Highland Messenger (Scottish Strife Series Book 4)
Page 8
Just when she was about to nod off, a slight sound caused her to become fully awake. She turned her head, and saw that Thom had pushed himself to a seated position. For a minute the light of the fire chased away the shadows from his visage. He lifted his palm and rested it on his forehead. From her vantage point, he appeared either in deep in thought, or was still extremely fatigued from the blood loss. She guessed that it was the latter. If he had continued on, he would have gone into shock, and his condition might have been worse. Thinking about the depressing possibilities made her feel uncomfortable. Luckily they were able to help the messenger in time. About an hour ago, Makolm had searched the vicinity for something useful, and recognized some healing herbs. Making a poultice, he applied it to Thom’s wound. Mairead was grateful that they had stumbled upon Makolm. The scholar’s knowledge of plants had come in handy. If she was alone and Thom got hurt, she wouldn’t have known how to help him.
Mairead’s back tensed when she saw Thom stagger to his horse. When he reached his mount, he dug into the saddle bag, pulling out the trinket box that he purchased in the village. With the item in hand, he made his way back to the firepit, and sat down on a nearby rock. He rotated the lovely object in his hand, sorrowfully studying it. She already knew that the pretty gift was meant for Cristiona. All of a sudden Thom’s face twisted in anguish, and he pitched the object into the fire, causing the sparks to jump into the air.
Mairead let out an involuntary gasp. “What are ye doing?” she cried. Without thinking, she picked up a twig that lay near her foot and rushed over to the fire. Jabbing it into the flames, she flipped the circular container onto the ground. “I cannae believe that ye would destroy this bonny trinket box.”
“Ye can have it,” he said, his gaze dropping to the firepit.
She cleared her throat to get his attention.
His hand fell to his lap and he glanced up. “I assumed that ye had gone with Makolm tae search for his precious plants.”
“Nay, in truth I’m nae as fascinated by plants as he,” she said, sitting down next to him.
“They dinnae interest me either,” he said.
“I suspect that if he ever meets my brother’s wife, they will likely have long discussions about the merits and uses of vegetation and roots.”
“What’s the real reason why ye are going tae Bracken Ridge?” he said, abruptly changing the topic. He leveled his eyes on hers, probing her depths as if he searched for the truth.
Mairead started to tell him the reason, but then she thought better of it. “Ye already ken that I’m going there tae see Blane Cunningtoun,” she said. “What about ye? Why are ye sae intent on seeking revenge?”
“’Tis complicated,” Thom said, looking away.
“Tell me anyhow,” she insisted.
There was a long silence. He didn’t intend to reveal anything to her, but something about her made him want to tell her about his past.
When Thom was younger he tried his best to please his father, but nothing he did satisfied him. The reason for his displeasure likely stemmed from the influence of Lester MacLeaburn. The lad had come to live with them when his father had died. His mother had no interest in raising him, and since his brother had become the clan chief, he had no time to manage an unruly sibling. At first when Lester arrived, he hated living among them. But then because of his unusual aptitude for fighting, Thom’s father took an interest in him. Soon he became attached to Roderick MacCullvin, and was jealous if his mentor showed preferential treatment toward anyone else, especially Thom. Lester then had the goal of turning Thom’s own father against him. One day, Lester hid his claymore, and then accused Thom of misplacing it. The MacCullvin gave him a tongue lashing for the supposed carelessness. When Thom tried to defend himself, he received a backhand blow to the head. All the while Lester snickered. Thom confronted the lad later that day, and they fought. Even though he was younger and a head smaller than his foster brother, he managed to get in a few solid wallops. With his face bloodied, Lester ran to the MacCullvin, blaming Thom for starting the brawl. That was when Thom’s father beat him almost to death. Thom screamed so loudly that it brought people from within the castle to the courtyard. He wished that he could say that Lester’s manipulations didn’t work, but they regrettably worked almost too well. The boy successfully and systematically set Thom up to look bad in front of his father and others. The only thing that wasn’t a total loss was that not everyone fell for Lester’s ruse. While he had alienated himself by being unpleasant to those around him, he couldn’t understand why people hated him and loved Thom.
“’Twas my mother who was able tae finally halt the beating,” he added. “She later convinced my father tae allow me tae foster with Alasdar MacRell, her cousin. Leaving my home probably saved my life. But while my hide was saved, an innocent life was sacrificed.”
“And that innocent life was Cristiona of Drumgaff,” she said softly.
He felt a stab of pain upon hearing the lass’ name. “Aye.” He stared at the trinket box in Mairead’s hand. “I couldnae save her, and I’ll regret this for the rest of my days.”
***
Just before dawn, Mairead wandered around the perimeter of the camp, gathering wood for the fire. Since it appeared that they would be camped at this site for a few more days, it was prudent to accumulate as much fuel as possible. Ever since her conversation with Thom last night, thoughts of him or Cristiona twirled in her mind. She had no doubt that Thom’s feelings for this woman ran deep. It made her wonder whether Blane loved her as much as she believed. If she was murdered, would he rush out to avenge her? She no longer felt that certain. Unless the love was so great, few men would offer their lives for any lass. But it was clear that Thom was willing to forfeit his life for Cristiona of Drumgaff. That realization caused a twinge of envy to course through her system.
Standing up, she gave herself a mental shake. She needed to block this foolish line of thought. Blane loved her, and she had nothing to worry about since there was no one set on murdering her.
Taking the dried branches she found, she started to pile them at the edge of the firepit. But then she noticed Makolm crouched on the ground near the base of an old hazel tree stump, a book opened at his lap. She brushed her hands together to get rid of the dirt and walked over to him. He was a curious man. When conversing with him, he would say wise and knowing things, yet he would sometimes go off into his own world of plants.
“What have ye found?” she asked when she reached him.
The quill in his hand stilled and he looked up. “There are many things that I’ve never come across before,” he said, her inquiry making his eyes bright with excitement. He pointed to the dead wood that was a foot away from him. “Do ye see that?”
“’Tis fungi,” she said, examining the growth that fanned out of the broken trunk of an alder tree. Its vivid orange contrasted with the bright green moss that covered the jagged piece of wood.
“Ah, but ‘tis nae just any fungi.” He studied the vegetation, and brought his pen back to the parchment, sketching the outlines of the unique growth. “This species is known as bracket fungi. ‘Tis present only on dead alder wood.” He put the finishing flourishes to his drawing, and moved to another location. Pointing to the vegetation that grew on a tree beside it, he added, “This here growing among the moss isnae ordinary lichen. ‘Tis dog lichen. I’m certain of it. See how vibrant and healthy ‘tis? ‘Tis because of the rains that recently passed through the area. The extra moisture hydrates the vegetation, thus allowing them tae grow well.”
“Your knowledge of plants is impressive,” she said, complimenting him.
“It should be,” he shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve recorded the flora of Scotland for the past five years. While ‘tis a large undertaking, and I’m nay where near finished, I happen tae enjoy the challenge.” He looked over at their escort, and changed the topic. “Does Thom belong tae Clan MacLeaburn? I understand that their territory isnae that far from here.”
“’Tis simple. I’ve wandered across Scotland enough tae recognize tartan colors.”
“Really?” Mairead lifted a brow in astonishment. She had the impression that he was only interested in greenery, not clan attire.
“I can tell the clans apart by the different dyes they use in their clothing,” he explained. “The dyes, ye see, are made from plant life, and plants are my specialty.”
“Och,” She nodded, understanding. “Well the great kilt he wears disnae belong tae him.”
“That’s odd,” he said, sounding bemused. “Why would our friend wear the plaid of another clan?”
Mairead started to respond, but then glanced guiltily over at the slumbering Highlander. Somehow it felt wrong to speak about him without his knowledge. She glanced away, and tried to search for another topic to discuss. Observing a growth on the moss laden alder log, she pointed, “What’s that?” Moving closer, she went to inspect it.
Makolm completed his drawing, and then closed his book.
“’Tis bonnet fungus,” he said, following her. He let out a contented sigh, and crouched down beside her to admire the different growths. He squinted when he saw purple shapes on a fallen hazel branch. They were fairly small, but their blazing color made them stand out from their surroundings. “I have never seen this species before. Could it possibly be hazel woodwart?” he murmured to himself.
“There is much vegetation around here,” she said.
“Exactly. Ever since we stopped here, I’ve made some great discoveries. There are sae many more plant species tae record. I want tae go deeper into the forest. Do ye want tae come with me?”
She glanced over at Thom, and saw him flip over onto his side. “Nay,” she said. “Thom might wake up and require my assistance.”
***
Supper was finished and they gathered by the fire to listen to Makolm play his lute. Thom sat off to the side, his back leaning against a tree truck. He sensed rather than saw Mairead glancing over at him on several occasions. Under normal circumstances he would have enjoyed having a bonny lass attend to him. Unfortunately this wasn’t a normal circumstance. The night before she had caught him in a vulnerable state, and she lulled him into revealing too much. The last thing he wanted or needed was her pity, especially when it came to Cristiona. He was grateful that Mairead didn’t bring up the lass’ name again. Thinking about her senseless murder tore at his gut.
He felt warmth at the side of his face again, and he turned in time to catch her quiet gaze resting on him. When their eyes met, he felt an inexplicable charge flow between them. But then she broke the contact and averted her gaze. Unable to help it, he felt a wave of disappointment and frustration drop over him. He was entirely too attracted to the lass, and this had to end. But if he closed his eyes, he could recall her touch, her scent, her essence. Her energy encircled him, making it impossible to ignore her. In his sleep, she somehow infiltrated his dreams, and while awake, her movements put him in a state of half arousal. He could barely keep himself from tugging her down and kissing her luscious lips…
Thom shoved his hand into his hair. What the hell was wrong with him? As a rule he never allowed any woman to get under his skin. So how did she do it? Perhaps he could blame his temporary madness to the blood loss. That was the only thing that made any sense. Having an explanation for his lapse in reasoning relieved him somewhat. Once he was fully recovered, Mairead would no longer have any influence over him. His spirits lifted slightly at the idea. He was certain that the injured site would heal quickly. Mairead had taken off the poultice, and for the past while had dutifully sprinkled yarrow powder over the cut. So far the terrible pain he experienced had changed into a small niggling awareness. The injury had taken more out of him than expected. And as much as he hated the delay, he knew that his body demanded that he rest for another day or so.
Thom leaned his head back onto the tree trunk, half listening to Makolm’s performance. The strains brought him back to a simpler time in his life, and sudden feelings of nostalgia and regret washed over him. Music was a part of his life in that period, but as reality wrapped its unforgiving grip on him, he chose to take up the sword. Except that direction only took him deeper into the abyss. By then the desire to play music had all but deserted him, and the hollowness in his heart grew to expand the entire organ.
But as the soft tunes from the lute floated into the sky, it slowly penetrated into his being, temporarily filling his empty heart like rays of sunlight. Long forgotten memories came flooding back. His fingers almost ached to strum across the tight cords, and his voice longed to fill the air with melody.
The music stopped. “I’m going tae search for more vegetation,” Makolm said as he started to set his instrument aside.
Thom gazed at the elegant device. “May I?” he asked.
His question caught the scholar by surprise. “Of course,” he said, handing over his lute.
Thom took the wooden instrument, and placed the leather strap over his head. It felt as if he donned an old, beloved jacket. Bending his head, he closed his eyes as his fingers skimmed over the strings, the beautiful sounds momentarily chasing away the darkness.
Mairead watched as Thom began to perform. It surprised her that the messenger would have any interest in making music. But then the strains lifted into the air, and penetrated the deep recesses of her being. She looked at him with wonder. How could a man who was so large and intimidating handle a delicate device with such ease and depth of feeling? It was the same simple object that Makolm played, yet when Thom performed it, the music sounded different. The music contained a haunting beauty, as if pain, sorrow, grief and passion weaved in and out of the notes.
She got up from her seat and moved closer to him. He continued to play as if he was possessed by the melodies.
“Thom?” she said.
“Aye?” His eyes opened abruptly, and he blinked as if he tried to remember where he was. She hesitated, unsure whether she should have disturbed him. But she realized that she had already broken the spell. She yearned to hear more music, and she instinctively knew that he would perform beautifully.
“Will ye play Findley’s Lass?” She held her breath, half expecting his refusal.
“All right,” he said.
The breath in her lungs burst out in a rush. Mairead let out a happy sound and settled down across from him.
Thom dropped his gaze to the lute as his fingers glided over the strings, his stroking movements caressing the cords as if it was a lover. As soon as his deep, masculine voice drifted into the air, she felt her heart go still. His smooth voice flowed into her, and she wrapped her arms around herself as she listened to the lyrics.
As I walked all alone
I heard ye call my name
When I turned I couldnae find ye
I continued through the empty moors
I climbed o’er the rolling hills
And descended the misty glens
Alas I dinnae see your bonny blue eyes
I couldnae find your gentle smile
When will I meet ye again o fair lass?
When will I meet ye?
The wind shall sweep
O’er the heathers forever more
And I will keep on walking…
The soulful sound of his song faded as his fingers ran lightly across the strings of the lute.
“That was lovely,” she reached up to wipe a tear that formed at the corner of her eye. Her voice felt husky, and she delicately cleared her throat. It was apparent that this warrior was familiar with love and loss. Most likely it was Cristiona that he sang about.
“That was quite outstanding,” Makolm said, clapping his hands. “I heard the song performed before but never like this. Where did ye acquire your talent?”
“A monk taught me long ago,” Thom handed the musical device back to Makolm. “I should go
tae the burn tae wash up.”
“Well I should go, and do more drawings,” Makolm said, picking up the leather-bound sketchbook that was next to him.
As the group disassembled, Mairead got up as well. Thom’s music had moved her, and as if he possessed some magnetic pull, she found herself following him.
“I had nay idea that ye were sae guid,” she called to him. “I’m certain that if ye were tae play at Tancraig Castle, ye would be well received.”
He glanced behind him and appeared surprised to see her.
“Thank ye,” he said, a ghost of a smile flickered across his lips. “But I’m nae interested in making music.”
“I dinnae understand,” she said, fighting to keep the disappointment from her voice. “Ye have great skill.”
He bent to cup his hands in the stream. “Playing music is nay longer what I do.”
“This is a loss.” She stood back. Holding her hands behind her back, she resisted the urge to spin him around, and make him understand the rarity of his gift.
Thom shrugged and splashed water onto his face and neck. When he straightened, he pinned her with his gaze.
“Sae tell me, why dinnae ye just marry William MacTyrnell?” he asked. “If ye did, ye wouldnae have tae go tae all this trouble of getting tae Bracken Ridge.”
For a moment his question caught her off guard. “Well, I — I cannae stand that idea of spending the rest of my life with the laird.”
“Why? Is he sae terrible?”
She frowned as she recalled the image of the laird. If she was truthful with herself, she would admit that he was a handsome man, even if he was older and appeared forbidding. “Nay, nae terrible,” she said finally. “He appears a just and fair laird…”
“But?”
“But I dinnae ken anything about him,” she said, crossing her arms defensively across her chest. Her sister believed that she sought Blane for love. The truth was she sought him to secure her future. “Some men beat their wives and treat them little better than servants. While ‘tis true that the MacTyrnell has an honorable reputation, I cannae be certain of his true nature. If I accept him as a husband, and later discover that he has a black, controlling heart…” She shook her head. “Nay, I cannae risk it.”