Fianna Leighton - Tales of Clan Mackay

by Return to the Highlands

  Ann smiled. “I wondered when ye’d tell him.”

  Fiona leaned forward, silent during most of Ann’s story, busily working on her sewing. “Aye, much longer and he’d have known anyways.”

  Mary pressed a hand to her stomach with a frown. “How is it ye all know, when I only just figured it out a few days ago?”

  Fiona smiled secretively. “We are women alike, lass, when we are together for so long, our bodies shift to match. I’ve had my monthlies, as had Ann. Rose has not been here long enough but you, I know, have not for at least three months.”

  “And ye pay attention to such things?” Mary gasped.

  Fiona snorted. “I am a healer, lass, it’s my work to pay attention to such things. Ye’ll have a boy, Ye might be calling him Angus, since he’s the one who put ye together.”

  Mary stared open mouthed at Fiona. “A boy?”

  “Aye,” Ann agreed. “Ye’ll carry him high, but I think yer labor will not be too bad.”

  Mary kissed Ann again and then Fiona, and then hugged Rose. “I am going to bed. This is all too much, but I look forward to having ye with me when the time comes.”

  ***

  Mary woke early to loud voices in the hall and sat up, jerking the blanket to her chin as the bedroom door flew open and four men stormed inside. Shocked, and then angered by the four's drunken stumbling in the darkness, she slid out of bed, ready to berate them for coming into her room. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded, wrapping a blanket around her as the shadows weaved toward the fireplace, voices slurred, laughter echoing in the chamber. She stepped forward, but found a hand on her arm, light glaring into the room as Rory stepped inside, a candle in hand. He grinned at Mary as she stared at him in surprise. “Rory?”

  He nodded, and she whirled toward the men near the fireplace, her heart beating too fast, her breath suddenly gone. Malcolm stood by the fire, brighter now that he had added peat and stoked it into flames. William was just settling Nicholas into a chair.

  She stared, fingers gripped tightly into the blanket around her chest. “Are ye drunk, lads?”

  William looked up and she realized finally that he was injured, his arm bandaged, blood staining his tunic to nearly red. Her gaze shot to Malcolm who remained near the fire, grinning like a madman, and then back to Rory. He caught her arm as she turned back to Nicholas, hidden from view by most of the chair.

  “Nicholas!”

  Rory held her back. “Wait, lass.”

  William crouched in front on Nicholas, hand gripped to the Highlander's shoulder to hold him in place. Mary felt a chill shudder through her, unable to see more by Rory's restraining hand. Her brother handed her his flask.

  “Take a wee bit, Mary, ye might want it.”

  Her heart suddenly lodged into her throat, Mary waved away the whisky, but Rory pushed it into her hand. “Drink, lass.”

  She shuddered and drank, coughing at the heat as it raced through her chest. “What has happened? Where did ye go? Is he dying?” The thought constricted her heart, froze her into place, unable, unwilling to move forward to see for herself.

  William grinned, altogether too cheerful. “Ach no, Mary, he's just a wee bit weary, if wounded, aye.”

  She pressed a hand to her heart, felt Rory move beside her. His grip on her arm was welcome as her knees buckled in relief.

  A deep cough brought up her head, followed by a familiar groan, sounds she had hoped never to hear from Nicholas again.

  “Ah, Mary, do not fret, lass,” Nicholas's voice sounded hoarse, his cough returned. He turned toward her, his expression amused.

  “Fret?” Mary gasped, outrage taking over her horror at finding him hurt. “Ye were gone days and days without word, ye come back to my bed bloody and ill and ye ask me not to fret?”

  Hugh appeared at the door, stumbling into the room with a laugh, bumping Rory aside. “Ah Mary, do not fret.”

  Mary glared at her brother-in-law.

  “Aye, Mary, give us a moment to explain, love.” Nicholas closed his eyes as he leaned his head against the back of the seat. His hair had come loose from the queue behind his head and lay across his shoulders. As much as he complained it needed cutting, she had not had the heart to do so. He smiled wryly, waving a hand as if it could banish her concern.

  “Ach, lass, he’s fine, don’t be getting yerself all worked up,” Rory complained, dropping a heavy hand to her shoulder. Mary looked at her brother then turned toward Malcolm beside Nicholas near the fire.

  “Aye, he might have been dead had the Macleod’s stroke been true,” Malcolm agreed. He grinned at Nicholas.

  Mary could have throttled them all, but Rory held her in place with a grip on her shoulder; purposely it seemed to keep her from Nicholas.

  Nicholas snorted wearily and rubbed a hand on his chest. “I am here because Macleod chose to deflect his blow.”

  “Aye, he was a bit peeved ye took out Ewan before he could,” Rory agreed conversationally. He pulled the flask from under his plaid again and held it out to Mary. She eyed it with a measured gaze and then accepted the offer and took another large swallow. Rory grinned approvingly as she coughed at the heat.

  “Who is Ewan?” Mary gasped. She would have to question each man for his accounting of what happened. Nicholas clearly had been in the brunt of the fighting. Mary brushed off Rory’s restraining grip to kneel next to her husband. She gripped his knee as he inhaled shallowly, his hand against his chest.

  “Ewan Macleod,” Nicholas explained after coughing. “He is the man who killed Aodh Macleod, Torquil’s son.”

  Mary lifted a brow in question, confused. “Ye killed him? Why, when he could have proved to Macleod that ye did not kill his son!”

  Nicholas gazed at her for a moment, expression grim. He reached out to caress Mary’s cheek but she stood up to evade the caress, moving back a step. “I killed him after he admitted he had stabbed Aodh,” Nicholas said. “The traitor. Macleod or not, a clan is family, and killing one of your own deserves death.” He shook his head tiredly, his eyes red with fatigue, his voice raspy with the cough.

  Mary felt her heart lurch painfully, torn between concern and anger with Nicholas for such a foolhardy venture. She folded her arms over her chest as the men exchanged additional details, passing Rory’s flask between them, uncaring it seemed that they had invaded Mary’s room, or that Nicholas looked terrible. Rory had a black eye, a slash across one cheek; William’s arm bandaged to the wrist. All of them were animated, however, cheered by the fact their rout had been successful.

  “Torquil took offense that Nicky killed Ewan before he could, a laird's due for treason, ye see,” Hugh said, interrupting Nicholas’s account. Hugh chuckled, and then stepped back to allow Fiona inside the room, her arms full of supplies.

  “Are ye having a party in Mary's room, lads?” Fiona asked, grimacing as she took in the men around Mary.

  “Nay, Fiona, we've just brought ye some work is all,” William declared, settling beside Malcolm at the fireplace. “It's glad I am that someone else can heal, for I am weary to the bone.”

  Fiona sniffed, leaning over Nicholas to place a hand on his brow.

  Mary moved forward to help Fiona, lips tight. She had pushed Nicholas once, allowing her anger to come between them. She would not do so again, no matter how furious she was, how frightened he'd made her.

  Nicholas pushed away Fiona's hands, and then caught Mary's hand, kissing her wrist gently. “It had to be done.”

  She could only stare at him, her heart beating too fast, well aware he knew it was, his fingers still tight over her wrist. The men around them quieted, their laughter suddenly subdued. Hugh moved to the fireplace next to Malcolm.

  “Ye can thank Macleod, for he pulled his blow for the only reason as he owed a life debt to ye, Mary. It was paid handily, Torquil declared afterwards, angry to do it, yet pleased as hell to do so as well.” Hugh chuckled faintly, shaking his head in amusement.
“Can’t say if I’d expect the man to do it again, but ye should be pleased Mary Mackay, yer man’s back because of what ye did before.” He gave Nicholas a stern glance and settled next to Malcolm and William on the floor.

  Mary pressed her fingers against her heart. “I am thankful the man could see past his anger and hatred.” She didn't look at Nicholas, but felt his sudden intake of breath. “However it was done, I am glad ye went. So Macleod now understands ye did not kill Aodh? He believes it to be true?”

  Nicholas pushed Fiona away gently, letting Mary free of his grip on her wrist. Instead, he caught her waist to pull her onto his lap. Pulling her close, he kissed her cheek, then her hair. “Aye Mary, as much as he wanted to deny it, the truth came from his man's lips. His anger toward Aodh did him in, to this day the man was still angry about it.” Nicholas sighed, his breath harsh against Mary's hair. “I am weary of it all. There cannot be a worse thing that losing a son, either by death or anger as I did to Da. Perhaps it best we do not have children, Mary, for I do not know if I could live through such pain.”

  Mary stiffened, her gaze meeting Fiona's. The men around them were oddly quiet until Rory spoke, dispelling the despair Nicholas had evoked.

  “Ach, the man is out of his head,” Rory complained, waving at the others. “We need to let the lassies do their work, putting the man to bed. Come along, lads, we've had enough tonight.”

  The men filed out, their voices echoing down the hall. Fiona helped Mary work on Nicholas, removing his tunic, cleaning the wounds while he sat silent and moody, head pressed back against the chair. They helped him to the bed, covering him with the sheet. He was asleep before they were through.

  Fiona began to clean the room, busily picking up the discarded tunic, the bloody cloths that had wrapped Nicholas' chest. “He did not mean it, Mary. Ye cannnot let this stop ye from telling him the truth.”

  “How can I tell him when he's in such a mood? It will have to wait.”

  “Ye cannot wait too long, Mary.”

  “I will tell him, just not today.”

  Fiona sighed and shook her head, but said nothing more. Mary shut the door and turned toward Nicholas. He slept soundly, his breath raspy, face pale against the darker strands of his hair. She would have to tell him. She just hoped he would be happy when he found out.

  Chapter 27

  The weather turned bitter during the night. Frost glittered on the panes of the windows, etching dramatic designs across the glass. Mary sat near the fire in the great hall, her sewing forgotten on her lap, eyes cast to the ceiling where Nicholas slept. How to tell him of a child? She bit her lip, terrified the man would be angry once again. Were they never to have peace between them? Would something always be there to keep them apart, unsettled, angry? She sighed and shook her head, glancing around the room where people still slept.

  She had come down to think, picking up her sewing to focus her mind. The fire scattered sparks as a rush of air heated the coals, glowing brightly for a moment. A child would complicate things. She was too far along to do anything about it, even had she wanted to. She pressed a hand to her stomach and closed her eyes. She would feel nothing for perhaps another month, yet the thought of the tiny life growing inside made her smile. She'd find a way to tell him, somehow this would be a good thing. He would see it, be overjoyed. She had to believe that.

  Hoofbeats brought her head up, eyes wide at the sound. It was late for a rider, an omen of yet more trouble. Mary set aside her sewing as the door shuddered open, bringing inside a rush of frozen air. One of the guards saw Mary as several more men rose from the floor, awakened by the cold. “We've trouble in the village Mary. Can ye get Fiona?”

  Fiona? Mary pressed a hand to her chest. “What is wrong?”

  The boy beside the guard looked frozen, fingers white against the cap held tight against his chest. “It's me mum, Lady Mary. She's dying!”

  The guard settled a hand to the boy's shoulder. “Calm yerself, lad.” He looked at Mary. “The lad says his mother's in labor, but it's bad. She'll need help.”

  Mary nodded and waved at them to sit. “Get him something warm to drink. I'll get Fiona.” She hurried up the stairs, Nicholas forgotten in her concern for the boy and his mother.

  They reached the village just as the sun hit the horizon, pink rays of light casting the sky gold. The guard helped Mary down, frowning as Fiona slid off her horse before the animal had come to a halt. The boy hurried in front of her, shoving open the door to the cottage.

  Mary put a hand on the guard's chest, holding him from entering the cottage. “We'll be fine here. Why don't you find a warm place to stay. It might be awhile.”

  The guard glanced at the door and then nodded. “I'll check in at the pub. Ye'll come for me if ye need help.”

  Mary smiled. “Of course, but this is not for you. Trust me, the pub is a better place to be.”

  A scream of pain made him step back, eying the door with a frown. “Aye, as ye wish.” He turned abruptly at another scream, hurrying down the street toward the pub. Mary grimaced and went inside.

  Fiona had her hands full, leaning over the woman while the boy hovered beside her, eyes wide. “He won't go, so find him something to do.”

  Mary pulled him away. “Heat some water, lad. And we'll need some clean cloths, something for the wee babe once it's born.”

  The boy rushed to the fire and drew a heavy pot toward him. Mary turned back toward Fiona, only to find the door open, with a man she knew too well standing inside.

  Fiona looked over her shoulder, shivering at the chill air and then gasped.

  The Earl of Sutherland pulled back the hood of his cloak and smiled. “When I heard the screams, I thought I'd find you here.”

  ***

  They'd left the woman and her babe safely born. Sutherland, generously, had allowed Fiona to finish her work only with the agreement that the boy would not tell of Sutherland's arrival. They had all agreed, for Mary knew had they not, the boy and most likely the mother and child would have been dead. Once done, Sutherland drew them away, cloaked and hidden, outside the village where he had left his men and horses.

  “How do ye come to Mackay land without notice,” Mary complained, forced onto a horse behind one of the Sutherland men.

  He only grunted in answer, leaving her to cling to him as they moved along a narrow path, the horse lurching uphill, kicking rocks and snow from beneath its hooves.

  Fiona looked back at Mary from her place in front of the next clansman, face pale. It was early yet, still hardly light, the sun hidden behind a range of hills to the east. Whatever his intentions, Mary knew Sutherland would not be so genial this time. She shivered, looking back over her shoulder at the faint gleam of grey from Varrich castle, nearly hidden from view by the hills surrounding it. Would they seek them out? Or would they believe the women still in the village? How long would the guard remain in the pub before growing concerned? And would the boy tell? Too many questions that Mary could not answer.

  They traveled silently, the snow muffling the sound of the horses, trees heavy with snow. The Sutherlands did not speak, did not offer complaint or insult, but followed their leader without question.

  ***

  Ann stepped into Nicholas's room with a tray of food to find her son standing naked by the fire. She stopped abruptly and then coughed to make her presence known.

  Nicholas sighed and turned his head. “You should really knock, Mother.”

  Ann blinked at the name, and then smiled faintly. “Ye should be in bed, Nicky.”

  “Aye, I should be, and so should my wife. Where is she?”

  “I do not know. She and Fiona went out early, a birthing in the village. They can take some time, ye know. She'll be back soon.”

  Nicholas returned to the bed, sliding under the blankets with a grunt of dissatisfaction. “Why must they always tend to others?”

  “Because it is what we do, lad,” Ann explained, setting her tray
on Nicholas' lap. “She'd done her work for you and was needed elsewhere.” Ann held out the cup of ale. “Ye'd not want it otherwise, now would ye?”

  Nicholas took the cup and scowled into it. “No, I suppose not.”

  “And her thinking ye'd not come back this time, worried as she was when ye sent no word.”

  Nicholas lifted a brow at Ann.

  She sniffed and moved to fire, poking the peat into flames. “She did not tell ye she was angry?”

  “I don't remember much, to be truthful.”

  Ann sniffed again. “Men! Ye think so little of us, here waiting and worrying.”

  “Ann, I will not apologize for something that had to be done. I wasn't going to worry Torquil was behind every tree aiming to kill me when I could solve the problem myself.”

  “And once again nearly died from it!” Ann turned toward the bed, hands on her hips. “Ye've only got one life, lad. Mary willna live long if ye die.”

  Nicholas looked at her, his dark hair tousled, a strand hanging over one eye as he looked at her. “She'd be fine, Ann.”

  “Do ye think these connections we have mean so little?” Ann moved to the bed, settling on the edge to look at Donald's son, so much like his father, yet so different. “Ye've tied her to ye, lad, like nothing else. She'd do anything for ye, and deserves more.”

  “She knows what life is like here.”

  “Aye she does. And she'll deal with it as she can. All I am saying, Nicky, is not to leave her in the dark, let her know what ye do. It'll save some worrying.”

  “And knowing I meant to confront Torquil would not have worried her more?”

  Ann smiled, and patted his knee. “Aye, she'd have worried, but at least she'd know where ye'd gone and why. It's a comfort to know at least, even if ye can't do anything about it.”