A Year and a Day

by Stephanie Sterling

  After it was over, Ewan shifted onto his side so that he wouldn’t crush his wife beneath his weight, but kept their bodies flush together.

  They slept that way, limbs tangled together, basking in each other’s warmth. Cait fell asleep immediately, but Ewan took longer. For what felt like hours, he laid awake, considering the thought that had plagued him before. Did he really love the woman he’d taken to wife?

  His mind could think of a million reasons that the answer should be “no”. For one thing-least important on Ewan’s list-she wasn’t precisely suitable. He’d never had a chance to speak with the Laird before leaving. The old man was obviously still too wrapped up in the grief of losing his sons to begin discussing who would become the tanist next, but Ewan knew that it had to be him. He thought through his earlier musings again. James was an option, of course. They were the same degree of relation from the original Laird-but James was too young, and too scattered to inspire loyalty in the rest of the clan. Older and hopefully wiser, Ewan was the blooded, respected war chieftain, and had been for many years. The fact that his sister was married to the neighboring Laird-admittedly James held that distinction too-only enhanced his claim.

  Ewan was uncomfortable thinking of his merits relative to his brother, but knew that it had to be done. Happily, he and James were too close to turn on one another. He had faith that James’s careless, nearly dissolute nature would fade in time. After all, weren’t those two adjectives a description of himself a few years before? Before Cait…his mind supplied automatically, bringing Ewan back to his original train of thought.

  He would be the next Laird Cameron, which meant that LadyCameron would be his wife. As dearly as he was coming to adore Cait, she was presumably no one’s idea of a lady. Within the clan itself she had been marginalized-despite her mother’s parentage-because of her half-English birth. As tensions continued to grow with their southern neighbors he didn’t anticipate that drawback would fade.

  Ewan discovered, to his chagrin, that he didn’t care-which brought him to the second logical reason that loving Cait was a bad idea: loving someone would make him sloppy. It would rearrange his priorities at a time when he couldn’t afford to be distracted.

  Finally, and perhaps most importantly, Ewan was afraid of being in love. He was old enough to remember his father after his mother had died. Both his young parents had been so happy and full of life. After losing his spouse, Ewan’s father had been only a shell of the man he once was. The sad, haunted look in his eyes had faded slightly over the years-but Ewan suspected it was merely because he hoped to soon be joining his mate. Ewan didn’t want to care about someone that much-so deeply that he couldn’t imagine the future without her in it-that made him suspect that he was worrying about the problem a little too late. Just the thought of something happening to Cait was enough to make his heart clench in terror. She was his now. He knew, despite his blasted logic, that he’d defend her to the death.

  The more that he thought about it, the more that he was certain he was correct. It was a terrible, horrible, misdirected, unwanted, ill-advised and yet un-avoidable truth: Cait had captured his heart.

  Ewan couldn’t remember how long he stayed awake, watching her sleep. Eventually, however, he drifted off. When he awoke, sunlight was streaming through the windows-and Cait was nowhere to be found.

  Ewan wasn’t certain whether or not he was glad to finally have a name to put to the feeling which inspired the instant clutch of terror in his gut. Had she run away? Had someone taken her? Had something gone wrong? A half-dozen implausible scenarios scrolled through his mind-until the sound of singing drifting up through the hallway set his mind at ease.

  It was Cait. Ewan slumped in relief as soon as he placed the voice sweetly performing a jaunty, simple tune. It was a song that he remembered from his childhood-the sort of song that his mother sang while overseeing the house, and the sense of peaceful contentment he’d first noticed the night before redoubled.

  Eventually, the song ended. Ewan strained his ears to keep listening to Cait’s movements. The patter of her feet was so light that it was difficult to trace around the kitchen, but he gradually made out that she was either cooking or performing some other chore. Feeling guilty, he crawled out of bed.

  Ewan’s clothes had been folded over the end of the bed, and a new shirt had been laid out. He donned them quickly, and then started down the steps. As he suspected, Cait was bustling about. A rag was in her hand as she polished the wooden furniture.

  “Good morning,” Ewan said, walking up behind her and planting a kiss on her cheek. He absolutely loved the way that her skin burst into a glow.

  “Good morning to you, Mr. Cameron,” Cait replied. “You’re up early.”

  “Am I?” he asked, still nuzzling her neck. “What time is it?”

  “Not quite noon,” Cait retorted-and then she broke into the wide grin that she’d been holding back.

  Ewan growled in mock annoyance, and then tickled her ribs in playful punishment, but almost as soon as he started to touch her skin, his playfulness deepened into something hotter.

  “Ewan!” Cait murmured appreciatively as his hands teased the undersides of her breasts through her bodice.

  “Oh, I can make you say it louder than that,” he breathed into her ear, gratified and enflamed by the hitch in her breath and the way that her fingers were clutching restlessly at her skirts.

  Cait made a mewling sound of satisfaction, but then reluctantly pulled away. “We don’t have time,” she said regretfully.

  “What?” Ewan said, frowning.

  “Mrs. MacEantach should be here right about-“ she paused when she was interrupted by a knock, “Now,” she finished with a heavy sigh.

  “What?” Ewan growled again, following Cait to the door. He trailed a few feet in her wake as she bustled out of the kitchen, hung her apron on a hook and hurried toward the door.

  “I saw her this morning in the village,” Cait explained apologetically.

  “In town?” Ewan asked, agog. He hadn’t quite believed that it was truly already noon.

  Cait nodded, “I needed some eggs and flour and…well, a few things for meals today, and someone pointed me out, and well…”

  There was another knock on the door, this time heavier than before. Cait pecked Ewan on the cheek, gave him a final, sorrowful smile, and then flung the door open, “Mrs. MacEantach!” she said with a wide smile, “How delighted we are that you could come.”

  Ewan stifled a groan as the village’s biggest gossip-and to make matters worse, his aunt bustled through the door, turning her head from side to side as though she were looking for something to disapprove of. Apparently finding nothing amiss with the housekeeping, she wheeled around on her nephew.

  “Well, here’s a sight I thought I’d never live to see again.”

  “Er…me?” Ewan asked, shooting a half-desperate glance at Cait.

  “The inside of Glen Mohr!” his aunt corrected, dispensing with all formalities and bustling into the kitchen. “I thought my wake would be the next invitation I’d get to this parlor!” she said, sinking down onto one of the tufted chairs, “And even then, my own wicked nephews might see better to dump me in the kirkyard without returning to my girlhood home.”

  “Aunt Fiona,” Ewan sighed, quite familiar with his aunt’s somewhat excitable demeanor but wishing that he could spare his wife, “You know that you’re always welcome.”

  “Ah? Welcome is it? Welcome that hasn’t seen me darken your door these past four years!”

  “I haven’t been here in four years myself!” Ewan protested, finally earning an agitated “Hrmph!” which he had learnt was the closest his aunt would come to admitting defeat.

  “Well, at least your wife seems to have some sense of family!” Aunt Fiona said after a slight pause.

  Cait glanced quickly at Ewan. “We met each other at the market this morning,” she explained.

  “Aye! Imagine my surprise!” the old woman-portly and g
raying with age, but otherwise the living image of his departed mother, “when Mister MacMartin asks the wee lassie her name, and she answers him, ‘Why Mrs. Cameron’” ‘And from what house, Cameron?’ he asks, and then she answered, ‘I’m down from the house at Glen Mohr’- and you can imagine what I did next!”

  Ewan nodded his head. He could imagine-and he had nothing but the deepest sympathy for Cait as he pictured the scene: his young wife minding her own business, selecting a basket of eggs when the great, hulking shadow of Aunt Fiona fell across her face.

  Cait cut in at that instant, her lilting voice more or less recounting what he suspected-though softening the story, “Your Aunt was kind enough to introduce herself,” Cait said, “I apologized that we hadn’t been to call yet. She hadn’t heard about the wedding and so-,”

  “Aye! Imagine my surprise,” Aunt Fiona bellowed, “Imagine my shame when the wee lassie announces to all assembled that you’ve been married two weeks and your aunt doesn’t know!”

  Ewan felt certain that, for this to be true, Aunt Fiona must have lost her ascendancy in the gossip ring-surely Mrs. Fitzpatrick wouldn’t have kept so juicy a morsel to herself more than half a minute upon her return to town, but he held his tongue. Experience had taught him that dealing with his aunt was like weathering a sudden squall-it was better to hunker down and wait for her to blow herself out than to try to walk against the wind.

  “I explained that things were a bit sudden,” Cait said in an appeasing tone.

  “Sudden,” the old lady said suspiciously, “And I suppose the next thing that everyone but me is meant to know is that there’s a wee bairn on the way!”

  “Er…no! I mean….well, possibly,” Cait flushed crimson. Her discomfort snapped Ewan back to his senses. “I mean, that isn’t why we got married!”

  “Have you come to insult my wife’s honor in my own house?” Ewan spat in a warning tone.

  Aunt Fiona clucked, but reformed slightly, “Of course not, Ewan,” she chided, “But people will talk.”

  “You, no doubt,” Ewan muttered under his breath. When the lady caught him, he revised, “Yes, no doubt,” he said quickly. “What can we do about it?”

  Aunt Fiona’s lips curled into a sly smile, as if she’d been waiting all along for him to ask. “You shouldn’t be so secretive about it to start,” she said firmly, “Let the village have a look at her.”

  “Look at her how?” Ewan asked. He had no intention of putting Cait on display-but was wary of how his aunt was able to twist his plans.

  “Why, there has to be a party!” his aunt said plainly, “A celebration and a chance for us all to meet the girl.”

  “But-!” Ewan started to protest, but he could see by the self-satisfied look on his aunt’s face that he’d not get far.

  “It’s already being taken care of,” Aunt Fiona said, “Even as we speak.” She looked from face to face of the young couple, and appeared exceeding satisfied with the shock on their faces. “Now then,” she said to Mrs. Cameron, “Wasn’t I promised lunch?”

  Ewan was annoyed that his aunt refused to be decamped, but Cait didn’t seem to mind, and that improved his mood considerably. His wife flitted around, setting places and then serving a simple but delicious meal.

  Aunt Fiona continued to monologue as they ate, and detailed her scheme for a party. Ewan worked out that the old lady had truly been hurt by her exclusion from the knowledge of her nephew’s marriage. Despite her gruff exterior, she really did care about the little Cameron clan-especially after the passing of their mother. The more that Ewan listened, the more that he came around to the idea. Cait deserved a celebration, after all. Besides, he was starting to look forward to the opportunity to show her off.

  She really was a wonder, he thought proudly as she bustled around the little sitting room refilling plates and serving tea. He tried not to think of the fact that her former employment had, undoubtably, prepared her for such a role. Instead, he focused on how lovely she was and how she was able to fill a teacup just so and without spilling a drop.

  Although she didn’t say so, Aunt Fiona must have been charmed as well, because the expression on her face softened into a smile as the conversation progressed, and she began casting Cait kind smiles.

  “So, there’s not a bairn on the way yet then?” she finally slipped into the conversation, but in a far more conciliatory tone than she had before.

  Cait’s cheeks turned crimson, and so Ewan answered for her.

  “Not that we know about.”

  “Soon though,” Aunt Fiona said, with a knowing grin. “Ah, if only your Uncle Rafe and I had been blessed with a child of our own,” she sighed wistfully. “Or your Uncle Artis…or Uncle Brody…”

  Ewan had to stifle a giggle as his aunt reeled off the name of all her husbands. She appeared to nurse a powerful attraction for hapless warriors-owing to her quadruple widowhood. Perhaps, now that rich Uncle Rafe was past his fighting days, and living quietly on the borders, she had settled down.

  “Well, there’s time enough,” Ewan said, taking the risk that his Aunt would not be as shocked by the notion of cohabitation without babies as Mrs. Fitzpatrick had been.

  The smile on her face seemed to imply that she was not as good a Catholic as the housekeeper, “Aye,” she said and then sat her teacup down. “Time enough for the young. The bairns always come easier to parents that are happy together,” she announced. Then, smoothing her hands over her skirt, she stood, “And on that note, I’d best make my way back to the village before your uncle manages to hurt himself trying to boil water for tea. That cook we’ve got…” and then she was off on another tangent, back to her old, combative personality as railed against shiftless servants.

  Ewan and Cait followed her to the door. Ewan knew that he ought to have offered to hitch up the carriage and take his Aunt back to her house, but it was less than a quarter mile, and he’d been robbed of enough of his time with Cait already. “Goodbye, Aunt Fiona!” he said warmly-and then he slammed the door.

  “I’m sorry!” Cait squeaked before the door had even finished rattling.

  Ewan waved her apology away. Cait immediately made a move to clean the dishes, but Ewan stopped her. “Come for a walk with me, Cait.”

  “What?” Cait said, surprised.

  “Come for a walk. Not to the caves,” he promised, recalling how their outing the day before had gone. “Just around the farm a bit-good stretch of the legs”

  Cait argued that she needed to tidy up and then go get dinner on, but she finally relented. She plucked her shawl off of a hook, let Ewan fetch his plaid, and then they stepped outside. The air was crisp and smokey. The leaves had long since fallen from the trees and the scraggly branches of the trees were the only mar on the perfect clear sky.

  Ewan took Cait’s hand and steered her around the barnyard, onto a slightly worn track that went along a series of low hills on the property’s borders. “My mum used to take me for walks down this way,” Ewan said, breaking the easy silence between them.

  Cait nodded. “It was her house, wasn’t it? You and Muira were raised here.”

  “Aye-and James and Robert too,” Ewan said, his thoughts picking up the trail they had abandoned the day before.

  “It must have been a wonderful place to play.”

  “Aye, it was!” Ewan said enthusiastically. “With the brook, and the caves and the little hills-not to mention the animals. Robert was so terrified of sheep…” he chuckled, and then caught himself, remembering that his dead brother was no reason to smile. “My kids will all be raised here too.”

  Cait nodded, and tried not to look as if his words had just stabbed her in the heart, “my kids”, he’d said, both the possessive and the plural implying Cait’s exclusion.

  They didn’t walk very far. Ewan would have gone on to the place where the path crossed the stream, but Cait begged off, claiming a need to see to dinner again. She couldn’t tell him the truth-that every step struck her with terror that she was going t
o start to cry! Happily, she made it back to the house before they started to fall, and Ewan didn’t see.

  The afternoon passed pleasantly, but uneventfully, setting a pattern for the following weeks. They spent their mornings lingering in bed, their afternoons exploring the village and countryside, and their nights (and the occasional morning, noon, afternoon and evening), wrapped around each other’s bodies.

  Before Cait knew it a month had passed. Christmas came, along with the first snows. She expected to return to the castle, but didn’t complain when Ewan wanted to stay “at home”. She was delighted by the necklace of little Scotch pearls that he gave her-and hoped that her own offering, a new silver buckle for his belt-was up to snuff.

  Glen Mohr was even more enchanting under a blanket of snow than it was in the autumn. Ewan hired, not only a cook, but a housemaid as well. Cait took a guilty thrill from playing mistress of the manor, arranging meals and seeing that everything was caught in tip-top shape.

  James departed just before Hogmanay, leaving the newlyweds in blissful solitude. Unfortunately, it didn’t last.

  It was only a week after the holiday when a rider came up to the house. Cait knew before he had even dismounted that he was not bearing good news.

  No one had been expected, and it was too late in the day for a casual call. The black horse that was being ridden was galloping so fast that he could be heard a half-mile away.

  Cait and Ewan both ran to the forecourt, Cait hanging back slightly as her husband took the rider’s reigns and met his eyes.

  The man had come from the castle. That much was clear fromthe hunting tartan breeks that he wore and the saddle on the horse. His feet hadn’t even touched the ground before he started speaking. “From the Laird!” he said urgently, handing over a letter set with their leader’s seal. “He needs you to return immediately.”

  “Laird MacRae?” Ewan asked, inquiring anxiously about his brother-in-law.