by Aileen Adams
This was not what she’d expected and nothing she’d ever done before. Holding a warm, wriggling child, one whose head rested against her shoulder as she yawned yet again.
What was she to do? She cast her mind back to what she’d witnessed Caitlin and Alana do with their children. What had they done? She rocked backward and forward, allowing her arms to close around the small body in her lap.
“Did your Ma sing to ye when ye were a little lass?” Fiona whispered, her voice already thick with approaching sleep.
Did she? Margaret’s throat tightened at the question. The child could not know, nor would she understand if the truth was explained. Some secrets were not meant to share.
“I cannot remember,” she answered, as honest as she could be.
If her mother had ever sung to her, it would have been when she was nothing more than a baby. No older than Tavis, Alana’s son. Her earliest memories were all of the abbey. As though nothing else had ever existed.
Just the same, she found herself humming. A song she’d learned in France during one of her assignments, when she’d spent Christmas there and had heard villagers singing one cold, clear evening. One of the only pure, good memories she had of any assignment, anywhere.
She knew not the words, but it mattered little to the child in her arms who grew heavier with each passing moment, sleep overtaking her. Soon, she was the only person awake in the entry hall and likely in the entire house.
Fiona’s head was a welcome weight, the realization startled Margaret, but was no less true. It was a rare moment of sweetness. Purity. The child trusted her enough to fall asleep in her arms.
Knowing it brought tears to her eyes.
The clearing of a throat startled her, causing her head to snap around, eyes searching the darkness for who would dare disturb her.
There would never be a day when she did not suspect that which waited for her in the dark.
9
Padraig had not wished to disturb her, not when the sight of her rocking his beloved niece to sleep warmed his heart so. The last thing he’d expected was to find the pair of them together.
Margaret searched the darkness for him, until he straightened away from the wall opposite the stairs and took a few steps toward them.
“Forgive me,” he whispered. “I didna wish to disturb ye.”
She stiffened, her rocking ceased. “I was not aware anyone was awake other than the two of us.”
“I was working,” he admitted, gesturing to the still-open door to his study.
“Still? At this hour? Do you ever sleep?”
“Do ye?”
She sighed. “There are times when I have trouble doing so.”
“Aye, the same is true for myself,” he admitted, drawing nearer.
Fiona was fast asleep, unaware of anything going on around her.
He smiled fondly at the sight of her limp body, at the sound of her soft breathing. “Och, but to be a bairn again. Nothing to disturb the sleep.”
Margaret smiled down at the little girl. “I found her running about in the dark. I suppose she was not able to sleep as well as she ought to have been.”
“Did she tell ye why? Perhaps the bairn woke her?”
Margaret shook her head. “She does not sleep well because… this is not her home.” She winced. “I ought not to have told you. She did not mean to say she was unhappy, I’m certain.”
He waved this off. “She’s a wee one, she merely wishes to be in her home, in her own bed. I canna take offense at that. I would have felt the same.” When Margaret did not agree, he prompted. “Would ye not?”
Her mouth opened, then closed. “I suppose,” she eventually replied.
She returned her gaze to Fiona, brushing a curl back from her forehead with infinitely gentle fingers. He found himself staring and knew he ought to stop, but watching her behave so tenderly toward someone he loved was entrancing.
“Perhaps she ought to drink a tincture prior to going to sleep,” Margaret whispered. “Lavender or chamomile tea, perhaps, once the flowers have been dried properly. They are quite mild, but ought to be enough to keep her from running about the house in the dark. She might have fallen down the stairs.”
“Ye know about such things, then?” he asked. “Herbs, flowers. As a healer would.”
Again, she stiffened. “I do, but not as well as a healer. I would not wish to have another’s life depend upon my skill.”
He thought she took pains to avoid his gaze, but perhaps he merely imagined it. She did not enjoy praise, for certain.
Fiona stirred then, eyes opening halfway. “Uncle Pad?” she murmured in a voice thick with sleep.
He managed to refrain from wincing. “Aye, wee lassie? Would ye like me to take ye back to your bed?”
She nodded, holding her arms out to him. He lifted her with ease, smiling at the way she settled in against his chest. There was something deeply satisfying in knowing a child trusted him so deeply.
Margaret followed him up the stairs and opened the door. He tiptoed through the room, the sounds of snoring greeting his ears as he tucked Fiona into the little bed near the fireplace. Gavina slept in the big bed with her parents. He made a quick escape before any of them stirred to wakefulness.
Once the door was closed, he leaned against the wall beside it and was aware of Margaret’s soft laughter.
“I must admit, I held my breath while you were in there,” she whispered.
“As did I,” he chuckled. “If I’d woken the bairn, there would be no hearing the end of it.”
Without Fiona between them, there was nothing but silence. What did a pair of strangers discuss in the wee hours of the morning?
“Perhaps ye ought to be getting to bed, yourself,” he murmured. “I expect to work ye hard in the morning.”
Her full lips curved into a knowing smile. “I’d expected nothing less.”
“Thank ye for caring for her,” he added. “She means a great deal to me—to her parents, of course, but to me as well.”
“It says quite a lot about you that she does.”
“She’s family. That means everything.”
Margaret nodded. “I understand that—though I have no family of my own. Perhaps that’s made the idea of family that much more important to me, as I’ve never known it.”
“Ye have no one? Truly?”
They walked side-by-side down the corridor, back to the stairs and down. There was no discussing where they intended to go or why. They simply fell into conversation, as she was easy to speak to. There were not many people with whom he felt comfortable speaking freely.
He wished she felt the same and knew he wished it, which unsettled him somewhat as they stepped into his study. He wanted her to feel comfortable with him. The way she’d held Fiona… it said a great deal about her, the fact that she would be so good to a child she hardly knew.
What else was there to know about her? A great deal, he would wager. He told himself it was all a matter of knowing he could trust her, of knowing she felt she could trust him. They were bound to spend a great deal more time together and ought to be able to speak without a great deal of reservation.
This is what he told himself. It was preferable to searing his feelings for the truth of his desire to know the lass.
“I have no one,” she confirmed. “My mother died years ago. My father died before then. I have no memory of him.”
“Ye grew up in a fine house, though? Ye told me so.”
“Yes. But my father was never there. He… may have been a member of the family,” she confided, taking a seat. “I never knew, and she would never tell me.”
“It’s sorry I am to hear it,” he murmured. While life had not always been easy or simple for him, he’d at least known who his father was. Who he was in the clan. He had family, blood kin, who were always there when he needed them.
To have no one was a prospect he could not fathom.
“Ye have a clan now,” he reminded her. “If ye wish i
t so. Brice, Fergus, Quinn—their wives—they are not of Anderson blood, but they are just as much part of the clan as Rodric or myself.”
She frowned. He was uncertain why this surprised him—nothing he’d seen or heard from her to that point gave him the impression that she would be grateful or pleased with his offer.
“Dinna trouble yourself if the notion displeases ye,” he added when her silence all but deafened him.
“Do not mistake me, please,” she murmured, shaking her head. Hands in her lap, fingers twisting together. “The idea of being part of something as grand as this? I’ve seen the way everyone in the house gets along, how they depend upon one another and help one another when need be. Nothing would bring me more happiness than to be part of something so…” She shrugged, sighing, unable to finish voicing her thought.
“But?” he prompted.
“But I simply would not know where to begin,” she finished. “Where I lived, we were not taught to become friends or to share ourselves with others. Just the opposite.” She spoke haltingly, as though uncertain how much she ought to say.
“I have seen houses such as the one you describe,” Padraig mused. “I admit, we are a bit loose here when it comes to the rules of who speaks to whom, when they speak, what they are permitted to speak of. Perhaps I ought to do things differently? Is that what ye mean to tell me?”
“No!” She recoiled.
“I realize we aren’t one of the fine houses in England. I am not a duke or an earl, I have no claim on the throne.”
With hands on hips, she tossed her head. “I only now finished telling you how happy it would make me to be part of something such as this house, this clan, and you accuse me of disparaging you?”
They remained that way, locked in near-battle, glaring at each other. He realized she made sense, that she had not intended to insult him.
Pride held his tongue. He would not, could not, admit to speaking before thinking.
“Perhaps I ought to return to my bedchamber,” she hissed through clenched teeth.
“Perhaps ye should.” Yes, before he apologized. Before she led him to make an even bigger fool of himself.
She turned on her heel, clenched fists swinging at her sides as she marched from the room. “Perhaps you ought to learn how to speak sensibly to a woman if you intend to find a wife,” she muttered before disappearing in the shadows of the corridor.
His mouth fell open, a dozen arguments—harsh, withering words—forming in his mind. How dare she turn a private conversation into a weapon used against him? He employed her! Did she not understand how in the blink of an eye he could change her circumstances?
She likely did. And like as not knew how shameful it would have been to throw her out simply because she’d wounded his pride. He would never bring himself so low as to do such a thing.
Fortunate for her.
He turned to the window, noting the passage of the moon since the last time he’d turned his attention to it. Perhaps he ought to get to sleep, seeing as how he was in no mood to think about the lands or the tenants or the clan. Not just then.
Damn her.
For what, he could not say. But it was easier than damning himself.
10
“Margaret, perhaps ye could help.”
Margaret paused in the act of returning Padraig’s tray to the kitchen. They’d spoken not a word to each other aside from the discussion of the day’s duties. He would ride out to the northern edge of Anderson territory that day with Fergus in order to settle a border dispute between two of his farmers.
She would not be sorry if he was unable to return until past time to retire. If she did not see him for another full day or more, so much the better.
It was her fault, truly, for she ought never have spoken as freely as she had. She knew better, did she not? Never reveal yourself to anyone. Your true self is nothing, you have no opinions, no past, no future, no loyalties to any but your sisters. Lessons which she’d absorbed, taken to heart, lessons which she had made part of herself.
Yet she’d forgotten all of it, simply because the man had been kind to the child in her arms. As though that undid all she’d learned.
Perhaps it was time for her to remember her training and apply it to her dealings with the Andersons. Leaving herself vulnerable was mere folly, and she ought to know better.
Sorcha and Moira stood together outside the great hall, both of them frowning. “What can I do?” she asked as she approached.
“Wee Tavis has a fever,” Sorcha explained. “Alana cannot go to the woods to gather the herbs the healer needs to rebuild her stock of tinctures. I understand ye know a bit about such matters—that was what Padraig told me.”
Margaret felt herself blushing and wished it were not so. There was nothing untoward about the two of them speaking of her; in fact, she expected it. Perhaps it was knowing he’d remembered this about her which struck something deep inside.
Why did her heart insist upon betraying her? Had she not only moments earlier decided against the closeness they’d somehow built? It was a mistake, all of it, yet she insisted upon walking into danger with her eyes open wide. What was to become of her if she could not trust her judgment?
“I do know a bit about herbs and potions,” she admitted, warning herself against revealing too much. If only they knew just how well-versed she was in such matters…
“Might I go to the woods with you?” Moira asked. “I’ve longed to speak with you ever since you arrived, but it seems Padraig keeps you busy at all times.”
Margaret’s instincts warned her against this. Moira was perhaps the biggest threat to her safety, as clever and skilled as she’d appeared in the village. While she sounded warm and sincere at the moment, Margaret knew all too well how little this meant. Had she not learned at an early age how to convince others of her sincerity?
Yet there was no hope of refusing and still appearing innocent. There could be no avoiding her. “Naturally, you ought to come along. I would not wish to lose my way, as I’ve yet to do much exploring out in the woods.”
There was no chance of her losing her way, no matter where she was. Memories of the Mothers leaving her in the woods, far from the abbey, with no food or water came to mind as she took the basket which Sorcha offered and followed Moira outside.
She’d learned early in her life to follow her own tracks in order to find her way back to wherever it was she came from. Tracking animals had been the next skill, necessary if she wished to stay alive. Then, hunting the animals, learning to clean and skin and roast them.
It was difficult at times to separate the memories of those days from what took place in the present, as it was when she followed Moira into the woods.
She took in the sight of her companion. Roughly the same height as herself, with a lean, healthy body. She carried herself with confidence, her head held high. She knew her place in the world and challenged anyone to tell her otherwise.
In another life, the two of them might have been fast friends.
If Margaret was the sort to make friends.
Moira crouched not long after they stepped through the tree line, touching the tracks Margaret could see were made by a stag. “Fresh,” she murmured. “It’s been far too long since I’ve enjoyed venison. They’ve been scarce all year.”
“You are skilled at tracking?” Margaret asked, eyes searching the area for the herbs they needed. The healer had written a list for them, one which Moira held in her clenched hand.
“Aye, indeed. I provided for myself and my younger brothers for years prior to marrying Fergus. The twins work with the horses now, and I believe they ought to begin training with the men over winter.”
Margaret recalled the sight of two curly-headed boys who did indeed bear a resemblance to Moira. They’d taken the horses to the stables when she arrived from the village, in fact. “Padraig took them in after you married, then?”
“He did. I could not have lived without them, I confess.”
&n
bsp; “He seems like a generous laird, indeed.”
“Has he been good to you?” Moira asked, glancing over her shoulder.
Good to her? He’d insulted her and behaved such as she’d expect from a child Fiona’s age. He had wounded her to the core, which insulted her even further. For no man had gotten the better of her, not ever. Not until now.
Rather than giving voice to this and so much more, she shrugged. “No better than he ought to be, but better than others might have been, I suppose.”
Moira chuckled. “Aye, many men are not half so good as him, and some are downright wicked. I know that very well.”
“Oh?”
“I have seen my share of them. I lived with one for a long time. My father.” Her nose wrinkled when she spoke of him, and her voice deepened.
This told Margaret everything she needed to know about the man who’d sired Moira.
Fiona glanced up from some plants. “It seemed in the village as though you were well-skilled when it came to fighting men.”
“Along with your help,” Margaret reminded her. Hair prickled on the back of her neck, standing up as her sharp instincts warned against this line of conversation. “I suppose all women ought to know how to handle men.”
“Perhaps you ought to instruct them,” Moira suggested. She crouched near the base of a tree. “Is this not the hawthorn berry which was on the healer’s list?”
“Yes, it is,” Margaret murmured. Useful in slowing the circulation of blood through the body. When combined with various other herbs, it could stop the heart entirely.
She turned to pluck a handful of dandelion from a sunny patch, careful to pull the roots from the soft, fragrant soil. As she worked, she listened carefully for anything from her companion. What did Moira have in mind?
“How is it you came to know so much about how to take care of yourself?”
Margaret stiffened but forced her fingers to continue their task while her mind whirled with the possibilities this presented. “As you did, I wager,” she murmured. “I had no choice but to learn.”
