Unable to sleep, Ewan rose from his floor-bound pallet of furs before dawn and stole from the chamber, being careful not to awaken his brother. Apart from a single, tormented cry in the night, Ruaidri had rested well. That single haunted wail, however, had startled Ewan from his own troubled dreams, leaving him to toss and turn for the remainder of the night.
Now, immersed in the candlelit silence of the chapel, he gazed upon his grandfather’s Templar banner and tried to compose his thoughts. The past four days had been an endless deluge of emotions, a flood of truth and lies that had him floundering. With Ruaidri’s return, Ewan’s obligations had shifted yet again. What he’d been forced to surrender could now be his once more—if he chose to take it.
Choices. He had them. Though in truth, he knew without any doubt what he wanted. Where his future lay. But it would not be met without facing some obstacles. And it would not be embraced without some residual guilt.
He’d gone in search of Cristie the previous evening and found her asleep at the table, head resting on her arms. Seeing her bandaged hands, dark shadows beneath her eyes and that damnable bruise on her face, had all but battered Ewan’s heart to a pulp. In saving Ruaidri, the lass had shown courage worthy of any man, let alone a lass. She had shown humility, too, refusing to take all the glory. That she had given some of that glory to Tasgall soured Ewan’s stomach, though he could not argue that, without the man’s mercy, Ruaidri would be dead.
Later, standing in the candlelit doorway of his room, longing had shone like a beacon in Cristie’s eyes as she’d reached out to him. Ewan had stayed his desire to tell her what lay in his mind and heart. At one time, he might have laid bare his intentions without aforethought, but his years with the Templars had granted him a measure of restraint, the ability to curb his impetuosity. Besides, the lass truly was exhausted. What he had to say to her would wait till she was better able to accept it. It—nay, she—merited a more befitting hour and location.
The chapel door creaked open, a disturbance that caused the solitary candle flame to dance. A moment later, with near silent footfalls, Jacques moved past him, dropped to one knee before the altar, crossed himself, and whispered a quiet supplication.
“How is your brother?” he asked, taking a seat beside Ewan. “Has he rested well?”
“Aye, well enough, I think.”
“Good. And Cristie? What of her?”
“I must assume she is still asleep.” Ewan fidgeted. “In my chamber.”
“Ah.”
Ewan threw him a sideways glance. “I slept on the floor in Ruaidri’s chamber.”
“Clarification was neither expected nor necessary, Brother.”
“Nevertheless.”
Jacques drew an audible breath and seemed to ponder for a few moments. “I believe we witnessed a miracle last night,” he said, finally.
“What we witnessed was the result of several miracles,” Ewan replied, recalling what Cristie had said. “But those responsible for Ruaidri’s torture must still pay.”
“I understand only Alastair and his henchman were involved.”
Ewan threw him another glance, this one questioning.
Jacques shrugged. “Morag told me.”
Ewan suppressed a smile. “Did she, now.”
“She is of the same opinion as yourself. That your brother should be avenged. I do not disagree. My sword is at the ready, should you have need of it.”
“My thanks.
The door creaked open again, this time with a little more urgency, and the candle flame danced yet again.
“Here you are,” Morag said, sounding breathless. “I thought you were going to stay with Ruaidri, Ewan.”
Ewan shot to his feet. “Is something wrong?”
“Not precisely. He’s up, dressed, and wolfing down oatcakes in the great hall. And he’s asking for you and Cristie.”
“Good morn, brother,” Ruaidri announced, as Ewan approached the laird’s table. “Where’s the wee lass? Still sleeping?”
“I assume so,” Ewan replied, nodding a greeting to Duncan and Gabriel, as well as a few others who called Castle Cathan their home.
“Shall I go and wake her?” Morag asked.
Ewan mulled. “Perhaps let her sleep a while yet,” he said, after a moment. “She was exhausted last night.”
As he spoke, he cast a critical gaze over his brother’s gaunt form and felt the familiar rise of anger. At the same time, it gladdened his heart to see a slight flush of colour on Ruaidri’s cheeks. The man’s eyes seemed sharper somehow, too, their bright depths reflecting the candle and firelight that warmed the room.
“You can take that scowl off your face, Ewan.” Ruaidri lifted an oatcake from a plate and waved it at him. “I might look like death, but I’m feeling fine.”
Ewan grunted as he took his seat. “Aye, well, I’m no’ sure you should be up and about this soon, Ruaidri.”
Morag snorted and sat down beside him. “I agree. You should still be resting.”
“My arse is in a chair, in case you havenae noticed.” Ruaidri eyed his oatcake. “Dinnae fuss. If I feel the need, I’ll away to my bed.”
Ewan reached over and grabbed an oatcake for himself. “Before they’re all gone,” he said wryly, taking a bite.
Ruaidri grinned, sat back, and regarded Jacques and Gabriel. “My first official duty, since returning to Castle Cathan, is to bid our Templar guests a belated welcome.” He tipped his head. “Let it be known, if you’re able to spread the word, that any of your brethren will be well received here.”
“Our thanks, Laird MacKellar,” Jacques said, his response echoed by a nod from Gabriel.
A wistful look came to Ruaidri’s eyes as he regarded Ewan. “How I should like to have witnessed your arrival at our gates.” He shook his head. “It must have been a sight to behold. My brother, returned after so many years and wearing the Templar garb, no less.”
“It was.” Morag heaved a sigh. “I could scarce believe my eyes.”
Ewan gave a sober smile. “A no more wondrous sight than seeing you last night, Ru, resurrected from the dead.”
Jacques unfastened his cloak and rose to his feet. “Stand up, Ewan.”
He did so, and allowed Jacques to settle the mantle across his shoulders. Odd, he thought, how a symbolic scrap of fabric could stir both heart and soul. The familiar weight of it felt good.
“Et voila,” Jacques said to Ruaidri. “Notre frère, Ewan Tormod MacKellar, a soldier of Christ.”
“It looks well on you, Ewan,” Ruaidri said, emotion evident in his voice. “You’ll spare some time for me this afternoon, aye? I should like to hear more of what you’ve been up these past twelve years.” His mouth quirked. “Though I confess I’m more curious about what happened in those two years before you became a Templar.”
“Nothing to be proud of, I’ll tell you that much.” Ewan touched the cross adorning the white fabric. “I was on a path to damnation. The Order brought me back to God.”
“Now that your brother has returned, there is naught to prevent you from taking the mantle again,” Gabriel said. “Should you so wish.”
“Until such time as I marry and have sons, Ewan is still the heir,” Ruaidri said. “But I’ll support whatever decision he makes.”
Ewan smiled. “As it happens, I’ve already given it fair consideration.”
Ruaidri, frowning, leaned forward. “And have you made a decision?”
“I have,” he replied, finding a certain comfort in admitting it. “It was an easy choice.”
*
Cristie stepped out into the chill of an autumn dawn, each measured stride a triumph of self-restraint. It took all she had not to break into a run, to demand the gates be flung open that she might leave this place. For she could no longer remain.
How deluded of her, to imagine she still occupied some part of Ewan’s heart and mind. She’d been foolish to hope, foolish to lay her feelings bare and open herself to him the previous evening. His guarded response now made perfect sense. It had been a gentle prelude to a truth she had suspected. A truth she had feared.
A truth she had just witnessed.
Ewan was a Templar knight, sworn to serve God and Rome, two indomitable powers. And she was naught but the base-born daughter of a weaver. A sinner who had deceived him. Betrayed him. Lied to him.
And fallen in love with him.
After a restless night filled with disturbing, nonsensical dreams, Cristie had risen and dressed, shivering in the damp air as she struggled to fasten the laces of her robe with bandaged hands. She’d tried to re-braid her hair, but the tightness and pain had defeated her attempt, and she’d allowed her dark tresses to fall free. Shrugging her cloak over her shoulders to hide her failed efforts, she’d made her way down to the hall.
Anticipation had growled in the pit of her stomach. The day promised to be pivotal. Which direction might she be facing at the end of it? She had wondered about Ruaidri, and prayed he’d had a restful night. And she’d wondered what Ewan intended to say to her. Straightening her shoulders, Cristie stepped into the hall—and discovered that Ewan didn’t have to say anything at all.
At the sight of him wearing the mantle, she’d halted. Her heart had momentarily halted too, as if a cold hand had squeezed the life from it. Then, before anyone noticed her presence, she’d turned on her heels and fled.
She felt no resentment. No animosity. More than anything, she wanted Ewan to be happy. But she couldn’t bring herself to tell him that. He had remarked on her bravery the previous night, but this… this was beyond her limit. With all hope gone, she simply didn’t have the courage to look into his eyes and wish him well. She couldn’t bear the thought of seeing sympathy in his expression, or hearing an apology in his voice.
All she wanted to do was take her leave. A cowardly decision, perhaps, but seeing Ruaidri seated at the table made it easier. The expression of pride on his face as he regarded his brother had set Cristie’s arrested heart beating again. The man still looked thin, of course, but his pallor had brightened noticeably. He would live. She felt certain of it.
Humility be damned. She would take comfort, at least, from knowing she played a large part in saving Ruaidri MacKellar’s life, returning him to home and family. It offered her something good to hold onto in a future that appeared bleak. Something to keep her spirit from sinking into a thick fog of despair.
The gloom of early dawn gave her some cover as she scuttered around the back of the keep, heading for the postern gate. She slipped through the small portal unseen, and then watched as the door closed, shutting her out of Castle Cathan.
“Where to go, Cristie?” she asked, gazing out across a cold, grey sea, still shadowed by a night in retreat. The wind brought tears to her eyes. At least, she blamed the wind for them as she tugged her cloak tighter. For a moment, she considered returning to Dunraven. But nay, there’d be no welcome awaiting her there. She’d burned that bridge when she’d saved Ruaidri. For a brief moment, she wondered if Alastair had ever pursued them. A failed attempt, if so.
Where to go, then? Cristie struggled to straighten her thoughts. Not an easy task, when both heart and mind were in turmoil. She had neither food nor coin, but, as a weaver, she was not without desired skills. Surely, she would find work somewhere… once her hands healed. She held them up and tried closing them into fists, but they were yet too painful.
“The skin will probably take a sennight or so to heal. Do naught to aggravate the wounds in the meantime.”
From an obscure place at the back of her mind, a small voice dared to suggest the potential folly of her exodus, but she ignored it. She wouldn’t—couldn’t go back. So, keeping to shadow as she skirted the castle walls, she set out. It was yet early. Her absence, then, would likely not be noticed for a while. And, in truth, she didn’t expect anyone to come looking for her. Why would they? She was not one of them. She had no place in the MacKellar clan. She had no place in the MacAulay clan, either.
With no clear direction in mind, she decided to take the coast road, heading south. There were surely villages along the coast, fishing villages, farming communities—places where she might find shelter, if only temporary. As Castle Cathan shrank into the pale remains of the night with no indication she’d been seen, Cristie breathed a little easier. She lifted her chin and walked at a good pace, resolute in her decision.
Unfortunately, she soon discovered that the burden of a broken heart weighed heavy on her determination. As the miles passed beneath her feet, she grew more and more despondent. Where once the coastal beauty had touched her soul, it now seemed to heighten her sense of desolation.
The dark waves reflected the gloomy expanse of sky. The cries of seabirds leant a sense of loneliness and melancholy. And the wind, biting cold, swept in from the sea and buffeted her without mercy. So far, though, the clouds had held onto their contents. A blessing that likely would not last.
She quenched her thirst from the small burns that criss-crossed the land. But hunger gnawed at her stomach and her hands throbbed with pain. She’d seen a few cottages dotted here and there with smoke leaching from a hole in their thatched roofs. How she envied the crofters their shelter and the warmth of their fires.
And then, at last, another human soul crossed her path—a leather-skinned, elderly man driving a pony and cart, the latter stocked with three, large barrels. The man, dark eyes glinting beneath a pair of bushy white brows, had regarded her with some curiosity and nodded a silent greeting as he passed.
She lifted a hand. “Please sir,” she called out, “can you help me?”
He reined in the shaggy pony and cast another glance over her, one of his bushy brows raised in question. “What is it ye need, lass?”
The question drew tears to her eyes, for what she truly needed she could never have. “Um, I… I wondered if you know of a place ahead where I might find shelter for a wee while. And… and something to eat, perhaps?” She fidgeted. “I have no coin.”
The raised brow descended into a frown as the man scrutinized her, his gaze lingering a moment on the bruised part of her face. The stink of fish wafted through the air, turning Cristie’s stomach. She swallowed bile and fiddled with her skirts.
The man’s gaze dropped to her bandaged hands and his frown deepened. “There’s a wee village a few miles further along,” he said, gesturing with a toss of his head. “Ye’ll see a wee cottage standin’ apart from the rest, overlookin’ the harbour. Knock on the door and tell my wife I sent ye. Gunna is her name. She’ll give ye somethin’.”
“Thank you!” Cristie’s heart quickened. “Thank you kindly. And may God bless you.”
He responded with a single nod, slapped the reins against the pony’s rump, and went on his way.