by Shana Ab
She wanted to be a boy.
Not really be a boy. Rather, she wanted their freedom. She envied them their loud games, their thrilling hunts, their open ways and thoughts and authority. As Hebron's daughter she knew she had been granted a great deal of privilege, learning things that usually only males did. She went on those hunts. She joined in those games. She spoke her mind, perhaps too freely. But she couldn't imagine living any other way. She couldn't imagine shutting herself away from life, to be sheltered and hidden and relied upon to do all the necessary things the women did that never seemed to be appreciated.
As a result of this—her spirit at odds with the firm line of tradition—Lauren always felt that she had set herself up for a dual life, with one foot on either side of who she was supposed to be. Yes, she would be the bride of Murdoch, and she would honestly try to fulfill her duties as his wife. But she was also wild Lauren MacRae, whose soul burned for adventure and independence.
Eventually, one of these people would have to suffocate so that the other might survive. She knew, deep down, that the wife of Murdoch was going to win. Because to do otherwise would be to dishonor the memory of her father, and Lauren would never willingly do that.
After her capture and release from Morgan Castle as a girl, Da had swiftly arranged her betrothal to the son of one of his oldest allies. The Murdochs held a good portion of the lands that ran along the jagged mainland shore parallel to Shot. Over the years a handful of marriages had taken place between the two families, yet none would be as significant as the daughter of a laird wedding another laird.
Lauren understood this. Da and Hannah—everyone— had impressed upon her the importance of the union. How good it would be for the clan. How strong it would make Shot, securing them a solid Scottish army in the face of the English. And Lauren had trusted in her father and all the rest, sliding along the path chosen for her without open protest, although sometimes she had secretly wondered at her own future, what it would be like to leave Shot, to become a part of a new clan. A strange and frightening thought, but she had been careful not to mention it aloud.
“You will abide,” Da would tell her, with a sad smile. “You are resourceful and courageous, my Lauren. I know you will learn to love your new home. And your husband.”
Lauren had always nodded and agreed, never giving voice to that private fear of her own weakness—that she would not be brave enough or strong enough to survive away from her island. She knew to act happy, to ease the small wrinkles of worry on Da's face that he could not quite hide from her.
So it took her by surprise this morning to hear the weaving women say her name in tones of scandal, to catch the gossip that rose over the steady clicking and thumping of the looms, hands and mouths busy.
Her feet slowed by themselves just outside the door, where she could not be seen. Lauren stopped, confused, and then bent over and pretended to adjust her boot, as if she had found a pebble in it.
“… the Murdoch will be coming soon, and what will he think, do you suppose?”
“That Lauren's as wild as the wind. So she is.”
“Ach. She's got her mother's passion for life, that's all it is.”
“But Payton Murdoch won't know about that. Something's got to be done about her, I say.”
This prompted several chuckles.
“And what would that be, Michal? Do you propose to tie her down, to stop her from roaming the island, perhaps?”
“It isn't seemly,” insisted Michal. “It is not her duty to patrol. She should be here at Keir, minding the castle. She should be preparing for her wedding, I say!”
Lauren knew every voice that spoke. She had grown up with these girls, she had been tutored by their mothers. How sharply painful it was to hear their criticism, even if she did deserve it. She should not eavesdrop; no good would come of it. But she did not move.
“Michal's right,” said someone else, Clara, mother of three. “Lauren should stay here. We've got enough to do for this wedding, and it doesn't help that she's always off running with the men. You heard what happened to her last week, how she fell into that cavern and knocked herself silly. That Englishman had to save her, and how does that make us look, I ask you?”
“As though we cannot offer a proper bride to the laird of the Murdochs,” finished Michal darkly.
“You fuss over nothing,” said a steady voice, and Lauren was slightly cheered to hear the tones of Vanora, one of her mother's old friends.“Let the girl alone. She's always had a free spirit.”
“That's well enough for a child,” retorted Michal. “But she's a grown woman now, a bride. If she doesn't change, she'll only shame us!”
Vanora clicked her tongue, reproving. “She won't shame us.”
“How do you know?” challenged someone.
“Because,” said Vanora, and then paused. “Because she is Lauren. That's all.”
Lauren straightened up, turned around, and walked back the way she had come, so that she wouldn't have to pass the open door to the weaving room.
It had been six days since the fiasco in the cavern, and she had just started patrolling again only three days ago. Three days of rest, that's what she had told herself she needed. Three days to recover from the near drowning, from the pain in her shoulder. From the sight of that Viking with Arion's sword sticking out of him.
Three days of rest, and she had been about driven mad with it. True, the first day had actually been a necessary reprieve; she had spent almost all of it asleep. But the next two had been just added time. Her shoulder was not that sore. She was no longer tired. Yet she waited to return.
Just to prove that she could. Just to prove that she did not need to see Arion du Morgan right away—in fact, that she didn't need to see him at all.
The hunt for any remaining Vikings had been unsuccessful, and it was widely believed that they had managed to drown themselves in the caves beneath Shot. None had ever come up from the passageways, and there was always a guard there now, just to be certain. A sort of drab quiet seemed to have settled over the people, as the worry from this latest threat slowly paled beneath the steady cadence of daily living in their strong castle.
So Lauren had lingered at Keir. There were chores enough to keep her busy. There were the council meetings she still attended, stubborn about her place in Da's chair, though she was now drawing some looks. There were the wounded to visit, to encourage to recover. There was her cousin Quinn in Da's bed, still asleep— though the healers told her he would swallow broth, a good sign—still unknowing of all the strange and terrible changes that had taken place since that fateful battle in which he had been felled.
And there were the meals and the supplies and the cleaning and the trading and the accounts. Each task performed with perfunctory attention, each moment she spent at them seeming a dull, dragging eternity. But she made herself do it.
Most significant, perhaps, there was the matter of her wedding to attend to.
She knew it was looming close, an unaccountably dark thread on her horizon. She should be happy about it. She should be proud and thrilled to marry the laird of the Murdochs, to join his family and strengthen her own. She should be.
But Arion du Morgan stayed with her still, for all her devotion to duty. He lingered as an unwelcome phantom in her memory, not releasing her, ever. Not even in her dreams.
She saw his eyes in the green woods. She saw his hair on the raven's wing. She heard his subtle laugh in the call of the ocean. His smile was the sunlight, a stray beam to light up the darkness of gloom around her.
At night, when she tossed and turned on her pallet— the same one he had slept in, since she had placed him in her room—at night it was the worst. She could close her eyes, she could pull the covers over her head, but still she felt his kiss, her terrible secret, and the longing in her for more of him.
It was not merely immodest, it was a calamity. She couldn't want more of him! However smoothly they worked together now as allies, the Earl of Morgan woul
d return to being her enemy soon enough. She would walk away from him and into the embrace of another man—a laird she had never met, a fellow countryman who was vital to the success of her clan.
She could not indulge in the wicked pleasures of stolen kisses. She could not risk her future on such frivolity.
Ye t she couldn't let go of him. She couldn't release that feeling he had given her, the sparks, the heat, the wild attraction. Arion had kissed her and she had changed forever. But he was not for her, that English knight with his enthralling eyes and soft lips.
Now Lauren knew what true duty was. Now she understood sacrifice.
She waited three days to see him again, steeled up in her tartan, wrapped in her responsibility. And when she went back on patrol, he wasn't even there.
The earl was off to the far side of the island, she was told when she managed a casual inquiry to one of her clansmen. He had left his steward in his place, a man named Fuller, who offered calm suggestions to the patrol, and issued his own orders in a deceptively mild voice. Lauren consulted with the earl's man and rode beside him and never once mentioned Arion. It was Fuller who finally did, only once, saying nonchalantly that the earl sent his regards and hopes for her complete recovery.
She had replied with equal indifference, sending the same back to him.
No new sightings of longships. No reports of stray Vikings wandering around on Shot. She wondered if perhaps they all really had drowned in the caves, as it was said, or gotten so lost there was no hope for them. Either way, it set everyone in the patrols on edge, this absence of the enemy, and tempers were starting to show.
Rhodric was especially problematic. He wore a permanent scowl now, and the looks he threw to the English party were nothing but sullen. Lauren recognized the trouble brewing, and this was why she went to find Hannah after the third day's patrol. Hannah was his aunt and knew the moods of him. More important, Hannah always had something encouraging to say no matter how dire the circumstances, and right now— after overhearing the weavers dissect her behavior to find her wanting—Lauren discovered she could use some encouragement.
Hannah was in the storeroom, braiding herbs into looping circles with two girls to help her. She looked up at Lauren with quiet welcome from across a long table littered with loose stems and leaves. The girls on either side of her offered shy greetings.
Lauren remembered this from her childhood, as well. Tending to the multitude of herbs in the storeroom was considered a punishment for some slight infraction. She had spent many an hour in here over the years, braiding everything from garlic and onions to rosemary and lavender. Lauren briefly wondered what mischief these two girls had found, then felt a pang of envy, quickly pushed aside.
“May I speak with you alone?”she asked Hannah, and the older woman nodded.
“That's enough for now,” said Hannah to the girls, and they dropped their braids onto the table with careless curtsies, almost skipping from the room, delighted grins between them.
“I sense they'll be back soon,” Lauren said, watching them run off.
“Aye,” Hannah said.“They do remind me of you at that age.”
Lauren smiled in spite of herself, approaching the table in front of her. She picked up one of the long, leafy stems from the sorted piles, held it to her nose.
“Sage,” she guessed.
“Correct.”
Hannah continued her work, her fingers slow and steady, twining stem to stem to stem, until she had a thick loop of silvery green. Lauren followed suit, her hands remembering exactly how to handle the soft leaves, the pliant stems. It was soothing, familiar work, and so for a while she just let the rhythm of it take her thoughts, finding almost a peace in the lull. Hannah knew her well enough to let her speak when she was ready.
The storeroom became quiet, the smell of the sage mingled with all the other scents, the fading sunlight giving the air a faint glow near the ceiling, where endless rows of fantastic herbs and spices hung from wall to wall.
“Hannah, do you think I've been … too bold?”
“In what way, lass?”
Lauren shrugged down to her hands. “In any way, I suppose. For instance, with the patrols. Do you think I should be staying at Keir, waiting for the Murdoch?”
“Do you?”
“I don't know. I mean, no. I don't think so.” One of the fat leaves snapped off in her fingers. Lauren tossed it aside in frustration.
“Are you unhappy on patrol?” Hannah asked.
“No. I think it's going fairly well, actually. Almost everyone gets along now. There is no doubt our strength has doubled since we joined with the du Morgans. Shot is the better for it.”
“It was a fine idea,” said Hannah serenely.
“Aye,” Lauren muttered, remembering the man who had thought up the idea. Another leaf broke off the stem she was plaiting.“It's just that there are some people who seem to think otherwise. They think I should confine myself to Keir. That the joining with the English was folly.”
“There will always be dissent in such a large and complex clan as ours, Lauren. Expect it, learn from it. That's what your father did. But do not let it worry you unduly. Follow your heart, and the fine principles you have in there. Don't allow yourself the chance to live in regret that you did not.”
Lauren looked up, alerted by something in Hannah's tone, but her friend's face was as tranquil as ever, revealing nothing beyond gentle concern.
“What if my heart tells me something my principles do not like?” she asked slowly.
Hannah stopped her braiding. “Then you have a problem,” she said, somber. “One that must be fully examined. But I know you, my sweet Lauren. You'll do what's right.”
Of course. Of course she would. Lauren nodded and kept her gaze fixed on her hands again, on the intertwining pattern of the sage. Her heart felt heavy, slowed with a strange sadness, even though she knew Hannah spoke the truth.
“Rhodric is going to stir a mutiny against the joining,” Lauren said, still to the sage.
“I will speak to James again,” Hannah replied, her voice perfectly normal.“He understands what is at stake here, even if his son does not. James will have a word with him.”
“Thank you.”
“You needn't thank me, lass. It's what I should do. All of us have a place in the clan. All of us have obligations. I do not mind that this would be one of mine.”
Lauren heard the lesson in the words and could only nod again, blinking down at the tender leaves, which for some reason were now blurred and indistinct. After a moment, she wiped the back of her hand across her eyes, as if to rid herself of perspiration, then went to work on the sage once more.
WEEK, LAUREN FOUND, COULD be a remarkably short amount of time.
She had made a genuine attempt to listen to Hannah's counsel. She had cut back on patrolling, riding out only on those that didn't stray too far from Keir. The fact that the earl had not returned from the other side of Shot had nothing to do with her sudden decline of interest in long patrols, Lauren told herself.
Their fortnight of truce was ebbing ever faster, each new day one day less that her clan would accept any sort of peace with the du Morgans. Lauren knew it, and she knew how precious the remaining time was. Yet it seemed the Earl of Morgan cared little enough for their agreement—he did not even trouble himself to join the men he had assigned to work with the Scots. So why should she be nervous that their time was almost over? She wasn't! Let the fortnight die away. If he didn't care, neither did she.
The men were finding nothing, after all. No reports of any strange happenings, and many said that the Vikings would not be back at all.
Maybe they were right. Maybe everyone was right but Lauren, who felt a strange pressure constantly at her back and couldn't let go of the idea that the absence of the Northmen was a battle strategy, designed to lure Shot to complacency. Clearly, however, she was the only one who thought so. Many of the clan were not attempting to hide the fact that they would be relie
ved when their bargain with the du Morgans ended, and they could resume their open distrust of this enemy.
Lauren remained at Keir, trying to think of her future, trying to remember who she had been before Arion du Morgan had torn back into her life.
And time ticked past, and the days slipped away, and it seemed she truly might never see him again. So be it.
She knew what Da would have expected her to do.
He had arranged a marriage for her, set the date, negotiated the dowry, and kissed her cheeks to congratulate her on it. He had explained to her countless times why it was so important for her to wed the laird of the Murdochs. Even though Da was gone now, Lauren intended to honor his wishes.
The women of Keir were delighted that she began to consider the wedding again. They welcomed her back with approving nods and sharp smiles, and Lauren let them envelop her in the frenzy of their plans for her impending union with Payton Murdoch. Their enthusiasm was enough to carry her, she thought, and didn't try to understand why she was so indifferent to it all.
“Turn the other way, lass,” instructed the seamstress, and Lauren moved without thought, arms raised, staring blankly at the wall before her.
“Oh, it fits like a dream!” exclaimed someone, and Lauren heard several women agree.
Sunlight etched through the glass of her window and lit her chamber with golden brilliance. She stood in the center of the floor, arms still high, as the seamstress hummed and clucked and tucked a few more pins into the loose gown that draped her.
“Lovely,” said Vanora, watching with the others.
“Aye,” said the seamstress.“You're lucky, lass, that Murdoch's mother was such a close size to you. Had she been smaller, it would be an awkward fit.”
“But it suits you well,” interjected Hannah, walking around her, and Lauren left off her contemplation of the wall to meet her friend's eyes. Hannah smiled at her, then walked over and fingered the cloth of one of the sleeves, soft wool the color of sand.