by Terry Spear
“They were no’ your friends.” Marcus was still disgruntled to an extent by what had happened. He had loved her for her actions, but he had wished he had been the one to carry them out.
“Well, nay. They were suitors, I should say.”
“Ah,” Fiona said, sounding intrigued by the idea.
“Was there fighting?” Druce asked.
“Aye,” Marcus said.
“Good,” the lad said.
“Well, one of the Norman lords who was eight and ten like Laird McEwan did not like that a Highlander was in attendance. Marcus was charming and…daring. Daring because he made it a point to show them he much admired me when the others were not as interested in making my acquaintance.”
“Because you were only three and ten,” Fiona guessed.
“Aye. But when Marcus began to show how much he enjoyed my company, the Norman and English lords did not like it. They thought he should not have been there. They did not know my mother was from the Highlands.” She paused, then added more softly, “Nor that my father was.”
Hearing her words, Marcus kissed her cheek and pulled her tighter into his embrace. He worried that she had not had the time to grieve properly over her da’s death, not when she’d been on the run from her own attackers, and then to learn that he was not even her da.
“So they wanted to fight our laird and he yanked out his sword and—,” Druce said.
“Nay,” Isobel said.
“There is a time for fighting, lad.” Marcus stroked Isobel’s soft hair, still slightly damp where her cloak had not covered it properly. “This was not one of them.”
“But you said there was fighting in the story.” Druce sounded petulant.
“No’ all stories can have fighting,” Fiona said dreamily.
“But the laird said—,” Druce whined.
“Aye, there was fighting. Even bloodshed,” Isobel said.
Marcus glanced down at the floor and saw the two youngest lads had fallen fast asleep.
“One of the lords started saying how the Highlanders were heathens and barbarians,” Isobel said. “But another mentioned my mother in the same hateful way.”
“And so our laird drew out his sword and slayed the five and ten of them,” Druce said.
“Nay,” both Isobel and Marcus said together.
“Isobel stepped between us and without even speaking a word, hauled off and punched the Norman lord right in the nose.”
“Oh,” Fiona gasped.
“Blood ran down his face,” Isobel said. “Tears, too, and he shrieked like a wee lass.”
Marcus’s men laughed.
Finbar said, “Now we ken the real reason why you wanted the lass for your wife.”
“Among other reasons,” Rob added.
“But why didna you use your sword?” Druce asked Marcus.
“I was a guest. I wanted to see Isobel again and continue to bring her mother news from home. I didna take what the Norman lord said to me to heart.”
“Besides, he had a wee lass to defend his honor.” Rob laughed. “I wish I could have seen it.”
“I was proud of her.” Marcus kissed her forehead. “But I would have preferred picking my own battles.”
“What became of the Norman lord?” Finbar asked.
“Might he have been the one who sent someone to kill you when you visited last?” Rob asked.
Isobel’s gaze shot up to Marcus’s. “Lord Fenton? You think it might have been him?”
“Or anyone of your other suitors,” Marcus said. “I would not discount any of them.”
“I asked my father daily if he had learned who would have done such a horrid deed. He said they had not discovered who had set the knaves upon you. Then again, my father did not make me court any of the noblemen, so I believe he had some reservations.”
“‘Tis no’ important any longer.” He wished Rob had not brought up the incident. Now that Isobel was his, it really wasn’t important.
“‘Tis no’ important?” Rob sounded irritated. “His henchman could have killed you. As it was, one of the men sliced your back, and for a while we didna think you would live.”
“I want to hear this story.” Druce sat up on his straw mattress.
“‘Tis no’ a bedtime story,” Marcus said. “Some other time, lad.”
Isobel lapsed into silence and he enjoyed the feel of her, the way her body had warmed and she was no longer trembling, the way her soft hair tickled his chest, the way she smelled of roses and rain and woman. His loins tightened with need, and he wished the circumstances had been different. That he could have made love to her in Kerr’s castle in a bed, not surrounded by bairns and his men.
He sighed, knowing he had the rest of his life to spend with her and a few more nights would not kill him. Well, nearly wouldn’t kill him. If he kept far away from her, it would help.
He couldn’t sleep though, trying to decide what to do about the bairns and their mother. He knew it could not be good if she had not returned in all this time.
When everyone appeared to be asleep, Isobel whispered to Marcus, “What are we going to do about the children?”
“I will send Rob and Leith to look for her in the nearest village. We will wait here for word.”
“And if she is gone?”
“I will decide then, lass. No sense in worrying about what might not happen.” He did enough of that by himself. He didn’t wish to trouble the lass.
***
Laren McLaughlin studied the messenger, his brown hair, trewes, and tunic soaking wet from the storm, his body shivering, and finally Laren nodded. “Aye, get yourself warm by the fire, lad. A wench will bring something for you to eat and drink.”
Laren’s advisor, Tearloch, was leaning against the wall of the cold stone castle, looking dark and ominous, his straight black hair resting on his shoulders, several days’ growth of beard covering his chin. He moved away from there and headed across the great hall to speak with him.
“Find her,” Laren said. “If McEwan’s got her, kill him. But make it look like the Sassenach took care of him.”
“What of the ones who killed Lord Pembroke? They will be after her also, you ken.”
“Aye. But the first lot o’ them didna make it. McEwan took care of them. So if the Norman lord, whosoever he is, sends more men and you have trouble with any of them, do what McEwan did. Eliminate the threat. Whoever the Norman is who wishes Isobel for his bride will only get a sword in his gut.”
Tearloch’s black eyes glittered with menace. “Your wife willna be pleased if you bring the lass here. She has oft said if you acknowledge the girl, the lass better never be brought under her roof.”
Laren snorted. “You think I am ruled by my wife’s whim?”
“Your former mistress has never been found,” Tearloch reminded him.
“She has been missing before and shows up when it suits her. I suspect she does thus, so I dinna grow tired of her.”
But Laren knew what his clansmen were saying in whispered and not so whispered sentiments behind his back. His mistress would not be returning because his wife had made sure of it. He was sorely desirous of making his wife disappear also. She’d never had any children by him and because of it, he had no heir but Isobel now. Until Lord Pembroke died, Laren had no chance of bringing her home. But Laren’s wife was the daughter of Laird Kerr, and he didn’t want to have a fight with her clan either should she suddenly mysteriously…die.
Laren stood taller. “Isobel will marry the man I choose, and none other.”
“McEwan was welcome at Pembroke Castle. ‘Tis rumored Marcus has her heart.”
“Mayhap. But he shall not have her for a wife. The lad said the McEwan rode with four men. Take three times as many of our own and ensure she is brought here at once. Leave none of their men alive. I dinna want the word to get back to his clan that we had anything to do with this.”
“Aye, my laird.” Tearloch smiled, then headed for the door.
Laren
knew Tearloch believed he would have Isobel for his wife, but Laren didn’t wish it. Tearloch was too old for her and too closely related to Laren and Isobel. Laren wanted a son by marriage who would give the clan male heirs. Davin Berwick had lived with Laren’s clan for years, once his own da had tossed him out for fighting with Berwick’s eldest son once too often. Davin could be a hot head. But he loved the lassies, and Laren was certain Isobel would fall for his charms. Most of all, Laren could easily manipulate Davin, and so he would be perfect for the role.
He’d set Davin up at his manor in the north so that Davin and Isobel would monitor the land and his people there. Isobel would be safe from his wife’s wrath, should she feel any contempt toward Laren’s only child. He only wished he had learned earlier of the Normans’ traitorous deed to kill Lord Pembroke, then steal Isobel away. Then Laren’s men would have rescued her, not Marcus’s.
His long blond hair sweeping his shoulders, Davin stalked into the hall and raised his brows and lips in a knowing grin. “You are having Isobel brought here? Can I no’ go also? Tearloch believes Isobel will be his.”
“Nay, you stay here out of trouble. If no one sees you, no one will believe you had anything to do with this.”
“Isobel will ken when she learns Tearloch is with your clan.”
“Aye, but ‘twill be too late, and she willna have any say in the matter. Just as she had no say about Lord Pembroke wishing to marry her to one of his Norman or English friends.”
“What if Tearloch attempts to charm the lass?” Davin acted as though he didn’t like being left behind.
“He isna as charming as you are when you are with the lasses. You ken that.”
“What of your wife?”
Did everyone believe Laren had no control over her? “My wife will—”
“Your wife will what?” Erskina stalked into the great hall, her red brows raised heavenward, then her green eyes narrowed. She fisted her hands on her hips.
“We were discussing my daughter’s return to her home. And who she would wed,” Laren said gruffly.
“Your daughter?” Erskina fairly shrieked. “You have no daughter, nor son either.”
She knew the truth of the matter—that Isobel was his—even if Erskina chose to deny it.
“When Isobel arrives—”
“You have no daughter,” Erskina repeated, as if saying so would make the truth of the matter go away. “If she says she is, she lies.”
“I am certain she doesna ken she is my daughter.” Laren bit back words that he wished to speak, but not in front of Davin.
At his words, both Erskina’s and Davin’s jaws dropped.
“You havena told her?” Now Davin sounded worried. “What if she doesna believe you are her da and instead believes you have taken her hostage?”
“You have no proof you are her da.” Erskina sounded as though she was grasping at any notion that might make the truth invalid.
Laren needed no proof. He had taken the lass’s mother, who had never been with a man, and when she was breeding, she had told him tearfully that she was with child. His spies had confirmed she had been with no other man. He knew the trouble was with his wife’s failure to have his bairn, not his own.
Ignoring her comment, Laren said, “Davin will take her as his wife.”
“He canna. If she was your daughter, she should wed someone of consequence. No’ just some second son of a clan chief who cast him out and you took him in to feed and pamper him.” Erskina motioned to Davin with contempt.
The chilly glower the man gave her could kill, Laren thought. If Laren died before Erskina, and his clan chose Davin to be their chief, he was certain Davin would send the woman out into the cold to fend for herself, despite that she was a clan chief’s daughter. She wouldn’t last a fortnight, not with as many clansmen as she’d angered.
Laren should, in truth, marry Isobel to Davin’s older brother, since he would most likely be clan chief someday. But Laren wanted his daughter’s child, if it was a male, to be the chief of his clan, someday. He had wondered if he had gotten rid of Erskina early on and had wed Isobel’s mother, if she would have provided him with more children.
He also knew Erskina didn’t want his daughter here as a reminder of Erskina’s inability to have his bairn, and that he’d had an assignation with another clan chief’s daughter.
Erskina folded her arms. “But, of course, that would be only in the event you had a daughter. Which you dinna. If you had, you would never have allowed a Sassenach to raise her as his own.”
If he had known his wife would never produce a bairn, he would have taken Isobel from her mother and raised her as his own. A disgruntled servant working for the MacArthurs had come to him with news of Ciarda breeding—though she had already told him so—and Lord Pembroke taking her to wife. Then they were gone, and Laren thought the child would never live anyway. When he learned the bairn was a girl, he decided it didn’t matter. Not when he intended to get Erskina with child. When that never happened, he began to think of Isobel, resenting that a Norman had raised Laren’s only bairn as his own.
He stroked his chin. The girl would have to learn their ways. He imagined she thought herself to be a haughty English lady. Would she spurn their Highland ways? He was certain he and Davin would have no trouble teaching her how to behave within the clan.
***
In the dark, Isobel woke feeling deliciously warm as she cuddled against her Highlander. The fire had died down and everyone in the shieling appeared to be sleeping. She felt right being with Marcus like this, despite having never lain naked with a man. He was hers, as she always knew he would be. Though she was still upset about everything that she’d learned in the last day—her father, the man she’d always thought was her own flesh and blood, was dead. And a man she never wanted to meet had seduced her mother when he already had a wife. She’d never forgive him. Pembroke had called her his own, and taken her mother in and loved her, loved them both. Isobel would always remember him as her beloved father.
A tear slid down her cheek, followed by another, both dropping onto Marcus’s chest. Afraid she might wake him, she remained frozen in place. He stroked her hair and wound his arm around her. So he was awake. For how long had he held her like this, felt her bare skin against his, her body pressed against him as if they were wed? She still couldn’t get used to the notion that in the Highlands, they were.
He didn’t speak to her, just continued to caress her, holding her against him, tenderly, and she assumed he didn’t want to talk and wake the others, remaining silent, soothing her with his touch. Which stirred her desire for him even more. She cherished this moment with him in the dark, holding him close like man and wife, wishing though, that they were alone so that he could love her like she had always dreamed it would be.
She slid her hand over his chest, warm and muscled, but he tensed and she feared she had done something wrong, when he whispered, “Lass,” his voice rough.
He leaned down to kiss her in the dark, their mouths sealing the promise that they had committed themselves to one another. Then he moved so that his mouth was against her ear and whispered, “You are stirring a need that I canna quench for now.”
“The byre?” she offered.
He chuckled.
‘Twas not a laughing matter. She thought if he made love to her, if anyone else thought to take her to wife, they would dismiss the notion.
“Too many horses in there,” he explained and she heard the smile in his voice as he whispered to her.
Someone stirred on one of the makeshift beds. She had no idea who, but that from the direction the sound came from, it was one of the men.
Then more stirring. She was sorry she and Marcus had disturbed them. Marcus whispered, “‘Tis time to dress and break our fast. I will get your clothes for you.”
She didn’t want to let him go, loving the heat from his body and the sensuous feel of him touching her. But she knew they had to get on with the tasks at hand. Learn abo
ut the bairns’ mother, and then decide what to do.
Finbar lit a fire and in the soft glow, with her still tucked under the wools and blanket, she turned to watch the bairns sleep as the men dressed.
Marcus put her clothes on the bed and said in a hushed voice, “We are going outside to get more provisions to break our fast, and then two of my men are heading to the village to learn what has become of the bairns’ mother.”
“Aye. What about the man who took the wounded knight home from the skirmish yesterday?”
“He will catch up to us when he can. He knows to return home if he doesna.”
She’d fretted about him, that he’d be alone. “What will we do with the bairns?”
“Naught to worry about for now, lass.” He fastened his cloak over his shoulders as the other men slipped out into the dark of the early morning hour.
She remembered Marcus always being that way. He wouldn’t think on what might be, but what was and had to be done. She tended to agonize about things she had little control over. Which in her world, was much.
“Should I wake the children?” she asked.
“Nay, let them sleep for now. I will be but a moment.” Marcus headed outside and she wondered if he was giving his men last minute instructions.
When he returned, she had already dressed, thankful her clothes had dried and it was not raining this morning. She started making the porridge.
Seeing her dressed, he invited the men back inside to eat while she stirred the oats over the fire. Though she didn’t believe in warding off evil spirits, Mary had taught her that if she was to make porridge, she was always to stir with her right hand, toward herself from the right side of the cast iron pan and around.
She did it out of habit, rather than to ward off anything.
The bairns were still sleeping soundly. When she finished making the porridge, she served it into bowls and the men ate standing up as if they were in a hurry, though there were not enough chairs to accommodate all of them anyway.
Leith and Finbar thanked her for the food and they bowed their heads a little to Marcus, then headed outside.
They had started out with five men, six, if she included the one she had not seen who had taken the knight back to her keep. Now they were down to three while Finbar and Leith were in the village. She began to worry again. She couldn’t help herself. If Laren MacLauchlan was looking for her and her escort, would they find them sitting here? She didn’t like that they weren’t on the move, trying to reach a castle with fortifications and fighting men. Not just for herself, but she didn’t want to see Marcus and his kin sorely outnumbered and vulnerable either. And what about the men loyal to her father? Or the ones who killed her escort? She tried not to fidget as she wanted to do something, but packing up the bairns and taking them from their home was not a solution either. Not unless something had happened to their mother.
