She smiled. “As does ours. I’m fine. I can help this bairn, so of course I must. Who could refuse to tend a sick bairn? How heartless would that be?”
He watched as she bathed the child in the ice and water. Despite her assurances, her hands were red from the chill. Sorcha, he thought. Sorcha could be that heartless. He had been taking his leave of her over her protests. She followed him into the courtyard where they met Calum, who informed him of young Fergus’ illness and that Heather had been summoned to tend him.
The widow chuckled and said, “Don’t tell me she actually went out in the middle of the night to tend the relation of a servant? Then again, she surely has nothing else to occupy her evening hours. I can guarantee that she is not spending them with Nial.”
At her words, he silently cursed himself. When Heather was so obviously the better person, how could he still be infatuated with the black-haired wench?
Now he looked over to where Heather bent to her small satchel mixing leaves and oil into a small portion of warmed beer. She propped pillows up behind the child and patiently forced small sips into his mouth, even massaging his throat to get him to swallow.
When the cup was empty, she turned to him. “Would you please hold Fergus for me?” She asked, and he scooped up the lad.
The women changed the bedclothes and then Heather piled it with covering.
“Cobb, I need you to stoke the fire. It must be warm, hot even. We want the fever to break.” Then she sat forcing the covers around the child, drops of perspiration dotting her face.
A strange warmth tightened his chest as he watched the care she took of the child.
He wiped the perspiration from her brow. “Let me take over for a spell. You’re exhausted and you should rest a bit. Why don’t you walk outside and cool off.”
“No, thank you,” she denied gently. “While the wee one needs me I shall be here.”
He sat down beside her on a small stool and saw her grimace and arch her back. He reached over to rub it. She leaned into his hands as he soothed the strain. He was struck by how natural it seemed to soothe her and again, by the connection he felt when he touched her. He was struck harder by the twitch he should be far too glutted to experience.
As he leaned close, she sniffed noticeably. He must smell like sex, nasty sex, Sorcha sex. He glanced at Cobb questioningly and the other man shook his head and turned up his nose in disgust. Nial realized that his clansman knew full well that the laird crawled out of someone’s bed to come here. Likely, given the efficiency of the gossip network, Cobb knew exactly whose thighs he'd crawled away from. Embarrassed as he was, he couldn’t bring himself to leave. Dawn was breaking when the child began to show signs of improvement.
“Cobb, Jean, look, he's sweating.” She leaned close to check, “At last, the fever has broken.” Sure enough, little Fergus gradually began to breathe easier and after a while longer, normally. Then he awoke complaining of hunger.
“It is time to leave,” Nial said, as he took her hand.
She turned to hug the couple. Her face turned pink at Cobb's praise. “An angel, Miss. That is what ye are.”
Jean joined her husband the pink on her face flamed red. “If the laird is the man I think he is, this fine lady will soon be our angel. And I’m thinking the Clan Maclee could surely use one of those.”
The Maclee said not a word to the pointed reminder, but tenderly guided the angel back to the keep, holding her hand the entire time, as they walked in silence. At her door, he turned to her and asked, “Will you do me the honor of walking with me after dinner tonight, Heather?”
“I would like nothing better,” she smiled her acceptance but it was her eyes that caught his attention by beaming her love at him, as openly as if she'd spoken.
“Rest until dinner,” he instructed, before surprising himself by pressing a kiss into her palm.
He went to his room and ordered a bath. Once he cleaned the stench from his body, he fell into an exhausted slumber and slept for several hours. He arose before dinner, and went downstairs. The widow showed up for the meal, although this time she had not been invited. She acted like the lady of the house, which she was not and would never be. Her boldness and presumption chilled his ardor and he occupied himself with business matters until it was time for dinner.
He continued to look for Heather, but she never appeared. When the dinner gong sounded and she still hadn't arrived, he began to worry that she might have caught a fever from the bairn.
He stood and put the question to the group. “Has anyone seen Heather?”
Sorcha snorted, and looked disdainfully at the MacIvers. “I ran into her as I arrived. She was hardly dressed in a manner befitting this dwelling and such fine company. I told her that since she dressed like a servant and bestirred herself to attend to them when they fell ill, that she could very well dine with them. You have no need to trouble yourself. She will not be hanging on your sleeves tonight.”
Laird MacIver leapt up and roared. “I demand to know just who this wench is and by what right she says such things about my daughter and directs your guests. It was my understanding that we are here to consider a possible match between you and my Heather. Such would be of great benefit to both our clans. I demand that either this wench be banished from our company or my clansmen, my family and I will leave and trouble ourselves of the hospitality of the Clan Maclee no further.”
With MacIver's final words, he threw down the gauntlet. A feud between the two clans would destroy the island. At this moment Nial hated the widow profoundly. His time with her had been no more than satisfying an odd lust he seemed to have for the woman. He didn’t even understand the lust, for he surely did not like her. Yet he liked having his back pushed to the wall even less. The MacIvers and the elders of his clan had been doing just that for days now.
None of those logical thoughts motivated his actions. His growing admiration for Heather did though. He was fond of her and found her intelligent, brave and caring. She did not deserve the venom from the evil woman who stood before him.
He motioned to two clansmen and ordered them to escort Sorcha out of the castle.
“Do not presume to return to my household again without an invitation,” he said, looking into her eyes coldly as she passed.
She snatched her arm from the grasp of the men leading her and stepped in front of Nial. “Laird Maclee, do not presume to return to my bed again without an invitation either.”
The company gasped and she smiled at his visible fury at having been called to the carpet in front of all and sundry.
Carrick stood again, calling to him loudly. Nial didn’t want to speak to the man just now and doubted he could be civil anyway.
“I suggest that everyone proceed with dinner. Laird MacIver, you need have no concern for Heather. I will go to attend her now.”
Somewhat mollified, Carrick motioned the group to dinner. Nial left to go to the kitchen. He entered quietly, and found Heather laughing and talking to the group of servants who enjoyed the meal in much greater humor than was generally found among guests in the dining room. They all competed for Heather’s attention and fought to serve her.
When two maids argued over who would fill her cup and she protested that she could fill her own, he spoke for the first time. “Perhaps one of you could fetch me a cup and plate instead.”
The chief cook made a startled noise and commenced shouting at her staff, having a conniption fit from the laird appearing in her kitchen. He calmed the servant, insisting he wanted to dine here and he shook away the staff’s protests. He sat beside Heather who insisted that they could serve themselves. He instructed that it be as she wished and all of the household servants found themselves dining with the chief of the clan in his kitchen.
Before the meal ended he and the lass debated with high good humor whether Shakespeare’s works could possibly be considered classics in Scotland since the writer was English. That led to a discussion of the merits, or lack thereof, of all thin
gs English, and before the meal ended the crowd howled with laughter as Nial and a kitchen lad traded singing funny ditties about the odd ways of the Sassannach.
After the merriment dwindled, Nial turned to her and said, “I hope you haven’t forgotten your promise to walk with me in the garden.”
He shifted uneasily at her heart shining from her eyes as she replied, “I could hardly have forgotten such a thing, Nial.”
During their stroll, he found himself discussing a problem with the crops and a punishment he had to decide for a tenant who shirked his service obligation. She had good ideas for both, and before they finished debating the merits of those, he realized how late the hour grew.
He looked at her in today’s brown sack and matching Granny bonnet and wished she were more attractive. She made a good friend but if he married her he would dishonor himself by betraying his vows with another woman. He feared he would end up in a marriage as desperately unhappy as that of his mother and father. The thought of breaching a sacred vow horrified him for he believed a man’s honor defined him. Yet, he knew his drives. If claws of passion were ever joined with true love, his honor would eventually be breached, making such an outcome inevitable. Yes, if he married his friend he would dishonor himself and make both of them miserable.
He stood to return her to her room, but first made an appointment to walk with her in the garden again tomorrow night after dinner. He was reluctant to end the companionship he shared with her, and paused at her door. “Heather,” he said, putting a finger under her chin to tilt up her face, “I have not yet apologized for the act of the one who banned you from my table. She will not trouble you again. I promise that tomorrow you will be free of her.”
Her eyes sparkled with tears at the reminder and he put a finger to gently wipe them from her eyes.
“Don’t cry, lass,” he beseeched. Many women resorted to tears thinking to manipulate him so simply. The ploy never worked, for he had hardened himself to withstand them from a young age. Still, the tears of this one tore at his heart. He bent and kissed her on the cheek, and she looked up at him with her heart in her eyes as she bid him good night. He could have seen the color of her eyes then, had he not been so uncomfortable at the emotion flooding him from her expression.
He walked away troubled. He could never return her love but he did not want to hurt her, or lose her friendship, the first he had ever shared with a woman. How to end this by keeping her as a friend, not making her clan an enemy, and leaving him free for his fated love? Or should he bow to the pressure of the elders and wed his friend and bar himself from his love once she did appear?
The friendship between the pair developed apace over the next few days, and he sought her company more each day. She calmed him, and in circumstances where his famous temper would normally compel him to do something vastly stupid, he would instead stop and look at Heather and allow his judgment to decide the issue instead. Even her lightest touch brought a reaction from his body that he didn’t understand and couldn’t explain so he kept the friendship confined to just that.
The elders pushed harder every day and the MacIver started to press him about his intentions as well. Lately, even Calum seemed to be pushing him by making comments like, “How dare they presume to dictate your future for you. Who is the laird, anyway?” What was his friend thinking? He needed a calming influence right now, not another hand feeding the fire.
The elders and the MacIver had to be answered, but they picked a particularly poor day to hell-hack him. Nial had tossed in his bed all night, tormented by his predicament. When he finally fell into exhausted slumber, he had the nightmare again, the same one that came to him nearly every night. In the dream he was married to Heather. He was bound to her by his vow but unable to perform in bed with her as his wife. As the days of marriage passed, he began to catch glimpses of an alluring goddess whose locks dangling to her tempting buttocks were painted every shade of brown from sandy to chocolate to auburn. Her eyes beckoned him to sin with their golden allure. He fought temptation as long as he could. He pretended Heather was the goddess and tried to bed her that way, to no avail. His body, so incapable with his wife was tormented with need for the other woman. A darting glance from her golden eyes had him hard as a rock.
By the time his dream ended he had broken his marriage vows and shamed himself by betraying his wife with the goddess he could not resist. He awoke with a wet spot on the sheets that proved he could not court dishonor by marrying Heather. Friendship was all that could exist between them.
Just before he woke from the dream he heard a female voice, imploring him to “look harder, look with his soul.” He didn’t understand what that meant and assumed it was a direction to seek his goddess more diligently. That explanation didn't suit because he looked everywhere for his fate and never more so than now when he could finally put some form to her. He might have thought about it harder but the dream and his daily life had his thoughts and emotions hopelessly tangled.
Heather loved him and her quiet worship soothed his soul. He sought her company more rather than less as the days passed. It would have been kinder to stay away, but when he tried to do that he couldn’t. There was always something he just had to tell Heather. Some question he needed her help with or some tale he had to share. He would break his promise to stay away for her own good and go to seek her out instead.
And now, to top it all, this morning at breakfast only the elders and the MacIver were there, and he had knew he was in trouble the second he entered the room.
“Laird Maclee,” Carrick began, “you have spent a fairly substantial amount of time with my daughter. It appears to me, that it is past time for you to make your intentions plain.”
“My intentions?” Nial’s question was admittedly feeble, but he had been caught in the hell of the nightmare and wasn’t ready to deal with this right now.
“Laird Maclee, it is my understanding that you are contemplating a match with my daughter.” Carrick looked to the elders, “Am I mistaken?”
“Nay, Laird, of course you are not mistaken. A match between our laird and your daughter would secure the future of both clans and this island.” Eaoseph wasn’t subtle but from what Nial had seen, subtlety vanished with age. “Ye have been spending time with the lass considering a match, haven’t ye, Laird?”
Now he was caught, and under the joint glare of all the elders had no choice in his reply. "Well, of course. It’s just that I hadn’t expected to be pressed about my intentions quite so soon.” His statement was blatantly false. He had expected to be tackled before this and still hadn’t come up with a good way to respond. What he most needed to do was the one thing he couldn’t – discuss it with Heather.
“Really? I find that surprising, Nial. I thought your character more like mine. I expected that you would be decisive, able to make a quick and correct decision and follow through," Carrick said pointedly.
Nial sighed. The man had virtually challenged his ability to lead his clan with that one, and again, he had no choice in his reply. “Normally that would be true. However in this case I must weigh my duty to the clan against my own future happiness.”
“Sir, are you saying that marriage to my daughter would make you unhappy? If that is the case, I assure you my family and I will take our leave and will not trouble you about this matter again. My daughter has a great deal to offer a man astute enough to look beneath the surface. Perhaps I was wrong and you are not such a man.”
The elders’ distress aside, Carrick’s offer would let Nial off the hook, and he nearly said the words that would eliminate the pressure to make him marry Heather. As he opened his mouth to speak, he realized that the same words would destroy the friendship he had with her as well. He couldn’t even explain it to himself, but Heather’s friendship had become important to him. Maybe, just maybe, it had even become necessary.
“Gentlemen. You will have to allow me to take my leave of you as I will require a bit more time to think this through.” Nial was
polite but insistent. He had to have time to formulate a plan.
“How much more time?” Carrick inquired firmly.
“Tonight. I will have a decision tonight. I will discuss it with Heather when we take our evening walk in the garden after dinner,” his words pleased the group, whose eyes lit up in anticipation of a reason to celebrate. He pushed his uneaten breakfast away and left with a heavy heart, feeling pushed into a corner. His instincts compelled him to push back. Nial never cornered well.
He did what he always did when he was deeply troubled. He sought the privacy and serenity of his hidden sanctuary. He made his way through the dense greenery of the forest towards the crest of a steep hill where he could sit and contemplate the peaceful tranquility of a tranquil loch that lay at the foot of a mighty peak of the majestic Cuillin mountains. The loch was hidden from view by the range of the Cuillins, the hill where he would sit, and a dense thicket of trees, at the edge of which, wildflowers grew in abundance in private majesty.
This had become his refuge. In this place alone the pressures of clan business and the efforts of scheming women who wanted his body or his power but never his heart or his soul could not reach him. He had never seen another person at the hidden loch. He held the secret close to himself to preserve the one place on earth that was solely his.
He would come here to seek his answer, thought Nial as he climbed the small hill. He would sit and his refuge would speak to him and tell him whether he should do his duty and put the welfare of his clan ahead of the call of his heart. When he reached the peak of the hill, a small movement from his left, down below at the loch, drew his notice. Someone was down there. Who?
It was a nude woman. He could only see her back at present, but even that was glorious. Her rounded bottom looked made to fit his hands. His palms started itching with the need to cup those buttocks. He gulped the excess moisture in his mouth that threatened to become drool. He would have to look up at the rest of her in a moment, but it required a physical act of will to tear his eyes from her long, oh so long and shapely legs to the point where her bottom curved like a ripe apple. Up to the small of her back – no wait, for just a minute back to her bottom. His tongue rimmed his mouth, imagining licking every inch of that bottom before he bit into the fruit and savored it before his tongue lapped up to the small indentation at the base of her spine.
A Faerie Fated Forever Page 5
