Rodrick the Bold

by Suzan Tisdale

Rodrick shrugged his shoulders with indifference. “The better question is, will ye accept them?”

  Chapter Ten

  After saying goodbye and thank you to Frederick and Aggie, Rodrick and Muriel left the Carruthers’ holding.

  With Muriel perched in front of him, Rodrick steered Caderyn back to the Mackintosh and McLaren keep. He knew she was furious and frustrated, but he did not care at the moment. He had won. Somehow, he had managed to convince her to go with him.

  They had ridden more than an hour in stony silence before Muriel finally spoke to him again. “I want to know the entire truth about how me brother died.” ‘Twasn’t a question, ’twas a full out order. Rodrick chose his words as carefully as a healer chooses her herbs. One wrong statement and Muriel might very well climb from the horse and run back to the Carruthers’ keep.

  “I was no’ there when he died,” he told her honestly.

  “Where were ye?” she asked, apparently forgetting what he had told her weeks ago.

  “I had been injured,” he reminded her politely. “I was recoverin’.” He hoped she wouldn’t ask how.

  She turned slightly to look up at him. “How were ye injured?”

  God’s teeth, he did not want to tell her the truth. “That be no’ important.”

  “I think it is,” she said, scrutinizing him closely.

  Looking straight ahead, he focused on the horizon. If he lied, she would know it or eventually find out the truth. “Charles tried to kill me.”

  Her eyes widened in horror as her mouth fell open. For a brief moment she might have thought he was jesting. Then she saw the seriousness of the matter etched on his face. “Why on earth would he do such a thing?” she asked in bewilderment. “I thought ye were friends?”

  “I thought so as well. Until he stuck the dirk in me chest.”

  Unable to continue looking at him, Muriel turned away. After a lengthy silence, she said. “I be so sorry, Rodrick.”

  He could hear the tears in her voice. “Do no’ fash yerself. Yer brother did what he thought he must do to protect ye.”

  It had taken a few months of trying to figure out Charles’s actions before Rodrick finally understood. A desperate man will sometimes do things that do not make a lick of sense. While he might never forgive Charles for trying to kill him, Rodrick at least understood his motivation. Everything he did was for Muriel.

  “Why did ye come fer me?” she asked in a low, hushed tone. “And please, do no’ tell me ’twas the right thing to do.”

  Rodrick fell silent while he debated on whether or not he should tell her about the dreams.

  “Rodrick, I would like to ken the why of it. It has to be more than a simple sense of honor. Me brother tried to kill ye, yet ye fought to rescue me. Fer the life of me, I can no’ understand why.”

  The why of it might take a lifetime to explain. However, if he were ever to expect her to be honest with him, he would need to be honest with her. “I began to have dreams,” he said. “Verra vivid dreams in which a bonny lass was crying out to me fer help. I assumed that lass was ye.”

  Turning again to face him, her face bore an expression of sheer perplexity. “Ye came to help me because of a dream?”

  “Aye,” he said. “I did. ’Twas a dream that plagued me fer weeks.”

  “Plagued ye?” she asked.

  “Aye,” he said with a nod. “It haunted me, Muriel. ’Twas the same each time. Ye were asking me to help ye.”

  “But how did ye know who I was? How did ye know who to look for? We had never met,” she said with a bit of disbelief and wonder.

  He smiled warmly. “As yer brother lay dyin’, he told Ian about ye. Later, I found letters from Kathryn McCabe written to Charles. Whilst a description of ye was never given, I knew ye were in dire need of help.”

  “And ye rode all the way to Skye to find me,” she said. “All because of a dream.”

  He could see it did not make much sense to her how a once complete stranger would or could come to someone’s aid like that. Hell, he still wasn’t sure he understood it himself. “’Twas more than just a dream,” he said. “In me gut, I knew ye needed help. I could no’ just ignore the dreams, or ye.”

  Dumbfounded, she could only stare at him incredulously. Everything he had done, every act, every risk taken, was all because of a dream. She supposed she should be grateful to him for listening to it, for if he hadn’t? She shuddered to think of where she would be right now if he had ignored the ethereal pleas for help.

  Had she not begged God for His help? Had she not cried for months, pleading with Him to send Charles to her?

  And that day, when she was being forced aboard Captain Wallace’s ship. Had she not then begged for someone, anyone to help her?

  Studying Rodrick closely for a time, a sense of calm began to drape over her heart. God had answered her prayers in the form of a hardened warrior named Rodrick the Bold.

  With her head held high, Muriel returned to the Mackintosh and McLaren keep with Rodrick. Borrowing some of his courage — for he seemed to possess a never-ending supply of it — she woke the following morning with a new sense of determination. If whatever dark deed her brother had done did not matter to Rodrick — who had very nearly died by Charles’s own hand — then it should not matter to anyone else.

  While she did receive a few curious looks and even fewer hard stares from the clanspeople, no one had much to say. At least not to her face. If anything, she was met with cool silence.

  Muriel dived into her daily routine with determination. While she would not bring up the subject of her brother, she was fully prepared to respond should anyone else be so inclined. She would agree that he had in fact behaved most deplorably as it pertained to the clan. She would even go so far to admit that his actions had been traitorous. However, she would also politely explain the reasons behind his actions. If they still could not forgive Charles, so be it. But she refused to allow anyone to hold her responsible for his actions. Nay, everything lay at the feet of Rutger Bowie, for ’twas he who had started the entire sordid affair.

  After the first week since returning, she was growing more and more frustrated. No one, not one single person had anything to say on the matter of Charles. What was the use of having a properly laid out retort if one couldn’t use it?

  Later that night, while she and Rodrick walked around the outer wall, he sensed her upset.

  “Ye be awfully quiet,” Rodrick noted.

  Pursing her lips together, she let out a rapid, frustrated breath. “Did ye tell everyone no’ to discuss the matter of me brother with me?”

  “Nay,” he replied, his brow drawn into a curious wrinkle.

  Muriel chewed on the inside of her cheek for a time. “I fear I do no’ understand it then. No one has said anything to me about him since our return.” While they might not have said anything, she had the oddest sensation that at least a handful of them wanted to give her a piece of their minds.

  Rodrick shrugged his shoulders. “I remember somethin’ one of the men who raised me used to say. Do no’ go borrowin’ trouble.”

  “I do no’ think I am borrowin’ trouble,” she told him curtly. “I am simply wonderin’—”

  “Why it is no’ one is burnin’ ye at the stake?” he asked with a grin. “Lass, I tell ye that ye need to stop worryin’ over things. The people will either come around or they will no’. All ye can do is show them who ye are.”

  “And who am I?” she blurted out, uncertain anymore she could answer that question.

  Rodrick stopped and smiled warmly. “Ye be a good, bonny lass who is goin’ to marry this scraggly, old, scarred warrior someday.”

  “Ye be no’ old,” she argued.

  Rodrick chuckled at her reply. “But I still be a scraggly, scarred warrior, aye?”

  “I would no’ call ye scraggly either.” While she could not begin to call him handsome, she wasn’t quite sure what she would call him. But scraggly? Nay, he was not that.

  “What wo
uld ye call me?” he asked playfully.

  Uncertain if he were only teasing or being truthful, she answered as honestly as she was able. “I would call ye a good, kind man,” she replied, her cheeks growing warm with just a bit of embarrassment.

  Her answer seemed to please Rodrick, for he laughed and chuckled off and on for the next hour or so.

  She could live to be a thousand years old and would never understand men.

  Chapter Eleven

  Fergus MacDonald had nearly forgotten about the pretty lass whom he had once derived great pleasure from. Though he had been quite displeased to learn someone had helped her escape from Seamus Wallace’s ship, it was of no importance to him. The lass was gone from his life now and he didn’t give a rat’s arse what happened to her. At least not in the beginning.

  Anthara refused to procure another pretty young woman to work in their home. He loved his wife, he truly did. And not just for the large dowry and small fortune she had brought into their marriage, although that did help.

  Nay, he loved her because of her undying devotion to him. No matter what he said or did to her, or anyone else for that matter, she would either look the other way or defend him with an unyielding and betimes terrifying allegiance.

  They had been married for five years and had yet to be blessed with a child. More than anything, Anthara wanted a babe of her very own. But thus far, God hadn’t seen fit to allow Fergus’s seed to plant itself within her womb.

  Truth be told, Fergus didn’t really care one way or the other. Or at least he hadn’t until his older brother Gerome came to visit him. Their father had changed the terms of his will again.

  Fergus now sat in his private study, drinking the finest whisky, and staring at the low-burning embers in his hearth. Reflecting once again on what Gerome had told him earlier that day, in this very room.

  “Da will cut ye off by the end of the year,” Gerome had informed him, “if ye do no’ produce an heir.”

  “Why does it matter if I have an heir or no’? I am the lowly third born son,” Fergus had asked as he watched his brother closely.

  Feigning ignorance, Gerome shrugged his shoulders. “Who kens what makes our father do what he does?”

  Fergus was quite certain his dear brother Gerome was to blame for their father’s sudden decision.

  “All I ken is that we must all produce heirs or we will no’ inherit anything,” Gerome said.

  “Considerin’ ye already have three children of yer own, and Traigh has two, and Willem has five, none of ye have anythin’ to worry over, do ye?” Fergus kept his fury hidden behind a mask of indifference.

  Gerome let loose with a heavy breath, doing his best to look concerned for Fergus. “I am only here to tell ye what father has asked me to.”

  Fergus did not believe for one moment that Gerome was the all-concerned oldest brother. “So I must produce an heir within the year or our lovin’ father will cut me out of the will,” he said for the sake of clarification.

  “No’ only will he cut ye out of the will, he will stop givin’ ye yer monthly allowance.”

  Fergus took another long drink of the amber liquid and continued to fume. He and Anthara could live well enough on her dowry alone. ‘Twasn’t as if their survival depended on the paltry monthly allowance. Still, it grated on his nerves, the audacity of his father’s new edict. Produce an heir or be cut off completely. ’Twas as great an injustice as ever done to him, Fergus believed. ’Twas bad enough he was the third born, and worse still that too many people to count were already ahead of him in line of succession. Most of the MacDonald clan would have to be wiped out by a famine or a disease, or the keep burning to the ground with them in it before Fergus stood a chance at ever becoming their chief.

  The sound of Anthara’s voice broke through his quiet reverie. “Are ye comin’ to bed soon?” she asked from the doorway.

  As yet, he had not told her of his father’s edict. Wanting to put off what he was certain would be a tear-filled, panic-stricken event with his wife, he nodded. “I shall be right up.”

  For the first time in his life he found himself praying that his seed would take root. However, he fully doubted those prayers would be answered.

  Chapter Twelve

  After weeks of courtship, where not a kiss — save for the one at Aggie’s keep — or flowery word had been exchanged betwixt them, Rodrick and Muriel were married on a bright, crisp winter’s day, just a week before the Christmas Tide celebrations were to begin.

  Muriel was beyond nervous. Her fingers trembled in tune with the heart beating ferociously against her breast. While she tried to convince herself that ’twas naught more than what any woman would feel on her wedding day, her heart begged to differ. He was more than a friend; he was her protector, and soon, he would be her husband.

  But love him? Nay, she could not say ’twas love she felt for him. At least, not in the romantic sense. She truly and sincerely liked Rodrick. He was a good, honorable man. Not only would he make a good husband to her, he would be a wonderful father to her child.

  There was no naivety on her part, as it pertained to how he felt about her. Without question, she knew he had fallen in love with her. Though he hadn’t given her the words to confirm it, the way he looked at her said everything. There was always a glint of adoration and fondness in his bright eyes whenever he glanced her way.

  That twinkle went well with the warm smiles or grins. While most of the womenfolk thought him a hard-looking man, Muriel thought him quite handsome, in a rugged sort of way.

  The ceremony took place in front of the hearth in the Mackintosh and McLaren Keep. Evergreens and holly hung overhead as a great fire burned in the hearth. Every clan member was in attendance to witness Rodrick the Bold marry the lass from Edinburgh that bright day.

  Rodrick and Muriel each promised to honor and cherish one another, to always be honest and kind, and to take each day as a gift.

  Rodrick promised to protect her unto his dying breath if needed.

  Muriel promised to be a good wife to him in any way she was able.

  Rodrick made a silent promise to one day bring Fergus MacDonald’s head to Muriel.

  Muriel made a silent promise to try to love this kind, honorable man, and to at least keep an open mind about someday being a true wife to him.

  Even if she never came to him that way, Rodrick knew he would have everything his warrior’s heart ever wanted. Everything he had wished for since he was a lad: a wife, a bairn, and a home of his very own.

  Once the priest announced they were goodly wed, he gave Rodrick permission to kiss his bride. He and Muriel had discussed the wedding kiss beforehand, simply because he did not want to do anything that would cause her any amount of upset. Muriel had decided that one little kiss would not hurt, for ’twas Rodrick kissing her, not Fergus MacDonald. He had also made a most heartfelt promise that after the wedding kiss, he’d not kiss her again without her permission. ’Twas a promise she was grateful for, she supposed.

  Rodrick looked into her eyes and quirked one brow as if to ask her once again if a kiss was acceptable. Muriel nodded once before taking in a deep, fortifying breath. He had kissed her before, back at Aggie’s keep. While she had in fact liked that kiss, it had terrified her all the same.

  His lips curved into a warm smile right before he bent his head to press his lips against hers. With his hand on the small of her back, he did not pull her against his chest, as if to claim her as his like some violent, hard man might.

  ’Twas just as sweet as the last time he’d done it. She did not feel sick to her stomach, nor was she overcome with horrification or disgust when his lips touched hers, nor did she have the urge to scream and run away.

  ’Twas not a passionate kiss, but ’twas just as romantic as one. There were many unspoken promises hidden in it that did not pertain to passion or desire. Nay, his kiss – so warm, soft, and sweet – was a promise that said he would always keep her safe, would always make her feel protected and
adored.

  Muriel needed to feel that sense of safety more than she realized.

  Rodrick did his best to make the kiss as chaste as possible. While he desperately wanted Muriel in the physical sense, he kept his urges and desires in check out of respect. He hoped that, with time and patience, she would eventually come around to the idea of a physical relationship with him. Her worry, he knew, was that she might not ever be able to do that. If she couldn’t, that fault would lie with him, not her. He was determined to do everything he could to make her feel safe and protected, for he believed that was the key.

  The kiss did not last nearly as long as he would have liked. It took all his strength to pull away. When he did, he saw something in Muriel’s eyes that made him feel near giddy with joy; she understood his message. I’ll never harm ye. I will always keep ye safe.

  Muriel smiled up at him with such fondness it made his toes tingle with glee. The smiled reached her pretty eyes, making them sparkle. Relief settled in over his shoulders; she was not afraid.

  Happy with that small step in the right direction, he placed her hand in the crook of his arm and turned to face the crowd. Rose looked at the two of them with happy, damp eyes. Ian was smiling as if he had finally come around to the idea that Muriel was not the traitor her brother had been.

  The men cheered and whistled, while the women folk gave nods of approval. Hopefully, their approval would continue on for many years.

  With the ceremony over, a small afternoon luncheon was held in the keep in honor of the newlyweds. ’Twas not a grand feast, complete with musicians and dancing, or vast amounts of ale and wine. Just a small gathering with a handful of warriors, Ian and Rose.

  The air in the keep was calm and peaceful, yet still happy. They supped on meats, cheeses, breads, and fruits whilst talking in small groups in hushed tones.

  Ian stood at the head table and cleared his throat, drawing everyone’s attention. Raising his cup, he looked at Rodrick and Muriel, who sat at the end of the table. “To Rodrick the Bold and Muriel. May ye have many years of peace and happiness together.”