Sharing the Pain
In normal circumstances, Darroch could happily ride for miles on his beloved Barra. The wind off the sea and the grandeur of the snowcapped Cuillins always blew away whatever ills plagued him. However, the distance from the kirk to his home was too short and he was still seething with anger when he espied Dun Scaith. Perched high above the sea, the brooding castle could never be considered welcoming. Its stark grandeur suited his mood. He fumed that he’d paid scant attention to the rumors of Isabel MacRain’s complaints he wasn’t a suitable bridegroom. Clearly, the wench never had any intention of honoring the betrothal. The whole scheme was designed to embarrass him and his clan.
His horse clattered across the walled bridge between the rugged shore and the rock on which the fortress sat. Many a steed balked at venturing onto the arched bridge, but the roan was used to it. Paying no mind to the white water swirling over the crags below, Darroch dismounted on the drawbridge and threw the reins to Michael. “Take him,” he said gruffly.
The fury on his face was evidently enough to banish the stable lad’s usual grin. After all, the servants were expecting the return of newlyweds.
He thrust open the creaking door and took the stone steps up to the castle proper two at a time, pressing his hands against the rough walls to hasten his ascent. At the top, he strode into the Great Hall. The servants preparing for the wedding banquet ceased their chatter and eyed him with puzzled expressions.
“’Tis cancelled,” he declared, hoping his voice didn’t betray the humiliation burning in his gut. He gestured to the trestle tables laden with platters of mutton and venison. “Clear this lot out.”
They might not be aware of the reason but knew better than to question Darroch MacKeegan when he was in a temper. They scurried immediately to gather up trenchers and tankards—until his father’s gravelly voice interrupted. “Nay. We’ll sup first. Then plot our revenge.”
The thirst to retaliate rose like bile in his throat; but not yet. Ignoring his dust-caked father, he turned on his heel and left, desperate to pour out his heart to the one person he knew would listen.
*
Determined not to cry, Isabel sat in the chair, staring into nothingness until the shadows lengthened and the wind suddenly ceased howling. She noticed absently that her fingers were smudged brown from the bare stem of a sprig of heather. Spirals of purple flowers lay in her lap. She must, at some point, have unpinned the MacKeegan clan emblem from her plaid and torn it to shreds. She tossed the twig into the empty hearth, shook off the petals and wiped her hands on the red silk gown.
She may have maligned Darroch MacKeegan, but, in truth, like any young lass, she’d looked forward to being a married woman, daunting as the prospect was.
She began pulling out the innumerable hairpins keeping her long braids coiled precariously atop her head. She’d protested that she had too much hair for such an arrangement, but Ghalla had insisted. The resulting headache only added to her torment. Perhaps once the pins were out, the numbing fog might clear from her brain.
The first tears threatened as the last hateful hairpin was finally removed, and the braids loosened, but her spirits lifted when she heard Blue whimper out in the hallway. At last, someone who would understand her pain. She roused from her stupor, chuckling as she opened the door to allow the boarhound entry. “I’m thinking o’ ye as a person now,” she confessed, bracing herself.
As expected, the beloved dog landed two gigantic front paws on her shoulders and swiped a rough tongue across her face.
“Danmhairgis,” she whispered, hugging him close.
He tilted his head and perked up his ears, apparently curious as to why she’d used his proper Danish name and not the nickname everyone called him because of his blue coat, unique to the breed.
“My one true friend,” she said. “Ye can always bring a smile to my face. Even today.”
She eased him down, wandered over to the bed and collapsed atop the pale green damask counterpane, too weary and sick at heart to take off the hateful gown. In his usual dignified manner, Blue easily levered his big body onto the mattress and lay beside her.
“He didna come, the MacKeegan,” she confided, stroking the dog’s smooth coat.
Her pet nuzzled her hand.
“Ye ken I didna want to wed him, but ’tis humiliating just the same,” she confessed. “I wish to marry and have a family, but now…” The words stuck in her throat. “Who kens what Da will do? Whatever Ghalla tells him, I suppose.”
Blue growled.
“Ye’re right,” she said. “The woman’s a menace.”
*
Darroch paused at the planked door of his private chamber and inhaled deeply. Hand on the latch, he rehearsed what he might say to blunt Kyla’s disappointment.
As soon as he entered, she left her nanny’s side and ran into his arms. He lifted her, calmed by the scent unique to little lasses. She snaked her arms around his neck and clamped her legs around him.
“Nighean,” he whispered, not certain how to tell his daughter the mother he’d promised wasn’t coming.
She leaned back and frowned, as if sensing something was wrong.
“Isabel MacRain changed her mind,” he explained, heartbroken when she cupped his face in her hands. It intensified his resolve to wreak vengeance on the woman who’d undermined his daughter’s faith in his promises.
The bairn brushed her thumbs beneath his eyes, as if he were the one who needed consoling. Her love for him was humbling.
“We still have each other,” he rasped.
She kissed the tips of her fingers and pressed them to his mouth.
An hour or two spent with the bairn would soothe his ruffled feathers and help clear his muddled thoughts, but vengeance called. He pried her arms from around his neck. “’Twill be for the best if ye and Nanny Margaret sup in the chamber this night. The hall will be no fit place for ye.”
Nodding her understanding, Margaret took the child.
Kyla held out her arms, tears welling in green eyes wide with pleading.
“I’ll come to kiss ye goodnight later,” he promised, wishing he could stay.
Jaw clenched, he shut out the sound of her wailing and strode back to the hall, wrestling with the irony that he found more joy in conversations with a bairn who never spoke than with anyone else of his acquaintance.
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