“Where are we going, Eric?” Bethia asked as she realized he was riding far enough away from their camp to be out of sight of the others.
“I wanted to show ye Dubhlinn,” he murmured, touching a kiss to the top of her head.
“’Tis near here?”
“Just through these trees.”
“’Tis odd that we can draw so close without being challenged.”
“We have been seen. Word has already reached Sir Graham that the king has accepted my claim. He darenae cause me trouble. Not yet, leastwise.”
Bethia glanced back at him. “I dinnae suppose he has already fled the keep.”
“Nay.” Eric kissed the tip of her cold, reddened nose. “He still sits inside. I will give him some time to leave, but nay much. He has bled these lands of all their worth for too long already.”
She said nothing and Eric was a little disappointed. He wanted her to openly support him when he had to go fight. He sympathized with her belief that people should not die for the sake of land or coin. For the most part, it was a belief he shared. There was more to the taking of Dubhlinn than that, however. It was for that reason that, despite the cold, he was showing her the land he now claimed but did not yet hold.
“There sits the keep,” he said as he reined in.
Bethia frowned toward the large, dark keep. It sat in the middle of barren ground—that emptiness enhanced by the cold deadening of the land winter brought. The gates were closed and no one lingered in the open. She pressed even harder against Eric. Dubhlinn did not look welcoming. In truth, it gave her a chill.
“Ye truly want that place?” She was almost relieved to see the hint of movement on the top of the encircling wall, even though it meant that Dubhlinn was well guarded, for it was a small touch of life.
Eric briefly chuckled. “I ken that it doesnae look verra warm and inviting. ’Tis built for defense, after all. And winter steals the softening green of the fields that surround it. For all of my life and many years before that, this keep has been little more than a place for carrion to roost and feed on the surrounding people.”
“Those carrion being the Beaton lairds?”
“Aye. I fear that, for now, the place reflects the darkness of its masters. I stayed there but once, when my father captured me. He still thought I was naught but a bastard, but he needed a son. He had bred no others and he was ill, thought he was dying. He didnae want to leave the keep to some distant kinsmon. So he took me and planned to make me into the mon he thought I should be.”
“And ye didnae take to his training.”
“I spent most of the time in the dungeons until he captured my half sister Maldie and she got us out. The thing I can most remember—the time that still haunts my dreams—is when he made me watch him kill one of the Murray men. I was but thirteen and had lived a somewhat sheltered life. He tortured that mon to death and I was forced to watch each pain inflicted, forced to hear every scream. He felt this would harden me.”
“It made ye hate him, didnae it?” Bethia whispered, horrified by the tale he told and fighting the urge to weep for the boy he had been then.
“It did. After seeing just how cruel he could be I was nay pleased to find out that he really was my father.”
“Ye arenae afraid that ye are like him in any way, or could become so, are ye?”
“Nay, although it did worry me for a wee while.” Eric turned his mount and rode toward the village. “It helped to watch another who carried his seed, to see that none of his poison marred her. Aye, especially since she had lived a far harder life than I had and her mother wasnae fit to raise a child. Even with the bad on both sides, Maldie carried no taint. So how could I?”
“’Tis why ye continue to call yourself a Murray, isnae it? Ye cannae abide to use the mon’s name.”
“Nay, I cannae, and those who went before and after him deserve no honor either. My grandfather was so evil, my father was driven to kill him.” Eric shrugged when Bethia gasped with horror. “I also remain a Murray because I feel like one. I have kenned no other life, no other family.”
“Then a Murray ye shall stay.” Bethia looked at the few villagers who were not huddled inside their homes as Eric and she rode slowly through the village. “Do ye plan to make all of these people claim the name as weel?”
“Nay. They can call themselves what they will. There will be a strange mix of people and names here for a while. Some MacMillans will undoubtedly stay and so will some Drummonds. And if needed, a few Murrays will join us.”
“A new beginning.”
“I hope so.”
Bethia looked down at the village when Eric stopped at the top of a small rise at the end of the rough, narrow road. Although she was not much of a judge, since she had rarely left Dunnbea, she felt there was something very sad and neglected about the place. Even though it was late in the day and cold, there should have been some sign of activity. The only movement there was was the scurrying of a few people into their houses. The passage of a man and a woman sharing a horse was enough to send the villagers into hiding.
Despite the increasing shadows, Bethia looked a little closer. There were no horses at the stables, no sound of animals at all. Only a few of the houses emitted smoke, revealing that a hearth fire was lit. Several cottages had only part of the roof left. The village was dying. Bethia began to think that Sir Graham had bled it dry.
“I begin to think that ye will be taking on more trouble than gain if ye get this place,” she murmured as Eric turned their mount back toward the camp.
“I ken it. ’Twill be a while ere I see any gain.”
It was hard not to think about all she had seen as they returned to camp. It was sad to see what could have been a prosperous place brought to near ruin. There was little life left at Dubhlinn—as if it had all been choked out of the place.
As they dismounted in the camp, Bethia hurried over to sit with Grizel and James before a very large fire. She ate the meager, but filling meal of porridge, telling herself that tomorrow she would feast. The men stood guard, their tense stances telling Bethia that they were not alone, not unwatched.
“Ye dinnae think the Beatons will try to attack, do ye?” Grizel asked, frowning toward the wood her husband had just disappeared into.
“Eric doesnae think so,” replied Bethia.
“Ah, so Sir Graham is just going to hand over the land?”
“Nay, I dinnae think that will happen. He just willnae attack Eric here and now. He should ken that he has lost by now, but he obviously needs time to decide how and if he will fight.”
Grizel sighed. “Weel, I am nay surprised. No mon likes to give up land and wealth. Sir Graham may have no right to this place, but he does hold it, and I think it will have to be wrested from his hands.”
“It will be,” Eric agreed as he paused by their campfire to kiss James good night.
“Are ye standing guard?” Bethia asked Eric, returning his quick kiss.
“Aye, for a while, and then I will find the biggest of the fires and curl up in front of it.”
Bethia just smiled, then watched him walk away. She helped Grizel get James cleaned up after his meal, then joined her maid and nephew in the wagon. Someone had drawn it very close to the fire, and once the covers were tied off, it was almost warm inside.
“I could almost feel guilty for being here whilst the men are out there,” Grizel said as she settled into her bed of blankets next to James.
“Almost,” Bethia agreed and exchanged a grin with Grizel as she too crawled into her pile of blankets. She lay on her back and stared up at the wooden frame that held up the little wagon’s tentlike cover. “I will still be eager to crawl into a proper bed on the morrow. Mayhap I willnae e’en wait until the sun sets.”
“I think I shall find whate’er bed they give me and Peter and crawl right in, dirt and all. Ha! I shallnae e’en wait for Peter. Nay, the only thing I shall do first is light a verra big fire.”
“Actually, I think I shall
drag my bed right up close to the fire.” They both laughed softly and then Bethia sighed. “Although ye and James are warm enough, I will also be glad to have Eric back beside me.”
“Aye, I ken what ye mean. Noisy, hairy things though men be, they can be verra fine to curl up with.” Grizel exchanged a grin with Bethia over James’s head. “Are ye worried about meeting your mon’s family?”
“A wee bit. I come with some trouble”—Bethia lightly touched the sleeping James’s curls—“and already burden their kinsmon with a child.”
“A burden he seems more than happy to bear. The way Sir Eric acts with the lad and the other children tells me that Donncoill is a place that will accept another bairn with open arms. A mon isnae so good to a lad nay his own unless he has been raised to appreciate the gift that the wee ones are.”
“I believe ye have the right of it. Ah, weel, we will be there on the morrow. ’Tis good to feel sure that the wee laddie will be welcomed. I just pray the people of Donncoill are willing and able to accept a wee lass as weel.”
Looking around as she rode into Donncoill seated in front of Eric on his horse, Bethia immediately saw the differences between it and Dubhlinn. Here was life and warmth. Men hurrried forward to take the horses and see to the men who had ridden with Eric. There was noise. There were the smells that came with horses, fires for heat and cooking, and a lot of people. Some of those smells were not always the best, but this time Bethia welcomed them as readily as they welcomed her.
Just as Eric helped her down, Grizel hurried over and handed her James. The maid just as quickly disappeared back into the crowd, undoubtedly searching out her husband and making sure that they got a warm place to sleep. Wallace and Sir David joined them and followed closely as Eric led her to the huge iron-studded doors of the keep. She was a little startled when they were thrown open even as Eric reached the steps leading up to them.
Holding tightly to Eric’s hand, Bethia found herself and the others hastily ushered into the warmth of the keep, introduced to several people: a large brown man named Balfour; his tiny, beautiful wife Maldie; a man named Nigel, who was nearly as handsome as Eric; and his beautiful, pregnant wife Gisele. Bethia was just getting that clear in her mind when maids and pages hurried them all up to the bedchambers to get clean, changed, and warm. Bethia was bathed, dressed, and left sitting before a large fire with a goblet of heady mulled wine in her hand almost before she knew what had happened.
Eric laughed as he sat down next to her, helped himself to some of the wine, and kissed her frowning mouth. “Ye look a wee bit stunned, lass.”
“I dinnae think I have e’er arrived, said a greeting, and been ushered to a bedchamber with such speed.” She grimaced and shook her head. “Of course I havenae. I have ne’er been anywhere until I met you.”
“Weel, it was done swiftly. E’en I was impressed. I sent a lad ahead to tell them we were coming and that we were verra cold after three days and nights of no shelter. I think it was the thought of how cold we must all be that did it. Gisele especially hates the cold.”
“Ah, Gisele. The pregnant one. Nigel’s wife,” she muttered, then asked, “Is she related in some way to Maldie, the laird’s wife?”
“Nay. That similarity in looks did cause a wee bit of trouble in the past, for Nigel once believed himself in love with Maldie, left for seven years, and came back with Gisele.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Aye. Oh, dear.”
“’Tis a verra fine keep.” Bethia curled her toes into the soft sheepskin rug before the fireplace, then hastily redonned her slippers.
“This is what I want Dubhlinn to become.”
Bethia looked around at the tapestries warming the walls, the huge fireplace warming them, and the rugs warming the floor. Then she eyed Eric a little warily. “I ken that ye arenae without some coin, but do ye have this much?”
“Nay, but only because I believe a lot of what I have will be spent on such things as roofs for the cottages, plows, seed, and other such necessities. This will come.”
“Of course. I wish my father had nay been such a tightfisted mon. Ye should have been given some dowry for taking me and it could have helped.”
“Ye will help. That is all I need.”
“Have ye told your kinsmen the whole truth about us?”
Eric nodded, stood up, and grasping her hand, tugged her to her feet. “There is no need to play the game we did at court.”
“That wee tale made us look a wee bit more weel behaved than we were. It wasnae such a bad story.”
“Ye need not fear that ye will be faulted for how we got married. Believe me when I say that the way we met and wed was probably the most common and boring way a Murray has met his wife in quite a while.”
Bethia was not sure she believed that, but she did not argue. She clung tightly to Eric’s hand as he led her down to the great hall, where a welcome feast had been laid out, if the smells coming from that direction were any indication. Her stomach started to growl and she started to blush, only to giggle when Eric’s did the same.
Once in the great hall, food became more important than conversation for a while. Bethia was surprised at how much was said despite the noise of so many hungry people eating. It was not until the sweet and mulled wine was brought round that the true conversation began, however. She sat enjoying a stewed, honey-sweetened apple and sipping her wine as Eric told his family all that had happened since he had left them.
A lot was said quickly, for he had kept them well informed, but then came the subject of William and the problem of Beaton and Dubhlinn. The hunt for William would go on. Bethia wished she could believe that he would be found soon. There had been too many failures, however—failures by good, quick-witted, skilled men—for her to be too confident. To think of William also meant that she had to face the fact that she badly wanted a man dead. Although few men deserved it as much as William did, that did disturb her.
When the men began to talk of ousting Sir Graham from Dubhlinn and the battle that would surely have to be fought, Bethia lost what remained of her appetite. Yet again, she listened as good men, men she would never consider bloodthirsty or greedy, talked of fighting to regain a piece of land. Here too was that hint of anticipation, that near excitement over the possibility of fighting a battle that had right on its side.
“I should try nay to listen, if I were you,” Maldie said, moving closer to Bethia after Gisele quietly left to go to her bed. “That is what I do.”
“It might be wise. These are things I cannae understand, m’lady.”
“Please, call me Maldie. We are sisters now, ye ken.”
“Thank ye, Maldie. Do ye understand all of this?”
Maldie shrugged her slender shoulders. “’Tis a just cause. Dubhlinn should be freed of the yoke of too many bad Beaton lairds. Why the men almost seem to enjoy the thought that Sir Graham will make them fight for it? Nay, that does puzzle me, but ’tis the way of men. They probably wonder how I can get so excited o’er a finely turned-out dinner or a new potion I have found. I think men and women are doomed to confuse each other from time to time.”
“I dinnae want them to fight. I dinnae want people to die o’er a piece of land.”
“Neither do I, Bethia, but ’tis the way of things.”
Deciding that even this pleasant woman could not seem to understand how she felt, Bethia turned the subject. “Eric told me ye are a healer.”
“I do what I can. I dinnae wish to sound vain, but I believe I have some skill and knowledge.”
“’Tis nay vain to recognize what one can do. ’Tis just that I have begun to learn what I can. Old Helda, the healer at Dunnbea, taught me some things, but I should like to learn more. I begin to think that Dubhlinn shall have to be rebuilt in many ways, not only in mortar and stone or new plows, but in skills.”
“I shall be glad to teach ye all I can before ye go to your new home.”
It was late before Eric took her back to their bedchamber. Despi
te all the talking Bethia had done with Maldie, it had been impossible to completely ignore the talk of war. As she watched him shed his clothes, she found herself wondering how many places there were on his fine body that could be pierced and how many would become fatal wounds. She softly cursed and crawled into bed. When Eric slipped beneath the covers and pulled her into his arms, she remained tense against him for a moment, before the warmth of him and her body’s response to his touch could make her relax.
“It looked as if ye and Maldie found a lot to talk about,” Eric said, smoothing his hands over her back and wondering why she seemed upset, almost distant.
“She is going to teach me about healing. I thought it might be a useful skill when we reach Dubhlinn.”
“Ah, Dubhlinn. Bethia, I dinnae want to fight,” he began.
“Nay”—she kissed him to stop his words—“dinnae say anything. There has been enough talk of Dubhlinn and Sir Graham and righteous fights tonight. We havenae shared a bed for three long, verra cold nights. I can think of better things to discuss, cannae you?”
“Aye, but soon we really must talk about this.”
Bethia placed her hands on the side of his head and pulled his face down for a kiss. She put all of her need for him, all of her increasing fear into the kiss, and soon they were both breathing heavily. Passion made her feel better, made her happy, and with her head filled with men talking of war, she wanted the forgetfulness it also brought her. That blissful oblivion was very short-lived, but she craved it.
Eric soon found himself dragged along beneath Bethia’s passionate assault. He sensed that she was using him and the passion they shared in some way, but he was too afire to care. He wrestled with her over each caress, each kiss, over the matter of who would dominate whom in the lovemaking. It was a battle he loved to fight with her, for he was usually too lost in pleasure to care if he was the victor. As he joined their bodies and felt the sense of rightness only she could give him, he decided that, so long as it brought him to this sweet point, he was always the winner.
Highland Promise Page 20
