The Eternal Highlander

by Lynsay Sands

  Bridget had given up the idea that the MacNachtons were the walking dead, yet Edmee’s sneered words seemed to imply that they might be. Why would the woman speak so scornfully of mortality, implying it was a curse suffered only by Outsiders? Inwardly, she shook her head. Edmee was trying to frighten her. There was life in the MacNachtons. Bridget was sure of that, could sense it. It might not be the sort of life she was accustomed to, but it was there. Then Bridget recalled Mora’s evasiveness when she had asked her how old Jankyn and the laird were, and she frowned.

  “Are ye saying MacNachtons live a long time?” she asked.

  Edmee laughed, but it was not a pleasant, joyful sound. “Ye might say that. We arenae the weaklings ye Outsiders are. We are stronger, faster, superior in every way.”

  “Including in vanity, it appears.”

  “We have a right to our vanity. We are in need of nothing from ye or your kind. There is naught ye can do that we cannae do better.”

  “Truly? Ah me, this lantern grows most heavy. Mayhap we should step outside, into the sun, and discuss this further.”

  Bridget tensed when Edmee snarled at her and reached for her. Instead of the attack she anticipated, however, her sight of the infuriated Edmee was suddenly blocked by a tall, slim figure. An instant later, Edmee seemed to fly through the air. Bridget gasped as the woman hit one of the posts holding up the roof of the stables, certain that the woman was dead. It took a full minute for Bridget to believe her own eyes when a softly cursing Edmee got to her feet and brushed off her skirts.

  “I wasnae going to kill the little fool, Jankyn,” Edmee said.

  Jankyn shrugged as he stepped back to stand at Bridget’s side. “Ye could have. Ye were angry.”

  A chill went down Bridget’s spine. If the ease and speed with which Jankyn had tossed Edmee so far was an example of a MacNachton’s strength, he was right. Edmee could have killed her. Bridget was not sure it would have been the accident Jankyn implied, however.

  “I am still angry.” Edmee languidly combed her fingers through her hair, cleaning it of bits of hay. “Cathal’s plan is pure madness. He wants to destroy all that makes us strong. How can ye stand beside him in this?”

  “Because he is my laird,” Jankyn replied. “Because he is right. We are dying, Edmee. A long, slow death to be sure, but we are still dying. There hasnae been a child born to a Pureblood in two score years.”

  Forty? Bridget looked at Jankyn, who flashed her a cocky grin before returning his full attention to Edmee. That grin did not soothe her. If no bairn had been born to the Purebloods in forty years that meant Jankyn was that age or older. He looked little older than her. Bridget decided she did not really want to think about that.

  “Ye have been of breeding age for at least that long,” Jankyn continued, scowling at Edmee. “Despite the many hours ye spend in rutting and the vast army of bed partners ye have had, your womb has ne’er quickened. None of the women of the Purebloods has quickened with child in far too many years. Nay, not e’en those women who arenae so particular about the blood of the mon they rut with. Cathal’s father only seeded one child in his Outsider wife. E’en the MacMartins have few bairns. We have bred amongst ourselves for too long, Edmee. None of the gifts we have are worth anything if there is no bairn to carry on the name, the blood, or the traditions of our forefathers. We have become naught but a group of barren women and weak-seeded men. That is death, Edmee. Aye, it might be long in coming, but ’tis still death.”

  “Better death than to become a weak, puling Outsider,” hissed Edmee, and then she was gone.

  “She is gone,” Bridget whispered, feeling foolish for stating the obvious, yet unsettled by Edmee’s abrupt disappearance.

  “Aye.” Jankyn scowled after Edmee for a moment before turning his gaze upon Bridget. “There are tunnels connecting nearly every building in Cambrun. Ye are stirring up a lot of trouble, arenae ye?”

  “Me? I just came to explore this building. She is the one stirring up trouble. She wants Cathal, I think.”

  “She does, e’en though his Outsider blood sickens her. Edmee would like to be the lady of Cambrun. She has ne’er been able to convince Cathal of that, however. It doesnae help her cause that she makes her contempt of his mother so verra clear. Cathal has ne’er intended to wed with a MacNachton, either. He wants bairns.”

  Bridget frowned at him. “There is a wee bit more to me than a womb, ye ken.”

  “Och, aye, a wee bit.” He laughed when she softly hissed in annoyance, then grew serious. “O’er the last few days ’tis evident neither of ye will suffer in the making of a bairn.” He only briefly smiled at her blushes. “Tis a blessing, that. And where is the insult in a mon thinking a woman a good choice as mother to his bairns?”

  None, she supposed, but she was not about to admit it. “There should be more.”

  “Ah, poor lass, so unsure of yourself.” He nimbly danced out of her reach when she tried to hit him. “The only thing I will say is that, compared to the rest of us, Cathal is nearly a monk. He isnae one to be caught in embraces with a lass round every corner. And, aye, mayhap he thinks too much on a bairn, but ’tisnae just an heir he seeks, is it? Tis the salvation of his people. Tis no small thing that. So, do ye cease teasing the fool and say aye?”

  Bridget sighed. “Tisnae an easy thing to decide. Tisnae just my fate, but that of my children I must consider and ye ask me to do it in but a week.”

  “We are but a wee bit different.”

  “Och, aye, ye are that.”

  “But, that shouldnae trouble a Callan, I think.” He sighed when she did not respond to that remark. “We arenae what ye think we are, lass. Nay exactly. I dinnae believe the soulless dead breed bairns.” He smiled gently at the look of consternation that briefly crossed her face. “We are but different. Cursed in some ways, blessed in others, but ’tis Cathal who must tell ye the tale.” He tensed at the sound of a bell. “Later, lass,” he murmured and disappeared into the shadows.

  A moment later Bridget understood his abrupt leavetaking. One by one the shutters were opened, filling the stables with sunlight. She sighed and extinguished the lantern, returning it to its hook by the door. As she walked back to the keep, she absently returned the greetings of the MacMartins she passed. Once inside the keep she made her way to the doors of the great hall and stared at Cathal where he sat at the laird’s table talking to two of the MacMartins and a man called Manus, one of all too few MacNachtons who were like Cathal.

  Cathal was so beautiful he made her heart ache. His touch set her blood afire. He was a wealthy laird, something which would greatly please her kinsmen. Unfortunately, this particular matrimonial prize came with a few less than acceptable characteristics. He couldnae abide the sun, had fangs, was a little too fond of undercooked meat, and it appeared that most of his kinsmen lived in caves beneath the keep. All of that worried her, but not enough to make her walk away from him.

  She softly cursed as she walked toward him. She loved him. It was that simple and that complicated. Bridget was not sure when she had lost her heart to him, but suspected it explained why she had not fled Cambrun screaming in terror when she had first begun to suspect what the MacNachtons were. She had made only one rather weak attempt to escape. She stopped by his chair and placed her hand over his heart.

  “Ye are alive,” she murmured and felt him tense.

  Cathal studied her face closely and felt his hopes rise despite her words. “Aye, lass.” He put his hand at the back of her neck and pulled her close to him to add softly, “And the only one who can put your wee bonnie soul at risk is ye.”

  “Weel, that is a comfort, I suppose.”

  “So, have ye decided ye will have me then?”

  “Aye.” She did not resist when he tugged her down onto his lap and kissed her while the other men cheered and hooted.

  “Might I ask what changed your mind?”

  Bridget had no intention of telling him what was in her heart, not until she got some h
int as to what he felt for her. “Ye kiss weel.”

  “Thank ye, but I think there is another reason.”

  “Aye. I recently decided that I best take ye as I dinnae seem to want anyone else to have ye.”

  He kissed her again. It was a start. Cathal finally admitted that he wanted more, much more, from her, but he could be patient. She would soon belong to him in body and name. He was willing to work for the rest, for her heart and soul.

  Six

  “Are ye verra certain about this?”

  Cathal frowned and looked at Jankyn even as he continued to brush his hair. As always, Jankyn was perched somewhere, this time upon the ledge of the deepset window in the room. In the two days since Bridget had agreed to marry him, Cathal had seen little of Jankyn. Until the man had entered the ledger room Cathal had been using as his bedchamber, he had feared Jankyn would not stand up with him at his wedding.

  “Aye, I am certain,” Cathal replied. “I had thought ye agreed with this, as weel. Wheesht, ye were the one to suggest it.”

  “I ken it, and I havenae changed my mind about your plan. Tis a good one.”

  “But ye have changed your mind about Bridget?” Cathal carefully set his brush down, knowing he should heed whatever Jankyn had to say, but deeply reluctant to hear it.

  “Aye and nay.” Jankyn sighed and dragged his fingers through his hair. “I like the lass. She doesnae shy from the truth about us. Aye, she tried to flee once, but I am nay sure that was only because of what she thought we were. She wasnae in a blind terror, either. Tis just that, weel, have ye noticed anything a wee bit odd about her?”

  “Aside from the fact that she has agreed to marry a mon who avoids the sun and whose kinsmen live in caves?”

  “Aye, aside from that,” Jankyn said, the hint of laughter in his voice.

  Cathal suddenly recalled the way Bridget had acted when she had awakened her first day at Cambrun, that odd fleeting vision he had had of something different in her face. He inwardly shook his head. It could have been some odd shadow caused by the candlelight. It was not something he wished to speak about, either.

  “Odd in what way?”

  “She hisses and verra weel, too. She scratches, swipes at one with those verra sharp nails of hers when ye startle her. Ye didnae see her run, but, trust me, she is verra swift and sure of foot. E’en with the full moon, most Outsiders move cautiously. The night and the shadows didnae slow her down at all. She kenned I was there ere she saw me. And, the fact that she saw me in the shadows is, weel, unusual. She dances in the moonlight. E’en though there was no sound to warn her, she kenned something had happened to her people. I watched her tense, crouch, and look about. Tis as if she scented danger upon the air.”

  And she purrs, Cathal thought, but only said, “Some people have keener senses about such things.”

  “There is something about the name Callan that picks at me, rouses my curiosity. I havenae been able to find out why, however. It may take some time.”

  “So, what are ye asking? Ye wish me to wait ere I marry her?”

  “It might be best. Give me time to find out about the Callans.”

  “It might weel be for the best, but I willnae wait.”

  “Ye want her.”

  “Aye, I want her. I cannae rest for the wanting of her.”

  “And if there is something, weel, different about the Callans, something in the bloodline?”

  “As there is in ours? I doubt that. Bridget is much akin to the MacMartins. She eats what they do, walks about freely in the sun, and all the rest. If there is something odd in the Callan clan, ’tisnae that which will alter my plan. The Callans obviously dinnae hide away at Dunsmuir as we hide here.”

  Jankyn nodded. “Fair enough. Do ye want me to continue to discover all I can about the Callans?”

  Cathal hesitated only briefly. He hoped Bridget would tell him if there was something he ought to know about her clan, but he understood the habit of secrecy all too well. It would be best, however, if he knew all about the Callans. If nothing else, it would be best to be armed with such knowledge, good or bad, when he finally met her family.

  “Aye, continue. I cannae be sure my bride will tell me all, or if she e’en kens that there is aught different about her family. We ken all too weel the importance of holding fast to our secrets. Yet, I dinnae really like surprises, either.”

  “Agreed. Take heart in the fact that she kens your grand plan for the future of the MacNachtons yet clearly sees no hindrance in helping ye fulfill it. I do. As ye said, in the important ways, she could be one of the MacMartins. Far more fertile, though. I did learn that her cousin Barbara has been wed but four years and has four children.”

  “A bairn a year?” Cathal wanted children, badly, but he did not think such constant breeding could be good for a woman.

  “Nay. Two sets of twins. Fat, healthy bairns. One pair of lads and one of lasses. As I said, fertile stock.”

  Cathal briefly closed his eyes and fought down a sudden swell of emotion. He wanted Bridget for many reasons, her ability to give him children no longer his prime concern. Yet, he would be lying if he did not admit that the possibility of her being very fertile indeed thrilled him right down to his toes. He shook free of the feeling and idly brushed his hands over his black-and-silver doublet.

  “Ye look verra fine,” drawled Jankyn “I am sure your wee bride will have no complaint.” Jankyn nimbly jumped down from his perch and started toward the door. “Shall we go to the great hall now?”

  “What of the Purebloods?” Cathal asked as he followed Jankyn out of the room and walked by his side to the great hall.

  “Ah, weel, none of them are much of a mind to celebrate this wedding,” replied Jankyn. “Some understand, but wish it wasnae so, some understand but doubt the need, thinking all will right itself in time—”

  “Blind fools,” muttered Cathal.

  “True, sadly true. Some dinnae care one way or t’other. Some hate it, but feel ’tis your choice. And then there are the ones like Scymynd and Edmee. They talk, a lot, and none of it good for you. I just cannae say which of the other wee groups are listening and agreeing. Tis weel kenned that I stand by ye in this and that makes some hesitant to speak honestly with me.”

  Pausing in the doorway of the guest hall, Cathal studied the people gathered there. He could feel the tension in the air. It was also clear that everyone had gathered in groups, people staying with those who thought as they did. At the moment it appeared that his plan was breaking his clan apart instead of saving it. He could only pray that this lack of unity was temporary. Nodding at each person who greeted him, Cathal made his way toward the priest, his cousin James, a man of two worlds as he was.

  “A storm is brewing,” said James.

  “Aye,” agreed Cathal. “Change often stirs unrest. My father had some trouble, too, though nay as much as this.”

  “The occasional such marriage can be shrugged aside as an aberration. Ye have made it clear that ye intend to make this custom. I also think Scymynd feels a halfling isnae good enough to be the laird here. He has always coveted the position. Ah, and Edmee cannae swallow the thought that ye would prefer an Outsider to her in all her bonnie purity of blood.”

  “And what do ye think, Cousin?”

  “I think they have all gotten too blood proud, too vain, thus blind to the truth. I can understand how hard it must be to consider the loss of some of the gifts our forefathers gave us. Yet, one oftimes has to give up something to survive. What ye do now, ye do for their sake.”

  Cathal heard a noise behind him and saw Bridget enter the great hall. “Weel, nay all for their sake.”

  He ignored James’s soft laughter as he watched Bridget walk toward him. Lithe and lovely, she moved with a sensuous grace. Her tawny gold hair had been left loose, hanging in long, thick waves to her slim hips and decorated with green silk ribbons to match her gown. She was so different from him, in size, in looks, in heritage, and in blood, but he was certain
they were a perfect match. Cathal intended to make her see that truth as well.

  After one quick glance around the great hall, she kept her gaze fixed upon him. Cathal could sense her unease. She had enough sense to know that not many of his kinsmen wished her well. He wanted to promise her that everything would be well, but he could not lie to her. He could not be sure it would be or that she would believe some soothing but empty words. Bridget was risking a lot to marry him. She was too quick-witted not to know that. Cathal was not only flattered by that; he felt hopeful. For Bridget to do this had to mean that she cared for him, felt more than lust for him. There was a good chance that the seed of affection had already taken root in her heart. Cathal prayed he had the skill to nurture it well and make it grow.

  Bridget slipped her hand into Cathal’s and felt Mora move to stand beside her. She wished someone from her own family was with her at this important time, yet was also pleased that she faced this alone. It had taken but one look at the gathering of MacNachtons to know trouble was brewing. There was no telling what form that trouble would take or how dangerous it could become. She could not drag her family into the middle of it all. She was willing to put herself at risk to stay with Cathal, but not her family. When the conflict was resolved, she would invite her family to Cambrun to celebrate her wedding and not before.

  She knelt with Cathal before the priest. It was obvious that Father James had MacNachton blood in him. The fact that one of their ilk could hold a place in the church eased several of her lingering concerns. She repeated her vows and struggled to ignore the whirlwind of conflicting emotions she could sense in the air around her. When the vows were made and Cathal had kissed her, there was some cheering and Bridget tried to find some comfort in that. That the clan was divided by her marriage was not good, but at least it was not united against her.

  The MacMartins soundly congratulated her and Cathal, as did the half dozen people Edmee scornfully called halflings. Some of the Purebloods did as well and some were merely polite. It was the group with Scymynd and Edmee that troubled her the most. They did not even pretend to welcome the marriage. When toasts were made, that group was bold in their refusal to join in them. Bridget began to wonder why they had even attended the wedding and had the sinking feeling that their reasons would only stir up more trouble.