A Promise of Love

by Karen Ranney

  "Yes, of course, for good luck." She glanced over at him, too bemused by the softness of his voice and his sudden, winsome smile to spoil the mood by questioning it.

  "We do the same. Except of course, that the English hang it open side up. We don't care about its placement, but there's a reason for that, too. Would you like to hear the story?" His smile was boyish, filled with a charm she’d seen hints of before, but nothing like this windswept stranger whose gaze roamed the land before him with an odd blend of possessiveness and sadness.

  She nodded.

  "Once upon a time," he began, as if he were a father telling a bedtime story to his enraptured daughter, "Black Donald pulled a smith from his bed. He needed him to shoe his hoof, you see. The smith was frightened by Black Donald, but still angry that he had been awakened at midnight. So, when he drove the first nail in, he sank it deep, past the horn of Black Donald's hoof and into the fleshy part of his foot. Black Donald hopped about in great pain, furious at the smith, demanding that he finish the job properly, else he would visit great misfortune on him and his family.”

  Judith’s head was bent, her hands were stilled. There was such an air of intensity about her that Alisdair knew she listened like a child, eager to grasp holes in the telling of his tale. He smiled and continued. “Well, with that threat, the smith realized he had better make a bargain with the devil. He refused to finish the work until Black Donald granted him a wish. That wish was, whenever the devil saw a horseshoe, whether it was sitting on the ground, or hanging, he would do no mischief. Black Donald, who was hopping around on one foot, reluctantly agreed. Before the smith finished the job, however, he first surrounded his entire house with horseshoes. And because of Black Donald’s bargain, the smith’s family was left alone. That’s why we don’t care how a horseshoe is hung, just that it’s there to prevent Black Donald from making mischief.”

  Judith smiled. He wished she would smile again. It brought sunlight into her eyes and a hidden dimple to her cheek.

  "I think it Pictish markings, myself," he said, motioning to the stone, "but none will ever know, I suspect."

  "Pictish?"

  "The Picts were an ancient people. They may well have been the first Scots. They did, at least, predate the Romans."

  "I did not know the Romans occupied the Highlands."

  "Oh, they did not occupy them," he said with a smile. "They, too, tried in vain to conquer us. It seems as though half the invaders in the world's history have attempted it and failed. At least, until the English came."

  It was too good to be true, this easy companionship.

  "No, Judith," he said softly, "do not get all stiff and rigid. I do not fault you for your birth. It is, after all, a fact that you could not help. I do, however, fault the English government and that pack of wolves let loose by Cumberland. I fault each and every one of those beasts."

  Judith sat with the wind blowing her hair around her shoulders, her hands clenched tightly on her lap.

  He liked her hair this way, strewn around her shoulders like a wild woman's, or a good Scots lass. He absently imprisoned one errant curl and rubbed the softness of it between his fingers, noting that the color was a rich brown with glinting red and gold highlights. "Your hair has a hundred colors in it, " he said, ignoring the fact that she was edging away from him more each moment. Shortly, he mused, she would fall off the rock and he supposed she would find some way to retreat from him then, too.

  She pulled loose from his grasp, and patted her hair into some semblance of order. "It is not practical," she said shortly, frowning.

  "Ah, that word." He smiled softly. "There is much duty attached to being practical. For example," he said, rising, and again extending a hand to her, "practicality demands that I not forget that I have work to do. While it is pleasant sunning on the rocks, I have duties and obligations."

  "I, too," she admitted reluctantly, surprised at the sudden feeling of regret which poured over her. One small part wished she could find a way to keep him here for a little while longer. Another, saner part of her mind, welcomed the release from his presence. It was a paradox, those emotions, and they caused her to step away from him.

  "Do you know," he said absently, "there is a story about the Picts and heather ale. Remind me to tell you some time, after you’ve recovered from it."

  “Your heather ale is deceptive, MacLeod.” Her smile was wide, disclosing white, even teeth. It was a smile untinged by mockery, alight with mischief.

  He wondered if she knew how pretty she was when she smiled.

  They walked down past the milling sheep again, but before they parted, he stopped and grasped one of her hands. He held it, studying it, seeing the strength of it and the fine suppleness of her fingers. She pulled it from his grip before he could remark on its size and the fact that blisters were forming on her palm.

  "I have not thanked you, Judith," he said softly, "for your efforts and your work. For caring." He smiled a little at her confused look.

  “It made the time go by faster.”

  "Ah, yes, time. We haven't much left, have we?" There was an intentness about his look, as if he gauged her words, her expression.

  "A month." It ticked through her mind like a symphony of raindrops, one perfect sphere at a time. There was only a month left at this ramshackle old castle. How odd that each day seemed to remind her of something she would regret leaving behind. Oh, Sophie, of a certainty. Judith would never forget those sparkling blue eyes and that mouth always pursed in a laugh or a smile. She would miss this sweet lady who seemed to grow more fragile each passing hour.

  A month, then, to savor the sunset over the cove, the sweet scent of pine wafting into her bedroom window at night. A month in which to learn to live without the burr of Malcolm's accent, or the soft breeze which billowed like a lover around Tynan.

  "Twenty-eight days," Alisdair corrected softly. "I can count, also."

  His voice seemed to lower when he spoke to her, as if that tone was reserved only for her. If anything was dangerous, it was the sound of that voice, skittering over her skin like the lightest touch of a feather.

  In twenty-eight days, then, her mind would become hers once more, and she would not be lulled into thinking forbidden thoughts. No more silly games and sillier notions and childish dreams that should have died when she was a child.

  No more thoughts of him, unbidden and dangerous.

  Did he know how different he appeared even from his own kind? His clean shaven face was as out of place among these bearded highlanders as a cow among the sheep. And yet, it suited him, the same way his smile suited him. Judith had witnessed at least ten versions of them - the tender smile when he nuzzled Douglas's hair with his chin, the smile he gave to Granmere when she said something outrageous that quirked his humor, the grin he gave to Malcolm when the old Scot refused to back down and gave him measure for measure, the smile of accomplishment as he looked out over his crops, his land, his sheep. And the odd, almost tender smile Judith noted on more than one occasion, when she turned and found him studying her again.

  Twenty-eight days, four weeks. No more wondering, at the end of those days, what life would have been like if she were different. No more pretending that the past had not happened, that she was untouched by it. No more wishing, in odd little moments, that it could have been different if they had met somewhere else, some earlier time. Perhaps they could have greeted each other in the way civil strangers do. Perhaps even become friends. That bond would have allowed her to ask him all the questions she so longed to ask, questions forbidden because of their intrinsically personal nature.

  She would be gone soon, Alisdair thought, and this strange link welded between them by Malcolm's words and his grandmother's good intentions would be sundered

  He should feel triumphant, should he not?

  Instead, he was suddenly irritated beyond belief, and his aggravation had at its center his English wife. Now was not the time to notice that her face softened more often into a sm
ile, to linger upon her full lips, or remember that her eyes darkened at night until they were almost black and reminded him of a storm at sea during the day. He did not want to recall the long line of her magnificent legs outlined in the threadbare cloth of her dress.

  Nor did Alisdair wish to remember the night before, when her laughter had stirred his interest and something more, and her smile had lit up her face until she was almost beautiful. He had no wish to encourage the curious protective impulse he felt, that feeling that he alone could banish the look of sadness she unwittingly divulged or the flicker of quickly masked fear in her eyes. It was a foolish thought. As idiotic and nonsensical as the curiosity which made him wonder why she still eyed him with caution as if she were a Highland deer, and he a skilled hunter. It would do no good to open doors not easily closed again.

  Yet, he was not a bad prize as husbands go. He was a learned man, a man of principles. And although he might not be Adonis, at least he did not frighten children. Of a certainty, he did not possess the legendary experience of his fallen brother, but at least he knew what pleased a woman. He was getting older, true, but he still had strength in his limbs, was able to work as hard as he had in the past. Other than a tumbler full of brandy now and then, he had no terrible habits. While it was true that the legacy of Tynan was more a millstone around his neck than a blessed inheritance, still, he possessed a castle and not many men could boast of that, could they?

  He was not that bad a prize.

  His nod was curt, dismissive. His look was filled with irritation.

  Judith watched him as he walked down the glen, wondering what she had done to spark his displeasure. It was difficult not to notice how his trousers were pulled tight against his legs by his long, firm strides, or that the sun made his hair appear almost blue-black, or his broad back strained the seams of his white shirt.

  What manner of man was he, this laird MacLeod, who could tell a tale with such charm one moment, then change to become almost frosty with rudeness.

  Who was he, really?

  She should not wish to know.

  CHAPTER 14

  There were fourteen days left when the English came.

  Malcolm rushed in from the seaside door, shouting at both women that the English troops under Colonel Harrison were assembling on the moors. The MacLeod followed close behind, scooping up a clean shirt from the wooden hook mounted near the kitchen door.

  "They'll be gathering the clan, next," Malcolm warned, ‘to check for contraband.”

  “It’s the pipes they’re looking for, Judith,” Sophie said gently, correctly interpreting Judith’s confusion.

  "The pipes are outlawed," the MacLeod said shortly.

  "Aye, and our weapons," Malcolm added. He held out his arm and helped Sophie rise from her chair.

  "And the kilt," Sophie contributed with a smile.

  "Why?" It seemed an innocent enough question, but it began a spate of conversation unlike their usual topics of crops and sheep.

  "They are symbols of our heritage, Judith," the MacLeod said, as he stood at the bronze doors. Along the horizon, the mounted troops appeared, backlit by the sun. From here, their crimson tunics were almost unrecognizable. "Without our heritage, we are less a threat. We will be assimilated into English society without the blink of an eye. Soon, all of our poets and scientists and men of promise will call themselves English and the heritage of Scotland will be no more than a little finger on the hand that is England."

  "Aye," Malcolm said, joining him, "the fist that is England. We're no allowed our pipes, because they stir the blood. We're no allowed our weapons, lass, because we might revolt against tyranny."

  "And the men aren't allowed kilts, child," Sophie interrupted, "because there is not a more thrilling sight than a handsome man without his trousers." Her gentle laughter diffused the gloom which had fallen over the men.

  Malcolm hugged her tightly. "Sophie, if I were only a few years younger, I would show you handsome."

  "But, then think of the scandal we’d cause," Sophie teased, smiling at him.

  The MacLeod went first through the bronze door and into the courtyard. Malcolm helped Sophie slowly down the steps. Judith reluctantly followed.

  There, on the hillock, where the moors swept down to the track leading to Tynan, stretched a long line of mounted English soldiers, their crimson tunics as bright as blood.

  Everyone assembled quickly, not daring to anger the English soldiers by their dawdling. The entire clan was crowded into the courtyard; a hundred people pulled from their daily occupations. Geddes hobbled in on a twisted cane which looked too frail to support him. He was only one of the elders of the clan, the other men followed behind. Hamish, nearly blind from cataracts, was assisted by Alex who glowered at the assorted English with none of his hatred masked. Of the elders, only Geddes seemed prudent, walking heavily to the curved side of the keep and remaining there, resting wearily against the brick. The women from the weaving shed arrived as a group led by Sara, her old wool dress threadbare and worn, but topped with a white, starched apron. The rest of the women of the clan, most clutching children barely old enough to be counted as more than babes followed behind. Grizzelle seemed to draw strength from Meggie, as she leaned heavily against the younger woman. Fiona clutched Douglas to her chest in a frantic effort to soothe the child's wails. Her usual sneer was replaced by the look they all wore on their faces.

  Fear.

  Judith had been a witness to the Duke of Cumberland's triumphant return to London, had thrilled to the sound of "Hail the Conquering Hero Comes," as the Duke had garnered a riotous welcome from London’s usually cynical inhabitants. Column after column of soldiers, in full military regalia, had marched before the overflowing crowds as the country had celebrated an important victory.

  Now, Judith only watched the red coated soldiers with wide eyes, the memory of an English victory submerged beneath anxiety for these vanquished Scots.

  In the center of the courtyard was the MacLeod. He stood, calmly donning his shirt, as if the Colonel of the regiment were not marching closer to him, his stallion's shod hooves imperially striking sparks against the stone cobbles of the courtyard.

  The Colonel did not have to push his way towards the MacLeod, the group parted automatically, pressing back from his presence as if fearing to be soiled.

  Only the MacLeod remained fixed and still, his eyes scanning the horizon now filled with mounted troops. His eyes dropped, and then lifted again, to meet the Colonel's sharp stare.

  "MacLeod."

  "Colonel."

  Neither man smiled in greeting. Judith could feel the tension in the people around her as each man intently eyed the other.

  "Have you anything to report, MacLeod? " the Colonel asked, his eyes sweeping down the tall, muscular frame of the MacLeod.

  Harrison was damned tired of playing nursemaid to this group of misfits, having to ride the interminable length of the lonely moors from Fort George specifically to act as father confessor to a bunch of defeated Scots. Rumors spread like a grass fire from one glen to another, but he didn’t have to like his assignment of ferreting out each tale told by a traitor. Yet, he knew only full well that Alisdair MacLeod had been at Culloden, had marched with his own Highland brigade into England itself. The terms of his surrender must have been particularly onerous to a man whose male relatives had perished at English hands.

  "We have been but good subjects of the Crown, Colonel." Alisdair was not unduly impressed by Colonel Harrison's show of force. His clan would be, though, and he could feel the frisson of fear which swept through them. The Colonel was not like the Butcher's men, who had looted, burned, and raped their way through the Highlands. But the Colonel was a stickler for orders, and his instructions were to continue to monitor and subdue the clans under his command, especially those headed by men under the confines of a conditional pardon.

  Alisdair had long since decided they could have fared worse.

  “Yes, MacLeod, but are you
obedient subjects of the Crown?”

  "We are a small and puny bunch here," Alisdair said calmly, "not apt to make much trouble. I doubt any of our clan have the strength to disobey the Disarming Act, let alone the wherewithal to do so.“

  "And your pipes have been destroyed, and your tartans burned?” The Colonel scanned the group surrounding him. They were poorly dressed, the strain of constant hunger only recently eradicated from their faces. The children looked at him wide-eyed, and their mothers stared at him in fear. What did they think he would do, he thought irately, seize babies to serve the King?

  Judith edged to the rear of the crowd, each tiny movement a study in restraint. Her face was bleached white, her lips clamped together, her stomach boiled with a sickness too deep and vile to call simple nausea. The fist made by her left hand pressed against her mouth so hard that the edges of her teeth tore her inner lip. Her right hand bunched up her skirts, preparatory for flight. Still, she barely moved, trapped by the feral smile from across the courtyard, the gleam in eyes she had not seen for over two years.

  Judith would have greeted Hell with more welcome than the sight of Bennett Henderson among Colonel Harrison’s cadre of officers.

  Only he noticed when she backed up to the ruined tower, following the curve of it until she broke free, circling it in a desperate and futile bid for freedom. Bennett Henderson nearly laughed aloud. Of all the presents this pit of earth could have delivered to him, this was the most delicious. The smile that lanced his face was anticipatory, sharpening its long, lean lines, a perfect counterpart to pale blue eyes, as cold and as hard as shards of ice.

  He edged his horse away from the knot of people surrounding his commanding officer and the intractable leader of this dung filled courtyard and circled around the keep.