by J. D. Robb
“Aye, my lady. In the chambers of the laird’s half brother, Fergus, and his wife, the lady Dulcie.”
“When will I see him?”
“My lady Dulcie insists that the lad bathe before he comes to you.”
Laurel started to rise. “He doesn’t need to be clean. I want to see him now.”
“Soon.” None too gently, Brinna eased her back to the stool. “Donovan rode with his uncle and the warriors during the attack, and they spent many days in the forest. The lad returned looking more like a barbarian than a Highlander.”
“He rode with the warriors? How old is Donovan?”
Brinna’s hands went still. “Why, he is ten and two, my lady.”
Twelve. She’d expected a two-or three-year-old.
Laurel sensed the girl’s disapproval over the fact that she couldn’t even recall her own son. To cover her unease, she began firing questions at Brinna. “Do Fergus and Dulcie have children?”
“Alas, they have not been blessed with wee ones of their own. But they lavish much love on your son.”
“Is Fergus as capable a warrior as the laird?”
Brinna’s voice rang with pride. “No warrior compares to the laird. Not even the laird’s man-at-arms, Duncan, though they are old and dear friends.” The girl paused. “Not that any of us blame my lord Fergus for his lack of battle skills. He wasn’t privileged to learn to be a warrior from his father as was the laird. Nor could he be faulted that the barbarians chose this time to attack us. They couldn’t have known that our laird was away, searching for his wife. But because of the laird’s distraction, the invaders managed to inflict much pain and death before they were driven off. The entire village is rejoicing at the knowledge that our laird has returned, for it was surely his presence that caused the last of the invaders to flee.”
Her words had Laurel’s mind working overtime. The warrior with Duncan had told Con that there may be a traitor in their midst. That could mean that it had been no coincidence that the attack had come when the laird was distracted.
Could it be that the plot went deeper than that? Had someone deliberately pushed the laird’s wife from the tower and spirited away the body, hoping that Con the Mighty would be so distraught that his people would be easily overcome without his leadership? If the love of the laird for his lady had been common knowledge, there were many who could have predicted his reaction to such a loss.
Or had she been watching too many cop shows on TV recently? The clever detectives always uncovered hidden agendas among the petty crooks and thieves who preyed on the good and the helpless. But, Laurel reasoned, evil was evil, whether in the fifteenth century or the twenty-first. And most crimes were committed for simple reasons. Greed. Passion. Jealousy.
Was someone jealous of Con? Of his position as laird, perhaps? Had someone lusted after his wife? Not likely, since they’d used her disappearance to distract him. But then, she could have been cooperating with his rival. Still, Laurel couldn’t help but believe that a man who loved as deeply as Con the Mighty would be deeply loved in return. She found it hard to believe that the Laurel he adored so completely would betray him.
If not his wife, then someone close to him. Someone he trusted, who could cooperate with the barbarians without fear of being discovered.
What did Con have that someone else might want? From what little she’d seen, he shared his wealth with all the clan. This fortress was open to all the villagers. In times of siege, this was their home. They shared their crops and herds.
If not possessions, perhaps power? Did someone else hope to be laird? Since a Highland laird was chosen by the will of the people, that would require turning his people against him.
Some might see his search for his wife as abandonment of the people who depended on him. Would that be cause enough for them to turn against him?
Laurel decided to pursue this angle, and see where it led.
“Are there places in your village that I frequently visit?”
The girl thought a moment. “The stalls on market days. You especially enjoy the bits of ribbon and lace.”
“Market days. Conal mentioned it as the place we met as children. It sounds like a pleasant place to be.”
“It is, my lady. The entire village turns out, even the warriors and lads.”
“So Conal and Donovan go with me?”
“Aye. They wouldn’t think of missing. And though you disapprove, the laird and young Donovan always manage to find an extra coin to buy some sweets.”
Laurel began to relax. Except for the time difference, it would seem that people were the same here as they were in the twenty-first century. Working, playing, fretting over their loved ones’ health while they enjoyed a special treat.
“Where else do I frequently visit?”
“The huts of the villagers whenever a wee one is born. The women all remark on your lovely handwork. Your bonnets and coats and blankets are highly prized by the village women.”
“I sew?”
Brinna regarded her thoughtfully. “Aye, my lady. You sew a very fine seam.”
Laurel thought about the tapestry. Was there some significance there? Hadn’t she been admiring the handiwork of the women who’d made it when she’d discovered Con hiding behind it? Could his Laurel have been one of the women who’d helped to create that tapestry?
Brinna set aside the comb. “I have dressed your hair so often, my lady, and always I am pleased at the way it curves just so around your face.”
Laurel went very still. It was yet another thing she shared with Con’s wife. Neither Con nor Brinna could tell that they had an imposter in their midst.
Or was she?
What did she really know about reincarnation? The theory had long fascinated her. The thought of returning, to live one’s life again, and being given the opportunity to right some of the wrongs, was something she’d often played with in her mind. But it had always been mere fantasy. She’d never given serious thought to it.
Hadn’t she always felt a particular kinship with ancient Scotland, especially the Highlands and this castle? But her love for this place had developed because of her grandmother’s bedtime stories. They had simply fueled a little girl’s imagination.
Or had there been more to it than that?
After a lifetime of Highland lore, she could no longer tell which came first—her love of all things Scottish or the intriguing tales her grandmother wove that whetted her appetite for more.
Could she actually be the missing wife of Con the Mighty? Had she once lived in this long-ago era?
How else to explain the disappearance of the modern sections of the castle, and the reemergence of the ancient keep? She certainly wasn’t imagining the fact that life as she’d known it had been swept away in the blink of an eye.
She lifted her hands to rub her temples, where the beginning of a headache throbbed. There were too many theories, too many possibilities, whirling through her mind. And all of them troubling.
This mind of hers, always able to see all sides to an argument, always willing to look at all the possibilities of a thorny issue, had helped her climb to the very top of the corporate chain. But there were times when it was a curse instead of a blessing.
“I see you are suffering one of your spells.”
“Spells?” Laurel’s head came up sharply.
“Those sudden pains in your head. You’ve suffered them since you were a lass. That is why many in the village fear you as a witch.”
“They do?”
She turned to see a look in the girl’s eyes that had her puzzled. It wasn’t so much fear as wariness.
Again she pressed her hands to her temples. “You know I’m no witch, Brinna.”
“Here.” Brinna took Laurel’s hands and lowered them to her lap, before pressing her own fingers to Laurel’s temples and massaging gently.
Laurel leaned back and gave a sigh of pure pleasure. “Oh, that feels heavenly.”
“’Tis what I’ve always d
one to soothe you, my lady.”
With her eyes closed, Laurel tried to clear her mind. But the thought of all her similarities with the laird’s wife continued to taunt her.
Was it possible that she had once been Laurel of the Clan Douglas, who lived in the fifteenth century, as wife to Con the Mighty, Laird of the MacLennan Clan?
Had something happened to cause her to somehow become mired in a kind of limbo, lost between centuries?
If so, what had brought her back now? Was there some critical event about to happen that required her participation?
Would she be given the chance to do something good? Something noble?
Maybe it wasn’t about her at all, but rather this laird. Would she be the one to urge Con to travel a path he wouldn’t otherwise consider? A path that might forever change his life and reverse the course of history?
Or…a nagging little thought tormented her…was she simply losing her mind?
Four
Laurel and Brinna looked up at the sound of a quick rap on the door.
It was thrown open and a lad came rushing in, looking much the way a puppy would, all happy and wriggling with excitement. Quick as a flash, he crossed the room and flung himself into Laurel’s arms.
“Mother! I couldn’t believe it when I heard the news. Father and I have been so worried. What happened? Where have you been? We’ve been looking…”
“Donovan.” A woman stood framed in the doorway, watching with a look of disapproval. Though she didn’t raise her voice, her tone was pure ice. “I told you not to ask too many questions. Remember what the laird said. Your mother suffered a blow to the head that has left her frail.”
“Sorry.” The boy quickly straightened.
Before he could pull away, Laurel caught his hands and held him to her. “Nonsense. I’m not at all frail. Just forgetful. Now, let me look at you.”
He was the image of his father. Tall and straight as a young sapling, with dark hair curling softly around his shoulders. He shared his father’s eyes as well. Dark and piercing, with a hint of teasing humor in their depths. The length of plaid he wore belted at the waist revealed thin arms and legs, with just the beginnings of muscles. Any mother, Laurel thought, would be proud of such a fine, handsome son.
“Oh, you look so good.”
Her words brought back his smile, warming her heart as nothing else could.
She turned her attention to the woman in the doorway. She was young, plump as a ripe peach, with pale hair that fell in corkscrew curls to below her waist. Her eyes looked a little too wide, a little too wary, as though they were beholding a ghostly specter. She wore a pale woolen gown loosely belted, with a dagger tucked into the sash at her waist. Had all the women of the keep adopted this fashion since the invasion? Or did she fancy herself a female warrior? Except for the dirk, she looked too pale, too utterly feminine to do battle.
“You would be Dulcie.”
The woman stepped closer, lips pursed in disapproval. “You remember?”
Laurel gave a quick shake of her head. “Not really. But Brinna has told me that you and Fergus have been caring for Donovan, and for that I’m so very grateful.”
The woman dismissed her gratitude with a wave of her hand. “Why wouldn’t we care for him? We are, after all, family. We could not love Donovan any more if he were our own son.”
Laurel squeezed the lad’s hand. “I can see why.”
Dulcie studied Laurel with a critical eye. “How is it that you managed to escape the barbarians, when so many others perished at their cruel hands?”
“I wish I knew.” Laurel pressed her fingertips to her temple, where a shadow of the headache lingered.
Seeing it, Dulcie took a step back. “I can see that you are not yet recovered. We will leave you.”
As she started to turn away, Laurel placed a hand on the boy’s arm. “Stay awhile, Donovan. I want to hear all about…” She hesitated, then amended, “…all the things you’ve been doing while I was gone.”
Dulcie’s voice was sharp. “You need your rest. The laird will be furious if he learns that the lad stayed overlong and made you weary.”
Laurel’s voice was equally insistent, though she fought to keep any sign of impatience from her tone. The last thing she wanted was a catfight between herself and this woman who might prove to be a valuable ally. “I assure you, nothing will soothe me as much as a visit with my son.” She emphasized the last words, leaving no doubt that she had no intention of letting the lad go.
“You will remember not to tire your mother.” Dulcie shot him a warning look before taking her leave.
Brinna made ready to stay, until Laurel suggested that she and her son wished to be alone.
The young servant hesitated in the doorway. “Shall I bring you and Donovan refreshments, my lady?”
“Thank you. That would be grand.”
As the girl hurried away, Laurel turned to Donovan. “At last. Now that there are no distractions, we can speak freely. I want to hear all about you. Tell me everything.” At his quizzical look, she amended, “Tell me everything you’ve done since I’ve been away.”
The lad settled down at her feet, his eyes grave. “Father and I were so worried when we couldn’t find you. I begged to be allowed to join him in the search, but he ordered me to stay with my uncle.”
“He was only looking out for your safety, Donovan. It was hard enough losing a wife. Think of a father’s pain if his son should disappear, as well.”
“Aye. That’s what Father told me. But I hated having to be here, knowing you were lost somewhere in the forest, and at the hands of those wicked barbarians. All I wanted was to be with you. To comfort you. To protect you. If I’d been there, I’d have fought them as Father taught me, until there were none left to harm you.”
Laurel felt her heart melt at his vehemence. What woman could ask for more than such devoted love?
“Don’t dwell on it. I’m home now.” She touched a hand to his head. “Where were you when the barbarians invaded?”
He looked up, eyes bright with excitement. “I was asleep in the chambers of my uncle. I awoke to hear the cry of alarm that they were storming the fortress. At first I thought I was surely dreaming. No barbarians would dare enter the fortress of Con the Mighty. But then the voices grew louder, and it was impossible to ignore the battle cries.”
He lowered his voice. “Had it not been for the many villagers who had taken refuge here at the keep while Father was away searching for you, all would have been lost. Somehow the invaders had slipped past the guards and were already fanning out along the many passageways. A village woman, awakened through the night by the cry of her babe, was the first to spy a barbarian, and sounded the alarm. ’Twas taken up by other women and children, and then by their men. The ensuing battle was fierce and bloody. When we rousted them, Uncle Fergus permitted me to ride with him on the chase through the forest, hoping to capture some of the invaders alive.”
“Would your father have approved you being exposed to such danger?”
The boy laughed. “You and Father are far too protective. As Uncle Fergus was quick to point out, I’m more man than boy now. If I’m ever to learn the ways of a warrior, I must leave the safety of the fortress and ride with the men into battle.”
Laurel could see the pride burning in his gaze, and felt a sudden flash of worry. Despite the dangers, he was absolutely fearless. Leave it to the young to feel so invincible. He didn’t see the danger of facing the swords of the invaders. He saw only the adventure, the pride in having taken part in securing his father’s fortress.
A few years from now, when he’d had his fill of bloody battles, his words would no doubt come back to haunt him.
Even though he wasn’t hers, she couldn’t help but worry about what the future held for this lad, and for all the lads of the village, who would have a lifetime of wars ahead of them. Scotland’s history was a bloody one. Barbarians from across the sea. The British just beyond their borders. And e
ven their own. Clan against clan. But how could she possibly warn him, when all of those threats had not yet come to be? There was no way she could explain her knowledge of the future to this innocent lad. And so, though it cost her to keep silent, she decided to change the subject.
“Do you get on well with your uncle and aunt?”
The lad nodded. “Well enough. Except when my aunt speaks against my father.”
Laurel’s interest was instantly piqued. “Why would she do such a thing?”
“It isn’t only my aunt. She claims that many in the village feel that Father was not doing his duty to his people by deserting them in their hour of peril. But as I pointed out, Father had no way of knowing when or if the barbarians would attack. He knew only that his life would be meaningless without you, Mother.”
Laurel huffed out a breath. “That should have been obvious to them. To anyone who dared criticize Conal for what he did.”
Seeing her sudden flash of temper, the boy chuckled. “I should have known what your reaction would be. You have always been Father’s fiercest defender.”
She blushed. “Have I?”
“Aye. The love you share is spoken of with great interest by all. It makes me proud to hear the way the villagers speak of you and Father, and the love that burns between you.”
She met his look. “You know that you are equally loved.”
His smile was quick and radiant. “Aye, Mother. For you and Father have made it abundantly clear.”
“What do you know of the relationship between Fergus and the laird? Brinna told me that Fergus wasn’t trained in the art of battle by his father.”
“’Tis true. Father and my uncle shared the same father, but had different mothers.”
“How did Fergus come to live here?”
“When word of his mother’s death reached Father, he asked his half brother to share the shelter of his fortress.”
“How old was Fergus when he joined the laird’s household?”
“Ten and three. My uncle often reminds me that he was the sole protector of his mother until she died. By the time he was brought to live in the laird’s fortress he needed no one to come to his aid. But he is grateful that Father is willing to share his home and his clan, for his life alone with his mother was a lonely time for him.”
