by Pam Binder
O’Donnell wiped the sweat from his upper lip. “I came only to seek Marcail’s love. If she refuses me at this time, I shall wait. Stand and fight me and I will prove, with blood, the words I speak are true.”
A cool breeze swirled the dry leaves in the courtyard. On the other side of the stables a dog barked. Shouts of his men on the practice field nearby combined with the sound of metal striking metal as the mock battles began. Lachlan gazed at the man before him. O’Donnell was traveling to Urquhart when Bartholomew had surprised him, yet Lachlan had no knowledge of him until several days ago.
“Sheath your sword. I have no need to fight you. How is it that you know Marcail?”
“I have known the lady for more centuries than I care to recall. When I first met her my hair was dyed black and hung past my shoulders. My right eye was covered with a patch. She thought me quite the rogue.” He grinned. “We had ourselves a time.”
Perhaps Marcail was not as impulsive as he had first thought. “She said she had never seen you before the night I brought you to the castle. How is it that she did not recognize you?” .
O’Donnell lowered his voice. “The last time we were together we did not part on the best of terms. She discovered me in bed with another woman.” He shrugged. “I tried to explain.”
Laughter burst from Lachlan as though it had been long contained and he clasped O’Donnell on the shoulder. “You are lucky she did not run you through.”
He grimaced. “She did.”
“I should think that would have given her sufficient reason to remember you.”
O’Donnell smiled. “A woman’s mind does not often take the most logical course. She has loved me before, and it has taken me two hundred years to realize that she is the only one I want in my life. I will not leave without her.” He closed his eyes and tilted his head toward the sky. “Did you ever wonder how long you were capable of loving someone?”
The sounds in the courtyard closed in on Lachlan until he could no longer distinguish one from the other. He felt suffocated. The words he spoke were little more than a whisper. “With every waking moment.” He looked over at O’Donnell. “You are that sure of your love for Marcail?”
“I would not be here, otherwise.”
Lachlan gazed in the direction of the water. Love was to him not unlike the Highland mist. It rolled off the loch so thick you could feel its embrace, while at other times it was hard to grasp. “I envy you.”
MacDougal bounded toward him, with Gavin dose behind. His brother tugged on his sleeve. “The Lady Amber asks that you meet us in two hours in the meadow.”
Last night Lachlan had agreed to spend more time with her and his brother. He had not thought she meant to start today. “I shall not be finished with…”
Gavin looked doubtful. “Amber said two hours would be a long enough time for you to play with your sword.”
Lachlan heard O’Donnell’s laughter and silenced him with a glance. He turned back to Gavin. “Did she really use the word, ‘play’?”
“Aye. And she said if you were not in the meadow, she would convince Una to serve you only bread and water for a week.”
O’Donnell slapped Lachlan on the shoulder. “From what Marcail tells me about the Lady Amber, she could convince a fish to jump into the net.”
Gavin motioned to his wolfhound and they raced toward the entrance to the cookroom. Once they had disappeared from sight, Lachlan crossed his arms over his chest and looked to where his men trained. They could do without him for one day. They might even benefit from being on their own without his supervision. It would teach them to rely on each other as well as draw on their own strength for leadership. Aye, his being absent from the training field for a half a day would be good for his men.
Lachlan leaned against the tree and looked at the sky through the branches. The leaves reminded him of the molten vats of gold he had seen in his travels to Egypt, and the fire in Amber’s hair. He smiled and looked at her, as she and Gavin raced through the field with a ball between them. As skilled as any man he had ever seen, Amber played a game of keep away with his brother. Lachlan reached for a slice of crusty bread from the assortment of food Amber had brought along. She’d called it a “picnic.” He tore off a hunk and put it into his mouth, throwing the crumbs on the ground for the birds. He marveled at the peaceful feeling.
He reached into his sporran, took out a piece of wood and rubbed it with his thumb. The carving was almost finished. He liked working with his hands; it helped free his mind to discover new solutions to old problems, and Amber was a mystery he needed to solve. He unsheathed his knife and shaved a rough spot on the wood. He looked over at Amber and Gavin. She had grabbed the boy under his arms and was spinning him around. They ran toward him and collapsed on the blanket at his feet, laughing and out of breath.
Gavin reached for the water and Amber stretched out on the ground and put her hands behind her head.
Then she sat up with her legs crossed in front of her. “It feels great to run again. Una shortened my skirt, otherwise I would never have been able to keep up with your brother. He’s fast.” She smiled at Gavin. “For a boy.”
Gavin let out a dramatic moan. “She has wounded me.” He covered his heart with his hand, stood and spun around before collapsing to the ground.
Amber leaned toward Lachlan. “Your brother has a real flair for the dramatic. Did you teach him that?”
“Happily, no. ‘Tis Artemis’ doing. The man has entertained many of the queens and kings of Europe.”
“Gavin is a fast learner when he finds a subject he likes. I think there are many things he can do.”
Her eyes mirrored her happy mood and his heart felt lighter just looking at her. He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Her face turned the color of fresh rosebuds in the courtyard garden. He smiled, pleased at her response to his touch. “Gavin needs to learn to become a warrior first, then he can choose whatever else is of interest to him.”
“Do I really get to choose?”
Lachlan nodded. He took a small nick out of the carving. “However, Angus awaits you on the training field.”
Gavin’s eyes widened. “I forgot.” He looked toward the castle.
Amber handed him a meat pie. “You have to eat first.”
The boy kissed her on the cheek, grabbed the food and ran down the path leading to Urquhart
Lachlan watched Amber shield her eyes from the sun with one hand. She had come out of nowhere and settled into his life as though she belonged.
“You have a loving way with my brother.”
Amber hugged her legs to her chest. “He’s a great boy.”
“True, but he tries the very depths of a person’s patience. You seem to welcome the challenge. I have yet to find a fault in you.”
She rested her cheek on her knees. “You’re wrong. I have a special place in my heart for kids who are struggling, but those who appear to be doing okay, I’ve ignored. Sometimes they need just as much encouragement. It’s something I have to work on.”
Lachlan reached for a slice of cheese and handed it to her. The carving dropped from his lap to the ground.
Amber picked it up, turning it around in the palm of her hand. “This looks like a brachiosaurus. Long neck, short legs and big body. I think they lived in deep water.”
Her statement seemed more to herself than to him and her eyes looked troubled. Lachlan put his knife in his belt, taking time to steady himself. She had described the Guardian.
“Have you seen this creature you speak of?”
She handed the carving back. “It sounds crazy, but I think I felt it when I was in the water. Or something like it.”
He gazed at the carving before putting it back in his sporran. Stories from his childhood that surrounded the creature came swirling back. They were Gavin’s favorites as well, which was why Lachlan was making a replica for his brother. The Guardian had followed some of the kind to Urquhart when they left their home and had rem
ained to protect them.
A cool breeze drifted over the meadows and moved through the tall grass. Lachlan reached over and turned Amber’s face toward him.
“Can you speak about how you came to be in Loch Ness?”
He felt her tremble, but she did not pull away.
Amber couldn’t read him. He seemed like a person who wanted to experience life only on the surface. It was almost as though he was afraid, or unwilling, to go deeper. A bird chirped in the tree, as if asking why she cared one way or another. But she did; she also wanted to trust him. He was waiting patiently for her to speak. It occurred to her how comfortable she felt with him at this moment.
“So you want to know how I came to Urquhart?” She smiled. “Well, I was… near Loch Ness… and saw lightning flash across the night sky. The next thing I remember was crashing into the water. I thought I saw a shadow that resembled the carving you have. Then you pulled me to safety.”
He stood and brushed the twigs and leaves off his tartan. “I find I no longer care why you have come to be here or what brought you to me. If a sorcerer were to conjure the woman of my dreams, it would be you.”
Amber’s heart beat so fast her hand shook. In only a short time her attraction for Lachlan had grown to mean a great deal to her. She felt safe whenever he was near and empty when he was not. If she didn’t get back to her own time soon, her heart would be completely lost. But she knew she no longer wanted to return. She wanted to stay. With Lachlan.
He pulled her to her feet and smiled. “Your thoughts are a great distance away. Were they of me?”
He was actually smiling at her. Her aunt used to say of Amber that whatever was in her heart was written on her face. It was a trait she hated now more than ever. She was not ready to pour her heart out to him. She looked at the rolling hills and decided to bluff. “I was planning Gavin’s next lesson.”
Lachlan touched the tip of her nose with his finger. “The two of us should play a game of chess. I would be able to read your next move just by looking into your eyes. You guard your heart as fiercely as I do mine.”
Ivy covered the interior walls of the enclosed garden, and a fine mist lightly touched the weeds entangled in the few remaining rosebushes. The afternoon sun highlighted the neglect. Marcail bent down and cupped her hand around a red bud and inhaled the sweet fragrance. She dosed her eyes and let the intoxicating scent swirl around her. It gave her encouragement to fulfill the task she had set for herself.
O’Donnell sat on a marble bench near a fountain, with his back to her. Una had said that he was an artist and had sought out the gardens. She questioned his choice. The place was desolate. Perhaps she might live permanently at Urquhart and restore the roses. There was a time when this had been Diedra’s favorite retreat, but Subedei had robbed Lachlan’s mother of more than her husband and three of her children. He had taken her will to live.
Their race had its violent side, but so did the mortals amongst whom they lived. They did not stop living when one of their own was taken, and neither would she. The gift of bringing children into the world was worth the risk.
Marcail paused behind O’Donnell. She needed to find the right words to convince him to give up his immortality and marry her. She would appeal to his sense of duty to perpetuate their kind. Did he even care about such things? She would soon know. Her theory had appeared sound when first she conceived it. The plan was to marry without love; the only condition of the union was to produce children. There would, therefore, be no expectations, no disappointments. And if he refused her…
“Please sit with me.”
O’Donnell continued to sketch on a large parchment, making clean strokes across the page with a piece of charcoal. Marcail was disappointed at losing the element of surprise. She had wanted to be in control and to keep him off balance when she made her proposal, but the man was not startled by her appearance. She had already lost ground and the subject had not been broached.
He stood and turned to face her. She felt her breath catch and willed herself to be calm. He was tall, lean, clean-shaven and his hair was cropped short. The white linen shirt he wore was crisp, and the plaid he had borrowed from Lachlan looked newly made. His appearance had improved greatly. Marcail took a step back. Her plan was foolish. This man would never consider her proposal. He looked as though he relished life. He did not appear to be the kind of man who would give up his immortality without a struggle.
“You did not see me approach. How did you know?”
He made a sweeping flourish with his arm. “I recognized you by your perfume.”
Marcail felt her courage return. He had taken notice of her scent. A good sign.
He sat back down on the bench. “You use a heavy hand with the fragrance.”
She closed her eyes and forced her voice to remain calm. She needed this man. It made no difference what type of fragrance she wore. For all she cared, he could hold his nose while he performed his duty to produce children. She opened her eyes, saw him grinning at her over his shoulder and chose to ignore the way his smile touched her heart. It was familiar and somehow it caught her unaware.
The sun, long hidden behind the clouds, warmed the garden and sent golden rays of light into the enclosure.
O’Donnell held out his hand. “I want to show you what I have been drawing this day.”
Marcail swept by him and sat down on tine bench. She knew that the increase in her heartbeat arose from her concern that he would refuse her proposal, nothing more. The walls protected her from the breeze and the garden waned under the attention of the sun. She folded her hands.
“This garden cries from neglect, and its beauty is choked out, what is there to capture?”
She bit her lips. Her words sounded sharp to her. She should have just fluttered her eyelashes and remarked that she would love to see his drawings.
O’Donnell smiled. “I do not draw what is on the surface, but what is inside the soul.”
Marcail looked down at a sketch of the garden. Rosebushes covered with healthy blooms stood in neat well-kept rows. There was a bench like the one on which she and O’Donnell sat. The ivy on the walls was cut back to reveal a painted mural. She touched one of the flowers he had drawn. The depth of his talent surprised her. She had watched Michelangelo sculpt warmth into cold marble as he created the work he called David, but O’Donnell possessed the same ability to breathe life into his sketches.
She spoke slowly. “You are a gifted artist.”
He raised an eyebrow and then bent over his sketches. “I have had many years of practice.”
She looked at his profile wishing there was a way to determine how long he had lived. If it had been long enough, he might consider the proposal she offered. Her heart beat faster as a feeling she had seen him before resurfaced. She shook her head slightly, dismissing the notion.
“You cannot ignore your talent. If I practiced for centuries, I could perhaps draw a flower that would be recognizable, but, I agree, you go well beyond the surface. That is something that cannot be learned or taught.”
“I accept your praise, but you give me more than I deserve.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I only sketch what I like.”
Marcail looked back down at the picture. “Rosebushes?”
He nodded. “I like rosebushes very much. But there is more.” He reached for a dark leather folder that rested against the bench, untied the straps and drew out a thick packet. He put it in her lap. The first drawing was of a woman dressed in a white toga. Her face was obscured by her long dark hair as she bent over a wounded man. In the distance was a picture of a mountain range.
Marcail leaned forward. The images on the page came to life for her, and her hand trembled as she outlined the strokes of the mountains in the background.
“This looks familiar to me.”
“It should. It is of you during the battle of Thermopylae between the Greeks and Persians. By day you searched for food and herbs to help
the sick and at night you took care of the wounded. You slept and ate little during that time.”
She looked at him with renewed interest. She had told no one of that battle. “I remember, but how did you know?”
“I was there. It was the first time I saw you.”
Marcail felt the air around her grow still as she watched him turn the page. A dried rosebud, its petals brittle with age, slipped out. She picked it up.
O’Donnell reached for her hand and touched her fingers. “After you tended my wounds you thought I had died, so you picked a wild rose, removed the thorns, and placed it on my body.”
She clutched the folds of her gown. It was a long time ago, but she could still hear the screams of those dead and dying in her dreams. She felt his fingers tighten gently around her hand. Memories flooded back. A traitor among the Greeks had showed the Persians a way through the defense line. She wiped the tears that started to brim in her eyes.
I’m sorry. I don’t remember you.“
“It is all right. I pride myself on disguises and my ability to blend into a crowd. If I’m recognized or noticed I move on.”
She had heard of the existence of men like
O’Donnell who were the chroniclers of history. Her hopes for a union with him began to fade. If he was like Artemis and Theseus he was content with his life, and would not be willing. He reopened his portfolio, handling the sheets with care.
Each scene brought back events of her life and the times when all she could think about was increasing her knowledge to help others. She knew she could never re-create the gift of long life that her people had, but she thought she could at least ease the suffering and improve the quality of life for the mortals. It was a happy time, filled with hope and laughter. A time when she smiled. The memories warmed her. She must content herself with that.