A Promise of Love

by Karen Ranney

  “Has your life been so devoid of simple kindness, Judith, that you would feel a debt for it?”

  His words coaxed her attention. She glanced at him, away, then slowly back. On his face was a look he’d worn for Douglas - how often had she seen him look so? - sweet patience and gentleness.

  Judith wanted, in that moment, to tell him everything. This man enticed her strangely to honesty, coaxed her to feel safe in a world still strange and foreign. In a moment of time, outlined against a world hastening to dusk, a second passed, and then another, in which she pretended that he might be unlike any man she’d ever known or that she might not be the person she knew herself to be. A fleeting clutch of seconds, a silver drop of purity, only a moment passed, but it was gilded with a thought as errant as a rainbow in her palm, precious, but impossible. What would it be like to speak the truth? The moment passed; Judith did nothing more dangerous than continue to look at him, wondering if the last chance for expiation vanished also.

  “It will make the time go faster, MacLeod.”

  One finger touched the bridge of her nose and then slipped softly to her temple. It was such an odd gesture for someone to make, especially someone as large and strong and Scots as the MacLeod, that for a moment she forgot that she was trapped so close to him that a mere inch would cause her lips to meet his tanned skin. For a second, she almost forgot that danger came with closeness, and kindness often masked cruelty. Gentleness. Tenderness. The two worst lies.

  She stiffened in his arms, and it was a response Alisdair had waited for from the first moment he touched her. The delay pleased him. Perhaps his English hedgehog could be gentled by a touch after all.

  "Your help would be welcome," he said then, as he released her. She was unprepared for the full effect of his smile. It was too charming, too intense, and too dangerous. She swallowed heavily, gripped her hands before her and nodded, not looking at the MacLeod after all, but forced by something - some fleeting emotion which tickled her stomach and made her heart lurch in her chest - to stare, wordless, at the stony ground in front of her.

  She nodded then, mutely. With the sun having tinted her nose pink, and her long lashes brushing against the curve of her cheek, and her lips tilted to a self-conscious half smile, Alisdair MacLeod had the strange and sudden thought that beauty was more than just good looks, that it came from the soul. That it was more than a ripe figure pressing against the bodice of a too snug gown, more than shapely ankles and long, long legs. It was more than a face as delicately carved as a bust from ancient Greece. More than a simple smile. That beauty was kindness and concern. Maternal nurturing, friendship, love. That in the soul of her, Judith MacLeod had all the raw material for true, exquisite beauty, and he probably had willfully and willingly ignored it until now.

  Dangerous thoughts for a man counting the days until his freedom.

  CHAPTER 12

  Twenty women appeared, as if by sorcery, the first day the MacLeod called them together. Judith remembered some of the women from their visits to Tynan’s kitchen. Some had glanced at her from the doorway of their cottages, some had followed down the hill when the MacLeod chased her back to Tynan, but still others she’d never met before.

  Meggie came too, and the two women shared a smile of tentative friendship.

  Judith had taken her a kettle of stew the day after learning of Janet’s death. If her kindness was thrown back in her face, Judith had reasoned, then at least she had made the effort. Instead, Meggie had welcomed her.

  Her cottage was dark, barely lit by the chimney flue located in the middle of the thatch roof. Judith stood on the threshold, uncertain whether she truly wanted to go inside. But she had, because of the smile on Meggie’s face, and the sorrow on her face.

  "Thank ye," she said quietly, as she took the covered kettle from Judith. She stood, peering into the gloom with surprise and not a little shock. How could anyone could live in such conditions? She had gone from her own spacious home to Peter's, from there to a small, rented house in London. Yet, none of those dwellings had been as cramped and as gloomy as this rickety structure.

  The cottage was only one small room. The floor was packed earth swept clean by the bristles of an improvised broom. A narrow board nailed to the side of the frame served as the only table. Other than one small chair, and a cot, there was no furniture. It was neat and orderly, however, with shelves containing all of Meggie’s possessions in tidy rows.

  Judith had no choice but to sit on the wobbly chair Meggie hastily provided. She did not know what to say. What words could possibly help?. Even so, she had tried.

  Her husband had been a MacLeod, Meggie told Judith that day, as if explaining her presence in the glen. She herself had been a McDougal, her brown eyes alight with memory as she told Judith of the day a MacLeod had come to her clan, seeking a woman with hair as blond as the sun and eyes as blue as the sky. What he’d got, Meggie said, smiling, was a woman with dark brown hair and eyes the color of soil, but he had never admitted to feeling the lack.

  Such reminiscent joy was beyond Judith’s understanding, but she wished there was some way she could banish the look of sorrow in Meggie’s eyes. Yet, that look was not far from any of these Scots. Sorrow, however, never stopped these people. They rose at dawn and challenged nature, worked as hard as the most humble serf in the fields, labored days upon weeks and weeks into months. They took pride in their heritage, in their uniqueness, in their very stubbornness. They relished their songs, their language and themselves. They held fast to beliefs passed down for generations, in the strength of clan and clansman, legend and pipes.

  It was daunting to be in their midst, to witness, first-hand how they accepted their troubles, yet never bowed beneath the weight of them.

  Judith didn't know if she could ever understand these Scots. She suspected that she would never be as strong, nor as resilient. She was certain Scotland would conquer her, even in the short time left her.

  "I know that you're here either to spread your knowledge of weaving, or to learn the craft, and I'm glad to share with you what I know. Are there any among you who have used this loom before?" And a paltry excuse it was for a loom, too, Judith thought, staring at it accusingly, as if the frame of warped wood was responsible for its own condition.

  A knurled hand was extended into the air, and Judith craned forward to see its owner.

  "I've knowledge o’ the loom," Grizzelle said, and Judith almost groaned when the woman stood. She looked to be ninety, nearly bent over with age, but her wizened appearance did not seem to affect the resolve in her step. Slowly, she walked down the aisle between the rows of benches to stop before the old loom.

  Large, broad knuckled fingers stroked the wood, pulled impatiently upon old threads left to rot in the delicately carved prongs. Despite Grizelle's advanced years, her hands were not knotted with age.

  "It ne’r worked right twenty years ago, an’ I doubt if time's added ta its worth," she said, her voice crackling with irritation. "It should ha' been burned ta the ground, but I ken that the good tends to go first, an’ the bad linger on."

  The women chuckled, and Judith smiled.

  The time sped by, day after day, from sunup to gloaming, what the Scots called the time when the light abruptly vanished into mist. Day in, day out, Grizzelle taught the intricacies of the old loom, while Judith guided unskilled fingers with her own, praising the rudimentary efforts of each woman as they learned.

  The air in the weaving hut was warm, occasionally stuffy, the air filled with wool fibers, but enlivened by the quick, easy conversation of women who'd known each other all their lives, who’d shared heartache and joy. They created a pocket of companionship and camaraderie, labor made palatable by the presence of others.

  Judith began to anticipate her days. By mid-afternoon Friday of the second week, their first weaving was finished. There were gaps in the threads and knots where there shouldn’t be, but the overall result was something to be proud of, their first completed length of clot
h.

  "Aye, an’ it’s time for a celebration, I’m thinking, “ Sara said. “Take a wee nip o’ the ale," she insisted, passing an ornately ugly pewter bottle with a cork stopper to Judith. "It's from my own barm, an’ a finer brew ye’ll not find in the glen."

  Because the woman had gone to the effort of fetching the ale from her own cottage and partly because she was being watched intently by the rest of the women, Judith ignored the fact that Meggie was shaking her head and rolling her eyes heavenward. She drank deeply of the heather ale.

  It was surprisingly sweet. Brandy carried with it too many memories; Judith could not abide the taste. Nor did she care for wine because of its bitterness. Heather ale was different from both.

  It was only when her giggles appeared like bubbles from a batch of soap that Judith realized how strong it was. She clasped her hand over her mouth in surprise, turning wide eyes to the women, who were swaying where they sat, and had the oddest ability to duplicate themselves until there was a whole roomful of twos.

  It was the MacLeod who lifted her in his arms a scant hour later. He muttered something about the English being unable to hold their liquor, but somehow, it didn't seem important. Nothing was important, and wasn't that simply wonderful?

  Judith liked the ride back to Tynan curled against his chest. She especially liked it when they mounted the stairs. It was comfortable bouncing against him like this, mainly because he smelled of the fields and of sunlight, and in a strange way, of heather.

  Or, was that her?

  Her head dropped back upon his arm and she breathed deeply. Why did some men always smell bad, and others never smell bad when they should? She nuzzled her head into his armpit and heard the strangest sound, like the rumbling of thunder.

  Judith raised her head, looked around, and then decided she was safer with her head level. That way, the stairs didn't spin quite so much, nor did her stomach lurch as though she had just sniffed a vat of wet wool. She truly liked the MacLeod’s strength. He did not puff, nor did he huff. She giggled. He said something, and she squinted up at him, but still could not decipher his words.

  He was so handsome, with his mane of black hair and his golden brown eyes and his deeply tanned face. And that mouth, looking as though it had kissed a thousand willing women.

  Judith tried to touch his face, but missed on the first try. The second time, she succeeded, touching his lips quickly with one finger. They were soft, too soft for a man's lips. They felt like velvet or the down from the belly of a goose.

  She sighed happily.

  He balanced her precariously as he opened the door to her room. She held on by the simple means of gripping his shirt, once more oblivious to the fact that she had also grabbed a handful of chest hair. He grimaced, but didn't bother to try to extricate her hand.

  Alisdair was glad that his English wife was a friendly little thing when inebriated. She could have been maudlin, or worse, mean. She did not seem to know what she was doing, however, and that colored his actions as he gently lay her on her bed.

  She would have said something, but the words and the deed whirled out of her head just as the room spun and blackened without warning.

  He stepped back and removed her shoes. She had a time of it, his English wife. For two weeks, he had seen her rise at dawn and lift herself wearily up the stairs at night, all without a word of complaint.

  Tonight, he’d watched her as she sat and giggled with the women. Now, she was dead to the world with her mouth hanging open and her face flushed with drink. She would hate herself in the morning and wouldn't that be a pity. He had laughed at her antics, she had been so un-Judith-like.

  He had not told her how much he admired her efforts.

  Yet, it was the sound of her laughter which had arrested him in mid-stride. It was lilting and lyrical, and he suspected, rare. If it took a jug full of heather ale to transform this English wife into a pretty Scots lass, he himself would gladly brew a barrel a day.

  He did not undress her, only tucked her in gently, covering her with the soft linen sheet and blanket, a protective, tender gesture unseen by any other eyes.

  He had been right to think she would bring him problems. Why did she hate as strongly as she feared? Why was her smile such a rarity? Why did she deem herself unworthy of kindness? When had the answers to all his questions become so necessary?

  He only had a few weeks of civil behavior to be gotten through. Surely, he could manage that. This fascination with his English wife had, at its root, the simple fact that he’d been without a woman too long.

  After Anne's death, he had led an almost monastic life, finally easing his urges in the silken body of a friendly woman in Inverness. Yet, he’d declined to take advantage of her presence during that last visit. Why?

  He was not such a weakling that another person, let alone an Englishwoman with loch dark eyes and a too full lower lip, could make him lose control over his own emotions. She did not have that power over him.

  Yet, why did he ache to shut her mouth when she spoke in that godawful accent - and not just with his hands? Why did he want to test out the swell of that bodice, to see if it was real or simply padding? Why, on God's earth, did he want to discover why her eyes darkened sometimes until they were almost black, and her gaze journeyed to some far off distant place where he suspected no one else could travel? Why, in the name of Scotland and all that was holy to him, did he have this strange feeling that he should ride to Inverness and remain there until their three month marriage was finished?

  Alisdair determined, in that moment, that he would simply increase his pace. He would work harder than ever, and then this inconvenient curiosity and even more intransigent need of his would simply be buried beneath fatigue.

  He stood at the doorway for a long time, his hand on the frame, his eyes on the bed. Judith slept heavily, her slight snores causing an amused grin to dance upon his mouth.

  It would have been better if he had not seen her smile.

  It would have been easier, if he had never heard her laughter.

  CHAPTER 13

  "You could use time away from all your chores. I'd not thought to see anyone match my zeal, but your industry tops even mine." Alisdair said the next morning. He smiled at the untouched bowl of porridge beside Judith. He could imagine the state of her stomach. Heather ale not only produced an unexpected kick, but it left a distinct longing for death the next day.

  "I’ll not ask for mercy, MacLeod. It was my own foolishness that has my stomach in knots.” Judith stood and disposed of the contents of the bowl in the slops jar.

  “Do you not ever allow yourself to play, Judith?”

  She turned confused eyes to him.

  “There is too much to be done and not enough time.”

  “But chores will always be there and time will not.”

  “Is this Alisdair MacLeod speaking? The man who rises at dawn and only rests at midnight?” Her smile was oddly crooked and totally mesmerizing. Yet, her eyes were filled with caution and there were shadows beneath them.

  He wondered if she dreamed again last night, or had her indulgence in heather ale also gifted her with one night of forgetfulness? For weeks now, he’d heard the sounds of her crying, became as accustomed to it as he did the waves crashing to the shore outside his window.

  Another question, unanswered.

  He extended his hand, and she stared at it. Hard, callused, large, it was offered palm up, a wordless invitation to come to him. For long moments, her gaze shifted from his hand to his face, as if the study of both would offer insight into his actions. Finally, she stepped forward, her breath caught oddly in her chest, and placed her palm over his.

  What she expected, she didn’t know, but it wasn’t that the MacLeod would suddenly smile at her, and loop her arm over his.

  “We’ve a sun to catch, Granmere,” he said, his eyes never leaving Judith’s flushed face.

  Sophie thought it an excellent sign. Alisdair was beginning to look at Judith with
interest. He was a lonely man, for all his work and worry. He needed someone to talk to, someone who could help him share his burdens, bring a little laughter into his life, a little comfort.

  There was still time.

  Alisdair held her hand as they moved up the track to the top of the moor. It was a strange sensation, Judith thought, but one not altogether unpleasant. They were silent, each trapped within a bubble of thought and unspoken wishes, a comforting silence for all that it teemed with unvoiced yearnings. He led her onto the path to the left, to a place beyond the fields, one littered with large stones bathed bright by the morning sun. On the horizon, dark clouds rolled incessantly onward, a constant presence of rain, of warning, of promise.

  Judith pulled her hand free, went to the largest stone, moving her fingers over strange markings carved into the surface.

  "I could tell you were English if you spoke not a word," he said behind her.

  "You touch a place none dare venture near," he said, smiling.

  She stepped back, her hand still outstretched. Other than a few scrawled markings, unintelligible to her, there was nothing to indicate the purpose of the stone. She hoped, fervently, that she had not just touched an ancient tomb. Her face must have registered her horror, because he only laughed, and led her to another rock, carved smooth by the forces of nature, not man, and sat beside her, looking out onto the moor that swept down to the rolling white sea of sheep, and further to the track to Tynan.

  "No," he said, alleviating her all too obvious fears. "'Tis not a sacred place, simply a mysterious one. We are a strange people, full of superstition. It is an unlucky spot. The villagers think that Domhnull Dubh emerges from the ground here, and those markings are his hoof prints."

  "Who?" she asked, unable to repeat the strange syllables.

  "Domhnull Dubh, Black Donald. The English call him the Devil, which is a case of the pot calling the kettle black, I think. Did you ever hang a horseshoe at home?" he asked, the question coming before she’d had time to tense at the mention of nationality.