“It doesn’t make sense,” she spoke at last, the words coming as they reached her bedchamber and Isobel hastened her inside. “He would’ve told me. I saw him only hours ago. We laid together in the Thunder Cave, on the bear-and wolfskins. It was beautiful, I told you—”
“My dear…” Isobel hugged her, the look on her face dashing Marjory’s hope. “He knows you care for him, Norn. He didn’t want to hurt you. We know he desires you.” She released Marjory, stepped back. “He’s always done so. If he is to wed Lady Coira, the arrangement will not have changed his feelings for you. I’m guessing his need for you overrode—”
“Pah!” Marjory’s anger flared. “If this is true, how could he think I’d not find out? The Glen of Many Legends isn’t so vast that—”
She broke off, brushed back her hair with both hands. Another thought came to her, sparking her suspicion. “How would Kendrew know this?”
Isobel shrugged, looking unhappy. “From what I gathered when Grim and I returned earlier, two wayfarers called at Nought while we were at Hella’s.” Leaving Marjory, she went to the table to pour them each a cup of night ale. “I didn’t hear if they were passing pilgrims or just travelers, but”—she returned to Marjory, pressing one of the cups into her hand—“the men must’ve brought the word.”
Marjory lifted the ale cup, taking a long, fortifying sip. “I see.”
She truly did.
Passing wayfarers aye carried news through the Highlands.
They made the best couriers.
And as they usually held no ties to a particular clan, their word was accepted as truth.
Such men had no reason to lie.
“Did Kendrew say anything about the wayfarers’ tidings?” Marjory was starting to hear a rushing noise in her ears again. “I know you’ll have asked him.”
She would’ve done.
Such men often brought the only entertainment into remote holdings such as Nought. Welcome guests, they were plied with food and ale in return for sharing tales and gossip. Their news a reason no laird ever turned them away.
“I did ask, yes.” Isobel finished her ale, returned the cup to the table.
Marjory waited, the roaring between her ears almost deafening.
It worsened when Isobel went to stand before the closed window shutters, her entire stance revealing her reluctance to speak.
“Kendrew wouldn’t speak of the men.” She turned to face Marjory. “He said their news was so pleasing he wanted to savor it through his sleep. And”—she hesitated, the pause making Marjory wish she hadn’t asked—“he said he wanted to tell you himself in the morning.”
“So it does involve me.” Marjory slowly shook her head, wishing she could undo all that had transpired that day—and the last two years since Alasdair had first crossed her path.
“I believe so.” Isobel’s words confirmed Marjory’s worst dread. “And as we know Kendrew and his men were speaking of Alasdair and a marriage agreement…” She didn’t finish, pressed the backs of her hands to her eyes as if to stem tears of her own.
“Then I will be the one to break our pact.” Marjory reached down and scooped Hercules into her arms, needing his soft warm weight to comfort her. “There will be no third wedding between the clans.”
“You needn’t marry Alasdair to fulfill our oath, Norn.” Isobel came over to her, stroked back her hair. “There are other fine MacDonalds and even Camerons who would make good and worthy husbands.”
Marjory scarce heard her, for the buzzing in her ears had reached a fever pitch. Her ambers were also blazing. The stones burned her skin as if each one had been set afire and was scorching her.
That pain, too, she hardly noticed.
Of course, they’d warn her that her heart was breaking.
Was there any greater tragedy?
She didn’t think so.
And she didn’t care if another MacDonald or Cameron would step in and take her hand. Such a union might honor the vow she, Isobel, and Catriona had made on the evening of the trial by combat two years before, but it wouldn’t assuage the ache in her heart.
A hollowing she’d suffer until she drew her last breath.
Only Alasdair could save her from such sorrow.
And that wasn’t likely to happen because if she and Isobel were guessing rightly, Alasdair would soon be wed to Lady Coira Mackinnon.
Marjory stood straighter, lifting her chin as she pretended a vise wasn’t clamped around her chest, crushing the life from her, squeezing her heart.
“You must get back to your bedchamber.” She took Isobel by the arm, leading her to the door. “If Kendrew doesn’t go down to the hall with his men, he’ll wonder where you are.”
“I’ll handle him.” Isobel broke free, turning to face her just as Marjory maneuvered her into the passage. “I don’t like leaving you—”
“I’ll be fine,” Marjory lied, forcing a smile. “A warrior forewarned is a warrior prepared.”
“You’re a woman, not a warrior.”
“I’m feeling strengths I never knew I had.” That wasn’t true at all, but Marjory meant to make it so.
Isobel didn’t look convinced. “The morrow will be difficult.”
“That I know.”
“Kendrew will make a grand flourish, announcing Alasdair’s betrothal with relish. He’ll—”
“He’ll not get the better of me.” Marjory wished she felt as confident as her words.
In truth, she dreaded facing her brother in the morning.
Worse than that, she hated the weakness that made her lean against the closed door and listen to her friend’s footsteps disappearing down the corridor. Isobel was returning to a bed warm and beckoning, soon to be occupied by the man she loved. A husband and lover who eagerly awaited her.
Marjory would never know such a pleasure.
If she couldn’t have Alasdair, she wanted no man.
Her heart was already shrinking. She felt ill, cold, and crushingly disappointed. She was also angry, her entire body so tense she feared she’d break if she pushed away from the door. She did fist her hands, pressing them hard to her chest as she forced herself to breathe.
To think.
It was possible she and Isobel misinterpreted what they’d heard.
Lady Coira’s name hadn’t been mentioned. They’d only caught talk of “a marriage agreement that would keep Alasdair from champing at Nought’s door.”
Perhaps one of Alasdair’s men was marrying? A grand ceremony that would cost time and preparation and keep him occupied as clan chieftain?
Such an event would be something he probably wouldn’t have mentioned to her at the Thunder Caves. Not as occupied as they were with their own passion.
A glimmer of hope flickered in Marjory’s breast.
She swallowed hard. “Aye, that will be the way of it.” She looked down at Hercules, who peered up at her, worryingly. “A clan matter requiring his attention.”
Hercules leaned into her, pressing his head against her knee as if he knew that wasn’t so and wished to comfort her. She reached down to pet him, her eyes stinging when he licked her fingers.
Hercules knew her so well.
She did need comforting.
On the morrow she’d be strong.
No matter what came at her, she would meet Kendrew’s proclamation with a straight back and squared shoulders, a calm mien, or even a smile.
It was the only thing she could do if his tidings proved as grave as she feared…
That something had happened that would keep Alasdair so near to her, yet forever out of her reach.
Chapter Seventeen
Early the next morning, Alasdair stood at one of the tall window arches in his painted solar and looked out on Loch Moidart. He took a deep breath of the chill, clean air, keenly aware that his days of standing at this particular window could well be numbered. Indeed, he was sure they were. And it split his heart to think of leaving Blackshore. He couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.
The very notion was unthinkable.
Yet…
Life without Marjory would pain him more.
He clenched his jaw, ignoring the ache inside him, thinking only of her. He held a ribbon in his hand, a fine length of silk the same clear, dazzling blue of the sky. A deeper blue, the loch shone like polished glass, colored spears of light dancing across its surface. The storms of the night were gone, the morn glorious. He’d almost believe the gods were mocking him, taunting him with the blue of Marjory’s eyes everywhere he turned his gaze.
Or letting him know they were aware he’d kept her ribbon after finding it in the birchwood. And like a wee laddie caught doing something he shouldn’t have, his punishment wasn’t a rap on the knuckles but a fresh-laundered blue day that could only remind him of her.
How sweetly she’d lain in his arms in her Thunder Cave. The bliss they’d shared and the promises he’d made her. Vows he had every intention of keeping.
He did love her.
So much that it hurt him inside.
Enough that he’d turn his back on everything he held most dear to have her.
He just needed to clear his head. To find the words to declare himself to his council, the clan who depended on him. Men, women, and children who would reel when he told them he was walking away. That chances were good he’d never again set foot in his beloved Glen of Many Legends.
He wound the ribbon through his fingers, clutching its silken softness against his palm. Only hours ago, he’d linked his hand with Marjory’s, lifting her arm above her head as he’d loved her. She’d undone him, looking so abandoned and pleasured, the passion blazing in her eyes. Her joy, her trust, had made his heart soar. He wanted to see that exultation on her face always, every day of their lives.
He just wished their happiness wouldn’t bring sorrow to others.
Leaning harder against the broad window ledge, he looked out across the loch, knowing he’d miss Blackshore fiercely. As if to tempt him into staying, his land was showing its best face. Not a thread of mist marred the day’s brilliance. Nary a cloud graced the horizon, poised to soften the dazzling blue sky. Even the hills rose in startling clarity against the fine, bright dawn. A brisk wind rippled the loch and the air was clean and crisp.
It was a day he knew Marjory would love.
Blackshore at its finest, dressed to impress a lady.
And so different from the night before when he’d returned from Nought to find great curtains of rain sweeping in from the sea, bringing the sharp tang of salt, fish, and seaweed. Now, even the stone of the causeway sparkled as if a giant’s hand had cast diamonds along its length, clear to the opposite shore.
Alasdair rubbed his thumb along his jaw, not taking his gaze off the view before him.
He knew better.
He wasn’t alone in the painted solar.
If he turned to face the room, he’d see his great-uncle, Malcolm, sitting so straight-backed on his stool. An early riser, the graybeard had been in the solar when Alasdair arrived, already having claimed his favorite seat and busily carving little wooden animals for the two small sons of one of the kitchen lasses.
And—Alasdair set his jaw—determining to ruin Alasdair’s day.
Geordie was another reason he kept his back to the room.
He wasn’t of a mood to come face to face with the old dog. Geordie was sprawled on his plaid before the hearth where a huge wood fire blazed. And his soured mood was apparent. The ungrateful beast missed the twists of dried beef Grim had given him in Nought’s birchwood.
Alasdair refused to consider that Geordie might miss Grim.
Such a possibility was wholly unacceptable.
Outrageous, even.
He frowned, ignoring how both the dog and Malcolm were eyeing him suspiciously.
At least, they did when they thought he wasn’t looking.
Alasdair turned his face to the morning wind, tightening his grip on Marjory’s ribbon. At the moment, the bit of blue silk made him feel close to her. Until now, he’d never been a sentimental man. Leastways not about women. The last thing he needed was an aging warrior and an old dog prying into his business, guessing that Marjory had haunted him the entire journey home.
That he couldn’t string the words together to tell his people of his plans because all he could think of was pulling Marjory back into his arms, tearing the clothes from her and then sinking deep into the tight, wet heat of her. Kissing her everywhere…
He frowned, fisting his hands around the blue ribbon.
She’d robbed him of his senses!
The air shifted beside him and Malcolm appeared at his elbow, proving that his infirmities didn’t prevent him from moving with annoying stealth. “You will ruin your trophy if you keep crushing it.”
“What trophy?” Alasdair whipped about, glaring at the ancient.
Malcolm only cocked a brow, looking irritatingly fit and hardy. “If I must tell you, then you disappoint me greatly.”
“I found the ribbon in the wood.” Alasdair couldn’t keep the belligerence from his voice. “It means nothing,” he lied, heat surging up his neck when Malcolm’s expression showed he knew the ribbon meant everything.
Marjory’s perfume even clung to the silk, the fresh wildflower scent fuddling his wits every time a whiff of it wafted near his nose.
Malcolm reached to pull the rumpled blue ribbon from Alasdair’s fist. “A gift of such worth should be treated with care,” he said, his tone erasing the years and making Alasdair feel like a brash, callow youth. “Most especially if it is all you are to have of her.”
“You’re babbling nonsense.” Alasdair leaned against the wall and crossed his arms, feigning casualness.
Malcolm shook his head slowly. “You’ve been bitten hard, lad.”
“All that’s biting me is the chill of the wind.”
“Aye, worse than I thought.” Malcolm chuckled low.
Alasdair glared at him.
Malcolm only stroked his neatly trimmed beard and nodded. Then, with the smooth gait of a much younger man, he defied the battle wounds that plagued him and he sauntered over to Alasdair’s table where he placed the ribbon on the gleaming oaken surface.
Not yet satisfied, he straightened the ribbon to its full length and then carefully smoothed out the wrinkles with his big, war-scarred hands.
Annoyance beat through Alasdair as he watched him.
“Have you naught better to do, Uncle?” Alasdair angled his head to the open windows, grateful to catch the ring of steel against steel coming from a courtyard around the tower’s curve. The younger warriors were training there, starting their day with sword practice. “Ewan would appreciate your help instructing the lads at swordcraft.”
Malcolm crossed the room as if Alasdair hadn’t spoken. Calmly, he reclaimed his seat on the stool. “A good warrior’s training is more than how well he swings a blade.”
This time Alasdair pretended not to hear.
He continued to lean against the wall, but turned his head, gazing pointedly at the loch. Experience had taught him that whenever Malcolm made such comments, and in that tone, a lecture was forthcoming.
With luck, ignoring his uncle would dissuade him.
Sage words were the last thing he needed.
Unfortunately, the graybeard was clearing his throat most demonstrably. And the instant Alasdair slid a glance his way, Malcolm pounced.
“Take these wooden toys…” Malcolm picked up a half-carved goose, examining it closely. “In a good clan, all hands pull together. It is fine when a laird’s sons learn to be braw warriors. Yet”—he turned the goose in his hand, peering at it as if the toy held all the world’s wisdom—“even lads born to a kitchen wench or a cottar’s wife can, and should, hold their weight in battle.
“Truth is, such men, once grown, often make the deciding difference.” He looked up then, his gaze piercing. “Remember how such folk supported Robert Bruce, our hero king, at the great battle of Bannockburn.
They ran onto the field in the most desperate hour, shouting and wielding whatever weapons they had.
“Their bravery helped Bruce win the day.” Malcolm looked back down at the little half-finished goose, one corner of his mouth hitching up in an annoyingly sage smile. “You should remember that,” he added, reaching for his whittling knife. “Aye, you should.”
“I dinnae see what the Bruce’s triumph has to do with me.” Alasdair frowned at the toy in Malcolm’s hands. “Even less a little wooden goose.”
Malcolm ignored him, whittling away.
Geordie gave a huge, old-dog sigh and rolled onto his side, clearly tired of keeping a long, accusatory stare fixed on Alasdair.
It couldn’t be easy to go so long without blinking, even for a dog well-practiced in such irksome habits.
Peace returned to the painted solar. A log popped on the hearth and the increased ringing of steel from the courtyard proved his lads were learning well.
Alasdair drew a long breath, welcoming the return of normalcy to his morning.
If he was left alone, he’d manage to think.
He began to relax, some of the tension easing from his shoulders.
“Rearing lads to feel special builds confidence in them.” Malcolm’s deep voice shattered the tranquility. “They know they’re appreciated, valued as a strong member of the clan. They learn pride, to keep their chins aye raised and meet your eyes when you speak to them. In time, they may get cocky, talking back to you or walking with a swagger. Then the day comes when men must fight and they’re often the first to reach for their weapons, ready to give their all for kith and kin. Such lads, and the men they become, should ne’er be forgotten.
“That’s why I’m carving barn animals for Anice’s boys.” Malcolm set down the wooden goose, now finished and startlingly lifelike. “Such lads are the lifeblood of every clan. They should have a few toys when they’re so young.”
Seduction Of A Highland Warrior Page 28
