The Summer Star: One Legend, Three Enchanting Novellas (Legends of Scotland Book 2)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Jaime screwed his face. “Like the rest of these folks?”

  “Aye.”

  Aidan frowned. “Do you think she’s so piqued she would accept a suitor’s hand, without even bothering to confer with me?”

  It seemed, betimes, in his older age, Aidan blamed himself for all the rifts that had formed between them throughout the years. His pride was stung, Keane realized.

  “I do believe she’s angry, Aidan. And I do believe she intends not to be found. But nay. I canna imagine our little sister accepting the first offer of matrimony she encounters. And more, she well understands the political implications—particularly now that David is so near to uniting the clans. Angry or nay, Sorcha would not forge alliances without your consent. And neither would she reveal herself—or the Vale—quite so easily. Therefore, what man would align himself so swiftly?”

  “God’s blood! You are blind to your sister’s beauty,” Jaime suggested. “There is not a man in Christendom, young or auld, who wadna covet Sorcha to wife, and if not to wife, then to b—”

  Aidan leveled their brother by law a baleful glare. “Dinna speak that word,” he warned. “I wadna have my sister be any mon’s whore.” He peered again at the harlot across the room, screwing his face with displeasure.

  Keane crossed his arms and waited for his brother to return his gaze. “The truth is, Aidan, we may have lost any say in Sorcha’s future, along with her loyalties, and ye’d best be hoping ’tisna Padruig’s wishes she submits to now.”

  “Nay. The bastard searches still,” Jaime interjected.

  “For how long?” Aidan asked. “Eventually, he will find her.”

  Jaime nodded. “’Tis certain. Whatever we have uncovered, the man will learn forthwith. Someone started that rumor, but now that it has been told a thousand times or more, ’tisna enough gold in all of Scotia to keep tongues from wagging.”

  “Well, then… we’d best hie to it, and get ourselves to Rònaigh,” Keane suggested.

  Aidan stood. “Right you are,” he said to Keane. “You,” he demanded, as though nothing had ever changed between them, as though Keane were not laird of his own demesne. “Come with me.” He turned to Jaime, and Keane rested a bit more easily to hear that his eldest brother spoke little differently to his brother by law. “And you,” he said, with all the deference of a king. “See that David learns we have sailed west.”

  David, not King David, despite that Aidan was considering following the man into battle. The brief era of peace that David had brokered in Northumbria was coming to an end, and finally, Aidan could see the benefit in aligning himself with the crown. Although kneeling before David was an entirely different matter.

  Both Keane and Jaime rose from their benches and Jaime lifted his mail gloves from the table, slipping them onto his scarred and aging hands. Unlike Aidan, who eschewed politiks and war, King David’s Butcher had seen more than his share. Keane embraced him one last time and gave him a firm rap upon the back. “Godspeed, my friend,” he said. “’Til we meet again.”

  “Godspeed,” Jaime replied.

  “May the road rise to meet you,” Aidan said, as they left the inn, and parted ways.

  Already Dunrònaigh Keep was settling into a new routine, with the laird fully arisen from his sick bed.

  Little by little Caden Mac Swein was returning to his previous state of mind—or so Alec seemed to think. To be sure, he was far more self-assured, and, more and more, rather than take to his bed with a pint of ale, he settled himself in the laird’s chair to conduct his people’s trials. He made his way far more easily with a brand-new staff, a gift from his steward—an elderly man by the name of Afric. But Sorcha noted that he held that staff more like a weapon whenever he wasn’t using it to sweep the floor in front of his feet. She taught him how to listen, not just to hear, and she introduced him to the eyes in his fingertips. All day long, they spent together, except when Sorcha was working on her tinctures. And sometimes, they strolled the meadow, while Sorcha searched for herbs, and she had to take him by the arm so he would watch the sweep of his staff. “Nay!” she screamed, every few feet, because he cut down plants even before she could pick them.

  Forsooth, not even in her garden in Dubhtolargg, where she’d cultivated a great many herbs apurpose, was there such a great abundance. Along with the ruagaire deamhan, yarrow, milk thistle and feverfew, Sorcha also discovered lavender, chamomile, mint and horehound. By the time she took her leave from this isle, her satchel would be full. As for Caden, well… Sorcha liked him a lot. He was funny, and self-deprecating, and kind. All the children loved him. So did his kinsmen. Betimes, she found herself dreaming of what it might be like to live here all the time…

  One afternoon, whilst Caden lay in the grass, sunning himself, Sorcha sat beside him, watching Liusaidh and Diabhal run. She’d only just finished massaging his arms and legs—because he said they pained him since the blinding—and she stopped to pluck a buttercup from the grass, peeling off a petal. “He likes me,” she said, before plucking another. “He likes me not.”

  Frowning, Caden slid an arm behind his head and closed his eyes, resting for a spell. After a moment, he asked, “So, then, who is this he you speak of?”

  “Someone,” Sorcha said coyly. “Someone who doesna ken how much he is adored.” And she wondered if he realized she was speaking about him. Every time she was alone for a moment, his people assaulted her with questions. Will he see again? How be his temper? Does he realize you set Diabhal free? Can you give him a message for me? And her favorite, of all: Please tell Caden to hurry and get well, because Alec is a walloper.

  “If he doesna ken he is loved, whose fault is that?”

  “Ach, now, I see your point,” Sorcha confessed. “’Tis true.” She nodded sagely. “But then, again, the man is quite stubborn.” She would have said blind, as well, and meant something else entirely, though she would have given it away and he would certainly take it wrong.

  Not only had Caden Mac Swein lost his sight, but he was certainly blind to all he possessed. He focused far too much on everything he’d lost. And Sorcha was certain he didn’t even notice when she flirted with him.

  “So, ye left a mon whence ye came?” he pressed. His handsome face was taut, his lips pursed tightly.

  “Aye, well… there was someone,” Sorcha confessed, although it wasn’t entirely true. Graeme had been naught more than a flirtation, and a friend. They had never once been alone together, and, in truth, although he was sweet to Sorcha, she had often had the sense that he was numbed by all the trials he had endured. Lianae’s brother had been captured and locked away in a damp, dank cell for years, until Lianae freed him. And in that cell, he’d watched his younger brother die, and suffered the memory of his losses—his mother, his father, a sister—and in the end, a brother who had pledged his loyalty to the new earl of Moray.

  “The same someone ye spoke of?”

  Sorcha didn’t answer.

  Whatever she’d felt for Lianae’s brother, it was not the same as what she was beginning to feel for Caden. Graeme had given Sorcha a bit more confidence, but he’d never made her heart pound the way Caden did.

  Lying back upon the grass, with his rosy cheeks, Caden Mac Swein was naught at all like any man Sorcha had ever known. He was quite the opposite of her brothers; even his coloring was altogether different. But he was beautiful, with his wide-set jaw and his slightly too-large nose that nevertheless suited him quite well.

  His tone was sour. “Di’ ye rub him all over like ye do me?”

  Sorcha gasped. His question galled her as much as it surprised her. As though she ran about rubbing strange men—and yet, in truth, he might as well think so, since he would have no idea how she normally conducted herself. “Caden Mac Swein, that treatment is entirely medicinal!”

  And yet, despite her pique, the look on his face was so comical Sorcha was forced to laugh, although she didn’t anticipate his response. He shot up from the grass, and bent to locate his staff, curs
ing when Sorcha handed it to him. “Ach, then, ye should hie back whence ye came,” he said, and stalked away, whipping his staff across the grass. Sorcha winced as he took the head off a daisy. “I dinna need your pity or your help!” he said and marched away. Whatever had upset him, Sorcha had no clue. One minute they had been enjoying the sun, and the next, he was like a spoilt child, running away to chop off the heads of plants.

  Hoping to give him time to settle his ire, Sorcha avoided him the rest of the day. By the following morning, the outburst was forgotten—at least for her part. Excited, because the ruagaire deamhan blooms were dry and ready, she began preparations. Placing some of the blooms in jars, she filled each jar with two parts water, one part vin aigre because she needed something acidulous to draw out her medicine.

  Once the jars were filled, she intended to take them outside and cook them beneath the sun, but she couldn’t carry them all out by herself, so she went in search of Caden. She found him in the hall, ordering the cleaning of the rushes, and she listened as he trusted the tellings of his nose—proud, despite his surly temper.

  “These rushes are months overdue,” he told Moira. “If’n ye canna manage the sweepin’ for your bones, then set your daughter to do it.” The woman didn’t move, and clearly his ears served him well, because he snapped, “Now!”

  “Aye, laird!” Moira said, and scurried to do his bidding.

  “Wait,” he said, stopping her. “What’s that smell?”

  “’Tis the fish from last eve, sir.”

  “As ucht Dé! How can anyone bear it? Have the tables cleaned. And if’n ye dinna, we’ll all go without supper until they’re done, and ye can tell that to all the hungry children.”

  “Yes, laird,” the woman said, and went away.

  For months now these people had been left to their own devices, completely without guidance, and Sorcha understood, firsthand, that no matter how loyal a people might be, they would only rise to expectations. For far too long, Caden Mac Swein had expected naught from them at all. And yet, she loathed to see him so embittered—and for what? She’d only meant to flatter him. Hoping to engage him, Sorcha crossed the hall, marveling over the changes being made. At this rate, the entire keep would be free of cobwebs and swept in its entirety before the May Day festival. The shutters had all been removed, and all the windows were open to the breeze.

  Outside, the sun was warm and one might ever have known the seas were still blustery. At the sight of them churning and turning from the high tower, Sorcha was grateful they’d put her to sleep for the journey. She didn’t believe she would have enjoyed the crossing at all. And more and more, she wasn’t looking forward to the next, although for reasons that had naught to do with the fury of the sea.

  However, right now, that was neither here nor there. She needed Caden’s help to lift and carry the jars, and blind or not, she wanted him to be the one to do it. “My laird, a moment of your time,” she begged.

  Caden crossed his arms, turning to the sound of her voice. “Why? Ha’e ye grown bored with your simples already?”

  Sorcha blushed, grateful he could not see it. “In fact, nay. I but need a strong arm to help me lift my jars and take them outside.”

  “Aye, well, ask the mon ye left behind,” he said irritably, and Sorcha realized, suddenly, that he must be jealous. Right before her eyes, the man crossed his arms, puffing out his chest, like he had a burr up his arse. Nevertheless, Sorcha dared to take him by the hand, as it was impossible to tend a man without touching him, and now, after helping him bathe and dress, and sometimes eat, she reached for him with the ease of a mother with a child, despite that he was anything but. Only this time, he refused her, and once again, he crossed his arms. “If I should help ye with your jars, what payment have you to offer? As I hear tell, I already own your silly mare.”

  Sorcha frowned. “You do not own my mare!” she argued, and crossed her own arms, perfectly aware that the household servants were gathering to spy on them. Bess and Alec were together, faces pressed close, watching from behind a corner. “Liusaidh is mine,” she assured him. “And when I leave, I will be taking her with me.” And this she said a little louder, so Alec could be sure to hear her, “In case ye dinna recall, your captain failed to deliver me to my destination! I am only here because they snatched me and begged me to tend ye, ungrateful oaf!”

  “Is that so?” Caden asked, his voice stern. “And since you dared to set the mare free to roam with my Diabhal, what if your mare becomes pregnant, Sorcha? What then? Will you risk her life and her foal’s life over a vengeful sea?”

  Sorcha blinked. She hadn’t even considered that possibility—not in the short time she’d meant to be here. Most horses were the same as people, as it took quite some time for them to warm to one another. In fact, back in the Vale, there were horses that had been together for years before warming to one another, and long, long before anything should happen, Sorcha intended to be away.

  However, now that he mentioned it, she was worried, because if, indeed, horses were like people… she was already, inexplicably, growing fond of this oversized eegit standing before her. She blinked, unsure how to respond. Because, in truth, if Liusaidh were to become pregnant, she might, in fact, be forced to leave her. Except that, right now, this moment, she could no longer see herself returning to the Vale. In fact, Sorcha had no inkling where she might go after reuniting with Una. She hadn’t made any plans beyond that. And suddenly she realized there was no place she belonged.

  Caden turned his back to her. “I’llna offer my labors for free.”

  “How rude,” Sorcha countered, stepping closer. “I should think you’d offer simply for the service I do you!”

  He whirled to face her, his blue eyes gleaming, and for a strange, awkward moment, Sorcha had a hard time believing he couldn’t see her. “As we have already established, the choice was not mine for you to serve me, Sorcha. You have made this barter with Alec, who by the by, would be the better man to help you, since he’llna fall on his arse and break your precious jugs.”

  “Aye, well… I asked you,” Sorcha argued. And, by God, she intended to make him do it. She wanted him to ken he was perfectly capable of this and much more. And, anyway, if he did fall, she had a suspicion he might see the return of his sight. He was not blind, Sorcha was convinced of this—not in the customary manner. And, if he did, in truth, plant his face against the stone, he sorely had need of a bit more humility.

  His voice grew softer now, a bit menacing. “Well,” he said. “In that case, the payment I require is to see your face.”

  For an instant, Sorcha mistook his meaning. She put her hands on her hips, glaring at him. “You can see my face?”

  “Nay, woman! My hands will see what my eyes cannot. Is it not you who taught me thus?”

  Caden had had enough of speculation.

  He wanted to know what his tormentor looked like. He walked about half the day with a semi arousal, and every time the woman used a certain tone, or touched his hand, he formed a tent beneath his breacan—a simple fact she must have noticed, save that she seemed oblivious to the effect she had upon him.

  And, yes, to be sure, the thought of her loving some other man had made him perfectly furious. He was ill-tempered to be sure, and in part, he wanted Sorcha to ken what it was she was doing to him—day by day, smelling so sweet the way she did. By night, her soft little whimpers nearly undid him. It was impossible to say whether she was afeared… or if in her dreams she loved another man. Either way, he longed to go to her and hold her and make her forget.

  “Ye wish to see me… with your hands?” The sound of her voice was one of bemusement, as though the thought had never occurred to her, but Caden had been able to think of little else since she’d begun to show him how to see with his fingers. By damn, he cared not a whit how many dimples were in a bloody plum! Day by day, he’d found himself wholly regretting the fact that he hadn’t taken advantage that first day while she’d lain so quietly beside him—a
t the very least, to touch her face.

  Damned Alec for a meddling fool.

  He wanted to kiss her so desperately that he could taste his own desire like a bitter potion. It left his mouth hot and dry, and if he sounded cross with the servants, he wasn’t at all. He was more annoyed with himself, with his inability to think of anything but Sorcha.

  That first day, and every day, he’d risen from his bed only to please her, and it was only once he’d smelled the filth of his house that he realized how long he had forsaken his people. But to begin with, it had all been for Sorcha… so she would be pleased with him. So she would praise him. So she would laugh and tell him more stories about the children. About her horse. About this woman she called Una.

  By all that was holy, Caden had half a mind to keep her—refuse her passage to the Isle of Skye. It wasn’t precisely kidnapping if he gave her leave to go. After all, he was not the one who’d brought her here. Nevertheless, he didn’t have to allow her the use of his ships and she certainly couldn’t fly.

  For the first time in all his life, he found himself so obsessed with a lass that he couldn’t even think to tie his trews. And perhaps the reason he wished to know what she looked like, once and for all, was in hopes that he would find himself repulsed by her, simply so he would stop dreaming of her lying beneath him—her legs, long and lean, wrapped about his waist. Her tongue, soft and pink, welcoming him for a taste. Her breasts, ample and pert, eager for his touch… His cock stirred yet again, and he feared she would drive him mad.