by King, Susan
"He has no fever," Innis told Duncan. "He will sleep like the dead on that potion we fed him, and he will wake feeling stronger. But he must stay in bed for a long time to let those stitches heal. What is damaged inside, I cannot say, but he has a better chance of healing inside and out if he lays still."
"We will stay as long as necessary," Duncan said.
Innis looked at him strangely. "You are the laird of Dulsie. Of course you will stay."
He sighed and looked away. Innis moved closer, a tiny, wraith-like woman who did not reach his shoulder. There was a slight bobble to her head as she looked up at him. She had aged, and he felt sudden regret that he had not been here for those lost years.
"The laird of Dulsie is home now," Innis said.
"I have a home in Edinburgh, and duties there," he said. "I am a lawyer for the queen and her council."
"I know that. But that Lowland place is only a house, not a home. Your family is here."
He sighed. "I cannot stay here, just now," he said. "And Elspeth is a Fraser. She is not ready yet to leave her home."
"She is the laird's wife. Her home is here as well."
He was silent, feeling his grandmother's steely stubbornness still in evidence. That, at least, had not changed much. He glanced at his sister, who shrugged calmly.
He expected his grandmother to say more of what she thought, and waited. Innis Macrae had never held back her opinions; that had been one of the problems between them, years ago. But Innis sighed and turned away, walking to the door.
"I am an old woman," she said, "and I need my rest. I will come back later to watch over your friend. Kirsty will stay for now. She is a capable girl." She laid her hand on the door latch. "We will talk, you and I, later. For now, you also are wounded, and very tired. Mairi showed your bride to your bedchamber a while ago. I will expect you both to sleep through the day tomorrow. Then we will talk." She nodded to him and pulled open the door.
He looked at Kirsty after the door closed. "She has not changed much," he said.
She nodded. "More than you know, Duncan. Your absence, these years, has been a lesson in humility to her."
He glanced at her quickly. "Humility? I never meant—"
"But that is how she views it, and has told Mairi and I that many times. Go to bed, Duncan," she said, touching his sleeve. "You look as if you barely have the strength to stand."
He smiled wearily. "Little Kirsty, grown so tall and lovely. And you have a fine mothering way about you. Are you wed?"
"Not yet," she said. "Innis needs me here."
"Ah," he said softly, feeling a pang of regret that he had not been here for these people, his family, out of his own stubbornness.
Magnus groaned and rolled onto his side. Kirsty moved to pull his shoulder back. "I stitched his wound myself," she said, adjusting the covers over him. "He is a strong man, your friend. He took the pain of the stitches without complaint. A wound such as that, and the ride you made, might have killed another man."
Duncan nodded. "You will have the devil's own time keeping him to his bed when he wakes up."
"Well," Kirsty said, looking down at Magnus, "he is a fine strong man, but he will have a devil of a time getting past me."
She flashed a smile at Duncan.
He laughed, shaking his head. "Innis said you were a capable girl."
"I am. Now go to your bed, Duncan Macrae. I will watch this Fraser, and all you need to do is rest yourself."
He nodded, hugged his youngest sibling, and left the room.
* * *
Entering the bedchamber in which Elspeth slept, he moved across the rush-covered floor with quiet steps. The room was fully dark, the window shuttered. In the hearth, a banked peat fire sent out a soft, dim glow and waves of heat. He paused by the bed.
Elspeth slept, her breathing soft and even, her shoulder upturned, her hair spread out over the pillow. He watched her, feeling weary, but restless. Wanting to lay down beside her and gather her softness against him, he steeled himself and walked past the bed. There was too much rushing through his mind; he could not rest. He had to think.
He went to the window, recessed in a deep niche above a stone bench, and sat heavily on the cushioned seat. Blowing out a loud, tense sigh of frustration, he leaned forward and shoved his fingers through his hair.
He, the queen's lawyer, the human pledge for the Frasers' bond of caution, had broken that bond when he had ridden after Ruari MacDonald. He had allowed his temper to overtake him, as it had years ago. His temperament, inherited from generations of wild Macraes, had ruled him once again, as it had ruled him in his youth. He had thought his wild nature conquered, tamed, dispirited for good.
The broken promise now directly endangered his life. Once the Council heard of this—and they would, he was certain, for the MacDonalds themselves would waste no time in reporting it to the crown—he would be arrested, and brought to trial.
Remembering what Elspeth had said of her vision, he shook his head slowly. He had always thought that prophecies were the warped blossoms of crazed minds. He had told himself, and told Epeth, that there was no truth in visions.
Quickly enough, he had learned that Elspeth was not mad. And she loved him, he was certain of that. Her vision was no scheme, as he had once thought it. The mystery of her Sight eluded his ability to explain it.
And now he knew, with a startling sense of dread, that she might very well be right after all. He had brought himself to the edge of his own doom by his own actions. He cursed softly and thumped his fist against stone.
Turning slightly, he lifted the iron hook that held the window shutters together, opening one side. A cool, damp breeze ruffled his hair as he looked out. A brilliant sunset flooded the skies, and sparked his thoughts to greater hope. He was in the Highlands, far away from the Council and the Lowland courts. He had time to ponder this dilemma, and decide what must be done.
Towering reddish-gold clouds and bands of glittering, transparent light filled the heavens. Below lay the black silhouettes of tall mountains, and the gleam of a long sea loch.
He had looked upon such sunsets countless times as he was growing up, and he had never noticed the pure strength and power in them.
"I have never seen a sunset like that," a soft voice said behind him.
He started, and turned to look at Elspeth. She wore a simple white shift, probably borrowed from Mairi, and her hair flowed loose around her shoulders. In the reflected light of the sunset, her hair looked like golden fire.
She moved into the wide niche and sat beside him, turning to look out the window. Her knee brushed his.
"Only in the western Highlands will you find sunsets like these," he said. Though he looked at the sky, he felt her gaze on him.
"These Highlands are your home," she said. "You belong here. Your family has missed you."
He shrugged.
"Duncan," she murmured, "why have you stayed away from here so long?"
"You are tired," he said. "Go to bed."
She sighed, and stood. He looked at the floor, at her bare toes beneath the hem of the white gown. The cloth blew softly in the breeze. "Duncan—"
"Go to bed." He turned away.
She reached out and touched his back through the clean shirt that he wore. "I have felt the pain you hold here. Tell me what happened."
He was tired. He did not have the strength to explain it all to her now. Closing his eyes, he shook his head slowly.
Her finger traced the scar hidden beneath his shirt, brushing over it as if she knew its track by heart. "You were wounded here by the MacDonalds. That much I know for myself. Tell me the rest."
"These matters are in the past. They are done." He heard the harshness in his own voice, heard the pain beneath the surface, and wondered how much longer he would be able to hold it at bay. Her fingers stroked along the scar, and rested at the spot just under the shoulder blade, where the scar had its source. Like the spring of a river, his anguish, his anger flowed from t
hat spot. He trembled with the effort to hold in his feelings.
"These matters are not done, not for you. Duncan, please—" He heard her long intake of breath. Her fingertips grew hot through the linen of his shirt. The heat spread along the arc of the scar.
"I see a lad asleep, in the dark. He is tall, thin, dark-haired. I know this is you, years ago." Her voice went on soft and low, near a whisper. "Men come, they raise their dirks. Blood drips, black in the moonlight. I see a man who sits up and tries to defend himself. He is older than you are now, but he has your face, broader, thicker. He is killed through the heart."
"Stop!" he shouted, and stood up to tower over her. "What good is this to you, or to me?"
She leaned back slightly to look up at him, her eyes clear and luminous in the sunset glow. "The pain will destroy you," she said. "Let go of it."
"Leave it be, will you, girl," he growled.
"Ruari told me that MacDonalds caught your father and brothers reiving, and killed them. He said that you and your remaining brothers went wild in revenge, harassing his people without mercy."
"It is a cursed lie," he said, and grabbed her shoulders. "And why do you ask me? Witch that you are, you have seen it for yourself. Look again, and know the rest. Leave me be."
Tears slowly formed in her eyes as she gazed up at him. He knew his words had hurt her. He could see it in those gray depths; he could sense it through his fingers on her skin.
She blinked, and spilled one tear. He began to speak, could not form the words. Dropping his hands, he turned away from her.
"If you will not share your pain with me, I will not beg it from you," she said. He heard her soft steps as she walked away.
Something made him turn. She stood near the hearth, her arms folded over her chest, her white gown diaphanous where the low light glowed through the thin fabric. Her hair streamed down like liquid copper, hiding her face, flowing over her rounded breasts and slender arms.
She looked so vulnerable, childlike, ethereal, an angel caught by the harshness of this world. And he had hurt her with unthinking, unkind words. She was no witch, far from it.
He sighed and walked over to stand behind her.
"We were sleeping," he said, his voice hushed. "We had been out on a hunt in our own territory. Four men came into our camp that night. They murdered my father and my brothers. My father woke and tried to fight, but was killed through the heart. My brothers never woke up at all, I think."
"And you?"
"I watched it. I woke, and tried to reach my dirk, but I made a noise. One of them turned and cut me down to the bone, from the shoulder around to the chest. He left me for dead. Then they ran." He felt a pressure in his chest like an iron band squeezing his breath. His voice was flat, hard. "I lived. I tied a shirt around my wound and half-dragged myself to a farmer's croft for help. When I recovered enough to ride, my remaining brothers and I went out on the first of our raids."
Elspeth bowed her head, her hair swinging down, a soft gleam. He wanted to touch it, to wrap it around his sorrow.
"The MacDonalds were the reivers, the murderers that night," he said. "I want you to know that."
She nodded. He lifted a hand then to touch her hair, sliding his fingers down its soft silk. "Now what will you do with this pain?" he asked. "It has no use for you."
She turned her head and pressed her cheek against his hand.
"I would take it from you if I could," she said.
He laughed, a harsh grate of breath. "Take it? I would not give this burden to anyone. It is too bitter. It has been mine to carry all my adult life." He sighed. "I did what I could to avenge them, but it was not enough."
She spun around, and laid her hands on his chest. "Not enough? You could not help their deaths." She rubbed her fingers over his chest. "Let it go, Duncan."
"I never saw the murderers' faces. I did not wound even one of them, that night. They all got away." He felt a return of that old fury, never satisfied. As it roiled in him, heavy and dark, he craved, suddenly, a release from its weight. He drew a long breath and blew it out. He placed a hand over hers, on his heart, and felt the steady thump through their fingers.
"Duncan," she whispered, "Your father and brothers only needed vengeance once. Do not carry this grief around in you."
He sighed at the simplicity of her wisdom. Raising his hand to her cheek, he slid his fingers into her soft hair. "I avenged their deaths many times over, until I left Dulsie, and I never felt the satisfaction of it."
"Let go of your anger. It chains you to that day, like iron fetters," she said. "I know what it is to carry a burden like this. It is hard to make yourself set the weight down, and be done with it."
He watched her, so earnest, her clear gaze filled with love. "What burden do you carry, then?" he asked softly.
"I have seen your death," she whispered. He began to speak, but she placed a finger against his lips and went on. "And before that, I have seen the deaths of others. My uncle, my aunt. Eiric's young mother. Each time I felt crushed by the knowledge, unable to speak of what I had seen, unable to help them, or to stop what God had decreed for them."
"But you spoke of my death," he said, a smile lightening his tone, "and felt no urge to be silent."
"I have been silent, more than you know," she said.
He smoothed her hair, slid his hand down to her slender shoulder, kneading his fingers there. "Those death-visions you have had," he said slowly, "they have all come true?"
"All, so far, but yours."
He pulled her closer. She rested her head against his shoulder, and he held her. "To see such a thing and not speak of it—except to the queen's lawyer—that is a heavy burden, mo càran." She nodded silently, and he sighed and held her tightly.
Fear rose in him, a cold spiralling chill. Elspeth's visions had always come true. And now that he had broken the bond, he had begun to move toward what she had seen for him.
He did not know what to think, now. For weeks, months he had disbelieved, even scoffed at what she had told him. And now he was on the verge of a precipice that could very well take him to the heading block. He was loathe to tell her; he wondered if she had realized it yet.
He remembered, then, his own dreams, Elspeth drowning in the sea. In the sea loch. He had actually experienced something of what she, as a seer, had felt and seen many times in her life.
Those dreams had been powerful, more vivid than any he had ever had. Afer the third dream, he had ridden directly to where she had been. He could not deny, any longer, that there could be truth in what she had seen for his future.
But it was too late to accept her seer's warning. If he had listened earlier, would he have broken the bond, so carelessly and impulsively? He shook his head at his own intense thoughts, and sighed into her hair, blowing the fine strands. Her arms circled around his back. With complete certainty, he knew that he would have broken the bond, again and again, in order to rescue Elspeth. He would have done anything to have her now as he had her, safe in his arms.
But he wondered if he had the courage to live with the price, and with the knowledge that his death approached now.
He squeezed his eyes shut, and felt a sudden, fierce urge wash through him, rinsing through like a heavy wave of the sea, taking with it the pain, taking with it the fears of death, of the past. He only wanted to taste and feel and immerse himself in this moment, in the love she offered him so freely.
"No more pain, mo càran," he murmured against her hair. "No more talk of death, and forebodings." He slid his hand over her back, over her shoulders, and caught a handful of her hair, pulling gently until she tilted her head back. "We are both so tired that we have forgotten the great gift we have been given."
"Gift?"
He kissed her cheek. "We have found love between us. And that should replace all this fear, all this talk of doom." He slid his mouth along her skin.
Her tiny answering sob was lost into his mouth as he kissed her lips. Tightening her arms around
him, she kissed him fiercely, pulling his head down to hers, her lips wet with the tears that glazed her cheeks.
He groaned softly against her lips, and her mouth opened for him. He explored her lips, the delicate line of her teeth, the soft inner heat. His loins swelled with a sudden, deep need that no kiss could soothe, igniting a spinning heat that was barely controlled in him.
Sweeping her up in his arms, he reached the bed with a few quick steps. She was avid now, greedy, her mouth on his, her tongue thrusting, her hands all along his neck, his shoulders, his chest. When he lay her on the bed, she pulled at his shirt insistently. He undid the leather thong that snugged his trews at the waist, and she tugged at his garments with him, until he stretched out fully nude beside her. Gathering her into his arms, he smoothed his hands down her back, her buttocks, her thighs.
She slid her hands along the planes of his body, a quick light touch, until she reached the flat muscles of his belly. Fanning her fingers there, she paused. He burgeoned and grew harder, waiting for those still fingers to move, wanting her gentle touch.
"Ah, girl," he said, and rolled her to her back. "This is what we need, you and I. This sweetness...." He traced his finger along the length of her torso, between her breasts, feeling the incredible softness of her skin, sliding his hand over the hard cage of bone below her breasts, sliding down over her firm belly, her pubis, feathered, downy, waiting.
She arched and moaned, and her hand on his abdomen moved down to lightly fondle him until he sucked in his breath and moved his hips away, not ready yet, too ready.
He kissed her deeply, and swept his hand down her legs, catching the thin linen in his fingers, sliding the cloth up her thighs, over her hips, over her breasts until he pulled it from her. Flesh on flesh now, cool and soft, her body pressed to his.
Rolling, she slid over him, catching him between her legs. Sighing like the sea, she kissed him, the taste of her salt again on his lips, and he held her head in his two hands and opened his mouth to hers, sharing that warmth, that moist heat.