And that really hurts, Bethia thought as she fought a sudden urge to weep. She had always thought that her parents’ criticism was simply how they showed their displeasure with her. In truth, they had shown their disdain from the first day they had allowed her to toddle out into the bailey without even the spit boy to watch her. She had spent her whole life struggling to please them, but she had never had a chance—not from the day shortly after her birth when they had looked at her, deemed her imperfect, and set her aside. Sorcha had been the cherished one and poor, thin Bethia with her mismatched eyes had been cast aside. Bethia began to think that her parents’ constant criticism, their continued efforts to denigrate her, had been done because she had kept reasserting herself into their lives, had refused in her own childish way to be forgotten.
Despite her strenuous efforts not to, Bethia found herself wondering what it all said about Sorcha. The answer came with a heartbreaking swiftness. Sorcha had cared for her as little as her parents had. Sorcha—her twin, the sister of the womb, the one person in the whole world who should have loved her without question—had not given Bethia much more thought than she had her maid. The kind words and smiles Bethia had seen as sisterly affection, she now recognized as the well-learned courtesies of a well-trained lady. While she had sat elegantly gowned in her soft bedchamber waiting for the maid to style her hair, Sorcha had looked down on her dirty, ragged sister and felt nothing at all. The only time in her whole pampered life that Sorcha had reached out to Bethia was when she had needed someone to help her son.
“Are ye all right, Bethia?” Maldie asked.
How did you tell someone that, no, you were not all right, that you had just discovered how cleverly you had lied to yourself for your whole life? How did you say that you wanted to rage and scream because you had been such a fool? How did you say that you had just realized that your parents and your beautiful sister had not been ignoring or insulting you your whole life because they were selfish and unkind, but because they just did not want you around? Bethia suspected that, if she said all that, poor Maldie would think she had gone mad.
“I am fine,” Bethia said, not surprised to hear how rough her voice was.
“Are ye sure ye arenae going to be ill?”
“Nay. I just had an unpleasant thought.”
“Is that all? To make yourself look so gray, it must have been verra unpleasant indeed.” Maldie reached across their horses to pat Bethia’s hands, which were clenched, white knuckled, upon her reins. “We could go back and do this another day.”
Bethia took a deep, steadying breath and shook her head. “Nay, I will be fine. I was just thinking of a spring day much like this one and suddenly recalled something that stole all the warmth from my blood. One of those dark memories ye try so hard to bury, but it has the ill manners to creep up on you now and again. ’Tis gone again and I will recover from it.”
“One of those I dinnae really want to ask about?”
“Especially not now when I have banished the wee demon.”
“I pray it wasnae some kind of omen.”
“Nay, I dinnae believe so.”
Maldie was still watching Bethia closely by the time they reached the village. But soon Bethia was able to lose herself in the study of the houses and shops. It was not hard to see that it was a very prosperous little town, even if she had not had the dismal village at Dubhlinn to compare it to. Bethia followed Maldie as she went from shop to shop, stopped to speak to several of the villagers, and even admired a new baby. All the while, six armed men stomped along behind them. Bethia thought they must make a very odd sight.
As Maldie talked to the woman selling ale, Bethia looked for Bowen. Her eyes widened slightly as she saw him scowling down at a selection of ribbons a woman held out for him. She moved to his side.
“If ye are thinking of getting one for your wife, Bowen,” she said quietly, “I think she would like the red ones.”
“Are ye sure? My Moira wears verra plain colors,” he muttered, cautiously reaching out to touch the red ribbon with one callused finger.
“I dinnae think she has much choice. A bright cloth is a great deal more dear than, oh, a brown one, and she spins a lot of your cloth herself. Now, with her black hair and dark eyes, I think the red ribbon would look verra fine. Aye, or some red thread, for then she could put some colorful stitching on her clothes.”
“The lass has the right of it, sir,” said the woman. “I have the thread if ye wish to see it.”
“Ye will have to bring it to me here.” He briefly frowned at Bethia. “I must keep an eye on this lass.”
“Weel, this lass is going to go back to Maldie,” Bethia said as the woman hurried away to get the thread. “Is she still talking to the alewife? I cannae see her o’er the ones standing around the place.”
“Aye, lass, although I would say that she is more arguing with the woman than talking.”
“Maldie likes a good argument.”
Bethia could almost feel Bowen watching her as she nudged her way through the people gathering to listen to Maldie and the alewife argue over the price of a barrel of ale. Bethia gasped as she felt a sudden stinging pain on her arm. She cursed and put her hand over the pain, felt a dampness there, and pulled her hand away to stare in horror at the blood staining her fingers. When she lifted her gaze to search the crowd, she stared straight into the glittering eyes of William Drummond.
Then there was an ear-ringing bellow. A moment later, Bowen was there, his sword drawn. He wrapped his free arm around Bethia’s waist and held her tightly against his side as the men from Donncoill and several people from the crowd chased William. Bethia tried to follow William’s flight through the village, but quickly lost sight of him.
“I dinnae think they will catch him,” she said as Bowen carried her to a bench in front of the alewife’s cottage and set her down. She winced when Maldie tore her sleeve so that she could look at the wound. “’Tis but a scratch.”
“Aye, ’tis,” Maldie said as she bathed it with water the alewife fetched for her. Then she bandaged it with a strip torn from her own shift. “Does the fool mean to kill ye with little pinpricks like this?”
“Nay. I think he wanted me to turn around so that he could stick his dagger in a more deadly place.” When one of the other Donncoill men returned to stand by her and Maldie, Bethia looked at Bowen. “Go and get your gift for Moira.”
“Oh? Look what happened the last time I took my eyes off you,” he grumbled, glaring at her bandaged arm.
“He willnae be back. He makes his attempt, then flees when the cry goes out and he kens that he has been seen.”
“Dinnae move,” Bowen ordered and hurried back to the woman selling the ribbons.
“Does he think I mean to rush off and dance in the streets?” Bethia muttered, casting a quick frown at the guard standing by Maldie, for she was sure she had heard the man laugh. “Weel, I shall surely be locked in the tower now.”
“What do ye mean?” Maldie asked as she sat down next to Bethia and gave her a tankard of ale.
“The last time that madmon nearly killed me, Eric said he had an urge to lock me in a tower and surround it with armed men.”
“That is rather sweet.”
“Sweet?”
“He wants to protect you, that is all. And I truly doubt he would do it.”
“Mayhap not, but I dinnae think I will be let out of Donncoill again until William is dead.” She sighed with resignation when Maldie offered her no reassurances.
“I should lock ye in a high tower and surround it with armed men,” Eric yelled as he lifted Bethia off her horse and set her down in front of him.
Bethia glanced at Maldie and cocked one eyebrow. Maldie clapped a hand over her mouth and hurried across the crowded bailey to the keep. Eric put his arm around Bethia and held her close to his side as Bowen told him what had happened.
“Do ye think it is worth going out to try to hunt him down?” Eric asked Bowen.
“Pro
bably not,” Bowen replied. “But we may as weel. I should hate to nay do so and discover later that he was seen near at hand or that some trail was left that we could have followed.”
Eric nodded and, seeing that Grizel had arrived, gently nudged Bethia toward the maid. “Go and rest, Bethia.” He sighed and shook his head. “I dinnae think I will be gone verra long. I hold little hope of finding anything, but feel I must at least look.”
There was nothing Bethia could say to give him hope. She did not have any within her to share with him. Giving him a brief smile of encouragement and a quick kiss on the cheek, she followed Grizel into the keep, entering just as Nigel and Balfour hurried out to join Eric. With so many men looking for William, it was very hard to understand how he kept escaping. Maybe he was the witch, she thought.
By the next morning, Bethia realized that she had been right. Eric was not going to let her step one foot outside of Donncoill until William was dead. She listened patiently to him explain all she should do and why she was being made a virtual prisoner as she sat in the great hall to eat her morning meal. It was not Eric’s fault, nor was it hers, but she hated it.
The moment he left her, she stood up and started back to her room. It was time to have a good sulk. She winced a little as she walked. Eric’s lovemaking last night had been exhilarating, but a little rough, filled with something very much like desperation. Bethia realized that he was honestly and deeply afraid for her. That seemed to imply that it was a lot more than duty and his promise to protect her and James, which was behind his almost relentless search for William.
She stepped into her room, smiled briefly at Grizel, who was changing the linen on the bed, and went to look out of the window. The men were training hard. She watched Eric and his cousin David fight for a while, the clash of their swords making her wince. Eric was good, quick, and obviously strong, and those traits gave her some comfort. Of course, his cousin was not trying to kill him. Then she saw the pile of weapons being stacked up by the armorer’s shed and tensed.
“They will go soon,” Grizel said as she moved to stand beside Bethia and stare down at the men.
“How soon?” Bethia asked, fear taking the strength from her voice.
“Within a few days, mayhap sooner. They but wait for a few of Lady Maldie’s kinsmen to join them. Peter says the Kirkcaldys are verra eager to fight the Beatons. ’Twas the old laird’s sister who was seduced and abandoned by a Beaton.”
“Aye. Eric’s father and Maldie’s mother. Weel, at least there will be a large, strong army behind Eric when he rides off to let the Beatons try to kill him.”
Grizel smiled faintly. “I am fair sick with worry too, though I think ye have a more clever bite to your words than I do when I spit them out. I spend a great deal of time reminding myself that ’tis a just fight my mon will be joining in.”
“Aye, ’tis just, but ’tis still just land when all is said and done.”
“So speaks one born to own it or marry it. Aye, ’tis just land. ’Tis your laird’s land and ’tis his right to get it back. My Peter fights for ye and for Sir Eric, but he also fights for us, him and me. He marches in this battle because at the end of it is a chance for a better life for him and me and our bairns. A cottage with more than one room. Mayhap a few coins in his purse. A chance for him, and mayhap his son if we are blessed with one, to become more than just another one of the men-at-arms.”
“I didnae think ye had such a hard life at Dunnbea,” Bethia said quietly.
“Nay, it wasnae hard. It was ne’er going to change though. My Peter is near thirty and has ne’er been knighted. When he and Bowen first came to Dunnbea, there was a lot of fighting. They risked their lives again and again to protect Dunnbea and its people.. Aye, they are bastards, but they arenae baseborn men. Their fathers were knights. I dinnae think they expected too much to think that your father would see them knighted.”
“Nay. I was but a child, but e’en I recall how important Peter and Bowen were to the defense of Dunnbea.”
“Weel, they didnae get it. Nay then. Nay once in all the years since. Your father lets Bowen and Peter lead his men, e’en train his men. He thinks them good enough for that, but ’tis clear he doesnae find them good enough to make them knights.”
“But Eric will.”
“Aye, if they serve him weel, he will see them knighted.” Grizel shrugged. “Setting a sir afore their names willnae make them rich, but ’twill make them proud, give them respect e’en from those who dinnae ken them. Oh, I am cold to the heart just thinking of my mon going into battle, but I willnae try to hold him back. He hungers for that knighthood. I willnae deny him the chance for it by shackling him to the hearth with my fears.”
When Grizel left, Bethia sprawled on her stomach on the clean bed and buried her face in the pillow. The battle with Sir Graham Beaton was becoming more complex by the moment. Eric fought to regain his birthright. The Murrays would fight to help him and to rid the neighboring keep of a mon no one trusted. The MacMillans fought for Eric, but also to repay Sir Graham for his lies—lies that had made the laird of Bealachan deny his own nephew. The Kirkcaldys would fight because a Beaton had dishonored one of their kinswomen and because Eric was the half brother to another of their kins-women. The Drummonds would fight for her, for if Sir Eric became laird of Dubhlinn, she would be his lady. Men like Peter and Bowen would fight for honors long denied them—honors that would gain them and their families a better life. Bethia suspected a few others fought for that same reason, just as she suspected some joined the battle out of a pure love of fighting.
Thinking of how Bowen and Peter had been denied honors they had earned long ago brought her thoughts to her father, to her family. Tears stung her eyes as she fully accepted the painful fact that they had never been her family. She had been cast from the nest long ago, but had been too blind, too stupid, to see it. Bethia suspected most everyone else had seen it. It explained the anger Eric often felt toward her parents—the same anger Bowen, Wallace, and Peter had sometimes revealed. That made her feel an even greater fool.
She became so sunk in her misery that it took her a moment to realize that someone sat beside her on the bed and rubbed her back. Even before she turned to look, she knew it was Eric. Bethia hurriedly wiped the tears from her face with the sleeve of her gown, but she knew it was too late to hide the fact that she had been weeping.
“Does your arm pain you?” he asked as he brushed a kiss over each tear-dampened cheek.
“Nay. Truly,” she insisted when he frowned. “’Twas but a scratch.”
“Did I catch ye in the midst of a verra big sulk then?”
“Oh, aye, a verra big one. So big that I am nay sure how long I have been at it.”
“’Tis time for the midday meal.”
“Jesu!” Bethia scrambled off the bed. “Just let me tidy myself a wee bit first.”
Eric watched her wash her face, smooth out the wrinkles in her gown, and fix her hair. He wanted to ask her why she had been weeping, but was afraid of the answer he would get. Earlier he had seen her watching them training for battle and now he found her weeping. Whenever he tried to speak of the battle to come, she responded by saying she simply suffered a woman’s fears for the safety of those she cared about. He believed her, but felt that was not all of it.
He sighed and admitted that he was a coward. If Bethia still felt the battle was only for land, still felt that it was a wrongful waste of life, he did not want to hear it. Especially not on the eve of battle.
“Tomorrow?” Bethia gasped, sitting up in bed and staring at Eric in shock, “Ye ride to Dubhlinn tomorrow?”
“Aye, at dawn.”
That explains a lot, Bethia thought as she continued to stare at him. After they had shared a meal at midday, he had disappeared. Her spirits still depressed, she had spent the rest of the day playing with James and sewing clothes for him. When Eric had brought their meal to his room, she had thought it very nice that he had wanted to spend time alone with
her. Now she suspected he had wanted to keep her from hearing the talk in the great hall or discovering that the Kirkcaldy men had arrived. It certainly explained the speed with which he had gotten her into bed and the fierceness of his lovemaking. He had probably hoped she would be too sated and sleepy to fully react to his news.
“Lass, what are ye thinking?” Eric finally asked, a little uncomfortable beneath her steady look.
“I am thinking ye are a verra sly fellow,” Bethia murmured.
It took all of her strength, but Bethia subdued her urge to yell at him, to demand that he not go. Her blood ran cold at the mere thought of it, but she had to face the fact that this could be the last night she spent with him. She would not ruin it with tears, pleas, or recriminations.
“Bethia, I have to go.” He frowned when she silenced him with a kiss and tentatively wrapped his arms around her.
“I dinnae wish to speak of it,” she said quietly.
“Ye cannae just ignore this, my heart.”
“Aye, I can for tonight. I wish it gone from my mind.”
“I am nay sure how ye can do that.”
“Weel, ye will have to help me. I want ye to love me into a stupor. I want ye to keep my mind so clouded with passion that I cannae think of anything but you. And I want ye to love me until I fall into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.”
Eric smiled, willing to play her game. It was certainly more to his liking than tears or arguments. The memories he would take into battle on the morrow would be sweeter too.
“I want ye to love me into forgetfulness,” Bethia said. “Make me so weary that I had best kiss ye fare thee weel now, for I might nay be able to crawl from this bed to see ye leave. And when I do wake up on the morrow, I want to have been so weel loved that my first thought will be the sweet memory of that passion. Can ye do that for me, Eric?”
“Oh, aye, I believe I can,” he said as he nudged her onto her back and kissed her.
Chapter Twenty
“Where is your wife?”
Highland Promise Page 24
