“I don’t think God cares what words we use. It’s the praying that matters,” she answered, the realization of her love a balm to her worst fears for Seamus.
She pressed her palms together and closed her eyes. “Dear Father in Heaven,” she began, “we humbly beg you to spare the life of Seamus Mac Taran, a good man, a wise leader, a beloved father.”
As she continued, the formality of the prayers she’d heard at the convent gave way to her own heartfelt pleas. “Please, God, don’t take him yet. We need him here awhile to lead us, like the good man he is. Our land is divided, war may be looming and we need men such as Seamus to keep the peace. Please, God, don’t take him away from us. Don’t take him from his people and his sons.” Her voice broke and she could only manage a whisper. “Don’t take him away from me, either.”
Adair gathered her in his arms. He held her tenderly and stroked her hair as she wept on his shoulder. “Don’t cry, m’eudail,” he murmured. “Please, don’t cry. I believe what you said. He’ll be well, m’eudail. He’ll be well.”
She drew back and wiped her eyes. “I should be comforting you.”
Adair’s lips curved up in a small, woeful smile. “We can comfort each other.” He rose and held out his hand to help her stand. “I didn’t realize my father meant so much to you.”
“He does—a great deal,” she answered truthfully, realizing how deep her affection for Adair’s father had grown. “You called me m’eudail. What does that mean?”
“My love.”
Adair Mac Taran didn’t lie, either with words or expression. As she looked into his eyes, they confirmed the truth of his words. He loved her, and her aching heart rejoiced. However her marriage had come about, whether it was destiny or fate or God’s good grace that had brought her here, to this place and this man, she didn’t know. But she was grateful. “Adair, I—”
The door to their teach burst open.
“Adair!” Lachlann cried, his face full of dismay. “She sent me. Beitiris. She says you must come…that…you must…”
Adair grabbed Marianne’s hand, his grip cold and strong as a vice. There could be no mistaking the meaning of that urgent, stammered summons.
Nevertheless, Marianne desperately begged God to spare Seamus as they rushed to the chieftain’s teach.
But Beitiris’s grim expression confirmed Marianne’s worst fears, and told her God had already decided.
Adair understood at once, too, and with a groan, he threw himself on his knees beside his father’s bed. He laid his head beside him, his arm about the older man’s chest.
Lachlann, who’d followed them, went to the opposite side of the bed with slower, more measured steps. With sorrowful eyes, he looked down at his father and his brother.
Beitiris retreated to a corner. Marianne stayed close to the door. This was their family, their grief, and although she shared it, it wasn’t the same.
A dog started to howl. Adair stiffened, and so did Lachlann and Beitiris.
Marianne remembered a story one of the young nuns used to tell on dark, stormy nights when the wind howled about the convent walls—of how dogs could foretell a death.
Then another dog joined the first, and another, until it seemed a veritable chorus of howls churned the night air like the final verdict, the absolute confirmation that Seamus wasn’t going to live.
Only a few moments later, Seamus gave a great sigh, as if he were about to wake up. Instead, as his breath left his body, he slipped from this life to the next.
Hunched over, still embracing his father, Adair’s shoulders started to shake. Marianne rushed to his side, kneeling and holding him close, her face against her husband’s broad, quivering back. Lachlann shifted and she looked up at him, expecting to see tears on his cheeks, too.
His expression was sorrowful, but in the light of the several candles, she saw another emotion in his hazel eyes, one that shocked and confused her.
Triumph.
Yet it was gone as soon as the word to describe it came to her, and his expression became anguished.
Her tear-filled eyes must have deceived her, she thought, desperately hoping she was wrong, even though she knew death changed many things.
Beitiris stepped out of the shadows bearing a small, flat dish of salt that she reverently placed on Seamus’s still chest. As she moved back, she reached out to touch him, the gesture almost a caress.
“I’ll go tell the people, the clan,” Lachlann said, his voice heavy with sadness as he, too, gently stroked his father’s arm before stepping away.
She had to be mistaken, in her grief seeing emotions that didn’t exist. No one could be pleased that a man like Seamus was dead.
Adair drew in a ragged breath and wiped his eyes with his sleeve before he got to his feet. He looked grimly determined, once more the warrior and not the grieving son. “That is for me to do, Lachlann. Please take Marianne back to our teach. I’ll speak to you afterward about what needs to be done.”
Then he, too, touched his father’s arm and, with a silent nod of farewell, left the teach, too distraught to close the door behind him despite the cold night air. She went to shut it, until a sharp look from Beitiris stopped her.
What did it all mean, the salt and the caresses and not closing the door?
Whatever beliefs the Scots had, she assumed there was something common to all when it came to death: the preparation for burial.
“I’ll help you,” she said to Beitiris, even as a great weariness began to overtake her.
Beitiris shook her head and Marianne was suddenly sure that if Beitiris hadn’t heard of her condition, she had guessed.
“Not you, my lady,” Beitiris said, not unkindly. “We’ll manage, Dearshul and me. You touch him, then go and rest.”
Marianne had never touched a dead person, and she didn’t want to now.
“It’s to keep him from haunting you in your dreams,” Lachlann explained in French.
“I don’t think Seamus would haunt anybody.”
Lachlann shrugged. “Perhaps not—who can say? We do it to be sure.”
Since it was their custom, Marianne put aside her reluctance and went forward. She gazed down at Seamus’s face. Despite everything, he’d been kind to her. He’d been her ally here, when he could very well have been her worst enemy. He was a good man, and a wise one.
“May you rest in the peace you’ve earned,” she whispered as she laid her hand on his arm.
Then she turned away, glad to be spared having to see him like this any longer. She wanted to remember Seamus as he was, alive and vital, laughing with joy at the thought of being a grandfather.
“Lean on me, Marianne,” Lachlann said softly, and with great gentleness.
Surely she was wrong to suspect him of anything except grief.
Holding on to her brother-in-law, she left the chamber, and Beitiris to her task.
“The door is open for his spirit to leave,” Lachlann explained before she asked. “She’ll be opening the windows, too.”
She’d thought the Scots were heathens, and it seemed in some ways they were—or perhaps they merely clung to the old, familiar traditions as a way to remember who they were in a changing world. “Why did Beitiris put the salt on him?”
“To keep away the devil.”
The fortress was deathly silent, the quiet broken only by the continuing howls of the dogs, as if in lament. Not a person stirred, except the men on guard, and they seemed inexpressibly weary, weighed down by the news.
“I am so sorry this happened, Lachlann,” Marianne said when they reached her quarters. “I liked your father very much.”
“He was a fine man,” Lachlann replied, loss and pain in every word.
Clearly she had been horribly wrong to think he derived anything but sorrow from his father’s death. “What happens now, Lachlann? I don’t know how you…I don’t know your customs.”
“You’re cold. Let’s go inside and I’ll tell you.”
Don’t be al
one with him.
The thought came swiftly, unbidden, but hard to ignore.
Yet if she was to rid herself completely of her suspicions, she should take this opportunity to speak with him. “Very well.”
When they entered, Lachlann looked around him in awe. “This is…amazing.”
“A few simple comforts, that’s all,” Marianne said, facing him. “You were going to tell me about your customs.”
Lachlann gestured at one of the stools, inviting her to sit.
As if it were his teach, not hers. It could be courtesy, she supposed, yet the action struck her as patronizing, even a bit arrogant. On the other hand, he’d just lost his father, so surely it was unkind to make judgments based on his actions now.
“Men will keep a vigil over my…the body,” Lachlann said as he sat opposite her. “For three days.”
A vigil for a warrior lord. Of course.
“As eldest son—and being Adair—your husband will likely stay with him for the entire time.”
“Without sleep?”
“As little as possible.”
“I see. And what should I do?”
“Arrange the feast after the burial. We’ll eat and drink and remember my father, and Barra will recite my father’s lineage. Then there will be singing and dancing.” He gave her a sad little smile. “You dance well, my lady. I hope you’ll do so again.”
“Not at such a time,” she replied. It may be their custom, but it was one she wasn’t willing to participate in, at least not yet. “When will Adair be acknowledged as the new chieftain?”
“There’s nothing formal, if that’s what you mean. Once my father died, Adair became thane and chieftain. He’s already sworn his loath of loyalty to the king. He did it before my father named him heir, or he wouldn’t have been accepted. My father would have chosen another.”
“Like Cormag? Is that why he’s so bitter?”
Lachlann shook his head. “Cormag would never have been chosen, and only he believes otherwise. If you have any trouble with him and Adair isn’t nearby, please call on me. Cormag can be an insolent dog sometimes.”
“He’ll heed you?”
“I’m his cousin.”
“Thank you, Lachlann.” She regarded her brother-in-law steadily. “Do you believe Cormag might cause serious trouble for Adair?”
“They don’t like each other, God knows, but Adair is chieftain now, and I expect Cormag to give Adair the respect he deserves.” Lachlann reached out and patted her hand. “Try not to worry about Cormag and Adair.”
“You’ll probably have to stand between them sometimes, the way your father did.”
Lachlann shrugged. “Aye.”
Marianne entwined her fingers in her lap. “I appreciate that, Lachlann, and I know keeping the peace between two fractious relatives isn’t nearly as easy as some people think. Before my brothers left home and I went to the convent, I sometimes had to come between them, or try to, before they hurt each other. It was a difficult, thankless task.”
Lachlann gave her a grateful smile. “I hope my brother appreciates what a jewel you are.”
“I’m not a jewel. I’m just someone like you, with relatives who quarrel frequently. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that you sometimes had to stand between your father and your brother, too.”
She could read nothing in Lachlann’s expression as he replied. “Sometimes.”
“More often than you’d like, though, I’m sure. It’s difficult being in such a position in one’s own family and really, not at all fair. I daresay many times you thought you’d done nothing to be thrust into such a situation except been born, and you couldn’t help that.”
“Exactly,” Lachlann replied, his smile growing. “You’re a wise woman, Marianne.”
“I always resented having to play the peacemaker.”
Lachlann rose and took hold of her hands, pulling her to her feet.
What was he doing?
Holding her hands loosely, he looked down at her, his expression mournful. “Beautiful and wise, too. You’re wasted here in Lochbarr, Marianne. You should be at the king’s court, married to a great and wealthy nobleman.”
Very uncomfortable now, she tugged her hands free. “My brother would agree with you about the wealthy part, anyway,” she answered, wanting Lachlann gone. “But as that hasn’t happened, I’m getting used to living here. With your brother. My husband.”
Lachlann’s eyes didn’t betray so much as a flicker of guilt. Perhaps his actions had been innocent, after all, and she was finding cause for suspicion where there was none. “Will you leave me now, please, Lachlann? I’m very tired.”
“Of course,” he said, immediately going to the door. He gave her another woeful look. “I’d tell you to sleep well, but I doubt any of us will sleep soundly tonight.”
After he left, Marianne lowered herself onto the stool and rubbed the back of her neck, trying to decide if she truly had cause to suspect that her brother-in-law was pleased that his father was dead. Yet surely she had to be wrong. Surely she would have noticed something before this….
“What was Lachlann doing here?”
Marianne rose as Adair entered. “Explaining your burial customs.”
His shoulders relaxed. “Ah.”
“What else?”
Adair went to the bucket of water and splashed his face.
“Adair!”
As he wiped his face with the cloth, she snatched it from his hand. “I know you’re full of grief, but so am I and even so, I won’t countenance that sort of accusation.”
“I didn’t accuse you of anything.”
“No, but you were thinking it!”
“What was I thinking?”
“That it was unseemly for Lachlann and me to be here alone together,” she answered indignantly. “I wanted to know about your customs. It was cold outside. We came inside, and he told me. There was nothing more—”
Her breath caught as another thought came to her, one that completely altered her thinking. “Or do you have reason to suspect Lachlann of being less than honorable?”
“God, no,” Adair retorted, striding toward the stool and sitting heavily. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m saying.”
He put his head in his heads. “Right now, I don’t know anything except that my father is dead. You have every right to be angry. You’ve done nothing, and I’m acting like a jealous idiot. And over Lachlann, too. I must be going mad.”
“Not mad,” she assured him, kneeling beside him and wrapping her arms about him. “You’re upset and grieving. I understand.”
He lowered his hands and looked into her eyes. “You’re as wise as my father thought. Barra tells me he said you were the cleverest woman he’d ever met, and the bravest.” He tried to smile, his lips trembling. “I know you are, m’eudail.”
Her heart was too full of both love and grief to reply right away.
Suddenly a horrified look came to his face and he scrambled to his feet. “You shouldn’t be kneeling on the ground! You might fall ill,” he cried, helping her to stand.
“I’m fine.”
“I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you, too,” he said, holding her close, as if he was afraid she might disappear. Or wander off, never to return.
“I won’t leave you, Adair. You’re my husband, and I love you.”
“What did you say?”
“I love you,” she replied, as sincere as she’d ever been about anything in her life.
“Oh, m’eudail,” he whispered, his eyes shining as he held her tight.
They embraced for a long moment, neither moving or speaking, until Adair pulled away. “I have to go, Marianne.”
“I know. Lachlann told me there’ll be a vigil for three days and that you’d probably stay the whole time.”
“It’s my duty, Marianne. One last duty to my father, so I must go. They’ll have him in the kirk by now.”
He went to the chest and got his long gray cloak.
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In spite of Lachlann’s reassurances, and Dearshul’s, too, she couldn’t let him leave without asking the question that had been preying on her mind. “Adair, will all the clansmen accept you as chieftain without question?”
There wasn’t a hint of doubt in his face or voice when he answered. “Aye.”
“You trust them, then? All of them?”
“Aye,” he replied as he put on his cloak, adjusting it about his shoulders. He picked up his claimh mor that had been leaning against the chest.
“Even Cormag, when he returns?”
Holding his scabbard, the hilt of his sword gleaming in the light, Adair spoke without hesitation. “Even Cormag. He hates me, and I hate him, but he’d never betray me, or his clan. Loyalty’s in our blood, Marianne, like the land under our feet. There are few things in this world I’m sure of, but that would be one of them.”
He gathered her into his arms for one brief kiss. “Until my last duty to my father is done, m’eudail,” he whispered.
When he was gone, Marianne thought about Lachlann, and Cormag, and the people of Lochbarr. The looks, the whispered words, the disgruntled way some of the men watched Adair as he walked by.
“Oh, Adair,” she murmured as she sank down on the bed. “I hope you’re right.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ACCOMPANIED BY THE MOURNFUL DIRGE played on their strange wind instrument, led by the same priest who’d performed the blessing of her marriage, Marianne walked in the funeral procession of Seamus Mac Taran as it made its long, slow way toward the loch. The sun shone weakly through the clouds, and mist shrouded both the upper reaches of the surrounding hills and the surface of the lake.
Barra walked behind the wooden bier carried by six men, including Adair and Lachlann. Followed by the warriors of the clan, the seanachie loudly recited the long and proud lineage of Seamus Mac Taran.
Shivering and holding her dark-brown cloak tighter about her, Marianne was among the women of the household who came next. Ceit and Fionnaghal wailed and keened, their voices loud and plaintive. Behind them came the people of the village of Lochbarr, grim-faced and silent.
Marianne made no sound as she watched her husband. He walked with his head bent, as if he carried more than the weight of his father on his shoulders. His eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed, and his face haggard.
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