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

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Sorcha had the tiniest instant of envy, and she was grateful Caden couldn’t see the woman, for she couldn’t imagine why any man would choose her over that long-limbed beauty. But then, that man at the woman’s side turned to face Sorcha again and prickles of fear flew down her spine.

  He knew her.

  Padruig knew her.

  Her heart beat painfully as she hurried back to Caden’s side, taking him by the hand and squeezing. She wanted to tell him, but she couldn’t. Because, even if she did, what could he do? Caden was blind. The song and dance continued, but Sorcha was no longer singing along.

  “Her skirt was grass green silk,

  Her mantle, velvet fine

  At every lock of her horse’s mane

  Hung fifty silver bells and nine.”

  Across the bonfire, Padruig Caimbeul stood with his mail-gloved hands behind his back. Fully vested in his armor, the metal of his mail reflected the orange glow of firelight. He was biding his time. There were too many people in attendance to simply make off with his daughter, so he waited for a better opportunity, amusing himself at the expense of others.

  Crass and dull. These people were little more than superstitious peasants, and, for all that, they’d somehow drawn so many pilgrims to their isle—for what? The lighting of a ceremonial fire?

  They were rude and dimwitted.

  The very notion of linking his blood to theirs was an anathema to his being. If, by chance, he had the opportunity to take Sorcha before she said those vows, he would surely do so. And once he had the girl in his possession, no one would dare presume to tell him what he could, or could not do, with his own flesh and blood.

  Nevertheless, there was one person who could still ruin everything. According to David’s law, he would be the one man with the right to decide Sorcha’s future. Aidan dún Scoti.

  Fortunately, Padruig had not yet spied him, and neither did he recognize anyone else at this cock-shriveling festival. He watched an old woman go by, raising her skirts, and showing him her wrinkled hairy mons. By God, her lips hung lower than his balls! King David would certainly revile these people, for they were Godless and stupid.

  Not for the first time, he stole a glance at his daughter, and wondered if anyone else had noticed the uncanny resemblance between them. It was clear to him that Sorcha was his blood, for she was the spitting image of his faithless daughter Lìli, even down to the color of her hair. But she was lovelier than Lìli, even if she did have something of her whore of a mother.

  Nevertheless, for all Riannag dún Scoti’s beauty—or Sorcha’s for that matter—neither could hold a candle to the woman standing beside him. If he was distracted from his task, it was because of her. With all the kissing and hugging and humping going on, he had half a mind to grab the bitch by her shining golden mane and drag her down to the beach to put his cock into her mouth—which, by the by, wouldn’t stop yapping, even for a God-given moment. “She hails from Dubhtolargg,” the woman was saying, conversationally.

  Padruig rolled his eyes. “Yeah, so, I’m told,” he said, readjusting his scrotum, revolted by the thought of the old woman.

  “Such a pity. As I hear tell there are none remaining to enherite.”

  Padruig turned to look at the woman. “No one?”

  The woman shook her head. “Nay, for Caden Mac Swein has no heirs.”

  Padruig blinked. “Not even a sister?”

  The woman shook her head, smiling ruefully. “Sadly, no’ a one. I suppose once he’s wed, if he should die without an heir, King David will award his lands and his bride to her sire.”

  Padruig lifted his chin with a sudden revelation. He opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it again, realizing that if he should challenge the man publicly to a contest, Caden Mac Swein would have no choice but to fight for Sorcha… or release her. He did not have the look of a man who would simply allow his woman to go free. So, then, if he simply waited until they spoke their vows, and if he slew Mac Swein, he would then profit twofold, for then he could have his daughter, as well as all these lands, meager though they might be. God’s truth, he was no fool. Why should he turn away a single copper? And those supplies that had been brought here… those alone were worth a fortune. Padruig’s cock hardened as he listened to the woman go on about Dunrònaigh’s laird. Nay, not because of her beauty. Not anymore. Greed was a far more powerful aphrodisiac. So, now, he would bide his time… and once the moment presented itself, he would swoop down like the raven he was, and feast upon the carcass of the laird of Dunrònaigh.

  More and more, Sorcha was beginning to suspect that Padruig knew precisely who she was—and more, that he’d come here to Rònaigh to collect her. But Caden was in no condition to face her father, blind as he remained. She squeezed his hand again. “I am tired,” she said. “Shall we leave?”

  “And disappoint the masses?” he teased. “I think not.”

  Still, Sorcha pulled on his hand, hoping he would come. “I am but tired, my love. We can wed on the morrow, when I am rested.”

  Caden held her firmly, as thoroughly as though his feet were rooted to the spot and his fingers were made of chains. And suddenly, there was no escape, for the woman called Brighde stood before the Tein-Éigin, speaking at the top of her lungs, a graceful sound that lifted unto the heavens. “Great gods who create and bring forth life,” she said, announcing the handfasting. “We ask your blessings on this day of gathering!”

  Cheers rippled through the crowd. A multitude of faces peered over at Sorcha and Caden.

  Beautiful and graceful, Brighde put her hand out, calling Sorcha and Caden into the druid’s circle.

  Frozen with fear, Sorcha remained where she stood, but Bessie pushed her forward, mistaking her hesitation for something more like jitters.

  In Brighde’s hand, she held a bouquet of bright, red ribbons, and now she swept forward, ever so gracefully, reaching out to take Sorcha’s free hand, and smiling sweetly.

  Having so little choice, Sorcha tightened her grip on Caden’s hand, dragging him along with her. And then, once she and Caden were standing side by side in the druid’s circle, the woman made no hesitation. She looped one ribbon over their joined wrists, binding the two of them together.

  “It will be over before you know it,” Caden said, reassuring her, but Sorcha could not explain that that was precisely what she feared. He was unprepared to defend himself. If her father should assault them, he would be defenseless, and she could only hope that someone would step to their aid. By contrast, Padruig had come armed and prepared, judging by his shining armor. She scanned the crowd for Alec and did not see him. Her heart beat like war drums against the cage of her ribs. Fear bound her as surely as did Brighde’s ribbons.

  “Sorcha and Caden,” Brighde said loudly and Sorcha was acutely aware of Padruig’s gaze—his eyes piercing her like a vulture’s through the winking darkness. Nevertheless, Brighde’s voice held no trepidation. It was soft as silk, and filled with serenity. “Do ye come voluntarily to make this union?”

  “I do,” Caden said.

  “Yeah… I-I do,” agreed Sorcha. She peered nervously over the fire, to the place where Padruig had been standing, but found him gone. She prayed he had come as someone’s guest and now he was off somewhere, oblivious to her identity.

  “Will you honor and respect one another?” the woman asked, clearly unaware of the turmoil Sorcha suffered.

  “I will,” agreed Caden and so did Sorcha, and once again, Sorcha peered up at Caden, reassured only by his smile. Mayhap Padruig did not know her? Mayhap he was staring only because she was the bride to be wed?

  “Will you forever aid each other in times of pain and sorrow?”

  “I will,” both said again in unison, and once more, Brighde looped another ribbon around their joined wrists. Eight times the ribbon would be looped, binding them by law. And then, once the final toast was made, they would unravel them together, signifying by that act that they willingly remained together as man and wife.


  Aidan and Lìli spoke these words eleven years past when Sorcha was only thirteen. All these years later, even despite that neither had wanted their union, there was love between them.

  Brighde’s words put her sister’s wedding in mind, except that, that day up on the hillside in Dubhtolargg, it was Una who had officiated the ceremony, her voice raw and ancient as the Am Monadh Ruadh—the red hills wherein they made their home. Certainly, it was not so soft and soothing as this woman’s—and yet, Una had been the one to guide Sorcha through every hardship she’d ever encountered, and she wished with all her heart that she could be here now. Certainly, Una would know what to do about Padruig. She would knock him on the noggin with her staff. She would make certain he was emasculated before one and all, and she would send him away, with the hounds nipping at his heels. She peered up at her betrothed, wondering of his thoughts. He seemed so blissfully unaware of how close they were to peril—no idea that her sire was here.

  “Will you be true to one another that you may grow strong, together?”

  “I will,” Caden said, without hesitation, heedless to Sorcha’s turmoil.

  “I will,” she said, trying harder to stay focused on Brighde’s voice.

  As though she knew it, Brighde’s leaned forward. “As your hands become withered, will you reach only for one another?”

  “We will,” they said in unison, and again, the red ribbon was looped about their wrists. Sorcha squeezed Caden’s hand and swallowed, hard.

  Something terrible was looming.

  Her visions—the gifts she’d been born with—had not manifested themselves in far too long—not since the day she’d witnessed her father’s villainy in the keek stane. Like Caden, with his sight, she had suppressed them all. Only now, at the most inopportune moment, she had a darkening sensation about her eyes, a sure sign that a vision was emerging. But nay, it must be that she was nervous. Her breath came more labored as the ribbon was looped over their wrists yet another time.

  “Is it your intention to bring peace and harmony to this clan?”

  “It is,” both said, but Sorcha found it difficult to move her mouth and tongue. Her vision dimmed even more and she smelled blood and death. She blinked and once again saw Padruig standing over Aidan’s sire and her mother, as the images manifested themselves in the need-fire. Her belly grew sour. Nausea bubbled up from her gut as voices began to meld together, sounding like terrible drones.

  “When you falter—and you will—then will you have the courage—and loyalty—to remember all these promises you have made to one another?”

  “Aye,” Caden agreed.

  “Yeah,” Sorcha said, swallowing the bile that rose into her throat, and as she looked up at the woman called Brighde, into her eyes, she spied something familiar… bright green eyes that could have belonged to Una in her youth.

  Brighde returned her gaze… and smiled...

  For the longest instant, the two women stared into one another’s eyes, and Sorcha realized she knew those eyes better than she knew her own.

  Brighde, Brigit.

  The gray, wiry hair was luminous and fair. The patch on her left eye was gone, and there were two lovely, green eyes—Guardian’s eyes. The long limbs, which only a short time ago, and been hobbled by age, were now tall and strong, lifting her to a noble height. She no longer had need of a staff, but in that instant, Sorcha realized who she was—though it was impossible!

  Una, transformed!

  “It was always you,” Brighde whispered into her head, with a bit of a gleam in her two good eyes. “You were always The One, Sorcha dún Scoti…”

  Twilight fell to shadow and Sorcha peered up at Caden as a shadow passed over the moon. In that same moment, Brighde lifted her voice to the masses, and the very substance of the earth seemed to shudder at its core. The wind shrieked through Sorcha’s ears. “Is there anyone here who opposes these two be wed?” And then, Sorcha’s gaze shuttered, and her breath failed her, for Padruig Caimbeul stepped forward, and said, “I do.”

  A startled whisper swept through the crowd. Sorcha saw the blood drain from Caden’s face the instant before she swooned.

  No matter that he’d worn an air of ease, Caden’s every nerve was on edge.

  He had been waiting for this moment. He felt Sorcha buckle beside him and moved swiftly to catch her, sweeping her into his arms. He shouted for Alec. Ribbons were wrenched from his arm, stinging his flesh.

  “I am Padruig Caimbeul,” a man said. “And you would presume to wed my daughter, and without my consent. By the laws of Scotia and David mac Maíl Chaluim, I challenge you to battle in defense of my honor! Winner takes all, we fight unto death!”

  Sorcha passed into someone else’s arms, but the hand-off was gentle and he knew instinctively he had given her into friendly care. The last of the ribbons were wrenched from Caden’s wrist.

  He was ready to fight, blind though he might be. His eyes could not see, but his other senses were keener than ever, and in his private moments, he had once again begun to swing his grandsire’s halberd. He was not wholly unprepared. Only something happened as he stood there, surrounded by the licking flames of the need-fire, his ears catching every sound.

  The sound of not one, but two blades hissed against the night. One sword left its scabbard and stilled in midair. The other blade sliced through the air, spinning irrevocably toward Caden. It was impossible to say what happened next, because it happened quickly. Intuitively, Caden lifted his hands, bracing himself for the heaviness of his grandfather’s halberd. It was the same instinct that had compelled him to catch Sorcha that day on the stairs. Even then he had suspected what his heart would not acknowledge.

  A shadow passed over the moon, revealing everything to his eyes. He saw the axe pummeling through the air and he caught the hilt. There was a collective gasp.

  The last shred of red ribbon whipped away in a gust of wind. And, before his eyes stood a fat, grey-bearded man, vested in armor. He had the look of a man who’d come to make war, not peace, dressed in English armor.

  Behind that man stood Alec, no longer holding Caden’s axe, although his hands still embraced the air, whence he’d hurled the Beast.

  All at once, as one people, the crowd fell away and for an instant, the fat man’s brows twitched like grey caterpillars, as he realized Caden was no longer blind. It took him a befuddled instant to recover himself and then some ungodly sound left the man’s lips. “Bloody bastard!” he shouted, and Caden reared back with the blade of his ancestors.

  There was no time to calibrate the weapon. Sword drawn, Padruig Caimbeul lunged after him. But, then, he could not have known that Caden had the aim of a champion. He could not comprehend how deadly the Beast could be. He could not know, as Caden couldn’t have known, that he only needed to believe in his sight, the same way he believed in his wife. “For Davie,” he said, as the axe swung wide.

  Metal caught metal in midair. The clang was a roar across the land.

  “For Sorcha!” he said louder, his confidence restored.

  Padruig Caimbeul parried, recovering swiftly for his sword was light. But Caden spun about, swinging the axe blade with all his might. This time, as every time, his blade met its mark, slicing cleanly through metal, then flesh and bone. And this time, there was no more ring of metal. No more war cries. An impenetrable hush fell over the gathered crowd. But Caden didn’t linger to see Padruig Caimbeul’s body hit the ground. He turned away, marching after Brighde, who bore his wife into the keep, unwilling to see Sorcha for the first time in her dead father’s eyes.

  Chapter 16

  Sorcha awoke in the laird’s chamber, and once again in Caden’s bed. Only this time, her husband sat beside her, gazing down into her eyes—seeing eyes, Sorcha realized at once, and she nearly choked on her joy.

  He bent to whisper into her ear. “You seem to unerringly make your way to my bed, and for this I am only grateful.”

  Sorcha tried to respond, but she couldn’t speak for t
he tears. She sat up, clutching her husband about the chest, weeping unabashedly into his bloodied tunic.

  He patted her hair. “Dearest love… I thought never to have the joy of seeing your face,” he confessed. “You are lovely, and I am blessed, for I did not fall in love with the beauty I knew in your face, but the beauty I knew in your heart.”

  “How?” Sorcha asked.

  Caden chuckled softly. “How can I love ye, or how is it I can see?”

  Sorcha lifted a hand to his face, marveling over the knowing glimmer in his deep blue eyes.

  He seized her hand, squeezing. “I dinna ken, love. Only tell me, do you still take me now that I am no longer blind, and likely to be as ill-tempered as ever?”

  Sorcha choked on her laughter, clutching his tunic with unreserved joy. “A-chaoidh, Caden Mac Swein.” Always. “And I will love you fiercely until the moment I cease to breathe.”

  He whispered again into her ear. “Promise me, you will.”

  “I do!” she said. “But I do!”

  And now it was Caden’s turn to laugh, and he did so unabashedly, his laughter low and rich as he pressed Sorcha possessively against his chest, like a treasure he never thought to possess.

  Only then, Sorcha remembered the woman called Brighde who had whispered into her head—and she gasped out loud. “Where is she?”

  Caden held her fast. “Who, my love?”

  “Brighde—I know her!”

  His voice was sober. “Gone. And so is your father.”

  For the longest moment, Sorcha couldn’t find her voice to speak. And then she dared to ask. “Dead?”