by Aileen Adams
Fenella would know what to say. Her sharp insight was a useful tool. He longed to pull her away from the table and ask what she thought—so long as he never revealed how soon the plan would be put in place, of course.
Sorcha entered the room to ask if everything was to their liking, propping the door open with her hip. She had taken her meal in the kitchen with the lasses who still came and went, clearing platters and replacing them for a table full of men with hearty appetites.
She did not take into account the wee lass behind her who slipped out from the kitchen and ran down the length of the table, throwing herself into her father’s arms.
Her father happened to be Rodric, who happened to be seated across from Donnan.
He tensed, his breath held. Memories of the shrieks, the wails of Bronwen’s granddaughter filled his head.
For a brief moment in the midst of eating and listening to stories and being helplessly, dizzyingly in love for the first time ever, he had forgotten his face.
Another first, as he had never done so before. Not since the day Bronwen held up a looking glass that he might take stock of himself. Every minute of his life in the years since that day had carried the knowledge that his face was that of a monster from a nightmare.
Fenella’s hand covered his, beneath the table. She squeezed hard when the curly-haired lass looked across the table.
He was a breath away from pushing back his chair and excusing himself, wondering why he’d insisted on bringing shame upon himself by dining with the others, when the child smiled. “My name is Fiona. What is your name?”
He wet his suddenly dry lips, then swallowed. “Donnan.”
Fiona looked to Fenella next. “You are wearing Mama’s dress!”
Just like that, the moment was over. The child had gone on to something else, his face forgotten—if it had ever been a concern at all.
It was only the fact that he sat among so many others which kept him upright, his back straight. He might have slumped forward otherwise, or leaned against the chair’s carved wooden back. Sheer relief flooded him, leaving his muscles loose.
And still, Fenella’s hand covered his.
After the meal and the hours of talking, Donnan was certain he would either fall asleep from boredom or from the weight of the food in his stomach.
Somehow, the relief of having been observed by a mere child and not considered a danger had given him an appetite.
It was when Rodric rose, helping Caitlin to her feet, that the rest of the party began to rise from their chairs. Donnan was quick to pull out the heavy chair for Fenella to more easily stand.
“How are ye feeling?” he asked, noting the circles beneath her eyes.
“I might fall asleep standing before ye,” she admitted in a whisper.
“Aye, as might I. May I escort ye to your chambers?”
Her cheeks colored, but she nodded in acceptance. Only when they were outside the banquet hall did she release a sigh. “I thought it would never end. Is that wrong of me?”
“Only if it is wrong of me,” he muttered with a grin. “Aye, it was held in our honor—”
“Your honor.”
“Our honor,” he insisted, allowing her to lead him up the stairs. “He toasted to us both, remember.”
“Aye. I asked myself at the time why he spoke as he did,” she confessed, still whispering.
“I suppose he thought… it matters little, truly, what he thought. What matters is that ye rest, lass. Ye look as tired as ye say ye are.”
“I thought I looked rather fetching this evening,” she retorted with a saucy grin. “Now ye tell me I look tired.”
“I canna win. I might as well not speak at all.”
She laughed, the sound echoing down the long, wide corridor. “I was not serious.”
He cleared his throat, hands clasped behind his back for lack of anything to do with them. That strange, breathless, heady feeling had come over him again.
They were alone.
But they’d been alone for a week. Why did it suddenly matter?
It simply did. Just as he suddenly saw her through new eyes, the fact that he was alone with this wonderous creature set his heart racing.
This was all so new to him. He had the sense of holding a delicate flower in his palm, or a baby bird. If he held it too tight, all could be lost. The slightest mistake and he might lose this moment and its strange excitement forever.
“Ye did look quite lovely,” he choked out.
“And your tunic suited ye, as well,” she replied.
“Borrowed, as yours. From Padraig.”
She smiled. “I had grown accustomed to seeing ye in the same one every day. A bath and a shave helped as well.”
He fought off the impulse to run a hand over his newly smooth cheeks. The fact was, he preferred to grow at least some hair on them to hide what he could of the scar as it ran down to his jaw—though that did nothing to conceal the rest of it.
As always, she understood this. “It does suit ye,” she whispered. “I can see ye more clearly.”
“I canna believe ye would wish to.”
“I do wish to. Would that ye knew it, Donnan Ross.”
They had come to a stop long since, in front of what he supposed was the door to her bedchamber. He longed to open it, take her inside, bury his hands in that mass of brown waves and kiss her as he had before. His lips ached to touch hers, as did his hands twitch with the need to reach for her.
She reached for him, instead, her hand making a slow journey through the air until it cupped his scarred cheek. He tensed, as he had at the supper table.
She did not pull back, as she had not pulled back downstairs. She left her hand where it was, a soft smile playing over her mouth.
It had been so long since a single soul had touched him. He had no idea until then how he’d missed the contact. Such a simple thing, one too many took for granted.
He closed his eyes, breathing deeply, steadying himself as his need for her grew until it all but burst from him.
“There,” she whispered. “That does not hurt either of us, does it?”
“Excuse me?”
His eyes snapped open. Fenella’s hand flew away from him.
They both turned to find a young woman standing before them, looking as though she wished she could vanish. “Forgive me, but Sorcha sent me up to help you undress.”
Would that Sorcha were a bit less efficient, just once. Then again, had the lass not shown up when she had, there was no telling what sort of compromising position he may have put Fenella in.
They exchanged a rueful smile as he backed away. “Til the morrow, then.”
“Aye. We can… speak in the morning.” Her cheeks flushed before she turned and fled into the room behind.
In the morning.
Och, but she would hate him when she learned of his deception.
He remained there for longer than he ought to have, staring at the closed door, imagining Fenella there. Committing her to memory, that he might look back on the sweetest moment he’d ever known.
“Farewell,” he whispered, fingers brushing the place where her palm had rested against his cheek.
22
Fenella woke with the sun streaming through the window. It was well past dawn, later than she had slept in longer than she could remember.
Then again, she had not slept in a bed in over a week and had been up until all hours at the feast.
And she’d lain awake for a long time after that—in spite of the exhaustion in every bone and muscle, she could not make sense of her thoughts. They’d run through her head, overlapping one another, causing no end of confusion and delicious anticipation.
For Caitlin had been correct. All she’d needed was to remind Donnan that she was a woman, and he had come around.
He had even allowed her to touch his face! Unthinkable prior to that moment, most certainly. Yet she’d done it, if only to prove the point that he did not frighten or appall her.
It had given him peace.
If only they had not been interrupted.
She sat up, stretching languorously with a wide smile. It appeared to be a lovely day, and Donnan was somewhere nearby. She could see him again. They could continue where they’d left off.
Or perhaps not.
She paused in the act of washing her face. Perhaps the beauty and sweetness between them had been a product of the night itself. Of a lovely gown and attention to her hair. Of too much wine, even.
That, too, was possible.
She reminded herself of there being only one way to find out. With renewed determination, she tidied her hair and dressed in the kirtle Sorcha had provided before hurrying downstairs.
Only half of the stairs had been descended before she first noticed something strange, the silence.
There was still noise coming from elsewhere—the kitchen, where she heard the clanging of pots and the raised voices of those working to prepare the next meal, but it was nothing when compared to the activity she’d seen and heard upon arrival.
She hurried the rest of the way down the stairs and into the great hall, where they’d had their banquet. The table was empty, the hearth dark and cold.
Alongside that room was a study. Also empty.
She ran through the entry hall to the courtyard outside, where the banging of the blacksmith’s hammer told her something else was the same as it had been. But aside from that and the sight of a stable boy riding a sorrel mare around the inside of a pen, the grounds were empty.
She went to the pen. “Where are all the men?”
The boy, no older than thirteen by her estimation, brought the mare to a halt. “They went out this mornin’.”
That much was clear. “Hunting?” she asked.
“Nay. They went out to the Duncans. Before dawn, even.”
She backed away from the fence, nails digging into her palms. He had lied to her, the devil. They went without her.
Not only that, but they took everyone with them. The stables were nearly empty, she noted, as she ran past to reenter the house.
This time, she went straight to the kitchen, knowing Sorcha would be there. “Why did no one tell me they were to leave before dawn?” she shouted to the kitchen at large.
The room fell silent. Sorcha sat with Caitlin and Fiona, the three of them drinking from steaming cups. Caitlin stood, glancing at her aunt before murmuring, “Fenella, they thought it was for the best.”
“Who thought it? Donnan, no doubt. He wished to leave me behind!”
“For your own good, lass.” Sorcha went to her, reaching out to provide comfort, but Fenella stepped away.
“Do not touch me, for ye knew it, too.” She glared at Caitlin. “Why did they take all the men, then? Why did they need that many if they were merely going to pay a call on the Duncans?”
Caitlin’s head tilted to the side, her eyes soft and shining as though on the verge of tears. “Dear, they were not going to pay a call or discuss this matter with the Camerons. They were going to round up all the men Phillip Duncan was ready to offer, and advance on the clan.”
Fenella wrapped her arms around herself, shaking as though the room had suddenly filled with ice. “I cannot believe it. Why would he not tell me? What if…?”
“That is what we all must face now,” Caitlin murmured. Pain was written on her face as plainly as it must have been on Fenella’s. “The men are willing to fight for the better of all the Highland clans, to put a stop to this madness and move forward in peace.”
“And ye allowed this? In your condition?”
“Och, Fenella. What was there for me to allow or not allow? I cannot tell my husband how to best do what he feels he must do. That is between him and himself, as it is for any man.”
When Caitlin went to Fenella, there was no argument. She allowed herself to be led to the table, to be guided into a chair. Sorcha pressed a hot mug of what smelled like tea into her hands.
“Drink this,” the woman advised. “It will bolster ye. And I am truly sorry, lass. It was Donnan’s command that we not tell ye, for he knew ye would wish to join him and did not wish to place ye in harm’s way.”
“Isn’t it between me and myself what I feel I must do?” Fenella looked to Caitlin. “Just as it is for a man?”
“I understand what ye feel. Truly, I do. When I was riding with Rodric and the others, I was running from an arranged marriage to Alan, the eldest Anderson. I learned then, during that ride, that a man can be in more danger when he’s concerned with the danger a woman might be in.”
She leaned forward, meeting Fenella’s gaze. “Would ye wish to know Donnan had been unable to concentrate on protecting himself because he was too involved in protecting ye?”
This sank into Fenella’s heart, loosening the tightness in her shoulders, relaxing her fists. “Of course, I would not,” she said.
“It is for the best that ye remain,” Sorcha assured her with a pat on the back. “He’ll rest easier knowing we’re taking care of ye.”
But she would not rest. She could not. Not until he was back with her. Until she could look upon his face again and touch his cheek and tell him out loud how she loved him. How she always had and always would.
“How long ago did they leave?” she asked, sipping her tea and willing herself to be calm. This was something she would have to endure.
Waiting. Endless waiting to hear any word of their progress.
“Long before dawn, hours ago,” Sorcha replied. “I made certain they had food to take along with them.”
“All of the men?” Fenella could not help but laugh in surprise.
“Aye, well, when ye run a great house such as this, ye must be prepared for anything that comes along.”
At midday, Fenella allowed herself to be taken out of doors for a walk about the place.
All of the women needed distracting, it seemed. Brice’s wife, Alana, carrying a year-old boy on one hip. Moira, who had been married to Fergus for around a year and was looking forward to starting a family—they’d had no luck as yet, but Moira blushed when she informed them it was not for lack of trying.
These women had the surety of their husbands’ love. They might at least look back upon warm, tender moments. Those with children had them, too, as a symbol of their love.
Fenella had nothing but a kiss and a sweet moment in front of her chamber door. The memory of his cheek in her palm—warm, smooth. His eyes closing as his body relaxed into her caress.
Would that be enough for her to live on the rest of her days? It might have to be.
To be a child again, like Fiona. Unaware of what went on, the sadness and worry. The women tried to smile and keep their voices light for her sake, Fenella included, but it was a struggle.
Fenella looked to the northeast, where the men were riding, wishing she could see them. With her hand over her forehead to shade her eyes, she could make out the peaks of the Grampians, including Ben Nevis. That was where they would stop, where the Duncan stronghold sat.
The approaching rider, no more than a cloud of dust at first, made her heart skip a beat. “Do ye see him?” she asked, pointing in the direction of the dust cloud.
A murmur of concern rose up among the women. “Dear heart, go into the house and tell Aunt Sorcha ye need your dinner,” Caitlin said, patting her daughter on the backside to spur her into action. Yes, it would be best for her not to be there if the worst was about to happen.
The closer the horse came, the easier it was to see the rider slumped over its neck. A wounded man. The women remained silent, holding their breath as they watched to see who it might be.
He belonged to none of them, as Fenella found when he reached them and all but fell to the ground. His right arm was twisted at an unnatural angle, his face covered in bruises.
“Malcolm!” Caitlin cried out. “What happened to ye?”
“Patrolling,” he gasped, peering at them through the one eye that was not swollen shut. “Saw men.”
>
“Our men?” Moira asked, a hand on her chest.
He shook his head. “Cameron. Hundreds. Crossing through to the south. They… want to head off… before… Ben Nevis. I barely got away…”
Fenella clutched Caitlin’s arm. The Camerons were going to head off their men before they could reach the Duncans, where they would gather enough support to be a fierce opponent.
As it was, without the extra support, the men might be walking into certain death.
Donnan.
Without a word, she took Malcolm’s horse by the reins and all but threw herself up into the saddle. The poor beast would be tired, but there was no warming up one of the stabled horses. This would have to do.
She had to catch up to them, to warn them somehow. If only there were enough time…
“Where do ye think you’re doing?” Alana cried out as Fenella turned the horse to the northeast and took off at a full run.
The screams of the women faded behind her as she flew along the road, until the only sounds in the world were the pounding of hooves and of her heart.
23
Donnan rode at the front of the massive group of men, nearly a hundred in all.
Padraig assured him there would be several times that many at their disposal once they reached Ben Nevis. He hoped so, as his memories of just what he saw camping outside the Cameron house told him there were many more behind Angus Cameron.
His friend rode beside him, and he surprised Donnan by smiling as they traveled the well-worn road.
“What are ye smiling over?” he asked. “This hardly seems the time for smiling.”
“I never have the chance to do things like this,” Padraig confided.
“Riding out to see Phillip Duncan?”
Padraig scowled. “Ye know what I speak of. It feels as though I’m doing something.”
“Ye do something every day. I’ve never seen a great house run as smoothly as yours. From what I heard, ye doubled or even tripled the income to the clan and have invested it wisely. Your men are well-trained, they would follow ye anywhere at a moment’s notice. That is hardly nothing.”