by Temple Hogan
Logan actually threw back his head and laughed. “You please me more each day, wife.” He paused and cast a sly grin her way. “And every night.”
“Oh, you will not let me forget that,” she fumed.
“Nay, because I can’t forget the sweet passion between us. I look forward to sharing many more such nights.”
“Then you shall be disappointed,” she said and pulled Balvenie’s reins so Logan rode ahead of her.
They moved like silent wraiths in the damp mist. Cailla’s head ached abominably and her stomach growled with the need for breakfast. She wondered how Logan was faring, then angrily shoved the thought aside. He was stubborn, autocratic, and rough. If he could stay on his horse, then good for him. If he couldn’t, then his men could tend to him. Still, worry for him nagged at her.
As the terrain became more rugged, they often dismounted and climbed on foot, urging their horses up steep narrow paths. She could see Logan’s tall figure walking ahead with his cousin, Duncan. Sometimes he clung to Kermichil’s side, but stubbornly refused to ride his horse up the steep slopes. Finally, they topped a rise and gazed down into a broad mountain valley, its stony floor carpeted in a brilliant green grass and wild flowers that grew in shallow crevices. The hillsides were a patchwork of color with blooming yarrow and sweet purple heather. The mist had burned away and the pale-blue sky was endless, the alpine glow on the distant peaks dazzling.
A stone, thatch-roofed hut nestled into the side of the mountain, with a byre and other outbuildings spreading out on either side. Stone fences divided neat pastures where lambs and cattle grazed contentedly. The slanting sun cast waves of color over all while a crisp wind brought the unique fragrance of highland heather, a scent like no other. She sat looking at the idyllic scene and wondering about Tioram. She thought of its beloved walls and the people who had dwelled there. Suddenly Logan’s hand fell on her shoulder. His eyes were feverish, his face creased with pain. Still, he had gentle words for her.
“Take heart, lass,” he said gruffly. “We all have wrongs to right and we must believe our day will come again. Cease your weeping.”
“I’m not crying!” she declared haughtily as she wiped at her wet cheeks. Her spine stiffened automatically and her chin raised an inch or two. “I never cry.”
“I’m grateful for that, m’lady. Your sharp tongue is infinitely preferred to a lady’s tears.” His hand remained on her arm, his very touch softening his words of wit. She didn’t rise to the bait, but cast him a grateful look.
“You’re a bonny lass. I’m honored to have you as my wife,” he said and removed his hand. She wished he hadn’t.
“I’d hoped for a different home coming. ‘Tis years since I’ve seen Cluny and I’ve a longing to ride into her bailey and sit in the great hall near the fire while my mother fusses over me and servants fill my cup with honeyed mead.” He paused as if to shake away the dreams while he viewed the humble cottage. “We’ll be safe here for a while and yonder in that wee little dwelling awaits the comforts of a soft bed, a warm fire and hot food. Enough for me to view it with nearly as much love as I feel for Cluny Castle.”
“It looks nearly as good as Tioram,” Cailla admitted.
“I wonder if Old Tam is still alive after all these years?” Logan mused. “If Tam is not, his daughter, Maggie, will be.” He answered his own question. He glanced at Cailla.
“You’ll like Maggie,” he said, a smile curving his lips. “Wild, sweet Maggie. She’ll be full-grown now.”
Cailla felt a ripple of something akin to jealousy for wild, sweet Maggie.
“Will they welcome us?” she asked worriedly, the thought of spending another cold night on the ground more hateful than she could endure.
“Have no fear about that,” Logan answered. “Old Tam is a good fellow and Maggie is but a wee thing with a sassy tongue and a good heart. They’ll not turn us away.”
“Old Tam has no love of Cromwell’s Convenators,” he declared with satisfaction. “They’d welcome us if for no other reason than that we fought the English devils.” He stood up in his saddle, peering down on the farm. “Look, they have cattle. I’m reckoning they’ll share a head with us. I’ve a powerful hunger for beefstik. Ah, but as I recall, Maggie drives a hard bargain.” His fevered weariness seemed to have fallen away. His features were bright with anticipation. He glanced at Cailla.
“Then let’s be at it,” he cried recklessly and sent his Highland pony galloping pell-mell down the steep slope toward the cottage.
With that, she dug her heels into Balvenie’s sides and raced down the hill after him. His laughter floated back to her and she had a different image of the man she’d considered harsh and uncaring. He nudged Kermichil who eagerly sprinted over the stony ground. When they came to a halt in the barnyard of the loft, she saw he was laughing although his lips were ringed with a fine white line and his eyes were dark with pain. Still he would not give way to the malaise that bedeviled him.
“Never underestimate a MacPherson, m’lady,” he said as if he’d read her concern.
Without waiting for a reply, he threw back his shaggy head and yodeled the MacPherson war cry. He seemed young and carefree, not at all the driven, unrelenting man he’d been thus far. His yodel was answered in kind by his men who charged down the slope behind them. Men and beast were rejuvenated by the knowledge that their long journey was at an end, at least for a time. Thus, they arrived in the farmyard amid a steaming cauldron of heated horseflesh and boisterous McPhersons with ruddy faces and glowing eyes that shown with purpose and renewed dedication.
A young woman a year or two younger than Cailla threw open the door. Her eyes were a startlingly blue in her thin brown face, her vibrant black hair tumbled untamed around her slim shoulders and her white teeth flashed in a smile as she stepped into the farmyard and faced them. She was dressed in a coarse homespun gown of dark plaid with a white triangular cloth thrown over her shoulders and tucked into a belt at her tiny waist. She’d bunched up her skirts to avoid the muddy farmyard and her slim ankles flashed daintily beneath her hem. She carried herself boldly, her full breasts and rounded hips thrusting forward with an easy sensuality that few ladies would show so openly.
“Here you, what are you about?” cried an old man, hobbling from the low roofed byre, a scythe clasped in his gnarly hands. Though outnumbered, his pale piercing glare swept fearlessly around the ragged band of clansmen.
“Old Tam, don’t you recognize me?” Logan called, sliding painfully from his saddle and limping forward to throw his arms around the old man’s frail shoulders.
“‘Tis the Laird. Maggie, girl,” Tam Hardy said, face beaming as he gleefully pounded Logan’s shoulders.
Logan winched with pain but answered the old man’s embrace with equal fervor.
“‘Tis Logan himself, Maggie.”
“Aye, father, and don’t I see him now?” the girl replied in a soft sultry tone, while her glance took in every inch of Logan’s appearance. One hand was anchored against a hip and her body swayed slightly while her eyes issued a blatant invitation.
“And did you let the English wound you now, Logan? Have you lost your strength and agility to be caught thus?”
“Maggie, you minx,” Logan called, his hearty tone forced. He grabbed hold of her waist and tossed her high in the air although the effort left him pale.
“See how wounded I am!” he challenged.
She fell into his arms in a swirl of petticoats and bare brown feet. The neck of her bodice slipped to one side revealing one brown curving shoulder. Her eyes laughed up at Logan while one slender arm went around his neck and pulled his head down for her kiss.
Logan’s men grinned at this ardent display. Each face displayed a yearning to be embraced by Maggie Hardy. Finally, they looked away, blinking their eyes against unshed tears as they were obviously seized by the memories of sweethearts and wives left behind.
When the kiss ended, Maggie laughed breathlessly, her smile dazzling. No c
oyness here, Cailla thought and wondered why she felt such instant dislike for the girl. God knew she had no designs on such a shaggy, unkempt man as Logan MacPherson despite the night they’d spent together. Still she found such uninhibited boldness cause for irritation. To make matters worse, Logan released her with a slap on her backside that brought a hoot of laughter from her.
“Fetch me a cold drink from that well, wench” he ordered.
“Fetch it yourself, you great lout,” she retorted and grinned at the guffawing on-lookers.
When her gaze fell on Cailla, her wide grin faded. Hands on hips, she sauntered over to stare boldly at this newcomer in their midst, the curl of her lip denoting her opinion of Cailla’s travel weary guard’s uniform.
“Is’t a lad or a lassie?” she cried derisively and when she did not receive the expected laughing response from the men, drew her black brows low over her eyes.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
“Lady Cailla MacLaren.” Cailla made no effort to keep the haughtiness from her demeanor.
This loose, coarse crofter’s daughter needed to be put in her place. Maggie was having none of it.
“Ooo, m’lady, indeed,” she mimicked, acting out a little charade for the watching men who remained unaccountably unresponsive. Frowning at her failure to draw them into her cruel taunting, she pouted and whirled on Cailla, prepared to launch still more barbs.
“Curb your tongue, Maggie,” Logan admonished gently, yet his tone brooked no rebuttal. “‘Tis my bride you’re speaking to, Lady Cailla MacPherson. She’ll be sharing your room for a few days.” He turned to Tam Hardy. “Lundy and his men are looking for us to return to Cluny Castle. We dare not go there, just yet. Can you find room for us here, Tam?”
“Aye, always room for the Laird and his good fighting men,” the old man answered. “Come down off your horseflesh and make yourselves t’home. We’ll hide your horses in the winter pastures farther up so they’ll not be seen from below. There’s fresh hay in the byre so your men and I will sleep there. You and your lady wife can have my bed.”
“You’re a good man, Tam. We’ve a need for a good bed.”
Maggie, who had stood pouting, glared at Cailla.
“You can have my mine, Logan,” she said. “I’ll sleep in the byre with Da.”
“Nay, lass. I’ll share a bed with my bride and you’ll keep your bed in the cottage as is proper for an unwed lass.” Logan flashed her a grin. “I wouldn’t trust my men with a lass like you.”
Maggie pushed her lower lip out provocatively while she gazed up at Logan from beneath lowered lashes. Cailla had seen some serving woman use their body in such seductive ways before and felt embarrassed at their conspicuous behavior. Her lips tightened in disapproval of Maggie’s brazenness until she glanced at Logan and saw the amusement that danced in his dark eyes. She gritted her teeth. He was all too aware of Maggie’s unspoken invitation but continued to treat her like a big brother or a kindly uncle.
Disgruntled, she turned away, disgusted that a man such as he could turn on the charm so easily. His laughter mingling with Maggie’s followed her as she entered the humble cottage. An ancient curse, once heard uttered by her father, came to her lips and if she had chosen to utter it, Logan MacPherson would have been felled by some unseen force and laid prostrate upon the ground. It would serve him right if she did so.
She turned her attention to the interior of the croft and grudgingly had to admit it was not unpleasant with its soot-coated rafters gleaming as black as polished stone and its cozy hearth merry with a blazing peat fire. The sturdy handmade plenishings though sparse were adequate with a rough round table made of a single cut from a large tree and low chairs with wicker-worked seats and plain backs.
Against the wall sat a large wooden chest with a cloth spread across it and several pieces of knick-knacks neatly displayed while an open dresser held two racks of plain, sturdy dishes and an assortment of wooden bowls. Ladles and drinking cups filled the rest of the dresser top while beneath sat large red clay cnaggans, containers used for holding milk and oil as well as a staved milk churn and polished wooden egg-stands, which could hold up to a dozen eggs.
Proudly displayed on the wall beside the fireplace was a wooden saltbox and a leaf shaped cruisie, a shallow dish of thin hammered iron in which mutton fat could be burned to supplement the light from the fire. Cailla knew fire candles consisting of knots of pinewood buried in peat moss were the normal mode of lighting for the humble folk.
Maggie had entered the room behind her and stood silently watching her as if gauging her reaction.
“‘Tis cozy you’ve made it, Maggie,” Cailla said softly, “and never have I seen a room more clean.”
The girl shrugged and tossed her black hair back from her face, but she looked pleased at Cailla’s words and her manner softened perceptively.
A kettle of barley and mutton stew bubbled on the fire, causing Cailla to swallow against an urgent hunger.
“I’ve plenty for everyone,” Maggie said behind her and for a moment Cailla thought the highland girl spoke to her until she turned and saw Logan and the other men file into the room.
There was not room for everyone, but that seemed not to bother Maggie, who took down what bowls she had and began dishing up the savory stew. Amidst boisterous laughter, the bowls were passed along the line to those waiting outside. Cailla licked her lips and watched as the contents of the cauldron steadily diminished.
Finally Maggie handed her a bowl. Eagerly Cailla reached for it, only to have Maggie, grinning impudently, whisk it away for someone else. Cailla’s pride flared and she turned away. She would not eat this woman’s food if she died of starvation. Still, her stomach roiled at the rasp of the spoon against the bottom of the pot as Maggie filled the last bowl and handed it to Logan.
“I’ve saved you the best of the meat,” she said prettily.
“Aye, you’re an angel of mercy.” Logan smiled his thanks then looked at Cailla. “You have no food,” he said in some surprise.
“I’m not hungry,” she said sullenly, sticking her nose in the air.
Logan regarded her silently, his glance going to the empty kettle, which had been lifted away from the fire now. His lips tightened in anger. Slowly he crossed the room and settled on a bench near the fire.
“Come, eat with me,” he said and pulled Cailla down on the bench beside him.
“Nay, I have no stomach for such simple fare.”
“Humph! M’lady is too persnickety. Let her starve then,” Maggie cried shrilly.
Logan used the point of his knife to spear out a juicy morsel of meat and extended it to Cailla. “Eat,” he commanded.
She wanted to challenge his imperious command, but the meat dangled before her nose, succulent and moist with drippings of gravy falling back into the bowl.
“Open your mouth,” he ordered coaxingly and she obeyed, her small white teeth biting into the hunk of meat.
Gravy rimmed her lips as she chewed and tried not to groan with pleasure. Her small pointed tongue laved the gravy from her lips. Logan watched her intently, a half smile on his face.
Despite her anger at Maggie, she had to admit the girl could cook. She leaned forward to nip away yet another bite of meat the size of which she was sure bulged her cheek unbecomingly, but she chewed with shameless pleasure anyway. She even took up the wooden spoon and ferreted out a bit of carrot. She ate with relish, dipping into the bowl and licking her fingers until finally she glanced at Logan’s amused face and blushed with embarrassment. His eyes were dark and smoldering with strange lights that brought heat to her cheeks and a gasp to her lips.
“I-I’m afraid I’ve eaten more than I should,” she said softly and placed the wooden spoon back into the bowl.
“No matter,” he answered. “Have more if you’ve a need.”
“No, you must eat, too,” she exclaimed, pushing the bowl toward him. “You’re wounded and need to eat to regain your strength. I’m quite full
now.” She brushed her hands along her slim waist as if truly too full to take another bite.
“Would you have me grow well again only to take my life?” he mocked her. “I thought you were set on my death for taking you from Tioram.”
His low voice resonated with emotions she couldn’t fathom and his eyes hypnotized her so she couldn’t turn away. The heat of the fire tinged her cheeks with hot color and robbed her of air.
“And so I shall, if you try to stop me,” she snapped. “Though I’d have no man starve, I prefer you once again feel the bite of my blade.” Her eyes narrowed with resolve.
Logan threw back his head and laughed. “Aye, lass, you’ve a stout heart beneath that bitter tongue.”
Chapter Ten
He’d not finished his bowl of stew after all but set it aside with hands that trembled slightly. He tightened them into fists as if to hide his weakness.
“‘Tis only the food and the promise of a real bed that softens my tongue,” she replied sternly, refusing to feel any sympathy for him or regret that she’d added to his wounds. “Don’t expect the same consideration tomorrow. Nothing has changed between us.”
He chuckled then sobered, the planes of his face etched deep with pain. “I feared it was so. You’re bent on thinking the worst of me, lass, that I’ve kidnapped you for my own evil purposes.”
“I don’t know what to believe,” she said reluctantly. “I have only your word that my father betrothed me to you and the word of a man who has pledged his loyalties to you. How can I trust his avowal any more than yours?”
He remained silent for a long moment then sighed. “You are indeed your father’s daughter,” he said wearily. His face had gone pale and beads of sweat stood on his brow, whether from their close proximity to the fire or from some inner fever she wasn’t sure, but his next words erased any concern she’d begun to feel for him.
“Gowain said you were stubborn and willful.”
“He never!” she cried, leaping to her feet, stung that her father might have criticized her so and to Logan MacPherson of all people. “You are a liar and a…blackguard and a—”