Highlander Ever After

by Jennifer Ashley

  Zarabeth shook her head. “No, I didn’t.” But she hesitated. How had she known? Had she heard him without realizing it?

  Egan slanted her a skeptical look. “Ye might have warned me ye know everything I’m thinking. Did ye not think to save your old friend from embarrassment?”

  “But I cannot read you.” Zarabeth came onto her knees, her balled fists on her thighs. “I cannot fathom why. I can sense everyone’s thoughts, even Valentin’s, although he’s very difficult. But not you. I didn’t find you by reading your mind that night in Nvengaria—I have no idea how I found you.”

  Egan’s eyes were cool. He didn’t believe her.

  “Please, Egan.” She leaned forward, willing him to understand. “I speak the truth.”

  “Then why did ye not tell me, if I had nothing to fear?”

  Zarabeth unclenched her hands to press them to her cheeks. “Because it is difficult to speak of and I knew you’d never believe me. One of the reasons I like being with you is because I don’t hear your thoughts. I don’t have to shut them out or guard against them.”

  “I see.”

  No, he didn’t. This was too new to him, too strange. Charms and potions Egan could acknowledge—he knew much about the magics of Nvengaria, and what Zarabeth wrought was mostly harmless. He could even accept the logosh, because he’d come to know several of them, and now saw them as people in their own right.

  “My mother taught me never to tell anyone,” Zarabeth said quickly. “She told me it was dangerous, and she was right. I learned that as I grew older.”

  “But you believe your father knew.”

  “My mother might have told him, but I don’t know—we never discussed it. I didn’t tell you, because I knew I couldn’t make you understand, and I didn’t want you to avoid me.” Even more than you did, Zarabeth couldn’t help adding.

  Egan let out a long sigh and scrubbed his hands over his face. “Oh, my Zarabeth, just when I think I fathom ye, when I think I can hold ye in my hand, ye prove what a wild creature ye really are.”

  “I would have told you someday, I swear to you.” Zarabeth said fervently. “I planned to work up to it. But you’ve guessed.”

  His look turned regretful. “Aye, that I did. Serves me right for speculating.”

  Zarabeth caught his hand, loving its warmth, its strength. “Please, Egan, don’t pull away from me.”

  Egan closed his fingers around hers, but she saw that he’d already receded. He needed time to think about this and decide what to feel.

  She kissed his palm, tears in her eyes. “I said I wished I didn’t love you so much, because it hurts me to.”

  Egan’s expression at last softened. “Hush, now lass. Don’t say such things. I never meant to hurt you—never you.”

  He tugged her down to him, and Zarabeth pillowed her head on his chest, her eyes burning.

  She thought he would lie quietly with her until she went to sleep, but after a moment Egan rolled onto her and slid himself inside her, tenderly this time. He made love to her, face to face, gaze to gaze, but without the previous frenzy. Just long, slow loving that lasted until Zarabeth was boneless and exhausted.

  When he reached his peak, Egan turned his head and squeezed his eyes shut, moaning low in his throat. Zarabeth was excited and desperate, these feelings so new to her she didn’t want them to end.

  Egan quieted her cries with his kisses, then he slid out of her and held her until she succumbed to sleep. When Zarabeth awoke, the sun was high, and Egan had gone.

  * * *

  Egan rode out early in the morning to check on his tenants and see what repairs needed to be done now that Hogmanay was over, but his mind was not on the task.

  When Zarabeth had said I wish I didn’t love you so much, he’d stopped breathing. That revelation and the next, that she could hear what people thought, had sent waves of conflicting emotions through him.

  He’d been angry that she hadn’t trusted him enough to confide in him. Egan hadn’t believed her at first when she said she couldn’t read him—that he was the only person she couldn’t read. But sincerity had rung in her declaration, and he’d changed his mind.

  His belief was helped along because Egan’s thoughts about Zarabeth since her arrival had been incredibly carnal. If she’d heard those thoughts she’d have been shocked senseless and fled Castle MacDonald long ago, never mind her husband’s minions lurking in the heather, waiting for her.

  He also felt annoyance and jealousy that he should be the only one in the world Zarabeth couldn’t read. The only one she couldn’t touch. Why not me?

  Damnation.

  As Egan spoke to the villagers, who were clearing up from their Hogmanay revelry as well as the marriage celebration, he tried to shut out his emotions and inquire about any sightings of strangers in the last few days. None had seen anyone out of the ordinary, except for Olaf, and they knew who he was now. There’d been no witnesses to the shooting of Valentin—no one had noticed a wolf prowling either.

  Either Valentin had been careful, or Egan’s tenants had been very drunk. Both probably.

  Egan headed back to the castle, not liking to leave Zarabeth alone for long, never mind that Ivan and Constanz were zealously guarding her. They’d become even more protective since Valentin had been hurt.

  Her sweet voice danced in his mind once more. I wish I didn’t love you so much.

  Beautiful Zarabeth, filling the hollow spaces of his heart.

  It was still early in the day when Egan reached the castle and clattered in through the gatehouse, but Olaf was pacing the courtyard.

  “I needed to walk,” Olaf said, pausing while Egan slid down from his horse. “But I didn’t want to go far.”

  “Walk down to the bottom of the road with me,” Egan replied, handing his horse’s reins to a groom. “I want to talk with ye.”

  Olaf nodded and fell into step with him. They left the courtyard, cold wind buffeting them as they emerged from the gatehouse. From the top of the hill, Egan could see over a long swath of his lands, now blanketed in snow, the village a dark smudge below the woods. Enough sun had broken through clouds to touch the snow-covered mountains in the distance, brushing the white with the deep gold of sunrise.

  Egan turned from the view and trudged down the hill with Olaf, both men walking briskly in the chill. Egan said conversationally, “I’d like ye to tell me about your wife.”

  Olaf gave him a startled glance. He strode with his hands quietly at his sides, upright like the soldier he’d been many years ago. Gray barely touched his hair, though the lines on his face were deep.

  “Mariah,” Olaf said after a time. “You knew her.”

  “Aye, and she was a kind woman. I grieved when I heard of her passing. Zarabeth was how old when she died? It was after I left again for the Peninsular War.” Egan had received the news when he’d returned to his tent one night, three months after Olaf’s wife had gone. The message had followed him, at last reaching him at Salamanca.

  “Zarabeth was fifteen,” Olaf said sadly. “Mariah died of a fever—swift and sudden. Poor lamb.” His eyes shone with tears.

  “I’m sorry,” Egan said sincerely. He remembered the night he’d heard, saddened that he’d been unable to go to Olaf and Zarabeth and comfort them. “Zarabeth told me a little about her,” Egan said, trying to sound nonchalant. He spoke in Nvengarian, though he saw no one in the stark landscape to listen. “That she could read thoughts.”

  Olaf glanced quickly at him then nodded. “Yes, she could. I knew of it, though not when I first met her. Zarabeth—I never asked her, but I am certain she can as well.”

  Uncertainty twisted in Egan’s gut. He’d believed Zarabeth, but to hear what she’d told him confirmed in the light of day by her father made it starkly real.

  “How did ye …?” Egan groped for words. “How did ye manage?”

  Olaf’s look turned fond. “It was simple. I loved Mariah. She gave me her vow that she would never pry into my head.” He waved
at his forehead. “She said she’d respect my privacy. We never openly talked about Zarabeth, but my wife instructed her well about the gift. I know she did.”

  “And ye trusted her?” Egan asked.

  “Mariah? Implicitly.” He gave a rueful laugh. “After I grew used to the idea, that is. Besides, I’m certain my wife did not want to know everything I thought. I think she was more afraid of what she’d find in my head than me knowing she knew.”

  “Hmm.” Egan picked his way around a treacherous bit of rock at the bottom of the hill, grunting as he made it to flat ground. He turned back to help Olaf, but the older man leapt nimbly down. “Did it make ye more—guarded—with your wife?” Egan asked.

  Olaf paused to catch his breath, and flushed, looking a bit abashed. “I admit it did at first. What a thing to be told, eh? That the woman you love will know everything you think about her—and about everything else in your life? I confess I was angry with her, and I tested her—came up with odd or bizarre thoughts to see if she would react, or know things I didn’t speak of.” His smile was soft. “She never did. I realized then that she’d been true to her word, and I was ashamed of myself for not trusting her. I told her what I’d done.” He shook his head. “It would have served me right if Mariah had given me the boot, but she forgave me. That’s a rare quality—the ability to forgive from the heart. Zarabeth has it too, in spite what her husband did to her.”

  Egan wondered how much Olaf knew of what Sebastian had done. “I’m not sure Zarabeth will ever forgive her husband,” he said. “I’m not certain I want her to.”

  Olaf shrugged. “I don’t want her to forgive the bastard either, but I mean that Zarabeth won’t let what Sebastian did harden her or bury her in bitterness. She’s free of him now to get on with her life, and she knows that.”

  Egan let out a heavy breath. “But does she want to get on with her life with me?”

  Olaf halted and faced him, his eyes warm on this cold winter’s day. “You know Zarabeth, Egan. Do you think that if she truly had not wanted to marry you, anything we said would have persuaded her? You’d even now be trying everything in your power to make her accept you. Zarabeth is her own woman. I feared Sebastian had broken her, but when I saw her on New Year’s Eve with you and your family, I knew she’d be all right. She was the same exuberant Zarabeth, my child, my beautiful daughter. And for that I thank you.” Tears filled his eyes, one spilling unashamedly down his cheek.

  “I cannae take credit for her strength,” Egan said quietly.

  “I believe you can,” Olaf returned. “Damien told me how numb Zarabeth was when she first came to him—quiet, starting at every noise, never wanted to leave her chamber. And now she’s dancing and laughing without constraint. Whatever else has happened at Castle MacDonald, Egan, you’ve brought my Zarabeth back to me.”

  Tears trickling, Olaf clapped Egan on the arm. Egan covered his hand and clasped it hard, hoping he could live up to Olaf’s belief in him.

  * * *

  “Why did it nae work?” Jamie MacDonald sat at the table in the Great Hall, staring morosely at the sword that lay lengthwise before him.

  Zarabeth ate her porridge hungrily, her appetite vast after her previous night’s activities with Egan. Gemma was at the table with them, her red hair neatly in place, her round face pink with health.

  “Ye didn’t have the rhyme, did ye?” Gemma told him. “The legend goes that the laird and lady have t’ chant the rhyme together, and then break the sword.”

  “Where are we going to find th’ rhyme?” Jamie scowled. “I’ve been over every box of old papers in this castle, and none even mention it.”

  Zarabeth looked up from her porridge. “Maybe Ian MacDonald was like Egan, not believing in curses. Maybe he felt no need to keep any record of it.”

  “That’s a thought,” Jamie agreed glumly. “Uncle Egan can be bloody stubborn about it.”

  “But perhaps Morag’s family noted it,” Zarabeth went on. “You said she bore a son, Ian’s child. What happened to him?”

  Jamie perked up, but Gemma shook her head. “Folk like Morag were peasants, tenant farmers,” she explained. “Most could nae read nor write.”

  Jamie thumped the table in sudden excitement. “But someone might have written down the curse’s secret—maybe their parish priest. Parish priests were always sticking their noses in where witches were concerned. I’ll go talk to the vicar, see if anything survived.”

  “It’d be unlikely,” Gemma warned.

  Jamie leapt up, bright excitement on his face. “I’ll find it. See if I don’t.” He raced out of the Great Hall, boots clattering.

  Gemma moved down the table to sit opposite Zarabeth, then waited while Williams and a maid cleared Jamie’s breakfast things.

  “Poor Jamie,” Gemma said. “I hope he’s not too disappointed, but at least it gives him something to do.”

  “You don’t believe in the curse?” Zarabeth asked a she scraped up the last of her cinnamon-laced porridge.

  Gemma grinned. “Well, of course I do. I live with it every day, and I don’t believe that a few words from long ago can break it. Morag probably never believed a laird would openly marry a witch, not in those suspicious times. But why should she leave a convenient spell to free him?”

  “Perhaps to plague him with false hope?” Zarabeth suggested.

  “From what I hear tell, Ian MacDonald didn’t much believe in anything, least of all hope. A right bastard he was.”

  Zarabeth blinked in surprise. “But the MacDonalds are so good-hearted.”

  “Aye,” Gemma said fondly. “But that’s after they started marrying good peasant stock. The ’45 took many a fine lad to his death, and after that, lasses of the families had to marry where they could. Things are a bit mixed up nowadays, for the better, I’d say. Egan’s father now, he was another right bastard, and Charlie was just like him.”

  Zarabeth’s lips parted at Gemma’s forthrightness. “Truly? But Egan and Adam told me everyone loved Charlie.”

  “Oh, aye.” Gemma nodded wisely. “I should nae be telling tales, but ye should know. Charlie could wrap people around his finger, he could, but Egan’s ten times the man he was. Charlie was his father all over, but used his charm t’ get his own way, didn’t matter what. Well, he’s gone and nae much we can do now.”

  Zarabeth felt a pang of anger for the departed Charlie and his father. They’d been horrible to Egan, as horrible in their own way as Sebastian had been to Zarabeth.

  “What did you wish to speak with me about?” Zarabeth asked, remembering Gemma’s request from the day before. She gave the woman an encouraging look.

  Gemma leaned forward furtively. “Breedin’. Me and Angus, specifically. Ye made a charm to send those two silly girls back home, but can ye do something a bit more complicated? Like making sure I get with child next time me and Angus go to bed?”

  She looked worried, and Zarabeth’s heart squeezed in sympathy. She well remembered her dashed hopes each time she began her menses during her marriage, the disappointment that she still hadn’t conceived. Her initial, girlish interest in Sebastian had faded quickly enough once she learned his true character, but she’d still wanted a child, someone to love unconditionally. She’d grieved when she finally accepted that a baby was not going to come.

  “You and Angus only married in October,” Zarabeth pointed out. “These things can take time, you know.”

  Gemma laughed. “Nay, nay, Angus and me have been tumbling for a year now, ever since he bent his knee and asked me t’ be his wife. We thought if a baby started, we’d just up the date a bit. But nothing.” She sighed.

  “There are charms I can give you,” Zarabeth said. “Though I can’t guarantee they’ll work.” They’d never worked on herself, but she’d helped other ladies in the past.

  “I’ll try anything,” Gemma said. “The quack in the village gave me some potions, but they’re useless. Quacks usually are.” She rolled her eyes.

  “Doctors ar
e fond of their books and mathematics,” Zarabeth agreed. “In Nvengaria, wise women with herbal lore are far more respected than doctors and their bloodletting.”

  Gemma nodded sagely. “I think I’d like Nvengaria, from what Egan’s told me about it.” She cocked her head. “Is it true that wives there rule their husbands?”

  Zarabeth smothered a smile. “Not exactly. But women can own property and run businesses, and pretty much do as they like.”

  Gemma shrugged philosophically. “Aye, well, I likely wouldn’t know what t’ do wi’ myself in Nvengaria—I’ve never been twenty miles from Castle MacDonald. I’ll stay here and run Angus’s life for him.”

  Zarabeth hid her amusement. From what she could see, Angus loved being bullied by his good-hearted wife.

  Gemma said suddenly, “Ye aren’t going to run off back to Nvengaria now and leave Egan here alone, are ye?”

  “No.” Zarabeth quieted even as she said it, uncertain. Things had been such a whirlwind in the past few days that she’d ceased worrying about what she’d do when the time came to go home. But she wondered now what would happen.

  “Good,” Gemma said decidedly. “Because he needs ye here. After Charlie died, ye couldn’t talk to Egan—he just shut into himself. He didn’t shout at his father for blaming him for Charlie’s death or for cutting up Egan’s picture. Egan walked away and never came back until Gregor MacDonald was dead and buried. Even now, Egan’s been distant, as though he’s not really here, no matter that he is.”

  Zarabeth pushed aside her empty bowl. “He was not like that in Nvengaria. Or—maybe he was at first, but I was young and didn’t really understand his grief. He talked to my father at length about it, says my father gave him back his will to live. Egan seemed almost happy at my father’s house.”