by Dee Davis
"Come then, for unless I miss my guess, there'll be wine by the fire."
"Aye, that there is, lad." Fergus' craggy face split into a smile.
Ranald rubbed his hands together in delight. "Well then, what are we waiting for?"
Iain stepped from the passage into the great hall. He had forgotten how cavernous it was, much bigger than the one at Corybrough. On the opposite wall was a huge fireplace crowned with an ornate plaster hood, a newer invention that was meant to guide the smoke from the hall. Above it hung an array of weaponry: A targe hung in the middle, with claymores and smaller swords surrounding it. The weapons of his ancestors.
Near the fire, along one wall, he saw that the great table on the dais was set for the evening meal. Three intricately carved chairs were centered on one side of the table—the biggest belonging to his father. No, he corrected himself, now it belonging to him.
He drew in a beleaguered breath, and turned to look at the rest of the room. It was as if time had frozen. There were the benches by the fire, his mother and father's chairs no less ornate than the ones at the table.
Behind the dais, in the window seats, he could see the bright colors of his mother's needlework cushions. Nothing had changed, yet everything was different.
"Iain, at last."
Iain pulled from his reverie to watch a small tired-looking woman emerge from the stairway. She hurried across the rushes, her hands extended in greeting. He frowned, then felt a rush of incredulity. The years had not been kind to his aunt. She had aged far more than he would have expected in six years.
"Auntie Sorcha."
She threw her bony arms awkwardly around him and he suffered the embrace for a moment, and then stepped back, breaking free of her hold. Up close it was easy to see that she had been grieving. Her gray hair hung about her shoulders in thin wiry strands. Her eyes were ringed with red, standing out garishly against the pale white of her cheeks. It had never been a pretty face, but sorrow had sharpened it further, carving fine lines along a mouth that seemed to be set in a perpetual grimace.
She began wringing her hands. "I was so afraid that some harm had beset you. It seems an age since I sent the message to you at Moy. If only you could have been here when we laid him to rest. But never you mind. You're home now, and we have our new Laird at last." Her thin lips parted in a ghost of a smile. "And who've you brought with you then?" She turned narrowed eyes to Ranald.
Ranald's eyes were twinkling and he opened his arms wide. "Dinna you recognize me, Auntie Sorcha?"
She studied him, her eyes suddenly widening in recognition. "Ranald Macqueen. As I live and breath, you were just a wee lad when last I saw you." She hugged him with the same enthusiasm she had shown Iain.
" 'Tis true. But you've been away from Corybrough a long time. As I remember it, you were no' planning to make a permanent home here, only to help Uncle Angus through his grief over Auntie Moire's death."
"Aye, but Angus never fully recovered from my sister's death. I felt 'twas my duty to stay on. He needed me." She flushed slightly, stepping back, and hurriedly changed the subject. "But look at you now, a mon grown and with the look of your mother, I do believe."
"Aye, 'tis often said I favor her," Ranald said, his amused gaze meeting Iain's.
Ranald in fact was the spitting image of his father, but it was no secret that there was no love lost between Sorcha Macqueen and her brother Dougall. Iain grinned back at his cousin.
Sorcha pushed a lank strand of hair behind her ear. "How is Dougall? I've no' heard from my brother in ages. Is he still playing at being the Laird o' the manor?"
"He's fine and sends his regards," said Ranald, his eyebrows crooking upward with his amusement.
Iain bit back a laugh. Uncle Dougall had certainly sent no such greeting. In fact, he rarely mentioned his older sister at all. Dougall had always preferred Iain's mother, Moire.
"Are you planning to return to Corybrough now that Uncle Angus is gone?" Ranald asked Sorcha pointedly.
"Nay, I canna leave now. With Angus' death, there is more need than ever for my presence here." She turned to look at Iain, reaching with bony fingers to clutch at his sleeve. "Puir boy. With the death of your father you'll be needing your auntie, won't you?"
Iain opened his mouth to assure her that he could survive without her, but the sound of voices on the stairwell stopped him. Bodies materialized from the gloom of the alcove to go with the voices and Iain felt a wave of revulsion wash through him.
Alasdair Davidson was fine of bone, with the sleek look of a mountain cat. His brown hair curled tightly around his head. He held the arm of a tiny woman with hair the color of pale moonlight. She glanced nervously at the group in the center of the hall, and stopped walking. Alasdair followed her gaze, and his thin lips curved into the semblance of a smile. But there was no warmth at all in his pale blue eyes. Iain watched him tighten his grip on the woman's arm and pull her forward.
Iain’s aunt moved to meet the pair as they made their way across the great hall. "Alasdair, there you are. Come greet Iain. He has just this minute arrived from Moy."
Iain took in Alasdair's cold unwelcoming stare and was reminded of another homecoming long ago, when they had been just boys. Sorcha placed a hand on Alasdair's arm, drawing him forward. "Iain, you remember Alasdair Davidson? He has been of great comfort to me. He was with me when we found your father." Her voice trailed off and she glanced at Alasdair, nervously. Alasdair ignored her, his eyes still locked on Iain.
"Mackintosh." Alasdair inclined his head, then crossed the remaining distance between them. "I'm sorry about Angus." A brief flicker of emotion crested in his pale eyes, but, with a blink, it was eliminated, leaving only icy emptiness in its wake.
There was an awkward silence as Iain's gaze held Alasdair's, the two of them sizing each other up. Iain found nothing in this older Alasdair to alter his opinion of the man.
"Iain," Sorcha said, interrupting his thoughts. "I dinna believe you've met Alasdair's sister, Ailis." She ushered the girl forward. "She's been so helpful. I dinna know how I would have been able to handle everything without her."
Ailis blushed becomingly. "It was nothing."
"Ailis is quite skillful at managing a household." Alasdair took his sister's elbow, propelling her closer to Iain. "She has run Tùr nan Clach since my mother's death, first for my father and now for me."
Iain took the young woman's hand and bent his head over it, in a gesture of respect. " 'Tis a pleasure," He straightened and released her hand, turning to his cousin. "Allow me to introduce Ranald Macqueen. Ranald, may I present Ailis Davidson and her brother, Alasdair."
Ranald nodded briefly at Alasdair, then shifted his gaze to Ailis. " 'Tis honored I am to make your acquaintance, Ailis." Smiling, he, too, took her hand, but rather than bowing over it, raised it to his lips, lingering over her soft skin.
Ailis smiled shyly at Ranald, the hint of a dimple creasing her cheek. "The pleasure is mine." Their eyes met and held.
Iain shook his head, wondering how exactly his cousin managed to completely disarm every female he met.
With an annoyed harrumph, Alasdair stepped between the two of them, his attention focused on Ranald. "Ranald Macqueen of Corybrough?" Alasdair stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Your father is Dougall?"
"Aye, 'tis my father." Ranald spoke dismissively and turned back to Ailis. She blushed and ducked her head.
Alasdair frowned and continued to speak, ignoring Ranald's snub. "I met him once. I got the impression he is held in high esteem by those who know him."
Forced to acknowledge the compliment, Ranald pulled away from Ailis, returning his full attention to Alasdair. "He is a good man. I'm afraid he hasna mentioned you."
Alasdair shrugged. "I doubt he would remember me. I was naught but a boy."
"Well, the next time I'm at Corybrough, I'll be sure to tell him you were asking about him." Ranald's voice was clipped, bordering on rude. Alasdair narrowed his eyes, glaring at Iain's cousin.
Sorcha intervened, laying a hand on Ranald's arm. "Allow me to show you to your chamber. I'm sure you'd like to clean up a wee bit before our evening meal." She smiled up at him, but Iain could see that her grip on Ranald's arm was lethal.
"Fergus," she fixed her stare on the old warrior, "please see that our guests are served some wine. And tell Flora we'll hold the meal for the Laird." She shifted her attention to Iain, still intent it seemed on issuing orders. "Iain, you know the way to your chamber of course. I ordered a bath brought in when I heard you'd arrived. The lasses have cleaned and aired your chamber. 'Tis ready and waiting for you." She threw a quick look at Alasdair. "You'll excuse us?"
Alasdair nodded absently.
With a wink at Ailis and a last amused glance at Iain, Ranald allowed himself to be led away.
Fergus waved at the benches in front of the fireplace, inviting them all to sit. "Have a seat. When Sorcha starts directing," he said fondly, " 'tis best to follow orders." The older man offered Ailis his arm.
Alasdair fixed Iain with his pale gaze. "Are you coming?"
Iain shook his head. He'd had enough of Alasdair and company. What he needed was the bath Sorcha had mentioned. "Nay, it seems, I, too, have my orders. I'll see you at dinner."
"Yes, by all means go and refresh yourself." Alasdair said, gesturing dismissively. "When you return, you and my sister can take time to get to know each other better." He smiled, but not even a hint of good humor reached his eyes.
"I'll look forward to it," Iain lied, wanting only to escape. "And, Davidson, I'll have a word with you later. I've several questions to ask you about my father's death." There was no mistaking the command in his voice.
Alasdair tipped his head mockingly. "Of course."
Iain spun around, heading for stairs that led to the family's private chambers. He took the stone steps two at a time, wondering what in hell Alasdair Davidson was really up to.
*****
Closing the door to his chamber, Iain welcomed the silence with relief. The wooden tub in front of the fireplace beckoned. He strode across the chamber and quickly disrobed. Sinking onto the small stool in the tub, he groaned appreciatively. The warm water lapped around his travel-worn body, soothing his aching muscles. He leaned back and let the pain of his homecoming surround him.
Dead. Angus Mackintosh was dead.
There had been no great bond between father and son. Angus had loved Iain's mother, Moire, with a passion that left little room for others. And when she had died— had it really been eighteen years ago?—when she had died, a part of his father had died, too. Iain had been fostering at Corybrough when it happened. He could still remember the smell of the peat fire as he sat with his uncle Dougall and heard the news. And not just a mother dead, but a little sister as well. A child his parents had so long waited for—Moire to have the daughter she yearned for, and Angus wanting only to please his beloved wife.
Iain had come home immediately, but had found no comfort waiting there. His father had been sullen and silent, with little use for a young, grieving boy. It was then that Auntie Sorcha had come. Her presence had helped the household run smoothly, but nothing and no one could reach Angus in his grief. Never a warm and caring father, Angus withdrew even more from the son who reminded him so much of his beloved Moire. He had soon sent Iain back to Corybrough, and there, Iain had found solace with his grandfather Revan.
How different things might have been if Moire had lived. Iain's memories of her had faded with time, but he could still hear her laughter, a glorious bubbling sound like small bells ringing in the wind. She had been the center of their world, and without her, he and his father had drifted apart. Still, Iain had loved his father. And he knew that in his own way Angus had loved him.
He clenched his fist, slamming it against his knee. Rage swelled as he considered the possibility that Angus' death had not been an accident. His mind simply could not accept the idea that his father had been thrown from his horse. In the morning he'd question Sorcha and Alasdair thoroughly. Since they'd found the body, there were questions only they could answer.
He frowned, thinking of Alasdair Davidson. It wasn't that he had any solid reason to dislike Alasdair. He'd done nothing to offend. In fact, in many ways it was just the opposite—he seemed almost fawning at times. Iain just didn't trust him. He never had, even when they were boys. Especially when they were boys. The few times Iain had come home, Alasdair had always been there, radiating resentment, as though Iain were an unwelcome intruder rather than the son of the house. Iain had been relieved when Angus had sent the boy home.
Iain shrugged and smiled ruefully to himself. Alasdair was harmless enough, no more than annoying, really. The worst threat from Alasdair was matrimonial in nature. Obviously, Alasdair thought the new Laird of Duncreag needed a wife. And, of course, he saw a perfect candidate in his sister. What was the girl's name? Iain frowned in concentration. Ah yes, Ailis. Pretty thing. A bit timid, though. He supposed that with a stretch of the imagination it was a good match, for Ailis at least. He shook his head wearily. He was not going to marry some milk-faced lass just because he needed an heir.
He brushed his hair from his face, and in so doing touched the tiny stone dangling below his ear. How he wished she were here to help him in his grief—to hold him. He closed his eyes, remembering the magical night he'd spent with her, here in this very room. If he married at all, it would be when she returned. If she returned. He grimaced. God's blood, he didn't even know her name. Relaxing in the warm water, he could almost feel her hands on his body. He felt like a madman, living in dreams. Yet the feel of her was so real, he could almost see her. With a sudden start, he sat up and opened his eyes. Reacting on instinct, he jumped from the tub, naked, dripping water. In one swift movement he crossed the room and was through the archway into the connecting chamber. It was empty. Always, it was empty. Feeling foolish and strangely let down, Iain turned to go back to his chamber.
Ranald stood in the doorway, a puzzled expression on his face. "What, may I ask, are you doing?"
Iain grimaced and mumbled, "I thought she was here." He pushed past Ranald and began to towel off with a large square of woven plaid.
"Thought who was here? Your fairy woman? Iain, have you lost all sense?"
"I'll no' speak of it now, Ranald. What are you doing here?"
Ranald wisely accepted the change of subject. "I came to hurry you, man—I'm fair starving to death." He clutched his belly in mock agony.
Iain pulled his long saffron shirt over his head and wrapped his plaid tightly around his waist, belting it in place. He pulled the remaining end over his shoulder and fastened it with a large silver brooch. The brooch had been a gift from his father and was shaped into the crest of the Mackintoshes, a salient cat. He cherished it almost as much as he did his earring. Finishing the lacings on his boots, he straightened and slapped Ranald on the back.
"Lead on then, cousin. I would hate to lose you to starvation." Both grinning, they left the chamber.
In the corner of the room a small flicker of light shimmered and, unnoticed, disappeared.
Chapter 2
KATHERINE STOOD ON the stone floor looking at the man in the wooden tub. His eyes were closed, his body tense, lines of grief etching his face. Her heart yearned to reach out to him. Crossing to the tub, she attempted to touch him, but though she was able to caress the essence of him, her hand passed right through the vision. Tears of frustration filled her eyes.
With the movement of her hand, the man sat up suddenly, his green eyes alight with guarded excitement. He leapt from the tub. Her pulse quickened as she stared at the magnificence of him. He was all hard muscle and sinewy strength. She longed for him with an emotional pain so deep it was almost physical.
He strode from the chamber into the adjoining room. He stopped, frantically searching for something, someone. As quickly as it had come, the hope faded from his eyes. Katherine tried to call out to him. But just as she struggled to find her
voice, another man entered the room, not two feet from where she stood.
He was as tall as the first man, but huskier in build. His hair was a reddish brown, long and curled slightly at the ends. She felt as if she should know him, did know him, but the memory stayed just beyond her grasp.
"What, may I ask, are you doing?" the new man said to the other. His accent was sharp and she had to strain to understand. Gaelic. He was speaking Gaelic. Her mind struggled to translate.
Her warrior grimaced and mumbled, "I thought she was here."
She followed the two men to the other room.
"Thought who was here? Your fairy woman? Iain, have you lost all sense?"
Katherine froze. Iain. His name was Iain. Her heart began to beat faster as the rest of the words sunk in. They were talking about her. He remembered. He still remembered. She looked at Iain. He was toweling himself off with some sort of fabric square.
"I'll no' speak of it now."
The men continued talking, but Katherine was too overwhelmed to translate. The look of agony and pain had returned to Iain's face, and wanting to ease his sorrow, she moved toward him as he dressed. She noticed his clothes and tried to put them in context with a time, but her brain refused to concentrate on anything but Iain. As she watched, he began to wind a length of plaid material around his waist, finally fastening it with a silver brooch that was shaped like a cat. He finished lacing his boots and straightened, still talking to the other man, who he called Ranald.
It was then she noticed the small earring. Her heart leapt into her throat. Her earring—he was wearing her earring. She reached out to touch it, but her hand passed through the stone as if it had no substance.
Iain slapped Ranald on the back and they walked from the room. Katherine tried to follow, but as soon as Iain was out of sight, she saw the walls begin to shimmer and fade.
*****
Katherine struggled through the mist of the dream into the warm morning sunlight. She sat up, her heart pounding, searching for remnants of the dream, of another time. But her bedroom was peacefully drenched in the daylight of the twentieth century with no wooden tub, no arched doorways, no dark warrior. A dream ... it had only been a dream. Running a hand over her face, Katherine tried to banish the last lingering traces, to place them firmly into the realm of fantasy. But, as always, some part of her, deep in her subconscious, held tight to the memory, to him.
