“He isn’t joking,” Duncan replied.
She glared at her husband. “I’ll never get this,” she announced and stomped out of the hall to the sound of their guffaws.
Duncan waited until he heard the shuffling of her feet up the castle stairs.
“The Camerons are plotting,” Duncan started, rubbing his hand across his angular jaw.
“Malcolm said there was a great deal of activity in and out of the castle and mercenaries have been arriving from France.”
Duncan stared off into the distance. “I want no mention of this around Ailsa. She’s starting to find her place.”
Caelan nodded. “My lady does get a little dejected when Niall pays her no attention.”
“I want to command Niall to like her but he needs to accept her on his own. Have you realized that she hasn’t been clumsy lately?”
“Aye.” Caelan drained his goblet. “Which is a good thing for her, I truly thought the lass wouldn’t survive two days.”
“She’s stronger than she thinks.”
The servants came in and began setting the tables for supper so the two men rose to their feet. “Caelan, we’ll speak of this later once Lachlan returns.”
* * * *
In the solar, Ailsa checked the linen warp threads wrapped around the loom. Her subject matter had been drawn with careful attention to detail and all was ready. Winding the indigo yarn around, she forced her excitement back down. This one would be her finest work and every detail must receive her whole regard so it could grace the hall.
A knock interrupted her work. Hector poked his head around the door before coming in. His dark feathery hair was mussed as though he ran his hands through it repeatedly.
“Everyone is behaving odd.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Especially Moira. I don’t know what has come over her. Do you know why she is behaving like this?”
Instead of speaking a falsehood, which was a sin that would send her right to the fiery pits of hell, she decided not to answer unless pressed. Because otherwise, she would have to break an oath to Moira never to share her feelings for Hector. But isn’t an omission a lie as well? Ailsa chose not to explore that thought.
“Have you asked her if anything is troubling her?” Her hands picked up speed as she wrapped the wool yarn around the bobbin.
Hector plopped into the chair before the hearth. “Nay. She might snap at me. I’m truly confused.”
She dropped the yarn into a wooden bowl at her feet to help Hector realize his love for Moira. “What seems to be wrong with her?”
“Lately, she’s been behaving different. She acts as though she’s vexed by my mere company and has to pretend to like me. Her wide smiles are fake and her eyes lose that gleam.” He paused, remembering how Moira looked at that moment. “She laughs too brightly as though she pities me. I catch her frustrated looks she doesn’t realize I see. It’s as though she doesn’t care for me any longer.” Hector’s calm demeanor vanished, replaced by panic that hitched his breathing. “I can’t lose her.”
The pain of such possibility shadowed his face. He loved her. Their relationship evolved beyond friendship and blossomed into love. It must be in the MacLean blood or maybe men altogether since Ailsa was learning men are dense when it comes to love.
“So what is your plan?”
He blinked at her. “My plan?”
“Everything needs a plan otherwise you don’t know how to prepare.” She clapped her hands together, pleased she shared her wisdom with him.
“I guess I’ll come up with one.”
“Make sure you do because then you will succeed. But you said everyone is acting weird.” Did Ailsa hope Duncan realized he loved her? A part of her did.
“Niall is in the hall sleeping in your chair.”
“Oh, I saw him earlier practicing with his spear. He’s probably so tired and hungry he decided to stay in the hall so he wouldn’t miss the meal.”
Hector laughed. “Most likely. I need to think of a plan.”
Ailsa returned to her work on the tapestry while Hector strained to concoct a plan. Until he realized Moira loved him and only his love would bring her happiness, his plans were doomed to failure. Ailsa smiled because they loved each other and once aware, both would be in rapture.
Ailsa wished to have the same.
“That is very fine work.” He bent over and peered closer at the barely completed tapestry. “Is that Duncan?”
Pride straightened her back. “Aye, do you think I’ve captured him?”
He nodded. “All but the primroses in his hair.” Hector stood upright.
She waggled her finger back and forth. “Those symbolize his softer, gentler side. Generations to come will gaze upon this and be in awe of him.”
He thought future MacLeans would have a good laugh. “Ah.” He marveled at her work for a few minutes before excusing himself. “I shall leave you to your work.”
Ailsa became lost in her task, in and out then combing down the yarns. As she weaved the colorful yarns, Niall popped into her mind, a child with boundless energy who never slept unless forced by his brothers.
A nagging notion filled her thoughts. She went downstairs to the great hall. Trestle tables were set up ready for her kinsmen to file in for their meal. The spicy scents wafting from the kitchens should rouse Niall from his slumber. The intoxicating scent even had her stomach, as Niall would say, roaring like a wolf.
Spotting Niall’s head drooped to the side as his nut-brown locks brushed the chair’s arm, she hunched down before him. The castle hounds lifted their heads and sniffed the air. Since Ailsa had no treats, they returned to their nap.
“Niall,” she whispered. Brushing his hair from his face, his eyes cracked open. Ailsa knew something was wrong. His eyes were clouded, unfocused. He might not even see her though she was inches from his face. She cupped his chin in her hand and felt his burning skin. His breathing was ragged as he struggled for each breath.
“Someone get the laird,” she yelled and scooped Niall into her arms. Running from the hall, she went straight to her chamber and laid Niall on the bed.
Moira rushed into the room as Ailsa covered Niall with a plaid. “Niall is feverish. Get me water and linens as well as the medicine jars Màiri has,” Ailsa called out the rest as Moira ran from the room. She piled plaids and furs on top of him. The bad humors needed to be flushed from his body and sweat was the only way to balance his body. She knelt at the bed. Her hand constantly touched his brow, hoping she had erred but she hadn’t.
Servants rushed in, bringing everything Ailsa demanded. Niall’s feverish head peeked out from the blankets Ailsa piled on his childish frame.
Duncan burst into the room moments later between servants lugging in water. “What—”
Ailsa looked over her shoulder as she stayed at Niall’s side. “He is feverish.” She rose and began setting out the herbs needed against his sickness.
A path cleared as Duncan went to his brother’s side. He laid his large palm on Niall’s brow. “He’s burning.” He raised his fisted hand to his mouth.
Ailsa began mixing the herbs, adding water when needed. She stirred quicker with every whimper slipping from Niall.
“Build up the fire. I want it hotter than Hades in here and fill the water basin,” Ailsa ordered.
“Once that is done, set up the third chamber to these same standards,” Duncan said to Moira.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Ailsa lifted Niall’s head, resting it against her chest. His heat scorched her, making her perspire. She wanted to weep for this little boy in the powerful throes of illness.
Drop by drop, she dribbled the foul smelling liquid down him. “It will help with the fever.” Some of the remedy dripped from the sides of his mouth. She wiped it away and slowly forced more down his throat.
“Niall’s strong. He’ll be well,” Duncan said, stepping to her side. She didn’t know if his words were for him or her. Probably both.
Hector rushed i
nto the room, stopping at the threshold. “I heard…” He lumbered to the edge of the bed, gripping the bedpost so tightly his knuckles whitened. “I can help.” She placed the empty goblet on the floor.
“Please dip the cloths in water and place them on his brow.” Hector needed to help for his own comfort. “Make sure it stays cool.”
Niall bucked against the cool cloth Duncan pinned down his thrashing legs. She whispered words in a motherly tone to calm him. His hoarse childish voice mumbled incoherently. With each word, tears built up and choked her. She gulped them back.
“He bathed.” She handed Hector the cloth for him to dampen it again. “Duncan, I’m the reason he is ill.”
Everyone froze. Moira frowned, her blue eyes dull with pity. Hector and she turned to the laird, silently imploring him to comfort her. “You are not. He has swum in the lochan at the height of winter. This is not your fault.”
She placed a comforting kiss upon his scorching cheek, her lips almost burned as waves of heat crashed into her. “Duncan, it’s my fault. I shall never make him bathe again.”
“My mother is sending broth for him,” Moira said. “It’ll help lower his fever. Should I have a tray prepared for you my lady?”
She was about to refuse when Duncan cut in, “Yes Moira.” He pinned Ailsa with his keen gaze. “You will eat,” Duncan ordered. His mouth became a thin slash then slackened and he pulled her into his arms. “If you become ill, who will care for Niall?”
Duncan was correct. She had to keep her health for Niall’s wellbeing.
* * * *
The meal was a subdued affair. Ailsa’s empty chair loomed large in the hall, drawing every pair of eyes. News of Niall’s sickness traveled throughout the clan. Prayers and cures were offered but his kinsfolk breathed easier knowing Ailsa watched over him. Every MacLean believed she could save him.
Duncan watched Moira carry a tray upstairs for Ailsa and his gut twisted. Niall couldn’t die. He almost ripped off the chair’s armrest. The memories of Niall newly born, resembling a wrinkly old man, red and bald with a gusty cry that shook the castle walls, flashed in his mind, drawing a sheepish smile from him. His first introduction to his little brother awed him. That little human was in his mother. She had him touch her belly when the little one kicked. She had asked him what he wanted to name him. When Hector was born, Duncan wasn’t impressed by him, actually he was bored and wanted his father’s attention back on him.
With Niall’s birth, Duncan was different, a man secure in his position who knew he must care for the little one. And his wonderment with Niall never faded till this day. He found himself still surprised by his mundane actions like walking. He remembered Niall taking his first tottering steps to the cheers of the clan only for him to fall on his bottom and chuckle, a pearly tooth peeking out. He remembered Niall building his strength with the men and vowing he’d be the best warrior the MacLean clan every bred.
Niall had to be well for no other reason than Duncan demanded it.
Duncan should have watched him better. He was a child without the gentle hand of a woman. He had taken pride in Niall. Nothing more than a boy, he wielded his sword, he trained with the men. He would be a great MacLean warrior. Ballads would be sung about him.
But there was a chance no man would fall under his sword, the ballads never written. Once the hall cleared, Duncan sprawled in the seat Ailsa declared his and stared unseeing into the flames flickering in the hearth. No one disturbed him, abandoning him to his thoughts. Hector settled beside him. The MacLean brothers never said a word.
He spied Moira crossing the hall with the tray in her hands. “Did she eat?” Duncan rose and met Moira under the arch, dividing the great hall in half.
“She barely touched it but she swears she cannot take another bite.”
“And Niall?” Worry shook Hector’s words.
She shrugged. “He is still fretful and as hot as ever but my lady is by his side.” Tears gathered in her eyes.
“He will be well, Moira,” Duncan said, earning a nod of agreement from Hector.
“The lad can’t be anything but,” Moira replied before heading into the kitchen.
Not able to withstand the thickening silence, Duncan headed to the ramparts. He nodded to his kinsmen guarding the castle on his way to the northwestern edge of the rampart, hidden from sight but with a view of the lands surrounding him. The full moon lit up the sweeping MacLean lands, dappling the earth with pale glowing beams. Wisps of smoke filtered from the clachan. The cadence of the night broke the silence. But Duncan paid no mind to them until he heard the cry from the western patrol.
While the castle guards gave the signal, Duncan sprinted down the ramparts, through the back stairs and past the kitchen. Bursting through the door, he came into the courtyard and saw his kinsmen already mounted. Lachlan tossed him his broadsword. He swung onto his mount. Men followed him out the postern gate, the quickest way to the western border.
Galloping through the village, some men joined them, running to keep up while other clansmen remained behind to protect in case of attack.
Shaggy cattle scattered as the horses raced by. Duncan heard the clashing of steel before he spotted the shadowy figures of men fighting.
Duncan smirked. This was just what he needed to work off the tension tightening his body. With a war cry, he swung his sword and cut a man down. He vaulted from his horse, landing on his feet, his sword ready to cut down every attacker. Two foolish men charged him. He kicked the one charging from his right in the groin. The fool fell to the ground, dropping his sword and clutching himself. Duncan raised his sword, iron met iron as he blocked the attacker’s wide-arc swing. Duncan shoved him back and swung his sword across the gut, slicing him open. The other raiders dashed away, chased by MacLean men, barreling straight to MacKinnon land.
He stopped at the woodland border. “I needed that,” Duncan muttered when Lachlan stepped to his side. “Did they steal anything?”
Lachlan wiped his bloody sword on the plaid of a dead MacKinnon. “Nay. Patrols did as ordered. The men trailed them and gave the shout when the MacKinnon bastards started trouble.”
“They have trouble now.” Duncan flicked his chin where the raiders vanished. “Tomorrow, we strike.”
Lachlan smiled and smacked him on the back. “I love nighttime, whether I have a lovely lass in my arms or wielding my sword.”
* * * *
While Duncan fought his skirmish, Ailsa battled against Niall’s fever.
Her hands were pruned, red, and numb but she kept dipping the cloth in the water and wiping down his feverish body. She hadn’t parted from his side.
“Mama…” Niall whimpered. His eyes slit open, revealing their glossiness.
Ailsa rested her cheek against his. “Shhh, it’s Ailsa and I’m here.” She placed a motherly peck on his cheek then laid the damp cloth on his forehead.
“I miss you, mama.” He smacked his dry, cracked lips. “I’ve tried to be a good boy.”
“You are a good boy.” She ran her fingers down his chubby cheek. Her tears fell and drenched her cheeks. The raw pain in Niall’s gritty voice reminded her of her own. Too many moments to count, her loss pricked her. Every lad needed a mother’s love, that calming influence comforting and forever accepting a child through life.
“I love you, mama,” he said before his head drooped to the side.
She leaned close to his ear, feeling his hair tickle her face. “I promise to love you as a mother should.”
He never answered, not that she was expecting it. His head rolled to the side. She knew he heard her promise.
A knock on the door had her scrubbing away the wetness streaking her cheeks. After bidding entrance, Màiri stepped in, carrying a tray. “I brought him some broth. It cures every ill and I found for fevers ‘tis the best.”
“Thank you, Màiri.” She propped Niall up a bit. “We must use every weapon.” Ailsa moved out of Màiri’s way. Laying her hand on Niall’s leg, she watched M�
�iri spoon steamy broth into him. His words never vacated her mind. She wished she could erase his ache but nothing ever could and she learned that knowledge the heart-rending way. Ten years after her mother’s passing, Ailsa still grieved. “He thinks I’m his mother.”
Màiri gave her a rueful smile. “Her lost hit Niall the hardest. He was only three when she passed from this life.”
She wiped his mouth before dribbling more into his mouth. “The poor wee bairn use to sit outside the donjon from the moment he woke till someone carried him inside, waiting for her to return from heaven.”
Yearning to wrap him in her arms washed over her, instead Ailsa squeezed his leg since that was the only comfort she could offer at this moment. “He even asked Father Murray when the Lord would let her return from heaven. When Father told him never, Niall told him she belonged to him and God better let her go.”
Both women gazed lovingly down at him, cringing at his whimpers of pain. His spindly body looked small in the expansive bed. Niall was a strong boy who believed himself a warrior and this was his greatest battle. Ailsa had faith he would conquer and she was his squire.
Màiri set the bowl on the floor and dipped the linen in the water.
“I’ve been married to Duncan for months and I know nothing of her.”
“You would have liked Moibeal. Well everyone did. And I think she would have liked you.” Ailsa hoped so. “Each of her lads has her coloring. She was a sweet soul until riled then you better run for cover. The old laird did everything to stop her anger. Theirs was a love match,” Màiri chuckled at the memory.
“One time, I don’t quite remember what had happen but the old laird vexed her and she chased him through the courtyard with his own broadsword.” The shout of laughter cracked through the air, melded with the crackle of peat burning in the hearth. Ailsa pictured herself chasing Duncan with his own sword—if she were capable of lifting the weighty sword. “Then the laird died and my lady rarely smiled and laughed even less unless surrounded by her sons. Then one day, she fell ill.”
The Marriage Alliance Page 15