He nodded. "He does, though he and his wife are quite mad. The man makes good charcoal, but his odd manner keeps many customers away."
"I remember him. Finlay sometimes bought charcoal from him." Lachlann looked at Mairi. "Go on."
"The charcoal burner knows something of what happened the night your parents died. Finlay said the old fellow was the only one who knew the truth but he has never spoken of it that I know. Lachlann, your father was a MacKerron, and a very skilled bladesmith. That much you knew."
Lachlann nodded. "Tomas MacKerron was his cousin. They learned their art from the same man, Finlay's father. And now I learn that I am related to this child through my mother." He glanced at Patrick, asleep on Mairi's wide bosom. "I want to hear the whole of it."
"His grandmother and your mother were sisters, daughters of a Stewart who was a kinsman of the king. Patrick's little sister, here, was named for your mother, Aileen."
He frowned. "I was never told that my mother was a Stewart of Glen Brae."
"Of Strathlan. Do not hold it against us, Lachlann," Mairi said. "Finlay insisted upon the secrecy. I did not agree, but honored his wishes."
He nodded, trying to understand. "Stewart of Strathlan?" he asked, astonished.
"But Colin Campbell holds Strathlan," Eva said. Lachlann glanced at her. She sat forward, her cheeks flushed from the heat of the hearth. The sight of her fresh, dark beauty stirred him, a respite in the midst of his current confusion.
He was glad that Eva would learn about his parents here with him, and she would learn of his obligation for vengeance, too. There were apparently details he had not yet heard, but he knew that Colin had some part in the death of his parents. Finlay had revealed that much to him, although Lachlann had not yet found the right moment to explain it to Eva. But the time had come for truth.
"When Aileen and I were girls," Mairi said, "Strathlan was part of Aileen Stewart's dowry. But she did not want to marry the man her father chose for her. One night she secretly wed her true love—Tomas MacKerron, the local blacksmith. Her father was furious, and disowned her."
"Finlay did not tell me that part," Lachlann murmured. "He said that my father had been a cousin and a fine blade-smith, and my mother a beauty from a fine family. And that they had been murdered."
"Murdered?" Eva gasped.
"Finlay always believed so, with reason," Mairi said. "What else did he tell you?" she asked Lachlann.
"Something about a tradition among the MacKerrons..." He stopped, shook his head. "The making of a faery blade."
"Faery blade?" Eva asked quickly.
"There is a tradition that the MacKerrons know how to forge faery steel," Alpin said. "I thought it was just a tale."
Lachlann shrugged. "There are methods in the making of steel, said to have been taught to a MacKerron by the faeries ages ago. Nonsense, of course, but it makes for a good tale."
"It is not nonsense," Mairi said. "Some say that Tomas MacKerron crafted the finest blades because he used those secrets. And Finlay revealed them to you."
"He told me some of it," Lachlann said. "I think he left much unsaid. He was weak, and I did not press him to talk."
Mairi nodded, hesitated. "Lachlann, your parents were happy. They had a good marriage and they both loved their little son." She touched his hand. "But Tomas made an enemy of the man who had first been betrothed to Aileen Stewart. The man sued for her dowry and won it in the courts. Tomas and Aileen had nothing, after that, but what living he made at his craft. But they were content. I want you to know that."
"Who was her betrothed?" Eva asked.
"Murdoch Campbell. Colin's father. That is why Colin owns Strathlan now—he inherited it from his father."
Eva gasped. "Oh! It should have come to Lachlann!"
"It could not, for Aileen's father disowned her. She brought nothing to her husband... except her love, which was all he ever wanted of her."
"So Murdoch won Strathlan?" Alpin asked.
Mairi nodded. "He sued for it three years before Aileen and Tomas died in a fire at Tomas's smithy."
"Tell me what you know of that night," Lachlann said. He remembered what Finlay had told him as he lay dying, and it still chilled his blood: in halting words, Finlay had named Colin Campbell as his father's murderer and had urged Lachlann to pursue vengeance. At the time, Lachlann had scarcely heard of Colin, had seen him only once or twice. Yet within weeks of Finlay's death, Colin had been named again, as Eva's favored suitor in marriage. He scowled to himself, wondering if he would ever be free of this enemy—a man he hardly knew.
"The fire started one night while Tomas was working late, as was his habit. You and Finlay often did that, too," Mairi said.
He nodded. "Color changes are essential to the making of steel," he explained, "but the colors are subtle, and are best seen at night."
"Your mother was with Tomas," Mairi said. "She was lovely, dark and slender. You have her bright blue eyes, Lachlann. How she adored you."
He smiled, but he felt a deep, lonely pang, wishing he had known her.
"She sometimes helped Tomas at the forging," Mairi went on. "That night, you were asleep in the house near the smithy. By the time others saw the blaze and arrived to help, Tomas and Aileen were both gone. The charcoal burner rescued you, Lachlann, and brought you the whole length of the loch to Balnagovan."
Lachlann listened, rubbing his fingers over his eyes wearily, sadly. He had mourned Finlay as the only father he had ever known, unable to fully mourn his own parents.
"I had no babes of my own," Mairi said. Lachlann recognized the grief of that in her voice. She should have had several children, he thought. She surely had the heart for it, but heaven had had other plans. "And I loved you like my own," Mairi murmured.
"I know," he said gently. "I always knew that."
"Who... who killed Lachlann's parents?" Eva asked quietly.
Lachlann glanced at her. "Finlay told me that Colin Campbell caused the blaze, and their deaths."
"Colin!" Eva gasped, and looked at him, her eyes wide with dismay. He frowned slightly.
"Finlay had heard so from the charcoal burner who had been at the burning smithy," Mairi said. "Colin—who was a young man then—came to our house asking after the babe, for he had heard that we fostered Tomas's son. He expressed his sorrow over the tragedy and offered coin for the child's care, which Finlay refused. My husband swore it was murder, but Colin denied any knowledge of it—he said he was just visiting out of mercy, and took offense. The Campbells were powerful, and the MacKerrons were few, merely a sept of Clan Arthur. Finlay could not pursue it."
"You did what you could," Alpin said. "You raised Tomas and Aileen's son to be a fine man, and a fine smith."
Mairi smiled wanly. "We did. Lachlann, we never told you all of this because we did not want to poison your mind with hatred. Finlay meant to tell you the truth, but he did not have time, at the end, to say all that he knew."
"He urged me to seek revenge against Colin," Lachlann said.
"He believed it was warranted," Mairi said.
"Then ever since Finlay's death," Eva said, looking at Lachlann, "you have had reason to hate Colin."
"Indeed," Lachlann answered quietly, his gaze meeting hers, "I have reason."
"I understand a need to avenge your parents' awful deaths," Eva said. "But you cannot know for certain that Colin caused it."
Lachlann sighed. "I see that now."
"Ask the charcoal burner," Alpin said. "He is mad as a hare, but he may remember the truth."
Lachlann frowned. "I will do that. Muime, does Colin know me? I remember him only as one of the men who sometimes ferried over to Innisfarna to see the MacArthur."
"I doubt he gave much thought to us after that, living at the far end of the loch. He took Alpin's ferry sometimes, but scarcely spoke to Finlay beyond paying to stable his horse with us. I knew he had important dealings with the MacArthur."
"And now I am betrothed to him," Eva said.
<
br /> Mairi nodded. "The world is indeed full of ironies."
"Where was my parents' home?" Lachlann asked.
"On a hill overlooking a little loch above Strathlan, northwest of Loch Fhionn," Mairi replied. "The buildings are gone now, but their graves are in the churchyard near there. Lachlann, please forgive us for keeping the truth from you for so long. Finlay did not like to speak about this." Mairi sighed. "As you grew into a man, kind and strong, he did not want to fill your young heart with hatred. He loved you, Lachlann. That is why he waited."
He nodded, and felt tears sting his eyes, and could not speak. He took Mairi's hand, pressing her fingers in silence.
His gaze met Eva's, and the compassion in her eyes soothed him. But he glanced away with a thoughtful sigh.
* * *
Water lapped at the sides of the boat as Alpin rowed them home. The lantern glowed on its hook, thrust up in the center of the boat, spilling gold over their heads and shoulders. Eva sat beside Lachlann on the cross bench, for the other bench was piled with the bundles Mairi had sent with them—food and casks of ale and uisge beatha of her own making.
Cloaked in darkness, Eva felt safe and comfortable beside Lachlann, his arm pressing hers, his solid body blocking the wind. She looked up at him, and saw him squint at the lantern and at the water, closing one eye for a moment. He glanced at her and smiled a little.
"Does your eye bother you?" she asked. "There is no scarring there. I did not realize you had injured it."
"The trouble is inside the eye, not outside," he said. "I took a blow to the head on the left side."
"Were you fighting beside the Maid at the time?"
He shrugged. "In a way."
"Does it hurt still?"
He shook his head. "Sometimes I see lights and colors that are not truly there." Cocking his head, he looked down at her. "Right now, I see sparkles and starlight all about your head. You look like an angel with a halo and a crown of stars." He gave her a crooked grin. "How well it suits you—unless one knows your devilish temperament, as I do."
Eva grimaced at him, and he laughed. "And if you are not wearing a halo and stars now," he went on, "then my eye is troubling me." He turned somber and looked away.
Hearing the bitterness in his voice, she understood it, for she knew far more than she had before. "How were you injured?" she asked. She was curious about Jehanne, whom he rarely mentioned, and she wanted to hear about Lachlann himself.
"I was struck," he said, "when I tried to save Jehanne and failed. She was taken at the gates of a city, though we tried our best to prevent her capture. Perhaps I am doomed to see angels, and halos, and stars now, so that I will never forget the one who saw angels herself—the one we lost."
Tears filled Eva's eyes as she sensed the agony beneath his words. She sighed, and wondered about the nature of his feelings for the French girl. Wondered if he had lost his heart to Jehanne in France. Suddenly she felt hurt and forlorn. But there was little point in that, she thought, for she herself was promised.
Promised, and confused. Passion sizzled between them, and her feelings for Lachlann grew stronger every day. No matter whom they loved, or what path they took in their lives, Lachlann was, and always would be, her friend. That bond would always exist, although she wanted much more than that.
After a moment, under cover of the plaids, his and hers, pooled between them, Eva reached for his hand. He grasped her fingers in his, and she turned her hand palm to palm with his.
If I can have nothing else of you, she wanted to tell him, at least let there always be friendship between us. She only sighed, guarding her thoughts, but she kept her hand curled warm in his.
Chapter 15
Standing at the forge, Lachlann rubbed flint and wood together to start the fire. He could have borrowed an ember from the house's hearth, but Finlay had taught him that a cold forge must be started with a new spark instead of an old one to ensure good fortune. Certainly he needed that, now that he was about to resume smithing at Balnagovan.
He shimmied the stick and flint until a thread of smoke spiraled outward. When a spark and a tiny flame blossomed, he set the burning wood on the forge bed and tucked kindling around it. The fire grew bolder, and he nurtured its edges with a small hand broom made of dampened twigs.
"Good morning," Eva said.
He looked over his shoulder. She stood in the doorway, which he had left open to admit sunlight and fresh air. When she smiled, he felt warmed—not from the newborn fire but from that whimsical, adorable, familiar smile.
"And to you," he answered, and turned to tend the flames. With her candid gaze upon him, he suddenly felt awkward, as if once again he was a lanky, smitten youth acting busy in her presence. And she was still the radiant one she had always been to him, fresh and wild and intoxicating.
She approached. "What will you make?" she asked. "Weapons?"
He sent her a stern little glare to cover up the softening in his heart. "I will not make weapons for your rebels, if that is what you are thinking."
"I know." She looked up at him. The fire's glow revealed her cream-and-roses skin, sheened her rich hair, and highlighted her silvery, stormy eyes. A balm to the gaze, she was, he thought, clear and perfect. He noticed that the troublesome, erratic sparkles in his vision were not there now.
"There are some tasks at the house," she said. "The chain that holds the kettle over the hearth is rusting, and the handle of the griddle is cracked, and the latch on the byre is loose."
"I can fix those." He prodded the fire.
Eva glanced up as if tallying a list. "Oh, and every hook in the house is in use. Would you make new hooks for baskets and clusters of herbs and onions? And would you sharpen the kitchen knives, and make a new little knife for cutting vegetables? The rings on the bed curtains are flaking with rust, and may need to be replaced, as well."
He laughed outright. "Is that all?"
"One other thing," she said softly. "I have a brooch, a silver pin with a broken clasp. It needs—"
"I know what it needs," he murmured. "I remember." He did not look at her, though he remembered the night, years ago, when the brooch had come loose; moments later he had kissed her. The magic of that night would never leave him.
"Well," she said. "We have been without a good smith for a long time, and I know Mairi would like those things tended to."
"It will all be done. Is there anything else?"
She shrugged. "Not unless you want to make weapons."
Sliding her a glance, he huffed a flat laugh. She blushed and looked away. He regretted the laughter, for he needed to remain firm on that topic. But his mood had lightened when she had walked into the smithy. She had always affected him like that, even now—especially now—when sadness and regret clouded his emotions.
The little spark of hope he felt earlier was still there, stronger now, nourished by a few dizzying kisses, by delightful companionship, by their visit with Mairi, and by Eva's gesture, last night, when she had sought and held his hand. He had trusted Eva and Alpin with the truth about his past, and even though it involved Colin, he knew his secrets were safe.
The dogs barked outside, and Eva turned to peer through the doorway. "Go on outside," Lachlann said. "While the fire heats, I had planned to go up to the house to remove the latches."
She nodded and walked out, and Lachlann gathered the tools he would need to work on the door fastenings—file, chisel, peen hammer, some nails—before going outside as well.
He followed Eva slowly across the meadow, admiring her sure stride, the fluid grace of her hips. That lovely sight caused his body to harden pleasantly, but he frowned and looked away.
He entered the house, ducking his head to clear the lintel, and set to work on the latches, while Eva watched. After filing the cold iron of the hasp, he paused to examine it.
"This needs heating and reshaping," he said, and took up a chisel to pry the riveted end loose with a few sharp tugs. He held the hasp in his palm to show her
. "The iron under the rivet has split, do you see? The iron fibers are showing—when that happens during forging, it is a poor job indeed. Now the piece must be remade to sit straight upon the door. If the iron proves too fibrous, it must be discarded." He gathered up the iron pieces and his tools.
She went outside with him. "May I watch you work?"
He shrugged, though he would welcome her presence, and led the way back to the smithy.
Inside, the forge fire burned nicely, its bed limited to a small squarish area, all that he would need for most tasks. Suspended above the left side of the forge was the long horn handle that worked the great bellows behind the chimney. Lachlann pulled downward on the handle to ease out some air to feed the fire. While the heat increased, he looked at the iron latches, thinking about how to repair and improve them.
"You always enjoyed this part of the smithing, I think," Eva said softly beside him.
Lachlann looked up in surprise. He had been so absorbed that he had forgotten she was there for a moment. "What part?"
"Puzzling out the task," she explained. "I remember watching you and Finlay MacKerron. I used to marvel at how well you both knew the craft, and how clever and strong you were to make metal into something as useful as a pothook, or as beautiful as a sword."
He jiggled the hasp and latch. "It just needs some training and cleverness," he said. "And it does not require much strength." He turned to the fire, brushing its edges with the dampened twig broom. Eva was right, he thought. He had always found much satisfaction in the mental tasks of smithing as well as the demanding physical aspects. He could twist a design effortlessly inside his head until he saw it completed and perfect. Then he could duplicate, in hot metal, the image he saw in his head. What she found marvelous seemed only natural and ordinary to him, but he was glad of her interest.
"Is the fire hot enough now?" she asked.
"Nearly so." He pulled the bellows handle again. The flames in the bed filled an area about a handspan square, and blazed brightly and merrily. Though he would do only simple tasks today, he felt excitement and anticipation build in him.
Susan King - [Celtic Nights 03] Page 14
