Highland Brides 04 - Lion Heart

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Very near where he had buried his dog Merry, he had erected a cairn for his family—and upon it he had carved their names, marked with the year they had perished. Though their bones rested leagues away, this was his private monument to a life he had abandoned and a people whose line would perish with his own death… unless he brought into the world a son.

  In this craggy country, there were countless cairns dotting the landscape, but most had not been built by the hands of seven-year old boy.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  Harpy barked at their heels.

  “A sacred place,” he said simply.

  They reached the spot long before the noon day sun rose into the sky and the shadows cast along the hillside were long and thin. They came to stand beside the cairn, with its stones heaped one upon the other with loving care. Broc had taken great care not to rob the cairns of others, for to desecrate the tombs of the dead could never bode well for the living.

  “What it is?” Elizabet asked.

  For a moment, Broc simply stood there, unsure where to begin or why he had even brought her to this place to begin with. In some small way, this was much the same as bringing her home to meet his mother… except that his mother no longer had eyes to see or arms to embrace her.

  “I built it when I was a wee lad,” he said. “I’ve come to think of it as the tomb of my fathers, but it lies empty.” He looked at her meaningfully. “I am the last of my tribe.”

  “But I thought…”

  He shook his head. “The MacKinnons took me in when I was but a boy, though in truth we share a bloodline that hails from the first King of Scotia.”

  Her expression was one of marvel. “Good lord, you built this? How long did it take you?”

  “Many years, every moment I could steal away from my chores.”

  “And you never told anyone?”

  Broc shook his head. “What’s one more cairn among so many.”

  “But this one you built with the sweat off your back. Tell me … what is written there on the stone?”

  Broc stepped forward to the big stone blocking the entrance, pleased to see that it remained undisturbed. “That is, Elsa, the name of my mother, and Fiona, the name of my sister. And that one,” he said, running his fingers reverently over the old carvings, “is the name of my da. He was called Kenneth after the first son of Alpin.”

  Elizabet stretched her fingers over the deep etchings… marks that had taken Broc years to engrave. With a stone in hand, he had cut these names over long hours, shaping them with thoughts of vengeance until the faces of his family had long faded from his memory.

  “And what of this?” she asked. “What does this say?”

  Broc swallowed, unprepared for the assault of emotion he felt simply by being in this place—the deluge of feeling he had denied from the day he’d first wielded his father’s sword—the sword he still carried in his scabbard.

  “Cnuic `is uillt `is Ailpeinich”

  She peered up at him curiously. “What does it mean?”

  “Hills and streams and MacAlpin—that is to say, not one existed without the other, and it is the MacAlpin blood that runs through the veins of all these hill tribes… someday mayhap through the veins of my sons.”

  She couldn’t know how much this moment meant to him. “I never though to bring anyone here,” he admitted, giving her a meaningful glance. “Never thought to even have a son. I was too afeared to open my heart lest I die with grief to lose again.”

  “And now?”

  Broc swallowed. “I realize only now do I feel alive… with you…”

  He hadn’t known her long, but it didn’t matter. He’d spent a lifetime without her and knew what he was feeling was unlike anything he’d ever known. He hadn’t met a woman in all his years who’d made him hope.

  He wanted to protect her, love her and keep her.

  “Be my wife, Elizabet,” he said, reaching out to grasp her by the hand. He suddenly wanted this more than life, and he wanted her to look into his eyes and know that he meant every word he spoke. “We needn’t say our vows before a priest to make them true and I will keep you safe and treat you well.”

  She stood before him, looking beautifully bewildered, and he took her face into his hands and kissed her with all the feeling he could muster. He wanted her to feel his soul, wanted to bathe her in adoration.

  “Marry me,” he insisted. “Let us breathe new life into the MacEanraig name—let our sons and daughters bury us here together when the sun sets on our last embrace.

  Her lips parted to speak and he held his breath.

  “Say yes,” he bade her, “and I will protect you and keep you always—and though I have no riches or great manor, you shall want for naught.”

  Elizabet shuddered at the warmth of his breath against her face. She had expected for him to do as other men would—take her maidenhead and then forget his lovely promises.

  Her dreams had been of freedom… but in his arms, the thought of matrimony no longer felt like a sentence, more like a beautiful promise.

  “I gi’ ye my word to wed you properly later, and will do my best to make you happy.”

  He hadn’t said he loved her, but love only existed in troubadours’ tales…

  He waited for her to answer.

  Clearly this place meant something to him and he had brought her here and laid bare his heart, offering more than she had dreamed any man ever would.

  Her brother would think her mad, she knew.

  And yet… if she was mad, indeed, then so be it. She couldn’t think of anything that would make her happier than to sleep every night in Broc’s arms.

  She nodded, swallowing.

  He took her hand in his, looking into her face, his blue eyes as sincere as any she’d ever beheld. “In the name of my blood, I pledge you my heart and swear to honor and cherish you till the day I die.”

  Elizabet’s heart filled with his words, and her eyes with tears. The moment was far sweeter in its simplicity than any ceremony could possibly ever have been.

  She swallowed, and said in return, “I pledge you my heart… and swear to honor and cherish you until the day I die.”

  He bent to kiss her lips, whispering softly against them, “I… Broc Ceannfhionn … the last of the MacEanraig name… take you, Elizabet, as my wife from this day forward.”

  She sighed. “And I, Elizabet, take you as my husband from this day forward.”

  He smiled at her then, and they faced each other, feeling slightly awkward.

  “What now?” Elizabet asked.

  “Now,” he said with a grin, “I get to kiss my lovely bride!”

  Seana urged Colin’s horse into a trot.

  She was certain there was something amiss with Broc, and she was bound to discover what it was. If she could help, she surely would. She owed him much for all that he had done for her.

  She’d left her husband rebuilding the barracks with his brothers and Piers. Together with their men, she had no doubt they would restore the building in little time. But the day would be long, and the search for Elizabet would be postponed until the morrow—which meant her brother would be buried without her. There was no way they could wait yet another day. But they might not have to, because she had a suspicion where the girl had gone.

  It struck her as odd that Broc would come calling so late in the evening and then to ask her if she ever visited the hovel she’d shared with her da. Given the description of the girl’s captor, it didn’t take a genius to surmise that Broc had taken her there.

  The question was why.

  She didn’t believe for an instant that Broc would harm the poor girl. Nor did she believe Broc had killed Elizabet’s brother. Something was not right. Broc would never harm a soul, unless in self-defense. But something had happened, and Seana was going to ask him straight to his face before someone else was hurt.

  She was almost certain that Colin suspected Broc was responsible for the girl’s abduction, and he was
suffering enough to keep his silence. She knew her husband felt torn. He loved Broc as a brother, but he was bound to honor Meghan’s husband. She didn’t want to add to his burdens. It was best he not discover where she had gone.

  She considered dismounting when she was far enough away but decided it was best not to. She needed all the time she could get. It wouldn’t be long before Colin came looking for her. If he chanced to go home and found her missing, he would know at once where she had gone.

  And sweet lord, she didn’t wish to see his anger this soon in their marriage. The sooner she faced Broc and returned home, the better for everyone involved.

  Somehow, Broc had to set things right.

  He left the hovel and Elizabet with Harpy under the pretense of going to get food. With her belly grumbling, she hadn’t questioned him at all. He’d kissed her good-bye at the door and had left quickly, confident she would be safe there.

  He realized they couldn’t continue as they were.

  He didn’t kill John, but he didn’t know how to prove it at this point. His best course of action was to take Elizabet away from this place until he could think of a way to prove his innocence—if she would come with him. There was more at stake here than his relationship with Elizabet or even her life. The hard-won peace between the clans was in danger of being shattered.

  He intended to speak with Iain to see what his laird advised. He respected Iain’s opinion and knew his laird would never guide him wrong. It was his last resort.

  If he remained, and Tomas accused him, their clans would be divided. If he left, hopefully with Elizabet, he might somehow convince her that he wasn’t responsible for John’s death, and if she forgave him for lying to her, mayhap there was hope for happiness for the two of them. After their vows this morning, he knew where he would go. He would take her to where he was born, to where his mother and father had died. Mayhap even auld Alma was still alive.

  Getting Elizabet to go was another matter entirely. She was too perceptive to allow him to keep putting her off. Sooner or later, she was going to march into Piers’ hall and demand all the answers he wasn’t giving her.

  And he suddenly had so much to lose.

  He had Elizabet.

  Iain would know what to do, he hoped. At least he would advise Broc honestly, with the clan’s interests foremost in his heart.

  Deep in his heart, Broc didn’t believe Colin would betray him, but their friendship had been sorely strained, he sensed, simply by his appearance at Colin’s home. It had been made clear to Broc that night that though Colin felt a loyalty to Broc, his family—Seana and Meghan—was his greatest priority.

  If only there was some way to prove Tomas had the money pouch still and that he intended to keep it. If only Broc could prove Tomas was willing to kill for it.

  But Broc couldn’t prove anything at all.

  He had to rely solely on the authority of his word. He had to trust in the simple fact that his friends and kinsmen knew him well and knew he was no liar. God’s truth, he had never lied a day in his life.

  Until now.

  The disgusting truth was that if he confronted the bastard outright, Tomas would need only say he was holding the pouch until Elizabet was found. After all, if Elizabet were found dead, the monies would be returned to her father, not to Piers. It was that whoreson’s word against his own.

  And at the heart of it all was the simple fear that Elizabet would not believe him.

  And why should she?

  He had lied to her.

  He prayed to God Iain would know what to do, because his choices were few, and he didn’t want to lose her now when he’d only just found her.

  He would do anything to keep her safe.

  Anything.

  She was his priority.

  She was his wife.

  Nothing took precedence over her—not even his loyalty to Iain MacKinnon. He had bound himself to Elizabet, and whether she chose to believe in him or nay, he would honor the vows they had spoken until the day he last closed his eyes.

  He hadn’t worn his new tunic, but Elizabet knew it probably wasn’t the wisest thing to do. If Tomas spied Broc wearing the rich, red fabric, he would know at once how to find her.

  She folded the tunic neatly and placed it upon the table, lovingly smoothing the wrinkles from the garment. When they wed again in the sight of men, he could wear it then.

  She smiled at the ridiculousness of her situation. She was as happy as a woman could be, considering that she was being stalked by a cold-hearted murderer and stuck in a dirty hovel—but she was, indeed, happy.

  Broc would fix everything, she was certain.

  Sighing, she turned to lean on the table and stare at the pallet they had shared. He had touched her body so wickedly, but his tender kisses had made everything seem so right and so pure.

  And his vows had been so romantic. Certainly she had never imagined it would happen to her—and not with the seemingly most practical man she had ever met. But her wedding was surely the sort of thing of which dreams and legends were made.

  She didn’t need to wed him before an altar. Their communion had been one of the heart. And their witness had been the only witness that truly mattered…

  A wry smile turned her lips.

  She must remember to thank Tomas for trying to kill her. If it hadn’t been for him, Broc would never have taken her, and she wouldn’t be so blessedly happy right now. She was quite certain that hadn’t been his intention.

  The first thing she was going to do was tell her father and if Margaret had any knowledge of her brother’s actions, Elizabet hoped her father would strangle her in his bed. If he was so weak that he still could not see her black heart, then so be it. Elizabet didn’t need him. He hadn’t taken any part in her childhood, and she didn’t need him to be a part of her life now. The best thing he had done for her was to send her away with her dowry intact, and for that alone she was grateful.

  She glanced down at the floor, spying a bundle under the chair, and bent to retrieve it. It had to belong to Broc, because it hadn’t been there yesterday. He must have dropped it.

  She set it down upon the table, wondering about its contents, and then, curious, she picked it up once more and unwrapped it.

  The smile left her face as she opened the napkin and examined its contents. Food. Hard cheese. Bread. Nothing that would have spoiled. She cast a glance at the door, wondering if he’d forgotten that he’d brought it. Why would he go if he already had something they could share? It wasn’t a feast, by far, but it would certainly have gotten them through the morning.

  She supposed he’d forgotten he had it.

  She heard a sound outside the door and thought mayhap he’d remembered, after all. She set the napkin down and hurried to the door, halting in her step as it opened to reveal a young woman. Elizabet started at the sight of her.

  For a moment, neither of them spoke, so stunned were they at the sight of the other.

  And then the woman smiled. “My name is Seana.”

  Elizabet nodded.

  “I used to live here.”

  The infamous Seana.

  She was quite lovely, and Elizabet felt a terrible jolt of jealousy, despite that she realized it was silly.

  The woman’s kind green eyes studied her.

  And it occurred to Elizabet to be concerned. The last thing she needed was for Seana to go back to her husband and reveal their hiding place.

  She took a deep breath and said, “My name is Elizabet.”

  The woman’s brows lifted only slightly, and she nodded, as though she wasn’t entirely surprised by the revelation. She peered in, looking about the room, as though expecting to find someone else, and then her gaze returned to Elizabet.

  “I hope you will forgive us for using your home,” Elizabet offered.

  Seana’s brows lifted higher. “Us?”

  Elizabet nodded. “Broc… and I.”

  “Is he here?” she asked somewhat hesitantly.

&nbs
p; “Not at the moment,” Elizabet replied. “He went to get… food.”

  Seana nodded. “And you are alone?”

  Elizabet smiled. “Not entirely… I have my dog.”

  “I see.” But her face screwed with obvious confusion. “So you aren’t being held against your will?” she asked Elizabet.

  “Nay! Of course not!”

  There was silence.

  “Broc has been kind enough to help me,” Elizabet assured her, not liking the expression on Seana’s face. It left her feeling uneasy and somehow defensive of Broc.

  Seana nodded. “That would indeed be our Broc.”

  “’Tis a long story,” Elizabet said, “though I suppose we owe you an explanation, since we are using your home.”

  Seana said nothing, merely looked at her, and Elizabet felt compelled to tell her about Tomas, his attempt to kill her, her need to hide from him until the truth could be discovered. By the time Elizabet had finished her tale, they were both seated at the little table.

  Seana reached out to grasp her hand, startling her with the gesture. “And what of your brother?” she asked Elizabet.

  Elizabet shrugged. “He doesn’t know where I am yet. Broc hasn’t had the opportunity to speak with him, though he did speak to Piers’ wife.”

  Seana frowned. “Meghan?”

  “Aye. Do you not like her?”

  Seana smiled and assured her without pause, “Nay, I love her.”

  Elizabet returned the smile, feeling as though mayhap she had found a friend.

  “I take it she doesn’t know you are here, either?”

  “Broc thought it best he speak directly with Piers, and Piers, as yet, has not returned.”

  Seana suddenly lifted her hand to her forehead, as though she was distressed by Elizabet’s tale. Her expression when she looked up once more was a mixture of confusion and anger.

  The anger Elizabet didn’t quite understand.

  “Who told you Piers was gone?” she asked then, sounding suddenly vexed.

  “Broc, of course. Meghan told him Piers had gone to Edinburgh but that he would return soon.”