Friday, November 11th, 1307
Earlier that morning, Ewan had closed the lid on his trunk and condemned his Templar robes to darkness. In removing them for good, he’d expected to feel more regret that he actually felt. It was Jacques who had helped alleviate the strain of progression from Templar knight to clan chief.
“At heart, you will always be a knight of the Temple, Ewan,” he’d said. “The basis of our faith and courage is not something to be lost, but something to be kept always. Your grandfather’s legacy lives on, as will yours, through your sons.”
Soon after, the small group had gathered in the small chapel to witness the marriage. Candleflames flickered atop the altar, and the heady aroma of incense hung in the air. Father Iain’s voice echoed softly off the walls as he conducted the holy service.
The lass who would, God willing, carry Ewan’s sons, gazed up at him, her flawless skin burnished by the glow of candlelight. Her eyes, fringed with a wealth of thick lashes, shone like deep pools of indigo. Her abundance of black hair had been neatly braided and woven with dried sprigs of lavender and heather.
She wore a woollen robe of deep blue. It sat loosely on her, Ewan noticed, as if she’d recently lost weight. A white girdle, embroidered with silver and blue flowers, cradled her hips, and her right hand clasped a sprig of white heather, brought from Lorg Coise Dhè by Father Iain.
“You look very bonny, Elspeth,” Ewan had told her, before the ceremony began. He’d been rewarded with a shy smile.
Now, Father Iain paused, waiting for her to repeat the vow he had just spoken.
“I…” Her lip trembled. “I, El…Elspeth Kirstie MacAulay, take thee, Ewan Tormod MacKellar, to be my wedded husband…”
She was undoubtedly nervous. When at last Ewan slid the ring onto her finger, a tear slid down her cheek, though she countered it with another smile.
Once the final blessing had been done, Ewan took his new wife’s hand and led her into the great hall for a quiet celebration. The idea of a fully-fledged wedding feast, with all its revelry and bawdiness, had not sat easy on Ewan’s conscience. It was yet too soon after Ruaidri’s death.
Still, food and drink were plentiful, and the pall that had sat over Castle Cathan in recent weeks eased somewhat as the feast progressed. His bride, however, said little and ate even less. Ewan noticed her eyeing her wedding ring, her brow furrowed.
The small, twisted circle of gold had belonged to his mother, though it hadn’t been used as a wedding band.
“I’ll get you your own as soon as I can, lass,” he said. “This has all been a wee bit rushed.”
The frown vanished as she clenched her fingers. “There’s nae need,” she said. “This one is fine.”
“Still, I think it might be nicer for you to have your own.” Ewan leaned in. “We’ll no’ stay here much longer, Elspeth. ’Tis yet early, and the day is fine, so I thought I might make good on my promise from the other night and take you down to the shore. If you’d like, that is. I reckon there’ll be a bonny sunset this eve.”
She nodded. “Um, aye, that would be nice. The sun at Dunraven goes down behind the mountains, so we dinnae actually see it set.”
“Maybe you’d like to eat something first. You’ve hardly touched your food.”
“I cannae eat. I… I’m a wee bit nervous, is all.”
“I understand,” Ewan replied. “I’m a wee bit nervous myself.”
Her eyes widened. “You are?”
“Aye.” He lowered his voice. “I’m nae sure if you’re aware, lass, but I’ve never been married before either.”
“Oh.” A blush spread across her cheeks as she dropped her gaze to her plate.
Ewan chuckled. “Dinnae fash. I’m sure, between us, we’ll figure out what this marriage thing is all about. We have the rest of our lives, so we can take our—”
A man’s raised voice caught Ewan’s attention. He turned to see Jacques, sword half drawn, on his feet and face-to-face with Alastair MacAulay.
The surrounding buzz of chatter faded as Ewan rose. “What’s going on?” he demanded.
“This man…” Jacques all but spat out the word, “owes your sister an apology.”
Alastair’s lip lifted in a sneer. “And this foreigner needs to learn his place.”
“And both of you will stop this now, please!” Morag, standing behind Jacques, threw Ewan a desperate glance. “’Tis my brother’s wedding day!”
Ewan lifted a brow. “What did he say to you, Morag?”
Morag shook her head. “It doesnae matter, Ewan.”
“It was but a jest.” Alastair hiccupped and staggered backwards. “Tell your cohort to sit his sanctimonious arse down.”
“I’ll tell you what he said.” Jacques’ lip furled also. “He implied your sister, in refusing to wed him, had missed an opportunity to... know him better. And then he fondled himself. It was a crude, insulting gesture, and he will apologise for it.”
“Aye, he most certainly will.” Ewan narrowed his eyes. “Apologise, MacAulay. ’Twould be a pity to have to throw you out of your sister’s wedding.”
A movement to Ewan’s side caught his attention, and he glanced over to see Tasgall making his way to the dais.
Aye, and here comes Alastair’s hound. Now we might have a problem, because I ken for certain Jacques willnae back down.
“Alastair, please! I dinnae want any trouble.”
Ewan turned and blinked at the sight of his wife, on her feet, her gaze levelled at Alastair.
Alastair scowled at her and opened his mouth as if to reply, but instead, held up a hand, halting Tasgall’s approach.
“I apologize for my rudeness, my lady,” he said, dipping his head at Morag. He then threw a sneer at Jacques. “There. Are you satisfied?”
Jacques mumbled something unintelligible, sheathed his sword, and sat down. Morag rolled her eyes at Ewan as she took her seat as well.
Ewan managed to suppress a smile. Not that he found Alastair’s insult amusing in the least. Jacques’ response to it, however, had amused him. The Basque had developed an obvious fondness for Morag, a protectiveness that had shown itself from the start.
Ewan heaved a breath and held out a hand to his bride. “Come on, lass,” he said. “Let’s leave them to it.”
She gave him a dubious look. “Are you no’ worried there’ll be trouble?”
He shook his head. “I’m no’ worried in the least. I dinnae believe your brother is daft enough to push Jacques too far.” Or brave enough.
“My brother is drunk,” she murmured, placing her hand in Ewan’s. “Knowing him, he’ll be away to sleep it off soon.”
“His usual routine?”
She sighed and picked up the sprig of white heather. “Aye, I’m afraid so.”
Ewan ignored the soft jeers and whistles as they left the hall, though he sensed his wife’s discomfort. “They dinnae mean any harm,” he said, his hand tightening around hers as he guided her into the hallway. “Wait here. I’ll send a maid to fetch your cloak. You might want to change your wee slippers as well.”
“Nay, I’ll go.” She tugged her hand free, lifted her skirts, and started for the stairs. “’Tis nae bother.”
*
“May Christ forgive me.”
Cristie perched her arse on the edge of her bed and pressed her right hand to her heart as if to quell its wretched clatter. At the same time, she frowned at the ring on her left hand. The band of gold that had belonged to Ewan’s mother felt heavy on her finger. The weight of guilt, no doubt. Then again, a ring of her own, gifted from Ewan, would be even more of a burden on her conscience.
The ring was not the only hand-me-down, either. Cristie’s blue robe had belonged to Alastair’s mother, who had obviously been somewhat more curvaceous, judging by its loose fit. Preferable, though, to wearing one of Elspeth’s cast-offs as a wedding gown. That would have been sordid beyond words. Cristie shuddered at the thought.
And what of the night to come? Did she dare refuse Ewan MacKellar his husbandly rights? She could surely come up with some excuse. She prayed he’d be lenient. After all, he’d shown her nothing but kindness so far.
But for how long?
Her throat tightened at the thought of having to use the small bundle Elspeth had given her.
She steered her mind elsewhere and sniffed the sprig of heather Ewan had given her. She’d heard of the legendary white flowers, but had never seen them till today. The priest had brought the sprig with him. Cristie wondered from where and resolved to ask Ewan.
Maybe, if she asked, he’d tell her where the Templar treasure was, too. And then she could leave. But what…? She closed her eyes. What if Alastair is wrong? What if there is no treasure? Or what if Ewan refuses to speak of it? What then?
“Stop,” she whispered, setting the sprig of heather aside. Using both hands, she rubbed her temples, trying to stem the chaotic whirl of thoughts in her head. How long had she been sitting there? Ewan would be wondering as to her whereabouts.
She changed her shoes, shrugged on her cloak, and scurried down the stairs, praying for strength and wishing she were a thousand miles away from Castle Cathan.
“Ah, here she is.” Ewan stood with the priest who had overseen the ceremony. Cristie’s befuddled brain took a moment to remember the man’s name.
She inclined her head. “Father Iain.”
“My lady.” The priest gave her a smile. “I understand you’re going to watch the sunset. I should think it’ll be a bonny one tonight. Speaking of which, if you’ll both excuse me, I must be getting home.”
“Gabriel will escort you, Father,” Ewan said.
“Aye, he told me. He’s likely waiting for me already.” He bobbed his head. “Blessings to you both, and may God keep you.”
Ewan lifted the man’s hand to his lips. “God keep you too, Father Iain.”
Cristie offered a smile, and watched the little man scurry off down the hallway.
Ewan held out a hand. “Ready?”
“Aye,” she replied. The warm flesh of his palm felt callused against her fingers, his grip strong, yet gentle. The sensation all but stole the breath from her lungs. And damn her disobedient heart! Why does it skip whenever he touches me? “Does Father Iain live far?”
“Nay. An hour’s ride, maybe. But he’s older than the hills, so I feel better having Gabriel go with him.”
“Is that where the white heather grows? I should like to see it.”
“It grows not far from where he lives.”
“You’ve known him long?”
“All my life.” They stepped outside, where the sun already sat low in the sky. “He was a friend of my grandfather’s.”
“Who was a Templar, aye?”
“Aye, for a time.”
Cristie paused, arranging her thoughts. “I can imagine it must have been a shock to have to leave France as you did. Have you had any news?”
His grip tightened slightly. “None yet.”
“You must have left in a hurry.”
“Aye. We had little warning.”
They came to the postern gate and Cristie waited while Ewan tugged it open.
“So, you just left everything behind?” She stepped out onto the clifftop, her question forgotten as she took in the view. “Oh, Ewan. ’Tis magnificent.”
The sun, at this time of year, did not stay above the horizon for long, and the shortest days were yet to come. Already, the western skies had taken on a fiery glow as the northern night approached.
“This way.” Ewan led her toward the section of cliff he’d mentioned the previous night.
Cristie clasped her hood tight at her throat, her eyes watering as the sharp breeze buffeted her face. Ewan led her down the path—a sandy trail that hugged the cliff face as it sloped down to a small, crescent beach.
At the bottom, Cristie laughed with delight as her shoes sank into the sand. “’Tis nearly as white as snow.” She bent to touch it. “And so soft! The shoreline around Loch Raven is mostly pebbles and mud.”
“Ruaidri and I used to play down here as children,” Ewan said. “Morag, too. We’d build castles and forts in the sand. Ruaidri always had to be the laird. Said it was his right, being the elder son.”
The wistfulness in his voice drew Cristie’s attention. She straightened to look at him and placed a hand on his arm. “Maybe we should no’ have come, Ewan.”
His expression softened. “Nay, lass, I wanted you to see it. Besides, I dinnae mind speaking of Ruaidri. My memories of him are valuable to me. Especially now.”
“I’m sure you must miss him.”
He grimaced. “I have missed him because I didnae come home. ’Tis a regret I must learn to live with.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I.” Smiling, he reached for her hand again. “Enough melancholy. ’Tis a day for celebrating, since it seems I’ve found myself a bonny wee bride. Let’s walk down by the water.”
Even as Ewan’s fingers curled around hers, Cristie felt a cold jolt of reality. For a brief moment, as Ewan had spoken of Ruaidri, she had forgotten about her false identity. She had simply been Cristie Ferguson—an ordinary lass on a windswept beach, listening to a man share fond memories of his dead brother, and admitting his regrets. She’d been utterly absorbed by the sentiment of it, her empathy genuine.
It frightened her to think that she could feel so at ease with Ewan MacKellar, that being with him could feel so natural.
Because Cristie Ferguson could never be with him.
Never.