The Laird

by Virginia Brown

  “I would never forsake family for a woman!”

  She smiled sadly. “Then you have never been in love. I would forsake all I know for this one man.”

  “Aye, that’s what you’ve done, it seems.”

  “Yea.” She looked at Rob, who stood with his chest still heaving, and there was a faint smile on his mouth that confirmed her choice. “Yea, I have forsaken all for my laird, my love, and have no regrets.”

  Chapter 27

  BLUE HILLS BILLOWED and rolled like the sea beyond Ben Lawers, cloaked in mist that diffused light and shadow and lent an air of brooding majesty to the horizon. It never failed to stir Rob. The beauty of the glen was haunting.

  Once, he had never thought to find it so, had felt out of place here, alien in this land where he was to build a new life. But that was before Judith, before his bonny lady who had changed everything.

  Spurring his mount into a faster pace, he skirted the banks of Loch Tay, impatience rising with every hoofbeat, a solid drumming in his ears. She waited for him.

  Beyond the dip of crag and hill lay Glenlyon’s tower, where he had found more than he ever dreamed possible. His life was no longer measured by sword and strife but by the welcoming light in a woman’s eyes. It was a novel thing and precious to him.

  He clattered at last over the old Roman bridge that spanned the River Lyon, turned up the slope that led past the spreading yew where legend held that Pontius Pilate was born of a local woman. Ancient standing stones marked fields and hills, evidence of men long dead, a silent reminder that one day he, too, would be gone. But he would leave his mark as well, perhaps not in standing stones or an infamous name, but in ways just as lasting.

  On the morrow, he and Judith would wed, All Hallows Day, the annual time set aside for handfasted couples who wished to make their union lasting. While he did not need the official blessing to dictate his heart, it was important to leave no question in any minds on the legality of his heirs.

  One day, he would be laird of Lochawe and Glenlyon, a great responsibility and privilege, one that he intended to administer with as much prudence and experience as he could.

  A rising wind carried with it the promise of winter and the threat of rain, and he rode the last mile at a faster pace, until at last he came in sight of his square tower. It rose above the land in a pledge of safety for those within, new stone gleaming in the fading light. Atop the tower walls, he caught a glimpse of movement, a swift bright flash that made him smile.

  She watched for him. Waited, ever vigilant, her love and loyalty a warmth that seeped into his bones. Impatience to be with her drove him through the gates at a canter, and before he could reach the door to his hall, she was there.

  “I have missed you,” she said against his mouth, her arms lifting to wind about his neck, and he swept her from her feet and into his arms.

  He buried his face into the warm curve of her throat and breathed deeply. Sweet, familiar, tempting, the heady scent of heather filled his senses, seeped into him until he knew he was home again, until the tension of the past days faded into memory.

  “’Tis All Hallows Eve,” he said, letting her slide down the length of his body but keeping his arms around her. “The time when witches and evil spirits roam.”

  “Then I shall stay inside tonight.”

  “Oh yes,” he said with a soft laugh, “you shall indeed. I have plans for us that do not include fighting demons.”

  A gust of wind tore at her skirts and slapped a glossy curl of pale hair across her eyes. She shivered, but there was heat in her eyes. Taking him by the hand, she led him into the hall, and a smile curved her mouth that lent promise to the hours ahead.

  “First,” she said, “you will have hot food and drink and warm yourself by the fire. Then there is business that must be done before we retire. Simon awaits you.”

  He groaned. “Not those eternal ledgers again. The man worries a penny into a groat.”

  “A rare talent, you must admit.”

  “Decidedly, and one for which I will commend him some other time. Tonight, I have other plans than to sit hunched over ledgers and listen to the expenditures of my coin.”

  She had her way, of course, as both knew she would, and Simon painstakingly listed rents and debits, while Rob sat with growing impatience. Finally, he leaned forward.

  “Good steward, your labors and proficiency are much appreciated and will be rewarded, but tonight, I have more to do than hear such mundane—if necessary—tidings. I bring news of king and country, should you wish to hear it.”

  Simon promptly put down his ledger and quill. “Och, aye, of course I do.”

  Rob sat back, stretching his legs out in front of him to let the fire warm his feet. “Envoys from King Edward met Bruce at Norham to speak of lasting peace. Negotiations went well, and Bruce has drafted a letter dictating his terms. He demands that the kingdom of Scotland will be free, quit and entire, for himself and his heirs forever, without any kind of homage to England.”

  “And Edward has agreed?”

  “He has little choice. His position is weak. This last campaign cost them over seventy thousand pounds, and the September parliament at Lincoln refused to finance further war efforts. Should Edward persist, he will lose his northern counties to the Bruce.” A smile of satisfaction lingered as he added, “He was advised to sue for peace, which he has now done.”

  Rob glanced at Judith. She sat quietly, hands folded in her lap, her wine untouched. Did she have regrets? It was so hard to know her mind on this, for she grieved still for the constraint with her brother. They had been close once, but now there was only enmity between them. He understood.

  It was difficult to accept still the cautious dealings with Lochawe. Years of bitterness had not all eroded away in their new understanding, though much had faded. United now against Argyll, they were resolved as never before.

  “So there will be peace,” Simon said, shaking his head. “I thought never to see it.”

  Shrugging, Rob said, “Yea, though who is to say it will last. English kings have a way of forgetting vows made when ’tis expedient.”

  Judith’s head came up, a faint frown between her brows, but she gave no argument. Firelight played over her face, glinted in her unbound hair, and after a moment she said, “What of Argyll?”

  “He prospers.” Rob flexed his fingers. “For now. He knows the shadow of an ax hangs over his head, should he be fool enough to betray king or Campbell.”

  “A kinsman,” she said with a sigh, “and he has dealt so treacherously with you.”

  “A distant kin, but blood matters not to men like him. He cares only for his own coffers.”

  “Poor Mairi.”

  “She is safe for now, sweetling,” he said softly, and he saw the fret in her eyes, the sheen of unshed tears. “Saraid and her bairns have taken to her and live within Lochawe’s walls. Mairi is well cherished.”

  That last made Judith smile sadly. “Still, I would that she was here with me.”

  “Perhaps one day Lochawe can bring her to us. I will do what I can, my love.” Some of the sorrow faded from her eyes and she nodded.

  He stood then and held out his hand to her, and she laid her fingers in his palm.

  They trod the stone risers to the first floor in soft silence, no words needed between them. As they reached their chamber door, Morag met them. She smiled broadly.

  “Ye are well come home, sir,” she said. “All is ready.”

  “Ready?”

  Judith’s hand squeezed his lightly. “Morag has seen to your bath. It awaits.”

  Heated anticipation flared.

  The wooden tub stood near the hearth, towels draped over a stool, and pots of scented soap were arranged on the floor. His brow rose.

  “You do not intend that I shall smell
like flowers, I trust.”

  She laughed, a soft sound. “Nay, though I recall times when it would have been a marked improvement.”

  “No,” she said when his hands moved to the clasp that held his plaide over one shoulder, “I need practice in the arts of a wife. Tomorrow we will wed, and I do not want you to claim me unfit.”

  He held his arms out from his sides as she unfastened the clasp and began to unwind his plaide.

  “You have no worry on that account,” he murmured, as the blood began to beat a swifter course through him. Her hands were soft, competent, dispatching of plaide and tunic and boots until he stood naked beside the tub of steaming water. Aroused, he reached for her, but she avoided his hand and shook her head.

  “Once, when I was weary in body and mind, you eased me with gentle words and touch. I will do the same for you.”

  Steam and flame heated the chamber, and the fire of her touch heated his soul. He closed his eyes, held tight to the fraying bonds of restraint that kept him from reaching for her when she slid her hands over his body.

  He stood in the tub, water to his knees, feet apart and braced for support while she plied a dripping cloth and soap that smelled of spices over his skin. Standing on the stool to reach him, she dragged the cloth over his shoulders, scrubbing it along the aching muscle, damp heat seeping in to lend comfort. Steam rose, enveloped him in fragrant mist. Her hands were light, a feather touch over him, down his back to his flanks, then around to his rib cage. He sucked in a sharp breath when she spread her hand over his belly, the cloth a barrier, and heat ignited where she touched.

  “Sweet lady,” he groaned, “you torment me.”

  “How so?” The cloth moved lower, and his body leaped to attention. “Ah . . . I see,” she said softly.

  He burned. She slid her hand over his length, bare of cloth now, fingers slick with soap and water, measuring him with slow, luxurious strokes. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. His breath came hot and swift, and still she caressed him, until he could bear no more.

  Grasping her wrist, he stared down at her through slitted eyes. She smiled at him.

  It was invitation and challenge, and he saw no need to delay. Water splashed as he stepped from the tub to scoop her up, ignoring her laughing protest that he was getting her wet as he crossed the chamber floor to their bed. Curtains shrouded it, and when he jerked them back with one hand, he saw the bundles of dried heather hanging inside, a bower of fragrance.

  “So that you will never forget me,” she whispered into the angle of his neck and shoulder, and he shook his head.

  “Dearest heart, I would as soon forget to breathe.”

  Surrounded by heather and shadow, he murmured of his love, easing himself inside her, taking her with him as they soared higher than the peaks of the Highland crags.

  IT WAS RAINING. Drops struck the glazed window with a steady patter. Judith lay in his arms, darkness beyond the bed, her heart so full she thought she could not bear it. Tomorrow they would wed, in the eyes of man and God, and all that she had ever wanted in life would be hers at last. There had been sacrifices made, on her part and his, but the rewards were so great that she could only feel gratitude.

  Rob’s hand lay on the swell of her belly as he slept, so strong and sure she felt like weeping again. Their child would be born in the spring, a new life. A new beginning.

  Turning, she pressed her face against him and breathed in the scent of spices and heather. They mingled, as did his blood and hers, Scottish and English, to create a new world. She prayed it would be a more peaceful world for all, but the truth lay somewhere in the dream.

  And the dream became truth the next morning, when the day dawned bright and clear, a cool wind shredding the last of the clouds.

  Sheaves of bound wheat scattered the steps of the kirk, and pennies were handed out to those who came to see their laird wed to his lady. This last caused Simon no little pain, but he smiled good-naturedly, even while he shook his head at the cost.

  A great crowd assembled, with MacCallums and MacGregors standing shoulder to shoulder with MacNeishes, peaceful now though later they would no doubt raid each other’s cattle, another time-honored tradition. Laughter was loud, a ripple through the crowd, celebration of the day shared.

  Not far from the ancient yew, the stone kirk with a new roof of thatch hosted the wedding party. The visiting priest was still not allowed by the pope to perform marriages, as the interdict over Scotland had not been lifted, but that made little difference to those gathered. His presence signified the unofficial blessing of the church.

  They stood on the wide stone steps, and Judith thought her Highland laird had never been more handsome. Sunlight gleamed in his black hair, lit the angles of his face. The ravages of his time spent in Argyll’s prison were nearly gone now, and there was no grimness in his eyes.

  Tears threatened, ever ready these days, and she blinked them away as the priest lifted his hands to begin. The words were a blur, drifting to her through a haze of joy and hope, and then Rob was making his pledge.

  Silvery eyes gazed down at her through the thick brush of his black lashes, and in them she could see all the love she had ever wanted in her life, a bright gleam of hope and strength. He smiled, and his voice was deep and husky, rich with promise.

  “With this ring I thee wed, with this gold I thee honor . . .”

  Dazzled by the sunlight, warmed by his love, Judith knew whatever the future brought them, they would face it together.

  Glenlyon

  SCOTLAND

  June 1328

  CONTENTMENT BANISHED THE shadows that lurked beneath the tower keep, rode shafts of sunlight that spread warmly over the rolling crags and into the courtyard.

  The laird of Glenlyon sat upon a stone bench with his wife and son, a rare moment of rest. He watched as Judith crooned a soft song to the swaddled bairn in her arms, her hands loving and tender as she caressed the downy cheek. A light wind blew, stirring an errant tendril of her hair.

  Beyond, sitting beneath the shade of a slender oak, young Mairi played with one of Morag’s granddaughters. They whispered and laughed, sunlight gleaming on the curves of childish cheeks.

  Angus had brought her, a welcome surprise to Judith, though the child could stay only until old enough to wed the earl’s son. Still, it was a concession, hard-wrung by Angus Campbell. Argyll must know he had pushed Lochawe to the wall and dare not tempt his wrath—and retribution.

  “’Tis said the Bruce tends his gardens these days,” Angus said, a comment that held more weight than mere idle conversation.

  Rob turned to look at him. Though their tension had eased, the sense of constraint was still between them at times. Perhaps it would never entirely fade, but it was a beginning.

  Nodding, Rob smiled faintly. “I can understand the lure.”

  Lochawe laughed. “Aye, so ye can, lad. So ye can. Idle times, these.”

  “Yea, a most welcome peace.” He glanced back at Judith, whose attention was focused on the bairn. “The wedding of Bruce’s little son to King Edward’s sister set the seal on the peace treaty between England and Scotland.”

  “Aye.” Angus scuffed a boot through the grass that grew between stones and squinted up at the sky, a faint smile on his mouth. “Neither man could bring himself to attend the wedding. Ye know why I did not come to yer wedding, I ken.”

  “Yea, I do. Fergal is feeling better now?”

  “Aye, he has Auld Maggie to tend him, poor sod. But he’s a tough old dog.” Angus glanced down at the brindle hound that lay at Rob’s feet. “Rather like Caesar, I think. The bairn said he pined for ye, so we brought him.”

  Rob’s hand drifted down to fondle the dog’s ears, and a wet tongue washed his knuckles. “We spent many a day hunting together. He’ll be content enough here to lie in the sun.”
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  “Och, lad, little ye know about it. Old dogs are never content to just lie in the sun. Look at the Bruce. He plans to go on Crusade in that heathen land. ’Tis said he enlists men to go with him. The Black Douglas will go, of course.”

  Judith’s head came up, and Rob felt her sharp gaze on him, though she said not a word. He let the information rest for a moment.

  “There is much glory to be won fighting the heathens,” Angus said, “and wealth. ’Tis said they have houses made of gold. Think of the fortune to be made by going with the king to fight the heathens.”

  Glancing at his wife, Rob smiled. “I have all the wealth I need here. Perhaps not a house of gold, but of good Scottish stone. I am content.”

  Lochawe’s brow rose. After a moment he said, “Aye, lad, I see that ye have all ye need or can want from life.”

  Judith leaned against him, and the sweet scent of heather drifted from her as she lay her head upon his shoulder. Looking up at his father, he smiled. “Aye, all I could ever need or want is right here.”

  The End

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