Strangely familiar though the man appeared to be, Malcom couldn’t tell exactly who it was until they stood at the fork of a wooded path.
If you went one way, the road led to Brodie land. The other way ventured toward his grandfather’s house. It was a place Malcom rarely went, for Old Man MacLean was not the most affable of men. He considered going there now, fearful of what the apparition meant, and then he spied the man’s face.
It was Dougal MacLean, though not on his deathbed.
The old man stood, staring back at Malcom, his bright blue eyes seemingly filled with words his mouth could no longer move to say. I’m sorry, he whispered into Malcom’s head. He was sorry they’d not known each other better. Sorry he’d poisoned his mother against his Da. He wished Mairi did not leave them so young. But most of all, he wanted Malcom to know he would never be far—that he would keep watch over him in death the way he never had in life—and to his point, there was something he wanted Malcom to see…
Malcom’s skin prickled, though not with fear. For the first time in his life, he felt a calm deep in his soul… until he heard the scream…
Old man Maclean pointed in the direction of his home and then dissolved into mist and Malcom automatically withdrew his sword from its scabbard, the sound a hiss in the night. Without thinking or hesitating, his feet began to move. He went stealthily through the woods, knowing his greatest vantage was the element of surprise.
Now came another scream, and it wasn’t a scream of pleasure—not by far. Malcom followed the sound, but he didn’t have to go far. He saw the outline of a man standing in the shadows and he slid behind a pine tree for cover.
His eyes were well enough adjusted to the darkness, for he’d been traipsing through the forest ever since slipping away from the celebration.
The stranger was wearing mail—English, he surmised—holding a bow and arrow, taking aim, now drawing back the string…
Malcom located his target.
It took him a full moment to realize what was happening, and then he couldn’t believe his eyes. He’d known something was amiss, and now there was proof…
Hugh FitzSimon held an arrow aimed at his daughter’s head, rearing back, ready to let it fly. The fact that she was struggling against another man didn’t immediately strike Malcom as it should. There wasn’t time to consider. All he knew was that Page was in her father’s sights, and if he didn’t intervene, right now, the odious man would finally kill her after all these years.
Without fear, he lunged after FitzSimon, his sword finding purchase in the man’s back, straight through his heart. But FitzSimon had already loosed his arrow. It happened so swiftly. Page screamed yet again, and Malcom saw only in that instant that the arrow must not have been intended for her at all. It went straight through a man’s head, felling him at his stepmother’s feet. Page gave a cry, and ran straight into her father’s arms just as he crumpled to the ground.
Malcom stood, confused, watching the scene unfold.
* * *
“Papa,” Page cried.
Hugh was more than aware that his blood was spilling into the cold, wet earth, but he rested easily, knowing his arrow had found its mark. That was one thing the years could never wrest from him; even as his legs had slowed and his belly fattened, he could still wield that bow.
“Papa,” she cried, her lips quivering with emotion.
Hugh always loved that about her—the fact that she loved so freely, even when it wasn’t returned. Eleanore had been that way as well—up until the end.
His sight dimming, Hugh squinted up at his only daughter—the beautiful woman she had become—confused by the turn of these events. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. He’d only meant to help. Hadn’t Eleanore said he would have another chance?
In that instant, the forest light took on that strange blue hue and suddenly everything seemed so very clear.
The chance wasn’t for him. It was for his heirs. As for Hugh, this would be his end. Strangely, he wasn’t afraid. He was merely cold, intensely cold…
Another pair of wide-blue eyes peered down at him, this pair over his daughter’s shoulder. “Malcom?” he said, recognizing the face no matter how old the boy was grown. “Ye’re a fine lad,” he said. These were his very last words.
“Hang on, papa. Hurry, Mal! Go get your Da,” Page commanded the lad. “You’ll find him in the stables. Hurry, now go!”
Hugh’s breath came more labored. The sound of his own breathing became amplified to his ears while Page’s voice drifted away. She was sobbing—poor, poor girl. The sound of her grief hurt his heart, which seemed to beating all the more slowly now. He heard crispy leaves rustle as Malcom dashed away.
Realizing he was nearly out of time, Hugh struggled to remove the ring from his swollen finger. This was all he could give Page now, his legacy, for she was Aldergh’s rightful heir… He managed to remove the sigil ring, pushing it wordlessly into her hand. He tried to speak, but tinny blood gushed up through his lips.
“Oh, no, no, no, no….” Page shook her head. “Papa,” she pleaded brokenly. “Oh, papa… I love you, Papa.” He heard her say this, over and over, like a litany in his head. “I love you, Papa.” He recognized the truth in her eyes—she loved him still—even after all these years—even after all he’d done. Words refused to form upon his lips and still, he opened his mouth in an attempt to speak.
I love you, he longed to say, and closed his eyes, recalling Eleanore’s words.
You will know love when ’tis returned.
With Hugh’s dying breath, his heart burst with joy.
And then he spied her—his wife—seated beside the hearth fire, dressed resplendently in velvet red, and wearing his cloak. The room was brightly lit and Hugh was no longer cold.
Hugh stepped tentatively into the solar.
Eleanore smiled at him, a radiant smile that put to shame the fire raging in the hearth. There was nothing frightening about her now. “You did not die alone,” she said, her voice like music to his ears.
“And yet I did everything you said,” he told her, still confused.
Eleanore rose from the chair and came to take Hugh by the hand, her gaze full of love as she enveloped him in her arms. Warmth and forgiveness filled him, from his head to the tips of his toes.
“My dearest love,” she said, “I never promised you longer life. I merely gave you the gift of knowing and a chance to make amends and change the hand of fate.”
“What happens now?”
Somewhere, in the place Hugh left, his daughter wept for him still. The sound lingered faintly in the back of his head. He peered back at the doorway from whence it seemed he must have come. Beyond the solar where he now stood, in what should have been the hall, remained a forest that was growing darker by the second.
Eleanore turned her hand, begging him once more to take it. “I hear tell Henry has already arrived. Shall we go?”
Henry too? The old bugger!
All trace of jealousy had fled, no longer doubting Eleanore’s love.
In another life, Hugh might have moved his mouth to ask where they would go, but he had no need of his voice. He already knew. He took Eleanore by the hand, and together they flew…
Epilogue
A single horn blast trumpeted across the landscape.
From this distance they could spy men rushing to the ramparts, tiny black forms scurrying between machicolations.
Built solely for defense, Aldergh was a sprawling fortress that Page had once viewed a scabrous creation, sullying the beauty of the English meadow upon which it was seated.
The cavalcade stood well outside of missile range, yet close enough to make out standards. Flying against a vivid red sea, her father’s two-headed falcon whipped along the breeze. News would have preceded them by now, but until they faced the men who held the garrison they could not know how this would go.
Page reined in her mount, sidling up to her laird husband, and sat for a moment, simply taking in
the sight—the familiar donjon keep, the soaring corner towers, the massive twenty-foot thick walls, built with old Roman ingenuity and stone.
Aldergh Castle appeared much the same as it had the day she’d left, save for a small footbridge her father must have installed after widening the moat.
And yet, despite its nearly impenetrable defenses, those walls had not been able to hold her. The last time she’d set eyes upon her childhood home, she’d been naught more than a lass and far too willful to remain locked up behind those castle walls—much to her own good fortune. The stars must have been aligned with her that day, for that was how she’d met Iain—after sneaking out to take an evening swim.
If she but closed her eyes, she could spy him now standing before her as he had that day, the silver at his temples, rivaling the glint of the setting sun.
“Catching glowworms perchance?” she’d asked him, because he’d stared a bit too long, mouth agape. She had been captured in her chemise. Wet and looking more like a stray he’d nevertheless seemed entranced.
“Bones o’ the saints,” he’d said. “‘Tis no wonder your da lets you aboot in the middle o’ the night. He’s like to be hopin’ ye’ll lose your way in the dark.”
There was truth to his words, and his barb had wounded her. No one had ever cared where Page went, or what she did—until the day she left this place.
“Who are you?” she’d demanded hotly, and when Iain did not immediately reply, she’d asked, “Have you no tongue, Scot?”
For the space of an instant he’d seemed taken aback by the question, stunned perhaps, and then he’d surprised Page with the rich timbre of his laughter.
Twelve years had gone by since that day—twelve years of that very same laughter, wherein she’d thought never to return to this place…
She cast a glance at her husband, reaching out to beg his hand.
“Ready?” he asked, and Page nodded resolutely.
All that her father had kept from her as a child was now hers to bestow.
Malcom trotted up beside them, maneuvering his mount next to Page. He peered at her with a question in his eyes, in much the same manner his father had. “Art certain?” he asked, as though she might change her mind.
Quite a lot had happened since the night her father died. Malcom was stronger now, bolder, filled with the strength of his own convictions and very little fear. That day in the woods, when he took her father’s life, all trace of his youth had fled from those stark green eyes. Pensive, and full of purpose, there was little left of the boy in him now.
Page’s gaze softened at the sight of her eldest child. “I am ready,” she assured, and then she proceeded to tug the signet ring off her finger, handing it to her son—her one and only son, since God seemed to have blessed her only with girls.
She laid a hand upon her belly, only slightly bumped, and smiled a secret smile. As yet, not even Iain realized, and she hadn’t yet told him because she knew he’d never allow her to come. But they could not delay this any longer, lest Aldergh become forfeit to the king.
She gave Malcom the ring that had once belonged to her lord father, offering it up in her palm. It was a small gold signet ring with two feathers striking through a fleur-de-lis bearing the motto, Altium, citius, fortius.
Swifter, higher, stronger.
That day in the forest, her father’s spirit took wing long before Iain arrived—right there, whilst she’d knelt beside him on the forest floor, weeping with her head upon his chest. The fates were cruel, she’d thought, for just when it seemed he had changed his heart and come to embrace her, the gods intervened and took his soul away. She only prayed he was now with her mother—the two of them waiting for her wherever they might be.
Malcom took the ring from her palm, and Page gave him a warm, reassuring smile. “Put it on your small finger, Malcom. Remember … what happens from the moment you ride through those gates will determine how they receive you. You are Aldergh’s new lord.”
Still, he seemed to hesitate, and Page could only guess at his thoughts. He was far more brooding than his father, although some would belie that claim. And, in fact, she recalled a time when they’d hailed him as a murderer and a fiend. Now, his son must overcome a similar epithet.
“You have the writ from David, and my father’s ring. That will be enough.”
The countries were at odds now. Henry of England was dead after eating a number of bad eels, or so they’d said. But, there were some who suspected he’d been poisoned. Stephen of Blois—Henry’s nephew—moved at once to seize the throne, and his daughter Matilda now prepared for war.
Once Malcom wrested control of Aldergh, Stephen would no doubt cede to him the baronetcy, if for no other reason to lessen the number of barons prepared to do battle against him.
If somehow Matilda managed to take her rightful place, Page would intervene, petitioning for the baronetcy on her son’s behalf.
In either case, David would support Malcom’s claim, for Scotia’s King meant to strengthen his hold over Northumbria and Malcom would provide him another means to do so—whether or not he’d slain its lord—some also claimed the bastard son. But Page and Malcom knew the truth. Her own brother had been prepared to kill her, and her father stood ready to protect her. Malcom accidentally took his life.
Up on the ramparts she could see the watch signaling for the portcullis to be raised.
“You are my son,” she told Malcom when he sat unmoving upon his mount.
Even as young as he was, she had every faith he was ready to embrace this destiny.
God willing, her husband would have many years remaining, and if she bore Iain no other sons, Malcom would inherit Aldergh along with Chreagach Mhor. In the meantime, he was no longer fated to build his legacy in his father’s shadow.
Page studied him, seated upon his warhorse—his deep golden hair ruffling in the morning breeze.
“Are you ready, Mal?” his father asked.
Behind them, an army provided by David of Scotia stood ready to defend his claim.
Peering down at the sigil ring, Malcom slid the golden two-headed falcon upon his finger, and gave Page one final glance. He nodded firmly, spurring his mount forward, once and for all taking the lead—a boy now become a man.
Page and Iain shared a proud glance, and then fell into pace behind their son, moving swiftly toward the open gates. Dressed in her father’s cloak, and wearing his sigil ring, Malcom Ceann Ràs—hot head—as they’d begun to hail him, rode in before them, looking like a king in his own right. He carried with him all the fury of the north.
Cantering along behind him, Page rode through Aldergh’s gates, first the anterior, and then through the barbican, across the moat and into the familiar bailey.
“Welcome home, Lady Aldergh,” someone shouted up at her.
And then another, “Welcome home!”
One after another, her father’s kinsmen hailed her as she passed, familiar faces welcoming her home.
Page sat a little straighter in the saddle. No more was she that nameless child, for whom nobody had cared. In truth, she didn’t need her father’s legacy to feel esteemed, and yet, one by one, they gave her obeisance, falling to their knees. Tears swam in her eyes.
Welcome home.
She heard the last greeting whispered at her ear as the wind blew the curls of her hair. Her father’s voice—perhaps but a memory, but she felt him in her heart.
Welcome home, he said.
Welcome home.
If you enjoyed this novella
read more books in this series…
The Highland Brides
The MacKinnon’s Bride
Lyon’s Gift
On Bended Knee
Lion Heart
Highland Song
Guardians of the Stone
Once Upon a Highland Legend
Highland Fire
Highland Steel
Highland Storm
Or if you prefer your romances to be a "sweet" read,
The Highland Brides are also available in a sweet version. It's the same story, but with no strong language or sex.
Sweet Scottish Brides
Page
Meghan
Seana
Elizabet
Catrìona
About Tanya
Tanya Anne Crosby is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of twenty-five novels. She has been featured in magazines, such as People, Romantic Times and Publisher's Weekly, and her books have been translated into eight languages. Her first novel was published in 1992 by Avon Books, where Tanya was hailed as "one of Avon's fastest rising stars." Her fourth book was chosen to launch the company's Avon Romantic Treasure imprint.
Known for stories charged with emotion and humor and filled with flawed characters Tanya is an award-winning author, journalist, and editor, and her novels have garnered reader praise and glowing critical reviews. In 2013, she penned her first romantic suspense novel, Speak No Evil, which appeared on the USA Today list.
The Girl Who Stayed brings her full circle to work with Lou Aronica, President and Publisher of The Story Plant, who first published Tanya at Avon Books.
Tanya and her writer husband split their time between Charleston, SC, where she was raised, and northern Michigan, where the couple make their home.
For more information:
@tanyaannecrosby
tanyaannecrosby
www.tanyaannecrosby.com
[email protected]
The Gift
by Margaret Mallory
Chapter 1
Late 1441
They were burning witches.
Lily knew better than to dabble in the black arts, but with witch fever spreading through London like the plague, any woman who sold cures for headaches, warts, or love was at risk.
Highlanders for the Holidays: 4 Hot Scots Page 17