again set foot on Doon lest you master your temper,” Donall declared. “As I and the council of elders have decided, so be it.”

  Chapter Four

  So be it.

  Hours later, long after moonrise, the words still echoed in Iain’s head. Equally annoying, his every attempt to vanquish them proved a fool’s exercise.

  And so he raced his shaggy-coated horse along Doon’s beach, streaking past thatch-roofed fisher cottages and sailing over any obstacles in his path.

  The shame of his banishment kept pace, pounding through him in time with the drumming of his horse’s hooves on the pebbled shore.

  Ne’er again set foot…

  He frowned, a fresh tide of anger washing over him, his fiercest scowl powerless against the pursuing words. They tore after him with the persistence of hell-hounds scenting blood.

  Even more troubling was the sensation of being watched.

  Observed by unseen eyes, his progress down the moon-silvered beach well noted, and not by the pesky ‘guard’ riding beside him.

  Blinking against the wind, Iain glanced at his brother’s friend, half-expecting, nae, hoping, to find the knave’s gaze on him.

  It wasn’t.

  Gavin appeared determined to match Iain’s pace as they skirted or jumped their horses over the many upturned skiffs and coracles scattered along the beach.

  If anything, he seemed determined not to look at Iain.

  But someone – or something – was.

  And the sensation gave him shivers. Chills that slid through him in search of a chink in his armor, a way past the barriers for a glimpse at his soul.

  His heart.

  A place so forsaken, even he didn’t care to peer into its depths.

  Instead, he glanced at the bay where so many MacLean galleys rocked at their moorings. With their sails furled, the single masts and upthrusting sterns and prows reached like bony fingers to the pearl gray sky. Each ship banked twenty-six oars, though a few boasted forty, and one or two had only sixteen.

  Swift and feared at sea, the galleys lay silent in this clear and windy night, their slumber guarded by the enclosing headlands, the lot of the ships at peace, save one.

  The ship that waited for Iain.

  His brother’s prized birlinn, a sleek twenty-six-oared beauty, the gem of the fleet. Already drawn halfway onto the beach, the ship’s deck swarmed with men preparing for departure.

  A knot of dark-frowning crewmen struggled with two packhorses, their attempts at urging the poor beasts to step over the birlinn’s low-slung side reaping little more from the frightened animals than white-eyed snorts of protest.

  Big, burly clansmen, full-bearded and bare-chested, stood waist-deep in the foaming surf, the open sea behind them. These were the souls who, very soon, would hurl their all into pushing the ship into deeper, wider waters. Others, seasoned MacLean oarsmen, bustled about on board, clearly eager for the shipmaster’s shout to raise the great square sail.

  Iain scarce noticed the scrambling men, hardly heard their calls and chants. He took even less notice of someone’s repetitive beating on a metal-studded shield. His gut clenching, he focused on the ship’s long row of vacant-eyed oarports.

  He’d swear they stared at him.

  Cold and accusing stares, but by no means as penetrating as the one coming at him from a much greater distance than the soon-to-be-launched birlinn.

  Doing his best to ignore the prickles at his nape, he urged his horse into a full gallop. But the moment his beast obliged, surging forward in a burst of speed, it found the sought-after chink.

  A wee but vulnerable tear in his heart, a crack narrower than a hairbreadth, and so well hidden he would’ve never believed it existed.

  But it did.

  His senses roared with the knowledge, unleashing a fresh tide of chills. No longer cold and menacing, the sensation rushed into long-neglected areas. His blood flamed and his heart hammered. Worse, seductive ‘prickles’ raced across his nerve endings as if he’d both plunged into an icy sea even as flames scorched him. His breath snagged and for a moment, he wondered if this was his end.

  The world darkened, only the edges visible, while a crackling border of silvery lightning sent sparks showering around him.

  “Dia!” Iain jolted, lurching as he almost slid off his saddle.

  “Before you!” Gavin’s shout sliced through the madness.

  The spell shattered, splintering away to reveal Doon’s innocent strand. Iain managed to grab his saddlebow, righting himself just in time to hurtle past a mound of broken creels and barnacle-encrusted drying nets.

  Barreling up beside him, Gavin seized his reins, jerking Iain’s horse to a halt.

  “Have you run mad?” He looked at Iain, his eyes wide. “You nearly plowed into that stinking pile.”

  Iain stared at him, his hands clutching the saddlebow so tightly that his knuckles ached. He couldn’t answer for his throat had closed and his mouth felt drier than cold ash.

  Aye, I’m full crazed, he wanted to shout.

  Instead, he snatched his horse’s reins and wondered if he’d been spelled?

  Cursed?

  Too bad he didn’t believe in the like. Nae, he wasn’t under an enchantment. But he did have a problem.

  How could he ‘l
ose his hotheadedness’ when he might well have lost his mind?

  Sure he didn’t know, he hurried his horse down the remaining stretch of beach as the cold inside him returned. Glad for its familiarity, he tried to pretend he’d imagined everything.

  Unfortunately, he couldn’t.

  It’d happened.

  ~*~

  Several nights later, as Iain’s ship sped across the silver-glinting waters of the Hebridean Sea, a different kind of cold plagued Madeline Drummond.

  Many miles distant, she tossed and turned in a fitful sleep. The best she could hope for in an abandoned cot-house. Fist-sized chinks in the walls bid entry to the wind, while the damp of the earthen floor seeped through her borrowed cloak.

  Beneath two woolen plaids, Nella’s generous warmth pressed protectively against her, but even that well-meant comfort failed to banish the chill.

  Nor could her friend’s nearness ease the anguished heart hammering so fiercely in her breast. A heart not her own, but clinging to hers in need. As it had done each night since she and Nella left Abercairn.

  It was a man’s heart, she knew. Strong-pounding, and good. Just damaged and needing repair, the balm of light and love.

  Another blast of icy wind whistled through the wall gaps then, once more sending shivers down her spine. But neither the cold nor her troubled dreams kept her own heart from reaching for the pained one seeking such desperate union with hers.

  So as she slumbered, some needy part of her deepest soul sent the shadow man of her dreams all the warmth and comfort she could summon.

  And if good fortune hadn’t abandoned her completely, one of these nights she’d reach him.

  Chapter Five

  “Alms! For the sake of good St. Kentigern, have mercy.”

  Raised voices filled the air as, a fortnight later, Iain swung down from his horse before the crowded entrance to Glasgow Cathedral.

  Scowling, he tossed his reins to one of the two young oarsmen who’d accompanied him. Then he glanced about at the chaos.

  Quarreling dogs and the cries of peddlers behind their market stalls added to the din, while the smells of raw meat, ale, and freshly-baked bread blended with the reek of the slow-moving mass of pilgrims pressing toward the cathedral. The shuffling throng seemed endless and proved a stark contrast to the day’s brilliant sunshine.