The Eternal Highlander

by Lynsay Sands

  “I should ask them to leave,” murmured Cathal as he took Bridget’s hand in his and held it against his thigh while he watched Scymynd spread his poisonous opinions through the crowd.

  Bridget knew Cathal was tense despite the languid way he sprawled in his seat at the laird’s table. “I think that would be seen as an insult and, mayhap, be used against us.”

  “Tis what I think as weel. Tis all that binds my tongue. Though it galls me to ignore his insults to ye, and me, I see no gain in acting against them right now.”

  “Nay. In truth, it may cost him more to act so poorly at his own laird’s wedding, to behave so ungraciously whilst ye behave graciously.” She grimaced when Cathal looked at her and cocked one eyebrow. “Tis a possibility.”

  “Aye. Mayhap. A wee one. Now, I must go speak to James.”

  “Twas good of the church and Father James to allow us to marry at night.”

  “Verra good. And verra expensive,” he drawled. “I will be but a moment.”

  Cathal had only just disappeared into the crowd and Bridget was just turning to speak to Mora when she sensed someone standing behind her. She did not really need to hear Mora’s whispered curse to know that this someone was not there to wish her a long life and much happiness. It was no surprise when Edmee moved from behind her and sat down in the laird’s chair.

  “Ye are a fool if ye think ye are woman enough to satisfy such a mon,” said Edmee.

  “He must think I will serve him weel enough or he wouldnae have chosen me,” replied Bridget.

  “He didnae choose ye. He chose your womb.”

  That stung, but Bridget swiftly pushed aside that twist of pain. She would not give this woman the satisfaction of knowing her dart had drawn blood. Bridget had to believe there was more, if only a strong passion. It was what she was gambling her whole future on.

  “There isnae a mon alive who doesnae consider such things when choosing a bride.” Bridget took a sip of wine only to nearly choke on it when Scymynd appeared beside Edmee, his feral eyes aglow with hatred and fury.

  “The mon doesnae deserve to be our laird,” hissed Scymynd. “He befouls our nest by taking ye as his bride.”

  Bridget slammed her goblet down on the table and leapt to her feet, enraged by this insult to her name, to her clan. “The blood of a Callan is every bit as good as yours. We have held our lands since before the Romans built their walls to affirm their grasp upon the Sassenach lands. And no Callan has e’er had to spend his life huddled in a cave.”

  The moment the words left her lips, Bridget knew she had gone too far. Fury changed Scymynd’s face into something that was still beautiful, but also frightening. He snarled and bared his fangs. If the man those villagers had caught and killed had looked like this, it was little wonder they had believed him to be a demon. She could not fully suppress a squeak of alarm when suddenly he had her by the front of her gown and was holding her several feet off the ground.

  “Ye dare to lay hands upon my bride?!”

  Bridget was just realizing that that furious growl had come from Cathal when she was abruptly released. Strong hands caught her around the waist, preventing her from falling to the floor. She caught a brief glimpse of Jankyn as he set her aside. Stunned, she watched a man who was Cathal, but was not, toss Scymynd halfway across the great hall as if the man weighed nothing. Could that snarling, fang-baring man truly be the man she had just married?

  A melee erupted and Bridget watched in horrified fascination as the beautiful, elegant MacNachtons changed before her eyes into a snarling pack of wild animals. The way they set upon each other was alarming. It should have left the great hall soaked in blood and cluttered with the dead and dying, but, time and again, the MacNachtons shook off mortal blows and returned to the fray.

  Mora and her son David grabbed Bridget and dragged her beneath the table where several other MacMartins hid. Bridget huddled there watching the battle from beneath the edge of the linen cloth covering the table. Here was the truth she had only guessed at. Here was the feral beast hidden beneath the beauty, the inhuman strength that allowed a man to toss another across a room as if he weighed no more than a bairn. The speed with which they moved, the sounds they made, and the way they rose up uninjured from blows that would have put any mortal man into a grave, all revealed the truth she had tried so very hard to ignore. She would not be able to ignore it now and she feared what that might do to her future with Cathal.

  Then two men rolled by in front of her eyes. One man sank his long teeth into the neck of the other, who howled out in fury and pain. Bridget gasped as her memory of the night her party was attacked abruptly returned. Now she could see clearly beyond the lingering image of swirling shadows and blood, and heartily wished she could not. She was no longer surprised she had fainted. Now she understood the terror, the horror, upon the faces of those thieves before they died.

  “Now, m’lady, ye dinnae need to worry o’er our laird,” said Mora, patting Bridget on the back. “He can hold his own.”

  “Do they do this often?” Bridget asked, surprised at how normal her voice sounded for she was cold and trembling inside.

  “Nay. Oh, there are fights here and there, now and then. Tis what men do, aye? They like a wee punch and wrestle from time to time. And, weel, these lads can really only have a fair one with each other. This will knock a wee bit of sense into some of them.”

  “Tis because of me. I am nay saving Cathal’s clan as he wished,” she whispered, “but destroying it.”

  “Nay, nay. Tis but the changes that must come which stirs this up. Change ne’er sets easy on a person’s shoulders. Most all of them have the wit to see that ’tis necessary, but they will fight it for a wee while ere they settle to it. Tis only natural.”

  Natural was an odd word to use when talking about the MacNachtons, Bridget thought.

  “Ah, there ye be, now. Father James be seeing an end to it.”

  Bridget watched the priest stride through the melee, a half dozen men at his side. He knocked men down, tossed men aside, and bellowed for calm and good sense. Despite all she had seen, she still found it startling to see a man of God acting very much like the ones all others would swiftly curse as demons. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. Scymynd, Edmee, and their allies were gone. The Purebloods who remained stood looking uncomfortable as Father James lectured them. Bridget saw her husband look for her and shivered. The memory of how the MacNachtons had dealt with those thieves was still clear in her mind, clear and terrifying. This incident had given the chilling memories credence, ensured that she would not be able to dismiss it all as a bad dream. She now knew exactly what her husband was, what he was capable of. How could she live with that? And, yet, how could she not?

  Seven

  “Weel, this was a fine show to put on afore your new bride,” grumbled James as he frowned at Cathal and Jankyn.

  Cathal winced and noticed Jankyn did as well. “Scymynd put his hands on her,” Cathal said. “Ye saw what he did. Ye ken weel what he is capable of. He could have killed her with but a flick of his wrist.”

  James sighed and nodded. “I ken it. I but pray ye werenae thinking to introduce her to our ways gently, slowly.”

  “Bridget has guessed what we are,” said Jankyn.

  “There is a sharp difference between guessing at something and seeing the hard truth of it, lad,” said James.

  “Where is she?” asked Cathal, recognizing the truth of James’s words and suddenly feeling a chill of fear.

  “Beneath the table with Mora and her lad waiting to see if it is safe to come out,” replied James.

  Cathal gently strode over to the table and crouched down to look at Bridget. She was pale and trembling slightly, her beautiful blue-green eyes wide with shock. He could see her struggling with her fear of all she had just seen and felt his own fear grow stronger. The thought of losing her was terrifying, more so because she would be fleeing who he was. There was no way he could change that to keep her
at his side. It would be a battle lost before it had even begun. He held his hand out to her.

  “Come, lass, ’tis all quiet now,” he said.

  “They tore their throats out,” Bridget whispered, staring into her husband’s beautiful face.

  “Nay, sweetling. Look about. There are no dead here.”

  “The thieves. I remember it all now. Your kinsmen tore their throats out.”

  The pain of losing her began to creep through his body, but Cathal struggled to fight off that encroaching sense of defeat. He knelt down and rubbed his suddenly sweaty palms over his thighs. There was no point in lying. Even if he could bring himself to start his marriage with a lie, she would not believe him. She was too clever and had seen too much.

  “Aye, I suspicion they did, or something verra like that. Those men sought to kill ye, Bridget. They did kill the others who traveled with ye. Come.” He held his hand out to her again. “Again, I swear to ye, I will ne’er hurt ye.”

  A part of Bridget told her to get up and run, very fast and very far. It would be the sensible thing to do. She had just been shown how little she really knew this man and what she had learned was hardly comforting. That sensible part of her had every right to urge self-preservation, but the voice of her heart proved louder and more demanding. Uttering a soft cry, she flung herself into his arms, clinging to him in the blind belief that he would keep her safe. He wrapped his arms around her and held her almost too tightly as he stood up. He kissed the top of her head and rubbed his hands up and down her back, his touch smoothing away her lingering fear. Cautiously, she lifted her head from his broad chest, looked around the great hall, and sighed.

  “This wasnae quite the celebration I had anticipated,” she murmured as she watched the MacMartins and the MacNachtons who had stayed behind begin to clean up the mess.

  “Dinnae worry, m’lady,” Mora said as she moved to stand beside Bridget. “We will set things aright and still have our feast.” She looked Bridget over carefully. “Why dinnae ye and the laird hie yourselves off to your chambers? I will bring ye up a full tray of food and drink in a few minutes. Ye have said your vows and heard the toasts.” She grinned and winked. “We can celebrate without ye right enough, aye?”

  Keeping one arm wrapped firmly around Bridget’s slim shoulders, Cathal nodded and started out of the hall only to be stopped by a grinning Jankyn. Despite the large smile Jankyn wore, Cathal could see the concern and unease in his cousin’s eyes. He felt the same. Bridget had come to him, but he knew everything was not as it had been before the fight.

  “I havenae yet kissed the bride,” Jankyn said.

  Bridget looked up at Jankyn as he grasped her hands in his. He was the beautifully, annoying, often smiling, Jankyn again. Then she looked into his eyes and nearly gasped. He was nervous, uncertain. She had seen what he was all too clearly and he was no longer certain of her acceptance. She rose up on her tiptoes and kissed him.

  “Enough,” said Cathal, nudging Jankyn aside just as his cousin began to wrap his arms around Bridget, clearly intending to help himself to a very hearty kiss.

  Jankyn’s actions had started something, however, and Cathal had to endure several more interruptions before he got Bridget out of the great hall. He understood that his brethren who remained in the great hall sought to reassure him of their support. Some probably even hoped to reassure Bridget, to soften the sting of Scymynd’s scorn and dislike. None of that made him pleased to watch his bride being kissed by other men and he was relieved when he finally got her safely behind the door to his bedchamber. Then he recalled all she had seen tonight and inwardly grimaced as he urged her into a seat before the fire.

  “Ye are safe with me, Bridget,” he said as he sat down in the chair next to her, turning it slightly to face her squarely.

  “Ye dinnae have to keep saying that, Cathal,” she replied. “I do ken it or I wouldnae be here, would I?” She realized she needed to believe that, needed to have complete confidence in her own judgment about this man. It was the only way she could survive the trials ahead of them.

  “Thank ye for that.” He sighed and dragged a hand through his hair. “I ken ye had guessed a lot about us ere ye agreed to marry me.”

  “Aye, I had. One doesnae have to be at Cambrun long to see the differences. I tallied them and, mostly, ignored them.”

  “Except for the time ye tried to flee.” He took her hands in his.

  “Ah, aye. Weel, that wasnae only because of those differences. I was feeling a wee bit cornered, too, ye ken. There was the strangeness, the threatening conversation with Scymynd and Edmee, your persistent talk of marriage, and, then, that night, I heard the howling. Watching your kinsmen race out into the night was one thing too many at that precise moment.” She shrugged. “So, I decided to leave.”

  Cathal released her hands, stood up, and leaned against the rough stone encircling the fireplace. He had to wait to try and explain things, however, for Mora arrived with food and drink. Once it was set out on the table placed between the chairs and Mora had left, Cathal poured himself and Bridget some wine. He returned to his place against the wall and took a deep drink to steady himself.

  “The MacNachtons have lived in these hills for hundreds of years, so long that I am nay sure I believe the tales of how we came to be here or be what we are. The how or why isnae really important. We arenae the walking dead, soulless creatures who refuse to stay buried and feast upon the blood or flesh of the living.”

  “I was ne’er able to hold firm to that thought,” Bridget said, smiling faintly. “Ye just seemed too, weel, too alive. Alive and warm.”

  “We are simply a different breed. We are stronger, faster, and live longer.”

  “How much longer?”

  “Weel, there havenae been many like me, ones bred of both worlds. Only half a dozen of us now and far fewer in the past. The ones who did come before me all seemed to live more than a hundred years. Some many more, some but a few more. I just cannae say for certain.”

  “Ah, a great age, nonetheless.”

  “Aye. Tis one reason I hesitated to take a wife from outside the clan. There seemed little doubt that I would long outlive my mate. I am but one-and-thirty now. When my mother died, the grief my father endured was hard to watch. Worse, he kenned he would endure being alone for many, many years. He didnae kill himself, but he risked death at every turn and finally met it five years ago.”

  “He loved your mother so verra much?” she asked softly.

  “Aye, I believe he did, but ’tis more than that. We mate and, if ’tis a true mating, the loss of that mate is like losing part of one’s soul.” He grimaced. “It sounds most strange, yet ’tis difficult to put into words. My brethren can behave most promiscuously, but ne’er after they mate.”

  Bridget suspected there was something he was not telling her, but she decided not to prod him. “How long do the Purebloods live?”

  “A verra long time. A MacNachton ages slowly. Tis because we heal so quickly. There are verra few ways to kill a Pureblood MacNachton. A broken neck, or a wound that causes the blood to flow so swiftly e’en our ability to heal quickly might not be enough to save us. A wound directly to the heart. Beheading, burning. Weel, ye must see what I mean.”

  “Aye. It takes work. But, ye arenae a Pureblood.”

  “Nay, but ’tis much the same. I heal a wee bit more slowly ’tis all and I age verra much as an Outsider does. I think the Purebloods fear that most of all, fear losing all those years of living and facing a greater risk of mortal wounds, nay matter how small. I confess, when I first realized that I wouldnae live as long as Jankyn or Scymynd, I was angry, felt I had been cheated of something most grand. My father asked me to tell him one thing our brethren had accomplished with that gift. I had no answer for there was nothing. He said ’twasnae the length of one’s life that mattered, just what one did with those years. And, I can still hear him say, as he stood beside my mother’s fresh grave, that a long life was naught but a curse i
f one was alone.”

  He set his wine goblet on the table, knelt by Bridget’s feet, and took her hands in his, pressing a kiss upon each small, soft palm before looking at her. “What ye saw happen to those thieves and what ye saw tonight is a part of me. I cannae deny it. I cannae deny that there have been MacNachtons who have behaved verra much like the creatures of some nightmare. There is a feral part of me, of us. It comes out in the hunt, in battle, in anger. It has been a verra long time, however, since MacNachtons were a threat to innocent Outsiders, although I fear Scymynd would like to be so again. They used to call us the Nightriders because we raced out of these hills at night and death always followed, though nay in the ways and numbers the tales would have ye believe. I think Scymynd wants those days to return.”

  “What of the sun, Cathal? Can that kill ye?”

  “Aye, eventually. Tis as if the sun feeds upon us, steals the life right out of us. It burns us up. A Pureblood can die rather quickly if caught out in the sun. I can endure it for a while, but it does leave me feeling weak and ill.”

  “And what of whatever children we may be blessed with?”

  “I cannae say. There isnae any way to ken what traits will weaken, which will linger, and which will disappear. My cousin Connall is of the same paternal and maternal bloodline as I am, but is different. James is born of a half-blood and an Outsider. He can endure quite a lot of daylight, but he still suffers a wee bit.”

  Bridget slipped her hands free of his grasp and took his face in her hands. “It matters not. I chose ye. I have said vows afore God. Tis good to ken that I deal with people, nay demons, but it still doesnae matter. Ye are my husband.”

  There was a lot more she wanted to know, but decided now was not the time to ask too many questions. She would let him cling to a few of his secrets. She was clinging to a few of her own.