Keeper of my Heart

by Laura Landon

  Ewan MacBride lifted his shoulders, making him appear even larger. The bitter tone of his voice echoed in the stillness. “You canna blame me for your mother’s death. I did na kill her.”

  “Not with your sword, but only because you were too great a coward.”

  Almost before she could react, her father raised his hand to slap her. Borne of the same instinct that had protected her her whole life, she lifted the dagger in her fist and swiped it across his chest, tearing his shirt from one side to the other. The gaping cloth soon turned dark with blood.

  With lightning speed, her father grabbed her arm and twisted it in front of her. She knew the blade had sliced through her skin, but until she saw the dark red stain angling the length of her forearm, she wasn’t sure he’d actually harmed her. She felt no pain, only a slow burning of her flesh.

  Kenneth stepped forward, separating her from her father while the MacAlister grabbed her from behind, pulling her against him. “Enough, MacBride!”

  Struggling in a futile attempt to free herself, she was able to twist just enough to turn her face so she could look at the MacAlister. “Now you know why my father has sent for you. Because he does na have the courage to kill me himself. For the sake of peace and in payment for saving your life, make my death quick and be done with it.”

  The look on the MacAlister’s face revealed nothing.

  “Do it!” she demanded, unable to keep her voice from shaking. Blood dripped from her fingertips to the ground in a steady stream and her knees wanted to tremble beneath her. She didn’t have the strength to battle the Scot and look death bravely in the face much longer. “Grant me a quick death.”

  “You think I came here to kill you?”

  “I think my father wants me dead more than anything, but does na have the courage to kill me himself. Did he promise there would be peace between the MacBrides and the MacAlisters if you would do what he canna?”

  The MacAlister shifted his harsh glare to her father, and for the first time ever, she saw her father flinch uncomfortably under another man’s scrutiny.

  The MacAlister turned his gaze back to her. “He swore there would be peace. You do na think I should trust him to keep his word?” he asked, leveling her with the same encompassing look he’d worn even when he could not see.

  She looked back at her father. “Swear to me before all the MacBrides with you, father. Swear there will be peace.”

  “Damn you,” her father whispered under his breath. He glared at her with open hatred.

  “Swear there will be peace,” she repeated.

  Ewan MacBride turned to the army of men behind him and pronounced loudly. “The MacAlister laird has come at my bidding. Upon fulfillment of the terms of our agreement, I do swear here and now that there will be peace between the MacBrides and the MacAlisters.”

  With poised determination, her father spun around to face her. “Are you satisfied?”

  Màiri searched for any hint of falsehood in his words but could find none. He had spoken the truth. Her death was worth a high price indeed. Peace between the MacBrides and the hated MacAlisters.

  “There will be peace,” she said.

  The MacAlister gave a curt nod then turned to her father. “Bring forth the priest,” the MacAlister ordered.

  “By all that is holy,” she said, “just be done with it.” She could not believe either one of them cared if she went to her grave unshriven.

  “We will as soon as the priest arrives.”

  The thick wooden gate to the abbey opened and a portly man with a balding head and thread-bare robe shuffled through the dirt, holding his tattered bible in his hands. She watched him come toward her, the soft smile on his face the antithesis to the fear tearing at her insides.

  “What is your name, lass?” the priest asked, taking her hand in his.

  “Màiri MacBride.”

  “Are you ready?”

  “Aye,” she answered, trying to keep her voice steady.

  “And you?” the priest asked, turning toward the MacAlister.

  “Iain MacAlister, laird of clan MacAlister.”

  “Are you ready?”

  “Aye,” she heard his deep voice answer.

  The first niggling of confusion stirred within her. Why would the priest care if the MacAlister was ready?

  “Stand before me then in the sight of God.”

  Her fear erupted into full-blown panic. “What was the term of your agreement with my father?” she demanded of the Scot.

  “To wed his daughter.”

  “Nay!” She staggered back, clutching her throat with her left hand. Her right hung useless at her side, the blood still oozing between her fingers. She could not let him do this to her. Marriage was a sentence worse than death. She’d seen her mother’s suffering her whole life. She would rather he kill her now.

  She looked at her father. Why would he want her to marry the MacAlister? Her gift revealed his black heart, exposing his evil intent. A sinister grin covered his face, the malicious glare in his eyes as vile as a glimpse of Hades. Of course. He intended her to marry the MacAlister laird to curse him. There would be no need for war between the two clans. Her father planned to wed her to the MacAlister so he could pass the curse to his unsuspecting enemy the same as he thought her mother’s gift had been passed to him.

  “Nay,” she repeated. “I will na marry. I will na.”

  “You will, daughter, or I will have na choice but to take you back with me.” His smile became more malicious, his loathing for her more obvious. “And I swear, the happy, contented life of your youth will be nothing but a fond memory. You will never enjoy such comforts again. I swear it.”

  Màiri thought of the hell she and her mother had endured all of her life. The long winters with not enough heat to keep warm, the endless days with little or no food to eat, the lonely nights where tears were her only comfort. By the saints, she would rather he kill her now than take her back with him.

  She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t let him take her back.

  He must have seen the defeat in her look for he threw his head back and laughed. “I knew you would see the wisdom of adhering to my decision. And as a reminder of your dear sainted mother, I brought with me the ring I placed on her finger the day I took her as my wife.” Ewan MacBride handed the ring to the MacAlister then grinned a sardonic smile. “May it bring you as much joy as it brought her.”

  Màiri thought she would be ill. Her stomach rolled. She could not wear her mother’s ring.

  “Nay!” she said, turning toward the MacAlister. “That ring will not go on my finger.”

  She spun around to face the priest. “I will na wear that ring. It is defiled and he knows it.”

  Her father crossed his arms over his chest and smiled. “But you must have a ring.”

  The priest stared at her, his look showing he did not understand why she would not want to wear her mother’s wedding ring. Her world spun around her in a dark haze. Putting her mother’s ring on her finger would make a mockery of the vows she spoke. She couldn’t do it.

  “Milord, please,” she said to the Scot. “I canna wear the ring.” She shook her head and swallowed past the lump in her throat. “I canna.”

  He placed his hands on her shoulders and held her. “Hush, lass. I will na make you wear your mother’s ring. See?” He took his dagger and cut a leather strip hanging from the belt at his waist. “This will be your ring. I will tie it around your finger when we wed.”

  Màiri looked at the narrow strip of leather and nodded.

  “When we get home, I will have a metal band fashioned instead of the leather,” he said.

  She nodded then whispered her final appeal. “It is na too late to change your mind, milord. Let me take refuge with the sisters so you are free to seek a wife in other quarters.”

  “Nay, lass. Our union will bring peace.”

  “My father does na care about peace, he only hopes to destroy you.”

  “How can our marr
iage bring about destruction? Your father has promised peace. He has sworn it.”

  Màiri turned her gaze toward Kenneth. How could she tell the MacBride what only she and her father and Kenneth knew? How could she reveal her gift, knowing the MacAlister would reject her? She was not strong enough to endure a lifetime of her father’s hatred and abuse. She had no choice but to marry the MacAlister and pray he never found out about her gift.

  “Come, milady,” the Scot said, leading her to stand before the priest. “What we do is for a greater good. You will na regret our marriage. I promise.”

  Màiri looked into his handsome face. “I wish I could promise you the same, milord.”

  Chapter 6

  The dust settled slowly as the last of the MacBrides topped the hill and faded from sight. Iain struggled to keep his temper in check as he thought about everything that had happened today.

  She’d lied to him from the start. Didn’t she know peace would have been lost to him forever once she stepped inside the abbey? Didn’t she care?

  He spun around to face her, his anger boiling near the surface. “Was the thought of marrying me so repulsive you had to lie about who you were?”

  She lifted her chin as if preparing for a battle. Her bravery would never cease to amaze him.

  “I did na know you had come to marry me.”

  “Did you really believe I had come to kill you?”

  Her gaze wavered, her cheeks turning even paler than before.

  He stepped closer to her. “Even after you knew me, you thought I could kill you?”

  He waited for her to answer but she said nothing. “God’s teeth, woman. Was a life with me so reprehensible you would rather spend the rest of your days locked away in a convent?” He waited again. She turned her face away from him. “Answer me!”

  Her shoulders dropped. “I do na want to be a wife. Yours or anyone’s. I would have done anything to avoid this marriage.”

  His anger increased with every charge he made. “By the saints, woman. You let me believe my betrothed was dead. I would have gone home believing peace was lost to me forever.”

  Her head snapped up, her temper sparking in her eyes. “You think my father gave me to you because he wants peace? You think our marriage guarantees a tranquil existence between our people?”

  He answered her with an indignant glare. He had to believe their union would bring about peace. Too many good men and women…and children…on both sides had died for no reason.

  “You are a fool, milord. My father does na desire peace. He gave me to you because—”

  The startled look on her face revealed she’d almost said something she did not want him to know. He waited for her to continue. “Because why?”

  She wiped her hand across her cheek and staggered backwards. “It is na important.”

  “It is to me.” He grabbed her by the arms and pulled her toward him.

  The muffled cry that came from deep within her startled him. With a sharp gasp, she clutched her right arm to her middle and pulled away from him.

  “What is wrong?” he asked, watching her face turn from pale to ghostly white.

  “Nothing. I have listened to enough of your accusations. I would like time now to myself,” she whispered, turning from him and walking toward a copse of trees near the stream.

  Iain noticed her unsteady gait and the arm that hung limply at her side, then looked at Kenneth for understanding. The concern on Kenneth’s face puzzled him until he felt the wetness on his own hand. The one that had just touched her.

  “Holy Mother of God,” he whispered, wiping the sticky moisture from his fingers. “Kenneth, your mistress has been injured. Bring our mounts to the stream and take care of them. We will spend the night here.”

  Kenneth gathered the reins of the three horses. It angered Iain that Kenneth thought he had been a threat to her. By the saints, she’d saved his life. How could Kenneth think Iain would let any harm come to her.

  He followed his new bride to the stream behind the abbey. The sticky moisture on his hands was blood. She must have been injured when she struggled with her father over the knife.

  He hurried his footsteps. If the wound were only a scratch it would have quit bleeding long ago. Why hadn’t she said something?

  He found her leaning against a large tree close to the stream. As if her knees chose that moment to give out beneath her, she sank to the ground, cradling her injured arm in her lap.

  “Let me see your arm,” he said, kneeling beside her.

  “It is noo but a scratch.”

  “Na doubt, but I will see it nonetheless.”

  He reached out and lifted her arm. The grimace on her face told him how much it pained her. “You should have told me you’d been injured.”

  “Would that have stopped you from marrying me?”

  “Nay. We would have still wed.” He separated the torn material of her gown and glanced down. It was worse than he’d feared. “Are you cold?” he asked, feeling her tremble.

  “A little.”

  He wrapped his tartan around her shoulders, taking care to place it so she couldn’t see her arm. It would be best if she didn’t realize how bad the gash was. “What happened between you and your father that was so bad you felt the need to run away from the safety of your home and hide with only Kenneth to protect you?”

  “We did na get along.”

  “Many fathers and daughters do na get along,” he said, watching the far-away look in her eyes, “but their disagreements are na bad enough that their daughters choose to sacrifice their freedom and live in a convent for the rest of their lives.”

  “I’m not like other daughters.” She leaned her head back against the tree and closed her eyes.

  “Perhaps marriage to me will na be so bad.”

  “The day will come when you, too, will regret this day. Even your so-called peace will na be worth the price you had to pay.”

  Iain ignored her words, knowing they were just the thoughts of a willful lass angry because she’d been forced to comply with her father’s demands. Things would seem different on the morrow.

  Lifting the dagger from the belt at his waist, he slit the sleeve of her gown from her wrist to her elbow. The material fell away, exposing the long, ragged wound. “Do na look,” he said, placing his finger on her chin and turning her head.

  “Is it that bad?”

  “Nay. But a wound always looks worse before ’tis washed and bound.”

  Iain tore a strip of material from her muslin undergarment and rinsed it in the stream. She sucked in her breath when he placed the cool cloth against her skin and he angled his back to her so she couldn’t see when he cleaned away the blood.

  “Do you think it will need to be sewn?” she asked, her soft voice bearing a great deal of trepidation.

  “Aye.”

  Kenneth came with the three horses and tethered them beside the stream, then walked over to her. The look on his face held a wealth of concern. “I did na protect you well, milady,” he said, kneeling beside her. “I swear it is the last time I will let your father harm you.”

  “It was na your fault, Kenneth. It was foolish of me to try to battle him. I should have known better. I have never come out the victor.”

  Kenneth smiled. “You are more warrior than half the MacBrides with him. ’Tis a pity he will never see it.”

  She smiled, but her smile soon faded. It was obvious her arm pained her more with every minute gone by.

  “Kenneth,” Iain said, still cleaning the wound as best he could, “go to the abbey and bring back some thread and a needle, the smallest they have. And some clean cloths and a poultice of stonecrop. Even some catnip and some tea if they have it.”

  “Aye, milord,” Kenneth said, rising to his feet and heading toward the abbey at a run.

  “Would you rather Kenneth did the sewing?” he said when they were alone.

  “Will the pricks going through my skin hurt less if Kenneth holds the needle?”


  “Nay, but. . .”

  “Then I will have you do it. Besides, if the scar is not so very pretty when you finish, I will display it when I have need to remind you of your ungainly talents and torment you into submission to grant my every wish. Isn’t that what a wife would do to get her way?”

  He laughed. “It is good you can joke at such a time. I ken I’ll be likin’ that particular trait.”

  She chuckled. “I must be overly tired. I am usually quite successful convincing people that I do na have a pleasing humor at all. I can see I have erred with you already.”

  Her upturned lips gave her pale face a beautiful glow. “You have a pretty smile, milady.”

  She lowered her gaze, her cheeks coloring to a rosy pink. “I think not. You are only trying to soften my opinion of you for later when you cause me undo pain.”

  “I have been found out.”

  “Aye.” She breathed in a heavy sigh through her clenched teeth. “I wish Kenneth would hurry. I would like to have this finished before you discover what a weak coward I truly am.”

  “You are hardly a coward, milady.”

  She wiped at her eyes with her fingers and Iain suddenly wanted to hold her and comfort her. “I wish we were already at MacAlister Castle where you could rest in a warm chamber with a nice, soft bed.”

  “I will dream of such comforts when you begin your sewing.” She started to smile but instead caught her breath and stifled the moan that wanted to escape.

  “It will na be long now, Màiri. Kenneth is coming.”

  Kenneth handed Iain the needle and thread, then knelt beside his mistress with a cup in his hands. “The sisters said to drink this first. It’s Sister Magda Martha’s own special potion and she promised it would take away the worst of the pain.”

  Iain checked the wound again while she drank the wine laced with the secret potion. At first her hand shook and a bit of the wine spilled on the ground, but after the third or fourth sip, her grip seemed much steadier.