“And I suppose you cannae stand the sight of her.”
“I care about her. She’s a good woman. Her kids are . . .” His voice failed and he stopped to stand for a moment with his eyes shut at the thought of the two-year-old who had died. “Her sons are great kids. But . . .” He fell silent as the tower door creaked open and a woman entered. It was too dark to see all the way to the end of the hall, but as she approached, Dylan could tell by her carriage it was Sarah. Speak of the devil.
“Don’t let me interrupt you,” she said, and hovered just beyond the reach of the torch light.
“I was just about finished.”
“You were not, you liar,” said Sinann.
He cut her a sharp glance.
Sarah said, “I enjoy watching your exercises. It’s a pretty dance you do.”
He didn’t know whether to thank her, or what. He chose to get off the subject instead. “How are you feeling today, Sarah?”
She sighed and shrugged. “The loss is a terrible one. It’s true there is no worse pain than having arms empty of a child.”
“I can’t even imagine it.”
“Dinnae try. There are enough of us already who know how it feels. Far too many.”
Silence fell, and Dylan thought it best he move along before anyone came to find him alone with Sarah. He scabbarded his sword and bowed politely to her, making a gallant leg and flourishing an imaginary hat. “Alas, I must take my leave, Madame. Have a nice day.”
She giggled as he made for the door, and Sinann shouted after him, “Coward!”
He sure didn’t know what that damned faerie expected of him.
The deaths of that winter, the utterly inhospitable landscape, the cold that never quite went away no matter how close one sat to a fire, had their effect on Dylan’s spirit. Eventually even he began to wonder if the sun would ever return. He now understood how people had once believed in vampires and werewolves, in ice queens and giants and dragons, for the winter was long and invasive and there was little protection from disease, cold, and hunger. Inside the castle, Dylan could know there was nothing outside but snow and rock, but on a visceral level he found himself able to believe monsters lurked in the icy darkness.
He was not surprised when one day in March a real monster did approach him as he left the wooded hill after bow practice, in the form of the red-coated English Captain on horseback. Dylan had reached the burn, which he would follow down iced-over rocks and tree roots to the glen floor, and his way was blocked by Captain Bedford. “Good afternoon,” the Sassunach said, brimming with the sort of cheer Dylan hadn’t heard since Christmas. He seemed well-fed and healthy, which only made his presence that much more annoying.
Dylan declined to reply. He only stared up at the mounted officer and wondered if he could get past without being shot, or if he should run the other way. Instead, he did neither and waited to see what was wanted.
Bedford said, “You’re the new Matheson, I hear. The one from the colonies.”
Dylan still kept quiet. Bedford had information from somewhere, and Dylan was curious where.
After a period of waiting for an answer, the officer said, “I can imagine the sort of welcome you received from your . . . kinsmen. Another mouth to feed, another opinion in the mix, another in competition for their women. It can’t have been pretty.”
“I hold my own.”
Bedford leaned back and sucked air between his front teeth in an irritated hiss. His mount shifted its weight. “Yes, but wouldn’t you like to do better than . . . mere survival? You appear a bit smarter than your cousins. They wish to overthrow the lawful Queen, but you’ve lived elsewhere, haven’t you, and you’ve not been brought up on lies. I expect you must know an uprising can’t succeed.”
Dylan knew exactly that, and more surely than this guy did, but this condescending prick was getting on his nerves. “What do you want?”
“Information.”
“I haven’t any. And if I did I wouldn’t blurt it to you.” Dylan understood Bedford had pegged him as the weak link in the Matheson clan, due to his American birth, and that pissed him off. He raised his chin. Fat lot this clown knew.
“There is money to be had.”
“Big deal. How about you move your nag out of my way and let me by?”
A white line of suppressed anger appeared around Bedford’s already tight mouth. “It wouldn’t be wise to dismiss my proposal out of hand. If I should let it be known you gave me information—”
“They wouldn’t believe you.” Dylan tilted his head in impudence, having no patience for this unsubtle ploy. “See, unlike yourself, I earned the trust of those people. They don’t give it easily, and they don’t take it back easily, either. That’s what it means to be a kinsman. But you’ll never know what that’s like, being English and all.”
Bedford was silent for a long moment. Then he said, “Very well. Run along to your cousins. But mark me, you’ll wake up one morning with a knife between your ribs, and you’ll be sorry you let yourself believe they gave a damn about you.” He sidled his horse to make room on the path for Dylan to pass, and as he did so Bedford said, “The clans can’t last.”
Dylan knew that was so, but also knew it was irrelevant. He didn’t have it in him to betray the people he was learning to call his family.
CHAPTER 9
Stolen kisses with Cait helped the dark months pass for Dylan, but they were too few and too far between. The talk at céilidh was of royal pardon and pension for certain Jacobites, for peace with the clans was sought by Queen Anne and the Crown wished to put behind the horrors of the battle of Killiecrankie and the massacre at Glencoe a quarter century before.
Dylan’s little stash of coins grew, and he enhanced it by fishing through a hole he knocked in the frozen loch and selling his catch to the castle kitchen. Occasionally he caught an eel, but nobody would buy those. So the eels he cleaned and cooked himself, the meat spitted kebob-like over the fire in his alcove. He was able to talk Cait into trying the eel, and she liked it, but everyone else in the castle called him “daft.”
The small silver pieces in his sporran grew in number and weight until Dylan asked Malcolm to exchange them for larger denomination coins. Pence became shillings, then shillings became gold guinea pieces bearing Anne on the front and four shields on the back. A guinea, he learned, was worth twenty-one shillings. Never having seen a real gold coin before, Dylan began to feel well off. In typical American mindset, even typical of Americans of that century, he now thought in terms of acquiring some property. Perhaps then he could ask Cait to marry him.
He’d never entertained that thought before, about anyone. Not even Cody, though she’d brought up the possibility once in a “hey, why not?” sort of moment shortly before she’d married Raymond. Marriage as a concept had never interested him. But now it was all he thought about. His days revolved around Cait, and his nights were spent yearning to go through that carved door which stood between them.
The nights were long and cold, and the late evenings were more and more of a strain on self-control. Talking was less satisfactory by the day, and more often Dylan read to Cait from the book of English poetry. She sat, bundled in her blanket, inside her door frame, and he lay on his belly on his bunk with the book laid open on the floor and the candlestick beside it, his chin on the edge of the mattress box. His voice was low, lest anyone overhear, and he read a poem of devotion, the speaker declaring he would live and die for his lover. Here Dylan’s voice faltered. He’d read this one to her before, but each reading cut closer to the bone. He found himself reading it tonight with more conviction than anything he’d ever said before.
He looked over at Cait, surprised to see her eyes swimming in tears. Her head leaned against the door frame, and she repeated the last line, but her voice failed, thinning as she choked.
“What’s wrong?”
She shook her head. “Naught. I’m a silly goose. My heart is too filled, and so it hurts.”
He res
ted his chin on the edge of his bed again, and gazed at her. He’d never seen a woman look at him like that before. He’d seen lust and sometimes friendship, he’d dealt with more than one student with a crush, and of course there was Sarah’s needy stare, but he’d never been the recipient of the sort of devotion he now saw in Cait. He was at a loss for a reply, though he wished he could find the words to tell her he felt the same way.
When Cait had gone to bed, Dylan asked Sinann whether he should give her an engagement ring.
“A what?” She perched at the foot of his bed, and he’d mumbled his question as he’d begun to drowse. “A which ring?”
“Engagement. Like when you promise to marry someone.”
“Oh. Betrothal. I’d say yes and no.” Dylan frowned at her, and she explained, “Yes, it’s done and nae, you shouldnae give her one. She’s not for you, lad.”
“Let’s just assume you’re wrong.”
“But I’m not.”
“Let’s just assume.” He leaned up on his elbow, and his voice went hard. “So, assuming she’ll say yes, I’ll need a ring. Two rings; one for engagement and one for the wedding.”
“Och, nae, one ring will do. In many ways a betrothal is as binding as marriage. And lavishing jewelry will make you seem wasteful. Indeed, it would be wasteful.”
“Where I come from, we use two rings, and one is set with a diamond. At least one diamond.”
“Oh, for the riches of where you come from! How can you stand to be amongst the destitute?”
His eyes narrowed at her, but he ignored her needling and said, “Where do I find a ring?”
“You don’t, in these parts. Even Lady Matheson wouldnae have a spare one just lying around handy and a’ that. Though you might ask the smith. If there is silver to be had—”
“Gold. It’s got to be gold.”
“Yer daft.”
“Where I come from—”
“Oh, aye, where you come from the streets must be paved with the stuff.”
“What about my coins? I have several gold coins. One of them could be made into a ring.”
Her eyes went wide. “An entire English guinea you want to spend? Not to mention what it’ll cost for the work!”
“It doesn’t have to be a heavy ring. The smith can take what’s left of the gold.”
“He’ll give you a wire circle, he will.”
Dylan made the guttural noise of disgust he’d picked up lately from the other men. “No, he won’t. Not if he values his life.”
“All right, ye fool, spend your gold on her. I promise, though, it’ll end badly. She’s nae for you, that one. Just you see.”
“We’ll see.” He lay back on his mattress and smiled.
Dylan talked to the village smith the next day. Tormod Matheson was one of Iain’s tenants, who, as part of his rent payment, also did metal work on the occasions it was needed. Those occasions were seldom, since almost everything was made of wood, straw, stone, or animal parts. Tormod’s work was mostly weaponry, and even then his were the more crude dirks rather than fine swords.
Nevertheless, Dylan handed over one of his guineas and requested a wedding ring be made of it, with the excess gold going for payment of labor. He then assured the smith if he was not happy with the ring, Tormod would become an equally unhappy man. Three days later the ring was delivered to Dylan by Tormod’s young son, wrapped in a wad of dirty linen.
He went to a garderobe to open it, and the dim winter light through the arrow loop glinted from the plain gold ring. Nothing fancy, no engraving, and the surface was hammered, but it was, by God, shiny and in its simplicity seemed to radiate power. Promise. His heart lifted as he folded the cloth around the ring and slipped it into his sporran.
Later that day in the kitchen Cait handed him a bucket and informed him she needed to go to the well, on the other side of the bailey. On the way her face betrayed nothing, and neither did his as he followed her. It was cold out by the well, but it was protected from the wind and with the two of them there was always body heat. The well was tucked into a corner of the bailey between the West Tower and the non-family living quarters. No windows looked down on it, and the only approach was through a narrow passage. In the entire castle, this was the only place they could be alone and relatively undisturbed. If they couldn’t stay long, it was because people would notice their absence.
Behind the well, Cait turned to him and opened his coat, and he kissed her as she came inside. His blood raced and warmed against the winter cold. She pulled back, and he kissed her cheek then touched his lips to her mouth. She said against his mouth, in Gaelic, “Do you love me?”
Lips still touching, he said, “Oh, yes.” He wondered why she had to ask.
She leaned back to look into his eyes. “Will you tell my father, then?”
He was about to say he would scream it from the rafters, when he realized what she was really asking, and his heart soared. To her, or to any woman of this time, the issue of “love” was far more than warm fuzzies and a safe, steady date. If she loved him enough, the question of whether he loved her in return could make or break her future and that future would depend entirely on him. To tell her father he loved her would mean asking to marry her. That conversation with her father was not something to be done lightly, nor asked for capriciously. He said, “Yes. I want to marry you.”
Her face flushed with joy. “You don’t wish to return to America, then?”
He flashed on how she would cope in his century, and nearly laughed, but shook his head instead. “I wouldn’t ask you to leave your family so far behind.”
She kissed him, then snuggled into his arms. He held her, and his mind flew with what lay ahead. Months ago he’d given up hope of returning to his own time, but now he would have to give up wishing for it as well. His future was with Cait now, and it seemed brighter than ever before in his life.
She freed herself from his coat and picked up the bucket to fill it. He reached for his sporran and said, “I’ve got—”
“We must go. We’ve been here too long already.”
She was right. They had to return to the kitchen right away, or there would be whispers. They could talk later, in the alcove when the castle was quiet.
That night they talked at length, she in her usual spot on the floor just inside her door, and he sitting on his bed, listening. She thought her father might award Dylan a tenancy on some of his land, and if he didn’t offer it she assumed she could talk him into it. They would build a house, plant oats and barley, raise sheep and cattle and many, many children. Cait’s eyes brightened by the candlelight of Dylan’s alcove as she spoke. He had the ring in his palm and rubbed the tip of his middle finger on it hard, over and over, waiting for an opening. Finally she paused for breath, and he stood. “Cait, come here.” He held out his hand.
She blinked at him a moment, then climbed to her feet and hugged her blanket around her shoulders. “Aye?”
“Just come over here for a moment and sit.” She obeyed, and gave him her hand as she sat on the edge of his bed, a puzzled smile on her face. Then he went to one knee in front of her and said, “I don’t know how you do it here, but where I come from there’s a certain way one goes about these things. Back home we’d be doing this over a candlelight dinner, with soft music in the background, roses. . . .” He paused and glanced at his table. “Well, okay, we’ve got the candlelight.” She was peering at him, puzzled, but the curl to her mouth now suggested she had a suspicion of what he was getting at. He shrugged and opened the hand with the ring. “Say you’ll marry me.”
She lit up with a smile. “I’ll . . .” Her jaw dropped open when she saw the ring. It took a long time for her to close her mouth, and Dylan barely restrained the laughter that rose. “Where did you get that?”
“I had it made. For you. Will you wear it?”
She slipped it on. The band was a mite loose, but he figured she would then be able to wear it into old age even if her hands thickened. She should wear it
forever, was his opinion. He leaned down to kiss her palm, then pressed his cheek against it. She stroked his head, and pressed his cheek to her knees, then began smoothing his hair around his ear and his beard against his face. Her hands on him was sublime pleasure, and he wished to stay here forever, just like this, being touched by her. She then leaned down to his ear and whispered, “Stay with me tonight, Dylan. Come to my bed.”
He sat up, and back on his heels. More than anything he wanted to go with her, but he also knew it was a bad idea. Every part of his body yearned for him to say yes, but he forced his mouth to say, “No. It’s not a good time. It’s too risky.” In fact, they’d spent entirely too much time already where they could be caught. She protested, but he stood and drew her to her feet. With several more kisses, which did not help his case, he urged her back to her room. She went with reluctance, then he closed the door, undressed, and slipped into his bed alone.
He had almost drifted off when he felt a presence. The tiniest sound of bare feet on wood brought him around, and he grasped the silver dirk under his pillow while peering into the darkness. There was a shadow approaching Cait’s door. In an instant Dylan was out of his bunk and smacked the man against that door, then grabbed him by the scruff of his shirt, hauled back, and spun him around. The dirk at the intruder’s throat, Dylan nearly cut before he recognized the voice of Artair begging for mercy.
A sound came behind him, and Dylan throttled Artair with his left as he turned to hold off the second man with his dirk. It was Coll he stopped at the point of the knife.
“What are you two doing here?” Dylan demanded.
Neither answered right away. Dylan’s grip tightened on Artair’s throat, who croaked, “Let me go, ye daft bastard!” He wriggled under Dylan’s hand.
“What are you doing here? Make it good, or I’ll cut you.”
Coll said, “We’re making sure.”
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