by Sandy Blair
Why? Because he did want the damn hay, wanted to gorge until he was bloated, ready to burst. Wanted to wallow in it, roll in it. He wanted Birdalane Shame with an intensity that bordered on pain. He just couldn’t have her. Not and keep his word. Not and get Donaliegh. To be his own man for the first time in his sorry life.
Ian shook his head, his expression saying, “Ye’re pathetic,” and then yawned. He rose. “Well, what shall it be then? The floor or the bed? I’ll take whichever ye dinna want.”
Angus, his teeth aching from the pressure of his clenched jaws, went to the bed. Eyes glaring, he faced his friend, stripped, and climbed in beside his naked Birdi. “Dinna forget to gut the candle.”
He’d get no sleep this night.
~#~
Coming out of the last croft to their east, Fegan Macarthur raked his gaze the length of Crianlarich village, looking for his brother. Spying Robbie exiting the last croft to the west, he ran toward him. “Anything?”
“Nay, no one has seen hide or hair of the Blood, his horse, or our spae.”
Fegan blew out a breath and cursed. “My instincts were right. We should have turned west. What now? I say we backtrack.”
They’d wasted precious time heading north following their liege’s orders; they and their mounts were exhausted, and the Macarthur was, nay doubt, at home readying to lop off a head.
His brother raked his hands through his unkempt hair and looked at the moon. It was already halfway through its arc toward the western mountains. “We eat, then head south. We haven’t time for sleep, but they, thinking they do, will. If the fates are kind, we’ll catch up with them by sunset tomorrow.”
Fegan, greatly relieved, nodded. The sooner they were done with this business the sooner he’d be home, spae in hand. His Mary’s houghmagandie was due to start at any time, and he didn’t want his wife birthing without the spae. He’d die if he lost his Mary. Aye, he would.
~#~
Birdi awoke to the comforting sound of Angus’s guttural purring and with the warm weight of a relaxed but heavy arm about her waist. In her sleep, she’d rolled and thrown a leg over one of his powerful thighs. Her head rested on his shoulder, and her right hand, fingers splayed, threaded through the fine, dark, curling hairs glazing his fine chest.
A fortnight ago, she’d have screeched finding herself in such a position with a naked man. Now, she could only stare in awe at the powerful chest beneath her hand.
Goddess, he is most glorious, is he not?
But like Wee Angus, not for her to keep, unless Ian the Golden Man had worked some magic during the night. And she seriously doubted he had.
She’d watched Angus most carefully last night as they ate the wondrous pies together by candlelight. Angus had appeared agitated, though he’d been less withdrawn. He’d touched her, had covered her with a blanket, but ‘twas not the same as kissing and fondling. She’d come to the conclusion he’d only behaved in a caring manner so as not to appear rude before his friend. Aye. And though they’d whispered—had thought her asleep—she’d heard him ask his friend about the sacred well.
He could break the handfasting for all she now cared, but he would do it without her. She’d spent a good part of the night thinking about how she could find her way home before falling into a fitful sleep, and now—thanks to Kelsea—she had the means.
A pounding at the door made Angus jerk upright, his left arm reaching for his sword. He then realized where he was, that no danger lurked, and blinked down at her. When his gaze shifted from her face to her breasts, he groaned deep in his chest and scrambled out of bed. Hauling the covers up to her chin, he growled, “Good morn.”
Seriously doubting it was—he’d again raised the invisible barrier between them, she murmured, “Morn.”
Pounding sounded again and she heard Ian roll over and grumble, “Get the hell away!”
In a whisper she asked, “Angus, where is hell?” Mayhap she could find it. She’d heard the Macarthur bairns speak of it, so therefore it had to be close to her glen.
He blinked at her. “Ye dinna ken hell?”
“Nay. Should I?”
He shook his head and continued donning his clothing. “‘Tis where the sinners go.”
Sinners. Another clan she didn’t ken. “‘Tis far, this hell?”
He strode to the door, grumbling, “Dinna fash about it, Birdi. Ye’ll not see it.”
Ha! She’d see about that. If he wouldn’t tell her, then she’d ask Ian. Surely he kenned it. After all, he was well traveled and had spoken of it.
The door opened and sunlight flashed across the room making her squint. She heard Kelsea say, “Good morn. I’ve brought a wee something to break yer fast.”
She stepped into her croft and came to an abrupt halt. Arm extended, she asked, “Who’s that?”
Angus yawned. “A friend. He’s harmless.”
“Ah.” Apparently unfazed, she moved to the right and Birdi heard something thud on the table. Her nose then caught the scent of fresh bread, and if she wasn’t mistaken, the irresistible aroma of hot blood sausage. Her stomach growled. Kelsea Fraser was beyond doubt the most generous of women—not only had she given them her home for the night, she continued to share her fine food. Aye, and though it hurt her pride to admit it, Angus had been right in one matter. Wee Angus would reap great benefits having such a mother. She—Birdi the spae—could never have supplied such, though she certainly would have tried her very best. The admission caused a great pain to bloom in her chest, and her desire for food evaporated.
“Birdi?”
She looked up to find Kelsea standing beside the bed. “How are you feeling this morn?”
“Well, thank ye.” She took a great breath, steeling herself. “And the wee one? How is he?”
Kelsea stood close enough for Birdi to see she beamed as bright as the sun at her back. “He’s splendid. This morn he suckled ‘til I thought he’d turned me wrong side to, and then promptly fell back to sleep.” She cast a look over her shoulder, then leaned forward to whisper, “I’ve something for ye.” She slipped a folded piece of paper into Birdi’s hand.
Birdi, heart stuttering, buried it beneath the covers. “Thank ye.”
“Nay, I thank ye, though I pray ye never have need for the missive.” Kelsea then straightened and in a clear voice asked, “So, have ye decided what ye must take from the chest?”
“Huh?”
Kelsea muttered, “Men,” and moved to the foot of the bed, where she opened the chest. She pulled out yards of fabric, gave them a good shake, and then spread them out.
Birdi gasped. “My word!” The brocades and silks upon her lap were beyond description. When she heard a soft whistle, she looked up to find Angus looking over Kelsea’s shoulder.
“I was a Lindsey,” she told them, “before I fell in love with Collin.” She stroked the vivid green silk and sighed. “I’ve not donned them since I left court ten years past. I didna want anyone thinking I was putting on airs.”
Angus fingered the eight-inch hem on one gown. “And ye snubbed custom and took his name, although Lindsey is more auspicious, speaks of yer relationship to the king.”
She shrugged. “Collin was proud man, proud to be a Fraser, and I was proud of him.”
Paying only minimal heed to their conversation, still mesmerized by the rich weaves between her fingers, Birdi murmured, “I canna possibly—”
“Ye must.” Kelsea interjected. “Ye are now Lady MacDougall, wife of a knight. Ye need to look the part. Besides, they’ll just fall to ruin if left in the chest. The argent strands need the warmth and oils from yer skin to remain supple.” She held one gown to Birdi’s chest then the other, frowned, and then reached into the chest again, this time retrieving a mass of vivid blue. She shook that gown out and placed it against Birdi’s chest. After cocking her head this way and that, she finally smiled. “That’s the one. Makes yer lovely eyes glow.”
Birdi could barely catch her breath. Not only was she fondling ric
hes beyond her wildest imaginings, but Kelsea had called her horribly odd eyes lovely. Tears threatening, throat so raw she could barely swallow, Birdi fingered the three dense rows of pearls trimming the blue gown’s scoop-necked bodice.
The gowns had been put away when Kelsea Fraser had fallen in love with a man and wanted bairns, and now, they were coming out because she, Birdi, was giving up a bairn and a man she loved. Within Goddess’s world, all, apparently, did cycle like the seasons. Even gowns.
She took a deep shuddering breath and murmured, “I canna possibly—”
“Aye, ye can and ye will, or I’ll lock the door and not let ye leave until such time as ye agree.”
Angus drew Kelsea’s hand to his lips. His voice sounded thick as he murmured, “Thank ye, my lady. Should ye ever have need of a strong arm...”
Kelsea smiled and patted his hand. “Sir, ye need only do what’s in yer own best interest and that will be payment enough.”
The dark shape Birdi kenned to be Ian MacKay cleared its throat. “My lady, Ian MacKay at yer service.” He bowed and took Kelsea’s hand as Angus had. As he straightened, he said. “‘Tis verra generous of ye.” Turning his attention to Birdi, he said, “I agree with Lady Fraser’s choice. The blue is a perfect complement to you eyes.”
“Since we all agree,” Kelsea said. “You gentlemen must eat and go. We women have work to do.”
~#~
Ian growled, “Will ye please stop pacing and sit. Ye’re giving me and yer horse a headache.”
Angus, glaring at his friend, continued to wear a rut before the Fraser croft. “What on earth is taking so long?”
The sun was already high in the sky. Too, he recollected only too vividly what had happened the last time he’d left Birdi alone with Kelsea.
“She’s fine,” Ian assured him. “Ye ken it takes hours for a woman to primp.”
“Humph!” Birdi didn’t primp. She woke, ate, made quick ablutions, and they were off. ‘Twas, in truth, one of her finest qualities. She didn’t fret about her appearance as so many women did. In that and in her endurance, she was very much like a man. Casting a glance at Ian, he modified the thought to most men. How Ian had managed to look ready for court after too much ale and too little sleep upon a dirt floor was beyond knowing, but shine he did, like a new gold sovereign. “Humph!”
The door suddenly swung wide and Angus came to an abrupt halt. Standing before him stood not the orphan waif Birdalane Shame, but a fairy-tale princess gleaming bright in the midday sun. Cheeks scrubbed pink, lush lips berry- red, dressed in a gown of blazing blue and argent, her glorious raven hair caught up in twin argent cowls on either side of her flawless face and secured by a wide pearl headband, her shoulders draped in lush silver fox and vivid blue brocade, Birdi was quite simply...breathtaking. “Merciful Mother of God.”
And he was going to the gallows.
First for the lust now surging through his veins—there had to be a canon law against such volume somewhere—and second for the fact that by royal decree no woman of his could don even cat fur, much less what Birdi now wore. He didn’t earn the prerequisite thousand pounds sterling per year.
Aye, he’d hang—by either church or Crown decree—but hang he would for he wasn’t about to tell lovely Birdi to take a damn thing off. She’d earned it.
Ian’s voice broke through his ruminating. “...ye take a man’s breath away, my lady, and happy he dies, basking in yer fair and fulsome glow, so—”
Angus shouldered his friend aside. “Go die elsewhere, fool.”
He took Birdi’s hand and brought it to his lips. “The moon this day outshines the sun.”
Truer words he’d never spoken. They came from the book of sonnets Lady Beth had given to him, words intended for another woman, but spoken from the heart to his accidental bride. With that realization came fear; should he continue to seek the sacred well, something deep in his bones warned him that he might well be giving up more than he could ever hope to gain.
He shook off the depressing thought and cleared his throat. “We need take our leave, Birdi.” He bowed to Kelsea. “Lady Fraser, ye have my heartfelt gratitude.”
In return she touched his cheek and murmured, “God’s speed.” To Birdi she whispered, “Thank ye for saving my life, dear Birdi. I promise to love the babe with all my heart, and when he’s auld enough, I’ll speak of thee, so he’ll ken how fortunate we are.”
Birdi, eyes glassy, silently hugged Kelsea then turned —her back stiff and straight, her countenance as smooth as glass—toward Rampage. Angus followed, knowing this wasn’t a good sign. “Are ye all right, lass?”
She took a stuttering breath. “She named him Collin.”
Birdi then placed her hands on his shoulders. Angus hoisted her up and into the saddle, his gut suddenly churning. With a heavy heart he accepted that Birdi might in time forgive him for taking her away from her home, but never would she forgive him for giving away the babe.
He turned to bid farewell to Ian, only to find his friend mounting his horse. “I wish ye well on yer trip to Dunberg,” Angus said.
A grin spread over Ian’s handsome countenance as his gaze raked Birdi. “No need. I’ve decided to keep ye company.”
~#~
“The Blood and the spae were here.” Robbie Macarthur held out the charred piece of wood he’d found near a ruined barn. It bore the name “Angus MacDougall.” Had he been party to what had happened in Ardlui? As well trained as Robbie was in swordplay, the thought made him shudder. He asked his brother, “Well?”
Fegan, scowling, shook his head. “The crofts were too far apart for the fires to be accidental.” They’d found a fresh burial site with forty-odd names and fresh wolf tracks between the warm, still smoldering crofts. “I dinna believe MacDougall did this on his own. Mayhap the Frasers are at war. If they’re fighting among themselves, we need to move cautiously. But if it’s clan against clan...”
Aye, they’d best learn quickly with whom the Frasers fought...and hopefully it wasn’t with the Macarthur or any of their allies. “How much farther to the next village?”
Fegan studied the cloudbank easing over the western horizon. “If the weather holds, we’ll be in Inveruglas by sup.”
The thought made Robbie’s mouth water. They hadn’t had a decent meal in days. “Then let’s go.”
They kicked their mounts’ sides.
~#~
At Tarbot, no one knew of a sacred well, so they galloped on, heading due west with one eye to the sky, the other watching for trouble, namely the Gunns.
On the far side of the forest, at a wee clutch of crofts called Rest and Be Thankful, where the ground again rose to meet the looming lead-bellied clouds above, they broke bread with a herder and his wife and asked again about a sacred well. Neither knew of one, and on they rode.
On the outskirts of Cairndow Ian muttered, “We’ll not make Inveraray by night fall.”
“Aye, I’m painfully aware of that.”
In fact, Angus felt ill with his awareness of time and distance. He had only a fortnight left before he need be back at Blackstone—less, if he wanted to warn Duncan about impeding troubles—and their progress had been slowed by steep paths, crags, and forest getting to Cairndow, the last hamlet on their way to Inveraray. Had he been alone he would have risked an all-night ride, but he had Birdi’s safety and new finery to consider.
Riding into Cairndow, the men’s gazes sweeping the area for trouble, Angus grumbled, “If there’s no room at the inn, mayhap a family will offer Birdi a pallet. You and I can always bed down in a stable.” He wasn’t about to spend another night lying next to luscious Birdi.
Ian put a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll tend to the room, may get it cheaper.” He grinned flashing his famous dimples, and wiggled a brow. Angus laughed for the first time in hours. “Go on with ye.”
Birdi, sitting sidesaddle thanks to her new voluminous skirts, murmured, “‘Tis going to rain soon.”
“Aye.” Drawn by the
repetitive sound of metal clanging on metal, Angus turned left and found a sizable stable. “Good eve, smithy.”
The blacksmith, flame-headed and barrel-chested, wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of a thick hand. As he shouldered his massive hammer, he eyed Rampage from ears to hooves. “What can I do fer ye, sir?”
“Have ye stabling for two cattle?”
The man looked behind them. “I see only one.”
“My friend seeks a room at the inn.”
The man snorted. “Most likely full, ‘tis market day.” He then shifted his gaze to Birdi. As he took her measure he rubbed his jaw. “For two bodles apiece yer cattle can pasture yon.” He pointed over his shoulder to a fenced paddock containing three mud-caked ponies.
Angus grit his teeth. The stable was nigh onto to empty. ‘Twas obvious the man intended to gouge him, and he had little choice but to allow it if he intended to stay dry this night. “Three bawbees for three stalls with fresh hay.”
The man chuckled and held out his hand. “Done.”
Angus routed around in his sporran, pulled out the coins, the equivalent of an English penny, and dropped them into the man’s calloused paw. Angus rolled his eyes when the man bit into the coins.
At least their horses would be dry and safe, and he and Ian would have someplace to lay their heads.
A loud shout went up and Birdi jerked, nearly toppling out of the saddle. He steadied her. Eyes wide she stuttered, “What was that?”
“No need for alarm. ‘Tis most likely some game the folks are cheering about. ‘Tis market day.”
Biting her lower lip, she asked, “Game? What means this?”
Good Lord, the woman had led a sheltered life. “Games are play. Where bairns or men vie with each other for sport or prizes, sometimes winning a coin or a cake, mayhap a goose. Depends on the game and what’s offered.” He dismounted and reached for her waist. “Would ye like to go see?”
“Aye,...well mayhap,” Birdi nibbled on a fingernail. “I’m not sure.”
He smiled down at her as he took her elbow. “Ye’ll enjoy it. Come, we need to find Ian, anyway.”
