The Laird

by Virginia Brown

  He would not appreciate her telling of it, that much she had gleaned from their previous conversations. Any word of praise earned her a scowling glance or mocking reply. It seemed to embarrass him or perhaps remind him of his father’s part in their flight from Lochawe.

  Would he welcome her shared pain at the spurning of a parent? Her own father had made it clear he valued more the lands he held than her return. She fully understood how sharp a sorrow it was to be so maligned.

  Glenlyon rubbed idly at his leg, a reminder of the wound he had suffered. She watched him, wondered if it healed properly. It had been a week since she’d tended it, time enough for the healing to ease him.

  The wind brought the smell of rain, and in the distance, thunder rumbled ominously. Glenlyon rose, his stride loose and competent as he moved to the horses, a sign her care had been effective. She smothered a smile in wool. The arts her mother had taught her had not been forgotten in the years of stagnation at Caddel Castle.

  With daylight near and the rain threatening, she would rise and tend her needs before Glenlyon returned. She watched him with her head bent, so he would not see should he chance to look up.

  Save for his words of comfort about Mairi, they had spoken little on the swift, arduous ride. He seemed closed in on himself. Since that stormy day in the solar, she’d thought about him too much, tried to reconcile her actions with her emotions—and his reactions. She’d thought he hated her. Now she wondered.

  Rising, she folded the plaides and sought privacy in a stand of brush some distance away from the priory walls.

  When Glenlyon returned from tending the beasts and making them ready for their journey, Judith had stirred the fire and prepared oatcakes. They sizzled on hot iron.

  “Rain threatens,” she said by way of explanation when he gave her a surprised smile, and he nodded.

  “Aye. We’d best be on our way.”

  The rain held off until they were well away from Kirkton Glen. Greening slopes boasted strange rock formations, gray boulders thrust up in the middle of meadows of harebells and meadow grass as if carelessly left behind by giant hands. Bell heather ranged on lower slopes, pinkish purple blossoms spicing the air. In the mist beyond, a bluish haze signaled more crags, while a dark curtain of rain behind drew closer, as if in pursuit.

  “Glen Dochart lies not far ahead,” he said when they paused beneath a craggy outcrop of rock to wait as the rain broke overhead, “where I’ve kin to see us sheltered for the night.”

  “Campbell kin?”

  He grinned through the dark beard stubble on his jaw. Gloomy light danced in his eyes. “MacGregor kin.”

  “MacGregor!” She stared at him, aghast. “All have heard of the MacGregor clan, a wild, thieving bunch, ’tis said, with no regard for the devil himself—staunch enemies to the Campbells.”

  “True, all true. A wild lot they are, but kin to me by my mother’s blood. Enemies of the Campbells as well, though they hold no favorites when it comes to reiving beasts where they will. Lochawe took Ailis MacGregor to bind them to him, and it eased the reiving if not the enmity when he wed my mother.” He shrugged, ran a hand over his face to wipe away rivulets of rain that found a way into the rock hollow. “Tonight we take shelter with the MacNeish of Glen Dochart, a cousin to the MacGregor. They have pride in hospitality to kin and in their incivility to all else. My MacGregor blood is why the king granted me Glenlyon. I am less likely to be burned out than most.”

  It was a reminder to her of the close ties between the clans of Scotland, of the feuds they shared and the quarrels ignored when united against a common enemy: England. A strange people, she mused, hunching her shoulders against the bite of the wind that whipped against them with growing frenzy. It seemed the rain would never lessen.

  Footing was uncertain, the horses sliding on wet mud, when at last they rode onto a thickly wooded track that closed out the view of the crags and lent shelter from the rain. The air smelled of bracken and decaying leaves, of eons of deadfall, pungent and familiar. It was hilly here as well, new leaves sprouting on tree branches intertwined over rushing burns, clear water tumbling in lacy white over rocks and fallen limbs.

  Glenlyon refilled their water pouches at a burn while she sat her mount beneath a stout oak, still huddled in her plaide.

  “By night’s fall,” he said when he handed her the full pouch, “we will be warm and dry.”

  Her expression must have been disbelieving, for he gave a laugh, his hand briefly touching her wool-clad arm. “I tell you no tales, Lady Kelpie.”

  “I’m no kelpie,” she muttered ungraciously, feeling as wet and bedraggled as a muddy hen, “to drown men in the sea.”

  “Aye.” His glance lingered, the laugh fading to a bemused smile, “Yet there are times you steal my breath just as completely.”

  Rain pattered on limbs and leaves, filtered through the canopy to wet her hands and the plaide over her head, yet she felt only a spurt of warmth at the heat in his eyes before he turned away. Unexpected gallantry from a man unused to such things, she thought as they rode on, for Glenlyon did not have the courtly manners of men more used to light words with the ladies. He was intense, as dark and brooding as the Highland crags at times, and as stormy.

  Yet there had been sincerity in his eyes along with the heat, as if perhaps he cared for more than her safety. It left her silent and pondering.

  Pondering, too, the unfamiliar wash of emotions that came when she thought of him, when she contemplated what he had done. She was well aware of what he risked for her sake, and it awed her. No one had ever risked so much. The aching void inside that had been her constant companion for so long eased, and in its place a spark ignited, wondrous and yet so terrifying. What if she loved him and he did not love her?

  AS GLENLYON SAID, the MacNeish welcomed them with open smiles and cups of ale, with savory roast meats and bowls of porridge, his table set with pride and generosity.

  “I knew a visitor would come,” Dugald MacNeish boomed, “for the cock crowed three times and put its head into the door.” He waved an arm toward the table. “Bide a while, Glenlyon, wi’ your lady.”

  Judith shot a glance toward Glenlyon, but he did not refute his kinsman’s assumption, putting a hand upon her arm as he led her toward the chaotic hall. It was not as large a hall as Lochawe. She had glimpsed through heavy mist wattle walls encompassing wood and thatch structures, but it was warm and dry, which she was not.

  A woman appeared at her side, clucking softly. “Puir wee thing, ye’re wet as a salmon. Come along wi’ me.”

  When she hesitated, Glenlyon gave her over to the woman with a faint smile. “Kyla will see to your comfort.”

  Kyla led her down a short, dark corridor to a thick door lit by a single lamp set into the wall. She expected cheerless comfort awaited her but was pleasantly surprised when the woman swung open a creaking door into a warm, well-lit chamber, small but cheery.

  “’Tis better here,” she said, bustling over to a huge chest against the far wall. “Warm yerself at the fire. Ye need a dry léine, for ye’re soaked to the bone.”

  Cold, fumbling fingers tugged at the knotted wool that held the brèid on her shoulders; there had been no time to search for the brooch, dented as it was and nearly useless. She succeeded in loosening the knot and let the length of wet wool settle to the floor. Shivering in the linen tunic that clung to her body like a second skin, she curled her toes inside the thin shoes, wishing for warm wool stockings and leather boots in their place.

  Kyla made a sound of satisfaction and straightened from where she bent over the chest, a length of linen draped in her hands. “Here it be, nearly at the bottom o’ the thing. It belonged to my lady, God rest her. And we ha’ some good bits o’ plaide left to put around ye, too, aye, for it gets airy in tha’ hall. Tch, and there ye stand wi’ no stockings and shoon like wet leaves
on yer puir wee feet. Dry yerself wi’ this cloth, while I fetch ye some proper gear.”

  Feeling very much as if she’d stepped into a whirlwind, Judith allowed herself to be fussed and petted, dried off with a thick towel, then garbed in fine linen. This léine was not as the other, but close-woven, a saffron color with finely stitched embroidery at the throat and wrists. A belt of linked brass fit around her hips, and the soft woolen brèid was secured on her breast with a pin of pretty stones set in silver.

  Kyla put a hairbrush in her hand, her tone brisk as she said she had a lovely bit of ribbon for her hair. “Scarlet,” she added, “to keep awa’ the witch’s curse.”

  Judith faltered, the brush stilling on its downward stroke through her hair, but there was no guile in the woman that she could see, only a chance remark.

  “Och, let me,” Kyla said when Judith began to plait her hair, “and I will work in th’ ribbon for ye.”

  Content to be fussed over, Judith sat quietly on a stool by the fire while Kyla arranged her hair, her voice a cheerful chatter as she worked.

  “’Tis good to see Glenlyon here,” she said as she divided Judith’s hair into plaits, “for we thought he may not come again for a while. It’s been a year or more since he was held in that English prison. Tch, and a shame it was, too, that there was none of his own kin to lend him aid during that terrible time.”

  “Prison . . .”

  “He was always a brave lad, fierce they say, on the battlefield. But ye know all tha’. Saints keep them, not one o’ his brothers was the warrior he is, though the young ones may well hae grown into it. ’Tis the MacGregor blood tha’ makes them so savage, though ’tis not wha’ Lochawe would say, of course.”

  Judith murmured agreement, shocked by the revelation that Glenlyon had been in an English prison. Of all she’d heard, never had it been mentioned that he was held in a prison. A prisoner—hostage to the English, for of course he would not be freed unless ransom was paid.

  The fact that he knew full well the impotence of her position as hostage explained much. He would know how helpless it felt to be used as a pawn.

  When she returned to the hall, Glenlyon sat on a long bench at the table, an ale cup in his hand.

  He looked up when she entered, a potent glance that seared her to the bone. There was appreciation in his eyes, a slow regard that took her in from head to foot.

  “A bonny lass ye have there, Glenlyon,” MacNeish boomed with a wide grin, “bonny indeed.”

  “Aye,” Glenlyon said with emphasis, his dark brow cocked upward as he watched her approach, “bonny indeed.”

  She felt a rush of emotion when he rose to take her hand and lead her to a place beside him, flushing a little at the warmth in his eyes. It was novel, this feeling of having value, of being wanted.

  “This is the MacNeish,” he said to her, grinning as he added, “known in some quarters as the De’il’s Dugald.”

  “Aye, that I am!” A broad hand smacked loudly onto the table’s surface. “A name I own to proudly, by God!”

  Glenlyon leaned close to her, his voice soft and rich with laughter. “One of the peculiarities of Scottish manners is the prevalence of descriptive names, you ken. Over there, we have Lang Will and Dark Donald, easy enough to see the reason for their names, but at the far end of the table, there beyond the jug of ale, sits Hen-Harrow next to Cat Lick, their Christian names long forgotten.”

  A bubble of laughter rose in her throat, and she tried not to look in their direction when Glenlyon named Three-Fingered Davy and Nebless Geordie. “They come from the Middle Marches, near the Tweed,” he said in explanation.

  Understandable explanation it was, as the Marches were too frequently ravaged by English and Scots armies alike.

  “Glenlyon,” the MacNeish bellowed, “what of Simon MacCallum? Does he still tend yer beasties, or are they all in MacCallum bellies by now?”

  There was general laughter at the question. “My beasts are safe enough with Simon,” he replied, “but there’s rumors said that a score of MacNeish hooves tread the Rannoch Moor of late.”

  Hoots followed this sally, and MacNeish gave a good-natured shrug. “Aye, lad, twenty good beasties they were, gone in a trice to Davy MacCallum, may the de’il take him.”

  “Your walls need building.”

  “Aye, as do yours, I hear. I’ve a mind to build a stone peel, much as Lochawe has done.”

  Judith felt him tense, and a muscle in his jaw betrayed him to any who noticed, but Glenlyon’s tone was easy enough when he said, “He’s still building. It wants finishing the dyke to be done. Lochawe is too close to the mainland, cut off only when the marsh floods.”

  Scratching his jaw, MacNeish nodded thoughtfully. “’Tis time to build of stone, I think. I have lived in turf long enough.” He gazed around at the hall with an expression of dissatisfaction. “This is sturdy enough but willna withstand a determined siege.”

  As the men spoke of war engines and sieges long past, Judith dipped porridge and meat into her trencher. Her stomach growled. She was near faint with hunger. Dreams of soft white bread were tantalizing illusions; the nearest she’d come to such luxury of late were the bannocks baked at Lochawe.

  Satiated at last, with quantity if not quality, Judith was lulled by the ebb and flow of conversations around her, the warmth of so many bodies in an enclosed area, the fire that blazed on the hearth exuding smoke that stung her eyes. She closed them, only for a moment to ease the sting, and gave in to weariness.

  Her muscles slowly relaxed so that she sagged against Glenlyon, his solid frame ample support, and she jerked upright, eyes snapping open. He hadn’t seemed to notice but continued his discussion of proper defenses for towers and free-ranging beasts. Her eyes burned, prickled with the need for sleep. She fought it—and lost.

  The tension of the past weeks slid away, and in this cocoon of warmth and security, Judith felt herself easing into lethargy. It stole over her, crept beneath the barrier she’d erected, left her vulnerable and drowsy.

  It was so extravagant, to rest without disaster looming over her head, with relief from constant strain.

  This is what it’s like to be content, she thought hazily as she drifted on the tide of conversation that floated over her head, laughter and teasing bouncing from one to the other, how lovely.

  SOFT HEAT LEANED against his shoulder, her weight as slight as a bairn’s. Rob was far too aware of her, of the press of her thigh alongside his on the bench, a heated pressure that drew his mind to things other than wattle walls or stone. He tried to keep his mind on MacNeish’s talk of dirt mounds and rocks, but the lure to put an arm around the lady leaning into him was too strong.

  He moved an arm, slid it behind her to circle her waist, and felt her ease into the embrace like a sleeping child.

  A distraction, this Lady Judith, scented and soft and far too alluring. He saw the sidelong glances at her, the speculation in men’s eyes, the way their gaze skittered away when they caught his attention instead.

  “Yer lady finds our company tiresome,” MacNeish jested when Rob looked back at him.

  “We have traveled hard today.”

  “No sleeping posset for her tonight, hey. There are extra pallets by yon wall, Glenlyon. Ye are welcome to them, or to a dry stall with the beasties, as ye like.”

  Rob stood, pulling her up with him, his arm bearing her weight. She immediately tensed, then pulled away.

  “It seems I have been rude,” she said in Gaelic to her host and flashed him an apologetic smile that had the chief shaking his head in denial.

  The husky timbre of her voice was lower than usual, and MacNeish struggled to his feet in belated gallantry, swaying slightly from effects of too much ale.

  “A rough wooing is it, to make ye so tired,” he said with a laugh. “Dinna fash, lady, for no Cam
pbell dares come to Glen Dochart wi’out risking a meal of good steel. If no’ for his mam, not even Glenlyon would dare.”

  Faintly, she said, “God’s mercy to you for your welcome this night.”

  “Aye, a good night to ye, lady,” MacNeish said, lifting his cup high, “and good health! May all yer bairns be strong as a MacNeish and wily as a Campbell!” His salute earned laughter from the men at the table and a wry smile from Rob.

  It wasn’t likely he would forget Lady Lindsay, Rob knew well, nor would most present in the hall tonight. It was a blessing and a curse, for though her Gaelic was smooth and perfect, the English tinge was unmistakable. Several at the table lifted a brow, but none would be rude enough to speak out in MacNeish’s hall. The strict rules of hospitality were understood.

  He found them pallets in a shadowed alcove; the hall was crowded yet, the alcove down a corridor and relatively quiet. They would leave early on the morrow, for there was another day’s ride before they would reach Glenlyon.

  “Where shall I lie?” she asked, and he plumped a pile of straw into an inviting mound covered with a plaide.

  “You’ll be safe next to me.”

  Wrapped in plaides atop the straw pallets tucked into deep shadows, he lay down beside her, her back to his front, fitting against him from chest to thigh. She lay with her cheek resting on her curved hand. Long, slow breaths measured time, and the torchlight down the corridor grew dim, the revelry in the hall fading into silence at last. He should sleep, for he’d slept little the night before.

  Yet it was near impossible with the lady so soft beside him, so close, her hair a light rope neatly plaited with red ribbon. A breathy sigh escaped her; she snuggled closer, half turning so that he saw the pale moon of her face in the murky light. A soft cushion indeed, this Lady Lindsay, this contradiction that slept in his arms.

  So fragile, small bones as delicate as a bird’s, yet strong enough to resist raiders abducting a child, strong enough to face down the Red Devil in a rage, strong enough to endure a breakneck journey across rugged crags and moors. There was steel beneath this silk, a strength he hadn’t imagined.