“Bide a moment, laddie, and take a wee peek at this fine corner of the world.” Hamish patted Falchion’s arched neck. “Does its beauty no’ sing tae yer soul as it does mine?” He filled his lungs, relaxed into the saddle, and surveyed his domain. “Aye,” he murmured. “By all the gods, it does surely sing tae mine.”
The glen stretched out before him, defended at his back and on both sides by a near impenetrable horseshoe of granite mountains. At the glen’s heart, the clear waters of the loch formed an oval mirror for the surrounding landscape. Its stony shores were surrounded by grassland, patched here and there with stands of gnarled Scots pine and white hawthorn. On the lower mountain slopes, swathes of purple heather and bracken hemmed the edges of perilous granite screes and outcroppings of jagged rock. Above them, craggy peaks shared the sky with golden eagles and swirling clouds. It was a natural and utterly majestic bastion.
Hamish shifted in the saddle as his gaze drifted to the distant, open end of the glen and the western tip of the loch, where the mighty gray walls of Caisteal MacRoth stood guard. Throughout his lifetime, Hamish had travelled well, seen plenty, and learned much. But the love of his ancestral home and Glenross had always summoned him back, no matter the place.
No matter the time.
With a sigh of contentment, he turned Falchion toward the intended destination, which sat atop a small rise at the southeastern corner of the glen. It had been several weeks since his last visit. Too long, he thought.
His spurs touched the stallion’s side and the beast leapt into a steady canter. Hamish smiled and rose up in his stirrups, feeling the pull through his thighs. The breeze lifted his hair and intoxicated his senses with aromas of heather, wood smoke, and damp earth.
As they approached the hill, Falchion slowed, unbidden. Hamish did nothing to correct the animal. He knew the stallion would only go so far. Wild or domestic, no creature would venture anywhere near the stones, or more specifically, the mòr sìth. It had always been that way. No one knew why, exactly. Not even Hamish, whose veins ran with the ancient blood.
He slid from the saddle and threw the reins over the lower branch of a twisted hazel. The stallion dropped his muzzle and tugged at the wiry grass with strong teeth.
“I’ll be back in a wee while.” Hamish patted the horse’s flank and eyed the slope. “And ye’d best be here when I return, laddie, or we’ll be havin’ words.”
He turned toward the path, but paused, his attention snagged by the harsh call of a raven. He glanced skyward to see two of them soaring aloft and wondered at their presence. Ravens were magical creatures, beloved of the ancients. Was their appearance some kind of omen? And if so, was it good or bad?
Hamish frowned and glanced back at Caisteal MacRoth. Everything seemed peaceful. When he looked up again, the ravens had already turned and headed out across the loch. He shook off a mild sense of trepidation and started up the path. At the top, without pause, he entered the circle, and felt the blessed silence close in around him.
Nigh on four thousand years had passed since the stones had been raised. The centuries had left their mark on the weathered surfaces. The stones numbered thirteen, eleven of them the same size, two of them larger and diametrically opposite each other.
Hamish drew breath and wandered over to one of the two larger stones. He traced the symbols carved into the stone’s surface and a familiar tingle rang through his hand and up his arm. He glanced down at the ring he wore, its small black jewels shining like stars as they responded to the ancient power.
The ring had belonged to his late sire and was one of three. Only two remained in the family, the other belonging to his uncle. Hamish had given the third one away many years before. He’d paid dearly for his romantic gesture. His uncle had almost disowned him.
But Hamish had fallen hard for the wee French lass. Something about Isabeau de Courtenay had reached in and touched his soul. They had spent a single, glorious night together. Hamish had loved her, smothered her cries of pleasure with his kisses, and dared to suggest she return to Scotland with him. He knew she’d refuse and understood her reasons. In the end, on impulse, he’d left her with the thing he valued most outside of his family.
“’Tis a special ring,” he’d told her, “an ancient and magical thing. If ye are ever able tae come tae me, this ring will guide ye tae Glenross.”
He’d been hopeful Isabeau would come to him eventually. But she never had.
For the past few weeks, she’d been much on Hamish’s mind. Frequently in his dreams, too. Even after all these years, his heart still ached when he thought of her. He wondered if she still thought of him. She swore she would never forget him. But they had only known each other for five days… and one glorious night.
Since then, no other woman had come close to stirring his spirit the way Isabeau had. Still, maybe the time had come for him to find a wife and beget an heir or six.
“Trouble is, sweet Isabeau,” Hamish murmured, “I doubt any other lass could hold a light tae ye.”
Shuffling off a touch of melancholy, he turned to look across the glen again. This time, he sought out the distant horizon and the dark gray line of the Irish Sea that stretched across it. Too far and too small to be seen from where he stood, Eilean Gheata rose from the waves, its sole occupant another MacRoth.
Hamish frowned, trying to remember how long it had been since his uncle last visited Glenross. Several weeks, at least. Mind, he knew Ninian enjoyed his seclusion, happily putting ink to parchment, recording the tales of his past travels. Even so, given Hamish’s recent inexplicable restlessness, it might be well to check on the finicky old soul. Make sure everything was all right. He fiddled with the ring and thought of the restless stallion at the foot of the hill.
“Tomorrow,” he murmured. “I’ll visit him tomorrow.”
He wandered around the stones a while longer, taking time to reflect and meditate as he shared a few quiet words with the old gods. At last, spirit renewed, he stepped out of the silence, this time to the familiar cry of the eagle. Hamish gazed up at the bird, trying to imagine what the glen looked like from such a height. Then he followed the trail down to where his horse awaited and clambered into the saddle.
He took a longer path back to the castle, keeping the still-skittish stallion at a steady canter. By the time man and horse trotted into the courtyard of Caisteal MacRoth, the beast had calmed. Jacob, the stable lad, obviously hearing the sound of hooves on the cobbles, came out to greet Hamish.
“How did ye find him?” he asked, taking the reins as Hamish dismounted.
“He’s grand.” Hamish patted the horse’s sleek neck. “Comin’ along verra well. Plenty o’ spirit.”
“Good tae hear.” Jacob cleared his throat. “Er, ye have a visitor, Laird. Arrived about an hour ago.”
“A visitor?” Hamish raised his brows. “And who might that be?”
“I did no’ get a name, Laird. ’Twas Rob who said tae tell ye the man is waitin’ fer ye in yer chambers.”
“Right.” Intrigued, Hamish headed indoors. The remote location of Glenross, and the difficult access to it, meant that visitors were few and far between. As he approached the door to his chambers, he heard voices within. One belonged to Rob, the deep rumbling tone easily recognizable. The other belonged to a stranger. And neither was speaking Gaelic. It sounded like French.
An odd little chill brushed across Hamish’s neck as he entered the room.
“Och, here he is!” Rob stood, as did the man seated beside him. “Laird, this is Sir Bertrand FitzGerald, recently arrived from France. Sir Bertrand, this is the Laird of Glenross, Hamish MacRoth.”
Hamish felt his hackles rise as he swept a critical glance over the Frenchman, whose raised chin seemed to imply arrogance. “All the way from France, ye say? ’Tis a fair walk, that.”
Rob sputtered and Bertrand looked puzzled. “I did not walk from France, Laird MacRoth,” he said. “I came by ship. Well, it is more of a boat, in truth.”
&nbs
p; Hamish gestured to the window. “So ye landed at yon harbor?”
“I did.”
“Well, now. I swear I canna remember the last time a foreign vessel arrived on my shore.” Hamish folded his arms and assumed a bemused expression. “And by what means did ye come tae this door thereafter? Surely ye did no’ walk tae Glenross.”
“I have not walked from anywhere.” The Frenchman reddened and regarded Hamish with obvious irritation. “I paid a local man to bring me here by wagon. A most uncomfortable and overpriced ride, too, I might add. The man never stopped talking the entire time. Not that I understood a single word that came out of his mouth.”
Brow raised, Hamish looked at Rob.
“Dougal,” Rob said, mouth twitching.
“Ah.” Hamish smiled. “Aye, Dougal is a canny, auld soul, fer sure, and a wee bit chatty. So, Sir Bertrand, since ye’ve gone tae all this trouble tae get here by ship and by wagon, I reckon ye must have some mighty important story tae tell. Ye should know, afore ye begin tae tell it, that I dinna care much fer the political horseplay presently takin’ place between our two countries. I dinna know who sent ye, but if ye’re here tae propose some kind o’ superficial allegiance between us, ye’ll be wastin’ yer time.”
Bertrand shook his head. “Oh, no, Laird MacRoth. I assure you, my visit is of a personal nature, not political. I’m here at the request of my liege lord, whose poor health prevented him from making the journey himself. Regrettably, I fear one of my questions has already been answered.”
Hamish blinked. “Has it now? Strange, that. I dinna remember ye askin’, nor me replyin’. So, who do ye speak fer? May I know the man’s name?”
“Of course.” Bertrand gave a humorless smile. “May we sit? I do, indeed, have a tale to tell and it may take a little while.”
Something in the man’s tone sobered Hamish’s escalating sense of irritation. He nodded to the chair. “Please,” he said, seating himself opposite.
Rob cleared his throat. “Shall I stay, Laird?”
Hamish looked at Bertrand. “Is yer wee tale a private one?”
Bertrand shook his head. “Not really. In truth, it might be better to have someone else here, given the nature of what I’m about to relate.”
A flutter of apprehension stirred in the pit of Hamish’s stomach. “Off ye go then, Sir Bertrand,” he said. “We’re waitin’.”
Bertrand drew a breath. “Approximately two months ago, a ship – the Marguerite – left the port of Boulogne. On board was a knight by the name of Luc de Warenne. Does that name mean anything to you, Laird MacRoth?”
“Nay.” Hamish shrugged. “Should it?”
“I hoped it might.” Bertrand grimaced and tugged at his collar. “The knight was chosen to escort and protect a young noblewoman and her maid on an arranged voyage. Their final destination was a remote valley in western Scotland. This one, to be specific. Less than a day’s ride from the fishing port where they were due to land. The same harbor where I, myself, landed this morning.”
“I see. Nay, actually, I dinna see at all.” Hamish scratched his jaw. “I’ll have ye know, Sir Bertrand, that I’m a verra patient man.” Rob gave an exaggerated cough and Hamish threw him a dark glance. “But,” he continued, “I confess tae be feelin’ a wee bit confused by this strange tale o’ yers. Who is this young noble lass ye speak of? Who never arrived here, by the way.”
“And therein lies the dilemma.” Bertrand took a kerchief from his pocket and dabbed his sweating forehead. “My liege lord is Sir Henri Philippe de Courtenay. The young woman is, or was, his illegitimate niece, Giselle Therese de Courtenay. I must assume, since she never arrived at Glenross, that the poor girl – and her unfortunate maid – were lost at sea on their way here.”
Henri de Courtenay’s niece? Hamish stopped breathing and gripped the arms of the chair. His heart, snared in some kind of icy trap, beat louder than a battle drum in his ears.
“Laird?” Rob’s voice echoed through the whirlwind of disbelief and confusion in Hamish’s head. “Laird? Are ye quite well? By all the gods, ye’ve turned whiter than—”
“Her mother’s name.” Hamish’s voice shook. “Tell me her mother’s name.”
“I believe it will be known to you,” Bertrand replied. “Her mother’s name was Isabeau Marie de Courtenay.”
“Was?” Hamish leaned forward and swallowed against another hard thrust of shock. “Wait. I thought I heard ye say was, but I believe ye meant tae say is. Her mother’s name is.”
Bertrand shook his head. “I’m afraid you heard me correctly, Laird MacRoth. Sadly, Lady Isabeau succumbed to a fever earlier this year.”
“Ach, nay, ye bastard, dinna say that.” Hamish pushed himself to his feet and stumbled to the window. “Say aught else, but please, dinna say that.”
Grief tightened around his neck like a noose. He looked out across the loch, seeing only Isabeau’s face. To hear such news after she’d been so much in his thoughts and dreams of late. Was this the reason for his recent moods? Had he sensed her passing, somehow? Had her spirit reached out to him after all these years?
With that thought came another harsh realization, one that swooped down on Hamish’s shattered heart like a vulture. He turned away from the window, wiping a puzzling trail of wetness from his cheeks. He looked at the sheen on his fingers, unable to make sense of it.
“Illegitimate,” he heard himself say. “Why would ye make mention o’ that? Are ye tellin’ me…? Ah Christ, I canna believe this. Are ye tellin’ me the wee lass was mine?”
Bertrand inclined his head. “Lady Isabeau would never say who the girl’s father was. Only at the end did she speak your name. It was her dying wish that Giselle be sent to you.”
“I had a daughter?” The room seemed to tilt. “And ye’re tellin’ me she’s dead, too? Ach, nay, this is beyond me. I canna grasp it.”
Rob appeared at Hamish’s side and took hold of his arm. “Sit yerself down,” he said, dropping into his native Gaelic. “Do ye hear me, Hamish? Sit down afore ye fall down.”
“Why did she no’ tell me, Rob?” He flopped back into the chair. “I’d have gone back fer her. Taken care o’ her. Taken care o’ them both. By all the gods, why? Why did she say naught?”
Bertrand cleared his throat. “I’m truly sorry for your loss, Laird MacRoth,” he said. “Lord de Courtenay prayed Luc de Warenne might have been delayed somehow, had perhaps decided to stay here a while, helping Lady Giselle to settle into her home. He even wondered if the ship might have been lost on its return voyage to France, leaving Lady Giselle safely with you. In any case, as the weeks went by, it became quite apparent something had gone wrong. Our enquiries at Boulogne confirmed that the Marguerite never returned.”
“I’ll… I’ll send out some men.” Hamish rubbed his forehead, trying to loosen the taut band of pain stretched between his temples. “Make some enquiries along the coast. See if anyone knows anythin’. Saw anythin’. Found anythin’.”
Bertrand sniffed. “With respect, sir, I fear you’d be wasting your time. The ship could have foundered anywhere between here and Boulogne. The odds of finding any remains are—”
Hamish shot to his feet again. “Well, I have tae do somethin’, ye daft French pillicock! I owe that much, at least, tae her poor mother. And tae m’self. By my cursed soul, I canna rest knowin’ I didna at least try tae find out what happened tae our child.” He turned to Rob and dropped into Gaelic. “Dispatch six of our best men. If the ship foundered off the Scottish coast, it’d likely be tae the south, so have them search that way first. They need tae question the fisher-folk who live along the shore. I want tae know if anyone recently found wreckage of any kind. Or if anyone saw anythin’ strange out on the water. Anythin’ at all.”
“Aye, Laird. I’ll see tae it right away.” Rob nodded toward the Frenchman. “What of him? Will he be stayin’?”
“Is yer boat waitin’ fer ye?” Hamish asked Bertrand. For some reason, the man’s presence felt akin to
a pebble in Hamish’s boot. “Do ye need a ride back tae the harbor?”
Bertrand frowned. “Well, Laird MacRoth, since you’re resolved to conduct this search, I’d like to stay a while if it’s all the same to you. Indeed, I’d feel more comfortable returning to France knowing that at least some kind of effort has been made to discover what happened to Lady Giselle. The results of it will be something to report to Sir Henri. Perhaps help him to come to terms with the truth. The boatmaster who brought me knows he may have to wait a few days.”
“Fine,” Hamish said, not meaning it. “Rob, find Maggie on yer way out and ask her tae put our guest in the west tower room, will ye?”
“The tower room?” Rob raised a brow. “As ye wish.”
“If ye’ll excuse me, Sir Bertrand, there are things needin’ my attention.” Hamish managed a tight smile. “I’ll leave ye in Maggie’s capable hands. She’ll see tae yer needs.”
Bertrand nodded and rose to his feet. “And you’ll keep me informed of any new developments, I trust?”
The hint of skepticism in the man’s voice had Hamish clenching his teeth. More painful, though, was the justification behind it. The chance of finding any trace of the Marguerite was beyond unlikely.
“Aye,” he replied. “I’ll keep ye informed.”
*
“Once again, I barely slept all night, Laird MacRoth, hence my shameful and uncharacteristic lateness. I really must insist you move me to a different chamber. I keep hearing some very disturbing noises in the one I presently occupy.”
Hamish lifted his weary head and squinted up at Bertrand FitzGerald’s flushed face.
“Could it be somethin’ ye ate, perhaps?”
Bertrand turned a deeper red. “Certainly not. And with respect, sir, I find your sad attempts at humor unseemly, given the regrettable circumstances of our current situation.” He settled himself beside Hamish and reached for an oatcake. “In France, we tend to handle grief with a little more decorum.”
The Frenchman’s raised voice carried and a hush fell over the already somber crowd in the great hall.
Isolated Hearts (Legends of Love Book 2) Page 16