“Aye, mum,” she answered, her bravado starting to fade.
The woman shook her head in disgust. “His be the third house on the left,” she motioned with her head. “But what do ye want him fer?”
It wasn’t anyone’s business, so she ignored the question, thanked her, and headed toward the cottage.
It was a quaint place, with a thatched roof and two stools that sat on either side of the door. She could smell stew cooking from within and her stomach rumbled. I bet his mum be a right good cook, she thought. Brushing down the skirt of her dress, she knocked on the door.
Moments later, a very pretty young woman answered the door. She had hair the color of spun gold and big green eyes. Her brow furrowed into a line of confusion when she saw Onnleigh standing on her doorstep. “Can I help ye?” she asked curiously.
Onnleigh offered her a curtsey. “I be here to see Darwud. Are ye his sister?”
The woman laughed, “Nay! I be his wife.”
Onnleigh stood dumbfounded. “Darwud MacCallen’s wife?” she managed to mumble.
“Aye, Darwud MacCallen’s wife,” she replied.
That inner voice began to scream, reminding her just what a fool she was. Not wanting to cause a commotion, her mind raced for a way out of the situation. “Be he a short man, with red hair and a tic in one eye?”
The woman shook her head and rolled her eyes. “Nay. My Darwud be tall, with brown hair and brown eyes. I do no’ ken another as ye described.”
Her Darwud. Not Onnleigh’s Darwud, but someone else’s.
’Twas gut-wrenching news. She couldn’t think, couldn’t utter a word. Instead, she turned on her heels and left.
“Who are ye?” the young woman called out after her.
Not wanting to start any kind of commotion, she stopped, turned and smiled. “I be terrible sorry, mum. ’Twas me mistake.”
As soon as she was off the path she started running. But no matter how hard she pumped her legs, she could not escape the shame, the humiliation or her tears.
How could she be so stupid? So gullible?
He hadn’t loved her. Of course, he hadn’t said he had. But he said he wanted to marry her… No, he hadn’t said that exactly. I think I want to marry ye, had been his exact words. She knew, because she had them burned into her memory.
’Twas all a lie. One big jest.
She stumbled twice, hurting both knees, the cold morning air burning her cheeks. By the time she reached her croft, her tear-streaked face was covered in sweat, her hair out of her braid, and her best dress had a tear in it. Pushing past the fur that acted as a door, she saw her father lying on his bed, still sleeping off last night’s drunk.
Swiping away tears, she looked around the space. Nothing more than one room with dirt floors. Her father’s bed sat against the wall to her right, her palette on the left. An ages old, uneven table and two tree trunks for chairs sat in the middle, the cold brazier in front of it. The few pots she owned were stacked neatly on a shelf.
This was all she had ever known. This tiny hut, built into the side of a hill.
For a brief while, eleven days to be exact, she had dared to hope for more than this. Dared to believe that someone wanted her as a wife. Allowed herself to believe the pretty words and kind gestures had been real.
Turning, she left the hut and headed to the small copse of trees behind it. ’Twas there, on her knees behind a fallen tree, that she let all the tears, frustration and anger out. Her grief came in great waves and wracking sobs.
She cursed Darwud to the devil, cursed men in general, as well as her own stupidity.
How could anyone be so cruel? How could a man lie like he had? Why? Why would he do such a thing?
A long while later, her tears shed but her shame still burning within, she took several deep breaths. The sun had burned away the morning frost, but not the dead, cold chill that lingered in her heart. She had searched and searched her mind and her heart for some memory of something awful she must have done at some point in her life. Some horrific, terrible act, that would explain why she had deserved to be used and thrown away. But she found nothing.
“Onnleigh!” her father’s voice came booming through the trees. “Onnleigh!”
’Twould do no good to pretend she hadn’t heard him. Wiping her tears on the hem of her dress, she took a deep breath and started back to the hut. She was halfway home when her father popped through a patch of overgrown brush. Bloodshot eyes stared angrily when he caught sight of her. “Where the bloody hell have ye been?” he shouted harshly. “I been waitin’ all day to eat!”
“I be sorry, da,” she told him half-heartedly, fully aware he’d been asleep all morn.
“Are ye tryin’ to starve me to death?” he asked as she approached.
“Nay, da,” she said, standing on shaky legs. She was in no mood for one of his tirades. Her heart was shattered, but there’d be no sharing that with Grueber, for he could not have cared any less.
He stared at her as he yawned and scratched his belly with a dirty hand. “Well, quit standin’ there and go fix me somethin’ to eat!”
Oh, how she wished she had the courage to tell him to go fix his own bloody food! She rushed back to the croft and set about making him a fish soup. Fish. Blasted, ugly fish. When she lopped off the head of the trout, she imagined ’twas Darwud’s head staring back at her.
Mayhap the problem didn’t lie with her, but with Darwud. Mayhap he was nothing but a lying, flea-infested cur and coward.
She decided he was not worth shedding more tears over. Still, she did not feel any better. No one had loved her, not since her mum died. ’Twas the plain and simple truth. Though why it was impossible for anyone to love her, she didn’t know. Her da didn’t love anyone or anything other than his brew. Her clanspeople, the people she should have been able to trust and go to in an hour of need, couldn’t abide the sight of her, let alone find a shred of love or decency in their hearts. She was nothing more than the daughter of a thief, layabout and drunkard. She would never be anything more than that to anyone. Not ever.
’Twas a painful thing to realize, to try to live with. But what could she do? Not a bloody thing.
There would be no husband, no nice cottage with rushes to cover the floors, or flowers or gardens to plant. No children to love or tend to. No rich stews or sweet cakes to make for them. No friends and family who would come to visit.
There was nothing but the hovel she shared with her drunken father. Two old dresses, a pair of boots with holes in the toes, and naught else.
The tears returned, but not with the same vengeance as before. They were melancholy tears. Tears shed out of deep sorrow of realizing, with finality, that there would be nothing else for her in this life but what she already had.
* * *
The day after she managed the courage to go to the keep, Darwud MacCallen showed up on her doorstep.
And he was angry.
“Why did ye go to me cottage?” he demanded as he pulled her out of her croft by the arm. His grip was tight, his fingers digging into her tender flesh.
Onnleigh didn’t think he had the right to be angry with her. She hadn’t lied to him. She hadn’t been the one to whisper false words into his ears. “Why? Did I upset yer wife?”
He continued to pull her away from the croft. “Ye fool! Ye had no right to do that! To go to me home!”
She yanked her arm out of his grasp and stopped in her tracks. “No right?”
“No right!”
“Pardon me, but nearly a fortnight ago, ye told me ye thought ye might like to marry me. Ye were all sweet and filled with pretty words. Words I was stupid enough to believe,” she all but spat at him.
“’Twas nae me fault ye believed them,” he said through gritted teeth. His face was red with anger, his hands drawn into tight fists.
“Yer right, ’twas me own fault.”
He took a step closer. “Do nae ever come to me home again, do ye hear me?”
“
I would nae want anywhere near yer home.” Her words were filled with anger.
She could almost see his mind racing for his next words.
“Does yer wife ken what a liar and cheat ye are?”
In hindsight, ’twas not the right question to ask. His arm swung out, and he struck her across the cheek with the back of his hand, sending her to the hard, cold earth. Her head swam; her stomach lurched with an ugly blend of fear and anger. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth as her cheek throbbed in time with her frightened heart.
He stood over her, hands on his hips, warning her in a harsh and angry voice. “If ye ever tell another soul what we did, I’ll deny it. No one will believe ye. Everyone kens yer a liar and a thief, just like yer da.”
His words struck deep and cruelly. “And if I carry yer child? What then, Darwud?”
’Twas the second least intelligent thing she could have said that day. In a fury, he pulled her to her feet by her hair, only to slap her again. That second brutal smack was much worse than the first. She fell to the ground again, this time sprawled out on her back. White dots of pain floated in her eyes.
“Ye really are a stupid whore. Do ye really think anyone will believe ye over me?”
’Twas his laughter, which came after, that hurt more than his words or his calloused hands. He was laughing at her, comfortable with the knowledge that he was right. No one would believe her.
He left her there with her pulse pounding in dread, her head swimming, her heart shattering into tiny slivers.
All because she was Grueber’s daughter.
Chapter 2
November, 1426
The Highlands, near the Forth of Moray
Connor MacCallen looked out the small, narrow window of his private study at the beauty of his lands: rolling hills covered in brown grass which had yet to see a touch of winter snow, lay dormant and quiet. Not far from the keep was a small hill, a bump really in comparison to the larger, grander hills that lay beyond. There, just outside the gardens, at the top of that bump, stood three wych elms. During the warmer months, mothers did their sewing as they sat on bright blankets watching bairns play at their feet, or the older children chase one another. Now, the space sat empty. But he knew that, come spring, the hill would be filled once again with mothers, babes, and bairns. And none of those women or children would belong to him. He had no wife anymore. No children of his own.
On the west side of the keep, his men trained for battle. He could not see them, but he could hear the distinct sound of metal clanking against metal, commanders shouting at the younger men—their grunts, curses and laughter.
Inside the keep, his people were excitedly preparing for the upcoming Yuletide. Evergreens and holly were hung in nearly every room, special foods were being prepared, and soon, he and his brothers would carve a special log to be burned on Yuletide’s eve.
No matter the time of year, these lands were paradise, heaven on earth, no others more beautiful or more serene.
’Twas also the most lonely of places.
With arms crossed over his broad chest, he leaned his blonde head against the sill as he continued to stare with a heavy, melancholy heart at his lands.
These tranquil moments would not last long if he could not broker a peace accord with the Randalls. How long their clans had been at war was anyone’s guess. Decade after decade of warring for a reason or reasons no one could now remember. Now ’twas up to him to find a way to end it. He could only hope that Alec Randall wanted peace as much as he.
If only their new King, James the First, would leave them all the bloody hell alone, Connor was certain peace could be had.
“Are ye ready?”
The question, he was certain, had little to do with where his mind had been. He needn’t look to see who was standing behind him. ’Twas his grandminny, Bruanna, a woman as old as dirt.
With a heavy sigh, he turned away from the window. “For what?”
When she furrowed her brow as she was now doing, it deepened the lines of age that creased a once quite beautiful face. Light from the candles that were scattered here and there, glanced off her pewter hair. Tapping her walking stick once against the stone floor, she said, “To go to the wishin’ well, ye daft boy!”
God’s bones, be it that time already?
“I cannae take ye this time. Ask Braigh,” he told her.
She cracked the stick against the floor again, this time a wee more forcefully than last. “I will nae ask Braigh!”
“Grandminny, I have too much to do this day.”
She’d not give in. “Ye ken why,” she reminded him. “Ye and I must go today.”
He let loose a breath of frustration. They’d been taking the same trek almost every year for the past 28 of his life—minus the time he spent fostering with the MacKinnons. A trek that took nearly half a day now, because she refused to ride a horse or be carried by wagon, and insisted they walk. “Grandminny—”
She cut off his protest. “Do nae tell me how busy ye be. I ken ye be chief and I ken what it involves. I be no’ some dimwitted auld woman who cannae even chew her own food or does nae ken the day of the week. We must leave now or we’ll miss the time.”
Every year was the same. Every year, on the anniversary of his grandfather’s birth, they would go to the wishing well to make special wishes. They had to be at that blasted wishing well before the four o’clock hour elst the wish will nae come true, or so Bruanna believed. Connor didn’t give much credence to wishes or fairies or any of the other things his Grandminny believed in.
He tried again to reason with her. His words fell on deaf ears.
“We must go today,” she told him, undeterred. “This may verra well be me last chance.”
’Twas the same ploy she’d been using for years now. I be gettin’ on in years. I dunnae ken how many more days I have left.
Years of experience with the woman who had helped raise him, who had outlived all of her own children—and rumor had it was there when Christ was born—told him arguing was futile.
“Verra well,” he said with a measure of resignation. Arguing with Bruanna was as pointless as trying to move a mountain of dirt with one hand. “But let us nae tarry long, fer I do have important work.”
Her frown evaporated instantly, replaced with a smile that showed three missing bottom teeth. “Thank ye, grandson. Have I ever told ye that ye be me favorite?”
Taking her gently by the elbow, he smiled. “All the time, unless I have vexed ye, for then Braigh and Ronald are yer favorites.”
Her reply was nothing more than a happy cackle that filled the hallway.
* * *
They could have reached the well in an hour, were Bruanna willing to ride. Refusing to sit atop a horse unless God Himself came down from the heavens and told her to, she and Connor walked—Connor walked while she shuffled along at a snail’s pace—the three hour journey to the wishing well.
As his grandminny prattled on about years gone by, Connor kept a watchful eye out for anyone who might intend to do them harm. The only thing he and his neighboring clans could agree upon was that the old wishing well was neutral and sacred ground. None could fight there, nor kill, nor war against one another on that tiny spot of land. Still, there was much ground to cover between his lands and that blasted old well that many people, including Bruanna, believed held magical powers.
Half tempted to pick the woman up and carry her the rest of the way, Connor continued to scan the horizon. Though the well and a small patch of ground that surrounded it was sacred, the earth on which they currently trod was not. Therefore he had made certain to have two dozen mounted men spread out in all directions to help maintain a watchful eye.
Located near the base of the mountain in a wide, deep valley, the well had sat for centuries. Remnants of an old fortress, built by Norseman who had come from afar to claim the land as their own, lay scattered around the well. He put no faith in that old well. Connor chose to pray to the one true God ins
tead of looking into old wells for answers.
After several brief stops along the way, to allow his grandminny to rest, they finally reached their destination. The air here was considerably warmer, the valley and surrounding mountains acting as a bowl to keep the warm air in. Still, there was a nice breeze and a bright blue sky dotted with fluffy clouds that leant beauty to the place.
There sat the well, the object of his consternation.
Built with granite, lined with pitch, it sat near the wide stream the Norse had dammed for a time before the Scots won out. Now the stream flowed freely to the points God and nature had intended.
Many years ago, when the land had been declared sacred, someone had laid large rocks around the well, to signify the agreed upon boundaries. A wide circle, some one-hundred feet in circumference. Outside that boundary ’twas an every-man-for-himself existence. But inside? Many a man had jumped the rocks to claim sanctity to keep from being killed by an enemy, a marauder, or an angry father against a man who had done his daughter wrong.
Trees had grown up through the old stone walls, through the last part of the roof of the long old building. Overgrown brush and bramble that none dared touch grew wherever it wished. ’Twas as deserted a place as ever there was.
“There it be!” Bruanna exclaimed happily.
Connor rolled his eyes. “Did ye think it moved?” he asked sarcastically.
His grandminny whacked him on the arm with her walking stick. “Don’t be blasphemous!” she scolded him.
Blasphemous? He didn’t have the mental fortitude to argue the point that to put more faith in a well than in God was blaspheme. He kept his thoughts to himself.
Bruanna shuffled in hurried fashion toward the well, carefully stepping over the rocks. Connor hurried as well, but not with the same enthusiasm. He simply wanted to get this annual sojourn over with so he could return home to important business.
“Do ye remember what it says?” she asked him as she looked in awe at the great stone lid that sat against the wall of the well, facing east.
Highlanders for the Holidays: 4 Hot Scots Page 29
