by Annis, Dawn
They sat, remembering the man whose life and death touched them. Different for some than for others.
They were talking in hushed tones when a young woman burst into the hall, letting the wind catch the large oak door and slam it behind her. Shivering in her wet clothes, she stumbled.
The men stood.
“Are ye hurt, lass?” Anthol hurried to her side.
“Nay, Da. Only my pride.” She wiped at the mud covering her backside. “Dinna fuss. I am well.”
Geoffrey and Michael joined them.
“What happened to ye? Are ye all right?” Geoffrey inquired as he ran his hands over her. She winced.
“Lass, what happened?” Michael asked, poking and prodding her.
The woman met Callum’s eyes.
Callum folded his arms. His gaze moved from the top of her head to the tip of her toes and deliberately back again. What a wet, bedraggled mess. Callum covered his mouth with his hand and, despite his grief, snickered. He could think of no other description than a wet hen with her feathers ruffled, one dunked in the rain barrel. Mud splattered, her hair hung in her face.
He stared at the woman before him as the men surrounding her exclaimed over her welfare. Anthol called for warm mead and steered her toward the fire. Callum, backing away to allow the disheveled sight closer to the hearth, chortled softly behind his hand.
She presented quite a sight. Her dark hair streaming down her back and across her shoulders, her nose and cheekbones red from the cold. Her brown eyes were framed in wet dark lashes with a hint of an upward turn. Plastered against her like a second skin, her linen shirt revealed breasts heaving above her stays. She dropped her tonnage, its large silver clan badge gleaming in the light. He imagined every nuance, every curve of her slender body.
“I will thank ye to keep yer eyes in yer head, MacLeod,” a voice growled in his ear.
Callum cleared his throat and slowly turned his head to see Simon standing beside him. He cocked an arrogant eyebrow, daring Simon to rebuke him further, his laughter gone. Regardless of his misgivings and indecision, he was a powerful man, not to be trifled with. He did not blame Simon for his protection of the woman, but he would not tolerate further admonishment. He made a point of glancing once more toward the group and turned away from the woman before him.
Callum stepped to the other side of the large hearth, away from the chaos. The lass had certainly given him a needed break in his sorrow.
Thea.
He remembered her. Older than Lettie but always underfoot. Forever wanting to tag along. She was a nuisance then, a striking woman now.
~ ~ ~
Thea stared at the man through her surrounding family. The horse’s arse had been laughing at her. She ground her teeth. The cur had actually laughed at her. Her eyes narrowed.
Well, she would give him a thought or two about his amusement.
Until Timothy spoke.
“What did ye do, fall off yer horse?” he said with a chuckle.
Thea glared at him. “Aye, I fell off my horse.”
Timothy’s booming laughter filled the hall.
She stole a glance at the stranger. She couldn’t help herself. The firelight shimmered and brought out the auburn tones of his dark hair. He was tall and muscled yet not quite the height of her brother Hadrian. His gray eyes met hers. She trembled. He chuckled.
She clenched her fists at her side. He grinned. She glowered at him, furious.
Michael moved to her side. “Are ye hurt? I dinna believe Destiny would throw ye.”
“He dinna. The saddle gave way. I dinna ken why.”
“The hell ye say,” Timothy bellowed. “I will be havin’ someone’s head.”
Simon strode up to the group. He picked up a tartan from the bench and met his father’s eyes. “We need to get her covered now,” he said, wrapping Thea up to her chin. He glanced at Callum pointedly. “Everyone is gettin’ an eyeful.”
“Aye,” Anthol acknowledged. He continued to bundle up Thea the best he could. “To yer chambers, lass. I will have one o’ the women bring ye up a hot bath. Off with ye now.”
Thea headed to the stairs leading to her bedchambers with Simon and Geoffrey on either side of her. Each took hold of her elbows, moving her with their long strides. She turned her head and stared at the man before stumbling on a stair. Her brothers’ grips tightened, and they set her upright, hurting her already bruised body. Thea gave the man one last scathing glance and hurried up the stairs, leaving her brothers struggling to keep up with her.
~ ~ ~
From the shadows of an alcove on the other side of the
hall, three men watched the affair. John Fendrel regarded Thea and glared at Callum with a close eye.
“He shouldna look at her with so wee respect. He should have averted his eyes. What the hell does she think she’s about? Showin’ off her body to anybody who happens to come by.”
Furious, he spoke to his companions, hissing and
spitting each word, his eyes narrowed.
“I canna share her with another. I have proven my love for her many times.” He hit his thigh with a fisted hand. “This day, I told her she shouldna go ridin’ alone.”
“I dinna think she meant to show herself in such a state. Surely, ye saw. She was thrown from her horse. Does no yer concern include her? She dinna fall off her horse a purpose,” one of the men standing with John muttered in his ear.
“I am concerned for her, fool,” John hissed. “But she needs to be taught a lesson. She is mine, and I will no have her flauntin’ herself in front o’ others. Particularly, Callum MacLeod.”
He drew a deep breath and blew it out. “She loves me. I ken she does. If it wasna for those brothers o’ hers, we would be married now.” John relaxed a bit. “All she needs is a man to show her the proper way for a woman to act. ’Tis all she needs. Did ye see him laugh at her? He will pay for his disrespect.”
John turned and stalked out to the courtyard, the other two men following.
~ ~ ~
Hell and damnation! The man is a horse’s arse.
Thea stalked into her chambers, her ego as bruised as her body. Isolde, the clan healer and midwife followed her. She clucked over Thea’s wet clothes. They struggled to pull her clinging shift over her head. Once Thea was naked, she rubbed Thea’s body down with a large linen bath towel to warm her aching muscles.
All the while Thea’s mind raced. Who was the stranger?
Thea lay in the tub, letting the heat of the water seep into her cold body. She washed her hair with lavender-scented soap and let the sweet smell drift around her.
Callum MacLeod.
Older but the same. Embarrassment flooded her at the memory of her brothers escorting her up the stairway as if she were a young lass. Simon had left her with the parting admonishment not to come down until decently clothed. Feelings she had buried deep began to rise. She’d loved Callum since she was a wean. Thea had angled to follow her brothers around when they were with him. She’d thought he was the most handsome lad she had ever seen.
Bugger!
Why did he have to see her looking a mess and having her brothers swarm over her and treat her like a wee bairn? Thea sank deeper into the tub. His laughter punctuated every memory since she’d arrived home.
“Och, but dinna ye see him,” she exclaimed. She thought of his handsome face, his long lean legs, and his shoulders, broad and strong. Growing up, she’d been awed by everything he’d done. He was her friend Lettie’s older brother. Older brothers were always a bit intriguing. He was perfection itself.
Years ago, he and her brothers had been close friends; they could always be found together. But then he’d disappeared. Gone. She’d wanted to ask why but hadn’t dared to let anyone know of her fascination with him
. She’d eavesdropped when her father and his had been talking about him, but she hadn’t heard what was said. Now he was back. Why? Her thoughts were interrupted by Isolde.
“’Tis time for yerself to be up and out o’ the tub. The water will no stay hot. Ye will shrivel up like a prune if ye stay longer.”
Thea groaned. The hot water soothed her aching body but would soon cool.
Isolde helped Thea to stand and dry herself. She kneaded Thea’s bruised muscles with a gentle touch.
“Let me see those bruises ye have on yer backside.” Isolde tsked. “I have just the thing. ’Twill make ye feel better in the morn.”
“Och, I am so sore,” Thea huffed, slumping her shoulders.
Isolde chuckled. “Ye will have more than one bruise to show for yer mishap.” She rubbed walnut oil infused with arnica petals and ground caraway seed onto Thea’s back and down her legs. The herbs soothed her aching muscles.
“I saw Callum MacLeod when I came in. D’ye ken what he was about?”
Isolde replied. “He is back from whence he came. He rode in to tell yer da the MacLeod has died.”
“Och,” Thea exclaimed. “I kent he ailed but had no idea ’twas so serious.”
“Nay, none did. Yer da seemed to ken as soon as he saw Callum though.” Isolde rubbed in the oil. She finished up and helped Thea slip on her nightrail.
Mary arrived with a tray of food. She set it on the table near the fire and winked at Thea. “Here ye be. Somethin’ hot and tasty will bring ye back to yerself.” She patted Thea on the arm and left.
Isolde led Thea to the table. The plate of roast chicken and vegetables Mary brought smelled delicious.
“Ye must take this with food.” She measured out a dose of dried echinacea root. “Eat it all, lassie, and sip on the ginger root tea while ye do.”
“So, when is the funeral for Himself?” Thea’s stomach rumbled.
“We will be goin’ to the MacLeod castle in the morn,” Isolde replied. “Now eat yer meal and mind to drink the tea.”
“’Tis good. I thank ye, Isolde, for yer care.” Thea smiled at the healer. “Good night to ye.”
Isolde returned Thea’s smile, stepped out, and closed the door. Thea was left with her thoughts of the old laird and her hope he had found peace.
Callum. The man once again piqued her interest. He was the Laird o’ Clan MacLeod now. He’d have to stay.
Chapter 4
Fiona MacLeod woke early. This day she would bury the man she loved. During the night, the storm clouds passed, and in their absence, the day promised blue skies. The air smelled fresh and clean in contrast to her feelings. How was it possible to be surrounded by a beautiful day when her husband had died?
Memories were too overwhelming to bear. She set about filling the hours, hoping to gain some relief from her sorrow. She and the women of the household cleaned the common rooms and great hall. They waxed the wood paneling until it gleamed. The beams above received a good brushing with a broom, clearing the dust from the various proverbs chiseled in the wood.
Fiona spoke with the kitchen staff about preparing the feast the clans would enjoy later in the evening. She wanted everything to be perfect.
Seeing Callum come inside, she called to him, “Get yer dirty boots off my clean floor. There is much to do. I canna do it over.” Fiona’s shoulders slumped.
Callum guided her to a chair. “’Tis bonnie, Maw. Yer goin’ to scrub the floor raw if yer no careful. Let it alone and get yerself ready. The clans will be here any time.”
As she opened her mouth to protest, he placed a finger to her lips. “’Tis fine. Worry no more about it.”
Fiona searched her son’s face. “My thoughts are so verra lost this morn. I thought if I kept busy, the pain would somehow be eased.” She pointed to the table by the door. “A letter’s come for ye.”
A puzzled look crossed her son’s face as he strode over and picked up the letter. He wrinkled his nose.
“The generous perfume nearly bowled me over,” Fiona said.
Callum,
My waking hours are filled with love for you. How I long to caress your brow. In my dreams, I lust for your touch, my own not nearly satisfying. I crave your mouth on my lips and your fingers dancing in the petals of my flower. I yearn for your strong arms wrapping me in warmth. You are an intoxicating drink and have left my senses in turmoil. Darling Callum, such is the effect you have on my heart.
I shrink from my husband’s cold, aged hands. His skin made of crepe, his limbs limp and thin. Why do you leave me in his wretched grasp? Are you angry with me? Has your love passed? I will not believe it. The Devil has taken me. I feel the flames licking my breasts. Without you I am lost.
Victoria
Lady Victoria Monforte had become a nuisance. The blond beauty fancied herself in love with Callum. She, however, was married to Thomas Bromley, the Earl of Monforte. Convinced Callum cared deeply for her, she’d developed an unfortunate romantic notion he would sweep her into his arms and spirit her away from her ancient husband.
Victoria certainly had been a bit of fun, but boredom had settled in for him. She wasn’t discreet and had, Callum suspected, hoped her husband would discover their liaison. He wanted no part of the result. He’d said his goodbyes to the clinging Lady Monforte, citing familial duties, and headed to Scotland. The expected duties that drove him from Scotland were the same duties sending him back. The irony was not lost on him.
Callum wadded up the parchment and threw it into the grate. As it caught fire, he studied the flames. Victoria. She found a way to force her presence upon him and was the last person he needed to be concerned with this day.
“Callum,” Fiona called.
“I am right here, Maw. I am no goin’ anywhere. I will be by yer side.”
I will no fail her agin’.
“I ken, Callum.” She patted his back. “I ken ye. Hold me this day. Dinna let me make a fool o’ m’self in front o’ everyone.”
“Maw, no one will think ye a fool to grieve for yer husband,” Callum soothed.
“Callum,” she said, her voice sharp, “dinna let me. Nay?”
He released his mother enough to look into her eyes. “Nay, I will no.” His mother had a Scots pride. “’Tis time to prepare for the clans. They will arrive soon.”
He helped her stand and gave her an encouraging smile. Callum set her on her way to the chambers she’d shared with her husband. He watched her go, his gut clenching.
Sitting down in a velvet-backed chair at the table, he observed the bustle around him. Each passing day saw him closer and closer to the responsibilities of his clan, his family, and to himself. Tonight, he would be installed as the new laird to the Clan MacLeod. From this day forward, he would be known as the MacLeod. Though he debated, he did have a choice. He could return to England and turn his back on the whole affair.
Where Victoria waited. Callum frowned, his gut churning again at the prospect. He forced out a breath and waited for his mother and sister to join him. Together, they would greet the clans mourning his father. It would be a long day.
When his mother and sister descended the stairs into the hall, he stood to greet them. All three wore the formal MacLeod tartan, as the occasion dictated. A wide stripe of green rested on a field of blue with thin red and yellow strips creating a crossed pattern, the colors muted.
“Are ye ready?”
He wrapped one in each arm, kissed their foreheads, and together they walked out into the rare sunshine.
The MacCrimmon pipers arrived first. Their song of joy celebrated the long, full life of the laird. Time mixed with good spirits. A time for memories. A time of reflection of the past, the present, and what the future would bring. The pipers conveyed all in their song, standing to one side in front of the castle.
“The MacLeod was our laird and a good one. We will give him a heartfelt goodbye that is his due.”
The MacNichol clan arrived next with less fanfare but no less ceremony. They rode on their horses, leading the crofters they had gathered along their way to Dunvegan castle. Geoffrey MacNichol rang the bell and cried out, “Torquil MacLeod.” He called all to join the funeral of their laird. Fiona wept at the sound of the tolling bell. Lettie stood next to her mother, her back straight, her red eyes rimmed with tears.
Callum saw Thea following her brother Michael, the snood marking her as an unmarried woman covered her hair. She wore a saffron arisaid over her tartan dress.
She is no longer the scruffy lass in pigtails.
Thea immediately stood on the other side of her friend, sliding her arm through Lettie’s. The women lowered their heads, and Thea whispered. Lettie nodded and began to cry, the stoic facade gone. Callum watched over Lettie’s head as Thea shook out a handkerchief.
The crowd grew, in large groups and small. Once all had arrived, Callum led a group of men, including the chiefs of the MacNichol and the MacCrimmon into a chamber off the great hall. The Laird MacLeod’s body rested where Fiona had sat in her nightly vigil, praying for her husband’s soul. She hadn’t allowed Callum or Lettie to relieve her, saying she needed the time with her husband. His final day had come. Fiona sucked in a sob.
The priest began his prayers and intonations to escort the departed soul into the next world and the Kingdom of Heaven. Callum saw tears in the eyes of the men closest to his father in life. With the occasional cough and wiping their eyes, the men took no shame in mourning for the man.
Callum and Fiona approached the table placed next to the casket. On it rested a plate and two cups, one filled with soil and one with salt. He heard his mother murmur her own prayers for her husband and his journey.