Her Highland Destiny

by Leanne Burroughs

  He rose and dressed before traipsing outside to gather yew boughs to decorate the small room Catherine set aside for a chapel. His gift to her. Tiny, it barely accommodated twenty people, but his clansmen would wander in and out all day.

  He opened the chapel door and the fragrance of evergreens wafted out. He lit a candle, held it aloft to survey the room and stared in amazement. Catherine had already decorated. Tables lined the walls and were bedecked with candles and evergreens. He noticed a white cloth on the small altar and walked forward to examine it. Had Catherine done the intricate needlework? Thinking back, he’d often seen her ply her needle late into the night. Swirls of vines and flowers covered the cloth, a detailed crèche on each end. The complex stitches were flawless. The perfect gift to pass to Meggie when she wed.

  He walked around and lit every candle, then went to fetch Meggie and his beautiful wife.

  Catherine held Meggie on her lap during the observance. Although Meggie was big enough to sit on her own, Catherine had an overwhelming urge to hold her. The thought of God’s son being born brought special meaning to the birth of all children. Sorrow overwhelmed her, knowing she’d never cradle a babe of her own.

  She realized Duncan watched her. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment when he gazed lovingly into her face. Surely she just imagined it, just mists from her wistful dreams.

  After the holy service Duncan took Catherine’s hand and led her to the trestle table in the Hall. Once seated, servants delivered the special courses. Duncan suspected Cook had gone to great pains to ensure Catherine’s first Christmas day dinner would be everything she expected.

  The main course was roasted goose with rows of tiny beetroots around it. Also served were bannock cakes of oatmeal, a traditional Christmas treat.

  Catherine had never had one before—never wanted one again. Inwardly she doubted she’d be able to finish it. Was it her imagination or was it growing larger as she chewed?

  Afterward, Duncan and Catherine presented Meggie with a new rag doll. Wanting it to be perfect, Catherine spent sennights making it. She’d sewn by candlelight in their chamber so there’d be no chance of the child seeing it. Her perfect stitches fashioned the face after Meghan’s.

  The child’s eyes grew wide with delight and she rushed to hug both parents.

  While she ran around and showed everyone her dollie, Catherine smiled shyly and handed Duncan a white linen shirt she’d made sennights earlier.

  Startled, he’d not expected a gift from her.

  He sat Catherine down before the hearth’s warmth, walked behind her and drew something from his white fur sporran. He placed a delicate chain around her neck. When he extended his hand, he held a bracelet with three bright red rubies.

  “Duncan!” She touched her necklace, her eyes holding a question.

  “Aye,” he confirmed. “It matches the necklace. The three stones are for you, me, and Meggie. Our smith crafted it for you.”

  Catherine swallowed and stared at the beautiful red gems. “I cannot possibly...”

  “Ah, but you must, my heart. ‘Tis a gift.” Before she could voice her dissent, he added, “From me and Meggie.”

  Meggie chose that moment to reappear, smiling at sight of the necklace. “Do you like it, Mam? ‘Tis from me and Da.”

  Duncan knew Catherine well enough to know she’d never hurt Meggie’s feelings by not accepting it. He’d thoroughly thought that theory through before deciding what to gift her with.

  When it grew dark, Duncan headed to the door to remove Catherine and Meghan’s mantles from the nearby pegs. He wrapped the pair of them and pulled the hoods over their heads. He held out the hand warmers Catherine and Meghan received that morn.

  Meggie’s eyes gleamed. “Da, I look like Mam.” Duncan nodded, acknowledging her delight. He’d watched her emulating Catherine over several moons, giving him the idea of gifting them with the same item. Meggie’s happiness told him he’d been right.

  He took Catherine’s arm and led her outside. “Some of our men build a balefire.” As they approached their friends, people danced around the fire to the playing of bagpipes. The day had been perfect.

  ~ * ~

  Tamara arrived early the following morn, having spent Christmas day with her father.

  She shook the snow off her burgundy mantle and stomped it off her soft brown leather boots, before giving Catherine a cursory hug and heading to the hearth.

  Tamara held her hands in front of the flames and turned to face her brother. “I hoped you would not have lit a fire.”

  Duncan frowned at his sister. “You wish us to freeze? ‘Tis cold, woman. Of course Angus lit our fire.”

  Duncan walked to Tamara and placed his hands on her shoulders. He scanned her face, not liking the agitation he saw. “What has you upset?”

  Tamara whispered, “The ashes.”

  Duncan stiffened and they locked eyes. “Ashes?” His brows dipped into a frown.

  “Aye, I had trouble sleeping, so I was up early. I saw a footstep.”

  “Och, ‘tis naught but an old wives tale.” Duncan’s voice sounded unconvincing.

  Catherine watched in wide-eyed amazement. “What are you talking about?”

  Duncan turned, moved Tamara with him. He looked over his sister’s head. “There is an ancient custom that has to do with ashes the morn after a Christmas fire.” He stopped and said no more, but laid his head atop Tamara’s. Her body shook, bravely trying to stay her tears.

  “And?” Catherine prodded.

  Without a word, Tamara burst into tears.

  Duncan closed his eyes and held her closer. He opened them when he felt a hand pressed lightly to his arm.

  “Duncan, please. What is wrong?”

  He sighed and looked into his wife’s worried eyes. “Auld folks check the ashes the morn after Christmas. If a footprint appears, they believe it foretells events that shall happen during the upcoming year. A print facing the door foretells of death.”

  Tamara sobbed, “It faced the door. Duncan, I swear ‘twas a footprint. It must forewarn of Da’s death. He has not been well, you know.”

  ~ * ~

  Soon it was Night of Candles for Hogmanay. Duncan followed Cat about as she put finishing touches to the trestle table trying to explain the tradition of First Footers to Catherine.

  “Rubbish,” Catherine exclaimed. “You are a smart man, husband. I cannot understand how you can possibly believe dark hair indicates good luck.”

  “Most Scots have dark or red hair,” Angus interrupted. “Norse invaders usually had light hair and fair complexions. Their vicious raids brought cruelty and hard times to our lands, so we tend to look upon such people warily.”

  A glint of understanding appeared in Cat’s eyes.

  To change the subject, Duncan drew Catherine to her feet and led her over to the chair before the roaring hearth. Seating her gently, he presented her with a beautiful brooch.

  “Duncan! ‘Tis beautiful.”

  Leaning forward, he took it from her fingers and fastened it on the swath of MacThomas plaide flung over her shoulder. He took her face gently in his hands and kissed her.

  “I have naught for you,” she fretted. “I only prepared a present for Christmas.”

  A smile spread across Duncan’s face. “You are all the gift I need.”

  A flush crept up her cheeks.

  As midnight approached, Cat’s anticipation grew. She found the festive atmosphere around them intoxicating.

  When a knock sounded at the door, she jumped. They’d not been jesting. They’d really expected a visitor.

  She followed behind Duncan to see who was there. When Duncan drew the door open, Catherine couldn’t stand the suspense. She poked her head around his large shoulder and saw Alex, accompanied by Duncan’s cousin, Euan.

  She stood on tip-toe to look into Duncan’s eyes over his shoulder. “Does he count as a visitor? He lives on your land.”

  Duncan laughed. “Anyone who does not live in th
e house is a visitor, lass.”

  Alex brought all three Hogmanay offerings, or handsels. He carried a basket of food, drink and fuel for the fire. Duncan boomed, “Come everyone. Let us eat. Thank you for the gifts, Alasdair.” He poured Alex a goblet of wine.

  Catherine’s brows drew together. “Why do you always call him Alasdair?”

  Duncan laughed. “Because ‘tis his name. Why else would I call him that? You would rather I called him Geoffrey?”

  She glared and placed her hand on her hip. “Duncan MacThomas, do not make fun of me. His name is Alexander.”

  “Actually”—Duncan rocked back on his heels and thoroughly enjoyed himself—“his mam named him Alasdair. ‘Tis Gaelic for Alexander. We all have Gaelic names.”

  “You are just making fun of me.” She started to walk away, then quickly turned back. “What would your name be?”

  “Donnchadh,” came Duncan’s smug reply.

  Of a sudden, she smiled. She’d outsmarted him. “Catherine?”

  Duncan thought a moment before a smile of satisfaction spread across his face. “Mo Chride.”

  Exasperated, she stomped her foot. “Sweetheart is not Gaelic for Catherine.”

  “Och, in your case it is.” He strode over and drew her into his arms. He bent and kissed her thoroughly, heedless of everyone present. Breaking the kiss, he took her hand and led her to the head table.

  “‘Tis time to eat, my heart.”

  Afterwards, Alex headed to the hearth and threw the coal he’d brought with him onto the fire. Looking out over the room, he told his friends, “A good New Year to one and all and many may you see.”

  Duncan held Catherine close. He couldn’t think of a better way to usher in the new year than to spend it nearby his wife. His arms lovingly holding her. Bidding his clansmen good eve, he led Catherine upstairs. The look in his eyes told her exactly what he had in mind.

  Chapter Eighteen

  1305

  Exhausted from lack of sleep, Catherine yawned and opened her eyes wide in an effort to stay awake. As they sat at the trestle tables that spanned the hall, Duncan smiled, clearly pleased with himself. He’d let her sleep not at all and she’d delighted in his attentions. She blushed thinking of it. In their bedchamber she could forget he didn’t want her. If only it wasn’t the only place he desired her.

  Catherine blinked as she listened to how many young women had gone to Castle Glenshee to participate in what Duncan called the Creaming of the Well. As chieftain, his father presided over the annual ceremony. While they broke their fast, Duncan explained, “Unwed maidens race to the well in hopes of being the first to draw the water. If they succeed and get their true love to drink it afore day’s end, they shall be wed within the year. ‘Tis a ceremony I always made certain to avoid.”

  Catherine listened to his story with mixed emotions. She thought it a sweet tradition—a woman filled with expectation trying to win a man she loves. Hoping he’d love her back. Laughter caught in her throat. Pain lanced her heart. She’d believed in love…once. That seemed so long ago—certainly before the king ordered someone to wed her who wanted naught to do with her.

  Exhaustion fogging her mind, she spoke from the heart. “I am glad I need not participate. No one would drink water I drew.”

  At the shocked expression on Duncan’s face, she realized what she’d said. Would he think her chasing after a compliment? Or would he pity her, seeing the truth of her words? She rose, rushing into the kitchen before Duncan responded.

  She stood just beyond the door, wiping away tears and feeling like a silly fool. Why can I not stay my tears? ‘Tis not proper to let them see me cry. I am no better than children when they skin their knees. At least they have an excuse. I am just...weak.

  Why did hearing the simple tradition make her fall apart? Because she wanted to believe again. Wanted to have hope.

  Needing to escape Cook’s watchful eyes, she ran outside, only to find herself knee deep in snow. I cannot even escape successfully. No wonder Duncan does not want me. Thoughts continued to swirl. Chin up, she told herself sternly. Trevor would be mortified if he witnessed such conduct. What did he tell me the day I wed? ‘You can do anything if you put your mind to it.’

  Catherine dropped to the snow and let her tears fall. So much for getting hold of herself! Her husband didn’t want her, she couldn’t control her emotions and she’d landed in a family that believed true love came from drinking water! As if it was that simple. Duncan wouldn’t love her no matter what. Bound to her by God’s law, he tolerated her presence, naught else.

  Her feet were wet—and she was freezing. She’d run outside without boots or even a mantle over her green kirtle.

  The door opened and Duncan appeared. He took one look at her sitting in the snow crying and shook his head. Walking toward her, he squatted in front of her, his hand gently brushing her hair from her tear stained face. His eyes searched hers for a long moment, but held an unreadable expression. She gulped and sniffled, trying to stay her tears, not wanting to be a complete ninny. He caressed the side of her face, then gently kissed her forehead, his eyes holding a trace of a smile. He rose and picked her up in his arms like a child. His tenderness summoned more tears as she twined her arms around his neck and buried her face against his neck, feeling safe in his arms.

  Saying nothing, Duncan carried her into the warmth of his Hall.

  ~ * ~

  The new year started with bitter snow storms. Shivering, everyone rushed inside as soon as they finished chores. Duncan, silly man that he was, thought it bracing. Catherine rarely ventured outside. Cooped inside the house for days, she spent hours plying her needle on a new kirtle for Meggie with other women before the hearth. She even tried her hand at spinning wool, a task she had neither knack nor patience for. Her strands went from too fat to too thin. Siobhán’s nimble fingers pulled and worked the wool from the bundle while her foot kept a steady rhythm on the peddle, allowing her to spin the finest strands of wool Catherine had ever seen.

  She went back to her sewing and spent the rest of the evening listening to the seanchaidh tell his tales.

  A sennight after the storms began, Duncan delighted her with an unexpected offer. “Would you like to learn how to play Chess? I could teach you.”

  Pleased he offered, Catherine nodded. Duncan was a patient teacher, and she thought herself an apt student. They played most evenings, enjoying the comfort of the other’s company.

  Concentrating on the game, she was surprised when he brushed the back of his knuckles over her cheek.

  She swallowed hard. “Are you trying to distract me, my lord husband?”

  Duncan smiled, his eyes alight with mischief. “Distracting you, my love, is one of my many joys.”

  Catherine glanced around the hall to see if anyone heard him. Why would he say such a thing? Like the women, Duncan’s men also gathered in the Hall. Some sat on the floor, others on benches around tables, but none seemed to be paying attention to Duncan and her. She dipped her chin and pretended absorption in the game.

  Rubbing his chin, Duncan watched Catherine surveying the Hall. It was obvious his statement shocked her. There had to be some way to tear down the protective barrier she’d built around herself and he was determined to try every one of them.

  His men filled their time sharpening knives and whittling small animals to amuse the children, but he knew they felt restless, wishing to be outside. He did. Watching the men ply their knives, he thought of the apples they’d placed in barrels filled with straw after the harvest. Below the frost line in the ground, they’d be as fresh as ever. Smiling in satisfaction, he called to Alex. When the young man came, Duncan whispered orders to retrieve the precious apples.

  When Alex returned a short time later with two youths carrying baskets laden with apples, Duncan rose to meet them.

  “Thank you, Alasdair.” He called to the youngsters. “Come quickly.” Passing each child an apple, he said, “Take one to every person inside the Hall
.” They scampered off in all directions delivering apples. They returned to fetch more from the baskets and raced back to hand them out, squealing with delight.

  Several young men gathered near the hearth and the ladies at their sewing. Catherine watched as they used their knives with painstaking care to keep the skin intact. Some swore when peelings broke. Laughing at her puzzled expression, Duncan leaned forward to explain, “They try to peel it so the whole skin comes off at once, not breaking.”

  “Why?”

  “If they toss it over their shoulder and glance around quickly, they shall see their true love.”

  Catherine looked dubious.

  “Care to try it? Or are you coward?”

  With the gauntlet thrown, Catherine had every intention of peeling the apple and keeping the skin intact. Not because of his silly tale, but to prove she could do it. Reaching into her belt for the jeweled knife he’d given her, she wondered why Duncan challenged her. Concentrating on the apple, she took her time and peeled it perfectly. A smile crossed her face. She’d done it. Peeled the apple all by herself!

  She looked at the peel in her hand and wondered what to do with it. Oh, why not? Allowing herself no time to think further, she tossed the peel behind her. Surprised to hear a sudden burst of giggling children, she turned to look over her shoulder. Duncan stood there with the peel between finger and thumb. His smile turned into a wide grin as he passed it to one of the children.

  Catherine’s smile faded. Why would he tell her that story? He had to know she’d rise to the challenge. And he deliberately placed himself behind her, to be the one to catch it. Why? Upset, she started to shake. She wanted to believe in happily ever after. She had when she’d been a child, but now she knew better. But then why...? Was this Duncan’s way of telling her something or did he just delight in torturing her?