Chieftain's Rebel

by Frances Housden

  “Do ye mean that?”

  “I wouldnae have said it otherwise, but…” she felt sensible enough not to dive into this head-first, the way she had watched Rory swimming and diving amongst the waves in the Ness. That was the first time she had seen him naked, had set eyes on the body that had driven her wild and tempted to pay Nils back at his own game of being unfaithful as well as hurtful. “I’m not saying I want to get married straight away…”

  “We could be hand-fasted, until ye are sure.”

  He came out with it so swiftly she knew he felt as desperate as she did but would settle, compromise, to make sure they got it right, for Axel’s sake. “I believe that would be more than satisfactory.” She couldnae hide her smile, her pleasure. Nor did she want to when he climbed up on the bed and pulled her into his arms as she pushed up on her knees eager to meet him. Soon his weight sent her sprawling backward his mouth following her down their tongues tangling, straining as the mattress caught them. Winding her legs around his waist, sighed at the welcoming pressure of the round tip of his erection pressing into her damp folds, demanding entrance.

  It felt as if his kiss would ne’er end, she ne’er wanted it to end, then he dragged his mouth away from hers with a groan. “They’re waiting for us in the Great Hall.”

  She tightened her grip round his neck and waist, rubbing herself against him. “We can be quick. Ye know we can. Ye dinnae even need to undo yer belt. Just pull up yer plaid and push me down onto ye.” Ainsel hated having to plead, but she hadnae another thought in her head than having him inside her, filling her up like only he could. “I love ye, Rory. Take me up where the gods go afore I have to come back to earth.”

  “I ne’er can resist a bonnie lass whau wants to please me, as long as I can pleasure her in return.” He did remove his belt, and plaid, and shirt. Her shift he tore frae neck to hem afore he thrust inside. She had asked for fast, swift thrusts to drive her up to that plain the gods dwelt on until she floated, more lightheaded than she had felt that morning yet safe because she had Rory to hang onto as her womb seemed to gasp and threw them both into Walhalla and, unlike that first time, each crying out the other’s name.

  The Great Hall was full. The boards running the length of the Hall already had ale spilt on them as folk juggled bread and meat, elbows jostling. Rory took Ainsel’s hand as they walked into the Hall, taking the straightest route to where his father and mother sat at the high board—the Chieftain and his Lady.

  “Here Rory,’ his father called and with a wave of the hand indicated the two places opposite him and Kathryn. “Sitting back to the hall,” he told them, “but it cannae be helped with so many important guests.”

  “Ah, well, we are tardy,” he said with a wink at Ainsel that made her blush.”

  “Sit down, sit down. Ainsel, what will ye have to drink, lass, wine or ale?”

  Rory watched her look at the dark red wine with a slight curl of her lips. “She’d probably rather have her wine watered, but afore we sit down we have something of import to say.”

  His mother’s eyes widened and her jaw dropped slightly while Gavyn grinned. “So mayhap we should be getting out the quaish and the Uisge beatha?”

  “Nae, not yet.” Rory pulled Ainsel closer to his side and took her hand, slipping his fingers betwixt hers and lifted them to chest height so all could see. “In front of all these witnesses, Ainsel and I would like to say that we have become hand-fasted.”

  “I too confirm that this is true,” Ainsel said in clear voice that all at the high board could hear as ale tankards were banged atop the board at the announcement.

  His mother was the only one whau appeared disappointment. “Ach, I thought we were about to have a wedding. There’s Axel, my grandson, to consider.”

  “Kathryn,” he said in a tone he’d occasionally heard his father use. “Ainsel has only been at Dun Bhuird one day—nae one afternoon. She needs a chance to get used to all of this, us.”

  “I’m certain it willnae take o’er long,” Ainsel whispered almost apologetically.

  Rory felt a growl ripple up the back of his throat. “It will be as we wish, marriage or nae marriage, Dun Bhuird or Caithness. The choice will ours but I’ll tell ye for naught, whatever happens it will be our decision, Ainsel’s and mine.”

  His father had the last word, “Will ye listen to that, Kathryn? I always said Rory took after his mother.” Afore Kathryn could say aught, Gavyn got to his feet and with his hands making wee circles encouraged all at the high board to join him. “I give ye Rory Farquharson, my son, heir, and biggest rebel, and the lass brave enough to take him on.”

  Chapter 35

  Three and a half months later, early September

  They were all going to Cragenlaw, Rory, his mother, father and her—Ainsel—his intended bride. Aye, they were going there to be wed. It would be a joint celebration, one that had originally been intended as a gathering to commemorate the fortieth year of the McArthur and his wife Morag’s meeting. Calder and Gilda were already wed—within a week of arriving at Dun Bhuird. Such certainty. But then neither of them had experienced the pangs of guilt that had made Ainsel doubt herself—doubt that Rory could love someone so undeserving.

  Considering her grandfather had been o’er three score years and ten when he died—a great age for a Norseman—she wondered why none of them had thought to honour his birth, and here they were about honour forty years of not-quite-marriage alongside a new not-quite-marriage.

  From the outside, folk might look at her and Rory and think she had given in quickly. They probably thought she saw all the wealth at Dun Bhuird and changed her mind. She had seen wealth—a wealth of love and friendship and family. At Dun Bhuird she would never be lonely, for that was what she had seen ahead of her at Caithness—loneliness, even with Nils dead. Afore then he’d kept her isolated, made sure that all she had was her grandfather and now she didnae even have him—but she had Rory.

  Aye she did. Rory and Axel and another bairn in her belly waiting to be born and loved.

  Whau could ask for more?

  Euan McArthur hadnae expected to host a gathering such as this again in his lifetime, after the time when he and Morag were wed but, once more, every skerrick of Cragenlaw was full to o’erflowing. So many folk were there that for once Euan could pass unnoticed in the crush of clansmen and guests in the passages and Great Hall.

  It was nae use thinking he could go into the kitchen for a wee bit of peace, for even there the place was all abustle. Euan sniffed the air. He had to admit that the scents frae the cooking food made his mouth water, but he knew better than to sneak a pastry. As Rob had learnt when he was young, the cook always had eyes in the back of her head. The one in charge was the daughter of the cook running the kitchen when Morag and Rob arrived at Cragenlaw in that nightmarish storm.

  The night Astrid died.

  She hadnae deserved that. None of his first three wives had merited dying in childbirth, and he felt the need to take some responsibility for that, but in the eyes of the clan, as an only son, the onus for producing an heir had been on him because of his promise to his father.

  The outcome might have been different had he known of Rob’s existence, but a generation later, they had learned frae Nhaimeth’s wee wife, Rowena that it was all part of a bigger plan and they were all involved. He was probably a heap more sceptical than the rest of his family, but they would all laugh if he said so, given that he had refused to marry Morag until she was past childbearing age because of the curse.

  Gavyn Farquhar led the way across the spit of land joining Cragenlaw to the mainland for this celebration of his sister Morag and Euan McArthur’s first meeting—all in all, a momentous day for the Farquhar family. Gavyn had then had eighteen years under his belt, big, strong and heir to Baron Wolfsdale, ready to fight under his father’s banner. Morag had saved Euan’s life on the same Northumbrian battlefield where Gavyn’s younger brother Doughall had tried to rob Gavyn of his life but succeeded only in ro
bbing him of his memory, so much so that for twelve years he had believed himself a Scot and had fought as a mercenary for Malcolm Canmore.

  He might have been born in Wolfsdale, but so many of the turning points in his life had happened at Cragenlaw. Even now, as he rode up to the castle, he had only to look up to imagine Kalem, his brother’s catamite, hanging frae a gibbet above the gatehouse as a warning to Doughall—one he didnae heed, and it had cost him his life.

  It wasnae till then that he discovered whau, in truth, he was.

  Aye, Cragenlaw was the place where both his and Kathryn’s lives had been changed by violent deaths on the same day, his brother Doughall and her father, Erik the Bear—a commonality that had done naught to bring them together and nae one could accuse them of simply acquiescing to the marriage King Malcolm had arranged. He must have been scowling, for as they rode into the lower bailey he felt Kathryn’s hand on his thigh. “What is troubling ye, my love? Have ye had second thoughts about Rory and Ainsel getting married at Cragenlaw? Are ye remembering all the violence that seems to occur at the weddings held here?”

  Kathryn looked up at him frae her chestnut palfrey as they walked the horses in the direction of the stables, waiting for an answer that she didnae necessarily need. “Ye have to admit that for all the fights and murders, once the vows have been made, every one of the marriages has taken well.”

  “None as well as ours,” Gavyn said, for he knew it would make her happy. As he dismounted, he turned around to lift her out of the saddle, settling the matter with, “But then we were married at Dun Bhuird.”

  Although he nae longer lived at Cragenlaw, it always felt for Jamie Ruthven as if he was coming home. Most of his youth had been spent here, a time shared with Rob and Nhaimeth while the McArthur taught them the craft of war—an essential art for any Scot.

  His family connections went back farther than the day his father left him with the McArthur, since one of his sisters had been the McArthur’s second wife, and his youngest sister had married Graeme McArthur, Euan’s cousin, and lived with him and a bundle of bairns in a Keep to the southwest of the McArthur lands, with the McArthur’s permission to form their own clan sept. Nae doubt they too would be here today.

  There had been four young lads in the beginning, for one couldnae ignore Nhaimeth and, wherever Rob went, Nhaimeth wouldnae be far behind. It had cut them all to the quick when Alexander Comlyn had been murdered by Kalem during the Moor’s abduction of Rob, especially since Alexander had just begun to stop behaving as if he was better than them. Comlyns had always had a high opinion of their worth, or so he’d been told. Thankfully that had changed with Gavyn in charge.

  Jamie had to admit he had gone wild—heartsick and out for revenge—after Brodwyn Comlyn had taken a notion to teaching him all the ways a man could fuck a lassie then played him for a fool—had played them all for fools when she ran off with her cousin Harald to Caithness, dragging Kathryn and Lhilidh with them. After that, he determined ne’er to let a lassie hurt him like that again. For years he had slaked his needs with willing lassies, aye, and wives whau were nae better than they purported to be.

  Then he met Evie and all that was forgotten in the arms of true love. Now they had a brood of three bairns, two lads and a lassie whau were auld enough to ride with their parents to Cragenlaw. Even his auld father, the Ruthven Chieftain had made shift to come with them to this grand celebration. Evie had said the festivities were about love and there were times he was inclined to agree with her. As for his bairns, all they had in mind was running wild with Rob’s, Gavyn’s and Nhaimeth’s children around Cragenlaw, the way he had when he was their age.

  If anything bothered him about the gathering, it was the knowledge that Merida Comlyn would accompany her aunt and uncle. She reminded him so much of her mother and yon black days when Brodwyn had twisted his mind, his heart and his soul.

  Jamie turned to look at Evie riding her bonnie white palfrey and the picture was enough to still his concerns. To him she symbolised love. When he thought of what they had gone through to reach this point, their wedding at Cragenlaw in the chapel and the murder of Evie’s uncle during the dinner. Violence begat violence and Hadron Buchan had boasted of killing not only Evie’s mother, but his as well. Needless to say, his death had ended the feud betwixt the Ruthven Clan and the Buchan Clan—a conclusion neither he nor his darling Evie looked back on with regret.

  Aye, Cragenlaw had played a big part in his life, and because of that he would always look upon the castle with love and affection.

  Rob watched on as Melinda fussed o’er Harry and Ralf, making sure they were dressed in their best Highland garb and ready to go downstairs with them, ready to greet the guests who were coming to stay for the gathering tomorrow. The lads were excited, and nae matter how much Melinda fussed, the lads would be looking as rough as cateran after racing frae the top to the bottom of the castle playing hide-and-go-seek with their cousins and friends. For himself, he would have chosen the stables, a favourite haunt of his and Nhaimeth’s when they were that age, or, rather, when he was. Nhaimeth had only looked young because of his size.

  He was well aware his sons and Nhaimeth’s son Ghillie had been eagerly awaiting the arrival of Gavyn’s crew, especially Merida. They had only to be in the same place together for one to notice their closeness. Merida made him chuckle, she was as unlike her mother as could be, so earnest; she took her position as aunt to her older cousins Harry, Ralf and Ghillie seriously, and though he thought his lads sometimes took a lend of her—pretending to heed her advice—it was all in jest.

  He and Melinda had what had once been the Chieftain’s chambers, the McArthur having added a whole new tower o’er looking the sea to the south. It was difficult not to be drawn into memories of the first time he saw Nhaimeth crouched outside the solar, weeping for the loss of his sister Astrid. He knew folks looked at the pair of them sideways with a lift of the brow. However, neither of them, neither he nor Nhaimeth, could be bothered taking offence—human nature being what it was—for their friendship had stuck. Nhaimeth had been with Rob through more adventures, aye and scares, than any other living being, including his mother and father. Rob only hoped that his sons would find the same kind of close kinship with Merida and Ghillie that he and Nhaimeth had shared.

  Rob looked at Melinda. It was difficult to see her as the mother of seventeen-year-auld twins, for in his eyes, she had hardly changed frae the young lass he had fallen in love with while being held for ransom by her father, Henry La Mont—a Norman whau, coincidentally, lived in the manor of Wolfsdale that had replaced the auld wooden building where he had been born. Nae more than a trifle, ye might think, but there had been long-remembered secrets of Wolfsdale that had helped him steal away Melinda and the twins frae under La Mont’s nose.

  The Norman had had the nerve to chase after them, even to enter Cragenlaw without invitation in the midst of Nhaimeth and Rowena’s nuptial blessings—another violent wedding, and not the reputation his father had ever sought, but then ye took what came yer way and made the best of it, tied a knot and moved on. Aye, there had been blood aplenty, and would have been more if he’d had his way. The trouble was the McArthur always seemed to be right. It wouldnae have done to kill his wife’s father, nae matter how bad a bastard he was. Best to ignore him and get on with their lives, which they had done.

  The pity of it was, seventeen-year-auld lads were curious, starting to feel their oats and to let curiosity get the better of them, their heads filled with stories of the prophecy, thanks to Ghillie and his mother, Rowena. It was all he could do to keep them busy, training for war and learning what was required of a future chieftain, the way he had.

  Harry would be chieftain after the McArthur and himself were nae more. Until then, he would do his best to temper the twins’ characters. Harry was the more stable of the two lads, but sometimes he caught a wicked gleam in Ralf’s eyes and a silent communication betwixt the two that made him wonder what lay ahead. One thing he wa
s certain of: it wouldnae be boring.

  As the four of them—Melinda, himself, and his twin lads—descended the worn granite stairs that led frae their side of the Keep into the Hall, he mused o’er his previous thoughts and laughed to himself. He didnae know what he was worrying about. There wasnae a living soul in Scotland whau could say Rob McArthur’s life had been boring, so it was up to his sons to keep up the tradition.

  “Come on, Da. Hurry up. The twins and Merida will be waiting for us outside under Astrid’s bairn’s tree.” Nhaimeth let Ghillie pull him along to meet with the three, aulder members of his generation outside in the grassy square to the east side of the upper bailey.

  They ducked through the brewery to get there, fortunate not to get rolled over by one the big barrels of ale needed outside for the crowds that would fill the lower bailey. Nhaimeth had already seen the spits erected and fires set, ready to roast whole beasts for the housecarls and clansmen whau the Great Hall just couldnae accommodate. He could imagine the scents that would fill the air: pork, mutton, beef and venison. Nae one would leave thinking the McArthur had stinted the occasion. The brewery had its own scents: hops and barley and yeast—a green medley and a fitting place the Green Lady to hide when she visited.

  Outside, the tree flourished where he, Rob and Morag had buried the afterbirth frae Astrid’s stillborn bairn. It was in this tree they had all seen the Green Lady for the first time, saw her in truth in a way nae tales and legends of the auld gods could capture. Nhaimeth had known she approved of this gift they had given to the tree, and the gods and been on their side ever since. Whau else but the auld gods would have sent the ravens to lead them through the tunnel under the waterfall to rescue his half-sister, Kathryn. Or have sent the white deer to lead them away frae the Normans after King Malcolm and his heir were killed at the battle of Alnwick.

  Not only led them away, but took Nhaimeth to his darlin’ Rowena and a love and a life he ne’er imagined a dwarf such as he could e’er live. Rowena was a seer, a gift she had passed down to Ghillie, the lad pulling at his sleeve, determined his wee father would make haste.