by Aileen Adams
Minutes later, they sat in Padraig’s study. The room was warm and welcoming as the man himself—a far cry from the slovenly nature of Angus Cameron’s. Clean, bright, with a sweet southern breeze carrying the scent of the River Nevis, which composed the southern boundary of Anderson land.
“When Alan died, I didna think I had it in me to become laird.” Padraig smiled a bit upon this confession, having shared the details of Alan’s demise. “I would never have told Rodric, mind ye, but he was insistent. He had no wish to take Alan’s place.”
“Rodric never seemed interested in such doings, if memory serves.”
“Nay, he never cared much for clan business. As I had already done much of the day-to-day work—overseeing accounts, managing the men—it seemed the best course of action. And it has been. We’re better off than we’ve been in many years.”
“I’m glad to hear of it. The title suits ye well. I hardly recognized ye when I first set eyes upon ye.”
The silence stretched out between them, and Donnan understood that he had made his friend uncomfortable. “Ye need not think much of this,” he muttered, gesturing to his face.
“I’d heard of it,” Padraig admitted. “And it’s sorry I am to see it. But I would rather have ye alive, truth be told.”
“I didna always share that feeling,” Donnan chuckled, bitterness tingeing his words.
“I hope things have changed.” With that, several men strode into the room, ending their discussion. Donnan recognized Rodric, Padraig’s older brother, along with Quinn.
“Forgive us for taking so long,” he apologized as they entered. “We were on our way from the house when we met up with Quinn, who told us ye wished to meet.”
“No matter,” Padraig assured him, then explained to Donnan, “Rodric and his wife live in the small house once owned by Sorcha, who now runs the house for me. Brice and Fergus are both good friends of the clan. I trust them as I trust ye.”
Now that it was time to speak, Donnan could hardly find the words. He thought of Fenella, always in the back of his mind, and what she might be doing just then. How he found himself wishing she were there with him.
“It’s to do with Clan Cameron,” he began.
20
Never had Fenella be so comfortable or well cared for. Not even as a child in her own home, which had never lacked for anything she’d ever needed.
She’d also never felt more alone, even raised as an only child by a loving but distracted father.
Knees pulled to her chest, she rested her chin upon them. The water in the washtub was blessedly warm, the scent of flowers rising from it. The woman who’d filled it must have added something to make it smell so. She imagined her skin and hair would carry the scent later.
A lovely thought, but it provided little comfort at the moment.
Not when all she could think of was Donnan.
Now that he’d met with his friend and they could discuss plans to stop Angus. He no longer needed her.
Not that he ever had, but she had at least felt useful when they rode together. Just the two of them. He’d been hers alone.
While that had not always been pleasant, she now knew she would miss being with him. Gooseflesh rose over her skin, and a sob rose in her throat.
How was it possible to be so angry with someone, yet want so much to be with them?
He was a fool for thinking she wanted nothing to do with him simply because of his misfortune. He would continue to push her away, to be cruel and thoughtless, because he imagined himself unworthy.
She understood this. Why did he not understand?
And there was no speaking to the man, no getting through that hard head of his. He insisted on being right no matter how silly or baseless his notions.
But she loved him, as ever. She always had. He would eternally be part of her, as her hands or legs. She could no sooner relieve herself of his presence in her heart as she could cut off a limb.
Would that she could exist in his heart.
A sharp rap at the door left her flustered. She wiped the tears from her cheeks with the linen sheet folded hear the tub. “Aye?” she called out.
“I’ve brought ye a kirtle, lass.” Sorcha. A kind woman, if a bit… overpowering.
“Please, come in.” She wrapped herself in linen as Sorcha entered.
“Dinna feel ye have to end your bath on my account,” the woman assured her. “I merely wanted to bring this to ye, that ye might have something in which to dress yourself. Feel free to take your time.”
“I was finished,” Fenella confessed, feeling foolish and not knowing why. “Simply lost in thought, I suppose. And allowing my skin to wrinkle.” She held up her fingers as proof.
“Aye, well, after such a long ride, ye deserve time to yourself. We women so seldom have any, do we?” She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear in a distracted manner, her eyes traveling the room as if ensuring it was suitable for the guest.
And it was. A deep, soft bed large enough to hold four or five women her size. A window overlooking the southern lands, allowing warm sunlight and a soft breeze. A basin for washing of face and hands, a comb, and ribbons beside that she might tie back her hair.
“Thank ye for this,” she smiled, suddenly shy.
“Ye need not thank me,” Sorcha assured her, but it was with a smile. “My niece, Caitlin, just arrived with her daughter. I told them there was a young lass in the house and she said she’d like to meet ye.”
There had been so few female friends in Fenella’s life. She’d always wished for a sister, yet the absence of her mother made that impossible—something she had not understood as a wee lass.
“I would like to meet her,” Fenella whispered, shy once again. “I will dress quickly that I might receive her.”
And she did, slipping the thin underdress over her head first, then the cream-colored kirtle. A bit large in the bust and long in the sleeve, but it was a world better than the stained, frayed thing she’d worn since leaving the Cameron house.
There was a tentative knock on the door as she combed through her thick, wet hair. “Come in,” she called, and was quickly greeted by a tiny little lass no more than a few years old. A thick shock of curls colored the darkest black stuck out around her head, and wide, blue eyes searched the inside of the room before they found her.
“Hello,” Fenella whispered, crouching. “What is your name, then?”
“Fiona,” the little lass whispered.
“I am Fenella. It is nice to meet ye.” When she stood, the child’s mother welcomed her with a smile.
“I am Caitlin Anderson. It is a pleasure to meet ye.”
“Anderson?” Fenella asked, taken aback.
“Aye. I married Padraig’s brother, Rodric. He is downstairs now, speaking with the other men.”
“But ye dinna live here?” Fenella went back to her combing, taking in all of Caitlin Anderson. She’d shared her hair and eyes with her daughter, it seemed, and her belly swelled heavily with another bairn.
For some reason, this caused Fenella’s heart to twinge painfully. She had never begrudged a woman for being with child, far from it, in fact. She loved children.
Now, seeing this woman with her lovely little lass and another one on the way, knowing her husband was downstairs… it hurt.
Caitlin took her daughter’s hand, leading her away from the open window with a soft warning. “Nay, we live in a small house of our own. It belonged to my Aunt Sorcha, but she lives here now. What was supposed to be a favor to Padraig turned into a permanent arrangement.”
“She’s quite good at what she does,” Fenella chuckled. “She had me stripped and in a washtub in the time it took to blink an eye.”
“She needed something to do with herself, I believe,” Caitlin mused, her voice soft. “She’d been widowed, ye see.”
“Ah. It is a good thing Padraig took her on, then.”
“Aye. He made it out to be a favor to him, but I believe it was a kindness to her h
e was more concerned with.”
“He sounds like a good man. I heard many fine things about him along the journey here.”
“Aye, that he is.” Caitlin sat on the foot of the bed with a sigh. “Forgive me, but I am quite worn out. Young Fiona does not seem to understand how her mother has little energy these days.”
Fiona, on the other hand, danced and twirled in one corner of the room, singing softly to herself. She would not be an only child, and this was a relief to Fenella. “She will have a friend soon, someone to play with,” she mused.
“Have ye a large family? I am not familiar with the clan, though I ought to be since my husband and brother-in-law are always involved in clan dealings.”
“Nay, I have no brothers or sisters.”
Caitlin cocked an eyebrow. “It’s a wonder no one has tried to marry ye, being from a strong clan with no brothers to act as heir.”
“They have.”
She braided her hair with nimble fingers, speaking in low tones that the child might not hear the tale of Angus Cameron. Caitlin’s eyes widened, her breath caught.
“I didna know this! Does Padraig?”
“He ought to by now. That is why we came. Donnan saved me, and he thought it would be best to come here for help before moving on to the Duncans.”
“A wise decision,” Caitlin decided. “Though I worry for the men…” Her hands rested on her belly, her brow furrowing.
“And I brought this to ye,” Fenella groaned.
“You are not at fault! It is that dreadful clan. Phillip Duncan would have done well to dispatch with them years ago.”
Fenella only nodded her agreement. Would that Phillip Duncan had done just that.
A playful smile tugged at the corners of Caitlin’s mouth. “Ye became quite close with Donnan, I imagine.” When Fenella’s cheeks flushed, Caitlin added, “I ought not say such things, as I do not know you well.”
“I do not mind.” In fact, it was a relief to have someone to speak with about him.
“It is merely the way your voice and face changed when ye said his name,” she explained. “Ye sounded fond of him.”
“I am rather. When it isn’t behaving like… a fool,” she finished, one eye on the dancing lass in the corner.
“All men are fools,” Caitlin chortled. “I’ve known my husband all my life, and he’s as big a fool as he ever was. A good man, a wonderful father, but a fool I would love to kick and slap as I did when we were wee ones.”
“I knew Donnan when we were children, too!”
“And did ye wish to slap him sometimes?”
“When did I not?” They laughed together, but Fenella’s laugh faded quickly. “I often do now. I did not speak to him all day. Not since last night, when I shouted at him. Now I wish I had not done it.”
“There is nothing wrong when the man deserves to be shouted at,” Caitlin assured her. “I would wager he deserved it. He is stubborn, then? Will not let ye near him even though it seems sometimes as though he wants nothing else but to be near ye?”
Fenella’s mouth fell open. “How did ye know?”
Caitlin’s heavy sigh told her she’d been through something similar. “I would not wish it on anyone. What can we do to get him to see the light?”
Fenella shook her head, waved her hands. “We could not! If he ever knew I breathed a word of this to ye, he might never speak to me again.”
Caitlin merely smiled. It was the smile of a woman who had earned her wisdom through years with a man who could stir her love and her anger in turn. “Place your trust in me.”
21
“It is settled, then. We ride out on the morrow.” Padraig poured wine for them both while they waited for the rest of the group to gather for the feast.
The table had been laid out in white linen, candles by the dozen stretching out along its length. Already there were platters of fruit, bread, sweet cakes and cold meats, and the kitchen lasses hurried to and from through a door between the rooms.
Donnan thought he could hear Sorcha giving orders in there. The woman never ceased.
Rodric joined them. “Ye know the Duncans better than the lot of us. Ye think Phillip and Jake will be of a mind to agree with us?”
“Aye,” he nodded with a grimace. “It has been a long battle between the clans, one which quieted in recent years, but the knowing that they are a threat has never gone away.”
This seemed to satisfy Padraig, as well. He supposed there was no choice other than to trust the pair of them, as they would know their friends’ minds better than he would.
A handful of the women entered then, the wives of Padraig’s brother and friends. Fenella was not with them.
Donnan grasped Padraig’s and Rodric’s arms before they could leave him. “I dinna wish for her to know,” he whispered. “She has been through enough, and deserves to rest here for a spell. If she knew our plan, she would demand to come along.”
The men nodded—he thought he saw them exchange a glance but dismissed it.
For moments later, in walked a woman who could only be Fenella.
His mouth fell open at the sight of her, yet somehow the act of breathing failed Donnan. His tongue felt swollen, as though it might choke him.
At least it would mean dying with the glorious image before him fresh in his mind.
Fenella seemed to float above the floor. The skirts of the gown someone had clearly loaned her moved about her legs, whispering secrets he would have given anything to know.
The fabric was blue as a robin’s egg, the cut of the gown snug at her bust and hips. All of the dark, sensual images and questions she had stirred in him on their first meeting flashed once against in the forefront of his awareness.
Only more so, for now he knew the taste of her lips. He knew the scent of her skin, of her hair. The feel of her body against his, her gentle sighs.
He swallowed hard, willing the heat in him to cool.
Her hair shone in its braids and coils, wrapped about the top of her head. Every time she moved, light from the candles and braziers gleamed in her hair, making it look as though she glowed.
“Good evening,” she murmured, casting her gaze downward when she reached him.
He could not have moved if the chair he touched was on fire. Nothing in the world mattered more than she just then. Being near her. Marveling at her.
“Good evening,” he replied. “You’re speaking to me again?”
She nodded. “I suppose I am no longer as angered as I was.”
“It’s glad I am to hear it.” He lowered his voice. “For I canna bear it, knowing you are angered. Knowing I brought you pain.”
She looked up, into his eyes, and he might have drowned in her. What was happening? He was not capable of such thoughts, such behavior. It was beyond him.
Men such as himself did not fall in love, and were certainly never loved in return.
Yet there he was, all but offering himself to her on a platter. His scarred body, his bruised heart. They had been hers from the moment he set eyes upon her again—seeing her now merely made something clear which he had tried in vain to ignore.
“Now that we are all gathered, I believe it’s time we ate. My mouth is watering at the smell of this food,” Padraig announced.
Judging from the laughter around the room, he was not alone in feeling this way.
Donnan, on the other hand, had never felt less like eating in his life. He was too enthralled by every move Fenella made. Her soft smile as he pulled out her chair, the grace with which she lifted her chalice for the speech Padraig was about to make.
Donnan fumbled for his own goblet and cursed his clumsiness. It was as though the woman had given him a tonic, turning him into a mindless fool.
Padraig beamed at him. “My friend has returned, and ‘tis happy I am to have him with us—along with our other guest, Fenella Gordon. A long life to them both, and much happiness.”
Why did it sound as though the man gave a marriage blessing? It ha
d to be his overwrought mind hearing things which were not there, for no one else at the table seemed to think it strange for Padraig to choose those words.
Not even Fenella did. She smiled across the table, where Quinn told a story which set the group to laughing at the finish.
Donnan could hardly hear a word.
How had he never noticed the graceful way she held her head? Or the way she moved. Like music come to life. He’d only watched her at work, or while in the saddle. There, she was a strong, healthy, no one to underestimate.
Here, she may as well have been a queen.
She turned to him, her smile widening. “What is it?” she murmured. “You seem troubled.”
“Not at all,” he replied, as sweat rolled down the back of his neck. Troubled was hardly the word.
It seemed something ought to be said. Some kindness, something to smooth the ruffling of feathers which had been his fault.
He leaned in, catching the scent of some flower or another in her hair, on her skin. It went to his head and made it spin. “The color of your gown suits ye.”
Her cheeks flushed. “I am glad ye approve. It belongs to Caitlin, but… well, she cannot use it at the moment.”
He could see why. The woman was fairly ready to bear her child during the feast. No wonder Rodric looked so troubled, even as he’d sounded certain that riding out to the Duncans, then turning north to find the Camerons, was the only choice they had.
As for himself, he wished it did not have to be done. Padraig and Rodric both had assured him of the size of the Duncan force, how well-trained the men were thanks to Jake’s oversight.
They might not have to fight at all.
But a man stood up when it came to what was right and wrong, and Angus could not be allowed to continue his deceit. If called upon to fight, Donnan would do so.
Though he’d sworn never to do it again. He’d vowed to Bronwen that he would never raise a weapon in anger—merely in self-defense.
Was it self-defense if he marched on his enemy and started a fight? He much doubted it.
Fenella would know what to say. Her sharp insight was a useful tool. He longed to pull her away from the table and ask what she thought—so long as he never revealed how soon the plan would be put in place, of course.
