by R. L. Syme
“Aye, she does.” Duncan followed the tiny girl and placed his hands on her shoulders. “And she has her mother’s sweet temperament, as well.”
Morainn turned and looked up into Duncan’s eyes with abject admiration and smiled brightly. The dimples in her cheeks twinkled. Small, but very marked. Those must have been hidden under Magnus’ beard, for he didn’t remember Torra, the girl’s mother, having them.
“She was still only a baby when I left.”
“She was that.”
“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” Morainn’s small voice melted whatever ice remained on his heart. She touched Broc’s hand.
“You needn’t be so formal with him, lass,” Duncan encouraged, laughing. “He is your brother after all.”
“Just like you and Malcolm and Alec?” she wondered, fixing Duncan with her wide eyes.
“Aye, just like us. Only older.” Malcolm laughed, his eyes on the girl, but when Broc waited for his gaze, the mirth left him. Broc meant to ask after this grudge he seemed to carry, but so many other things pressed at him.
“What else has changed in my absence?” Broc asked.
Duncan and Malcolm exchanged a look. “Torra moved out of the solar after Magnus’ death. She refuses to stay inside the castle walls, claiming ghosts haunt her here.”
“Morainn remains with us. Torra has older children to care for and this way, Morainn can grow up with children her age.” Malcolm joined Duncan behind the girl and placed a rough hand atop her red head. “She’s only a year ahead of Brigid’s oldest.”
The door opened and Kensey entered, carrying a wooden bowl with steaming water. The days began to run together for Broc, but the one consistent memory was the presence of his dark-haired nursemaid.
After the first day, he assumed she would be replaced by one of his sisters, but his siblings still moved with an uneasy distance around him. Perhaps none of them wished to stay with him. He was thankful for Kensey’s feelings of responsibility, or he might languish alone.
Kensey broke the silence that hung in the air gave and cleared the room. “Alright, now, let’s all get out and let the Laird have some peace and quiet for awhile.” She shooed them all out, even Morainn, who kept looking back at Broccin and giving him shy smiles. “He’ll be down for supper tonight, my dear, have no fear about that.”
Broc’s surprise welled up inside him. Had it been that many days? Was he ready to be walking around the castle? He hadn’t yet ventured out of the solar, and perhaps a part of him hoped he would never need to leave the now comfortable room.
Kensey turned to him and held out her hands for his wrappings. “You do feel stronger today, don’t you?”
He’d finally begun to wear tunics again, and even trews. Sometimes boots. Kensey taught him how to change his own dressings and all she needed to do now was to take away his soiled wrappings and apply a stinging poultice to the wound once he’d removed his shirt and unwrapped his torso.
“Aye, lass, much stronger.” Once her fingers had applied the pungent mixture to his wound, he twisted himself and let his legs flop over the side of the bed. “I’ve been standing and walking a little today.”
She busied herself at the table while he re-wrapped the wound and re-dressed.
“Those bandages should do you until tomorrow morning.” She handed him a wooden cup full of white milk and he drained the vessel nearly in one gulp.
“Your appetite returns. You’re walking. Soon you’ll have no more need of me.” She wrapped her arms around the blue bodice of her gown and half smiled.
He knew the feeling. It was a happy moment for his wound to be healing. But something bittersweet clawed at his senses every time he started to get restless lying in the giant bed of the laird.
“Thank you, lass.” He had to look away, or he would stare forever. “You have been most kind to me and your help is much appreciated.”
“I’m only been trying to help the family who has done so much for my brother and myself. Besides, Alana has been teaching me about healing poultices and herb mixtures. I learn more each day.”
“You really love them, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do. Very much. You all feel like a second family to me already.”
“That’s good, lass.” Broccin tossed the covers aside and got to his feet, wobbling a little. When Kensey moved to help him, he held his hand out to keep her away. “I need to do this on my own.”
“As you wish,” she said, but she kept near.
“I believe you may be right,” said Broccin, taking a few steps. “I would like to join my family for supper tonight.”
“You’ve regained so much strength. I don’t think it will be a problem for you to walk down stairs or sit up for a time.”
Unconsciously, he reached out as he wobbled and she took his arm. She helped him straighten and he found his legs. His gait widened as they walked around the room and she scurried up with his long legs.
“You’ve only had a week to heal. It will take several more for you to be your old self. But every day, you make progress.” Her face reddened and she went back to the fireplace.
For just a moment, Broc thought of his old self. Sitting atop his giant horse, pulling her up toward him as though she were a lost animal he’d been sent to retrieve. And the closeness of her body still brought up memories of desire.
A knock at the door suddenly relieved the pressured silence. When the door opened, Duncan, Robert, and Morainn walked through the door.
“I asked Duncan to bring us up so we could play shatranj,” Robert offered as Kensey cast him a stern glance.
“The two of them wanted so badly to play. I thought there would be no harm, since Broccin was awake,” Duncan said, smiling at Kensey. “I need to speak with him.”
“I want to be brown,” Robert said.
“Good.” Morainn took Broccin by the hand. “Because we’re going to be grey.”
“And I’m going to beat both of you together,” Robert boasted, placing all his pieces in their rightful spots. Morainn huffed and put a hand on her hip.
“You will not beat us. My brother and I will whip you until you beg for mercy,” she promised, looking at Broccin for support. A pride he hadn’t known before filled him almost to capacity. She was his little sister, but she was so much like a miniature version of him, or of Brigid. For the first time in his life, he considered what it would be like to have a daughter.
He certainly wouldn’t treat her the way Magnus might have. He would protect her and care for her, watch over her and shelter her. Never beat her. Never accuse her of things she hadn’t done. Never, ever tell her he didn’t love her.
Broc swept the little girl into his arms and sat in the chair.
He would be a good father, just to spite his own.
Robert began to explain the rules and Broc tried to pay attention, but he was trying hard to listen to Duncan and Kensey, whispering near one of the tapestry-covered windows.
Broc strained to hear what he could of their conversation. He tried to concentrate on Morainn and Robert, and learning this new game, but seeing Duncan’s hands on Kensey’s arm and a letter between them only reminded him of the letter he’d found in the bothan.
And its contents. A betrothal.
“Your mother,” Duncan was saying. Kensey’s face contorted into a look of grief so shocking, it could only mean one thing. Her mother had passed on. He remembered seeing that grief on Duncan’s face once, and Malcolm’s. No other event could cause that kind of agony. The kind that lived inside you forever.
Kensey collapsed against Duncan and Broc nearly bolted for her. But Morainn moved the pieces on the board from his lap. And Kensey had Duncan to care for her. He repeated that mantra while Duncan escorted her from the room and out of his sight. Still, he couldn’t help steeling himself for seeing her again. He would do everything in his power to make things right.
***
Kensey thought her chest might cave in f
rom the sheer pressure of sadness. For too many days, she’d known something was wrong. Ete should have written a week ago and hadn’t. But to know that her mother had passed, to see it written on paper, was so much worse than thinking it might or might not be true.
If she’d been able to convince her mother too come north with them, would she have lived? Or had she given up hope upon learning of Papa’s treason charge? Something had left her that day.
Kensey refused to believe Duncan’s words.
“Why can I not go back?”
He grasped her shoulders, the only thing keeping her upright. “You read what Ete said. They’ve managed to convince Buckingham that you sailed for France. If you return, he will marry you to his son. Or worse.”
Kensey sniffed and sagged against him. Propriety be damned, she wanted to be held. But Duncan kept her at arm’s length. Ever protecting her virtue.
Where was Broc when she needed him? He would let her cry. He would hold her.
“You are in grave danger now, Kensey.” Duncan placed a warm hand under her chin and drew her countenance upward. “If they execute your father and your brother is discovered to be still in the country, the King will expect him to swear fealty. He will marry you off to some stranger. Perhaps even someone like Colin Ross. But your future will be in his hands, with your mother gone.”
Kensey’s heart clenched again at the words. Your mother gone. Even in all the days she was certain it would happen, nothing prepared her for those words. Her mother.
The bleary hallway, obfuscated more by hear tears, seemed to warp and weft as she swayed. She tried to collapse to the floor, but Duncan held her steady. God. Where was Broc? She wanted Broc.
“You must marry at once.”
Down the hallway, a figure ran toward them. It had the same tartan brat that Broc had been wearing, and the brown trews and boots. But red hair. Malcolm. Not Broc. Still. Malcolm would hold her. Like her father would have held her. She longed to collapse, to be free of the responsibility of being the strong one, to be free of being the oldest, the planner, the reasoned. She just wanted to be a little girl, curled in her father’s arms.
She pulled free of Duncan’s tight hands and ran toward Malcolm, falling against him when his arms opened. Sobbing into the warm folds of his brat, she tried to form words, but they wouldn’t come.
Malcolm smoothed her plaited hair and wound the end of her braid around his finger in a rhythmic motion.
“Duncan! What the devil happened?” Malcolm’s voice was so deep and so firm. It sounded so much like Broc’s in that moment. She could have kissed him. Instead, she buried her face deeper, cried more urgently.
“We just received word that her mother passed. There has still been no word from her father.”
Malcolm’s arms tightened around her and she stopped trying to stand. He stood for the both of them, and she let him.
“My God, Kensey.” His hand moved from her braid to her back, where it played slow circles. “I know this sorrow is great, and well it should be. Just know that we are here. We will do whatever we can.”
Duncan’s voice cut through the haze. “She must marry right away. You said her mother told you as much, even before…” he trailed off. “One of us must marry her.”
“I will marry her this very evening.” Malcolm was so certain. But Kensey shook free of him at that thought.
“Please. I cannot talk of marriage on this day.” Her hands cut the air. “No more talk of marriage.”
“What will you tell your brother?” Duncan wondered, reaching for her. But she backed against the cold stone wall, nearly to the corner of the hallway.
She would tell Robert in her own way. Not with letters, and not in Ete’s handwriting. She would find a way to tell him, and she would do it quickly. The tears flooded her eyes again and she sagged against the wall, collapsing to the floor.
Malcolm dragged her to her feet. “Let me take you to a room you can have to yourself so you can be alone.”
She pushed at him. “No, I need to be close to Broc. To my patient.”
“You’re not a nursemaid, Kensey.” Duncan followed as Malcolm dragged her farther and farther from the solar. “You’re the daughter of a laird. You’ve lost your mother. Let us tend to Broc as he recovers.”
She shook her head fiercely and the whole hallway spun. But she managed to stop Malcolm’s forward progress by sagging against the wall again.
“I will take a room next to his if I must, but he still has need of me, and it will be good for me to have something to concentrate on.”
Malcolm slipped his hand around her waist and hauled her against him. She tried to squirm away, but he grasped her too tightly. At least, however, he walked with her toward the solar. Just before the giant wooden door was a smaller, rounded doorway. He pushed it open and showed her the tiny bedroom.
“This will do,” she insisted.
“It used to be the nursery, when the castle was first built.” Duncan ran his hand along the stone wall. “Generations of Sinclairs were born here.”
“The bed will hold you, though.” Malcolm set her down on the small bed and watched until she stretched out onto her back.
Both men backed out of the room. “You stay here,” Duncan said. “Don’t worry about Broc for the time being. Lydia will help. And we’ll get you a nice black dress. One of Lydia’s should fit just fine.”
Malcolm was the last to leave, and his eyes lingered on her for so long, she thought he might stay, propriety be damned. She thought she heard him whisper endearments as he closed the door and in her grief, Kensey prayed there would be no more talk of marriage, not for a very long time.
Chapter Fourteen
The news of Kensey’s mother passing had taken her to bed for nearly two days whole and while she was absent, Broccin’s wound healed nicely, much to his disappointment, without her ministrations. She no longer spent every night sleeping in the chair in his room. She no longer changed his bandages and spent more time with Brigid or Lydia when she was up and around.
Duncan had convinced him to take on some of the duties of Laird even as he healed, and by the time the thread could be removed from his stitching, he had taken to pouring over papers most of the day. When he wasn’t working, Morainn and Robert occupied him completely. He found it much easier to think of creating his new life with new people, and to leave his siblings to fuss over Kensey.
They managed a fine job of doing that. If Malcolm wasn’t trying to get her on a horse, Brigid was teaching her how to weave cloth, or to care for babies. And Duncan would come to the solar for a new book, presumably for Kensey, almost daily. Whether she read the books or lost interest in them and needed another, Broc couldn’t tell.
He wished he knew.
On Malcolm’s birthday, Brigid had planned a feast fit for a king. They planned to celebrate both Malcolm’s and Robert’s birthdays, and re-introduce Broc to his clan, all in one night. Lydia baked two special cakes, each laden with a piece of gold and a thimble, for the next year’s prediction, and the men had hunted for nearly two straight days chasing a giant boar.
Broc thought he would relish eating boar, after all this.
Once everything had been prepared, and the tables set and the minstrels gathered, the entire clan was invited and crowded into the great hall. Robert and Malcolm took their places at the head of the giant table and the family filled in around them. For the occasion, Broccin had invited all of the family, not just those in his immediate relationship. This was a chance for their laird to bless them, both in honor of his brother, and in honor of his return. So the feast had been prepared in excess, to show his concern for them and their well-being. Lydia showed a deft hand at managing it all.
Broc hung back until everyone had been seated, still not completely certain on his feet. He walked slowly through the crowded hall and tolerated the chatter around him, slowing to speak to those he recognized.
Kensey was seated betwe
en Robert and Duncan and looked utterly magnificent in the deep blue, straight-necked gown Brigid had given her. Broc made a mental note to have more clothes made for her, since tonight would also undoubtedly carry the news that he’d been dreading ever since Duncan first informed him of Gabrielle’s death.
She would have to be married, and since she was already betrothed to Duncan, he would make the announcement himself, certainly. He couldn’t bring himself to say the words aloud. After hoping that their time together would sway her to him, Broc had been disappointed at her withdrawal.
Her presence so mesmerized him, he felt drawn to her and stopped to kiss her hand as he passed. The wan smile she’d worn for the evening did nothing to fool him. Her heart had been broken when her mother died. He longed to see the shimmering glee in her eyes again and hoped that Duncan’s announcement would return it.
“You look tired, lass.” Broccin lowered his voice, but practically everyone near heard his words. Duncan began to study her, as did Malcolm.
“I’m fine, I assure you, milord,” Kensey said quietly, taking a drink from her cup of mulled wine. The hot drink was working a delicate shade of pink into her cheeks that would only serve to intensify her beauty.
She bowed her head and he took his seat, placated for the moment, but his eyes remained on her through the feast. Duncan rose and sat, announcing and speaking, introducing the new laird, renouncing his title, announcing the celebration of Malcolm and of Robert. But Broc couldn’t break his fascination, no matter what else called to him.
He felt certain, if Duncan did not announce his intentions for the lass soon, they would have to fight off many men for her hand. He noticed, that night, he wasn’t the only one entranced by her beauty. All the men leered at her, and all the women eyed her with wary distrust. They followed every action. The graceful movements of her eating, the laughter she shared when someone amused her, the quiet, fearful way she looked at her brother.
Robert hadn’t taken his mother’s death to heart the way Kensey had. Broc could sympathize. When you hadn’t seen the body of your deceased loved one, it was hard to think of them as other than they had been when you last saw them. Perhaps Robert would come to understand the severity of his situation, but Broc hoped for his indifference. To grow up a happy child. That was all he wanted for the boy.
