by Cathy MacRae
“Och. I never thought to see the sunlight again.” Greum gripped the railing as he breathed the fresh sea air. “Do ye know where we are?”
Ferlie sat on a nearby wooden chest, fingers splicing together a torn piece of rigging. “They dinnae share their precious store of knowledge, but if I am not mistaken, we are near the coast of France.”
“So far from home? What do they trade for there?”
Ferlie glanced up, lifting a hand against the bright glare of the sun. “The bilge rats dinnae trade. They will salvage any wrack and wraith they find. A ship that founders on the sea is God-sent as far as they are concerned. Take the bounty, leave the poor souls behind. France? My guess ’tis sherry and brandy they are after.”
Greum gasped. Ferlie shrugged. “’Tis nothing I can do.”
“Nae, I understand ye are one shackled man against thieving pirates. I wish to look at ye again. In the light.” Greum motioned for him to draw closer.
Ferlie sent a wary look over his shoulder. “We cannae seem to be in deep conversation. They will assume we are plotting mischief.”
Greum stared at him, his lips an ‘O’ of surprise. “Lad, ye must know who ye are.”
Ferlie gave the older man a sharp look. “Do ye know me?”
“Nae, lad. I dinnae know ye. But yer eyes—they are the mark of the Macraig.”
Pain flashed through Ferlie’s head, pulling sharply at his memory. “What do ye mean?”
“’Tis the first I have seen them—in the light, I mean. They are an unusual golden color. Laird Macraig, and generations before him, stamp each of their bairns so.”
One of the pirates shouted across the deck. “Get back to work, ye scunners! Afore we feed yer carcasses to the fish.”
Ferlie handed Greum his mending. “Here. ’Tis not such strenuous labor. I will find else to do.” He rose abruptly and shuffled away.
* * *
“I am so glad ye are here, Gilda,” Lissa sighed. “Da and I are both glad.”
Gilda caught Lissa’s furtive glance in her direction. “Yer da has ignored me. He doesnae truly want me here.” She raised a finger to stem Lissa’s protest. “I am just visiting. I will go home to have the baby.”
“But, Gilda. Ard is your home.”
“Please, let us not argue, Lissa. I want to be with my ma and Tavia then.”
The dark-haired girl pouted. “Aye. I understand that. But the heir should be born here.”
Gilda held her tongue. She knew Lissa did not see her da’s scowls and dark looks of disapproval each time he encountered Gilda. As much as he disliked the Macrorys, and her in particular, she could not fathom the reason he had allowed Lissa to invite her here.
She perused the young girl, now busily chatting with Keita as they plied their needles. Though their efforts produced charming clothing for the babe, Gilda grew weary of the endless days of sewing and embroidery. She did not feel her activity should be restricted in the least, but the laird refused to allow them to leave the castle. Of course, sitting in the solar with the women was a good way to avoid the dour man, but enough was enough. Vexed with the long days, she wanted answers to her questions, and planned to seek them out today.
Placing her sewing in the basket at her side, she smiled briefly at the other ladies and strolled through the door. Seeing a guard posted at the door to the laird’s private chamber off the great hall told her instantly he was there, likely going over papers or accounts. With a gracious nod, she halted at the closed door. In a murmur sounding much more serene than she felt, she addressed the guard.
“Please announce me to the laird.”
The guard was gone only a moment, though it seemed far longer to Gilda’s tightly strung nerves. Without a word, he held the door open for her. She picked up her courage and her skirts as she entered the room.
She shuddered at the chill of the room. Warmth emanated from the fire on the hearth, but could not dispel the late spring cold penetrating the stone walls. Laird Macraig did not acknowledge her presence and she halted before his desk, glancing around the room as she waited.
Moments dragged by, punctuated only by the rasp of a quill as the laird moved a hand, spotted with age, across the parchment on his desk. It soon became clear he had no intention of indulging her with any of the respect or courtesies she was accustomed to. Hiding her annoyance, she swallowed to clear her throat before speaking.
“I want to know why ye summoned me to Ard Castle.” She lifted her chin. “The truth, please.”
Laird Macraig finally lifted his gaze from the parchments before him to stare at her, but she could read nothing of his thoughts. Beneath heavy brows, his peculiar amber eyes remained shuttered.
Shifting uncomfortably under his silent scrutiny, she took a deep breath and pursued her question. “I came here because Lissa is still heartbroken over her brother’s death and talk of the babe cheers her up. She truly wants me here. I want to know why you sanctioned her request.”
Shrugging, he at last replied, “If Lissa is happy, ’tis one less thing I am vexed with.”
“I am not here to solve yer vexing problems.”
Laird Macraig grunted. “Seems as though ye are.”
Frustrated with his unflinching coldness, she spun about, her skirts swirling heavily about her ankles. Pale sunlight from the single window in the room bled a path across the floor, illuminating a sword and battered targe angled in a corner of the hearth. Ryan’s weapons.
She whirled back to the laird’s desk. “Ye dinnae like me and dinnae acknowledge the vows Ryan and I pledged to each other before he died. Yet ye have to believe we married for ye to see this child as yer heir.”
Shifting his attention back to the sheets of vellum on his desk, Laird Macraig waved her away with a motion of his hand. “If ye carry Ryan’s bairn, ye belong here.”
“If!” Gilda all but screeched. Indignation rose in her, stifling her frustration, fueling her temper. She leaned forward and grasped the edge of the desk in a white-knuckled grip, forcing the man to look at her. “Ye are a bastard, Laird Macraig! How dare ye question the babe’s father?”
He smirked, tapping his quill against his fingers. “Care to discuss who the real bastard is in this room, Lady Gilda?”
Her chest tightened and she fought for control. “Ye are an evil man! Ye offered for my ma when I was but a bairn, yet refused to give yer name or home to me. How dare ye? Ye felt slighted when she and her da refused yer offer, and started a feud that benefits no one. Now that I have something ye want, ye think ye can order my life? Ye are the bastard here, m’laird, make no mistake. I willnae raise my bairn in yer poisonous home.”
Laird Macraig’s face darkened with a thunderous look. “The bairn’s heritage is here!”
“My bairn’s heritage will be one of love and acceptance. I willnae raise him among auld fears and regrets.”
“Ye cannae leave here. I forbid it.”
“Forbid all ye want, auld man. I am going home!” Gilda pushed away from the desk, her head spinning with emotion.
Laird Macraig surged to his feet. “Guard!”
The door burst open and an armed man appeared in the opening. Gilda scarcely slowed her step. Casting him a furious look, she spat her angry words. “Touch me and I will draw blood.”
With a startled glance at his laird, the man edged to the side, allowing Gilda to pass.
“Ye amadan! Dinnae let her leave!” The laird snarled his anger, and the guard took a hesitant step toward Gilda, but did not reach for her. The door between them closed.
Gilda’s pace quickened. She could not, would not stay a moment longer. It took effort to control the building panic within her.
Hurrying down the hallway, Lissa caught up with her. “What is wrong, Gilda? Ye are all but running!”
Biting her lip against angry words, she huffed. “Yer da is a fool!”
“I dinnae understand.”
“He wants to use my babe to continue the feud between the Macraigs and Macrory
s.”
“Why?” The pair rushed past startled servants who quickly stepped out of their way. Gilda gripped her skirts in both hands, lifting them away from her feet to keep from tripping over them.
“Ye are too young to understand, Lissa. Yer da is full of hate, not love. I am going home.”
Lissa caught Gilda’s hand, effectively halting her steps. “Oh, Gilda! Ye are my sister now, and I couldnae bear to see ye leave. Please say ye will stay with me.”
Gilda’s heart broke to hear Lissa’s pleading, but she wasn’t about to stay under the same roof as Laird Macraig a moment longer than she had to. “Come with me,” she urged the young girl. “Ye would be such a help to me.” And spending time away from yer da could only help ye.
Lissa’s brow puckered, clearly unsure what to say or do. When she met Gilda’s gaze again, her eyes were round with building excitement.
“Do ye think I should?”
Gilda hugged the girl’s slender shoulders. “Of course! I will send a message to my da today. We will need an escort, and I doubt Laird Macraig will be willing.”
* * *
Laird Macraig’s cloak billowed behind him, catching the cold morning wind. Even across the bailey, Gilda felt the weight of his disapproval. She was grateful her da had responded so quickly, for she feared the lengths the auld laird would take to keep her at Ard Castle.
“How fare ye, Lissa?” She leaned close to whisper to the younger girl. To her surprise, Lissa met her question with a broad smile, her face beaming with happiness.
“I have never been anywhere but Ard Castle. This is verra exciting!”
“Good. Ye will have a grand visit. Ye know ye can come home whenever ye like.”
Lissa burrowed deep within the hood of her arisaid. “I know. But I wish we were there already. ’Tis verra cold!”
Gilda shivered as a cold blast from the firth bit deep. “Most of the ride will be in the forest. The wind shouldnae be so fierce there.” Accepting help from her father’s captain, she climbed into the wagon, her advancing pregnancy denying her Fia’s saddle. The team ducked their heads away from the wind as they exited the castle gates.
Wind whistled off the water, numbing Gilda’s fingers and bringing tears to her eyes. Today was a day for staying close to the hearth. She thought longingly of the warm bed she and Ryan had once shared. Bracing against the icy rain spitting from leaden clouds, she turned her back on Macraig land.
Today was a day for going home.
Chapter 23
Time weighed heavily on Gilda. Her belly swollen and her mood sometimes testy, she longed for the babe’s arrival. In the woods the flowers bloomed and berry blossoms turned to the promise of harvest, but her steps were measured and jaunts through the forest a thing of the past. Once or twice she’d caught a glimpse of grizzled fur lightening the shadows at the edge of the forest. She fancied the wolf watched over her and was comforted.
From her window, Gilda could see the village. Tiny people bustled about on their errands. Below, in the bailey, men shouted, weapons clanged, and smoke rose from the blacksmith’s forge. Beside her, Lissa chatted gaily.
It was her second visit to Scaurness since she and Gilda returned months earlier, and normally Gilda was glad for her distractions. Today Lissa’s animated prattle only reminded Gilda how confined she was.
Not wanting to stifle the girl and leave hurt feelings on both sides, Gilda stood. “I think I will go for a walk.”
Lissa gasped. “Och, nae! Ye cannae go strolling around in yer condition.”
With a wave of her hand, Gilda strode from the room. “I just need some fresh air. I will walk in the bailey.”
Thankful Lissa did not offer to follow, Gilda stopped beyond the door and stretched her back, her palms pushing against the strain. The babe kicked, in protest or approval she didn’t know. But the vigorous activity brought a smile to her lips. Covering the abused spot with her palm, she spoke softly. “’Tis good ye are so active. But have a care for yer ma’s insides. They are a bit tender today.”
With concern for her increasingly awkward state, she edged down the stairs, gripping the carved railing for balance. People in the hall halted their duties long enough to greet her with respectful nods which Gilda returned cheerfully.
The doors to the bailey flared open, sunlight warming the floor. Filling her lungs with soft morning air, she sought a nearby bench. It was in full sun, but Gilda did not care. The tenuous heat soaked through her dress and into her skin, right to her bones. Her toes curled in contentment as she leaned her head against the wall and closed her eyes.
Horses nickered and stamped, men called to each other in greeting. Around her, life went on as usual. The babe stirred, a shifting of position, and Gilda laid a lazy hand across the growing mound of her belly in a comforting gesture.
“So, ’tis true, then.”
Gilda cracked an eye at the voice. Conn stood before her, his face shadowed, the sun to his back. He motioned to her stomach with a jerk of his head. “Ye carry Ryan’s bairn.”
Her heart stopped and her stomach heaved, for in that instant the sound of Conn’s voice recalled the horrible desolation of the day of the pirate attack. Without warning, she burst into tears.
Hands patted her shoulder, awkwardly, gently at first, then, as she cried harder, Conn sat beside her and pulled her into his embrace. Gilda jammed a fist against her mouth, trying to contain her unexpected reaction, and after a few harrowing moments, her sobbing eased. As she gulped back the last of the tears, Conn loosened his grip and she pulled away.
“I am sorry. I dinnae mean to do that.” She swiped at her cheeks with the backs of her hands. “I just…” She gave a helpless shrug.
“I am sorry I startled ye. I heard there was a bairn waiting to be born, and I wanted to see for myself.”
Gilda managed a half-smile. With an effort, she turned the conversation to him. “Ye look well. Has yer arm healed properly?”
“Aye, thanks to ye. It mended well and I have since trained the soreness from it. How are ye?”
“Growing.” Gilda felt the heat rise in her cheeks. “I am glad ye came. Things have been quiet around here.”
“Quiet? Ye have turned the place on its wee head.” Conn gestured toward the hall. “I looked for ye at Ard, but was told ye returned to Scaurness.” With a snort, Conn expressed his disbelief. “I expected the babe born at Ard.”
Fingering the fabric of her skirt, Gilda took her time answering. “Without Ryan there, it isnae the same.”
“Think of his son, playing in the bailey. Exploring the same forests, hearing the same sounds his da did as a wean.” He placed a hand on her arm in an earnest gesture. “Ye carry a great gift. The gift of Ryan’s child. Even if it is a lass, she is a Macraig.”
* * *
Warm earth scented the air as Gilda strolled through the garden the next morning. “Tend them well, Lissa. We need enough herbs to dry for winter, not only to cook with this summer and fall.”
Lissa drew the back of a soiled hand across her brow, lifting a lock of hair from her face. “I like helping in the garden. I never knew there were so many different herbs.”
“My ma and Tavia taught me much about herb lore. ’Tis a useful thing to know.”
A male voice interrupted. “Might I have a word with ye, Gilda?”
She looked up, surprised to see Conn in the kitchen garden. “Could we sit on yon bench? My back and feet are a bit sore today.”
“Of course, lass. I only wish to discuss a matter with ye.”
Gilda eyed him with mild curiosity. “Whatever it is, ye’d best take it up with my da. I cannae imagine needing my advice on anything.”
“Och, I dinnae think this is something I need to talk to him about. Not yet. This requires yer approval before I approach Laird Macrory. Ye arenae a young maid anymore.”
Gilda stopped in her tracks. “What are ye dithering about, Conn?”
He laughed and motioned for her to take a seat on the wo
oden bench beneath a sprawling tree. With a skeptical frown, Gilda accepted the offer.
“Weel, what is it? What is on yer mind?”
To her surprise, his smile disappeared and he hunkered on his heels at her feet. Anticipation warred with suspicion inside her as he seemed to gather his thoughts. Finally, he lifted his gaze to her.
“Gilda, I want ye to marry me.”
* * *
Ferlie fingered the thick, ropy scar that curved along the side of his head. Partly hidden beneath his hair, it still ached from time to time, serving as a reminder of a past he could not recollect. His knowledge began and ended with the wound, long since healed, but setting him apart from the men around him.
What did Greum mean, I am stamped with the eyes of the Macraig? Am I part of the Macraig clan? He thumped his thighs with fists clenched in frustration. Why could he not remember?
He closed his eyes, pushing to recall the day he woke aboard the pirates’ ship. Pain exploded behind his lids, but he gritted his teeth and pushed harder. A flash of sunshine, the trill of feminine laughter, all gone in an instant.
Red. Why do I remember the color red? Why is this important to me? He released his breath in a whoosh of frustration. Sweet laughter. Quicksilver eyes. Then nothing. He opened his eyes and rubbed his brow against the throbbing at his temples.
“Have ye remembered anything, lad?” Greum whispered in his ear as he collapsed onto the worn wooden chest next to him with a weary sigh.
Ferlie stared straight ahead, fixed on a point he could not see past. “Red, laughter, pain. Though usually I only remember the pain and go no further.”
Greum nodded. “Aye. Yer body isnae ready to remember what happened. ’Twas a fierce wound ye suffered. Ye nearly lost yer life.”
“I feel I lost something more precious than my life, Greum.” He braced against the pressure building in his chest, the dark cloud of dismay swelling to the point of unbearable pain. “I want to know what it was.”
