A Highlander's Need

by Aileen Adams

  “Ah.” Would that she might secure a position for the twins. But she was not part of the clan, nor were they. “They look well, the lads. Healthy, cared for.”

  “You are thinking of the twins.”

  Her gaze met his. “Who else?”

  Moments later, another woman emerged from the house, carrying a bairn wrapped in a blanket. Brice’s face lit up at the sight of them.

  “Fergus,” he said, wrapping an arm about the woman’s shoulders and joining her at the wagon. “This is your niece.”

  “Her name is Elizabeth, for my mother,” Alana murmured, opening the blanket that Fergus might see the child’s face.

  A strange, tight feeling gripped Moira’s chest, not unpleasant in the least. She realized how much she wished to give Fergus the chance to meet his own daughter someday.

  What a daft thing to wish, as the two of them were not even wed.

  Alana’s eye fell on Moira, who lingered nearby. “You must be Moira,” she smiled.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Would you like to hold her?” Alana held the bairn out.

  How could she have known how Moira’s arms ached to hold the precious babe? “Might I?”

  “Of course.”

  Memory after memory came back as she took the bairn into her arms. “It has been so long,” she chuckled, offering little Elizabeth a finger to hold. The tiny fingers latched on, squeezing tight.

  “Ah, she wants to show ye how strong she is; who does that remind me of?” Fergus laughed.

  Their eyes met.

  Oh, yes. She wanted very badly to present his children to him one day.

  Caitlin joined them, still holding her daughter. “We heard you had already raised children.”

  “I did. My brothers.”

  “Would that we’d had you here with us before now, as no one here seems to know what to do with the wee things,” she chuckled.

  “Nay, I’ve never had any of my own,” Sorcha explained.

  “We are all simply doing the best we can,” Alana shrugged.

  “That is all you can do,” Moira pointed out, still smiling down at the bairn who had such a grip on her finger. “But I would be more than pleased to share what I learned.”

  “What a blessing you are, then.”

  A blessing.

  She looked around herself as if to be certain she had heard correctly.

  No one had ever called her a blessing before.

  No one had ever fussed over her or praised her before she met Fergus.

  There was nothing but sincerity shining from the faces all around her. They meant it. They were pleased to have her with them.

  It suddenly seemed silly to have fretted so over her appearance.

  “Come,” Sorcha said, taking her by the arm once she’d returned Elizabeth to her mother. “You’ll be needing a hot bath and plenty to eat. Ye look half-starved, poor thing. We shall fatten you up a bit, never you worry.”

  Just like that, Moira found herself swept up in a sea of women, all of them moving her into the house as if on a current.

  Somewhere between the courtyard and the entry hall, they claimed her as one of their own.

  Padraig Anderson was younger than Moira had imagined him; a laird was normally older, or so she’d believed. Once Sorcha explained the history behind his taking the lead of the clan, she understood.

  Instead of an old man standing at the head of the table, then, it was a young man who looked hardly old enough to handle the mug of wine which he raised into the air.

  “It is glad I am to welcome Moira Reid to our table,” he said in a booming voice which did not seem to match his unassuming appearance. He was a large man by any standards but did not share the rugged build of his older brother. Instead of spending his life on horseback, Padraig had learned how to run a large clan and oversee the household, the spending, how to put an end to petty arguments among his men.

  If the pleasant, efficient, comfortable household was what resulted from that, it seemed to Moira that he had spent his time wisely.

  The rest of those gathered for the supper feast clapped and smiled, all eyes turned to her.

  This was very new, all of it. She had no experience with a happy family.

  “Thank you,” was all she could manage before embarrassment choked back anything else she might have offered.

  Padraig seemed to understand this, as he moved away from her and onto a new topic while they tucked into their meal. And what a meal it was, servant girls running this way and that as Sorcha directed them to and from the kitchen. Roast of beef, meat pies, stewed vegetables, fresh breads, cakes, anything one might desire.

  She was glad the kirtle Caitlin had insisted she have as her own was a bit loose, as Sorcha’s promise to fatten her up might have been closer to the mark than Moira could have guessed.

  Fergus sat beside her, his uninjured leg touching hers. That simple touch, the knowledge of him sitting at her side, filled her heart to overflowing. He need not even say a word. He was there, at her side, and he was hers.

  She’d never had anyone for her own. Had never dreamed a man would want her—nor that she would want a man, as all examples of manhood she’d seen before him had only disappointed and disgusted her.

  What if she had grown up among such men as these? Strong, true, decent and honest men who fought hard for what was theirs? Life might have turned out far different had that been the case.

  The twins came to mind once again, and it seemed a bit of the light left the room in spite of the blazing candles everywhere. They would never see anything like this, at least, not until they were older and perhaps invited to Tyrone Reid’s home in Aberdeenshire.

  Even so, Clan Reid was nothing like this.

  And by then, her brothers would already be men, and likely set in their ways. It would be too late.

  “Ye look troubled.” Fergus’s voice at her side startled her from the dark turn her thoughts had taken.

  “Not at all,” she attempted to lie.

  He was not easily fooled. “You are thinking of the twins, are ye not?”

  Rather than argue the fact, she simply nodded. “I miss them. It would be the one thing that might make me perfectly happy, just knowing they were well.”

  He cleared his throat. “Perhaps, then, what I’m about to ask ye will seem flat and disappointing in comparison.”

  She frowned, and in the back of her mind recognized the sudden silence up and down the length of the banquet table.

  “What is it?” she murmured.

  “I wanted to know if ye would honor our betrothment and become my wife.”

  Her eyes bulged, and still, the entire rest of the room was silent as a grave. They knew he’d be asking.

  “Fergus. MacDougal.” She stood, brushing away his hand. “Will you ever learn, you fool?”

  “W—what?”

  She threw her hands into the air. “I already told you once, and not that long ago! Had you not asked me for a kiss in front of all those people, you might have done a sight better that day. Twelve years later, you’re doing the same thing all over again! This time, it’s to ask me to marry you!”

  The sound of barely-stifled laughter rang out behind her.

  She whirled on the men whose mouths twitched. “And you! You’re no better than he! You knew he would be asking, and not one of you had the sense to tell him that perhaps a woman would wish to discuss such matters in privacy. All of you but Padraig are wed, and not one of you thought of this?”

  She stunned the men into silence, including Padraig.

  “Moira, we can discuss this elsewhere—”

  She spun around to face Fergus again. “Oh, no, you’ll not be getting off that easily, Fergus. Now you think you can drag me off to some quiet corner where I’ll not embarrass you any further. You have another thing coming if that’s the case.”

  “But will ye marry him?” Brice called out.

  “Of course I will, are you daft?”

  Fergus�
��s face lit up before she realized what she’d said. “Ye will?”

  The sight of his shining eyes, the hope in his voice, softened her. She sank into her chair, facing him. “I will marry you, if you will still have me after what I just did.”

  “Lass,” he beamed, taking her face in his hands. “I would have ye no other way.”

  The rest of the room burst into laughter and cheers when they sealed their betrothment—their real, true, willing betrothment—with a kiss.

  30

  Moira had held true to only one wish for their wedding; it had to be small.

  “I do not know what I would do, all those eyes upon me,” she’d whispered in his ear the night they’d decided to be wed, while the other women of the house had chattered on about wedding plans.

  “Ye dinna wish to have it in the church, in the village?”

  She’d shook her head. “Please, no. I would rather have it here, with just the household. We never did attend church services, though I would not object to a priest coming to the house for us.”

  “I’m certain there would be no protests,” he’d assured her, though he had not been as convinced at the time. “I would deny ye nothing, lass. It’s best ye learn that now.”

  And so, after much convincing on Padraig’s part, the village priest had agreed to perform a wedding ceremony in the great hall of the Anderson home. Fergus held a sly suspicion that his friend had made a generous donation to the church as a result, though Padraig had sworn he’d done no such thing.

  The one other wish in his beloved’s heart had proven more difficult to grant. A wish she had not voiced, but one which he knew took space in her heart nonetheless.

  She’d wished for the twins to be present.

  In order for that to happen, Fergus had reasoned, Kin Reid would need to be aware of the upcoming ceremony. He would not allow them to take his sons so far from home simply for a visit—especially with their sister, who he more than likely had not forgiven for running away from her escorts.

  The complications this would create seemed insurmountable, and likely to soil the happiness of their day.

  Even so, Fergus had a plan in mind, one which he’d discussed with Padraig. The thought of it brought a smile to his face as he waited for his bride to appear.

  The banquet table was already set with the finest items of the house, gleaming silver and rich silk. The lasses of the household had been in a frenzy for days, bringing in armfuls of pine branches, heather and bluebells, which they’d woven into garlands and strung up along the walls and the edges of the table.

  With the candlelight glowing and the fragrance of the flowers surrounding him, he might have believed himself part of a happy dream.

  His entire life seemed like a happy dream as of late.

  All thanks to the young woman who entered the room on the arm of Padraig Anderson.

  His heart leaped with joy at the sight of her in the blue silk gown Sorcha and the others had created especially for her. It matched the bluebells woven into her shining hair, wound in a mass of braids high on her head. She carried an armful of heather which she handed to Caitlin upon reaching the place where Fergus waited alongside the priest.

  He took her trembling hand in his, and the quaking stopped. A radiant smile spread across her face, transforming her into the loveliest thing Fergus had ever seen. He would never forget how magnificent she looked, how it felt to hold her hand in his in the moments before she became his wife.

  “This is a bit unusual,” the wizened old priest admitted with a chuckle, “but from what I understand, the story of the young man and woman standing before me is unusual as well. For ye were pledged in marriage by your clans before ever meeting, and then decided to wed of your own accord. Such matches are truly made in Heaven, overseen by our Lord.”

  While Fergus did not strictly subscribe to the sentiment, there was something about it which rang true. For their love was meant to be. Something had brought them together and kept them together until their stubbornness had melted and given way to love.

  There was no other way in which it could have come about, he decided.

  The priest blessed their rings—simple bands, as they both desired—and tears glistened on Moira’s cheeks as she slid his home.

  The soft weeping of the women filled the room as Fergus’s throat felt dry and eyes itchy.

  He hardly heard the words the priest spoke over the beating of his heart. She was his, really and truly and always. The one thing he’d never known he wanted until she was there, in front of him, and then he’d questioned how he’d ever lived without her.

  “As a sign of the sealing of your vows, you may now kiss your bride,” the priest murmured.

  Fergus took her face in his hands, looking deeply into her eyes for a moment, hoping to never forget the hope and love in his heart as he looked down at her.

  His bride.

  His fine, fierce, courageous bride.

  “There will be no fighting this time around, I hope,” Brice laughed from his place further down along the table, referring to the last feast Padraig had held.

  “I rather enjoyed it,” Quinn argued, his wife lovingly swatting his arm in response.

  Moira blushed. “So long as my husband does not choose to surprise me as he did that night, I think we can make it through the feast without a quarrel.”

  Fergus held up his hands. “I will do what I can, though I canna make any promises.” Laughter rang out in response.

  They filled the feast with more than food, though Sorcha and her lasses had done themselves proud. They filled the evening with stories. Memories. Tales of their journeys together, of the adventures they’d shared.

  He realized then that they were a family—somehow, over the years, their lives had wound together as vines from different plants might curl around each other. They’d formed something new, something stronger than any one of themselves.

  And they were growing. In the month since he and Moira had arrived, Ysmaine had announced she was expecting. Young Elizabeth and Gavina both slept in their mothers’ arms.

  Would it be their turn one day? He hoped it with all his heart and knew whenever he caught his wife gazing at the bairns that she wished it, too.

  At the end of the feast, as the others left the table and wished the happy couple sweet dreams—with more than a few half-concealed grins from the men—Padraig motioned for them to linger.

  “Thank you for everything,” Moira whispered when she reached him, kissing his cheek. “I never imagined anything this lovely, and you made it so. I could never repay you.”

  “Ye will never need to,” he assured her with a smile. “It was a pleasure to see ye looking so happy today, and to know Fergus here will stop grousing about in a foul temper.”

  Fergus scowled, not at all serious.

  Padraig continued. “I wished to let ye know that I have a gift in mind for ye.”

  “A gift?” Moira’s eyes widened. “You shall do no such thing, as you’ve done quite enough already. Some would say too much! Offering to take me into the household if we decide to live here, your generosity today…”

  “Just the same.” He patted her hand. “Your husband and I have worked it out, and I shall leave the telling of it to him.” He flashed Fergus a brief smile before making a hasty exit.

  “What was he talking about?” Moira looked up at him, both curious and skeptical. “What have you been working out behind my back, husband?”

  Rather than reply, he took her waist in his hands and pulled her closer. “Say it again.”

  “Husband?” Her face softened. “Husband. Husband. Husband. It sounds so strange.”

  “I hope that is only because of the word, not because ye use it to describe me.”

  She giggled. “No. You’ll not be distracting me with that charm of yours, Fergus MacDougal. Tell me. What were the two of you planning that you did not see fit to share with me?”

  There was no harm in telling her, now that Padraig had c
onfirmed they could go through with it. If anything, the timing was perfect.

  “How would ye like to take a ride with me? A rather long one.”

  “Where?”

  He could hardly hold back his smile. “I was thinking… Banff.”

  Epilogue

  Just as Moira had told her husband, once they rounded the bend in the trail and were clear of the birch trees which grew thick and full on either side, the cottage in which she’d spent her life up until then came into view.

  Was it truly that small? She had always known it was small but knowing something and seeing proof of it after being away for several months were two different things entirely.

  It was shabbier than ever in appearance, which did not come as a surprise. She had not expected Kin Reid to keep abreast of the cleaning and repairing. The roof would already need patching, several of the wooden rails which made up the fence running the length of the property were loose or altogether missing.

  “I expected to find the twins out-of-doors,” she murmured as they walked their horses up the road. She rode abreast of Fergus, while Rodric, Quinn, and Brice rode behind them.

  They’d all insisted upon coming—so much so, in fact, that she’d asked Fergus more than once if he’d told them about her scars.

  While she was unashamed of them, they were not something she wished everyone to be aware of. She loathed the thought of her husband’s brother and friends looking at her and seeing not her but something that had happened to her.

  He’d sworn he hadn’t breathed a word of them in particular, but admitted having shared the fact that Kin was a cruel and thoughtless father, a shiftless and lazy farmer with an overfondness for drink and a terrible temper.

  They’d all agreed on the importance of making this journey.

  She studied her husband from the corner of her eye as they rode. What was he thinking? Did he imagine her running across these fields as a lass? Or was it the lifetime of hard work he saw, instead?