And nevertheless, for all Riannag dún Scoti’s beauty—or Sorcha’s for that matter—neither could hold a candle to the woman standing beside him. If he was distracted from his task, it was because of her. With all the kissing and hugging and humping going on, he had half a mind to grab the bitch by her shining golden mane and drag her down to the beach to put his cock into her mouth—which, by the by, wouldn’t stop yapping, even for a God-given moment. “She hails from Dubhtolargg,” the woman was saying, conversationally.
Padruig rolled his eyes. “Aye, so, I’m told,” he said, readjusting his scrotum, revolted by the thought of the old woman.
“Such a pity. As I hear tell there are none remaining to enherite.”
Padruig turned to look at the woman. “No one?”
The woman shook her head. “Nay, for Caden Mac Swein has no heirs.”
Padruig blinked. “Not even a sister?”
The woman shook her head, smiling ruefully. “Sadly, no’ a one. I suppose once he’s wed, if he should die without an heir, King David will award his lands and his bride to her sire.”
Padruig lifted his chin with a sudden revelation. He opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it again, realizing that if he should challenge the man publicly to a contest, Caden Mac Swein would have no choice but to fight for Sorcha … or release her. He did not have the look of a man who would simply allow his woman to go free. So, then, if he simply waited until they spoke their vows, and if he slew Mac Swein, he would then profit twofold, for then he could have his daughter, as well as all these lands, meager though they might be. God’s truth, he was no fool. Why should he turn away a single copper? And those supplies that had been brought here … those alone were worth a fortune. Padruig’s cock hardened as he listened to the woman go on about Dunrònaigh’s laird. Nay, not because of her beauty. Not anymore. Greed was a far more powerful aphrodisiac. So, now, he would bide his time… and once the moment presented itself, he would swoop down like the raven he was, and feast upon the carcass of the laird of Dunrònaigh.
More and more, Sorcha was beginning to suspect that Padruig knew precisely who she was—and more, that he’d come here to Rònaigh to collect her. But Caden was in no condition to face her father, blind as he remained. She squeezed his hand again. “I am tired,” she said. “Shall we leave?”
“And disappoint the masses?” he teased. “I think not.”
Still, Sorcha pulled on his hand, hoping he would come. “I am but tired, my love. We can wed on the morrow, when I am well rested.”
Caden held her firmly, as thoroughly as though his feet were rooted to the spot and his fingers were made of chains. And suddenly, there was no escape, for the woman called Brighde stood before the Tein-Éigin, speaking at the top of her lungs, a graceful sound that lifted unto the heavens. “Great gods who create and bring forth life,” she said, announcing the handfasting. “We ask your blessings on this day of gathering!”
Cheers rippled through the crowd. A multitude of faces peered over at Sorcha and Caden.
Beautiful and graceful, Brighde put her hand out, calling Sorcha and Caden into the druid’s circle.
Frozen with fear, Sorcha remained where she stood, but Bessie pushed her forward, mistaking her hesitation for something more like jitters.
In Brighde’s hand, she held a bouquet of bright, red ribbons, and now she swept forward, ever so gracefully, reaching out to take Sorcha’s free hand, and smiling sweetly.
Having so little choice, Sorcha tightened her grip on Caden’s hand, dragging him along with her. And then, once she and Caden were standing side by side in the druid’s circle, the woman made no hesitation. She looped one ribbon over their joined wrists, binding the two of them together.
“It will be over before you know it,” Caden said, reassuring her, but Sorcha could not explain that it was precisely what she feared. Caden was unprepared to defend himself. If her father should assault them, he would be defenseless, and she could only hope someone would step to their aid. By contrast, Padruig had come armed and prepared, judging by his shining armor. She scanned the crowd for Alec and did not find him. Her heart beat like war drums against the cage of her ribs. Fear bound her as surely as did Brighde’s ribbons.
“Sorcha and Caden,” Brighde said loudly, and Sorcha was acutely aware of Padruig’s gaze—his eyes piercing her like a vulture’s through the winking darkness. And nevertheless, Brighde’s voice held no trepidation. It was soft as silk, and filled with serenity. “Do ye come voluntarily to make this union?”
“I do,” Caden said.
“Yes … I-I do,” agreed Sorcha. She peered nervously over the fire, to the place where Padruig had been standing, but found him gone. She prayed he had come as someone’s guest and now he was off somewhere, oblivious to her identity.
“Will you honor and respect one another?” the woman asked, clearly unaware of the turmoil Sorcha suffered.
“I will,” agreed Caden and so did Sorcha, and once again, Sorcha peered up at Caden, reassured only by his smile. Mayhap Padruig did not know her? Mayhap he was staring only because she was the bride to be wed?
“Will you forever aid each other in times of pain and sorrow?”
“I will,” both said again in unison, and Brighde looped another ribbon around their joined wrists. Eight times the ribbon would be coiled, binding them by law. And then, once the final toast was made, the bride and groom would unravel them together, signifying by this act that they willingly remained together as man and wife.
Aidan and Lìli had spoken similar words eleven years past when Sorcha was but thirteen. All these years later, even despite that neither had wanted that union, there was love still between them.
Brighde’s words put her sister’s wedding in mind, except that, that day up on the hillside in Dubhtolargg, it was Una who had officiated that ceremony, her voice raw and ancient as the Am Monadh Ruadh—the red hills wherein they made their home. Certainly, it was not so soft and soothing as this woman’s—and yet, Una had been the one to guide Sorcha through every hardship she’d ever encountered, and she wished with all her heart that she could be here now.
Una would know what to do about Padruig. She would knock him on the noggin with her staff. She would make certain he was emasculated before one and all, and she would send him away, with the hounds nipping at his heels. She peered up at her betrothed, wondering of his thoughts. He seemed so blissfully unaware of how close they were to peril—no idea that her sire was here.
“Will you be true to one another that you may grow strong, together?”
“I will,” Caden said, without hesitation, heedless to Sorcha’s turmoil.
“I will,” she said, trying harder to stay focused on Brighde’s voice.
As though she knew it, Brighde’s leaned forward. “As your hands become withered, will you reach only for one another?”
“We will,” they said in unison, and once again, the red ribbon was wrapped about their wrists. Sorcha squeezed Caden’s hand and swallowed, hard.
Something terrible was looming.
Her visions—the gifts she’d been born with—had not manifested themselves in so long—not since the day she’d witnessed her father’s villainy in the keek stane. Like Caden, with his sight, Sorcha had suppressed them. Only now, at the most inopportune moment, she had a darkening sensation about her eyes, a sure sign that a vision was emerging.
But nay, it must be that she was nervous. Her breath came more labored as the ribbon was looped over their wrists yet another time.
“Is it your intention to bring peace and harmony to this clan?”
“It is,” both said, but Sorcha found it difficult to move her mouth and tongue. Her vision dimmed even more and she smelled blood and death. She blinked and once again envisioned Padruig standing over Aidan’s sire and her mother. The images manifested themselves in the need-fire. Her belly grew sour. Nausea bubbled up from her gut as voices began to meld together, sounding like terrible drones.
&nb
sp; “When you falter—and you will— will you then have the courage—and loyalty—to remember all these promises you have made to one another?”
“Aye,” Caden agreed.
“Aye,” Sorcha said, swallowing the bile that rose into her throat, and as she looked up at the woman called Brighde, straight into her eyes… until she spied something familiar… bright green eyes that could have belonged to Una in her youth.
Brighde returned her gaze… and smiled.
For the longest instant, the two women stared into one another’s eyes, and Sorcha realized she knew those eyes better than she knew her own.
Brighde, Brigit.
The gray, wiry hair was luminous and fair. The patch on her left eye was gone, and there were two lovely, green eyes—Guardian’s eyes. The long limbs, which but a short time ago had been hobbled by age, were now tall and strong, lifting her to a noble height. She no longer had need of a staff, but in that very instant, Sorcha realized who she was—but it was impossible!
Una, transformed!
“It was always you,” Brighde whispered into her head, with a voice as soft as silk and a bit of a gleam in her two good eyes. “You were always The One, Sorcha dún Scoti…”
Twilight fell to shadow and Sorcha peered up at Caden as a shadow passed over the moon. In that same instant, Brighde lifted her voice to the masses, and the substance of the earth seemed to shudder at its core. The wind shrieked through Sorcha’s ears. “Is there anyone here who opposes these two be wed?” And then, Sorcha’s gaze shuttered, and her breath failed her, for Padruig Caimbeul stepped forward, and said, “I do.”
A startled whisper swept through the crowd. Sorcha saw the blood drain from Caden’s face the instant before she swooned.
No matter that he’d worn an air of ease, Caden’s every nerve remained on edge.
He had been waiting for this moment. He felt Sorcha buckle beside him and moved swiftly to catch her, sweeping her into his arms. He shouted for Alec. Ribbons were wrenched from his arm, stinging his flesh.
“I am Padruig Caimbeul,” a man said. “And you would presume to wed my daughter, and without my consent. By the laws of Scotia and David mac Maíl Chaluim, I challenge you to a battle in defense of my honor. Winner takes all, we fight unto death!”
Sorcha passed into someone else’s arms, but the hand-off was gentle and Caden knew instinctively he had given her into friendly care. The last of the ribbons were wrenched from his wrist.
He was ready to fight, blind though he might be. His eyes could not see, but his other senses were keener than ever, and in his private moments, he had once again begun to swing his grandsire’s halberd. He was not wholly unprepared. Only something happened as he stood there, surrounded by the licking flames of the need-fire, his ears catching every sound.
The sound of not one, but two blades hissed against the night. One sword left its scabbard and stilled in midair. The other blade sliced through the air, spinning irrevocably toward Caden. It was impossible to say what happened next, because it happened so quickly. Intuitively, Caden lifted his hands, bracing himself for the heaviness of his grandfather’s halberd. It was the same instinct that had compelled him to catch Sorcha that day on the stairs. Even then he had suspected what his heart would not acknowledge.
A shadow passed over the moon, revealing everything to his eyes. He saw the axe pummeling through the air and he caught the hilt. There was a collective gasp.
The last shred of red ribbon whipped away in a gust of wind. And, there, before his eyes stood a fat, grey-bearded man, vested in armor. Dressed in the English manner, he had the look of a man who’d come to make war, not peace.
Behind that man stood Alec, no longer holding Caden’s axe, but his hands still embraced the air, after he’d hurled the Beast.
All at once, as one people, the crowd fell away and for an instant, the fat man’s brows twitched like grey caterpillars, as he realized Caden was no longer blind. It took him a befuddled instant to recover himself and then some ungodly sound left the man’s lips. “Bastard!” he cried, and Caden reared back with the blade of his ancestors.
There was no time to calibrate the weapon.
Sword drawn, Padruig Caimbeul lunged after him.
But he could not have known Caden had the aim of a champion. He could not comprehend how deadly the Beast could be. He could not know, as Caden couldn’t have known, that he only needed to believe in his sight, the same way he believed in his wife. “For Davie,” he shouted, as the axe swung wide.
Metal caught metal in midair, producing sparks. The clang was a roar across the land.
“For Sorcha!” he said louder, his confidence restored.
Padruig Caimbeul parried, recovering swiftly as his sword was light. But Caden spun around, swinging the axe blade with all his might. This time, as every time, his blade met its mark, slicing cleanly through metal, then flesh and bone. And this time, afterward, there was no more ringing of metal. No more war cries. An impenetrable hush fell over the gathered crowd. But Caden didn’t linger to see Padruig Caimbeul’s body hit the ground. He turned away, hurrying after Brighde, who bore his wife into the keep, unwilling to see Sorcha for the first time in her dead father’s eyes.
16
Sorcha awoke in the laird’s chamber, and once again in Caden’s bed. Only this time, her husband sat beside her, gazing down into her eyes—seeing eyes, Sorcha realized at once, and she nearly choked on her joy.
He bent to whisper into her ear. “You seem to unerringly make your way to my bed, and for this I am only grateful.”
Sorcha tried to respond, but she couldn’t speak for the tears. She sat up, clutching her husband about the chest, weeping unabashedly into his bloodied tunic.
He patted her hair. “Dearest love … I thought never to have the joy of seeing your face,” he confessed. “You are lovely, and I am blessed, for I did not fall in love with the beauty I knew in your face, but the beauty I knew in your heart.”
“How?” Sorcha asked.
Caden chuckled softly. “How can I love ye, or how is it I can see?”
Sorcha lifted a hand to his face, marveling over the knowing glimmer in his deep blue eyes.
He seized her hand, squeezing. “I dinna ken, love. Only tell me, do you still take me now that I am no longer blind, and likely to be as ill-tempered as ever?”
Sorcha choked on her laughter, clutching his tunic with unreserved joy. “A-chaoidh, Caden Mac Swein.” Always. “And I will love you fiercely until the moment I cease to breathe.”
He whispered again into her ear. “Promise me, you will.”
“I do!” she said. “But I do!”
And now it was Caden’s turn to laugh, and he did so unabashedly, his laughter low and rich as he pressed Sorcha possessively against his chest, like a treasure he never thought to possess.
Only then, Sorcha remembered the woman called Brighde who had whispered into her head—and she gasped out loud. “Where is she?”
Caden held her fast. “Who, my love?”
“Brighde—I know her!”
His voice was sober. “Gone. And so is your father.”
For the longest moment, Sorcha couldn’t find her voice to speak. And then she dared to ask. “Dead?”
“Only your sire, cèol mo chridhe.” Music of my heart. “Brighde will return another day—as she has since I was a lad. I dinna ken how she keeps her youth, but that woman must be auld as dirt.”
The two were one; Una and Brighde. There was no other explanation for it, and there was so much more to say, but Sorcha felt dumb with emotion.
Slowly, Caden pulled away, grabbing Sorcha by the shoulders, to hold her steady. “Only hear me now, mo chridhe, my heart, there is someone else who would like to speak to ye if ye’d allow it—”
Before Sorcha could say yay or nay, her brother Aidan burst into the room, looking as harried as she had ever seen him. “Sorcha!” he said. “Thank Cailleach!”
“Or Brighde,” she murmured, and sh
e gave her brother a trembly smile. Someday, she would tell him everything—or then, again, perhaps not. If Una had not revealed herself to anyone else, there was quite possibly a reason for it, and Sorcha daren’t defy her.
She urged Caden to release her from the bed, and stood, casting herself into her brother’s arms, without reservation, her throat too thick to speak. Then, she spied Keane over Aidan’s shoulder, and released Aidan to embrace the youngest of her brothers. In truth, she had thought never to see either again. And she had mistakenly believed she didn’t wish to, but, heavens, so much had changed since leaving the Vale.
Her only grievance now could be that Lìli was not present to witness their reunion. If Sorcha lived a hundred thousand years, she would never again take any of her siblings for granted. She might be the blood of a devil, but betimes even devils were favored by grace. Padruig’s was this; he’d borne two daughters whose hearts were pure, and nevertheless, the man was too blind to see where his strengths lay, in them—a fine bit of irony in that, for he was felled by a man whose eyes betrayed him and who needed only remember that he, too, was favored by grace.
Aidan and Keane both reassured Sorcha that everyone was well—worried and waiting for news, but in good health. Cailin and Lìli were back in the Vale. Lianae awaited Keane at Dunràth. Lael was pregnant yet again, and Catrìona was none the wiser over Sorcha’s ordeal, but word had arrived a day before Aidan’s departure that she, too, at long last, was expecting a child—eleven years overdue!
Sorcha was not pregnant yet, nor would she speak about such things to her eldest brother, but she fully intended to make good use of Caden’s lustiness at every opportunity.
She shared a private smile with her husband, and then he ushered everyone out of their room to give Sorcha time to “rest.” Hours later, when they re-emerged into the great hall, hand in hand, and the tables were all filled with familial guests, Sorcha knew a moment’s chagrin over what they might have heard up in the tower—especially after she discovered they’d been graced with the King’s presence.
Her Knight in Tarnished Armor: A Medieval Romance Collection Page 27