Heart Of A Highlander (Lairds of Dunkeld Series) (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story)

by Emilia Ferguson

  He and Blaine walked forward and then, when they were within perhaps twenty-five feet of the walls, every detail on the top of the wall, each smooth block, each indentation, was clear to them, he drew a breath.

  He let out a high, clear whistle.

  They could hear the sentries muttering on the wall, looking down, trying to see what was below. One of them threw a stone down to them, hoping to judge what was below. Broderick bit his lip. He could not risk another whistle. But what if no one heard? What could he do... their whole plan hinged on this!

  Just as he was about to risk going left to see if he could see the men with the siege-engine – a group of ten counting Fergall and his assistant – he heard it.

  Something whistled through the air above their heads.

  It was a high sound, like air racing through a crack in the horn pane of a window. And as they waited it became louder and higher, a keening, shrieking sound.

  Then the boulder hit the wall and shattered the silence.

  Stone cracked from the top of the tower, and Broderick shouted at the men to jump clear. Even though they did so, stone fell a few feet from him, a chunk of fallen masonry slightly larger than his head. He stared.

  Up on the wall, men were shouting, calling, running. Someone brought pitch torches and they held them aloft, trying to see what was going on down below.

  Then the second rock whistled through the silence.

  Broderick watched, amazed, as the defenders ran to answer the new assault. He shouted to his men.

  “Ladders... at the ready!”

  They had five ladders. In the face of this enormous fortress, they seemed not nearly enough. However. They would have to do. At his instruction, the men with ladders ran forward, throwing them at the walls.

  The first men waited for Broderick's command to climb. He paused. This was the right time, while the men were still in confusion on the wall. But he felt suddenly cold. He watched as the defenders swarmed around a fallen comrade, shouting and calling. He felt a sudden separation, as if part of him watched himself.

  Is this what you live for, Broderick MacConnaway? To cause such death and destruction? Such pain?

  He shook himself. It was. Of course, it was. He was Broderick MacConnaway, son of a laird. He was a Highlander. What else was he to do but avenge the assault on his own fortress, his family?

  Shouting orders, he ran to the first ladder. If he had stopped to think about it, he might have stayed with Blaine. But he did not see any reason why he should throw men up ladders into crossbow-fire if he was not the first among them.

  “MacConnaway! MacConnaway!” he screamed. Let the bastards know who came for them, he thought breathlessly as he climbed.

  As he reached the top of the ladder, the cry changed. Let them know why they died. “Aisling!”

  As he screamed it, he cleaved down with his sword. He had chosen to fight with the great-sword instead of the dagger and targe, it being easier to climb when unhampered by a shield. He saw blood fly up from where the man had been, saw him fall away. He turned to his right, hacking furiously down on a young man. He took the man's arm and then turned away from his death. He was vengeance born human, a tide of blood and death and pain.

  He was breathing in the scent of blood, of flame, of smoke, his lungs heaving with it, screaming his wife's name.

  This is for Aisling. All this death. All this blood. All this fire. In her name. If I bring a hundred corpses to her feet, will she forgive me? A thousand? Will it be enough? Will it ever be enough?

  “Aisling!”

  As he screamed it, grunting to heft his sword, he paused. Something was not right. Where his enemy had been was suddenly empty space. Feeling his steps slow, he tried to turn. Tried to reach behind him, knowing the man had moved. Something hit him very hard on the back of his head. He lost his purchase on the wall as he fell into the blackness and, already unconscious, fell back into the endless dark below them, the twenty-one feet of aching, quiet death.

  Broderick stirred. Everything hurt. He was drifting in mist. Someone called his name.

  “Brod? Broderick!”

  Broderick heard the voice through the pain in his head, the ache in his ribs. Why was everything so sore? He recognized the voice. Would have recognized it anywhere. He opened his eyes.

  She was standing there, right in front of him, as she had been years before. Dressed in a white gown with her flame-red hair loose and long, like a cloud of fire. She seemed a creature of air and flame, the wind shimmering through her and all around her, lifting the strands of her hair.

  “Aisling....” he breathed, a whisper. He held out his hand.

  She smiled. It was a sad smile. Her brown eyes were filled with deep, tragic love.

  She sighed.

  “Oh, beloved. I am pleased to see you,” she said softly. “But...What have you done?”

  “Aisling?” he called hoarsely. He tried to reach for her, but he was too exhausted and his arm fell back, lifeless, to the cold, dead ground beneath him.

  She was looking down at him with deep sadness. “My sweet,” she said gently. “Why are you drowning me?” The sadness and the horror, too, were there for him to see.

  Broderick whimpered. “Drowning you?”

  “All this blood, Broderick! Why do you lay it at my feet? It is not mine. It is cutting me off from you. You do not remember me anymore. All you see is rivers between us. The river of blood.”

  Broderick gazed at her as she turned away from him. Her tall form wavered on the edge of sight.

  “Aisling!” he called. “No. Wait... do not go! I understand. I do! Can you forgive me?”

  Aisling turned and smiled, then. Her eyes were radiant, her smile warm as sunset. She was the beautiful girl he had loved and wept for and lost. There was no gulf between them anymore. She glowed with a light that hurt his eyes. She came toward him.

  “I can forgive you anything, loved one,” she said with a little sigh. “But can you forgive yourself?”

  Broderick stared at her. “Myself? Aisling... what do you mean?”

  She was kneeling by him, then. She laid a hand on his chest, a pale hand that shimmered with radiance. She smiled into his eyes, sad and lovely.

  “Have you not noticed what you have done to your own life, my dear one? How you have choked the love within it, turning from love to rage and hate and blood?”

  Broderick stared at her. It seemed as if her image wavered, and he saw before him the castle of Lochlann. He saw the turret room he shared with Amabel. Saw her behind the screen, on her knees, sobbing. Her cries rang out unheeded through the empty room. He saw Alina, alone in her chamber, pacing with worry. Saw little Chrissie, upstairs, confused because no one would talk to her and she didn't understand why.

  Then he saw Amabel again. Saw the tears run down her face. Heard her voice as she turned to her youngest cousin. “He does not like me, Chrissie. I do not know what I did wrong. He cares naught for me.” She turned away, sobbing, blue eyes wet with tears.

  Then he was alone again, looking into Aisling's dark brown eyes.

  “Aisling?” he called.

  “Look, my husband, at the sorrow you cause when you turn away from love.”

  “But, Aisling!” he protested. This charge he could answer. “I did it for you! I could not love another, because of you! Only you.”

  Aisling looked as if she wept. “I am in your heart, Broderick MacConnaway! I am with you every time you feel joy. If you turn away from love and happiness, you turn away from me. You are killing me, Broderick, beloved! Every dart you fire into your heart hits me. I can bear no more.” Broderick felt each tear as if it was his own.

  “My Aisling!” His lips were cracked and bleeding, his voice hoarse. “Do not go. I love you. I will stay my vengeance. I will let myself love again.”

  She smiled at him, then, sweet as springtime rain. She stopped, turned back to him.

  “Thank you, my beloved. Thank you for walking across that bridge, back to your
heart. Now you will be with me always.”

  She bent down to him then and kissed him on the mouth. He felt her body press against his and the wonder and sweetness of it tore at him. He wanted to reach out to touch her. As she knelt beside him, he felt the strangest feeling in his chest. A strange suffusion, as if part of all her light, all her radiance, was merging with him, filling his chest.

  “Aisling,” he whispered, stroking the satiny red hair. “Aisling. My love.”

  He heard her laugh, then, happy and carefree. The suffusing feeling grew and built and flared. Then, just as suddenly, it stopped. He was alone. Everything was dark. But there was light within him. And the light was love. And joy. He licked his lips. His body was a mass of pain, ribs aching, head thundering. He coughed.

  “Blaine?”

  No sound came out beyond a whisper, so he tried again. Where there was life, there was hope. And he was, for the first time in five years, fully alive. He knew what he would do with that gift. He would not squander it again.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  MATTERS OF THE HEART

  MATTERS OF THE HEART

  “Sister?”

  “Yes?”

  Amabel looked up at Alina, feeling weary and miserable. She was sitting on her bed in the great bedchamber, still dressed in her long nightshift. She had not left her bed all day, feeling fevered and too drained to move. It was evening now, the day cooling to nightfall. The autumn was progressing outside the window, the broad-leafed forest more red and gold now than the yellow and green of when she married.

  “He will come back, you know,” Alina said reassuringly. She was serene as ever, black hair plaited back from her face with silver cord. She wore a black dress banded with silver and her long oval face was calm and serene.

  “Oh, sister, I know he will,” Amabel said miserably. “I know he will return to the castle. I just do not think he will come back... come back to me, I mean.”

  Alina laid a cool hand on her hair, stroking her fevered head. “My dear, the only reason he cannot return to your heart is because he never left.”

  Amabel sighed shakily. “I wish I could believe you. But I cannot. You have not seen him. Even when we are alone together, side by side at night, he will not look at me.” She looked at her hands, feeling the tears beginning.

  Alina sat for a while, thinking. “You are certain that he does not feel unsure of his welcome?”

  Amabel stared at her. “No, sister! I cannot believe that.”

  She paused. Alina was so wise, so composed. If she said it, Amabel knew she should consider it. But what her wise, clever sister was saying sounded ridiculous!

  “Why would he be unsure if he can trust me?” she asked hesitantly. “I have given him no cause for that.”

  “No,” Alina agreed. “I think that if the man had enough sense to smear on bread he might have guessed you were upset. But, since he seems to have a head as empty as a jug, I think we can rule that out.”

  Amabel laughed. “A jug! Oh, dear. I do love you, Alina.” She put an arm around her slender frame and drew her close. “Promise me you'll always visit me?”

  Alina smiled. “I promise, dear, that I will make a nuisance of myself. I rather like the sound of Dunkeld, as it is.”

  Amabel saw the tight little smile as her sister looked quickly away. She grinned. “Sister...”

  “What?”

  “You and Duncan. You are... Oh, sister!” She gave her a sudden enveloping hug. “You like him very much, don't you?”

  “You don't need to crush me... I can't breathe!” Alina chuckled lightly, and when her sister released her, she turned to face her. Her eyes kindled with warmth. “I like Duncan, yes. And I have some intimation he likes me, too. But I do not know what will happen now.”

  “You mean?” Amabel paused.

  “Uncle Brien,” they both said one after the other.

  Amabel leaned back on the pillows. “That old curmudgeon! I wish I could do aught about him. Maybe when Broderick has won him a fortress or two and destroyed his enemies for him, his ambition will be satisfied enough. Then you will be free to marry anyone.”

  Alina smiled. “Oh, sister, thank you. You give me a precious hope.”

  Amabel jostled her shoulder gently. “You do the same for me, dear. Now, instead of feeling so sorry for myself, I should be taking some interest in the news from the castle. How is Chrissie?”

  “Sulking,” Alina said fondly. “She said you were so short with her at sewing that she didn't want to see anyone. And she's sad anyway. Now that Blaine is gone and Heath is out practicing, she has no one to talk to.”

  Amabel felt a knife-twist in her heart. “I am sorry. The poor girl. I had clean forgotten Blaine and Heath were both off. She must be very upset.”

  “Oh, she'll mend easily.” Alina smiled. “If you promise to do her hair in that special French style you showed her, I am sure she'll cheer up immediately. The girl loves you, whatever you may believe.”

  Amabel breathed out. She felt as if she had been awfully selfish. She could not blame herself for the neglect, though: it was as if her heart had turned to ice with each day of Broderick's presence – each tiny, painful rejection damming her heart up behind a wall. Today, with Alina, was the first time she had felt as if there was life under the ice.

  “I should go and find Chrissie directly,” she said with a smile. “But first I should eat something. I feel so weak!”

  Alina nodded. She went to the door to find a maidservant. She returned a few minutes later, smiling.

  “I sent Blaire downstairs to fetch you some broth. You're so pale! You need a hearty meal to fix you up,” she said, sitting down again beside her sister.

  Amabel leaned on her shoulder, thinking. She wanted to come back to her daily life at the castle, to live as she had before ever she met her new husband. But the hurt and pain were still there, the mistrust she felt whenever she was with others, the nagging doubt that she was worthy of love.

  “Sister?”

  “Mm?”

  “Why does Broderick turn away from me like he does? He seems to care, and yet he does not want to come near me! He acts as if my presence were dangerous, some awful poison that he might die of if he touched me. Am I so awful?”

  Alina sighed. “I do not feel I know enough to say, my sister. All I know is that cannot be true. You are so lovely. No one would think you loathsome.”

  Amabel sniffed. “Really?”

  “Truly and really.”

  She sighed. “What must I do?”

  Alina stroked her hand. “I do not feel I know enough to say. But maybe you could ask Aunt Aili? She is wise. She is older than us both. She would be sure to know what to do.”

  Amabel drew in a shuddering breath. She had not thought of that. She was not alone in her pain. She had so many people to ask. Someone would know.

  “That is a good idea, sister.” She leaned back on the pillows, feeling tired out. “Tomorrow I will find Aili. I feel sure the men will return soon, and I want to know before they do.”

  Alina laughed and jostled her arm. “That's good.”

  The two sat in silent contemplation for a while, watching the sun slowly sink into a glowing ember, the sky above painted with mauve dusk. The swifts flew through the sky, calling shrilly.

  I know something can be done to put this right. Amabel felt more certain than she had in weeks.

  She and Alina sat together and watched the day slowly settle into dusk and then to inky night.

  Tomorrow, Amabel decided, she would seek out her aunt and find out what was truly happening here.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  MEETING IN THE EAST WING

  MEETING IN THE EAST WING

  “Aili?”

  Amabel called uncertainly up the darkened stairs before her. It was afternoon, but somehow this part of the castle was filled with heavy shadow.

  Amabel paused. She had washed and dressed carefully, choosing a blue gown almost the color of stone, which matche
d her eyes. She had completed all her chores that morning and then headed up to the East Wing. Any visit here required some special preparation – some said it was venturing into the den of witchcraft. Lochlann’s only living sister Aili was believed by most to have magical powers. Amabel was determined not to believe the idle talk, but she could not be sure, and her aunt's choice of living quarters was discouraging.

  The eastern wing of the castle was almost unoccupied. Damaged in the only siege in their records, the Siege of Lochlann, it was rumored to be cursed. Few went there now and it was dark and always chilly. Amabel held her breath, feeling a draft of icy air blow down the stairs to her. She shook her head. It's just a breeze, Amabel. Still. The whole east wing was shrouded in gloom, ruinous and neglected.

  Of the Lochlann family, only Aunt Aili chose to stay here. Amabel shivered, thinking of it. She could not understand why. Surely, she would be happier in the warmth and security of the body of the castle? The eerie setting of the east wing as the sun set made the rumors that surrounded her aunt believable. Amabel knocked on the dark wood door.

  “Aili?”

  She listened at the dark-stained wood, ear pressed to it.

  “Come in.”

  Amabel shivered. The voice, distorted by the cold wind and the thick door, had an unearthly sound to it, a complete lack of humanity. She drew in a breath, leaned on the door-handle and went inside.

  The room beyond the door could not have been less like the outside. The room inside was glowingly warm, thick tapestries covering its walls, drapes shutting out the dark evening. Lit with a ruddy glow, everything within was lively and inviting.

  The rooms in the east wing were small, not having been modernized since the times of Builder Brian, Amabel's distant ancestor who had built the first fortifications over two centuries ago. But this room was welcoming and snug because of its smallness.