“’Tis our king’s command.” He spoke low, and soon all sound in the hall ceased as their people strained to hear what he had to say. “The MacKintosh are now, and always have been, true to king and country. Finally we will have our king home where he belongs. If King James desires that Scotland become one country united—so be it. His leadership can only strengthen us. We canna fall to an enemy from without so long as we are unified within. Long live King James.” He lifted his goblet in a toast, sparking an echoing roar from everyone in the hall.
Alethia’s heart swelled with love and pride. She’d married a natural leader, a good and honorable man—and she could not imagine a life without him.
A fire in the hearth cast warmth and light throughout their chamber. Alethia sat near the radiating warmth as she braided her hair for bed. She watched Malcolm at his place across from her as he sharpened his sword with a whetstone and oil. All day she’d been dying to ask what his father had to say about their handfasting. “Malcolm?”
“Mmmm?”
“What did your father have to say in his letter about our handfasting?”
“He said naught about it.”
Alethia stopped braiding and focused her attention on him. She sensed…discomfort. “Don’t you think that’s odd? His only son and heir gets married while he’s away, and he has nothing to say?”
“I dinna find it odd at all.”
A suspicion grew in her mind, making it difficult to swallow. “You haven’t told him!”
With a resigned sigh, he stopped working on his sword and looked her in the eye. “I have no’ told him.”
“Why not? Are you ashamed of me?” She stared at him dumbfounded, feelings she couldn’t name swirling through her.
“Nay, lass. I am no’ ashamed of you. I havena told him because he has other things to deal with at present, and it can wait until his return.”
“You wrote him about Meikle Geddes though, didn’t you?” She rose from her place to stand before him. “We took our vows right after your return. I’ll bet we’d done the deed before you sent your letter. Am I right?”
“Aye.”
Stunned, she paced the chamber. “You regret it, don’t you? William won’t accept it. He’ll pitch a fit when he finds out.”
“That is enough, Alethia. I dinna regret anything. I am a man grown. Whom I wed and when has always been my decision. It matters no’ how my father reacts.”
“If that were true, surely you would have told him right away.” She glared at him. “Send him a message tomorrow.”
“I will do no such thing.”
She gasped in disbelief. “See? I knew it. You’re ashamed of me. That or you regret what you’ve done.” She put her hands on her hips and glared. “Send him a message.”
“Watch your tone. Do not presume to tell me what to do, woman.” He growled as he rose from his place to loom over her. “There’s little point now. Any rider we send will likely miss my father’s party. He’s on the road home as we speak.”
She blinked rapidly to hide the hurt his ire caused. Watching him put his sword in its customary place near his side of their bed, she struggled to squelch the urge to scream. Far from offering reassurance, his words only confirmed her insecurity. She slipped her feet into her moccasins and began walking toward their door.
“Where do you think you are going?”
“I’m going somewhere else to sleep.”
“You will no’ leave this chamber, or there will be consequences.”
“Consequences? How dare you talk to me as if I were a child. I’ll give you consequences.” She stomped to the door and made it to the hallway just as Malcolm lunged for her.
Tears filled her eyes, and she ran to Hunter’s room, flattening herself against the wall by his door to listen. Malcolm hadn’t pursued her, and her heart ached with misery.
She let herself into the chamber and peered at the outline of Hunter’s small frame in the bed. She sighed, climbed in beside him and snuggled his warm body against her chest. Malcolm hadn’t given her the reassurance she craved. Come to think of it, when had he ever said the words she longed so desperately to hear? He had never said he loved her. Tears slid down her cheeks, and her heart ached. Hoping he’d come and apologize, she waited for him until exhaustion took hold, and she fell into a fitful sleep.
Malcolm lay flat on his back in bed and glared into the darkness. True’s accusations stung. How dare she order him about as if he were a mere lad. What he chose to tell or not to tell his father was completely at his discretion, and he could find no fault with his decision. His father had more important things to contend with at present than his son’s marital state.
Still, he’d glimpsed the hurt in her eyes, and a pang of guilt followed by regret pushed his anger aside. Should he have gone after her? Nay. If he gave in, she’d have him always chasing after her. ’Twas best she learned early on who held the authority in their marriage. Firmness was needed in his dealings with her. Aye, firmness, and there would be a consequence for her defiance.
Smiling, he imagined all kinds of ways she could make it up to him. Without thought, he reached across the bed for her, only to be reminded of her absence. He growled. Let her sleep elsewhere. He was fine without her.
The night wore on, and still he could not sleep. He tossed and turned, feeling the emptiness of his wife’s side of the bed acutely. Tangled in the bed linens, and aggravated with himself, he threw the covers off and lit the candle by his bed. There was no hope for him. He pulled on his robe and left the room. Sliding through the door to Hunter’s chamber, Malcolm cursed his own weakness and stole to the side of his foster son’s bed.
As expected, True slept soundly beside the lad. She looked as if their quarrel had not affected her in the least. His heart swelled with love and pride as he looked upon his little family asleep side by side. She and Hunter had filled the empty places inside him, and he’d do everything in his power to keep them safe and well.
Sighing, he lifted his wife without waking her, cradled her against his heart and made his way back to their chamber. Without her beside him, he could find no peace.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A wave of nausea forced Alethia to sit down. She took the chair before the hearth in the chamber and took deep breaths until the urge to vomit diminished. As ill as she felt, she couldn’t help smiling with secret joy as she reviewed the symptoms. Fatigue, nausea, tender breasts and she had to use the garderobe all the time. She counted back to her last period and figured it had been around the end of January, about seven weeks ago. Still, she wouldn’t tell Malcolm until the critical first trimester had passed.
It had been two days since her argument with Malcolm, and they hadn’t resolved anything. In his customary overbearing way, he’d ordered her never to sleep elsewhere ever again. She’d capitulated. Partly because she knew he was right about sending word to his father—William would be home before any letter reached him—and partly because she’d grown used to sleeping against his warmth.
A brief knock interrupted her thoughts, and Hunter entered. “I’m hungry.” He came to stand before her. Leaning against her knees, he plucked at her gown.
“Me too. Did you wash?” she signed.
Hunter rolled his eyes and kept his hands still.
“Come to your room.” She tied a strip of leather around the end of her braid. “You will wash before we eat.”
Hunter stomped beside her, a frown on his face. “Do you make Da wash every day too?”
“I don’t have to. He does it on his own.” She laughed at the look of disbelief on his face. Tonight, Hunter would have a bath. Her stomach growled. Once the nausea left, mega-hunger took its place. Another symptom. In the past week, she’d even awakened in the middle of the night from hunger pangs. She’d see Molly about snacks to keep in the chamber—something to satisfy her hunger and perhaps help alleviate the morning sickness plaguing her.
Hunter, washed, brushed and disgusted by the whole unmanly pro
cess, ran ahead of her toward the stairs. Once she arrived in the great hall, she found him already seated and eating. He’d fixed her a bowl of porridge smothered in some of the newly made maple sugar, just the way she liked it, and set it at the place beside him. She took her seat. No one lingered in the hall. She’d been staying in bed longer and longer each day.
“Shouldn’t you be in the lists training with Tieren?”
“Already did.” Hunter signed quickly between spoonfuls. “Da sent me back to check on you.”
That surprised her. Did he suspect? More likely he worried about her state of mind. Since their quarrel, she worried more than ever that he felt ambivalent about marrying her. Why else hadn’t he told his father? A wave of unhappy insecurity washed through her. Of course, he denied any ambivalence, saying only that the decision was his alone. He claimed he had no concerns about his father’s reaction. How was that even possible? His father was still the earl.
After breakfast she’d go through her sewing materials. The thought of making tiny garments for her very own baby sent a thrill of excitement through her. For a moment, her thoughts flew to her grandmother. Gran would have been beside herself with excitement at the news of becoming a great-grandmother.
“True.” Elaine came in through the passageway leading from the kitchen. “Finally up? We all feared you would spend the day in your chamber.”
“What time is it?”
“’Tis well past midmorn. Malcolm bid Molly leave the food for you until after the nooning hour. This is the second time Hunter has broken his fast this day.” Elaine tousled Hunter’s hair, and he grinned at her. “Are you…well, sister?”
Alethia couldn’t ignore the speculative glint in Elaine’s eyes. Did she know? “I’m fine. Just tired.”
Hunter pushed his empty bowl away and shot out of the keep, presumably to find Malcolm and Tieren now that his task had been completed.
Alethia sighed and rose from her place. Searching the shadowy corners of the great hall to ensure they were alone, she took Elaine’s arm and leaned her head close to her friend’s. “I’m not going to be able to keep my secret from you, am I?”
Elaine’s laughter echoed through the large room.
“Shush. Be quiet!”
“Oh, True.” Elaine hugged Alethia’s arm. “I only suspected. ’Tis you who canna keep this secret.”
“Don’t tell anyone, especially not Malcolm. I want to be certain all is well first.”
“Not even my mother?”
“She’ll know soon enough.”
“How long has it been since you’ve bled?”
Before Alethia could answer, a single blast from the village horn rent the air. “Another message from your father, do you think?”
“No’ likely. Come, let us go to the ferry landing. ’Tis a fine day, and the air will do you good.”
By the time she and Elaine reached the beach, Malcolm, Liam and several other MacKintosh warriors were already there. Malcolm spared her a nod and a smile before facing the ferry. He tensed, and his expression hardened. Alethia followed his gaze to the lone man standing on the deck. Who could this visitor be to cause such tension? Normally when the ferry crossed the loch, the crowd anticipated the arrival of news and the pleasure of company. Now the mood seemed angry and fraught with wariness.
Elaine gasped.
“Who is it?” she whispered to her sister-in-law.
“’Tis John of clan Comyn. He’s the laird’s son.” Elaine gripped her arm. “’Twas the Comyns who took Meikle Geddes.”
“What on earth would he be doing here?” She watched the MacKintosh warriors as the ferry made its landing. None greeted the man. None offered a hand as he disembarked. All had their hands on their weapons, ready to draw them in an instant.
Malcolm stepped forward. “What business have you here?” His voice and stance carried authority and strength. He let it be known that any enemy would have to get through him first before they could reach the people under his protection. Alethia’s heart swelled with pride.
“I come in peace bearing a message from my father. In proof, I give you my sword.” John drew the sword from its scabbard and laid it on the ground.
“Indeed, you will give me every blade upon your person before you take a step farther onto our island.” Malcolm’s men murmured approval, watching their enemy for any sign of treachery.
“Done.” John began to remove daggers from his belt and boots, laying them on the ground next to his sword. Liam stepped forward to gather the weapons. MacKintosh warriors surrounded the man, and the group moved in formation toward the keep.
“True.” Malcolm reached for her hand and drew her next to him. “I would have you join us in the great hall,” he whispered in her ear.
She nodded, aware that her abilities as a truth-sayer were finally needed for the safety of their clan. Her stomach churned with nervousness as she gripped Malcolm’s hand, grateful for his steady strength.
Once all were situated in the great hall, Malcolm took his father’s place in the center chair on the dais, flanked by Liam and Angus. Alethia stood behind him, her hand resting on his shoulder. The chairs were taken up by MacKintosh warriors, and the stern lot of them faced their unwelcome guest with grim expressions. Their placement forced John to face them alone and standing.
John reached into his sporran and pulled out a rolled parchment sealed with wax. Approaching the dais, he handed it to Malcolm. “Our two clans have been enemies since the days of Robert the Bruce. King James returns to take his place upon the throne, and it is his wish to unite the clans. I assume you have received the edict forbidding all clans from fighting amongst themselves?”
“We have,” Malcolm replied. “’Tis no’ the MacKintosh who keep the feud alive. Our actions have always and only been in retaliation for the treacherous aggression committed against us by your clan. Whatever message your father sends, ’tis unworthy of our notice. The word of a Comyn canna be trusted.”
John reached for the sword no longer at his waist, and Alethia could feel the seething rage emanating from him.
“Much of the land your clan holds today was once ours.” John spoke through gritted teeth. “Dinna speak to me of treachery.”
“’Twas no’ the MacKintosh who took your land, but the Bruce, and rightly so. Your clan chose unwisely, supporting a foreigner’s claim to the throne of Scotland. To the victor go the spoils of war.” Malcolm waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Enough. I’ve no stomach for a lengthy debate about ancient history. What is it you wish to say?”
Even before John spoke, she felt the malice emanating from him. Lies. Whatever he said would be lies. She squeezed Malcolm’s shoulder to alert him.
“We wish to end the feud between our clans in compliance with our king’s wishes. The missive you hold is an invitation from my father. In honor of our promise, you are invited to a feast of reconciliation.”
The moment the words left John’s mouth, a strange sensation flooded her entire being. Her peripheral vision began to darken. Stars appeared before her eyes, and her legs gave out from under her. Just as darkness took hold, she felt strong arms lift her. Then she left her body completely, to be dropped into a scene unfolding around her. It was as if she stood in the midst of a hologram or a three-dimensional film.
Inside a strange keep, MacKintosh clansmen sat beside men who were strangers to her. Men who wore kilts bearing the same colors as John’s. None showed any awareness of her presence. Like a phantom, she moved around the room to stand before each warrior until she faced the dais. The MacKintosh men appeared to be inebriated, their speech slurred, their movements and coordination off.
Malcolm sat between John and a large, cruel-looking man with hair the color of silver-streaked copper. He could only be the Comyn laird, Ronald the Red. As she watched, servants brought out the head of a black boar on a large platter. As they set it down in front of their laird, he gave a signal, and servants rushed to fill everyone’s goblet. The Comyn lai
rd then raised his cup and waited for all assembled to do the same.
A toast. He was giving some kind of toast. But wait, why did he hold his goblet in his left hand when he’d clearly been eating with his right? With a sense of dread, she looked around the hall. All but a few of the Comyns did the same.
“No!” She rushed around the table toward Malcolm as she screamed. No sound came out of her mouth as she frantically tried to warn him. “Malcolm, watch out!”
Even before his goblet was lowered, the Comyn laird rose up, a dagger in his right hand. She threw herself between the laird and her husband. The Comyn laird’s arm went right through her as he slashed Malcolm’s throat. She watched helplessly as blood gushed from the gaping wound through her formless fingers. Malcolm raised stunned eyes to his enemy, his mouth opening and closing as if trying to speak.
Horrified, she backed away from the table, only to find the same gruesome sight wherever she looked. Every MacKintosh present bled to death before her, their faces all wearing the same look of shocked disbelief. The floor turned a sticky, thick crimson as the Comyns laughed and congratulated themselves on their easy victory.
“No!” Alethia screamed and screamed, her heart breaking into a million shards like slivers of glass to splinter her soul.
True’s hand slipped from his shoulder. Malcolm glanced at her just in time to see her swoon. He was out of his chair in a trice, catching her up before her head hit the dais. “You will excuse me.” Malcolm lifted her close to his chest. “My wife has been ill of late. Liam, see our guest is settled into a comfortable chamber.” He gave his cousin a pointed look, trusting Liam to post a guard at the door of said room. “We will speak again later.”
“Of course,” John replied, bowing slightly. “You must see to your lady’s welfare.”
Malcolm rushed up the stairs, met by his mother and sister in the corridor. “You were in the gallery?”
“Aye,” Lydia said. She spoke over her shoulder to his sister. “Elaine, fetch a bowl of cool water and clean linen.”
True to the Highlander (The Novels of Loch Moigh) Page 22