And he would take a bride with him.
Broderick bit his lip. He had never actually thought that far. Had not thought past the taking of his vengeance, to what would happen next. He had focused on his hate of Aisling's murderers, nursing it until it became a bigger and bigger void inside him, eating away his heart.
Now, with a bride beside him who did not want to face him, he realized that he had let that void overrun him entirely. He sighed: It was too late to change it. He had no idea how to soften her heart to him. Could not even guess what he had done wrong.
Shaking his head at himself, he decided to let the matter rest awhile. He listened to the conversational goings-on, glancing at his silent, straight-backed wife as he did so. She sat there like a carven statue, painted in red and white and green, a thing of exquisite beauty, made of stone and ice. She was looking at the hounds where they massed beside her uncle's seat, waiting for him to cast them scraps. She seemed uninterested in the human occupants of the room entirely.
Broderick switched his gaze to Duncan, where he sat beside Lady Alina. He was talking to her with grave earnestness, tawny-dark eyes bright.
“You will ride with the hunt in autumn?” he asked spiritedly. Broderick smiled. With her dark hair straight and loose about her shoulders, a dark-blue velvet gown bringing out her black eyes, Alina was lovely indeed. Almost as lovely as her sister.
“I will ride with the hunt,” Lady Alina said quietly. “But at the killing, I will return here. I have no joy in seeing needless death.”
Duncan nodded. “My lady, you are wise. Death is a thing that should not be made light of.”
Broderick swallowed. Indeed. That was one thing with which he completely agreed. He wished he had not had to learn how serious death was. And how it did not end. Aisling's presence lingered in his heart, running through everything like ink spilled on cloth, touching every facet of him.
“Thank you, Lord Duncan,” Alina said to his brother, shaking Broderick's reverie. “That is wise.”
He watched Duncan blush. “Oh, no, my lady. It is kind of you to say so.” He reached for the salt-cellar, clearly feeling awkward.
Broderick smiled. He had never seen his brother anything like this. Never seen him truly attracted to someone. I should speak to Lord Lochlann about it. As far as he recalled, Alina was nineteen years old – a little young, but not a bad match for Duncan, who was nine and twenty. He hoped that the Lochlann would at least consider the idea of a match between them favorably.
The quiet conversation was interrupted by a bright giggle from Lady Chrissie, who sat beside Amabel.
“Oh, Heath! You are silly!”
The whole table looked at them, and Heath blushed.
“It is not silly, my lady.” he said mildly, but Broderick could see he was upset.
“Sorry, Heath!” the girl said, instantly caring. “But it was just the way you said it. It sounded so... dreary, so driech!”
Heath smiled. “My lady, I apologize. I would not be thought dreary by you.”
Chrissie giggled, cheeks flushed prettily.
Broderick watched them wistfully. They were so young! They knew nothing of the hardship and pain of love, nothing of loss or misunderstanding. Their love was just blossoming, and he wished them a life of ease and innocence. May they know only joy together.
“My lord?”
Broderick turned to face his wife. “Yes?”
“I thought you said something. I must have been mistaken.” She turned away stiffly.
Broderick sighed. He had not realized he mouthed his prayer for Heath and Chrissie. He wanted to tell her what he meant, but she had already turned away.
I should just concentrate on this campaign. Forget about what happens next.
With that as his decision, Broderick listened to Lord Lochlann and his stories, but there was little to be gleaned from them. He made a mental note to seek out Fergall the next day and learn all he could from him.
“Lord Lochlann smiled as the servants arrived to clear away the plates from the main course. “It is nice to dine with my new allies. I eagerly anticipate many such dinners. Many more campaigns against our common enemy.”
Broderick sighed. He had hoped to use the resources of Lochlann for his own vengeance. In a sense, it was only fitting that Lord Lochlann sought to exploit him almost as much.
“Good, my lord. Agreed.” He raised the glass but this time only wet his lips with it. His head was already swimming, and he did not want to risk being drunk tonight.
The servants brought in a dish of nuts and apples, some sort of pie that smelled sweet and delicious, but Broderick had little appetite. He waited for the younger family to finish their meal and then stood to retire.
“Good night, my lord.” He inclined his head to Lord Lochlann, who was already walking to the door.
“Goodnight, nephew. I look forward to excellent news when you return from our venture.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
Broderick looked for his wife, but she was in the corner by the fireplace, talking to little Chrissie, who was giggling and blushing. He left the room feeling wretched. Broderick MacConnaway, you are a bloody fool.
Not wanting to face Amabel's brittle politeness, her cool sadness, he walked back from dinner alone, heading for his bedchamber. He slit his eyes: he could not discern his way clearly down the corridor in the hazy, wavery light of the torches. But that was not what angered him about himself... it was his inability to understand.
All he knew was that he had done something foolish and now his wife hated him.
What did I do wrong?
He reached the bedchamber and disrobed. Feeling completely miserable and defeated, he tried hard to forget about the joy and pleasure that had been his in this bed such a wholly unbelievably short time ago. He slid in under the covers and was soon fast asleep.
When he woke, it was to feel Amabel lying beside him.
He rolled over. She was asleep. Blue eyes closed, long lashes resting on the soft rise of her cheek. He looked down at her.
She is so beautiful. So, so beautiful.
He wanted to reach out and stroke her hair. To kiss those red, plump lips. To run his tongue down the white snow of her skin and take those hard, firm nipples in his teeth as he had a little over a week before this. He could feel his body responding and he gritted his teeth, stifling a groan.
Don't touch her. You would be the worst sort of person if you forced your attentions on her.
She stirred and opened her eyes slowly. She smiled. When her gaze registered him, he saw her face change. Her eyes shuttered, and she wiped away the smile.
“Goodnight.”
She rolled away from him. Soon he heard her breath slip back to the slowness of rest.
Feeling desperate with desire, Broderick slid out of bed and walked to the fireplace, looking into the leaping flames. Red, gold and graceful, they reminded him, ridiculously, of Aisling.
“Aisling,” he whispered into the fire. My dearest beloved. Help me? I have built a wall of hate inside my heart and forgotten how to love.
He focused on his memories of Aisling, but all he could recall clearly was the Bradley tartan, rippling in fire. He felt a tear trace down his cheek, cold and damp. He cuffed it away but it was followed by another. I have forgotten everything, lost in this quest for vengeance.
Feeling more lost than he had ever done, he sat down by the fire and allowed the tears to flow, unchecked, for the first time since Aisling's death. Help me, he thought a little desperately. Tell me what to do.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A GOODBYE ON THE DRAWBRIDGE
A GOODBYE ON THE DRAWBRIDGE
The day of the campaign dawned. Broderick stood on the steps of the castle.
Amabel was opposite him. She wore a high-necked dress of white linen, falling stiffly down to a long train. On her head, she had a tall steepled headdress from which fluttered a filmy veil. She looked cool and remote, a pillar of frost.
“Goodbye, Lord Broderick,” she said in a small voice. Her hands, fingers long and tapered, in his, were like ice.
“Goodbye, my lady,” he said stiffly. He bent to kiss her cheek. She stood unyielding under the touch of his lips. Her skin was cool like marble under his mouth. He drew back.
“I wish you a blessed venture,” she said in a high, clear voice. “May you accomplish your long-sought vengeance.”
Broderick nodded. “That will be my aim.”
“Good.”
He squeezed her lifeless fingers, wishing that he could think of something to do or say to bring some warmth into the situation. But he could think of nothing. He gently released his hold and she withdrew her fingers. She looked past him to the ranks of the men, to the single catapult standing behind.
“Tell me all about it!” Heath said, enthusiastically. “I wish to hear a full account of the engine's work.”
Broderick grinned and ruffled the young man's thick black hair. “I shall, young man. Take care of the castle in my absence.”
Lord Lochlann snorted from further up the line, but the youth flushed happily.
“I will, lord Broderick!”
Broderick grinned. He turned to his brother. “Take care of Dunkeld for me, brother. And make sure that rascal of a father knows why I am so long absent.”
Duncan laughed. He had an easy laugh, one that made him instantly popular. “I will, brother. Take care.” He squeezed his hand. Broderick swallowed. A goodbye from his wise little brother was always quite hard.
“You, too.”
He turned away briskly, feeling the strange mix of restlessness and sadness that he always felt when saying goodbye to Duncan. He cleared his throat and called to Blaine, who was further down the line.
“Come on, Blaine. Off we go.”
Blaine nodded and the two of them turned to mount up. Broderick had been granted a magnificent destrier, a horse he felt he only just merited. Trained by the best trainers in Normandy, the horse was a mount that would have graced a champion jouster. He felt desperately outmatched and tried to pretend he was not.
“Come, Flamme,” he whispered to the horse. The horse had a French name and was trained in that language. Amabel spoke French, he thought sadly. She would have been able to help him learn the correct commands if he had thought to ask.
Blaine had thrown himself into the saddle of his black Clydesdale mount, and together they rode at the head of over eighty troops. Broderick wanted to turn around, to wave. To catch some sign that his wife cared if he lived or died. But he did not think she would take kindly if he waved.
She would probably see it as some kind of slur on her dignity.
He wished he understood his wife. She had been so ready, so close to him, so warm and kind and accommodating. But in the last two weeks, the gulf between them grew until they hardly spoke from one day to the next – he wished he could understand it.
“Blaine,” he said after they had ridden for almost half an hour. The men had tired of singing bawdy songs, and the march was slowing somewhat as the day wore on to a cool grayish afternoon.
“Yes, sir?”
“Do you know anything of women?”
Blaine laughed and Broderick glared at him. “I don't mean like that. You know I don't,” he said crossly.
Blaine bit his cheeks to stifle the cheeky grin. “I know, milord. But as far as women are concerned... I dunno much, sir. I don't ken anyone who does.”
Broderick smiled. “I will take comfort in that, Blaine.”
They rode on in silence.
“I dinnae ken much of women, sir,” he said after a moment. “But I know the Lochlann ladies. I know a little of Lady Amabel.”
“Oh?” Broderick blinked.
“She's sad, sir.”
Broderick chuckled dryly. “I think I noticed as much. Why?”
Blaine shrugged. “She likes you, sir.”
Broderick stared at him. He had been drinking from his water-bag, and almost choked on it. “What?” he coughed. His eyes were streaming, and he turned to face Blaine, utterly disbelieving.
Blaine shrugged. “Dinnae look at me all surprised, sir. That's what I heard. Ain't my fault if it disnae make sense.”
Broderick sighed. “You heard from Chrissie, Blaine?”
“Aye, sir.” He swung round in the saddle, spitting up a gobbet of phlegm into the path. He grinned at Broderick.
Broderick smiled. “She said Amabel liked me? Why?”
Blaine grinned. “No idea, sir. She has funny taste, I reckon.”
Broderick slapped his shoulder. “Not that. Not why does she like me, you wee scamp! Though I admit maybe that's a mystery. Why did she say that?”
Blaine paused, thinking. “I was talkin' to Chrissie before we left, sir. She said that she was feeling sad because Amabel was sad. She was being sharpish with everyone, she said. And it was because of you.”
Broderick sighed. He had no idea he had caused misery to the three female members of the household, not just one. He felt like the worst sort of creature. “And that was when she said she liked me?”
“Yes. I asked her why Lady Amabel was sad about you. She said it was because Amabel likes you, but you don't like her.”
Broderick stopped so suddenly he almost fell off. His horse stamped with irritability, and he sighed. He stared at Blaine. He was shocked. “She said what?”
“She said you disnae like her.”
Broderick laughed. “Why, that's ridiculous! I have done everything to show her I care. I have been attentive, kind, thoughtful...”
Blaine squinted at his superior. “Don't ask me. But it disnae seem to be convincing to her.”
Broderick sighed. Blaine was right. Whatever he was doing to make amends was clearly quite unconvincing. But what he suggested was barmy. How could Amabel think he didn't like her? After all the ways he'd tried so much to show it...
“You know what I don't understand, Blaine?” he asked.
“Lots, sir?”
Broderick cuffed his shoulder. Blaine laughed.
“I don't understand women, Blaine. Not a bit.”
“Well, sir, that is lots. Every second person is a woman. So that's a lot of people...” He trailed off as Broderick looked at him.
“As soon as we reach camp, I am going to race you,” Broderick promised. “And whoever loses will have to clean my mail shirt.”
Blaine grinned. “You want to do that?”
Broderick laughed. “We shall see, young man. We shall see.”
Still laughing, the two of them rode on across the moorland toward a reddening sky.
Broderick thought about what he'd heard. It was too crazy to believe. He was sure Blaine had misheard her. How could Amabel truly think I do not like her?
“Halt!” he called after an hour's ride. The sun was setting. He squinted at the terrain. They were within six hundred feet or so of a wood, which lay at the bottom of the gentle slope they now crossed. From the map Lord Lochlann had, he judged that they were yet two day's march from Loch Craigh. They were keeping a good pace. “We stop for camp.”
As the men grumbled their thanks and ranged off to their duties – setting up tents, collecting wood, finding water or taking positions as sentries – he dismounted. The thought of Amabel had not stopped plaguing him and now he had more questions than before. Did she truly think he disliked her? How had he made her think it? And, now it had happened, what could he do to change it?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
LIGHT AND SHADOW
LIGHT AND SHADOW
The night was dark. Broderick and his men had been hiding in the woods ever since the afternoon. Now that night fell, they could finally move.
“Thank heaven for that, sir.” Blaine sighed where he sat beside Broderick under the shelter of a tall pine tree. “My back's aching sorely.”
Broderick sniffed. “So's mine. Hush, though. We dinnae want the lookouts hearing us.”
Blaine nodded. Together they walked
slowly forward through the darkening woods.
They were in a forest approximately sixty feet from Loch Craigh. The fortress was built on the edge of a tall cliff, overlooking a valley in which the Loch was located. Up here, on this side, was the only access to the place. Which meant, of course, that they would be carefully watched.
Broderick and Blaine led the eighty men through the dark woods. They could not risk lighting a torch lest the sentries on the wall see them. As it was, the forest was less dense here on the edges, and they could be guided by the moonlight. The moon was not full, but the lake down below drank the light and magnified it, making a silver mirror in the valley floor.
“There we are,” Blaine whispered. “Loch Craigh.”
Broderick was beside him at the edge of the tall woodland. He sighed. There in the moonlight, the smooth high walls of the enemy fortification were of swanlike beauty, cool and white and lofty. Unassailable. Except from this side.
The two stared at the fortress for a moment. Then Broderick beckoned the men on.
Fergall was with them, though he had taken the route across the moorland. The siege-engine could not be concealed in forests, and so they had to hope that it had passed over land without interception or holdup and would be there to meet them when they reached the walls.
“Come on,” Broderick whispered.
Together, he and Blaine walked forward to the cool, high walls. The stone was silver in the moonlight and when they stepped out of the tree line, even Broderick breathed in sharply. At the foot of the cliff, the lake was pewter, rippling, the surface living and silvery under light.
He sighed. The beauty stabbed his heart. He had thought it shuttered against everything but the need for vengeance, but still some things could wound. Like Amabel.
Pushing thoughts of his wife aside, Broderick walked out into the open fields.
This was the dangerous part. He had to hope that he could succeed in leading the dark-clad, shadow-colored troops across the field to the walls. He also had to hope Fergall had succeeded and was within hailing distance.
Heart Of A Highlander (Lairds of Dunkeld Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story) Page 10
