Highland Magic

by K. E. Saxon

  By the end of it, she was atremble. She remained stoic, however, her mein sedate and her eye never wandering from the place where the players staged their entertainment.

  But inside, she was appalled—and growing more so by the second. For this was some malicious re-enactment of her and Callum’s wedding night. And only one other person could have given the tale to the players: Callum. Was he that set against her then? To humiliate her in front of everyone?

  ‘Mei’ spoke then:

  “I—I’ve a...patch, a mark on me.”

  Branwenn’s heart stopped, then started again in a mad, pounding race against her rib cage. She watched with near panic as the player repeated her words, her actions of that night. Then he covered his mouth with his hand and said:

  “Oh, God! I know you’ll find it as hideous as I do when you see it!”

  She began to quake in earnest. Her palms and underarms grew moist with sweat. Without conscious thought, she turned her eye on Callum.

  He wasn’t watching the performance either; he was looking directly at her. His countenance no longer held the snide humor of a few moments past. In its place was something else. Something indefinable, unsettling. No longer did his eyes hold fire in their depths. Nay, now there was only ice—as cold as the winter winds on the highest peak of Sìdh Chailleann. Brutal in its lack of warmth. As the two green glacial shards pierced her through, she suddenly knew. Knew what that look was. ‘Twas hatred she saw there. Unmitigated and unyielding.

  ‘Mei’s’ lover spoke then:

  “‘Tis the mark of the devil!”

  Branwenn’s head whipped around in horrified anguish. In the next instant, she was on her feet and off the dais.

  “Branwenn! Are you ill?”

  She heard her grandmother, but was too distraught to stop her flight. She felt the hot flush of her humiliation spreading up from her chest, to her neck, and finally covering her entire visage. She must get out of here before everyone realized that the play was about her!

  She hurried across the great hall with as much dignity as she could muster. Her head held high, she kept her eyes focused directly ahead of her. When she passed Callum’s table, she fought the urge to allow her eyes to turn in his direction.

  Finally, finally, she was outside the hall and in the dimly lighted antechamber that held the stairs leading up to the family’s quarters. She’d only gone a couple of steps when someone grabbed hold of her arm. Before she knew what was happening, she was crowded up against the stone wall and being voraciously kissed.

  At first, she thought ‘twas Callum. And even though he’d hurt her deeply these past days—and just now with the humiliating play he’d arranged—her heart still loved him, held hope, forgave. So, she kissed him back, with all the feeling she’d been holding inside her.

  Realization was just beginning to dawn when the man—‘twas one of Callum’s friends!—lifted his head and said, “Callum was right, you are a sweet berry, ripe for the ff—plucking.”

  She pushed with all her might against his chest. “Get off me, you dull-witted beast!” she said between clenched teeth. But he was much too big, much too strong for her.

  He ground his pelvis against her mons and twisted his hand in her hair, forcing her head back. He bit the rise of her breast.

  Branwenn let out a scream. “Release me!” she yelled.

  “But I paid good coin for you. And your husband will not be pleased when he discovers you denied me my due.”

  “Callum sold my favors to you?” Branwenn asked, stunned.

  “Aye, as is his right.”

  “Godamercy,” she whispered.

  “God had naught to do with it, I assure you,” the warrior said. Then he put his big, beefy hand on her breast and squeezed.

  Branwenn renewed her struggle to get out of his embrace, but with little success. The more she struggled, the more impassioned his hands and lips became.

  “Callum should have warned me what a wee cockfighter you are,” the man said. “And worry not, I’ll not be repelled by the mark on you—not as your husband is.”

  Branwenn’s stomach twisted and she felt bile rise into her throat. “Oh, God,” she moaned.

  * * *

  At first, Daniel had thought to allow Branwenn some time alone before following her to make sure she was all right. He’d had his suspicions about the piece they were being presented when he’d heard the players speak of a mark on the skin. But when, as he watched her, Branwenn first lost all complexion, then her skin flamed, and then she’d departed in such haste, he’d known ‘twas as he’d suspected: Callum had set the players to perform the piece purely as a means to humiliate the lass.

  But after only a few minutes, Daniel found he was too anxious to see how his sister fared to leave her be for long. He excused himself and made his way to the doorway of the hall. He was just walking through it when he heard a man say:

  “I like a lady with a bit of a deformity. It heats my blood.”

  * * *

  Branwenn twisted and turned, but couldn’t get free from the iron embrace. “I won’t let you bed me, no matter how much coin you paid Callum! I’m not his to sell!”

  She’d begun to feel faint, begun to see pinpricks of light dance in her sights, when all at once she heard a mighty growl. The man was hauled back and off of her, and thrown onto the stone stairs. He landed with a harsh cry, a muffled moan, and a tremendous crash and clatter.

  “Daniel!” Branwenn cried and flew into his arms.

  The man lifted his head and groaned, but in the next second, his eyes rolled back in his head and he fell back once more, silent.

  “I’m going to kill him,” Daniel said. “Leg wound or no leg wound, Callum’s a dead man on the morrow.”

  Branwenn struggled out of his embrace. “Nay! Do not touch one hair on his head!”

  “Branwenn! How can you defend him? What he’s done is indefensible.”

  Even now, she couldn’t get the words past her lips. The words that would help Daniel understand. The words that would tell him that this horrid beast Callum had become these past sennights was not truly Callum, not at all. And...that Callum was the father of her babe. So, instead, she simply shook her head and said, “I beg you, leave him be.” She paused and then said what she should have said a fortnight ago, when Callum had first reviled her. “Take me home. Take me to the Maclean holding. I’ll not tarry here another day, waiting for something that I see now will never be. Callum does not love me, does not want to be wed to me any longer. And ‘tis time for me to let him go, to give him what he wants.”

  Daniel kissed her brow. “All right. We’ll leave at first light.” He leaned back and, placing both hands on her cheeks, lifted her chin so that he could see her face. “After I escort you to your chamber, I want you to throw the bar across the door. You aren’t to leave that room again until I come for you, is that clear?”

  “Aye.”

  “Are you sure you do not wish for me to kill him?”

  She smiled, tho’ she knew he was only half-jesting. “Aye. Do not kill him.” She sighed. “He’ll not be a bother to me any longer after the morrow, in any case.”

  “All right. But, if you change your mind, let me know.”

  “Daniel! I shan’t change my mind, so get the notion out of your head!”

  * * *

  Callum took a long pull on his ale and then slammed the tankard down on the table next to him. The result of the play hadn’t managed to rid him of his heartache, eviscerate his desire for Branwenn from his being, as he’d thought it would when he’d first conceived of the idea a few days past.

  “Ho! Callum,” Ramsay, one of his drinking partners said as he stumbled up behind him. “I just saw Kenrick knocked out cold on the stair.”

  Callum turned his head and looked up. His sight was growing a bit bleary, now that he’d finished his tenth tankard and swallowed down a good portion of uisge beatha as well, but he did manage to focus well enough to see who was speaking to him.<
br />
  “D’ya think ‘twas yer feisty wee wife’s brother who did the deed then? I tol’ you ‘twas no’ a good idea, what ye did.” He shook his head. “Not a good idea a-tall.”

  Callum shrugged. It made him weave a bit, but he balanced himself with his forearm on the table. “I need—hick—ed the coin. Besides, if she’s goin’ta shleep wi’ e’ry man a’tha keep, why shouldn’t I make a bit of profit fro’ it?”

  All at once, the room began to spin and Callum’s stomach churned. In the next second he fell forward, his cheek hitting the table with a loud ‘thunk’ and his arms sprawled across the top of it.

  “Hey!” Ramsay called out to one of his other cronies. “Another one’s down, and I think he’s spewed his supper!”

  * * *

  It had taken two full days of travel to arrive at the Maclean holding, and Branwenn had been hard-pressed on the journey to keep her condition from her brother and Grandmother Maclean—who’d insisted upon traveling back with them—as she was still fighting her morning ills each day. But, somehow, she had managed to keep her secret, and now, a sennight later, she was seated at her hearthfire in her chamber, busily sewing a few shirts for her babe.

  She’d yet to sew one swaddling cloth, however. She just couldn’t seem to find it within herself to do so. Did babe’s truly need to be bound so tightly? She shrugged and bit her lip. If only she could speak to Grandmother Maclean about it!

  But, nay, she simply was not yet ready to reveal the wondrous (and oh, so frightening!) news. Not yet. Mayhap in another moon? Surely, by that time, she’d have found the words to explain why she’d not told the babe’s father before she’d left.

  She needed more time. For, what if they insisted upon sending word to Callum? With a groan, she dropped the linen into her lap and lifted her head, staring straight ahead. Assuming he believed ‘twas he that had sired the babe—which, after what he’d done to her the night of the feast, she doubted he would—he might demand to renew the marriage vows. For the babe’s sake, of course. And her heart could truly not bear being wed to a man she loved so much, but who hated her to the same degree. If not more.

  She sighed and shook her head. Nay, she must wait as long as she was able to reveal her condition to her family. And, surely, ‘twouldn’t be so difficult to hide her condition until then, would it? For she’d begun to wear only the looser fitting gowns that Maggie had given her, as the ones that Grandmother Maclean had had made for her were now growing tight in the waist. Fortunately, none of the family questioned the move, as she’d been prone to wear the larger gowns often in any case.

  She placed her hand over the small mound that her growing babe had formed under her belly. A wash of pure bliss filled her as she thought of the wee one she’d hold in her arms next spring. With that happy thought, her gloom from the moment before receded and she went back to her sewing, a cheerful tune tripping from her tongue.

  * * *

  In that same moment at the MacGregor holding, Callum turned the corner of the chapel and stopped short. His eyes narrowed as he watched in disgust the scene before him. There was the guard, Kerk, with his arms around the alewife’s rather buxom daughter, his face buried in her neck.

  The lass giggled, but allowed the intimacy. Kerk must have whispered something to her, because she squirmed away and cheerily cried, “Nay, I’ll not! Not ‘til later, at least.” She shoved at his chest and said, “Now, off with you before the lieutenant sees that you’ve not resumed your post.”

  Kerk grumbled something, but he nodded his head and began walking in the direction of the guard tower. The lass turned back to the well and dipped a bit of water out of the bucket into a pitcher.

  Callum jogged to catch up to the guard. “Ho, there! Kerk?”

  Kerk turned around and stopped. When he saw who’d called him, his eyebrow lifted and a smirk formed on his lips. “Aye?” he said, crossing his arms over his chest.

  Callum bristled. He knew he had the authority to slap the man’s impudence down, but it wouldn’t serve his purpose. For he wanted answers, honest answers, and the best way to get them was with a bit of diplomacy, not force.

  “The alewife’s daughter’s certainly a comely lass.”

  Kerk’s eyes narrowed. “Aye, that she is.”

  “Tho’ not the type that usually appeals to you, I’d wager.”

  “Oh, really now? And how would you be knowing that, I’m wondering?”

  Callum cleared his throat. With a shrug, he said, “She hasn’t the small, slender frame you’ve desired before.”

  Kerk threw his head back and laughed.

  ‘Twas a struggle, but Callum managed to hold onto his temper and not take a swing at the man’s jaw.

  Kerk’s laughter trailed off, but his grin was in full prominence when he said, “I care not that you are the nephew of the laird, I’m going to say this anyway: You are truly a lack-wit. And an arse as well. I cannot ken what the lass saw in you.” He turned and continued his trek across the courtyard. “Now, I’ve my duties to attend,” he said loudly enough for Callum to hear, “so why don’t you go find your irksome friends and harry them instead?”

  Callum felt the heat of his blush spread up his neck and over his cheeks. He ground his teeth together. That had not gone as he’d hoped. Just as the guard had done that other time, when Callum had confronted him about his attentions to Branwenn, Kerk had had another good belly laugh, clearly, but curiously, at Callum’s expense.

  Ever since the night of the feast, and Branwenn’s subsequent departure, he’d been a virtual outcast amongst his family and most of the clan.

  He shouldn’t have sold Branwenn’s favors; he knew that. It had been the most childish, stupid thing he’d ever done in his life—and he’d racked up quite a list of them these past years. Even Kenrick, once he’d sobered, had castigated not only himself, but Callum as well for inciting him to act in such a manner.

  Callum growled low in his throat. It should have been he who bore the bruised ribs and lump on his head for the crime. He pressed the base of his palms against his eyelids. “Aargh!” he bellowed. Yet, once again, ‘twas someone else who endured the brunt of his own ridiculous behavior.

  Tho’, in truth, he had suffered greatly from the barbs delivered by his own conscience, as well as the cool reception from his family these past days.

  But by the night of the feast, his resolve had slipped and he’d known that if he didn’t get Branwenn from this keep forthwith, he’d give in to the violet-eyed siren’s charms once more. And then, all would be lost.

  So he’d conceived of the plan to humiliate her, to tell the world her closely-held secret. That, he’d been certain, would be enough to send her speeding from this keep, and purge her from his soul as well.

  But then the drink and his sore heart had brought his anger at her betrayal to the fore once more and the next thing he knew, he was offering her up to Kenrick for only a few coins.

  Truly, truly, Daniel should have run him through for that one. And the fact that he still lived, he had an uneasy feeling, was due in great portion to Branwenn.

  Branwenn. Who, Kenrick had revealed to Callum later, had rejected his attentions—quite vociferously, in fact. A thing that Lara would never have done. A thing that even now wore at Callum’s belief in her duplicity.

  * * *

  “The alewife’s daughter seems to be enjoying that guard’s attention,” Callum said to Chalmers two nights later. He was still curious at the man’s change of taste. For, tho’ the lass had a pleasing enough countenance, she was in no way as perfectly lovely, perfectly formed, as Branwenn.

  Chalmers followed the line of Callum’s gaze. “Oh. Aye, as well she should for she’s not been his bride for more than three moons I trow. Hardly time for them to grow weary with the other, I’d say.”

  Callum straightened in his chair, his gaze sharper now as he more closely studied the couple, his mind doing a quick calculation. “They’re wed? For three moons?” But that was the same time
that Branwenn and the guard were so clearly enjoying each other’s company.

  Chalmers cocked a brow at Callum. “Aye.” He shook his head. “Why do you care so?”

  Callum shrugged. “I do not. ‘Twas just a passing curiosity, is all.”

  A half-hour later, Callum walked up to Kerk and tapped him on the shoulder. When the man turned his head, Callum said, “‘Twas quite a jest you played on me the other day, I trow.”

  Kerk nodded and gave him his usual smirk. “Aye, I thought so.”

  “I have to say—and ken me well, your wife is quite lovely—I’m a bit confused as to why you would choose the lass over Branwenn, when ‘tis clear you held her favor.”

  Kerk turned and faced him full-on. Crossing his arms over his chest he said, “‘Tis clear is it?” Kerk snorted and shook his head. “I see that you have not the wit to work this out on your own, so I must give you a bit of assistance.” He took a step closer and bent at the waist slightly. “The Lady Branwenn and I never spoke more than a handful of times, and most of those conversations dealt with things so dull that I cannot even recall them now. And—list me well, for this is the only time I’ll say it—the lass, to my eye, is not even half as lovely as you believe her to be. In fact, ‘tis clear to me that you’ve gone a bit daft and lost most of your sight as well.” He straightened and then continued in a gentler voice, “Do not mishear me, for the lass is pleasant enough to look upon, and is kindhearted as well, with a keen wit that some would like, but she’s not near so toothsome as you crow on about.”

  Callum fought the twin demons of offended pride and anger. His fists clenched at his sides, he trembled with the need to take the man down. “Meet me on the field at dawn.” He turned and strode out of the hall, up the stairs, and into his bedchamber. His lungs blowing hard now, he slammed the door behind him and stood stock-still in the middle of the room, his mind spinning as he struggled to keep the doubts regarding his beliefs about Branwenn at bay.