The Guardian

by Margaret Mallory

  “Someone has to,” Sìleas said, her eyes sparking green fire. “Your da can’t do it. And your brother can’t do everything himself, try as he might.”

  “There are other men who can do this,” Ian said.

  “Do ye see any men here to help?” she said, sweeping one arm out to the side. Her other hand gripped the pitchfork so tightly her knuckles were white. “We lost some men in the battle, and Hugh Dubh has forbidden the rest from working our lands.”

  Ian’s father had not told him of this insult.

  “Give me that, Sìl,” Alex said, using the voice he used to gentle horses. “I understand why you want to use it on him, but Ian won’t be good to anyone if you stick that pitchfork into his heart.”

  When she glared at Alex and banged the end of the pitchfork against the ground, Alex lifted his hands palms out and stepped back.

  “I can see,” he said in a low voice to Ian, “the lass adores ye still.”

  Ian decided to try his luck. When he started toward her, Sìleas braced the pitchfork in front of her.

  “Don’t ye try to tell me what a man must do,” she said, so angry that tears filled her eyes, “because the truth is ye are just playing at being a man.”

  She was straining his patience now. How dare she mock him? “Protecting the clan is not playing.”

  “A true man doesn’t desert his family when they need him,” she said. “And protecting the clan starts with your family.”

  This time, the truth of her words burned through him.

  “I’ll stay until we hear from Connor,” Ian said, and reached out for the pitchfork. “Go inside, Sìleas. I’ll do this.”

  She hurled the pitchfork against the wall with a loud clatter that set the horses snorting, and stormed past him.

  At the door, Sìleas spun around to fling one last remark at him. “It’s time ye grew up, Ian MacDonald, because your family needs ye.”

  Ian and Alex went to the creek to clean up, rather than dirty his mother’s kitchen washing in the tub there.

  “Mucking out the byre was not how I thought we’d be serving the clan,” Alex said, sounding amused.

  “It is a waste of our talents. We’re warriors!” Ian said, Alex’s good humor annoying him further. “We should be using our claymores, fighting our way into the castle, and tossing Hugh over the wall for the fish to eat.”

  “While Sìleas mucks out the stalls for ye?” Alex said, raising an eyebrow and grinning. “Hugh Dubh has as much right to seek the chieftainship as Connor. We can’t just toss him in the sea, as satisfying as that would be.”

  “But he’s claiming it without being chosen, and he’s no right to do that,” Ian said. “He made a mistake by not calling a gathering and forcing the selection before Connor returned.”

  “I expect Hugh was waiting until he could share the sad news of Connor’s demise,” Alex said.

  “It won’t be easy to convince the men to go against Hugh while he holds Dunscaith Castle,” Ian said. “We must find a way to show them that Connor is the better man.”

  “I’m starving,” Alex said, tossing his dirty towel at Ian. “It must be time to eat, aye?”

  “Something da said about what happened at the battle troubles me,” Ian said, as they headed toward the house.

  “What’s that?” Alex asked.

  “He said the English surprised him, striking from behind,” Ian said. “You’ve fought with my father—the man fights like he’s got eyes in the back of his head. How did the English get past him without him knowing it?”

  Alex squeezed Ian’s shoulder. “In his prime, your father was a great warrior—but he’s grown old.”

  “Aye, he has,” Ian said, his spirits sinking as he recalled his father’s sallow cheeks and graying hair. “I should have been there to protect his back.”

  “How are ye feeling today, Payton?” Sìleas asked, as she set the tray on the small table next to the bed.

  “I’m missing a leg, so how do ye think I am?” he said.

  She stopped herself from helping him sit up, knowing it would annoy him. Though she had a hundred things to do, Sìleas took the chair beside him and forced her hands to be still.

  “What are ye all upset about?” Payton asked, slanting his eyes at her as he lifted an oatcake to his mouth.

  Sìleas pressed her lips together.

  “Come, Sìleas, you’re so furious it’s making your hair curl.”

  “Your son is an idiot,” she blurted out—and regretted it as soon as the words were out of her mouth.

  “Which of my idiot sons are ye referring to?” Payton asked.

  “I’ll not hear ye say another word against Niall, and ye know it,” she said. “It’s time ye stopped blaming him for doing what he had to do.”

  “So it’s Ian, is it?” Payton said.

  “I fail to see why this is the first thing to amuse ye in weeks,” she snapped. Despite her annoyance, Sìleas was pleased to see a glimmer of his old self.

  “What’s Ian done to get on your wrong side so soon?”

  She couldn’t tell him that Ian had not seen fit to acknowledge her or their marriage—she had her pride—so she shared Ian’s latest offense.

  “He’s no notion of what must be done with the crops and livestock,” she said, folding her arms. It was Ian’s responsibility now, and he would just have to learn.

  “I raised Ian to be a warrior, not a farmer, lass. He has more important things to attend to,” Payton said, his expression turning stern. “I told him how that devil took Knock Castle.”

  Sìleas said nothing, knowing that the loss of her castle was a festering wound to Payton’s pride—and to the whole clan. Her step-da had bided his time for five years, then struck in the wake of Flodden when the MacDonalds were weak.

  Payton set his plate on the tray and sank back on the pillows, looking pale.

  “If it’s any comfort to ye, I expect the Knock Castle ghost is haunting my step-da,” she said, giving him a wink. “I doubt the Green Lady has let Murdoc have a single good night’s sleep.”

  “ ’Tis a shame your ghost doesn’t carry a dirk,” Payton said in a tired voice.

  “Shall I tell ye how she warned me to leave that day?” she asked.

  “Aye, lass.” Payton closed his eyes as she began and was asleep before she was halfway through the old story. It hurt her to see the great man so weakened.

  The hands resting on the bedcovers were marked by battle scars that told a tale of their own. Yet she remembered how gently those big hands had encompassed hers the morning Payton had found her and Ian sleeping in the wood. Without waking him, Sìleas lifted the hand closest to her and held it.

  Payton was getting stronger every day. She could leave soon. With Ian here, he would do just fine without her. They all would.

  But she feared that when she left she would be like Payton, always missing a part of her that was gone.

  CHAPTER 6

  Ian stood in the doorway watching Sìleas. This was the new Sìleas again, all clean and combed in a moss-green gown—and so lovely he had to remind himself to breathe. She must have bathed in the tub in the kitchen, for her cheeks were pink and a damp curl was stuck to the side of her face.

  He was surprised his father would let her hold his hand as if he were a child, until he realized his da was asleep. Though he was careful not to make a sound, she sensed his presence and turned. Today her eyes were the same dark mossy green as her gown, but touched with dew from tears that welled in her eyes.

  “My mother said to tell ye dinner is ready,” he said in a hushed voice. “Are ye all right?”

  Sìleas nodded and picked up the tray as she got up. When Ian stepped aside to let her pass, she said, “He’s not a well man. Ye shouldn’t have kept him up so late.”

  Apparently, Sìleas had kindness in her heart for every member of his family but him.

  “My father wanted to talk,” Ian said, “and I think it did him good.”

  “I suppose you�
�re right,” she said with a sigh. “But have a care with him.”

  Ian followed the provocative sway of her hips until she disappeared into the kitchen.

  He continued watching her as they ate their midday meal. With that full bottom lip, her mouth was made for kissing. Every time she puckered and blew on her stew, his heart did an odd little leap in his chest. And his heart was not the only part of him affected. His cock was standing to attention, stiff as an English soldier.

  Likely, Sìleas was foul-tempered toward him for not making his intentions clear. He had trouble recalling his reasons for waiting as he watched her take a spoonful into her mouth, smile with pleasure at the taste, and run her pink tongue across her top lip.

  Perhaps he should just take her to bed now and have done with it. If the price of following his desire was gaining a wife, well, it was time he had one anyway.

  Alex, the devil, was sitting next to Sìleas and plying her with his legendary charm. She threw her head back laughing at something he said. It was a lovely laugh—full-throated and sensual.

  “I don’t believe a word you’re saying, Alex Bàn MacDonald!” Sìleas pressed her hand to her bosom as if she couldn’t get her breath. “Five men, ye say? How did ye ever escape?”

  “Ye mean, how did they get away?” Alex asked. “ ’Twas nothing, really. I told them they could run, or they could die.”

  It irked Ian the way Sìleas leaned forward with her eyes fixed on Alex, as if she were swallowing Alex’s tale whole.

  “There were only three of them, not five,” Ian corrected, his words sounding peevish to his own ears.

  Sìleas turned to face him, her smile fading. Lord, but she had pretty eyes, even when they were dead serious, as they were now. The scent of summer heather tickled his nose. Did she use dried heather in her bath water? Ah, that meant every inch of her skin would have that lovely smell.

  “Now that we’ve mucked out the byre,” Ian said, “Alex and I are going to go speak to some of the men on this side of the island.”

  “And why do ye need to do that?” Sìleas asked.

  Ian raised his eyebrows. “Not that ye need to know, mind ye, but we intend to find out how the men feel about the prospect of having Hugh as their chieftain.”

  “I can tell ye the sentiment toward Hugh, as can Niall,” Sìleas said, slicing her meat with enough vigor to cut through the table. “But if ye must ask the men yourself, they’ll all be at the church tomorrow.”

  “A priest is visiting the island,” his mother explained. “Father Brian will be baptizing all the children born since he was here a year ago.”

  There was always a shortage of priests in the Highlands. Unlike in France, the church here was poor. Though Highland chieftains might allow God the use of their lands for churches and monasteries, they did not give their lands away. Because the church could provide little to support them, few men joined the priesthood, and a priest who married was not turned out. As with divorce and marriage, the rules of the church were not strictly followed in the Highlands.

  “Waiting to see the men at the church seems a good plan,” Alex said, giving Sìleas a bright smile. “Wouldn’t ye agree, Ian?”

  Ian nodded, though he would rather go now, if only to feel he was doing something.

  “And don’t ignore the womenfolk,” his mother put in. “Ná bac éinne ná bíonn buíochas na mban air.” Pay no heed to anyone that the womenfolk do not respect.

  “Sìleas,” Alex said, “what do ye say to you and me going out in the boat this afternoon?”

  Alex was trying to taunt him; Ian glared at him to let him know he did not find it amusing.

  “That sounds lovely,” Sìleas said with a soft smile for Alex. “But after I clean up the kitchen, I must have a word with Ian here.”

  She said his name like she might say pig shite.

  Then she turned to level a hard look at him. “When ye have finished your meal, can ye spare a wee bit of time to speak with me?”

  Sìleas might not look the same, but she was as direct as when she was a lass running wild. Clearly, she wanted to know where she stood with him. Her sharp words reminded him that he would be wise to give himself time before deciding his fate.

  “Do ye have no woman to help in the kitchen?” Ian asked, only partly because he wanted to divert her. They had always had one clanswoman or another who needed a home, living with them and helping his mother.

  “Some of the men came to ask your da’s advice regarding the selection of a new chieftain,” his mother said. “He urged them to wait for Connor’s return—and Hugh Dubh has been punishing us ever since.”

  “When Hugh threatened everyone who worked here,” Sìleas said, “we told them to leave.”

  “Go along now and talk with Ian,” his mother said, taking the bowls from Sìleas. “I’ll clean up.”

  As Ian got to his feet, Niall came in through the door. Instead of giving him the sharp edge of her tongue for missing dinner, Sìleas’s expression softened when she saw him.

  “Niall, can ye join Ian and me?”

  Now, why would she be asking Niall to join them?

  “Whatever ye need, I’m there,” Niall said, smiling at her as he hung his cap by the door.

  “I appreciate it.” Sìleas’s voice wavered a bit, as if Niall had done something special that touched her—when all she showed Ian was irritation.

  As he followed Sìleas up the stairs, the smell of heather filled his nose. He couldn’t help taking in her slim ankles and the sway of her skirts as she climbed the steep steps. Lifting his gaze, he imagined her smooth, rounded bottom beneath the skirts.

  She led them into the room that had been his bedchamber growing up. It looked different now, with pretty stones lining the windowsill and dried flowers in a jug on the table. His stomach tightened with the memory of the last time he was in this room—their “wedding” night, when he had spent a long, restless night on the hard floor.

  He glanced at his old bed—the bed she slept in now. If he chose, he could sleep here with her every night. He was hard just thinking about it. If he stayed with her, he would build a new bed for them suitable for Knock Castle, with posts and heavy curtains like he had seen in France.

  After taking a chair at the table, she gestured for him and Niall to do the same. Niall sat opposite her, as if by habit, leaving Ian to pull up a stool between them, facing the wall.

  “I don’t know if ye realize how verra badly injured your da was when we first got him back.” Sìleas spoke in a soft voice and fixed her gaze on the table.

  “Da didn’t wake for a fortnight,” Niall put in. “ ’Twas a miracle he lived.”

  His father wished to God he hadn’t, crippled as he was. In his place, Ian would feel the same.

  “Since ye were not here, Niall and I have been making the decisions that needed to be made these last few weeks,” Sìleas said, her tone becoming clipped again. “I hope you’ll be satisfied with what we’ve done.”

  “What sort of decisions?” Ian asked.

  Sìleas stood to take down a sheaf of papers from the shelf above the table. “How many cattle to slaughter for the winter, which sheep to sell or trade, that sort of thing.”

  What could be more tedious?

  Sìleas sat down and pushed the stack of papers across the table to him. “Now that you are here, these are your decisions to make.” She paused, then added, “At least until your da is well.”

  Ian glanced down. There were figures all down the first page. “What do ye expect me to do with these?”

  “Sìleas will have to explain it to ye,” Niall said, grinning at her. “She’s been helping da manage our lands and tenants for years. Ye should hear him, always bragging about how clever she is.”

  His father? Letting a lass help him and boasting about it? Ian didn’t want to accuse his brother of lying, but, truly, this was hard to fathom.

  Ian watched Sìleas as she spoke about cattle and crops, listening more to the sound of her voice th
an her words. He did notice how she repeatedly brought Niall into her recitation. What impressed him as much as her enthusiasm for the tedious details was how she recognized his brother’s need to be relied upon as a man.

  His father certainly showed no concern for Niall’s pride. Remembering his father’s harshness toward Niall, Ian felt a rush of warmth toward Sìleas for her kindness to his brother. He would have to ask her why his da was so angry with Niall.

  With his mind on Niall and his father, he didn’t realize she was finished going over the accounts until she was on her feet.

  “I must go now,” she said, smoothing her skirts, “or the clothes will never be washed and you’ll have no supper.”

  Without thinking, Ian said, “Isn’t running the household my mother’s responsibility?” This brought a second question to mind that had been nagging him. Gesturing to the sheaf of papers before him, he said, “Why was she not the one to make these decisions in da’s place?”

  “Do ye think I took it from her?” Sìleas asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “Is that what ye think?”

  The hurt in Sìleas’s eyes cut him to the quick.

  “I did not mean—,” he started to say, but she cut him off.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said, though clearly it did. “You’ll be taking over the task now, so I’ll leave ye to it.”

  “Wait,” Ian said, catching her arm. “You’ve done a fine job with it, and I’d be happy to have ye continue.”

  “ ’Tis no my place to do it now,” she said in a tight voice.

  Ach, he felt lower than dirt. But before he could get out a word of apology, she was out the door. No sooner was she gone, than his brother slammed his fist on the table.

  “Ye have no notion what it’s been like here, while you’ve been off having your adventures,” Niall said.

  Ian met his brother’s angry gaze. “Then you’ll have to tell me.”

  “Da was barely alive when I got him home.” Niall worked his jaw as he leaned forward and stared at his hands. “I don’t know what we would have done without Sìleas. She was the one who washed his wounds every day and put on the salve she got from Teàrlag.”