by Cathy MacRae
Gillian smiled. “None dares insist Ma do something she doesnae wish to. And, of course, I wish to see the lassies. They are adorable.” She tapped a fingertip on the table. “How is Abria?”
Her hesitation was slight, but Birk, ever-conscious of his youngest daughter’s troubles, noticed. “She doesnae speak.” The skin on his neck heated; his reply curt.
Gillian nodded, her happy smile fading to one of commiseration, offering little hope and less assurance. “She will in time.”
“Her ma abandoned her when she was but a bairn. I fear the lass is scarred.”
“She is yet a bairn,” Gillian reminded him. “’Tis good ye allow her to spend so much time with ye. She shouldnae fear losing ye, as well.”
Birk ground his teeth, a predictable response when his dead wife was mentioned.
Gregor MacLean’s chair scraped the floor as he resumed his seat. “If my lady is comfortable, mayhap we could resume our talk?”
If Gillian caught the mild rebuke from the elderly man, she did not respond. Casting a beatific smile his way, she gave him her attention. “By all means, Gregor. Let us be about deciding my brother’s future.”
Birk stifled the urge to kick Gillian’s chair. He, for one, did not wish to hear more demands that he marry again.
Gregor lifted a ragged piece of parchment. “The council has compiled a list of women who meet our approval as the next Lady MacLean.” He waved a lad near and handed him the scrap. Birk stared at the offending page as it approached, his glare, he was fairly certain, standing a decent chance of igniting the parchment. Being of a particularly non-burnable element, it unfortunately arrived intact. He reluctantly accepted it and scanned the scrawled contents quickly.
His frown deepened. “Ye wish me to take another MacDonald wench to wife?” Birk cast the parchment away. It slewed across the table and landed in a platter of congealing mutton juices. “Because the last time worked so well?”
Gregor spread his hands. “Mairi MacDonald is a good lass.”
Birk bristled. “She’s fourteen! If I have more bairns, I’ll breed my own—not marry one.”
“Robena Balloch isnae a bairn,” Gregor countered quickly.
“Nae. She’s seeking her fifth husband. I dinnae care to land in her net.”
“She’s experienced,” someone offered.
“Well-plowed,” another quipped.
Birk sent a quelling look down the table and the wave of laughter choked.
Gregor bristled. “Ye cannae object to Seonag MacBrehon. Her father has ties to the MacDonnell laird.”
A round of nodding heads drifted down the table.
“Aye. The MacDonnell clan wields great power.”
“They have lands along our shipping routes,” Gregor added.
It was true. There was little he could say against Seonag MacBrehon. He risked sounding like the bitter man he’d become to point out the young woman’s timidity, her seeming lack of courage. She’d eaten at the MacLean tables often enough with her da, a brawny man who did a brisk business in Morvern in whisky and leather goods in the autumn when worn footwear was exchanged for warm, sturdier boots toward off the cold in winter. Her character was well known.
But to join with a woman of no mettle—what courage would a son of hers have? Birk suppressed a shudder. Assuming he had enough of an urge to sire a child on her.
“Enough. I will consider the will of the council. But I dinnae wish to discuss it further.”
His pronouncement was met with silence and skeptical looks. He waved a hand, catching the eye of his steward. “Fill their cups and assure them of a bed. I will make myself available for any questions on the morrow.”
I’ve had my fill for today. Gripping the armrests of his chair to force a hesitation, he barely managed to push his seat back without overturning it in unseemly haste. Belatedly remembering his sister’s presence, he wheeled about.
“Might I escort ye to yer room?”
She lifted a delicate brow. “As much as I would love to put my feet up, I believe we should take a stroll about the garden.”
Birk hid a groan, his chest near to bursting with the frustration building inside. He needed an outlet and escorting his pregnant half-sister about the garden did not appear promising.
“In this weather?” he asked, hoping to put her off.
“’Tis bracing. Hand me my cloak.”
“Certainly,” he gritted, forcing a congenial smile, though he feared it resembled naught more than a grimace. Her knowing grin confirmed his suspicion.
She took his arm. They strode across the hall through the lingering council members who edged out of his determined path. Disapproval and disappointment lit their eyes, dragged the corners of their mouths downward. Birk answered with a brisk nod.
He and Gillian reached the walled garden his mother had spent the early years of her marriage creating. After spending the first half of her life as a minor Norse lord’s wife on the Isle of Mull, she had fled the isle after her family and village were destroyed. She married Gillian’s father, Alex MacLean, and, after giving birth to Birk a year later, embraced the beauty of the Scottish landscape by creating this marvel of sturdy Rowan trees, spring and summer blooming flowers, and pebbled pathways.
Around the first bend stood a slender stone Birk had brought her when he was twelve, the smooth sides crossed with peculiar symbols carved into the rock’s surface. He’d found it nestled in a small copse, half-buried in thorns and twisted vines, as he trailed a buck through the brambles. Presenting it to her as a memorial stone for the son she’d lost years before, he’d meant to soothe the sadness from her eyes. She’d given the stone with its ancient carvings a place of honor in a bed of pretty white flowers, and it ruled the entrance to the rest of the garden with a benevolent eye.
“Ma is half-superstitious about that stone.” Gillian nodded to the weathered rock, topped with snow and glistening with frost. “I remember when ye gave it to her.”
Birk spared the rock a glance, a frisson of unease rippling across his shoulders. Gillian was quick to notice.
“Does it affect ye?”
“Nae. Rather, ’tis the first time it has done so.” He frowned. “’Tis only a stone.”
“Ye know better,” his sister chided. “It belongs to Sten.”
“That’s ridiculous.” The hair on the back of Birk’s neck rose, as if sensing the presence of his long-dead half-brother. “I dinnae come out here to indulge yer womanly prattling.”
Gillian halted, drawing her hand from his arm, surprise on her face. “Ye have changed, Birk MacLean,” she accused. “I felt sorry for ye when Rose showed her true colors, but even with her dead, ye have grown more bitter, not less.”
Rage bunched his muscles, flamed across his skin. Heat crept up his neck. He held onto his ire, using it to fuel his self-righteous anger. Fingertips pressed into his forearm, weight increasing until he lifted his gaze and met Gillian’s worried eyes.
“Birk, she’s gone. Why do ye allow her to torment ye so?”
His wrath subsided like a billowed sail losing the wind. It clung to him but failed to rise. Gillian was right. He brushed a layer of snow from a carved wooden bench across the path from the stone and Gillian sank with a sigh to its supporting comfort.
“I did love her,” he admitted, surprised to hear the words. He didn’t want to remember his boyish infatuation when he’d first met the voluptuous, spirited Rose.
“I thought ’twas an arranged marriage,” Gillian replied.
Birk nodded, seating himself on the bench abruptly, as if he no longer could count on his burning rage to fuel his movements.
“’Twas. But I secretly hoped Da would agree. He wasnae interested in her da’s offer at first, but I was already infatuated with her.” He shrugged. “I dinnae know if she’d been instructed to do her damnedest to ensure the alliance, or if she was attracted to me in the beginning, but during the sennight she and her da were here, she taught me a few things I’d never d
reamed of as a lusty lad.”
He risked a glance at Gillian, hoping she did not condemn him for his youthful transgressions. Her shoulders shook, not, apparently, with indignation, but, if the twitch of her lips was to be believed, with humor.
“What?” Irritation sharpened his voice. “I confessed having swived a lass in manners I’d not imagined, and ye laugh?”
“Oh, Birk,” Gillian cried, abandoning all attempts to rein in her laughter. “Ye fell for the oldest trick in the world and fell hard. Ye always were passionate in whatever ye did. None out-sparred ye on the training field. Ye brought back the heaviest buck, the largest brace of hares. It doesnae surprise me ye felt so passionate about yer wife—may God have mercy on her soul. She doesnae deserve yer sacrifice, ye know. Ye dinnae have to keep her memory alive. As passionately as ye loved her, ye hate her just as much—or more.”
She tilted her head, compassion on her face, in the touch of her palm on his cheek. “Let the anger go. ’Tis stealing yer bairns from ye. They love ye yet are cautious in yer presence.”
Her observation shook Birk to his core. “I would give my life for my bairns,” he growled.
“I know that, and they do as well. But they need laughter, brother. Laughter and fond memories. I have those with our da,” she added, the sheen of tears in her eyes before she blinked them away.
“Do ye think that is why Abria—” The words fouled in his throat. He did not wish to be responsible for his daughter’s affliction. His fingers clenched, fisting on his thighs. “Why she doesnae speak?”
“Nae.” Gillian’s pronouncement was firm. “She has heard too many hateful rumors about her ma. I know ye try to shield her from them, but bairns have big ears. She was but two summers old when her ma ran away. All know Abria was a difficult baby, and she and her ma nearly died at her birth. ’Tis my belief she has heard it said she was the reason her ma fled. Either her ma dinnae wish to risk her life with another bairn, or raising Abria was too difficult. It doesnae matter. I suspect Abria fears ye will hate her if ye learn the truth.”
Birk leapt to his feet. “It isnae true! None of it. Why would she believe such a thing?”
“She is a bairn,” Gillian reminded him. “Reason doesnae enter into it. I’d hoped she would grow out of it, but ye say she remains mute.”
New anger hammered in Birk’s ears. Grinding his teeth, he paced before the bench.
“Ye have done yer best to include her,” Gillian said. “’Tis not yer fault.”
Birk shook his head, his sister’s kindness falling on deaf ears. He should have heard the rumors, realized what they were doing to Abria. But the whispers confirmed his wife was a vain, self-indulgent woman, lacking in morals, with no interest in raising bairns. The pitying looks, the sympathetic gestures—all had fed his sense of betrayal, the justice in Rose’s death.
He halted abruptly. “I will change everything,” he vowed. “If I feel rage, I will hide it. If I hear rumors, I will stop them. And I will hire a nurse who will play with the girls and brighten their spirits.”
“Very noble, and ’tis certain Rose’s auld nurse, Ina, is a gloomy thing,” Gillian agreed. “But what of yer life? Will ye agree to the council’s charge and marry?”
A frown threatened to take charge, but he halted it with supreme force.
“Nicely done,” his sister quipped, missing nothing.
“I will marry,” he said. “But a woman of my choosing. I cannae stomach a weak-willed woman. She must have a caring heart, loyalty.” He considered Seonag MacBrehon’s timid behavior. “She will be capable of defending herself. Her actions will inspire respect and approval.”
“And she must be beautiful,” Gillian added, her voice solemn.
It took Birk a moment to register his sister’s laughing skepticism.
“Where do ye expect to find this paragon of virtue?” she asked, her eyes dancing.
He shrugged, humor restored. “Not on the list I was given today.”
A rustle of leaves announced another’s presence. Birk schooled his face into a bland expression. A woman strolled down the path from the far reach of the garden, her russet cloak lined with plush fur. Silver glinted in her blonde hair. Her green eyes glowed, peace smoothing the lines of her face. The pair of lasses at her side were her exact opposite, possessing the dark, slanted eyes that bore evidence of their Armenian great-grandmother, their tresses a mass of thick sable curls. Their cold-pinked noses peaked out from the hoods of their cloaks.
Birk smiled at the pair, his exact images down to the slightly dusky hue to their skin.
Love and compassion gripped him in a stranglehold as he peered at the smallest of the children. Abria. Her name meant strength, but her eyes reflected the fragility of a troubled child. He squatted before her, draping his hands to dangle at his knees, neither reaching nor refusing her.
“How’re my bonny lasses? Is yer amma taking good care of ye?”
Hanna’s hand whitened as Abria’s grip tightened.
Her sister sent her da a reproachful look. “Abria doesnae like the big dogs, but the garden is much better.”
Birk held his half-smile and slid his gaze to Eislyn. Her quickness to shield her younger sister was admirable, but it had given her a sharp tongue and allowed Abria to hide in her sister’s shadow.
“I thank ye for noticing,” he told Eislyn. “What do ye like about the garden, Abria?”
“She likes—”
Birk lifted a finger, silencing Eislyn’s response. He waited patiently, hoping Abria would break her silence. The child turned her face to Hanna’s skirts and did not speak.
Clenching his jaw, Birk counted to ten before slowly rising. “I will let ye help with the new gardens at Dairborrodal, aye?” His words laced with entreaty, he had to be satisfied with the partial appearance of one of Abria’s eyes, as though his promise provoked interest.
“And what would ye like to help with, Eislyn?” he asked. Though his greatest concern was with Abria, he could not let his older daughter feel slighted.
“I should help with the weapons,” Eislyn announced. “I wish to continue my lessons, and there is no blacksmith or armorer at Dairborrodal yet.”
Gillian elbowed Birk. “Spoken like a true MacLean. She takes after her amma.”
“She comes from quite a lineage of warrior women,” Birk agreed. “And ’tis remiss of me to not keep up yer lessons.”
He lifted his gaze to his ma, noting the steel barely hidden beneath her serene façade. “How do ye fare this fine day?”
“I am pleased to spend it with my granddaughters, and understand your concern, though I have not yet reached my dotage,” Hanna replied with a faint nod to Abria. “This one has my gardening heart, the other will make a fine shield maiden.”
“I will,” Eislyn declared. “Amma has agreed to teach me to throw a blade. She says ye are much too busy with clan ’fairs.” She shrugged, a puzzled look furrowing her brow. “I dinnae know we were having a fair, but I want to go!”
Birk laughed. “She means clan politics, leanbh,” he said. “Dinnae fash. Mayhap we will have a fair close to harvest time. I will speak to the steward and have him look into it. Will that do?”
Eislyn nodded vigorously. “Aye! And a dagger-throwing contest?”
“We will see. Though at seven summers, ye are a bit too young to compete.”
Her scowl told him he would hear more on the subject. “Let’s go inside and find something warm to drink. Would ye like that?”
Eislyn nodded vigorously. Abria cut her gaze from her da to her sister, her thumb lodged in her mouth. She pressed closer to Hanna.
Dugan appeared at the entrance to the garden. Abria disappeared behind Hanna. Biting his tongue at his daughter’s continued fears, Birk merely swung about to face his captain.
“A word, Laird?” Dugan murmured.
Birk met his urgent gaze and drew in a breath sharp with the tang of winter. He glanced over his shoulder. “Mayhap yer amma and Auntie Gillian wou
ld see to the hot drinks?”
The women nodded, concern etched on their faces, and gathered the two lasses, bustling them past the men, their voices pitched unnaturally high with forced jollity. Birk folded his arms over his chest, belligerence returning as he guessed the council was not finished with him.
Dugan slanted a look at the retreating forms, then shifted his attention to Birk.
“Laird, there has been trouble at one of the crofts.”
“Not pirates?” Birk asked, startled to find the problem not where he’d imagined.
“Nae. Raiders inland. A lad brought the report. They killed his da and left the lad for dead. Ran off with the cattle and a side of pork.”
Birk’s blood boiled. “Where is the lad?”
“In the hall. Awaiting the healer.”
Birk surged forward, long stride quickly overtaking his ma and Gillian. “Take Abria and Eislyn to yer solar,” he barked as he swept past. Startled, his mother halted and put a hand out, catching his sleeve.
“Do ye need my help?”
He shrugged from beneath her touch. “Nae. I will speak of it to ye later.”
Hanna’s eyes narrowed, but Birk did not apologize, even though he knew she was the last person who required sheltering from life’s harsher truths.
He burst into the hall where a small group clustered, distress thick enough to almost touch. The group broke apart at his approach, baring a young lad of perhaps twelve summers to Birk’s view. A jagged gash, bound together with a rag and crusted blood, marked the lad from crown to jaw. His dark eyes burned hot and large in his pale face.
“Do ye know who did this, lad?” Birk asked, blunting a bit of the authoritative rumble of his voice as he attempted to reassure the boy.
The lad shook his head. A grimace snatched at his lips, whitening with pain. “Nae,” he croaked. “I’ve nae seen the man before.” He measured Birk’s body with his glance. “Yer height he was, and broad. Dark as night his long hair was.”
Birk grunted, exchanging a quick glance with Dugan over the lad’s head. It was not the first time a thief of long dark hair and unusual size had been reported. The soldiers had given him the nickname Colin Dubh. Nothing else was known about him. He attacked crofters, stole their livestock and food, and left dead any who resisted.