His gaze skidded from one face to another, most of them familiar, trying to determine why he felt so ill at ease.
There was Catrìona Brodie, who seemed to adore her husband more than she did herself, doting on him as he did her. It was embarrassing to watch. Even now the two were huddled together, feeding each other morsels of food.
And then there was Piers de Montgomerie, who was getting fat and happy—at least no longer quite so fit, with arms that seemed wider than his thighs. Nay. But he seemed pleased enough with his lot in life, chasing after a passel of kids. For Malcom’s part, he saw those children as simply more to lose—more bait to lure the wicked into perfidy.
And here was Broc … who now had his own demesne. If there was one man Malcom doubted would ever betray his Da, it was Broc Ceannfhionn. The man had generously brought along with him half his grain, and every last piece of unused cloth he’d had in his possession—along with his dutiful wife, who was already promising to sew everyone new clothes.
Old friends and new were congregated about the bonfire, sharing the antics of their children, comparing details about the past year’s crops and discussing at length the unfortunate circumstances of a lass left to her own devices. This last discourse was no doubt about Malcom’s cousin Constance, who by the by, appeared to be smitten with the dún Scoti’s black-haired son.
Of course, once again, Malcom’s grandfather was nowhere to be found. The rumor was that Old Man Maclean was on his deathbed now, and it must be true, because Leith Mac Brodie had arrived without his aunt Alison—who must surely be keeping vigil over her father’s bed. Malcom didn’t like to think of himself in Alison’s position—keeping vigil over a dying father, but that day must surely come.
For his part, he did not wish to see the day arrive, but he was bored beyond being, without a purpose in his life, save to look for danger in the shadows.
He thought about his mother’s father—a man who rarely opened his hearth and home to strangers. Did he truly wish to end like that?
The answer was nay, but he could not ignore this sense of knowing he’d been gifted with. Mayhap his kinsmen all simply thought him a boy who cried wolf, but more times than not he’d had good cause to be alarmed.
There was the time he’d told his Da he’d spied the Weeper wailing by the burn, washing out a bloodstained tunic. According to folks, she only appeared when someone was about to die. And later that day, Kermichil choked on a wishbone and died.
And then there was the time he’d spied the Sassenach hiding in their barn, up in the loft. But Malcom had been young then—no more than eight—and ran away to tell his Da. Unfortunately, they never found the man, but mayhap his watchfulness had prevented an attack that day. Couldn’t it be, despite his being young, he’d scared the man away?
The sky was dark this eve, with a gloomy new moon, but the night seemed perfectly clear—without a hint of snow. Angus’ reed had long since quieted. And little by little, the laughter subsided as kinsmen took to their blankets beneath the stars.
The darkness was nearly impenetrable now, but Malcom could still hear a few stubborn kinsmen rapping at their nails.
He settled against a fat log outside the glow of the fire, where none could spy him too clearly—all the better to keep his vigil by—and cast his cousin a worried glance.
For her part, Constance didn’t even realize he was there, watching over her—making certain she didn’t get herself into trouble. Thankfully, his lovely young cousin was no longer quite so inclined to be shed her clothes. Still, Malcom remained close, watching as she flirted with Kellen dún Scoti.
Barely two years his junior, Kellen was nevertheless a stranger to their clan. It mattered not who his Da was. Everyone was suspect to Malcom’s way of thought.
“Tell me more about Dubhtolargg,” he heard Constance whisper, and Kellen scooted closer.
Malcom frowned as the dún Scoti lad waved his hand along an imaginary landscape, embellishing for the benefit of a girl. “Our vale is surrounded by mountains, and ringed with beautiful rowan trees—almost as beautiful as your hair.”
Malcom rolled his eyes and tried not to laugh.
“My father’s house sits upon a loch.”
“In the water?” Constance asked, aghast.
“On stilts. ’Tis called a crannóg,” the lad enlightened.
“D’ ye never get wet? What about when it storms? Does the water never rise into your beds?”
“Never,” he said. “This is the way my ancestors have lived for many, many years.”
“What a sight! I would dearly love to see it someday.”
“Perhaps you will?” Kellen rested a hand upon her knee and Malcom cleared his throat, very loudly. Kellen started, spotting him at once, and withdrew. Constance never bothered peering about, and Malcom crossed his arms.
“What about your kinsmen?” she asked, completely enthralled. “Do they all sleep beneath the same roof? How very large your crannóg must be!”
Once again, Malcom rolled his eyes, quite sure Kellen would take it as a point of male pride—yet so long as it was only his crannóg they were discussing, Malcom couldn’t be bothered to care.
“Nay,” Kellen said, leaning back on one arm. “We have a village, same as ye.”
Constance shivered, rubbing her arms.
“Are ye cauld, lass?”
“Just a wee bit,” his cousin said softly, batting her lovely, long lashes. Och, but she had no idea how dangerous those sultry looks could be…
Kellen cast a wary glance in Malcom’s direction and Malcom smiled thinly. As long as he stayed near, they were bound to behave themselves, so he settled in for the duration and laid his head back to stare up into the stars, giving his eyes a bit of rest and letting his ears do the listening.
But he had no notion how tired he was. He’d only meant to close his eyes for a moment. Without warning he fell fast asleep…
Chapter 3
December 22, 1135
Dawn broke over a smoky landscape.
The bonfire that had burned so bright the evening before was now reduced to ash, leaving naught but a bed of burning coals.
Malcom awoke with a start.
Quick on the heels of the realization that he’d fallen asleep was the realization that he was also the first to wake. The first pleased him not at all. The second filled him with relief, because everything and everybody—as far as he could see—was still in one piece.
The ground was covered with sleeping forms. Feet intertwined, arms and legs askew, heads over and beneath leaf-covered tartans. It was a veritable sea of sleeping folk, all wearing cherry-red noses from the cold and dirty faces from sleeping on half burnt grass.
He didn’t spot Constance, and hoped she would have gone to her bed. Good girl, he thought, and said a little prayer that it must be so.
Rubbing at his eyes, he stumbled to his feet, realizing that the haze of the morning was more mist than smoke. Even now, the rising sun was burning it away, brightening the landscape. Yawning, he stretched, intending to go searching for Constance, and froze where he stood.
It wasn’t possible.
He rubbed his eyes and looked again.
Nay, it wasn’t possible.
But it was.
They were surrounded—not by half finished homes—but by fully formed cottages, all with roofs complete with thatch. For an instant, he wondered if some faerie had lifted him up and carried him to another place…
Mute with shock, Malcom stepped over Angus, who lay sprawled at his feet, one hand still wrapped about the neck of his uisge flask. Mouth agape, he moved soundlessly toward the nearest hut, quite certain he was dreaming and that the cottage would vanish any second. “’Tis but a dream,” he said to himself.
“What’s that?” Angus mumbled, half asleep. Rather than bring his uisge flask to his mouth, he brought his mouth to the flask, struggling to drink with eyes half closed.
Malcom didn’t answer. He put one foot in front of the other, s
tepping over sleeping kinsmen, until he reached the hut and splayed his hands against the new wood.
It was solid, but there was no way a few stubborn men with a handful of hammers could have so quickly completed what they’d begun just a few day ago. Last night, after the sun went down, most of these houses were still not complete.
“What the devil?” he heard Angus ask.
And then another kinsman asked, “What’s this I see?”
“The houses—look, they’ve all built themselves!”
“Look! Look!”
“Tis a gift from the Cailleach!”
“Impossible!” he heard another man exclaim, but Malcom stood transfixed, examining the newly erected hut.
Aye, it was impossible.
Would they have him believe some old woman had simply waved her staff and thereby erected all these huts?
Glenna would have sworn it must be true.
His pleasure over the discovery was fully dampened by the simple fact that all these cottages could not have been constructed without a lot of help. Unless every last guest had put aside his uisge and his ale, and then worked all night whilst Malcom snored away, there was simply no way this could have been done.
He turned to scan the horizon as the mist and smoke gave way to sunshine, and found row upon row of finished houses. Startled by the discovery, his cousin was summarily forgotten. Malcom raced toward the keep to alert his Da.
* * *
Chreagach Mhor’s great hall had never seen such an audience—not even during trials. Presiding from his dais, Iain MacKinnon contemplated the faces surrounding him. Quite literally, everyone he knew was present here today, along with the lairds and families of many of the neighboring clans. Some who did not fit inside the hall were listening from the hall. His son straddled the dais steps, suspicion hardening his usually gentle features.
Iain leveled his question directly at his firstborn. “There is no proof anyone set the fire, son, and if they had, why the devil would they burn the village and then rally to rebuild our homes whilst we slept? It makes no sense, Mal.”
Malcom gave a half shake of his head, as though he too could scarce fathom the reasons behind such an act. “I dinna ken, Da. All I know is I’ve this feeling in my bones.”
“I had a feeling in my bone this morning, too,” Angus quipped.
Laughter erupted throughout the hall.
Iain shot the old man a quelling glance and Auld Angus had the good sense to look chagrined. “I’m sorry, lad,” he said, casting Malcom a contrite glance.
Malcom’s jaw set tight, ignoring the old man’s apology. “Ye take me lightly,” he complained. “I have never cried wolf, Da.”
This much was true.
His son was not the sort to go running about half-cocked, yelling to anyone who would listen that the sky was falling. But Iain also realized his son distrusted everyone he barely knew. He had little notion how to relax amidst so many guests. He searched the shadows for traitors and watched in vain for betrayals at every turn. This truth had only worsened as he’d aged. Glenna, the old bat, had only encouraged him with her claims that Malcom had the sight—as recompense from the Gods for all the travails he’d endured.
Broc stepped forward to place a hand on Malcom’s shoulder. He did not have to climb the steps to do so, for at Broc’s height, he could easily peer into Malcom’s face, had the boy merely turned. “Your Da has never taken you lightly, Mal.”
Malcom shrugged Broc’s hand away. “What do ye know?” he said, without looking back at Broc.
“Malcom!”
It wasn’t often Iain raised his voice. The occupants of the hall visibly started, some retracting their necks well into their shoulders.
Broc stepped back, out of the way, looking pained.
Iain glowered at his firstborn child. “You’ll not speak to your elders in such a manner. Do I make myself clear, son?”
Malcom barely nodded. Still, he said, “I’m sorry, Da.” And he cast a short glance over his shoulder at Broc.
“No offense taken,” Broc allowed.
Malcom turned once more to address his father, his expression tormented. “I know something is amiss, Da. I sense it in my bones. Dinna ye ken?”
Iain sighed portentously, weighing the facts. This is what he knew: The village had burned a few days ago. No cause had yet to be found. It appeared to be a random fire that began in precisely the wrong spot. Although, even were it set apurpose, there could be no rational connection to the sudden and immediate completion of their homes.
“Did anyone spy anything at all?” he asked the crowd at large.
A sea of faces peered back at him. “Not I,” said a few. “Nor I.”
“We heard hammers cracking all through the night, but we dinna think to look to see who was still at work.”
“It’s the bodachan sabhaill!” suggested Glenna, raising her hand. The auld woman was ever inclined to believe in faerie folk and brownies, too.
Iain furrowed his brow. The last time she’d claimed there was a haunting in their barn, it turned out to be Aidan’s sister Cat, who’d stolen a palette of candles, along with a lot of thatch from Montgomeries farm.
“Nay,” Iain said. And yet, inasmuch as the two events could not be connected—at least not in his measured opinion—it was nevertheless a mystery as to how so much work could have been completed in so little time. It was true they had a large company of new faces—certainly more than enough to have seen the job done if they so pleased, but no one seemed inclined to take credit for the work. Nor, in truth, did Seana’s uisge ever seem to inspire such acts. “No one?” he asked again.
“Laird!” someone shouted at the back of the hall.
Iain turned to spy his man Kerwyn shouldering his way inside. He was dragging in a shamefaced Constance behind him, hair mussed and filled with bits of straw. “Constance, here, has something she would like to say…”
Iain frowned at the sight of his niece. Dear, God, that’s all he needed now—to hear she’d bedded one of their guests. The chance of it turned his gut.
Looking entirely too contrite, Constance stumbled forward, and Iain mentally counted all the available lads she might have seduced.
He cast a glance at Aidan dún Scoti, searching for his son. To Iain’s memory, Kellen was the one his niece seemed most drawn to.
He didn’t have to look far. Behind Kerwyn and Constance came the dún Scoti lad, pulled into the hall by the scruff of his neck.
Iain whispered a silent prayer for strength.
Aidan dún Scoti’s hands fell away from his chest to his sides, his eyes rolling backward, his jaw turning taut.
“Constance—what in Biera’s name ha’e ye done?”
The lass had been weeping, Iain could tell. Red-eyed and pink nosed, she swiped away tears from her cheeks with a trembling thumb.
Kellen dún Scoti had the good sense to remain quiet, despite the manhandling he received, and thankfully, his father remained precisely where he stood, frowning though he was.
The hall fell silent as both youths were brought before Iain—neither a day past seventeen. When it rained, it did pour, he thought, and cast another wary glance at the boy’s father. To the dún Scoti’s credit, he merely nodded, giving Iain leave to rule as he pleased, but he crossed his arms again, clearly none too pleased.
“We found ’em sleeping in the stable loft,” Kerwyn announced.
Iain leveled Kellen a stern look, and another one for Constance. “Is this true?” he asked.
Constance nodded, swallowing tears. “Aye, though we were merely sleeping,” she said, with a watery hiccup.
God save them all.
Even were that true, her reputation would now be ruined. No decent bloke would have the girl if he thought she’d given away her maidenhead so easily. He saw visions of Constance running about as a dirty old maid, lifting up her skirts for all the married men to see—not that she would ever do so, mind you. She had long outgrown the need to show everyone
her lily-white arse, and yet the image plagued Iain nonetheless. He turned to address Kellen. “How old are you, lad?”
To his credit, Kellen’s gaze never faltered. “Sixteen, laird.”
Iain remained silent, contemplating what best to do. He tapped his fingers angrily on the arm of his chair.
“But we didn’t do anything,” Constance wailed, shrugging free of Kerwyn’s constraints. “Let me go,” she said defiantly. “Ha’e ye not embarrassed me enough already? I’m going to tell your minny!” she declared.
A few of the men snickered at her threat, because Kerwyn, the lump of clod, still lived with his mother and some suspected she still took a switch to his bum now and again.
Iain waited for the hall to quiet, rubbing his brow wearily. The mystery of the huts properly forgotten for the time being, he gave his niece his full regard. There was only one way to handle this, and he feared it could come to blows.
If Kellen’s father would not have it—if Aidan rued the thought of losing even one more of his kinswomen to another clan—it would not bode well.
His voice was deceptively soft when he spoke again. “Get out everyone,” he commanded. “Out,” he said. “All save the boy and his Da.”
“And you!” he shouted at Constance, when she suddenly made to leave.
“Och, Da!” Malcom exclaimed, realizing that Iain meant for him to leave as well.
“Out,” he told his son, a bit more gently. “This does not concern you, Mal.”
“Only gi’ me two men to search the woodlands,” Malcom begged. “I will not bother you again. And if there is naught to be found I will speak of it no more.”
“Malcom,” Iain said tightly. “Dinna try me, son. We have no cause to believe there is aught amiss, and the men have worked hard enough. Please go.”
Malcom stood stubbornly, glaring at him.
“Now,” he said.
As the crowd disbursed, Aidan moved forward, and finally, Malcom turned to go, casting Iain a baleful glance as the dún Scoti laird came to stand behind his son. Thankfully, Malcom said naught more. He marched down the steps, his hands forming fists by his sides.
Highlanders for the Holidays: 4 Hot Scots Page 14
