The Highlander's Folly (The Novels of Loch Moigh Book 3)

by Barbara Longley

  “What about?”

  “May I come in, Beag Curaidh?”

  She looked over her shoulder at the chamber within, then back to him. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

  “I wish only to talk.” He rested his hand on the doorframe. “I dinna want to leave things as they are. It pains me that we might part without peace between us.”

  She sighed, backed up and opened the door. His heart took flight, and he crossed the threshold. Her sweet, clean scent wafted over him, and he drew it in. Two comfortable chairs were arranged near the hearth, and a small fire dispatched the slight chill and dampness of the night. He imagined what it would be like to sit in such a place each night with Meghan as his wife, sharing a quiet moment before retiring for the night. He gestured toward the hearth. “Will you sit, lass?”

  She tightened the belt of her robe and walked over to take a seat. His palms sweating, he took the chair opposite, leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. He clasped his hands together to keep from reaching for her. His jaw clenched and unclenched, and uncertainty moistened his palms. “I wish to make my thinking clear.”

  Her brow rose, but she made no reply.

  “That morning we . . . uh—”

  “The morning we had sex?” She shrugged. “What about it?”

  Did it mean so little to her that the mention warranted naught but a shrug? He straightened and ran his sweaty palms over the wool of his plaid. “I ken you think me selfish . . .”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I don’t.”

  “You dinna?”

  “No. Selfish isn’t the right word. I prefer pea-brained or bullheaded.”

  “Bullheaded?” If his brow rose any higher, ’twould disappear into his scalp. He blinked. “Pea-brained? Nay, you dinna understand. I love you, Meghan. I love you more than life itself. ’Tis why I must make such a sacrifice. I mean only to see to your welfare before my own. Is that no’ loving? Is that no’ the very antithesis of selfishness?”

  She made a strangled, chuffing sound and shook her head again. “Like I said . . . pea-brained.”

  “Why do you insist upon making such a fankle of my intentions? Do you think you ken better than I what my thoughts and feelings are on the matter?” He stood up and paced. “I am doing what is right. I am doing what is honorable on your behalf. You dinna understand, and I came here hoping to make it clear to you, so that there might be peace between us. ’Tis you who are being obstinate.” She opened her mouth to retort, and he held up his hand to stop her. “Aye, ’tis true. You are being most difficult.”

  “I’m the one being difficult?” She snorted. “I make a fankle out of your intentions because you insist on deceiving yourself. That pisses me off.”

  He growled and came to loom over her. “Dinna presume deceit, Beag Curaidh. I, better than you, understand the dangers of my time.”

  She stood up, shoved him out of her way and strode over to the door. “OK. Thanks for your concern, Hunter. Now please go.”

  “No’ until things are settled between us.”

  “Consider them settled.”

  “Nay, I willna until we have come to terms.”

  “Will you listen to what I have to say?”

  “Aye, but I might no’ agree.”

  She was silent for several seconds. “All right. I don’t see the point, but I’ll tell you what I think.” She continued to stand by the door. “And then you go.” She lifted her chin. “Deal?”

  He swallowed against the boulder in his throat, managing a nod.

  She sucked in a breath, leaned back against the oak and crossed her arms. “You lost your mother at such an early age, and then you lost your grandmother shortly after. You never knew your dad, and you faced life unable to hear and reduced to begging in order to survive.” Her large brown eyes sought his. “That’s way too much for a three- or four-year-old child to handle on his own. Way too much trauma for even the most well-adjusted, mature adult to face.” She bit her lip for a second.

  “Hunter, I can’t even imagine how so much tragedy affected you.” Her lovely face filled with heart-melting tenderness. “I do understand your thinking. It’s far easier to send me away—where you can pretend that I will never die—than it is to risk building a life with me. I get it. When you say you can’t bear the thought of anything happening to me, and then you push me away . . . I get it. Sending me away to places unseen feels safer to you than facing the possibility of yet another trauma—another loss.”

  His eyes stung, and he made a desperate effort to gain control over the uneasiness her words caused. Meghan pushed off the door and stepped closer. He fisted his hands at his sides. “Nonsense. What happened to me as a bairn a score of years ago does no’ affect me as a man today.”

  “Don’t kid yourself.” She pushed her hair back over her shoulders. “Here’s the thing, Hunter.” Her voice was as soft as goose down against his skin. “No matter what you do or where I am, eventually I’m going to die. Everyone does. Stop fooling yourself. Your reasons for seeing me safely home are bogus.” She let out a shaky breath. “If there is to be peace between us, let’s be honest.”

  His jaw ached, and an iron band tightened around his chest. He studied the flames in the hearth. “I dinna ken what ‘bogus’ means.”

  “False.”

  “What of your family, Beag Curaidh?” He turned to glance at her. “Your father must hate me. I would hate him if the situation were reversed. ’Tis only right that I see you returned to him. I vowed—”

  “You and your stupid vows.” She huffed. “You might want to work on that a bit. Maybe try to refrain from uttering them impetuously, and keep it to one or two vows per year.”

  “A knight is only as good as his word, lass. I am bound by my honor, and—”

  “Of course you are. I’m sure my dad is hurting—my mom and brothers too. I also think since my dad was taken from his time and place, he has a better understanding of what is going on. He’s probably less worried about my actual well-being and more concerned with losing me to another century. If you and my father were ever to meet, I think the two of you would get along. You’re a man worthy of my father’s respect, Hunter. If he knew I had your protection, it would go a long way toward easing his worry.”

  She came to stand before him. “It’s time you get real and stop rationalizing everything. I’m not about to try and change your mind where I’m concerned. I’m not going to ask you to keep me.”

  “Get real? How am I no’ real, Meg?” Disappointment choked him. Had he wanted her to try and change his mind?

  “In your case, it means facing your fears. I have a family and a life to get back to. Like I told you before, I’m done beating my fists against your armor.” She rose up on her toes and brushed her lips against his. “There. We have peace and understanding between us. Now go.”

  He gripped her forearms and shook her. “By the holy rood, woman. You confound and besiege me until I dinna ken up from down.” He drew her close and crushed his mouth to hers, his insides a quaking muddle of confusion, grief, lust and longing. She didn’t kiss him back. He thrust her an arm’s length away. “Let us leave it thus. You have your way of thinking, and I have mine.”

  “Exactly.” She stepped out of his hold. “I would prefer it if Tieren escorts me to Madame Giselle’s cottage tomorrow. I don’t want you there.” She walked to her door and swung it wide. “Good-bye, Hunter. Thanks for the memories.”

  He stormed out of the room and down the corridor to his chamber. He wanted to tear his hair and gnash his teeth. Obstinate besom! Nothing had been settled. There would be no peace. He would lose her on the morrow, and worst of all, she wanted Tieren to escort her.

  Hunter rubbed the corners of his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. The early light of dawn streamed in through the narrow window of his chamber, and birdsong grated upon hi
s nerves.

  He hadn’t slept.

  His heart heavy, Hunter rose, washed and dressed. He also hadn’t eaten since noon the previous day. How could he eat? He could scarce draw breath. His insides aquiver, he made his way to the great hall. Like him, Meghan was an early riser, and he could not face her. Bloody hell. He had far too much to do and far too much to worry about to be so disturbed.

  To his profound relief, he found only Tieren, George and a few men he didn’t recognize sitting at the table, breaking their fast. He approached, tapped Tieren on the shoulder, and once he had his commander’s attention, he signed, “Meghan wants you to take her to Áine’s cottage. She does not want me there.”

  “Aye?” Tieren frowned. “Why is that, do you suppose?”

  “How should I ken how the woman’s twisted mind works?” he snapped. He snatched up a piece of black bread and a slice of cheese and wolfed it down. The he reached for Tieren’s ale to wash the tasteless mass down his throat. Slamming the goblet back on the table gave him a small measure of satisfaction. “Once Meghan is in Áine’s keeping, we leave,” he signed. “Make the men ready. If you need me, I’ll be in the lists. Come get me once ’tis done.”

  “Hunter—”

  “Say naught.” He strode toward the doors and gripped the hilt of the dirk at his waist. “We’ve a clan to protect and a war to fight. My mind is set upon those matters most needing my attention, and that is that.” He threw the doors wide and took the steps two at a time.

  God’s blood, but he could not wait to beat his sword against another’s. He jogged to the lists, warming up for the physical exertion to come. He came around the corner of the keep—and froze. Meghan.

  She trained with a young soldier. She wore a different pair of hose and her leather tunic without the chain mail. He should have kent she would seek the same physical outlet as he. Transfixed, he watched. She had the advantage. Quick and nimble, she danced away from her opponent’s blows, darting back in to make contact with her blade as effortlessly as a hummingbird darting in to take nectar from a rose. Seeing her thus brought back memories of the day he’d “rescued” her from her father—the day she had stood over him with his dagger at his throat.

  His jaw clenched, and his eyes burned. Her opponent cried pax. Meghan wiped her brow with the palms of her hands, and then she sheathed her sword. His heart tumbled down to his knees, and he suspected ’twas only his boots that kept the organ from landing in the dirt. He couldn’t avoid her without turning tail, and that he would not do. He forced his feet to move. “Good morn, Lady Meghan,” he said with a bow. “You’re in fine form this day. Would you care to indulge me in a bout?”

  She startled. Her cheeks, already flushed with exertion, turned a deeper shade of red. “Good morning, my lord. No, thanks. I’m finished training. I’m going to go get something to eat before I . . .” Her lips compressed into a straight line, and she studied his boots.

  Did she see his poor heart there? “Of course. Go. Break your fast.”

  “There’s something you need to know before I leave.” Her eyes caught and held his. “I love you, and I always will.” Her eyes grew bright. “Have a good life,” she muttered as she started out for the front of the keep. After a few paces, she turned to walk backward and shouted, “Oh yeah, and one more thing. You are an idiot.”

  With those parting words ringing in his ears, Meghan gave him her back and strode away, taking his beleaguered heart and soul with her. Scanning the field for the largest and fittest soldier, Hunter removed his scabbard and undraped the wool from over his shoulder to wrap around his waist and out of the way. Then he drew his shirt off over his head. “Oy, lad,” he called once he’d selected whom to pummel. “Come train with a master swordsman—if you’ve the courage, that is.”

  The burly warrior grinned, eagerness lighting his countenance. “Master swordsman, ye say?” He rolled his shoulders, set his war club aside and drew his claymore. Sauntering toward Hunter, he challenged, “Let us see who the master might be, lad.” With a growl, he charged.

  Hunter met the challenge, pouring all of his frustration into his training. All morning he fought, always watching the sun rise higher in the sky and marking the bell’s toll for Terce. Salty sweat stung his eyes. More dripped down his chest and back. His muscles grew fatigued, and he relished the burn. Finally Tieren approached. Hunter cried pax and stuck the tip of his sword into the dirt. “It is done?”

  “It is.”

  “Good.” All the air left his lungs. He propped himself up with his claymore as black spots danced before his eyes. “Good,” he repeated as if trying to convince himself. “I’ll jump into the river to cool off, and then let us depart.”

  “Aye, my lord.” Tieren glared at him for a moment before turning on his heel and walking away.

  Hunter returned to the outer bailey from the river. He shook the excess water from his hair and surveyed the assembly of men he would travel with. An additional packhorse carried the burden of their armor, and their two trailing guardsmen had joined them. Eight soldiers plus Tieren and himself.

  He beckoned to George. He really did need to gain a squire or two once he reached DúnConnell. The image of Meghan’s disgruntled expression when he suggested she serve him as squire flashed through his mind. “George, my pack is still in my chamber. Get it if you will.”

  “Aye, my lord.” The squire rushed off to do his bidding.

  Wallace led Doireann out of the stable. His horse’s coat shone from the care the lad had given him. Another stable hand followed with Mìlidh saddled and bridled. Meghan’s horse. Hunter’s lungs seized. He grabbed the gullet of Doireann’s saddle and held on. His head swam, and his heart thundered. George returned and handed Hunter the pack he’d gone to fetch.

  Hunter swiped at the sweat beading his upper lip. He took the bundle from the squire’s outstretched hands. “My thanks.” He turned to the lad leading Nevan’s destrier. “We will no’ be needing the gelding. For the time being, return him to the stable.” The stable lad bobbed his head and did as he was bid. Hunter tied his pack to the cantle and mounted, nudging his destrier toward the gate. His men fell into line, and he led them through the portcullis.

  Tieren rode up beside him. “I see no way around it, my lord. We must travel through MacKenzie land to get to yours. I suggest taking the shortest route to Munro lands, then through to the earl of Ross’s holdings and finally to the MacLeod’s. All are allies to the MacKintosh, and ’twill take us closer to the Sutherlands, who are kin. We can call upon them for aid if need be. That will see us to the coast, where we can hire a ship to travel the rest of the way.”

  “I agree. I considered hiring a ship whilst here to take us ’round to the western coast, but ’twould take too long.” Hunter spurred Doireann into a canter. “We must make haste.”

  Tieren kept pace with him. “Hunter, though you are now my liege lord, I feel I must speak.”

  “The deed is done, Tieren.” Once again heart-pounding breathlessness plagued him. “Meghan is with her family. Safe.” He glanced at his friend. “What is there to say?”

  “Though I hate to admit defeat in matters of the heart, I will humble myself for your sake. Meghan loves you, Hunter. You. Do you ken how rare a jewel you gave up?” He grunted. “’Tis your greatest folly yet, and I worry about following a man in possession of such poor judgment.”

  “I ken she loves me, and I love her. She and I spoke of it. I ride to war, Tieren. To war.” He spent the better part of the next hour explaining to his childhood friend why he had done what he’d done. “I did what was best for her.”

  “By God, man! You must be the biggest fool to ever walk upon Scottish soil.” Tieren shook his head. “Who better than Meghan to stand by your side as your baroness? In all our travels together have we ever encountered a lass better able to defend herself? Have we ever encountered her like? Who better than she to guard your ba
ck and your bairns?”

  Tieren glared at him. “Think you I dinna ken how it went between the two of you the day Cecil took Meghan?” he hissed out. “Mayhap the lass already carries your heir, ye wee glaikit fouter! Did you think on that before you sent her away?” The muscles at his jaw twitched, and a growl rumbled deep in Tieren’s throat. “I swear, if you were no’ my liege lord, I’d beat the shite out of you for that grievous wrong alone. And you, always smug in thinking yourself so bloody honorable.” Tieren kicked his destrier’s sides and galloped ahead, sending up a cloud of dust to clog Hunter’s throat.

  He hadn’t thought of that. How had he failed to consider the consequences of his actions? What if his seed had taken root and Meghan already carried his bairn? The thought of her growing large with their son melted his heart. Tieren’s words took bloody chunks out of his hide, and the farther they rode from Inverness, the greater the rending sensation grew in his soul. He’d been called a fool, an idiot, and by the two people who kent him best.

  His breath left him, and once again his heart clawed its way up his throat. The truth nearly pitched him from the saddle. He’d oft felt this way before, during the years after he’d lost his hearing and his kin. The breathlessness and heart-pounding sensations were far too familiar to him. When he was a lad, and he kent he had no one to look after him, when he had no notion where his next meal might come from . . . the panic rose to swallow him whole. Aye, ’twas panic.

  He reached into his sporran and drew out Meghan’s silver spurs. He’d broken his vow to her and kept them. The first vow he’d ever broken, and all because he’d desperately needed something of hers to hold on to. He’d wanted something to remember her by in the desolate years without her to come. He studied the design of the engravings.

  He had been deceiving himself. Meghan and Tieren had it aright, and he was a fool. The love of a good woman is far greater than a fortune, land or a title—and I’ve thrown it away. I’ve cast my love aside like yesterday’s soiled rushes.