Now, as Beck and Nolan took turns sharing news, the three of them swapped fond reminisces. Each summer, the four Jewels met at the Sinclair keep to celebrate life, and the cousins—even those not related by blood—were able to rekindle friendships.
Of course, this past summer, Callan hadn’t attended the gathering.
But it was nice to have the chance to catch up with these particular cousins, even if Beck tried too hard to get him to laugh, and Nolan wasn’t the world’s best conversationalist. Callan even accepted a small cup of ale, although he didn’t care for the taste.
He could still remember watching his uncle battle his whisky-dependence, and had no wish to give up control like that.
“So, I told him, I said ‘Gav, ye’re no’ going to make it. Ye can either admit it now, and we’ll all think ’twas a lark, or ye can go ahead and attempt the jump and break yer damn leg’. Guess which one he chose?” Beck asked with a laugh.
Callan realized he was smiling when he shook his head ruefully. “He attempted the jump and broke his leg?”
“Nay,” rumbled Nolan. “He broke his arm. Saffy set it.”
Wincing, Callan sat forward. “I hope he’s aright now?”
Beck scoffed. “He healed fine. ’Twasnae the first broken bone Da’s wife had to set, and willnae be the last.”
“I seem to recall a half dozen of those broken bones were yers,” Callan teased.
Beck merely smiled, and a call from the dark stairway drew their attention.
“Begging yer pardon, Laird, but the lad…”
It was Adam’s nurse, and she was carrying the bairn, who was searching for his father.
Surprised to find himself a little disappointed to be leaving his cousins, Callan nodded to Beck and Nolan. “My duties call. I hope ye’ll be able to find some fun without me?”
Nolan jerked his thumb to his brother. “This one could find fun, even if he were blindfolded and a carrot shoved up his nose.”
“That doesnae sound fun.”
Slapping his knee, Beck smirked. “Depends how ye do it. But aye, we’ll find a dice game or track down Da. Ye go do lairdly things.”
He made a shooing gesture, and Callan sent a glance over his shoulder at his waiting son.
“’Tis no’ lairdly things, but fatherly things.”
Nolan said something in response to his quiet correction, but Callan was already halfway across the hall. He took his son from the nurse’s arms and lifted the lad against his shoulder.
“Thank ye,” he said to the servant. “I’ll put him to bed when he’s ready.”
She curtsied and hurried toward the kitchens for her evening meal, and Callan began to climb the steps.
Adam was a sturdy little lad and a month shy of the second anniversary of his birth. He had his mother’s light hair, but the Mackenzie eyes—dark blue, deep and full of emotion. At least, that was how Callan had always thought of his uncle’s eyes.
Thank the saints, he didn’t recall his father’s.
“Did ye have a good day today, laddie?” he murmured to his son as he strolled toward his solar. “Are ye hungry?”
“Tarts! Gammy tarts.”
Callan hummed. “Yer grandmother gave ye tarts, eh? Are ye almost ready for bed? Are ye sleepy?”
“Nay!” the little boy declared, a chubby fist banging against Callan’s shoulder.
The man chuckled as they reached the private room. “Ye want a story, I suppose?”
“Aye!”
Without pushing the door closed, Callan crossed to the hearth. The fire had been laid because of all the company in the keep. He settled into one of the chairs that stood by the hearth, across from the large desk. Uncle Jaime always called it his grandfather’s desk, but to Callen, it was the seat of his power, and he had been proud to sit behind it for the first time.
Now, it seemed hollow, and he was more content here, with his son curled up on his lap.
“What story do ye want to hear? Something appropriate for the season? Mayhap Yule? Or the story of Christ’s birth?”
Adam studied him with big, serious eyes as he chewed on his fingers. Then, removing them with an audible pop, he declared firmly, “Mama.”
With a sigh, Callan cuddled the bairn closer. “Aye, lad,” he managed, his throat choked with emotion. “I’ll tell ye about yer mama.”
For the untold time, he told the story of meeting Fia, the daughter of a neighboring laird, and being enamored of her beauty. She was so soft and delicate, and he’d been young and determined to marry to continue his line.
That’s what the laird was supposed to do, after all.
And it had worked. They’d gotten on well together, and in time, he grew to love her. Her first pregnancy was easy, or he would’ve never asked her to attempt another one, once they had wee Adam. But she was determined to do her duty, and both loved the thought of another bairn so close to Adam’s age.
On his lap, his son’s eyes grew heavy, and as Callan was telling him about their wedding—most of which he only remembered from his aunt’s stories since he’d been too focused on the upcoming bedding to care—the lad finally fell asleep.
Callan buried his nose in Adam’s light curls and inhaled deeply.
“Ye still miss her.”
The soft statement, coming from the door, jerked his attention from his memories. He scowled to find his aunt smiling gently at him.
“Of course I miss Fia. Every day.”
“Ye ken…” Agata padded softly across the room to the opposite chair. “Grief is like the ocean’s waves.”
“Aye, ye’ve told me. They were damn near overwhelming at first, but now…” He blew out a breath through his nostrils. “Now they’re no’ as hard to bear. Now ’tis only a few times a day I’m reminded of her.”
“And it’ll get easier.” Agata sank down in the chair. “One day ye’ll realize ye’re nae longer grieving her, but remembering her fondly.”
“I loved her.”
His aunt studied him. Finally, she nodded. “I ken ye did, Callan. And part of ye will always love her. But she was part of yer life for such a short time, and ’twould be a shame to spend the rest of yer life locked away from joy, instead of allowing yerself to celebrate the time ye had together.”
The thought hurt. It wasn’t the first time she’d suggested he might one day love again, and Callan pushed aside the idea. But to have her hint at that now, during the Yule season, when families were supposed to be together…
He shifted his hold on his son, bringing Adam’s soft cheek in contact with the skin where Callan’s shirt gaped open. The sensation was soothing.
“At least I have Adam,” he managed in a gruff tone, trying to hide the sadness in his heart.
Agata, of course, heard the truth. “Aye, ye do,” she said softly. “And one day, that sweet bairn—my grandbairn, although I still have trouble believing I’m auld enough to be a Gammy—will be Laird Mackenzie. He represents yer—all of our—futures.”
’Twas much pressure to put on such a small set of shoulders. But Callan had been only a few years older when his father had died, leaving him as laird, with a drunken uncle as his regent.
God willing, he’d have many, many years ahead to teach and train wee Adam.
“Callan.” At Agata’s gentle call, he met her eyes. Smiling softly, she said, “Ye’ll never forget Fia, and ye shouldnae. Ye’ll see her each time ye look at yer dear son. But…” She shifted forward, her golden-brown eyes sparkling with sudden intensity. “But yer life is no’ over just because ye’ve laid yer wife to rest.”
Irritation flashed at the suggestion, and Callan looked away, not willing to let her see it.
If she did see it, she didn’t care. “Callan, ye have so much to offer. Yer love and yer life are no’ over. Ye’ll have the chance to share both again, and I dinnae want ye to miss that chance.”
How does she ken?
The thought sparked a frown, and Callan glanced back at her. The years had been kind
to his stepmother-turned-aunt, and she was still as beautiful as he remembered. But still…what did she know of finding love again?
“How do ye ken?” he snapped, “Ye never loved my father.”
His aunt—the woman who’d once been his stepmother—glanced down at her folded hands, and Callan felt a stab of shame.
He’d met Agata when he’d been a lad of five, and she’d come to Mackenzie land to marry his father. David Mackenzie had been a hard man, harsh and often cruel. Agata had been wee Callan’s safe haven, gentle and caring, and able to create the most brilliant oil paintings the lad could imagine.
When his father died, Agata returned to her family, and Uncle Jaimie returned to act as Callan’s regent. They’d been miserable until Aunt Jean had brokered a betrothal between Jaimie and Agata.
So the dear woman had gone from his stepmother to his aunt, but she’d always—always—been a mother to him. And he shouldn’t have snapped at her.
“I’m sorry, Agata.” He tried to gentle his tone and his irritation. “I ken my father wasnae—”
“Yer father is a wonderful man.”
The soft words stopped him.
Is a wonderful man?
David Mackenzie had been dead for years.
Callan’s heart began to pound, and he shifted his son to his other shoulder, in case the lad could feel the slamming of that organ against Callan’s ribcage.
Yer father is a wonderful man.
There was that suspicion…that question which Callan had asked himself so many times as a child. The knowledge that aye, Jaimie was his uncle, but the two of them were more alike than different. Callan had wrestled with that knowledge for years, before deciding ’twas better not to ask.
But now…
“My father?”
Agata met his eyes, and he read guilt—and defiance—in their depths. “I love Jaimie more than I can explain, Callan. But I love ye, too, and yer brothers. Each bairn I conceived, I loved more than I could explain. My love is bottomless; none of ye will ever have to worry about me loving one more than the other. But having bairns changes ye. Ye realize the all-consuming passion ye might hold for one other person is only one kind of love.”
Aye, the love he felt for Adam was naught like the way he cared for Fia. But he’d loved Adam from the moment they’d learned Fia was carrying him…whereas it had taken longer for his love for her to grow.
But this wasn’t answering his question. “My father?”
Agata’s gaze dropped to the sleeping bairn on his chest. “Ye ken I never loved David Mackenzie.”
That wasn’t what he’d asked. Callan’s heart was still thumping away, tight and questioning, as his stomach twisted.
For the first time ever, there in the dim light of a winter evening, he had the courage to ask the question he’d always wondered.
“Agata, was David my father?”
It wasn’t until—after an interminable length of time—she lifted her eyes to his that Callan realized he was holding his breath.
But she didn’t answer him. Instead, she stood, stepped over to the pair of them, and leaned down. She brushed a kiss across his forehead. “Ye should get this laddie to bed. The celebrations start tomorrow, after all.”
His free hand flashed out, his fingers wrapping around her wrist. “Agata, answer me.”
She smiled sadly and shook her head. “I cannae. ’Tis a conversation ye and yer father must have.”
He studied her expression, this woman who’d raised him as her own. Would it matter finding out the previous Laird Mackenzie—harsh, cruel, and heavy-handed—hadn’t been his real father? Would it really change anything?
Aye, whispered a small voice in the back of his head. Because it would mean that Jaimie might be yer da.
And that would be a blessing.
So, he slowly exhaled and loosened his grip on her wrist. “Tomorrow, then,” he said with a nod. “And that’s the Mackenzie speaking.”
In other words, Uncle Jaimie would answer his questions.
Agata nodded and offered him another gentle smile. “In the meantime, think about my words, Callan. About the nature of love.” She briefly rested her hand on Adam’s curls. “Ye have so much love to offer, and I’ll no’ see ye lock yer heart away. No’ when there’s so much love in the world, waiting for ye.”
With those parting words, she nodded and slipped from the chamber.
Waiting for ye.
Love waiting for ye.
The refrain echoed in his mind, alternating with Yer father is a wonderful man, as Callan tucked Adam into his bed in the lad’s chamber beside his various cousins. The words swirled around him as he prepared himself for bed, and when he settled into the big bed he’d once shared with Fia, he stacked his hands behind his head and stared up into the darkness.
Love is waiting for ye.
The logical part of him knew Agata was right. He’d seen enough grief and heartache, even in his short time as laird, to understand that the world moved on, for all but the dead. The living were forced to mourn…and then get on with living.
Is that what Agata meant? By clinging to Fia’s memory, Callan hadn’t gotten on with the living again yet? Here ’twas, Yuletime, and he was surrounded by family, determined to bring him joy. And he was still mourning.
Nay. Nay, mourning for a wife not yet dead a year was no sin. ’Twas natural.
But…
Love is waiting for ye.
Was it possible that, somewhere out there, there was another woman whom he might one day love? One who would love him in return?
He missed the touch of a woman, the feel of a woman in his arms at night. He missed sinking himself into her softness, knowing she was his, and hearing her call his name in passion. He missed the sweet smiles and knowing glances, and the quiet discussions, late at night.
But more than that, he missed knowing he was loved.
Love is waiting for ye.
He’d never forget Fia, aye. But mayhap…mayhap Agata was right about this at least.
He was dreaming. He knew he was dreaming.
At the beginning, he dreamed about Fia quite often, but over the last year, those dreams had mellowed. Now, when he saw her in his dreams, his joy was tinted by the knowledge she was gone. So seeing her in his dreams was bittersweet.
But now…
He was alone, almost. Standing on a dark plain, knee-high mist stretching in all directions. When he turned, searching for something, he kicked it up, causing the mist to swirl. The blackness stretched overhead but seemed to blend in with the mist in the distance.
There was no noise, but something caused him to whirl about. That’s when he saw her.
He was certain it was Fia, but not like he’d seen her before. Before, she’d appeared as the wife he remembered. Now, she was different.
For one thing, her face was indistinct. He squinted, trying to pull her features into sharper focus, but failed. This woman had the same build as his Fia, held her arms out to him the same way his dead wife had, but ’twas as if she were wearing a veil across her face.
Another way he knew this wasn’t the wife he remembered was the fact she was floating. And glowing white. Her gown—of a pale, diaphanous material—flowed around her, moved by an invisible breeze. Her hands stretched out to him, and although he couldn’t quite make out her expression, he sensed peace and comfort.
She was…an angel?
Callan squeezed his eyes shut, or mayhap the dream jumped. When he opened them again, she was floating farther away, and the mist had risen to waist height.
Her hands were spread to her side, no longer comforting him, but as if she were offering him something. When he took a step toward her, she—and the dream—jumped again, until she was higher in the sky, larger somehow, and the mist was growing.
He stopped, his head tilted back, watching her.
Was she an angel? Or a ghost? Was this Fia’s way of visiting him, telling him she was happy in Heaven?
As he h
ad that thought, a surprising sense of peace settled into his chest, and Callan felt himself smiling up at her.
And although he couldn’t quite see her expression, he felt she was smiling, too.
The ghost—angel?—lifted her arms, and the mist rose with her. Between one heartbeat and the next—did one’s heart beat inside a dream?—the fog cleared around Callan, pushing back to reveal empty darkness, lit by an eldritch light from inside the mist.
And as the fog retreated, he was able to see shapes, silhouettes.
He took a step closer, and the mist didn’t seem to mind. Was that…? The man, standing still as the mist flowed backward around him…that was Callan. He was looking at himself, a few years older, mayhap, but not old.
And he was carrying wee Adam. But the lad…he was older, too, maybe four. His legs were wrapped around Callan’s middle, and he appeared to be telling an animated story, although there was still no sound. Dream-Callan was laughing, and the happiness in the man’s stance, in the easy way he held his son, made real-Callan’s chest warm.
I will be aright.
Seeing Adam growing so strong and healthy, seeing himself enjoying life and loving his son…it made him happy. More than that, it set Callan at peace.
He glanced up at Fia, but she wasn’t there anymore. Instead, a faint white glow illuminated the scene below, the father and son. ’Twas as if the angel had appeared only to show him the future, what will be.
’Tis her way of telling me to move on, to find happiness.
As the mist cleared, more details became visible. He watched himself spin Adam around in a circle as, above his dream-self’s head, boughs of Yule decorations—pines and holly and ivy—appeared, and a fire crackled merrily in a ghostly hearth. ’Twas the Yule, mayhap two years hence, and he and Adam were happy.
But…movement!
Callan squinted as another figure came out of the mist. Short, hunched. When the figures by the hearth saw her, they both smiled, and Adam squirmed to be put down. When his feet reached the ground, the lad threw himself at the other figure, his arms going around her middle.
O Night Divine: A Holiday Collection of Spirited Christmas Tales Page 5