Prayer and swordplay.
Ewan had partaken of both that day, finding some comfort in talking to God, but a more fulfilling release in trying to kill Gabriel. Not that Ewan actually wanted to kill Gabriel. The sparring, though vigorous and done with real blades, had been totally contrived. The energy expelled while trying—and failing—to best the English knight had been the point of the exercise. A discharge of frustration. A release of emotion. Heaving lungs, aching muscles, and sweat-soaked hair. Aye, it helped ease Ewan’s burdened soul.
A little.
Time, he knew, would be the only real cure for what ailed him. Not two days earlier, he had wished for the morrow, when he wouldn’t have to look upon Cristie’s face anymore. He thought it would be easier on him not to see her.
Well, the morrow had come and gone, leaving behind an emptiness he hadn’t thought to feel. The image of the lass’s distraught face, streaked with tears as she declared her love for him, refused to leave his mind. Cristie’s absence did not placate him at all. It cut him bone-deep. At the same time, he felt angry. At himself. At Cristie. Even, to his shame, at God.
Now, at day’s end, with the evening repast over, Ewan sat in his private chamber and stared into the fire, nursing a goblet of warm, spiced wine.
“I see a man and a dog,” Morag said, seated beside him. “And a tree.”
Ewan gave her a wry glance. “No more wine for you, lass. You’ve obviously had enough.”
She gestured to the fire. “Do you no’ remember? When I was little, you used to point out images in the flames. People’s faces and animals.”
He smiled. “Aye, I remember. ’Tis nae a dog, though. ’Tis a goat.”
“Aye, maybe.” Morag chuckled and then sighed. “Things are no’ always as they seem, are they?”
Ewan swirled the wine in his goblet. “Nay.”
“I’m sorry, Ewan,” Morag said, after a moment. “If I could take your pain away, I would.”
“Thanks, wee lass, but dinnae fash. I’ll survive.” Behind him, the door swung opened unannounced, drawing Ewan’s gaze to the doorway. “I should never have trusted Alastair Mac—” He straightened in his chair, frowning at the sight of Jacques standing on the threshold. The Basque knight appeared breathless, as if he’d been running. “You’re needed outside urgently, Ewan.” His voice had an uncharacteristic tremor to it. “You too, Morag.”
“What is it, Brother?” Heart quickening, Ewan rose to his feet and grabbed his sword belt. He tried, and failed, to recall ever seeing his Basque friend quite so rattled. “What’s wrong?”
“Just come with me,” Jacques said, already turning on his heel. “Both of you.”
“Heaven help us, what now?” Morag muttered, as they hurried to keep up with Jacques, who strode ahead, his white mantle floating out behind him like wings.
Ewan reached for his sword hilt as he stepped outside, a move prompted by the sight of the small group standing by the open gates. They appeared to be gathered around a large, dark horse and two figures, all bathed in shadow. Duncan held a flaming torch aloft, which cast flickering light over the others; Brody, Niall and Hammett, the latter standing beside Gabriel.
Meanwhile, Jacques continued his urgent stride across the courtyard.
Yet, to Ewan’s growing puzzlement, there was no indication of panic. No sign of alarm. So why the urgency? Only as he drew near did he recognize the horse, the tell-tale white blaze on its face visible even in the gloom. His throat went dry. What might have brought Alastair’s henchman to Castle Cathan?
Several possible and disquieting answers formed in his mind, all of them dissipating as he saw who stood by the horse. Ewan’s stride slowed as he struggled to believe what his eyes told him.
Morag let out a gasp. “What is she doing back here?”
What indeed?
Cristie, her face pale, hair unbound and lifting in the wind, lowered her gaze as Ewan approached. She was not alone, he realized. A man stood beside her; an oddly dressed, unkempt figure, with matted hair and a roughly-shaven face. Thin to the point of emaciated, he clung onto the horse’s mane as if needing support. He was obviously ill. Close to death, even. A wretched sight.
Yet something about him tugged at Ewan’s memory. More than that, it stirred an instinctual awareness, taunting him with an impossible truth, one his bewildered mind could not quite reconcile. He regarded Cristie and voiced a question, unsure of why he feared the answer. “What are you doing here?” He turned his gaze to the man. “And who is this?”
As if in pain, the man’s face crumpled for a moment. “Do you not know me, Ewan?”
A prickle ran across Ewan scalp. That voice. I know that voice.
Then Morag whispered a name. “Ruaidri.”
Ewan’s heart faltered. Nay, it cannae be. But as he stared at the man, he found himself looking into eyes he’d known from birth; eyes set in a gaunt face as familiar as it was unrecognizable. Still, his mind struggled to validate what his heart told him, reluctant to listen to a truth that defied belief. Ruaidri was dead, his bones scattered in the mountains. This wretched soul could not possibly be him. It could not be.
For that would mean…
Fear shifted Ewan’s gaze back to Cristie. Fear she’d known all along that Ruaidri still lived. That she’d commiserated falsely with a family who had mourned the loss of a beloved brother. Which, in turn, meant her deceit had extended far beyond the limits of iniquity. Depravity worthy of the Devil himself.
Morag took a step closer, her whisper, this time, in the form of a question. “Ruaidri?”
“Greetings, wee lass.” The man scratched his chin. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
Morag let out a choked cry and fell on him, burying her face in his chest as she sobbed, speaking his name over and over. The man placed an arm around her and pressed a kiss to her head. “Nay, hush, now,” he murmured. “’Tis all right.”
Ewan closed his eyes as the final acceptance of truth squeezed his heart. His brother, alive. The realization sucked the strength from his limbs and the breath from his lungs. Yet, even as his heart sang for Ruaidri’s resurrection, it also wept for Cristie’s deceit. He glanced at her once more, gratified to see her flinch at whatever she saw in his expression. Ewan then turned his gaze back to his brother, his heart breaking anew for what the man had obviously suffered.
“Aye,” Ewan answered, his voice grating. “I know you, my brother.”
Ruaidri released his hold on the horse’s mane and stretched out a trembling hand.
“Seeing you here, Ewan, is the answer to a thousand prayers. ’Tis a miracle. A sight I never thought I’d see again.”
Overcome, Ewan surrendered to his emotion and stumbled into Ruaidri’s embrace, the feel of the man’s emaciated body bringing tears to his eyes. “Tis you the miracle, Ru. We thought you dead.”
“Not quite.” Ruaidri swayed as he gripped Ewan’s shoulder. “Though, if you dinnae mind, I should really like… I should really like to rest now.”
He expelled a long, slow breath, his legs buckling as he collapsed into Ewan’s arms.
“Ruaidri!” Morag cried, trying to lift him. “Oh, dear God. Help him, please.”
Cristie also let out a cry and stepped forward, but Morag turned on her like a snake ready to strike. “Nay, dinnae come anywhere near him,” she snarled, through her tears. “You dinnae deserve to live after what you’ve done. Look at him! Starved and near dead. If he dies, I swear before God I’ll kill you myself and take pleasure in it.”
Trembling visibly, Cristie opened her mouth as if to speak but said nothing. Ewan’s stomach churned as he looked at her, for the first time noticing the bruising on her face. But he thrust a pang of concern aside. That she had apparently found her conscience and brought Ruaidri back could not erase the obscenity of her lies. To think that she’d watched them lament the loss of their brother and laird, knowing all the while that he lived. Aye, she’d no doubt surrendered to her conscience and tried to make amends, but it might already be too late. In any case, this, he would never forgive. The immorality of what she had done—what Clan MacAulay had done—defied comprehension. There would be a reckoning. Swift and fierce.
His hold tightened around his brother’s limp form. “Help me get him inside,” he said, even as Jacques, Duncan and Niall came to his aid. “Brody, close the gate. Dinnae let the lass leave. Hammett, see to the horse.”
*
“Enough.” Ruaidri turned his face away from the bowl and collapsed back against his pillow.
“But you need to eat,” Morag said, her voice almost a whine.
“Aye, but I cannae eat that.” He glared at Ewan. “Who’s laird of this damn place? I wish to complain about the food.”
Ruaidri’s humour gladdened Ewan’s heart. His brother’s spirit, it seemed, was still somewhat intact. Unlike his body, with its flea-bitten flesh and wasted limbs, the sight of which had made Morag weep as they’d tugged a clean nightshirt over his head.
“Aye, standards have lapsed since the new laird took over,” Ewan quipped. “He doesnae have a clue what he’s doing. Things will no doubt improve now that the old laird is back.”
Ruaidri grunted. “Less of the old, if you dinnae mind. Though I must confess, the laird is glad to be back.”
Ewan, perched on the edge of the bed, gave him a grim smile. “You gave us a fright out there, Ru. You look a wee bit less like death now, though.”
Ruaidri’s eyes softened. “I didnae come home to die, Ewan. I’m back where I belong, with those I love. Those I never thought I’d see again.”
“I keep pinching myself,” Morag said, sniffling. “I still cannae quite believe it.”
“Neither can I.” Ruaidri reached for Ewan’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “We have many stories to share, Templar.”
Ewan smiled and returned the squeeze. “Starting with you,” he replied. “What happened in those mountains? Was it an ambush?”
“Of sorts.” He drew a breath. “I met Alastair and Tasgall at the bothy as planned. We ate, drank, and the next thing I knew, I woke up a captive. They must have put something in the drink.”
“They killed your damn horse!”
“Goliath.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “Aye, I ken.”
“’Twas all I found. Goliath’s remains, your cloak soaked in blood, and our father’s pin.”
“But why?” Morag shook her head. “Why would they do such a thing? I cannae fathom it.”
“I’m no’ sure anymore. At first, I suspected it had something to do with Alastair wanting to wed you and take over the clan. That, or I was to be held for ransom. But then I couldnae understand why it was taking so long.” Ruaidri’s gaze settled on Ewan. “Since yesterday, though, some things have become a little clearer.”
Ewan’s brow furrowed. “How so?”
“Cristie told me you’d returned.” His nostrils flared. “The bastards kept that from me. Your arrival here obviously forced them to rethink their mad plans.”
Morag huffed. “Well, I hope you’ll no’ be letting the lass off easy, despite her change of heart. Hanging is too good for her. For all of them.”
Ruaidri gave Morag a puzzled glance. “Change of heart? What are you blabbing about, wee lass? Cristie Ferguson saved my life.”
“Aye, and she’s to be commended for that,” Ewan said, unable to keep the contempt from his tone. “Trouble is, she neglected to tell us you were being held captive in the first place.”
“Only because she knew naught of it.” Ruaidri’s eyes darted from one to the other to the other. “She didnae have a clue about any of it till two days ago, when she overheard a conversation ’tween Alastair and Tasgall. None of the clan knew, apparently, though they will now, I should think. I was hidden away in the dungeon at Ravenstone. Nay, make no mistake, I’m here now only because of that wee lass. Where is she? Is someone seeing to her hands?”
That Cristie hadn’t known about Ruaidri’s captivity lifted a dark shadow from Ewan’s mind. That she’d been injured somehow set his heart racing. “What’s wrong with her hands?”
Ruaidri groaned. “Shite. I should have made sure. They’re badly blistered. Go find the lass, Morag, and make sure she’s been taken care of. And you can take that bowl of swill with you, too. If you want me to eat, bring back a plate of Glenna’s oatcakes and a tankard of ale. Some cold mutton as well, if there is any. And dinnae rush back, if you please. I wish to have a private talk with my brother.”
Morag, wearing an expression of dismay, nodded. “Right, I’ll… I’ll make sure she’s been cared for, then. Seems I owe her an apology, as well.”
As the door closed behind her, Ewan asked again. “How did her hands get blistered, Ru? And which bastard is responsible for the bruise on her eye?”
Ruaidri gave a weak laugh. “So, you do still care about the lass.” His gaze settled on the disfigured part of Ewan’s face. “’Tis odd. When Cristie spoke of you, she didnae mention anything about that scar.”
Ewan felt a tug on his heart. “I cannae think why.”
“Maybe she simply doesnae see it when she looks at you. How did it happen?”
“As you said, we have many stories to tell, but not all of them tonight.” He fidgeted. “Are you going to answer my question, or do I have to—?”
“I’ll answer all your questions if I can, but I need to sit up a little. ‘Twill be easier to breathe, and I dinnae care to look at the ceiling as I speak.”
Ewan did so, plumping up the pillows while cringing afresh at his brother’s frail condition. “On reflection, maybe you should rest a while. We can talk later.”
“Nay, we’ll talk now.” Ruaidri settled back. “The state of my body doesnae reflect the state of my soul. I feel as though I’ve been reborn. Given a second chance. You and your wee bride are responsible for that.”
Ewan grimaced as he retook his seat. “She’s no’ my bride, Ru. Our marriage was false.”
“Aye, she told me. She told me everything that has happened since I left. About you and her. About the reasons why you and your Templar brothers are here. Everything. She emptied out her heart by the light of Deòir na Gealaich.”
Ewan raised a brow. “You were at Deòir na Gealaich?”
“We took shelter there last night.” He grinned. “I might look like death, and if no’ for Deòir na Gealaich, I’d smell like it, too. But this wee tale begins yesterday morning, which is when I met Cristie for the first time.” His expression softened. “Just now, I said I was alive because of her. While that is true, you should know, my brother, that I’m also alive because of you.”
As Ruaidri continued with his telling, Ewan remained silent, though his emotions simmered inside. His brother’s captivity had been a cruel and slow torture, one that had pushed him to the point of taking his own life. Reliving it obviously took its toll. Ruaidri’s voice faltered several times, weakening to little more than a whisper as he spoke of the poisoned ale and his intent to drink it. “I ken what you must be thinking, Ewan,” he said, closing his eyes.
“I doubt you do.” Ewan squeezed his brother’s hand again. “You need say no more tonight, Ru. ’Tis upsetting you. It can wait till the morrow, when you’re rested.”
“Nay, ’tis a weight that needs shifting now. Consider it a confession of sorts. Let me finish, so I might rest easier tonight.”
Ewan sighed. “I cannae give you absolution, if that is what you seek.”
Ruaidri opened his eyes and gave his head a feeble shake. “I seek only your understanding and a promise that you’ll say naught of this to our sister. I’ve already sworn Cristie to secrecy.” A pained expression crossed his face. “I had the poison raised to my lips, Ewan. I’d have swallowed it, too, for I’d lost all and any will to live. Cristie mentioned Morag’s name, trying to dissuade me. And may God forgive me…” he closed his eyes for a moment, “not even that gave me pause. Then she mentioned your name, which was enough to set Tasgall’s blade at her throat.” Tears came to his eyes. “Ewan Tormod MacKellar, your brother, she said, and dared to tell me you’d returned to Castle Cathan. And it was as if a door opened in my mind, and whatever lay behind it flowed out and washed over me. Nay, it flowed through me, like a purge. And all thoughts of dying disappeared. In an instant, I wanted only to live. To return to Castle Cathan and see you.”
Ewan acknowledged with a smile. “And here you are, may God be praised. But I’m struggling to understand how you managed to overcome Tasgall and make your escape.”
Expression thoughtful, Ruaidri regarded him in silence for a few moments. Then, “Cristie was originally promised to him, Ewan.”
Ewan’s eyes widened. “To Tasgall?”
“Aye, but she knew naught of that, either, till he mentioned it.” Ruaidri drew a breath. “She then offered to wed him willingly, but only if he set me free.”
The mere thought of Cristie married to Tasgall set Ewan’s sword-hand twitching. “So…” He struggled to make sense of Ruaidri’s words. “How come she’s here, then? And with Tasgall’s horse, no less?”
“Because Tasgall let her go.”
“Why?”
“I’m no’ sure, but I believe it’s because he knew where her heart lay, and it wasnae with him.” He gave Ewan a pointed look. “Nor will it ever be with him. Cristie’s heart belongs to someone else.”
Ewan ran a hand through his hair. “I did what I had to do, Ruaidri. The lass lied to me and perjured herself before God and the clan.”
“Aye, she did, and she’s sorry for it.” Ruaidri scratched his chin. “She didnae actually come out and say it, but I suspect Alastair threatened her, which is why she did what she did.”
“Threatened her with what?”
“Who knows? But the lass is base-born. At his mercy.” He heaved a weary sigh, dropped his head against his pillow, and regarded Ewan through half-closed lids. “I’d say she’s more than made retribution for what she’s done, so let go of your resentment, if you harbour any. You were always an obstinate wee bastard. ’Tis why you locked antlers with Father all the time, since he was just as bad. Are you still as hard-headed? Or has the Templar discipline taught you some humility?”
Ewan chuckled at his brother’s forthrightness. “I’d like to think it has, but I confess I’m no’ sure I’d have ever returned home if it wasnae for Phillip’s edict.” He shrugged. “That said, my reasons for staying away no longer exist. In truth, I’m no’ certain they ever existed at all.”
And I’ll always regret not making amends with my father.
Ruaidri grunted. “’Tis surely providence that you returned when you did. I’d venture to say I’m no’ the only one in this room who’s been given a second chance. Cristie is a fine wee lass, Ewan. You’d be daft to let her go. Right, I’m done preaching. Where’s that sister of ours? I’m hungry.”