Realization sweeping him, Jamie leapt to his feet. “You canna laird me,” he objected, shaking his head. “Neill is—”
“Neill is my firstborn, aye,” Munro agreed, his voice catching on the words. “And ’tis Neill who’ll be the next Macpherson chieftain—someday. This day I mean to start a new tradition. You—”
“‘A new tradition’?” Jamie stared at his father, glancing, too, at the curving ivory horn still clutched in Munro’s hand.
“Call it what you will,” Munro ceded. “The Horn of Days is our clan’s most prized possession and I want you to have it. I can think of naught else worthy enough to express my joy in having you back with us. With me”—he cut a glance at Neill and Kendrick—“your brothers and everyone else at Baldreagan.”
“But, I—” Jamie couldn’t speak further. Not when his father thrust the fabled horn into his hands and then hugged him, clutching him tight.
“You keep the horn,” Munro said, stepping back at last. “Neill and his Irish bride can start their own traditions at Baldreagan. I just hope I can prove to you how much you were missed, laddie.”
And how much I love you, Jamie thought he heard him say.
An ear-splitting tumult had erupted all around them and amidst the confusion, Munro was suddenly gone. Swept away by shoulder-thwacking, grinning kinsmen, their boisterous calls, salutes, and foot-stomping drowning out all but the thundering of Jamie’s heart, the Horn of Days, its smooth ivory and gemstones already warming in his hands.
And above all, the glow on his bride’s face as she beamed up at him. “I always knew he’d missed you,” she said, her voice hitching. “He loves you, too. In time, you will believe it.”
Jamie leaned down and kissed her, pleased by her words.
But something troubled him and needed airing.
Namely, his lady’s heart.
Setting her from him, he put back his shoulders. Then he cleared his throat. “Lass, I must ask you—do you mind being bride to a third son? You have heard that Neill will be the next laird. And Kendrick will surely wish to have his bedchamber returned. My own old one is not near so fine.”
He looked at her, arching a brow. “I will understand if you’d rather—”
Aveline pressed her fingers against his lips. “Do you mind if we move to your old bedchamber?” she returned, knowing his answer already, but wanting to show him how foolish his worries were.
She lifted her chin. “Would you still rather be in line for the lairdship? And not have two of your brothers safely returned to you?”
Jamie shook his head. “Saints, no,” he vowed, meaning it. “I’d walk naked to the edge of the world and back if I could be the tenth son again. The saints know, I’d even beggar myself if doing so might bring back my other brothers as well.”
Aveline smiled.
She touched her fingers to his plaid, her violet scent drifting up to enchant him.
“I knew you’d say that,” she said, unable to keep a note of triumph out of her voice. “Then you’ll understand when I say that I would walk past a line of all the future lairdlings in the realm and not even glance at them if I knew you were waiting at the end of that line.”
Jamie looked at her, certain his heart was bursting.
Then, heedless of staring, long-nosed kinsmen and a certain teary-eyed old nurse, he pulled his bride against him and kissed her. Long, hard, and deep.
But not near as deep as the feelings welling inside him. Good feelings. The likes of which he’d ne’er dreamt to experience.
“Past so many someday chieftains?” He kissed the tip of her nose, her cheek. “You love me that much?”
“I love you more than that,” she answered, sliding her arms around him. “More than you will ever know.”
Epilogue
BALDREAGAN CASTLE, THE GREAT HALL IN THE SPRING
Did I no’ tell you she’d be here?” Jamie slid a glance down the high table at a tiny, black-garbed woman. A grizzle-headed, ancient-looking woman whose bright blue eyes sparkled with mirth.
“Aye, you did,” Aveline agreed, her heart warming to have the far-famed Devorgilla of Doon present at their wedding feast revelries.
Taking Jamie’s hand, she squeezed it. “I’ll vow even you are surprised she brought along her special friend,” she added, her gaze lighting on the little red fox sitting quite contentedly on the cailleach’s lap.
Looking proud.
And happily accepting the accolades and edible treats many of the guests pressed upon him.
Jamie gave a good-natured shrug. “From all we’ve heard, Somerled earned his place at this high table and many others as well,” he said, smiling as Beardie dropped to one knee beside the crone and, after doffing his Viking helm, began feeding the little fox a handful of sugared sweetmeats.
“As for surprises”—he broke off to sling an arm around his wife, drawing her close—“I dinna think aught under the sun will e’er again surprise me.”
“Say you? I would not be too sure.” Aveline lifted a teasing brow, her mind on a certain lumpy leather pouch hidden beneath the high table.
More specifically, beneath Munro’s laird’s chair.
But for the moment, she let Jamie hold her and simply savored the day.
And it was a day like no other.
Full to bursting, the torch-lit, gaily-festooned hall shook with horn-blowing and trumpet blasts, the whole of Baldreagan teeming with well-wishers. Good Highland folk from near and far, all beaming smiles, lusty humor, and good cheer.
One supposedly lusty guest drew Aveline’s especial attention, Gunna of the Glen having arrived quite modestly dressed and proving to be of a pleasing, unassuming demeanor far different than Aveline would have expected.
Surprised by the woman’s warmth and friendliness, Aveline watched her now, looking on as she danced and flirted with Kendrick in the middle of the hall. Neill and his soon-to-be Irish bride, Oonagh, appeared to be enjoying themselves as well, the clearly besotted pair not leaving out a single fast and furious whirl across the broad space cleared for dancing.
The MacKenzie girls danced as well, each one full of laughter and delight—even if partnered only by their father.
“I swear he ne’er ages,” Jamie said, watching the Black Stag deftly maneuver his girls away from a hopeful new partner—a young MacKenzie guardsman who thought perhaps the day’s merrymaking might relax Duncan MacKenzie’s hawk-eyed watch o’er his lovely daughters.
The Black Stag’s wife, sitting next to Jamie, leaned close. “And I vow I have ne’er been so pleased as I was when I heard you’d survived the Garbh Uisge,” she said, touching a hand to his arm. “I ne’er thought to see this day.”
“Nor did I,” a gruff voice said from behind them and Jamie twisted around to see his father standing there, a bulky looking leather pouch clutched in his hands. “But today seems as good a day as any to put this behind me.”
Jamie cocked a brow, something in his father’s expression warning him something of great significance was about to transpire.
“Put what behind you?” he asked, his throat already thickening with emotion.
A grumbled humph answered him.
But then Munro looked down and fumbled with the pouch’s drawstring, opening it wide before he unceremoniously plunked the thing into Jamie’s lap.
“Have a look in there,” his father said, stepping back and folding his arms. “But once you do, you’ll keep the contents between ourselves, I’m a-warning you.”
But Jamie’s fingers froze on the well-worn leather and much to his horror, heat began pricking the backs of his eyes. This was the surprise Aveline had hinted at earlier.
His father’s proof that he loved him.
Jamie knew it so sure as he knew the sun would rise on the morrow.
“Well, go on,” Munro grumbled, nudging the pouch. “Or would you have me standing here like a fool gawping until all the long-noses in the hall notice?”
Jamie drew a deep breath.
Then he looked into the pouch.
It was crammed full with yellowed scrolls, the wax seals broken, each binding string untied. Jamie’s heart clenched, then began thundering out of control when Aveline gave a little sob beside him.
“You must read them,” she said, reaching into the pouch and retrieving one, thrusting the brittle parchment into his hands. “As soon as you do, you’ll understand.”
But, saints preserve him, he already did.
Leastways, he had a good guess. And the knowledge was making his throat so tight he could scarce breathe.
“God in heaven,” he managed, unrolling the first missive and scanning the squiggly, faded lines.
Lines that told all about Jamie’s safe arrival at Eilean Creag Castle in Kintail, his acceptance as junior squire to Duncan MacKenzie.
A second scroll detailed the time he’d fallen from a horse, breaking his arm, while a third extolled his skill at the quintain.
“God in heaven,” Jamie said again, tightening his fingers around the scrolls.
He threw a glance at his da, not surprised to see tears streaming down the old man’s face.
His own cheeks were damp, too.
As were everyone else’s at the high table.
“Do you believe me now, son?” Munro placed a hand on Jamie’s shoulder, gripping hard. “Can you e’er forget and forgive the past?”
Jamie swallowed, unable to answer in words.
Instead, he set aside the leather pouch and jumped to his feet, throwing his arms around his da and letting the fierceness of his embrace speak for his heart.
Others on the dais discreetly looked aside or cleared their throats, while some busied themselves flicking invisible specks of lint off their clothes or finding a variety of ways to avoid intruding on such a private moment.
Even Morag held her peace, bustling about the dais and replenishing emptied ale cups, a telltale brightness in her carefully averted eyes.
E’er congenial guests, Alan Mor and his contingent of Pabay men chose that moment to stretch their legs and enjoy some welcome fresh air in the bailey.
Aveline gave them privacy, too, turning her attention on the dancing until three of Lady Linnet’s words echoed in her mind and she near choked on her wine.
See the day, Lady Linnet had said, the words lifting the fine hairs on Aveline’s nape.
Her gaze shot to Hughie Mac, fiddling away with fervor, and then to Neill and Kendrick, dancing so vigorously at the heart of the tumultuous throng.
“Dear Saints,” she gasped, clapping a hand to her breast. “I have seen this day—at the churchyard, near the Na Clachan Breugach stone!” She leapt to her feet, grabbing Jamie’s arm. “You’ll remember, I told you I saw Neill and Kendrick dancing there, to Hughie’s fiddle music.”
Awe washing over her, she shook her head. “I wasn’t seeing ghosts or bog mists, but this very day.”
“To be sure, you were,” a sage voice chimed as Devorgilla of Doon shuffled near. “Had anyone asked me, I could have told them the Na Clachan Breugach stone was indeed one of the ancient Stones of Wisdom, able to foretell the future.”
Stepping closer, she tapped a knotty finger to Aveline’s chest. “Leastways, for those able to see with their hearts.”
Aveline swallowed.
She slid a glance at Jamie and his father, her heart squeezing at how much at ease they looked. As if there’d never been a rift between them.
Turning back to the crone, she lowered her voice, “Tell me, do you think the Na Clachan Breugach stone will show me the future for Jamie and me? Perhaps let me know what awaits us?”
Devorgilla shook her head. “Ach, nay, lass, I truly doubt it,” she said, reaching down to pet Somerled when he sidled up beside them. “Such magic only works when there is a need.”
“‘When there is a need’?”
“So I have said.” The crone dipped into a pouch at her belt, offering the little fox a bit of fine, dried beef. “You have no further reason to see into the future. You—”
“What she means,” Jamie cut in, “is that you should already know our future, sweetness.” Sliding an arm around her, he pulled her close and smiled at the wise woman. “Is that not so, Devorgilla?”
And the crone nodded, clearly agreeing.
“Then what is our future?” Aveline probed, her gaze flitting back and forth between the two of them. “Is it as bright and filled with love as I imagine?”
“Our future is all that and more,” Jamie promised, leaning down to kiss her brow. “And our love will last for time and eternity.”
Aveline sighed, melting at his answer.
Devorgilla looked pleased, too.
Dashing a spot of dampness from her cheek, she smiled. “Aye, that is the way of it, my hearts. For time and for eternity.”
About the Author
SUE-ELLEN WELFONDER is a dedicated medievalist of Scottish descent who spent fifteen years living abroad, and still makes annual research trips to Great Britain. She is an active member of the Romance Writers of America and her own clan, the MacFie Society of North America. Her first novel, Devil in a Kilt, was one of Romantic Times’s top picks. It won RT’s Reviewers’ Choice Award for Best First Historical Romance of 2001. Sue-Ellen Welfonder is married and lives with her husband, Manfred, and their Jack Russell Terrier, Em, in Florida.
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Chapter One
EILEAN CREAG CASTLE
THE WESTERN HIGHLANDS, AUTUMN 1348
Let us speak plainly, my sister, what you would have us do is pure folly.”
Lady Gelis MacKenzie dismissed her elder sister’s opinion with an impatient flip of one hand. Scarce able to contain her own excitement, she ignored the other’s lack of enthusiasm and stepped closer to the arch-topped windows of their tower bedchamber.
A bedchamber she hoped she wouldn’t be sharing with Lady Arabella much longer.
Not that she didn’t love her sister.
She did.
Just as she adored their lovely room, appointed as it was with every comfort and luxury their father, the Black Stag of Kintail, chose to lavish on them. Elegant trappings met the eye no matter where one gazed and those trusted enough to gain entry to the room, saw immediately that its sumptuous finery rivaled even the Black Stag’s own privy quarters. But Gelis cared little for the splendor of the hooded fireplace and matching pair of carved oaken armchairs. The jewel-toned tapestries and extravagant bed hangings of richest brocade, each costly thread glowing in the light of fine wax candles.
Flicking a speck of lint off her sleeve, she cast a glance at her sister. Even if some stubborn souls refused to admit it, she knew that life held greater treasures.
Wax candles and hanging oil lamps might banish shadows and a well-doing log fire surely took the worst bite out of a chill Highland morn, but such things did little to warm a woman’s heart.
Enflame her passion and make her breath catch with wonder.
Wonder, and love.
Such were Gelis’s dreams.
And all her sister’s pursed-lipped protestations weren’t going to stop her from chasing them.
Apparently bent on doing just that, Arabella joined her in the window embrasure. “Such nonsense will bring you little joy,” she contended. “Only a dim—”
“I am not light-minded.” Gelis whipped around to face her. “Even Father wouldn’t deny Devorgilla of Doon’s wisdom.”
Arabella sniffed. “There’s a difference between spelling charms and herb-craft and expecting moon-infused water to reveal the face of one’s future mate.”
“Future love,” Gelis corrected, unable to prevent a delicious shiver of anticipation. “Love as in a girl’s one true heart-mate.”
Looking unconvinced, Arabella moved closer to the window
arch and peered down into the bailey. “Och, to be sure,” she quipped, “we shall hasten below, stare into the bowl you hid in the lee of the curtain wall last night, and then we shall see our true loves’ faces there in the water.”
“So Devorgilla said.”
Arabella lifted a brow with predictable skepticism. “And you believe everything you are told?”
Gelis puffed a curl off her forehead. “I believe everything Devorgilla says. She has ne’er been known to err. Or can you prove otherwise?”
“I—” Arabella began, only to close her mouth as quickly. Turning aside, she trailed her fingers along the edge of a small table. “’Tis only that you’ve so much fancy,” she said at last, a slight furrow creasing her brow. “I would not see you disappointed.”
“Bah!” Gelis tried not to convulse with laughter. “My only disappointment is when Father refuses a bonny suitor! I do not mind him naysaying the toads, but some have been more than appealing.”
“Then why bother to peer into a scrying bowl if you already know Father isn’t about to let you wed?” Arabella dropped onto the cushioned seat in the window embrasure, a frown still marring her lovely face.
“Isn’t about to let either of us wed,” Gelis amended, grabbing her sister’s arm and pulling her to her feet. “He shall claim we are both too young even when we are withered and gray! Which is why we must use Devorgilla’s magic. If the scrying bowl shows us the faces of our future husbands, we shall have the surety that there will be husbands for us. I will go mad without that certainty.”
You already are mad, Gelis thought she heard her sister grumble. But when she shot a glance at her, Arabella wore her usual look of eternal composure.
An expression that could needle Gelis beyond patience.
Choosing to ignore it, she tightened her grip on Arabella’s arm and dragged her towards the door. “Come,” she urged, triumph already surging through her, “there is no one in the bailey just now. If we hurry, we can test our fortune before anyone notices.”
“We will see naught but the bottom of the bowl,” Arabella decided as they made their way belowstairs and out into the empty courtyard.
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