“And I shall bedevil you if you do not take your fine lady wife abovestairs and let her freshen herself. She is wet and shivering—as is your cousin,” his father declared, wagging a finger. “Wee Janet has been telling me of Dagda and I would have you fill my ears with that sorry tale as we sit at meat with these good folk. Something we cannot do until the whole sodden lot of you hie yourselves back down here in clean and dry raiment.”
“We shall make haste then and return anon,” Magnus said, pulling Amicia from the hall even as he spoke.
But once they reached the privacy of their bedchamber, he did not appear in all that great a hurry. Neither to see to his ablutions—or to have her tend to hers.
Nay, much to Amicia’s astonishment, rather than peel off his damp garments and make good use of the wooden tub of steaming, scented water someone had thoughtfully set before the hearth fire, Magnus MacKinnon went straight to the great canopied bed, dropped to all fours, and, as best Amicia could tell, began rummaging about beneath the bed.
Looking on with amazement, Amicia listened to his muffled curses, a few grunts, and the sounds of a thump or two, until at length he wriggled backward, dragging an ancient-looking and quite dusty strongbox with him.
A money coffer, but one that had clearly not been opened in years.
Straightening, he set the coffer on the bed. Little puffs of dust rose from its lid and a few bits of rust fell off the hinges and onto the bedcoverings. For a long moment, he just stood looking down at it, the oddest, almost reverent, expression on his face.
Amicia moistened her lips.
Her heart began to pound and her palms dampened just watching him.
There was something very strange about the way he’d handled and was staring down at the battered and grimy coffer.
Almost as if it were his greatest treasure.
The thought made her shiver.
Apparently noticing, he reached a hand to her, drawing her near when she laced her fingers with his.
“W-what is that?” she asked, eyeing the coffer, not surprised when her voice came out sounding . . . squeaky.
“My greatest treasure,” he said, mirroring her thoughts. “My heart’s treasure.”
Now she did shiver—a great flood of trembling ripples racking her from head to toe.
“It looks old,” she got out, slipping free her hand so she could rub her forearms against the chillbumps.
“It is old, lass, and it contains nary a siller. That is why I want you to see it.”
“I do not understand.”
“Och, but I think you will when you see what is inside,” he said, reaching to lift the coffer’s lid.
It opened with more little puffing clouds of dust, the hinges emitting an ear-splitting screech, but try as she might, Amicia could see nothing inside.
“Never you worry, it is not empty,” he said, reading her thoughts again. “It contains my dearest possession. Something I have kept safe and cherished for many long years, something that has consumed me always and—and kept my hope alive when darkness and doubt surrounded me.”
Hot tears began pricking the backs of Amicia’s eyes at his words, some soul-deep part of her recognizing what she had not yet grasped.
“And why do you want me to see this . . . something?” That came out strangled-sounding.
He looked at her and the warmth, the love shining in his beautiful blue eyes, made her heart slam against her ribs.
“I am showing it to you because of my good fortune, because of the wealth—my newfound wealth—swelling the great hall below. I want you to see what I value, have always valued, above all else. Who I have cherished above all others.”
Amicia swallowed, nodding when words couldn’t be squeezed past the hot lump in her throat.
“I want you to see it so that you will never have any doubt about how much I love you.”
“And this . . . t-this something will show me that?”
“I believe so,” he said, lifting a flat package from the bottom of the strongbox. A rectangle of time-darkened sheepskin. He laid it on the bed with even greater care and reverence than he’d shown the coffer.
“Open it.”
Amicia couldn’t move—her knees had jellied and her pulse was roaring so loudly in her ears she wasn’t sure she’d heard him aright.
“Open it, sweet, for what lies within is yours—or was.”
Biting hard on her lower lip, Amicia stepped up to the bed, reached for the packet. She touched trembling fingers to the brittle leather, untied the yellowed string holding it together.
It fell open.
The years slid away.
“Oh, dear saints,” she choked, swaying on her feet as she stared down at the dried sprig of bell heather.
Dried, pitifully flat, and very brown.
But definitely bell heather.
Magnus MacKinnon’s most prized possession.
Something he’d kept and cherished since the long-ago day on the high moors when he’d tucked it behind her ear.
“Oh, dear saints,” Amicia said again, a sob this time. “You kept this all these years?”
“To be sure, I did,” he said, sliding his arms around her from behind, nuzzling her neck. “It fell from your hair after my fight with your brother that day—when you limped away, crying. I retrieved it and have cherished it e’er since.”
Amicia turned to face him, near blinded by her tears. “If only you’d known how I ached for you, how much I loved you—even then,” she said, wrapping her arms around his waist, holding him tightly.
“But I know now, my minx,” he murmured, planting a wee kiss on the tip of her nose. “We both know now. And nothing shall e’er keep us apart again.”
“Nothing,” she agreed, brushing a light kiss against his lips.
“So it will be,” he promised.
“Forever?”
He nodded, gave her a dimpled smile.
“Och, aye, lass. Through all our tomorrows, unending.”
Epilogue
MANY MONTHS LATER, after a harsh winter had passed and spring was just beginning to kiss the land, a great gathering of the Hebridean clans came to MacKinnons’ Isle to rejoice in the restoration of Clan Fingon’s good fortune and, for those who believed in suchlike, the swinging of an ancient curse into a blessing.
A joyous blessing.
And a goodly number of them.
So on this day of inimitable beauty and importance, no few of the clansmen, friends, and allies crowding the isle’s crescent-shaped boat strand knew quite which blessing to lend their most rapt attention.
Those whose hearts beat most rapidly for warring campaigns and great deeds of heroism admired the two score of new MacKinnon galleys heaving on the long westerly swells, great square sails flapping in the wind, slantwise spars and tall carved prows upthrusting and proud, their imposing outlines against the cloudless sky boldly declaring their sovereignty of the seas.
The Grant banner flew from one of the vessels, that one a gift from the MacKinnons to Colin Grant, and it was to this galley in particular that many Islesfolk stared. For although the grand festivities had been called to hail the launching of the new fleet, the recent wedding of Colin and his Janet and their imminent departure for their own dominions stirred the blood and had many an eye misting.
Already the sweeps had been lowered and the helmsman’s baton kept a rhythmic, clanging beat on the gong, each steady stroke echoing from the enclosing dunes and hillsides. From the shore, it was clear to see that the oarsmen were in their places, their deep-voiced chanting rising on the wind, in perfect timing with the beating gong.
Soon that one galley would shoot forth, distancing itself from the others in a burst of speed and sea spray to carry those onboard to distant shores.
“You were great-hearted not to reveal her part in the treachery.” A diminutive figure in black laid a gnarled hand on Amicia’s sleeve. “Aye, it was good of you and I would have expected no less,” Devorgilla added, her shre
wd gaze fixed on the Grant galley. “Inside, the lass has a shining heart and e’er did.”
Amicia started, stopped feeding broken bits of honeyed oatcakes to Boiny, and gave her old friend a narrow-eyed stare. “And just how did you know about that? I have ne’er spoken of it to anyone—not even my husband.”
The cailleach hooted, turned her own gaze on Magnus’s galley as it skimmed across the waves, keeping fast pace with Colin’s. A friendly farewell and salute he’d pursue until the Grant vessel moved out of MacKinnon waters.
“And no purpose would have been in telling him, either. That one would ne’er have believed you, for he sees only the good in those he holds dear,” Devorgilla said, helping herself to one of the oatcakes piled high in the little basket Amicia held balanced against her swelling belly. “And you, lass, ought eat more of these yourself rather than feeding the whole of them to that dog.”
“Do not skip around my question, Devorgilla.” Amicia demonstratively gave Boiny the largest oatcake she could find in the basket. “How did you know what transpired that . . . that day?”
She shuddered, even now, not comfortable remem-bering.
“Tsk, lass, the same way I know . . . many things.” Devorgilla hedged. “But knowing ’em or nay, a prudent heart ne’er discusses them. Some things just are and ought be accepted as such.”
“I am sorry about the cloak,” Amicia said, keenly aware of its loss now that its creator stood beside her. “It kept me warm.”
The crone clucked her tongue. “Keeping you warm was ne’er its purpose. Just be glad it served you so well.”
Amicia nodded, snuggled deeper into her new cloak, a much lighter one, and also crafted by Devorgilla’s own true hand, if not so fine and splendorous.
“Even so, I regret the loss of the other,” she said after a while. “The ermine lining was dear.”
And it must’ve pleased the grizzle-headed crone to present her with such a magnificent gift.
That was what troubled her.
“Think you I care aught about fancy furs, lassie?” Devorgilla quipped, angling her head to peer up at Amicia. “Think you I dinna ken such frippery means scarce little to you?”
Amicia blinked, confused. “Then why bother sewing such a priceless lining into the cloak?”
“Hech, hech, it was what was inside the cloak that mattered, as I suspect you discovered, but I had good reason for choosing such a noble fur for you, never you doubt it,” she said, a familiar twinkle entering her eyes.
A mischievous twinkle well-known throughout the Isles.
Well-known and respected, even feared by some.
“I suppose that reason, too, must remain a secret?” Amicia probed, her expression pure MacLean challenge.
Unimpressed, the crone planted her hands against her bony hips and breathed deeply of the fine spring air. Hebridean air, and as wise souls would say, the best in the land. “Och, nay, lassie, that I will tell you,” she said at last, her wizened face splitting into an impish grin.
“’Twas for him that the ermine lining was meant, not you. A wee precautionary measure—should suchlike be needed.”
“I do not understand.” Amicia blinked at her, wholly confused. “For Magnus? But why?”
Devorgilla cackled with glee. “That wee bairn you carry is mushing your wits, lassie, if you still dinna know.”
Scrunching up her eyes, the crone peered hard at Amicia. “’Twas this second cloak I always meant you to have, see you? I kent its good craftsmanship and durability would please you more than ells of silky fur and glittery gew-gaws for claspings. But you needed such a mantle so that when it left your possession, yon braw laddie would see how little you mourned its loss.”
“Oh!” That came out on a sudden, gusty breath.
Now she understood.
“You wanted him to have tangible evidence that such finery is not what I hold most dear?”
The crone nodded, looked pleased. “Aye, that was about the way of it.”
“And do you think he knows that? Do you think he knows how much I love him?”
To that, the cailleach threw back her cowled head and laughed—her jollity answer enough.
And full aware she’d get no more out of her, Amicia turned aside and stared out to her husband’s galley, pleased when she caught a glint of sunlight on his handsome auburn head as he stood beside the helmsman.
Just that quick glimpse warmed and delighted her, minding her of how she’d slid her fingers through his silky, bronze-gleaming hair that very morning as they’d lain abed, savoring its cocooning warmth until the very last moment, their bodies and hearts intimately entwined.
So reluctant to leave each other’s arms.
Even for such a joyous and triumphant day.
“You needn’t wallow in such fierce longing, you know.” Devorgilla slid her a shrewd glance, clucked her tongue again. “A love with the depth of yours will last the few hours until you are in his arms again.”
Amicia glanced sharply at her, instinctively slipped a loving hand down to cradle the bulge at her middle, something in the crone’s tone lifting the fine hairs on the back of her neck.
But Devorgilla was no longer looking at her—nor at the silver-bright sea and the many galleys racing to and fro across the waves.
“Aye, lass,” the cailleach said, her voice distant, almost as if she’d turned her attention inward or backward in time, “those who love so truly have each other for always—even beyond time and oceans. Such deep love burns ever bright and can ne’er be extinguished.”
And as if they’d heard and agreed with her, two silent observers standing in shadow at the base of Reginald’s tower smiled deeply into each other’s eyes and nodded.
Then, in the pleasing knowledge that their blessing had finally been recognized and accepted, they joined hands and, turning, faded back into the tower’s stones.
Warm stones, beautiful and shimmering.
Stones that would ne’er know cold again.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SUE-ELLEN WELFONDER is a dedicated medievalist of Scottish descent who spent fifteen years living abroad, and still makes annual research trips to Great Britain. She is an active member of the Romance Writers of America and her own clan, the MacFie Society of North America. Her first novel, Devil in a Kilt, was one of Romantic Times’s Top Picks. It won RT’s Reviewers’ Choice Award for Best First Historical Romance of 2001. Sue-Ellen Welfonder is married and lives with her husband, Manfred, and their Jack Russell Terrier, Em, in Florida.
* * *
More Sue-Ellen Welfonder!
Please turn this page for a special preview of
ONLY FOR A KNIGHT
available in July 2005.
* * *
The Legacy of the Black Stag
IN THE MIST-SHROUDED FASTNESSES of Kintail, a rugged country of sea lochs, wild heather hills, and moorlands on the western coast of Scotland, one man has e’er held sway. Since time beyond mind some might say, Duncan MacKenzie, the famed Black Stag of Kintail, has called this hauntingly beautiful place his own.
His, and the great house of MacKenzie, the most powerful clan in the region.
Truth be told, those who visit Kintail cannot help but be awed by the grandeur and magic of the land, and the tall tales circulated about its legendary chieftain. A deceptive air of tranquility and timelessness clings to the dark peaks and shadowed glens, a peace made possible only by the puissant Black Stag’s competent rule—and his formidable reputation.
Few are those who would cross him.
And most who have tried are no more.
Yet, of late, during long Highland nights beside the fire, the more bold amongst the tongue-waggers declare that the Black Stag has grown complacent and would surrender his lairdship to his only son and heir, Robbie MacKenzie. A braw young man whose task would seem tame, inheriting a land so favored, its people already loyal and true.
But all is not as it seems in the soft Highland air and broad, cloud-hung hills
of Kintail, its purple moors and empty glens.
For deep within the most remote corner of this wide expanse of hill and sea, change and disruption tremble and stir like an ancient benediction chanted just beneath the surface to echo and re-echo across the heather until even one so mighty as the Black Stag cannot deny its truth.
Or run from the burdens and memories of the past.
Robbie, too, must tread the path of fate.
A path indelibly inscribed on his destiny and unleashed by the whispered last wishes of a frail and dying woman.
Chapter One
GLENELG IN THE SPRING, 1344
“REPAY DUNCAN MACKENZIE?”
Juliana Mackay stared down at her mother, reaching to smooth the threadbare plaid tucked so lovingly about the older woman’s thin body. She hoped she’d misheard the ill woman’s unthinkable request.
After all, her mother had lost much strength in recent days, the words had been rasped in little more than a dry whisper.
Straightening, Juliana wiped her palms on the many-times-patched skirts of her kirtle and struggled against the urge to flee from the pathetic sight before her. She wanted to wrest open the rough-planked door and run from the mean little cot-house of sod, heather-thatch, and stone, until she’d put all her cares and woes behind her.
Instead, she drew a deep breath and fixed her gaze on the peat fire smoking beneath a heavy iron cooking pot. Repay Duncan MacKenzie. The very notion ignited her spleen and twisted her innards.
Aye, she’d surely misheard.
But in case she hadn’t, she squared her shoulders and folded her arms. A stance meant as much to stave off any further such impossible appeal as to keep herself from yielding to her own panic and fears and raining a thousand well-peppered curses on the man whose family had brought such grief to bear upon her own.
Juliana clenched her hands. Duncan MacKenzie deserved a hundred thousand curses piled onto his head.
But she knew without asking that any such outburst would only plunge her mother into another coughing fit.
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