CHAPTER NINETEEN
Once inside the smoky mead-hall of the Ewing castle, Lachlan ducked into the shadows as Angus’s men casually swarmed around him in an effort to shield him from prying eyes. The Ewing sept knew that Lachlan was alive and well, but they didn’t yet know that he walked among them. To be recognized was to destroy any chance of discovering his enemy before his enemy discovered him, so he had to be as quiet and unremarkable as possible.
With his face low, Lachlan wound his way through the room as Angus’s ‘porters’ and ‘clerics’ kept pace. A wide trestle table filled most of the modestly-sized hall, but smaller tables had been thrown up around it to allow seating for the new arrivals. He headed toward an outer table where he would be within easy earshot of Callum Ewing, who now brooded over a tankard of ale.
Lachlan swung a leg over a bench and gave Ewing his back as Angus’s men took their places around him, casually brushing mud off their boots. Thus shielded, Lachlan dared to search for familiar faces in the hall. He recognized Leana, of course, looking like the brat he remembered as she pouted on a bench beside a knight who seemed to be ignoring her. He recognized a number of Ewing men, brawny fighters he’d competed against in foot races, caber tosses, and sheaf throws in clan gatherings during spring festivities. He kept looking and looking until he realized that the person he was looking for was Cairenn.
He knew she wasn’t here. The minute they’d passed under the portal of the castle keep, a young servant had swept her away. She would not be allowed to bed down with the men, so he assumed she’d been taken to wherever the lesser female guests ate meals and laid their pallets. Her absence was an aching hollow.
His heart squeezed in its cage of guilt. On the road, when Callum had turned his horses and men back to his own castle, Lachlan had turned to Cairenn with a mouth full of comforting words that never left his tongue. The strain on her face had stopped him cold. For long leagues, she’d remained silent and indrawn, allowing no more intimacy than an occasional touch of his hand. It didn’t seem right to question what she might be reading in the minds of the Ewing men, not while the subject of Leana remained unspoken between them. Every time he opened his mouth in the hopes of offering comfort, he swallowed the lies.
Someone passed close by his elbow. He ducked his head and raised his tankard to hide his face and then chided himself for being distracted. With Cairenn away, he had to use his own eyes and ears tonight. When he lowered the ale, he spied a freshly-washed Angus striding into the mead-hall toward Lord Ewing.
“My faithful Angus,” Callum Ewing bellowed as Angus approached. “My apologies for riding ahead of you on the road like that, but those woods have Lamont ears. If what you told me is true, then the betrothal with the Lamonts is worthless—and that will not sit well with them. I dared not leave my daughter vulnerable to capture.”
“Your swift response gave my mind ease,” Angus said. “It proved that your blood runs loyal to Fergus.”
“I should strike you down for even doubting it.”
Lachlan heard the bench scrape against the straw-strewn flagstones and assumed Angus had taken his seat.
“So tell me,” Angus said, pitching his voice louder than necessary, considering Lachlan’s position an arm’s length away, “has the council met already? Has the rod of kingship been passed on?”
“It has not. There is still no chieftain of the MacEgans.”
Angus made a clucking noise. “You’d think whoever the assassins are would move quickly to seize power.”
“It’s more unnerving that they haven’t.”
“Another clan could easily swallow yours up if there’s no leader to make the call to arms. Is it instability that they crave?”
“I would say yes,” Callum said, sighing, “if two councils hadn’t already been called since Fergus’s death, and a leader all but chosen each time—”
“A leader?” Angus interrupted. “Who?”
“Lachlan’s half-brother, the boy Fingal.”
Lachlan froze.
“Fingal?” Angus said, his tone an echo of Lachlan’s own shock. “But that boy can’t be ten or—”
“He’s fifteen,” Callum corrected. “He’s the image of his father, but an idealist, a true believer in man’s basic goodness.”
An image came to Lachlan’s mind of young Fingal clutching a wooden model of a galley that Lachlan had carved for him, complete with oars. Fingal had spent the last years fostered with the MacGilchrists, so Lachlan hadn’t seen him since he’d been sent off at the age of nine. He struggled to imagine that his half-brother had grown so much that much older, more experienced men would bow before him.
“Fingal deferred the offer,” Callum continued, amid the sound of a knife tapping against pewter. “I thought it a wise thing, at the time. His father’s death was fresh, there were murmurings of treachery, and the rumors about Lachlan being lost at sea were just that—rumors. Fingal insisted on delaying the council until Lachlan’s death could be confirmed.”
“And then?”
“Then the raids began. Cattle stolen, huts burned, crofters killed—”
“Callum, Callum,” Angus said, “what made this different from any other day in Loch Fyfe?”
“It does seem like it has always been like this, though that is far from the truth.” Callum sighed. “This time, every sept suffered by these raids. So when the second council convened, the calls for Fingal to be named as The MacEgan intensified.”
Angus cleared his throat. “Why were you not nominated, Callum? You would have crushed the reivers, brought order—”
“—I was put forth as a likely candidate, as was The MacGilchrist, and the usual motley collection of ambitious thanes supported by their men-at-arms. But Fingal had much support from his mother’s allies, as well as others, like myself, determined to honor Fergus’s wishes.”
Lachlan closed his eyes, trying to imagine his pug-nosed half-brother with the flop of hair across his brow sitting on the dolmen stone amid a circle of warriors, wearing a fur mantle and a white rod clutched in his hand. In his mind, Fingal was still a boy dressing up to play king of the mountain.
Then he thought about the support Fingal might be getting from his mother’s people, Stuarts from the mainland. A strong, ambitious clan. Lachlan frowned as his suspicions darkened. When his stepmother had married his father, she’d never taken easily to the fact that The MacEgan already had an heir. His father’s young Stuart bride had shot Lachlan many an acid look, especially after the birth of her son.
He turned his attention back to the conversation, which had become more difficult to hear as the gathered men finished their meals and consumed more mead.
“…have you spoken to the boy,” Angus said, “to advise him?”
“I have not spoken to Fingal except during the council meetings, when it is difficult to be heard above so many others. And, with the roads so dangerous, I couldn’t ride to him between meetings. Bringing a dozen well-armed guards through the gates at Loch Fyfe might be misconstrued to the point of bloodshed.”
“Fergus was right.” Angus said in a voice that rippled with regret. “He made Lachlan his heir to avoid all this bartering for kingship. Why did the boy delay the ruling of the council for the second time?”
“I like to believe that the lad sensed there was mischief afoot. But it’s more likely that he still believed that his brother would come back from the dead.”
“The boy was right.” Angus planted his pewter cup on the wooden table. “I’ve seen Lachlan with my own eyes, living and breathing.”
“And Lachlan knows his assassin?”
“They were hired men. He was stabbed in the dark of night and thrown overboard in a storm.”
“Where is he?”
Lachlan ducked deeper under his cowl as if someone had just brought a torch to hold over him.
“Come, old friend.” Angus made a clicking noise with his tongue. “Lachlan is safer if no one but me knows his whereabouts.”
&
nbsp; “Are you not dining in my own castle? Did I not just break my daughter’s betrothal to a Lamont on the strength of your word?”
“Yes, the betrothal,” Angus said, and misgiving swelled in his voice. “Why the Lamonts, Callum?”
Callum went mute for so long that Lachlan turned his head a fraction, just enough to see the older man’s profile from beyond the edge of his hood. He watched the old chieftain raise his tankard to his lips, then, when he settled it on the table, bow over it as if contemplating the dregs.
“It’s complicated.” Callum’s face crumpled in deep thought. “From what I’ve seen of him, Fingal is a good young man, but he’s inexperienced. Whilst enemies still swarm in secret, such a youth cannot hold the center of this clan.”
Angus harrumphed. “Good advisors can compensate for—”
“And who is going to advise him? Me? I can’t get close to the boy. The MacGilchrist? That idiot has a daughter of Fingal’s age, and he has already sought a marriage alliance for his son with the Campbells.”
“As you sought one with the Lamonts.”
“Better the enemy you know,” Callum said, “than the enemy you can’t even see.”
“Dangerous business, this.” Angus slapped his hands free of crumbs. “You should not fail to arrive well-armed to the next council.”
“I won’t fail,” Callum said. “The next council takes place tomorrow.”
So soon.
Lachlan stared blindly at the tankard of ale someone put before him, but did not take it in hand.
“It’s good that your porters and clerics are already well-armed,” Callum said. “Your announcement will certainly cause a stir.”
And perhaps make the assassin nervous enough for Cairenn to find him within the crowd. Lachlan hoped she identified the murderers quickly. Trying to remain unrecognized in MacEgan lands would be nigh impossible.
Frustrated, Lachlan ducked deeper under his cowl, frowning at the noise in the room and the chewing and the slurping and the murmurings of the men around him. His mind drifted for a moment to the memory of Inishmaan, of Cairenn’s family around the small trestle table, eating fresh fish grilled upon the hearth stones while they bantered and laughed. A weariness settled upon him, bone-deep and out of proportion to the exertion of the march here.
His heart was torn in two. By his blood, name, and lineage, he was duty-bound to travel to Loch Fyfe to seize back what had been stolen from him by treachery and to avenge his father’s murder. But his connection to Cairenn was not a simple one, bound up as it was with her gift, his unexplained appearance on Inishmaan’s shores, and the unworldly, thrumming communion they experienced when wrapped in each other’s arms. Perhaps he was meant to have stayed on that island, to have taken Cairenn to wife, and to live a peaceful life.
Perhaps, for his own sake, he should have just stayed dead.
The rattle of pewter and knives startled Lachlan out of his thoughts as Callum slapped his hands on the trestle table.
“Let’s talk of happier things, Angus.” Callum dropped his voice so that Lachlan had to strain to hear it. “Dare I ask after the fair-haired beauty travelling amidst your porters and clerics?”
Lachlan tensed.
“Ah,” Angus said. “You’ve noticed.”
“A tender bite, that one, and as shy as a field mouse. She tried to hide herself behind one of your clerics the whole time we spoke on the road. You once favored the buxom and burly, old friend.”
“Your Scottish nights are cold enough to freeze a man’s balls.” Angus shrugged his shoulders. “Should I travel all this way without comfort?”
“At our age, we must find our pleasure where we can.”
Angus raised his cup in salute. “Mead now, swiving later.”
“Fortunately for you, I’ve already made arrangements. You’ll find your fair-haired little morsel in a storage room by the gates. There, my old friend, you two won’t be bothered.”
***
Something was terribly, terribly wrong.
Cairenn paced in the windowless room while the stub of tallow she’d been given when she’d been led to this small space sputtered. She cut a path around the spears, a dented shield, two stools, and a pile of old leather tackle. A straw pallet lay on the floor with linens and a soft wool blanket, her discarded tray of supper beside it. Outside the walls, she could hear the murmuring chatter of the guards, the occasional bark of a dog, and the chuffing and movement of the horses in the stable nearby.
All this she could hear with her ears.
She could hear nothing with her mind.
She clutched her hands to keep them from trembling. This unnerving sensation reminded her of a time when she and her brothers and sisters took to the sea to swim during a rare hot day of summer. Normally, they never dared the surf or the tide because the water was heart-bracingly cold, but that day they’d stripped to their shifts and dived in. The force of the surf tumbled her willy-nilly. When she finally pulled herself onto the strand, she had to tilt her head and slap one ear and then another, dropping her jaw wide to try to dislodge the plug of water within each ear. Every sound had a hollow tone to it, as if she heard it through a narrow, distorted tunnel.
Seeing Leana did this to me. She was convinced it was so. Knowing the woman existed and seeing her in all her glory were two different things. Knowing Leana was Lachlan’s betrothed and hearing Callum Ewing re-stitch the agreement in his mind were two different things, as well. That shock was the only explanation for her deafness that made any sense, for although she’d been fuzzy-headed since the morning, everyone’s thoughts had grown more and more opaque after that awful moment. All during the long walk to Ewing’s castle, she’d felt increasingly alone in the thickening woolliness, no matter how many times Lachlan touched her hand, brushed his shoulder against hers, or laid his lips upon her hair.
She shook her head as if she could shake loose the walls in her mind. She sensed nothing from the people in this castle other than an indistinct murmuring, like the wash of the tide on the strand heard from the height of Inishmaan. What kind of mind-sickness was this? Ever since she’d discovered her gift, she’d wished she’d had any other gift at all—her sister’s gift of the healing hands, her brother’s gift of music, her father’s endless youthfulness—and not to be cursed, like her mother, with a fairy blessing that brought equal amounts of pain. Yet here she was, her gift leaching from her with each passing hour, and what she wanted with all her heart was to have it back.
She jumped at a knock at the door, unnerved that she heard such an earth-bound sound without having been warned of the approach by her visitor’s thoughts. It could be Lachlan behind that door—or it could be anyone else.
“Cairenn?”
“Come in,” she blurted, recognizing Lachlan’s voice. She ran her hands over her hair, tangled from distress, and struggled to control herself.
Lachlan stepped in, tugged the cowl off his head, and met her gaze. She drew in a sharp breath. Worry drew lines between his brows and cast a shadow in his midnight-blue eyes, like a cloud covering the stars.
She barely finished speaking his name before his arms swept around her, one hand cupping her head and the other curling around her back. She smelled the scent of the mead-hall in the fibers of his woolen cloak, sweet mead and charred wood and roasted meats. She heard nothing but the beat of his heart through the ear pressed against his chest, and for a moment, she felt blessedly right.
“All day I’ve been thinking,” he said, “that it would have been better had Ewing been my enemy.”
“You mustn’t say such things.”
“It would have set me free from the betrothal.” His grip tightened. “Can you forgive me, lass?”
“It’s not a matter for forgiveness.” She took a deep breath. “I knew what might happen when we came to these shores.”
“You were so quiet today.”
Her thoughts skittered. “Leana is very…beautiful.”
“She’s a willful half-
child, spoiled as the only Ewing daughter. She is not Cairenn of Inishmaan.” He lowered his head to speak against her hair. “Cairenn of Inishmaan is the child of another realm who brings magic to my life.”
Her knees softened at his words, even as her heart squeezed at the impossibility of any real future. He must have sensed her reaction, for he pulled back to better see her face. He couldn’t know her thoughts, of course, but as he looked at her, his smile dimmed and the lines deepened between his brows.
He lifted her chin. “Something troubles you.”
She dropped her own gaze, suddenly understanding why everyone found her mind-reading so unnerving. Her thoughts skittered in a dozen directions. She couldn’t confess her true weakness. Perhaps this was just a mind-sickness that would pass in a day or two. Perhaps a good night’s sleep would cure her. It would be a cruel fate to be robbed of her gift when she finally had a use for it.
“My head aches.” The lie tasted bitter. “There was such a crowd on the walk here. Twenty of Ewing’s men, plus ours. I’m better at blocking out chatter than I used to be, but it still makes my temples throb.”
“I should have left you at Derry.” He nudged a tress of hair behind her ear. “I could have protected you from all of this.”
How far they’d come that he would swallow her lie without question. “I’d have stowed away if you’d tried.”
He laughed. Oh, how she loved the way his body vibrated against hers when he laughed.
“It won’t be long now,” he said. “We ride for the council meeting tomorrow morning.”
Her heart did a stutter-skip. “So soon?”
“Aye.” He took her face in his two hands. “Too soon, mo chridhe.”
“But…” She scrambled to find an excuse to stop a meeting of clans arranged long before she and Lachlan had even arrived in Scotland. “But there’ll be people from all clans there, yes?”
“Hundreds, from every sept.” He tilted his head. “You’re worried.”
“No.”
She spoke the word in a rising tone. His smile was as kind as her answer was uncertain.
Wild Highland Magic (The Celtic Legends Series Book 3) Page 16