by Ruth Langan
She pressed her lips to his throat and heard his quick intake of breath. Enjoying her power, she drew herself close, moving against him until he gave a moan of frustration. She chuckled, recalling how afraid she had been.
“Why,” she wondered aloud, “do some women dislike mating?”
“Perhaps it is because they’ve only tasted love at the hands of a cruel lover.”
“Like Heywood?” she whispered.
At the mere mention of that name, Morgan bristled. Then he put aside such thoughts to deal with the thing that most troubled him.
“Listen to me, Lindsay.” He held her a little away. “I have something important I must tell you. At first I resisted because I—” he struggled to find the right words “—was afraid it would change the way you and your family would treat me. And then afterward, there never seemed to be the right moment. But now, after what we’ve shared, I must tell you.”
Alarmed, she placed a hand over his mouth to silence him. “You’re…wed to another?”
He caught her hand and studied it, before linking his fingers through hers. “Nay, little one. There is no other wife.”
“You’re betrothed then. To another.”
“Nay.”
She gave a long, deep sigh of relief. “I was so afraid. You seem so serious. If it isn’t another woman, then it must be a crime you’ve committed. Are you a wanted man, Morgan MacLaren?”
He shot her a wicked grin. “Would you love me anyway?”
“Aye. You know I would. Is that it then? Have you committed some grave crime?”
“Nay. It’s nothing like that. But when I tell you, it will change the way you see me.” As son of the laird, he had often seen the way others regarded him.
She shook her head and brushed her lips over his. “Nothing will ever change the way I feel. Will you lie with me again tonight, Morgan?”
He gave a sound that might have been a laugh or moan. “If you keep that up, we won’t even make it until sunup.”
“Mmm.” She ran nibbling kisses over his face. “I can hardly wait to see what new things you’ll show me.”
As she started to kneel he pulled her down on top of him, flattening her against the length of him.
“Morgan.” She leaned up on his chest, staring down into his eyes. “What are you doing?”
“I’ve decided not to wait until tonight.”
“But my father and the children…”
“We’ll pray they sleep late.” He cupped the back of her head, drawing her face down until their lips met in a long, slow, simmering kiss.
“And the food…”
“Will be cold.” He rolled her over, and kissed her again.
Their laughter turned into sighs. Whatever Morgan had been about to say was completely wiped from both their minds. And then there were no more words as they lost themselves in a world of love.
Chapter Nine
“Father.” Lindsay nearly dropped the pot of gruel when she caught sight of Gordon Douglas dressed for travel, in boots and a warm tunic. “Whatever are you doing?”
“Brock saw the wagon of the young tinker, Sterling Ferguson, in the woods. You know he and his young wife always pass by this time of year. I thought I’d pay them a visit.”
He turned to Morgan. “Ferguson is a fine young man, who, along with his bride, go from village to town in the Highlands, bringing items to sell or barter, and carrying news as well. While we sip a bit of ale, we’ll exchange news of the land.”
“May we go along, Grandfather?” Gwen and Brock danced around him, eyes alight with excitement.
The old man gave a mysterious smile. “Aye. With the feast of Christmas almost upon us, I think it’s time we all try our hand at bartering.”
For days now there had been a feeling of peace and contentment among all of them. The love radiating between Morgan and Lindsay spilled over, casting its warm glow over the entire family.
Morgan’s wounds were healing. He would soon be strong enough to make the journey home. When he did, Lindsay and her family would go with him. The knowledge that they would be under the safekeeping of a strong warrior, made the approaching feast seem like a very special day indeed. It was to be more than the wedding day of Morgan and Lindsay. It would be a day of freedom for her entire family.
“Take the horse, Father,” Lindsay said as she filled their bowls. “I have no need to go into the village today.”
“I’ll not need it.” Gordon ate quickly, eager to see what the tinker might have that would make an appropriate wedding gift for his only daughter. He had been hoarding bits of tobacco and ale, hoping he might entice the tinker to give him a bit of silken cord for Lindsay’s only gown, or a ribbon for her hair. He knew the children had been hoarding goods as well. Herbs and pelts, which they might barter for a wedding gift.
“Brock says the tinker’s wagon is but a short distance away, along the banks of the stream.”
Across the table Morgan winked at Lindsay and saw the color rise to her cheeks. She was entertaining the same thought as he. Once her father and the children were gone, they would have the hut to themselves. They knew exactly how they would spend a quiet hour or two.
The children and their grandfather ate quickly, eager for their adventure. As soon as they’d finished their meal, they pulled on heavy cloaks and hurried out the door.
Morgan and Lindsay stood in the doorway, watching until they were out of sight. Then, like two conspirators, they quickly shut the door and hurried to the sleeping loft. It would be a rare luxury indeed to make love in the warmth and comfort of the hut, instead of their usual spot on the grassy banks of the stream.
“Lindsay. Lindsay.” Brock’s frantic voice had both Lindsay and Morgan sitting up with a start.
The door of the hut was thrown open and the lad paused in the doorway, struggling for breath.
Lindsay’s hair tumbled around her face as she peered down from the loft. “What is it? What’s happened?”
“It’s the tinker.” The boy paused, gasping for air. “His wife is having a bairn. But something’s gone terribly wrong. Grandfather says you must come at once.”
Lindsay was already slipping her gown over her head. When she’d located her boots she descended the ladder, while above, Morgan fumbled for his plaid and struggled to cover his nakedness.
“How long has his wife been having pains?” Lindsay asked.
“The tinker told Grandfather it’s been days. They’ve been traversing the Highlands, and since this is their first birthing, they thought it was the discomfort of travel. Now they realize both the bairn and its mother are in grave peril.”
Having caught his breath Brock added, “The tinker carries sad news about the laird, as well.”
In the loft Morgan stopped what he was doing.
“The laird?” Lindsay tossed a cloak over her shoulders and slipped a vial of ointment into her pocket.
“Aye. The tinker said the old laird has been gravely ill since the loss of his only son.”
Morgan’s eyes narrowed. From above he shouted, “What’s that about his son being lost?”
Brock looked up. “His son and another warrior were caught by surprise by outlanders. The laird’s son ordered his friend to ride off and sound the alarm. Then the laird’s son remained alone to fight. When the laird later sent warriors to the field of battle, his son’s body was gone. Stolen, no doubt, by the wicked outlanders. The old laird is unable to recover from his grief. He has vowed to name a nephew as new laird before he dies.”
Lindsay was shaking her head as she hurried toward the door. “It will be a sad time for all the Highlands. The passing of the old laird and the naming of a new one will affect us all.”
“Lindsay.” Morgan nearly fell in his haste to descend the ladder. “Wait. There’s something I must tell you.”
“There’s no time. A lass lies near death, my love. You can tell me when I return.”
“You don’t understand….”
She didn’t
even hear his words. With Brock racing to keep up with her, she hurried out the door and into the woods.
Alone in the hut, Morgan stood deep in thought. Then, knowing what he had to do, he took up a piece of parchment and wrote a hasty missive.
“Lindsay. Do not fret. Wait for me. I’ll not be gone long. I am the laird’s only son. When I return, I’ll explain all. Forgive me for taking the horse and weapon. I have no time to waste. Know always that you are the only woman I will ever love. Morgan.”
With a prayer on his lips that he would be in time, he caught up the bow and arrows and hurried outside where the horse was tethered. Pulling himself on the animal’s back, he took off at a gallop.
“I’m proud of you, lass.” Gordon Douglas walked through the twilight beside his weary daughter. The night air filled his lungs and sent him into a fit of coughing. When he’d regained his composure, he added, “If it were not for you, the young tinker’s wife and bairn would now be dead.”
Lindsay nodded, too tired to speak. For hours she had massaged, coaxed, cajoled, encouraged. It had taken all her skills, including reaching inside the young mother and physically turning the bairn, to safely deliver both mother and child from the brink of death. All she wanted now was to lie with Morgan and let his kisses wash away this weariness.
Despite her lethargy, she felt a shiver of alarm when her father took another spell of coughing before they reached their own hut. This winter, she feared, would be a long and difficult one for his weakened lungs. Her only comfort lay in the fact that Morgan would be with her to help in the care of her father.
The children raced ahead of them and threw open the door on a blast of frigid air. The flames in the fireplace leaped and danced. As they stepped inside, a parchment blew from the scarred wooden table, landing in the hot coals.
“What’s this?” The old man bent toward the fire and gingerly removed the flaming parchment.
The others peered around the hut. Except for the fire, there was no light. No candles chased away the gloom. No scent of meat cooking or biscuits browning filled the air.
“Where could Morgan be?” Brock asked.
“Perhaps he’s out tending the horse.” Lindsay turned to the lad. “Go tell him we’re home.”
“Wait.” Gordon Douglas studied the charred missive, then, without a word, handed it to Lindsay.
As she read it, he watched her face. She read it once, then again, as if unable to believe what she was seeing. With a cry she turned to Brock. “Quickly. Go see if the horse is here.”
Puzzled, the boy did as he was told. Minutes later he returned. “The horse is gone, Lindsay.”
“As is my only bow and quiver of arrows. It’s as I feared. God in heaven.” She slumped down into a chair and buried her face in her hands. As she did, the parchment dropped to the floor. Her father bent and retrieved it, then read it aloud to the children.
Though most of the message had been burned away, there were enough words to make out the intention.
“‘Do not…wait. I’ll not…return…taking the horse and weapon…I have no…love…”’
Each word spoken aloud was another knife thrust to Lindsay’s heart. While the old man and children gathered around her, she sobbed until there were no tears left.
That night, in the silence of the little hut, she sat before the fire, reliving every moment of the time she’d spent with Morgan MacLaren. How could he have managed to lie so convincingly? How could they have all been so blind to the truth?
She would have to find the courage to face up to a horrible, painful fact. She had lost her heart to a scoundrel and a thief. And what was even worse, she had now left her family even more desperate than before. For there was the very real danger that she might be carrying Morgan MacLaren’s bairn. If the villagers were to learn of her sin, her entire family would be outcasts.
As if in a trance she laid out her cloak and dirk and the fur pelts she would have to wrap around her feet for the long, cold trek to the village on the morrow. She knew what she had to do. For the sake of her family, she would accept Heywood Drummond’s offer to wed on the feast of Christmas.
Chapter Ten
The feast of Christmas was hailed as both a sad and a happy time this year in the Highlands. A sad time because word had filtered down that the old laird had died. He would be remembered as a man who had kept his word to his allies, sending his warriors whenever there had been an attack by outlanders. It was also a happy time because word had gone out that he had died in the arms of his recently returned son who had not been dead, but only wounded. It was rumored that his son was, like his father before him, an honorable man, a man whose word was his bond.
The Highlands were dusted with snow. A hush seemed to have fallen over the land. In the village of Braemer, there was rejoicing, because a priest had arrived to offer a midnight service in which all babies born in the past year would be christened, and a marriage would be blessed. A marriage between Lindsay Douglas and Heywood Drummond. From all the surrounding villages the people came. The small village kirk was crowded to the rafters with families, eager for the celebration to begin.
In a small room off the knave of the kirk, Lindsay sat, her cold hands folded in her lap, while her father paced.
“Where is Brock, Father?”
“He refuses to witness your marriage. Nor do I blame him. You can’t go through with this, lass.”
“I must.”
“Why will you not listen?” The old man fell into a fit of coughing, and Lindsay saw the worried look in Gwen’s eyes.
Because of you, she thought. Because of Gwen and Brock. But aloud all she said was, “It’s all been arranged, Father. There’s no going back.”
“You don’t love him.” Gordon Douglas pounded a fist on a tall wooden stand.
“Is love to be the answer?” Her chin came up, as she braced for another fight. “If it is, then I should already be happy. For I loved Morgan MacLaren. And in return he took everything from me. From all of us. And left us desolate.”
Her father looked into her eyes and was shocked at how dull and listless they had become.
“And what if Heywood makes good his threat to send Brock and Gwen to apprentice with a neighboring crofter?”
She took the blow to her heart without flinching. “At least they’ll have enough to eat. And a warm bed to sleep in.”
“They had that with us.”
“Aye. They did. Once.” He saw the fear that crept into her eyes and wondered about it. What was she keeping from him? Why did she suddenly feel she could no longer do for them what she’d always done?
And then the truth struck, like a knife to his heart.
He knelt before her and said in a soft voice, “Are you…in a family way, lass?”
He saw the valiant effort she made to hold back the tears. She couldn’t meet his eyes as she shook her head.
“I know not. But if it happens that I am, I must make arrangements before it’s too late. By this time next year, we’d be shunned by the villagers, and I’d be forced to watch one more loved one starve to death.”
“Oh, lass.” Her father gathered her against his chest and rocked her, recalling the way he’d rocked her when she’d been a wee one.
Then, as another fit of coughing came over him, he stood and turned away.
As the first strains of music filled the kirk, he squared his shoulders. There had been a time when he’d been a strong and noble warrior. At such a time, all of this would have been unthinkable. But now he must accept defeat. Age, infirmity and fate had conspired to beat him down.
He caught Gwen’s hand and led her up the aisle, where they took their places with the others to give witness to Lindsay’s dreaded marriage.
Resplendent in tight-fitting breeches and tunic, with the plaid of the MacLaren Clan tossed rakishly over his shoulder, Morgan rode at the head of the contingent of warriors. In their midst was a carriage lined with rich furs, and pulled by a team of matched white horses.
Though he had been in the saddle for hours, acknowledging the cheers of the people as he rode through each town and village, he felt no weariness. A thrill of anticipation raced along his spine at what he was about to do.
He smiled as he pictured the look on Lindsay’s face when he arrived at the door of her hut with her gifts. A gown of pure white lace, and a cloak of white satin lined with ermine. For her feet dainty kid boots. For her hair, a veil of gossamer as fine as a spider’s web.
He touched a hand to the tiny pouch he carried around his neck. The simple gold band worn by his mother, and her mother before her. A symbol of unbroken love which would, this night, be worn by his bride.
Up ahead he caught sight of another crowd of villagers gathering, awaiting the blessing of the new laird. He swallowed back his impatience. Much as he wanted to, it wouldn’t do to hurry past them. Besides, in another hour or two, he would take a step that would seal his happiness for a lifetime.
When he had greeted the people, he turned to his company of men. “I go ahead to greet my bride. The trail will be easy enough to follow. Her hut lies just beyond the village, by the banks of the stream that runs through the forest.”
With unbridled joy he urged his mount into a gallop. But when he arrived at the hut, he was shocked to find it in darkness. He dismounted and strode inside. The fire had long ago burned to embers.
“Lindsay.” Though he knew it was futile, he couldn’t resist shouting her name. The silence that greeted his voice seemed to mock him.
Puzzled, he turned away, about to take his leave, when he spotted a figure huddled in a corner of the hut. Holding a candle to the fire he lifted it high to reveal Brock, his eyes red rimmed from weeping.
“Brock.” Morgan’s heart nearly stopped. “What is it, lad?” He crossed to him and knelt beside him, touching a hand to his shoulder. “Has something happened to the others?”
“Aye.” The boy pulled away from his touch and sprang to his feet. “And it’s all because of you.”