Chapter Twenty-One
Anno Domini 1192
Teàrlach sat against a stone enclosure among Muintir Maoil-t-Sinna’s gathering of Irish warriors. He had been considered something of a god—or a demon—upon his dark horse when he arrived, when most of these scrappy warriors had no horses at all, the opposite in coloring of the great Fionn but just as fierce. Because of it, he kept King stabled. He was already miles taller than most of the men, and blending in had been difficult, but over the course of these months spent on this far-western shore, he managed to reduce his presence by keeping quiet, fighting hard, and passing credit to other men so he didn’t build a reputation for his feats. Still, the Irish chieftain had recognized that with Teàrlach’s arrival had come a shift in the battle tides. They were winning more battles, and Teàrlach’s fighting tactics were growing more and more studied. Just a fortnight before, the chieftain had requested he begin leading a training session. In a way, he was rebuilding his life again. And his livelihood.
It was of humor then, that the honor of being employed to do what he did best once again—train men to fight—didn’t fill the restless void in his chest that had plagued him with unease since his decision to leave Scotland. Nay, the restlessness plagues me still. It was growing worse, bouts of apoplectic anger that could only be assuaged with strong spirits, a knot in his chest that he couldn’t explain. And drink in these remote, impoverished parts, was hard to come by. You lie to yerself, man, you can explain such a knot. You’re choosing the coward’s path. His bloody conscience, easy to ignore when he’d first ridden hard from Edinburgh nine months ago, his heartache so painful, wasn’t so easy to ignore anymore. How many times had he bedded Madeline? Christ, he hated to think her name, but it was almost nine months since they had trysted night after night in the woods. And it only takes nine months for a babe to grow…
His jaw pumped. He looked across the green hills extending to the horizon where it met the drab, gray sky. Such a thought crossed his mind several times a day. Had he created a bastard on the lass, and put the burden upon John de Moreville to raise? Last month, he had sat in a poorly vented commons house, drinking watered ale, listening to the cries of one of the serving wenches in the throes of childbirth, watching other maids and servants dash for supplies, and he’d had to storm outside and ride King good and hard to blot out images of Madeline writhing on a bed giving birth to my seed.
“Fok,” he said under his breath now. He’d almost ridden back to Scotland, right then and there after hearing the woman crying out. His honor had stayed him, though he didn’t know if it was his honor anymore, or simply, his understanding that seeing Maddie again on another man’s arm, would cause them both pain and create potential problems for her. That, and there would be no way to know if her child—if she was even carrying, which there was a good chance she was not, he reminded himself—was his or John’s.
It was the inability to know for certain that was eating at him.
A lone bird called out bleakly into the air. The weather was foul and his leine was filthy from months of mud and squalor. His sword was bloody, Norman blood staining it. The Normans had been conquered at Abrahth, but minor skirmishes kept breaking out, needing quelling, as did this pending one now. Right now, a large contingent of Normans stalked them while Muintir Maoil-t-Sinna’s men lay in wait with him, behind this stone enclosure.
“How long do we wait?” whispered a man at his side.
“Until we get a signal,” Teàrlach replied, his tone abrupt. He’d trained this particular group, and today, he’d see how much of his lessons had stuck.
He should have welcomed the man’s interruption to his thoughts, but it only irritated him. His legs were cold, though he paid them no mind as he glanced at a peasant woman running from one thatched hut to another in the distance, a babe on one hip and a child gripped in her other hand. His chest tightened, and a lump lodged like a boulder in his throat.
God be damned. The curse, directed less toward God and more toward himself, gathered strength. What was he doing here? Picking a battle, that’s what. Just not so much the Irishmen’s battle, but more his own. His conscience roared at him to return to Scotland, to see that Madeline was taken care of, and to know one way or another if he had a bastard child, even if it was, by all accounts, John’s now.
You know what you did with Madeline. He scowled. Every time he saw a lass with a babe, he knew he was an arse for leaving Madeline after a sennight of making love to her. Aye, his first month in Ireland had been spent taking out his aggression and drinking overmuch the watery piss the poor souls here had to drink. He had needed that time to put himself back together after Madeline’s rejection. Slowly, he had begun to function like a normal man again. Nay true. You might get by, but you’ll never be normal like you once were.
The blonde peasant woman running with her babes wasn’t particularly fetching, he didn’t think, as he watched her. But the sight of her hair bobbing behind her caused that familiar squeeze in his heart, followed by that wash of guilt, then a surge of anger at his own cowardice. He, a warrior with a proud past, feared what would happen if he sought out Madeline again. If he’d seeded her, she was due to deliver such a bairn. His maths were accurate. His family had always been honorable. Any child of his deserved to know its sire, its uncles. And dammit, but he wanted to know his child, knowing he would never be able to unless he was willing to bring irreparable scandal down on Madeline and complicate further a horrible marriage to John. He couldn’t do that to her.
But he’d always wanted a family. He’d always harbored that dream, more like a fantasy now, in the Highlands on his own small plot. And knowing he might have sown his seeds and that both the woman and child were lost to him was killing him. His blood was pulsing to leave, to abandon these men and bolt back to Scotland. His streak of honor, stained now as it was, was gaining momentum to propel him back home, whether he liked it or not. No matter what choice he made, his honor was shattered anyway. He lacked honor for abandoning Madeline after he might have sired a bairn on her. But he would lack much honor and bring a lifetime of added misery to Madeline’s situation if he raged back to Scotland and turned her already reluctant husband colder toward her with his claims of having bedded the man’s betrothed, now wife.
John had disliked marrying Madeline. He had been open in his disdain. Teàrlach couldn’t bring more shame to her and put her at the mercy of a potentially punishing man. Still, now that the pain of rejection had past, leaving only the dull ache of unrequited love, every fiber of his body wanted to know if he had a child. He just hated that if he did, he had to sacrifice it to John to preserve Madeline’s well-being. And it was his fault. He’d known better than to do what he’d done. He’d brought all of this on both of them.
Aye, that squeeze in his heart was going to do him in. It didn’t bleed heartbreak anymore, but it hurt nonetheless. Not a day went by when he didn’t think about what might have been, or what might be happening.
He looked down the line of woeful men sitting behind the enclosure. They were ill-equipped, tired, and filthy. The signal indicating that the Norman men were ripe for their surprise attack hadn’t come. He could see hands fidgeting, feet tapping, stone-still faces, and brows furrowed. And though they were clearly nervous and itching to be set loose with their swords and bludgeons, they were as gray as the sky around them, as barren of expression as the landscape.
He watched the peasant woman finally disappear, her stringy blonde hair swishing out of view, and he thought of Madeline’s eyes in the sunlight, so sparkly bright with inquisitive thoughts about pigs shaped by stars and caterpillars in the grass, and he took a deep breath. He was slowly dying. He missed his brothers. And he wanted, if only to torture himself, to see Madeline one more time, if only from afar, and know that life was turning out okay for her and any children she had. He wanted to feel inspired again, as he had always felt around her. He wanted to defend her, instead of these downtrodden men who by all means had the right to fight their cause.
Except, their cause isn’t mine.
The revelation was like a roll of thunder, hitting him hard, as if what he had known to be true all along had finally sunk in like a rock thrown in water. “Fok,” he cursed again, garnering looks from the men nearby. Shut it, or else I’m going to worry them, and shake their confidence in me.
But what was he doing here? He was being a coward, not a warrior. He was masking his heartache with his sword arm. He was using these men around him to avoid something he knew he couldn’t avoid forever. And nine months of butchering men for a cause he didn’t care about was blackening his soul.
The sight of that peasant woman’s hair caused that familiar wave of grief to compel him to action. He couldn’t stay here. He’d always known that. His family was in Scotland, and dammit, but Scotland’s blood flowed strongly in his veins. He was a Highlander, a MacGregor. He would never be a Lowland noble, no matter how many surcoats and habergeons he wore. He would never be an Irishman, no matter how many battles he fought against the Normans. And he would never fall out of love with Madeline Crawford, no matter how many cups of lousy ale he consumed. Though he never wanted to see Madeline on John’s arm, the nagging voice in his mind that called him a coward, an eejit, and every other name created, wouldn’t let Madeline simply remain as a memory. God knew his heart wasn’t ready to hear news of Glengarnock in social circles or hear John de Moreville’s name mentioned at boards. But he loved this woman. And he might very well have seeded her. And knowing this, he simply couldn’t rest easy another day until he knew for certain.
He wasn’t aware of how he did it, for he had resisted the urge to return during these nine long months. But something caused him to snap. The peasant woman’s hair? The babe birthed in the tavern hall the month before? The thought of nine months passing? He didn’t know but he was soon on his feet, walking, then jogging, as curious whispers called out to him from behind. He felt once more like an arse. But no matter what choice he made, he would abandon someone. He could live with abandoning these Irishmen, but he couldn’t live another moment knowing he had abandoned Madeline.
True. He hadn’t abandoned her. Not really. She had chosen her marriage to John over eloping with him. But he’d abandoned his pride, his honor, and any child he might have created. Even if he couldn’t raise the child without causing Madeline untold levels of marital trials, he could at least ensure his child was claimed. Sakes, but her rejection had tasted like acid. But as the sennights turned to months and he’d reasoned with his heartache, he realized that he, too, would have found defying the king nearly impossible, even as a man. Her fear over the matter hadn’t been misplaced, even if it had been hard to accept. He didn’t fault her now. He simply missed her. And missed being the object of her affection.
It was childish, aye. But no more. He had already been jogging for a while now, without any recollection of doing so. The skirmish was long-since out of view. The cowshed in which he’s stabled King was appearing, and it had been far away from the place in which those rugged Irishmen were set to ambush the Normans. They were every bit the scrappers that the Scots were, even when fighting a long, losing battle. They might win this pending tussle, but they weren’t going to win the war.
He ensured King’s tack was secure, mounted up, backed the horse out of the dilapidated shed, and rode overland. Stopping for the night, he repeated the routine for several days, until he neared the coast. One more day, and he would be at the port. He rode up to a tavern as nighttime fell on a sennight of travel, rather, a hut with thatched roofing and the promise of a drink. The moon was full and the land seemed peaceful. People were known to act foolish as a full moon approached. Mayhap, he acted foolish now.
He ducked beneath the lintel and dropped down onto a stool in the corner with a cup in his hand. The ale tasted rotten, but then again, his restlessness had gained conviction as he’d ridden, and nerves unsettled him enough that he didn’t want to drink much anyway. He had no idea what he was doing, besides floundering like a discombobulated chicken. But one way or another, he had to see Madeline again. See if he’d sired a child. See for himself that life was treating her well—
“Are ye kin to the MacGregors?” came a most unexpected question as a man sat down beside him.
He paused, thought, and ignored the question, turning his head away to imbibe another swill, when a hand landed on his forearm.
“Hey, man. I said, ‘Are ye kin to the MacGregors?’”
He turned to the persistent man and regarded him, pulling his arm free.
“Who wishes to know?” he grumbled.
“Ye look like the MacGregor man I met, oh, nigh two months ago.”
“Where’d ye meet this MacGregor man?” Teàrlach asked again.
“On the coast of the Irish sea. Just a day’s travel eastward from here. I’d just arrived to Ardglass off the ballinger, and a man like ye was boarding the vessel to return to Cairngaan and needed to sell his mount. He tried to sell the beast to me, but like the Scots peasant I am, I had no coin.” He chuckled.
“No relation,” Teàrlach remarked, turning his head away and preparing to ignore him from here on out. He didn’t like that the man had noticed him, out of all the other bodies crammed into this hovel. But the man’s question sent a prickle up his arms. His family was unmistakable in their features. If someone saw one of them, it wouldn’t be hard to infer that they were all related.
“Ye sure?” the man persisted. “He was most adamant that his brother, should anyone find him, ought return home with haste, is what he said. Something about a family matter. A bairn or some such.”
More unease settled in Teàrlach’s gut. No, his premonitions about Madeline birthing his child couldn’t be coming true. She was married. Her child—if she was pregnant—would be a Moreville, even if MacGregor blood flowed through the child’s veins. There’d be no need to notify him of such a child, for whether or not the seed came from him, he couldn’t stake a claim without ruining Madeline’s marriage. The man must be talking about one of his brothers. Or mistaking him for someone else.
“What was the man’s name?”
“Rabbie, I believe he went by. Said he’d been searching for his ‘eejit brother’ for months.”
That sounded exactly like Rabbie. Had Padraig’s wife given birth to another spare for Padraig? ’Twas good news if she had, but hardly worth scouring Ireland to impart the news.
“What of a bairn?” Teàrlach hedged. The hair on his arms was prickling.
The man looked victoriously at him, despite being a good six inches shorter, and threw back a swallow “Ye’re Teàrlach, are ye nay?”
“What bairn do ye speak of?” Teàrlach persisted.
“Yers.”
“Mine?” Teàrlach sputtered. Foking hell. The news shouldn’t catch him off guard, for he had been stewing on the possibility of a bastard his entire time in Ireland. But it did. It nearly knocked him over. He hadn’t wanted his imaginations to be true. Somehow, even though he was already headed back, he still hadn’t fully realized it might be true.
“Aye, they said ye got a child on a lass. Searched high and low for ye. Said he and yer brothers have searched for so long, that they suspect ye might be dead. ’Twas his final crossing. Said the lass’s name was, oh…” He shook his head. “Mary? Mildred? I do nay recall—”
“Madeline?” Teàrlach interrupted. Christ’s bones! He wasn’t sure his heart was still beating. All thoughts of being honorable and staying out of her life flew out the window. Primal instinct to hurry across the Irish Sea on the morrow, snatch up Madeline, break every law of the land as he claimed what should have been his and cuckold John de Moreville all the way to hell, raged red in his mind.
“Aye, that sounds right.”
A swirl of emotions hit Teàrlach square in the chest. Slammed him. Blasted through the scar on his heart holding his grief at bay. He had made love to her as many times as their travels had allowed. He knew all along she might have been with child. He was a bloody bastard.
“But Madeline married Laird Moreville’s son,” Teàrlach muttered to himself.
“I do nay know the details,” replied the man. “Can nay remember half of what Rabbie told me. I only remember some of it now because ye look the spitting image of him. He said ye oughts return home, if any man crossed yer path to tell ye. Said that the lass was desperate, heartbroken or some such. Said she hiked all the way to the MacGregor stronghold carrying yer bairn looking for ye.”
The man continued, sifting through his memory. But Teàrlach was propelled to his feet, his cup tipping over and spilling upon the earthen floor. He didn’t remember mounting King, nor could he recall the rest of the night’s ride as his mind churned like an eddy with the news weighing down his shoulders. He felt ill. Completely ill. What had befallen her? Why had she traveled all the way to Domhnall Castle? Had he seeded her and John rejected her? Had John died and widowed her? How on God’s green earth had she managed to search out his family home? Had she done so all by herself? Carrying my bairn.
God but he couldn’t steady his mind as he ran poor King into a lather, finally having to stop the loyal horse to let him rest, graze, and drink. After that, he walked his mount, the remainder of the night all the while cursing himself for nearly killing his horse, worrying for the woman he had been so certain was lost to him, and bracing himself for whatever reality had to prove to him.
This was his fault. All his fault. He knew, after a sennight of making the finest love to the only woman he wanted, that the possibility of a bairn had been real. He should have waited to run away and lick his wounds until he knew he had no bastard, or knew that the bastard would be raised as John’s child. Nay, he could tell himself until he turned blue that ensuring his child was legitimized as Moreville’s would be enough. But judging from his reaction now, he realized he would have whisked Madeline away and let John and the king’s soldiers chase him.
God but he ached. Guilt hammered him with each thud of King’s hooves. Was Madeline living at Domhnall Castle? Was she at Glengarnock? Was she at Kirkburn with John? There were too many questions, no answers, and after all these months, his regrets were plentiful.
…
He was the first one at the dock in Ardglass as the sun came up, waiting restlessly for the sailors to ready the ballinger for their return voyage to Cairngaan on the southwestern Scottish coast. Ayrshire. He was close to Dungarnock. Did he dare trek there first? Or should he go straight to the MacGregor castle perched against its cliff? King was worn out and in need of some days to recuperate. He was a strong horse, but the beast showed signs of fatigue.
Madeline had traveled to Domhnall. The message that the Scotsman in Ireland had relayed was that he should return home. He patted King’s neck. “Easy, man. We’ll go back home and I’ll trade you out. Just a little further, and you’ll have sweet oats and a warm stable.” He managed the trip in a sennight, riding slowly and spending his nights tethering down his urgency as he rubbed down King’s sore muscles. At long last, he lumbered up the path to the castle, still in his dirty leine, his face bearded like a prophet and his dark curls longer and scraggly over his neck.
“Teàrlach! Teàrlach, ye bastard! Ye’re alive, man!”
He heard Padraig before he saw him.
Clansmen along the walls began clamoring. The portcullis was lifted. The yard was sent into a commotion to greet him, question him, and Padraig was already jogging along the wall to the stairs to welcome him. He cantered beneath the gate before they had finished cranking it and threw himself down from the saddle, not waiting for any lads to gather King’s bridle. The poor beast was in no state to run off anywhere.
Seamus jogged down the steps to him, yanking him into a rough embrace, slapping his back as Padraig arrived and did the same.
“Madeline…is she here?” was all Teàrlach asked. “Be damned. I was told that she was…” His breathing was erratic. He was exhausted. “Is Maddie all right? She’s, she’s with child?”
Padraig stepped back, his greeting cooling. “Nay any longer.”
Teàrlach’s nerves were going to kill him. Had the bairn not survived? “What happened to her?”
“More like, what did you do to her.” His oldest brother glared at him sternly, folding his arms. “She birthed ye a bastard son.”
Teàrlach shook his head. His eyes felt blurry, and his breath left him. He swallowed. A son… “When?”
“Month last. The babe came earlier than it should have, but Madeline has ensured her wee one thrives.”
The words hung in the air betwixt them. The ache in his chest was so distressing, he felt as if his heart was being twisted. “Does John de Moreville know it’s nay his seed? Is he angry with her?” Just knowing she might be facing John’s anger and possibly mistreatment washed him in further guilt.
Padraig shook his head, as if he wanted to call Teàrlach all sorts of deprecating names.
“Teàrlach, man,” Seamus interjected, punching his shoulder as the brothers realized he truly had no knowledge of the past months’ events. Teàrlach wobbled off balance. “She did nay marry John.”
Another punch to the gut. Another whoosh of air from his lungs. Disbelief coursed through him. “I do nay understand. What the hell is going on?”
“She defied the king. She got to the bloody altar and fell at the king’s feet. Begged release of her contract and claimed her heart belonged to ye,” Padraig said. “She found her way here, mostly on foot, managing a nag for the last leg to find ye.”
Teàrlach hadn’t stopped reeling. “What?”
“Ye daft bastard,” said Seamus. “She rejected John. The king granted her the betrothal severance and John de Moreville returned her to Dungarnock, hoping to find ye back at yer employ. King William gave ye his blessing to marry her.”
“Except ye ran away like a coward,” scolded Padraig.
Teàrlach staggered back, then felt himself drop straight down to his arse, sitting on the ground until the dizziness passed. “She told me she was too afraid to defy the king…”
“Aye, but when the moment was finally upon her, she found the strength,” Padraig continued. “I ordered Rabbie to marry her. Yer lad is Clan Gregor. She has no one else except her sister and that lady’s Sassenach husband. They’ve tried to get her to move down south, but she refused, holding out hope that ye’d return. Rabbie’s tried to get her to consent to a marriage but has only finally succeeded in an agreement, for she kept saying she would wait for ye. Looks as if she got tired of waiting for a man who never came.” The words were said with no sympathy. “She has every right to reject ye now.”
Teàrlach was shaking his head, feeling tears, of all things, well in his eyes. The only other time he had cried as a man was that blackened day he’d left Madeline in Edinburgh. She must have loved him mightily to have traveled so far, with child, no less, to find him, to tell him she had done it. God the guilt. The bloody guilt. It was his fault. All my fault. “Does Rabbie claim her now?” he finally released on a whisper, anger coursing straight to his fists.
“Nay yet. He departed two days ago to handfast her. ’Twas all she would agree to.”
Teàrlach looked at King. King was his only mount. The two had been a pair for years. King needed rest. He couldn’t ride the poor beast any further without killing him or laming him. “I need a horse.”
“Ye can use my destrier,” Padraig readily agreed. “Just nay run the beast into the ground like ye’ve done with poor King. But first, get yer scrawny arse inside and put a good meal in yer belly.”
“I can nay tarry, Brother,” Teàrlach argued.
Padraig regarded his youngest brother sitting upon the ground, oblivious to the clansmen and women clustered around them, staring. He knelt down. “Ye love the lass? Ye have no other woman?”
“It’s only ever been her,” Teàrlach muttered, then let out a thoughtful sigh, shoving to his feet. “I have to leave. Is my chamber still intact? I need a tartan and another dagger and—”
“Some food, man,” Padriag interrupted. “Rabbie’s nay going to get there in one day, and I bet ye’re going to ride like hell’s chasing ye. Ye’ll overtake him on the roadside, ye will.”
Padraig pulled Teàrlach into another embrace, his anger seemingly subsided. “Ye should see him.” Somehow, as Teàrlach allowed himself to be steered toward the keep, he knew his oldest brother talked of his son, for his voice had softened. “He’s a handsome bairn and Madeline a fine mither.”
Sakes, but Teàrlach had missed it all, so much time gone, wasted, while he tried to slay his memories. Pray, Teàrlach thought, as he shoveled food into his mouth so quickly that he felt his stomach revolt at so much meat, that she doesn’t hate me. She had cause to never want to see him again. She had cause to think he had purposefully abandoned her. God help him, but if she hated him, he wasn’t sure he could bear it. But one thing was certain: Rabbie’ll marry Madeline over my dead, foking body.
Teàrlach growled to himself, unaware of the speed at which his feet directed him back toward the stable.
That pissed him off to no end, the thought of Rabbie taking Madeline to bed at night, siring his own seed upon her. He knew Rabbie, rough as he appeared, was loyal and good. He would care for Madeline, and… “Dammit! God be damned!” He cursed beneath his breath as he readied Padriag’s horse. He wanted to beat the shite out of his brother, yet knew Rabbie was doing the honorable thing, taking responsibility for the error of his youngest brother who made a lady his whore and got her with child. It was what any decent man would do. He ought to be happy that his family had readily agreed to protect her and their nephew. But all he could feel was dire necessity to get to Dungarnock, and get there fast. Before it was too late, and the woman he thought he’d delivered to her marriage so many months ago, decided to marry another now and leave him behind.
…
It didn’t take him long to overtake Rabbie. He’d exhausted Padraig’s mount and caught Rabbie’s tail view as they approached Kilbirnie. Lord, but the memories! That hill yonder had been fallow last season whereas now it was sown. He blew past it now but he remembered that long, sweet kiss with Maddie with such intensity, he could taste it again.
“Ye’ll nay marry her!” he bellowed when he was in earshot, leaving a couple of peasant women stacking hay into towers to stare at him as he blurred by.
Rabbie slowed his trotting horse and turned. Even from Teàrlach’s distance, he could see Rabbie’s eyes visibly narrow. When reality seemed to dawn on Rabbie’s face, that he actually stared at his prodigal youngest brother, relief crossed his brow, then anger shown in his eyes.
“Ye piece of work…” Rabbie exclaimed as Teàrlach came to a dusty halt before him, fuming.
“Ye’re nay marrying her, man,” Teàrlach exhaled, his lungs pumping.
“Says who? Says the rot who made me and Seamus roam the whole of bloody Ireland and its backward chieftains in search of ye?” Rabbie’s eyes furrowed more, his body menacing as his muscles tensed, making his scarification ripple, and the gash across his ear making his snarl seem feral. “Do ye have any idea how Madeline pined for ye? Did ye see the bedraggled mess that showed up at our doorstep after she braved the wilderness to find ye, carrying a bairn in her belly, no less?”
Guilt stung as if Rabbie was laying lashes on Teàrlach’s bare back in a public square.
“Do ye know how she walked the walls, day after endless bloody day, as her belly grew, praying to see ye ride down the path? She did as ye asked. She defied the king for ye. She loved ye and so help me, only accepted my marriage offer after the babe came, because she’d finally resigned herself to the notion that ye might be dead. Do ye care about yer bairn? He looks just like ye, man. Did ye ever stop to wonder how she was faring?”
Every bloody day. Teàrlach swallowed Rabbie’s words as they hit him, internalizing them. Instead of shouting, or throwing a punch, as he had felt like doing most of his journey, he felt tempered. He deserved Rabbie’s anger and in sooth, ought to be grateful for Rabbie’s loyalty to protect Madeline with marriage and offer his son legitimacy. Teàrlach had told her he came from a good family, and his brothers had proven it.
“I did nay know, Rabbie. I thought she’d married.” Rabbie scoffed, but Teàrlach pleaded, “Do nay marry her. I beg ye. I had already decided to come home, was already on my way. You ask me if I ever stopped to wonder how she was faring. Aye. Every bloody day. But I worried I’d complicate her marriage by showing up at her doorstep. John already disliked being forced to wed her, and I didn’t want to turn the man cold toward her, for she would only suffer because of it. Believe it or nay, I stayed away because I love her. But I couldn’t stand it anymore. I couldn’t stand not knowing what had happened to her, or if our time together had made a babe. I was dying inside without her, man, and it finally hit me that if I had to cuckold John and ride her back to Domhnall and bring all manner of royal dispute to our threshold, I’d do it, for life didn’t mean a damn thing anymore without her. I was already headed back to Scotland when I came across a man who remembered you on one of your searches for me and relayed that Madeline was with child.”
Rabbie’s anger softened. “What if she prefers me to ye?”
Teàrlach took a deep breath. He was so close to her now. He would be at Dungarnock in less than an hour if he rode hard. The thought hadn’t occurred to him that she might actually wish to marry Rabbie over him. He would fight for her, sword and fist, if needs be. But if she no longer wanted him… “I suppose I’ll step aside if she does.” His voice trembled and he paused to master it, looking away at the rolling hills. “I just want her to be happy. Just…just let me be my son’s da, nay his uncle.”
Rabbie regarded him, then dragged Teàrlach into an embrace that almost made them both slip from the saddle. The hug belied the anger. “We thought ye dead, Eejit,” he remarked, his voice muffled against Teàrlach’s shoulder. Their hands slapped each other’s backs, gripped each other in the masculine way that spoke of a bond. “Be damned, but Madeline is going to faint away.”
Madeline. He had to get to her. He disentangled himself from Rabbie’s sentimental hold and turned his mount down the road again. Rabbie took to a gallop behind him, the two of them a blur of dark hair and red plaids passing over the ground. Teàrlach ignored the fact that he still wore his Irish leine beneath his MacGregor tartan. He stank, too—to high heaven—for he hadn’t bathed in some time, aside from basic washing. The bloodstains upon his leine had long since turned to brown splotches, his belts having loosened upon their tighter notches. And his beard! Dammit, he probably looked more like some beast of lore than a man.
Still, as he neared the familiar bend in the road he had traveled time and again leading to Dungarnock, he urged the poor horse harder, forcing him to move that much faster, sensing Rabbie behind him in his dust. There it was, just as it had been before, evening sunrays setting the stones aglow. The gates were open.
And there she was, sitting on a blanket spread out upon the ground, surrounded by voluptuous folds of fabric from her gown, a dreamlike image he had only fathomed these past months. Her clothes were fine, a soft blue-green, the color of her watery eyes, and her hair hung unbound and pooling around her, a shiny bronze circlet resting around her forehead. It caught the low sunbeams like the creamy yellow tufts of meadowsweet that dotted the Lowland hills. He ached to get to her, to see her up close, to touch that hair he had dreamed about each miserable, bleak night he’d spent in Ireland.
She was leaning over a bundle, reading aloud from a book by the look of it, as if storytelling to a child…his child… He noticed that the bundle squirmed. A babe…My son.
He thundered closer. Madeline looking up, spotting him charging, snatched up the swaddled child, the book tumbling from her hand as she abandoned the blanket, racing as if flames lapped at her heels to the door of the keep. Guardsmen ran along the walls to assess the threat. That she should be so scared of him hurt even more.
“Do nay shoot!” Rabbie hollered, waving his arms to stay the launch of the guardsmen’s arrows as they raced through the gates into the yard.
“Madeline! Madeline, stop!”
Teàrlach jumped off the saddle while the beast was still in motion.
Madeline paused in the doorway, clutching the babe with whitened knuckles, and then a hand migrated to her mouth. Her eyes widened, reddened, shock passed over her face. He jogged to stand before her, and gazed at her. She was so lovely, so beautiful, no longer the sweet young maid, more womanly, still every bit as bonny. Mayhap even more so. He gazed over her form, remembering each curve, each dip of skin, each soft breast, each quivering thigh, each and every kiss she had bestowed upon him.
And his eyes flitted to the child cradled against her breast.
“Maddie,” he croaked, his voice gruff and distant in his own ears, and so suddenly, he lost the battle of his own tears and water bubbled over his lids, cascading down his cheeks into his beard. “Sweet Maddie,” he whispered, and collapsed to a knee before her. “I’m so sorry.”
…
Madeline held still, looking down at his head bowed over his knee, Fingal and Joselyn huddled behind her. She should be angry. She should be furious. She had given this man her heart, and he had fled the continent and never looked back. Anger, relief, confusion, hurt. Each emotion swirled in her stomach, making her feel ill. Tears that had dried long ago fell as she squeezed her son, swaddled in his blanket, protectively.
Teàrlach looked up, his eyes anguished, every bit as beautiful whisky brown as they had always been, pooling with liquid now as he gazed at her, then at his son’s head of golden curls as the bundle wriggled in her grasp. His curiosity, in spite of his regret, was palpable.
He pinched his eyes with his fingers to stop the tears. “I’ve missed all of it. I didn’t know… Can ye ever forgive me?” he begged, his elbow resting on his knee, as he propped his forehead in his hand in shame. “I should have been here. Maddie, I’m so sorry.”
A husky cry escaped him. Madeline’s breath was gone. She was still speechless. Her limbs frozen, her heart drumming against her ribs. The squirming infant brought her mind back to the moment, and she passed the babe back to Josleyn who dutifully took him. Her movement caused him to look up. Anger furrowed her brow.
“How could you?” she whispered. And with those words, a tempest held at bay for so long was suddenly unleashed. “How could you!” she cried, her hand lashing down to crack across his cheek. He sat, stunned from the assault. “How could you! How could you!” She wept, her hand hitting him again and again until the fit finally gave way to sobs. He took each blow with stoic penitence, his skin reddening, his eyes closing as he held still upon his knee and allowed her to exact her punishment. Nay, even now, she didn’t hate this man, and never had. She knew he measured his life by being careful, being calculated, and in time, she knew that while she ached now at the sight of him, she would come to understand his forthcoming explanations. She had always trusted him. He had looked out for her when no one else would. And judging from his tears and the fact he shed them without embarrassment, he might have hurt her, but she could tell he hadn’t meant to, that he had been hurting, too. She collapsed to her knees, falling against him, suddenly clenching him. Her chest convulsed. “How could you…”
He dropped to his rear, encircling her in his arms, pulling her so tight, she thought she might suffocate. Still, he was here, and he was holding her, and such was something she had only dreamed about for so long.
…
His cheek stung from her lashes, but he had her in his arms. Such heaven, such undeserved sunshine on his soul that had withered these months. Her sobs were unrestrained, and he couldn’t help his tears streaking through his travel grime into his beard as they sat in a heap, chest to chest, heart to heart.
She shook her head buried against him. “It’s as if you’re back from the dead. I missed you. God, Teàrlach, how I missed you every day. Why did you never come back to me?”
“Wheesht,” he crooned in her ear, sniffing at his clogged nose, unaware of Rabbie discussing with the guardsmen who the beast of a man was piled on the ground with Madeline. They were from Dungarnock, men he’d trained, but beneath his beard and unruly locks, they probably hadn’t recognized him. “I did nay know, Maddie. My sweet Maddie, I did nay know about you and John. I thought ye married. I wanted to come to ye so badly, but I thought I’d only make life worse for you as John’s wife. I knew I might have gotten a bairn on ye, but I was a coward, and for once in my life, I did nay know what to do. I’m so bloody sorry. God, lass, do nay handfast with my brother. I swear I can still make a good husband to ye. I promise ye, God, I promise to take care of ye and my lad forever, I swear it to ye if ye only give me another chance. A family, with you…” He buried his face in her beautiful hair, smelling the sunshine and scented floral oils she used. He never wanted to come up for another breath, it smelled so sweet. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
He stayed his rambling. Any more desperate words and she might think he had gone daft these past months. He probably had. But then, she gripped each of his cheeks with her palms, examining him, and planted her lips to his. He returned the gesture, leaning into her hungry offering, thrusting his tongue through the saltiness of their tears, devouring her, reacquainting himself with her after so long and ignoring his brother, Rabbie, who he could hear chuckling at his expense.
Teàrlach pulled away from her lips. He held her face as she held his, staring into her watery eyes as she returned the gaze, losing himself in the bliss evoked by falling in love all over again. But this time, he knew that he, the fourth, landless son, could finally claim what he wanted. The gash in his heart was still there, but healing had begun the moment he’d seen Madeline sitting so angelically in the yard, reading to his child. It would always be there, a testament to loving and losing. But this time, Madeline was his. Nothing was standing in his way. He smiled to himself. It seemed obvious enough to him that she chose him over Rabbie.
He turned his eager attention to the maid holding his babe and pushed to his feet, helping Madeline rise, too. He regarded the infant’s head of curls. This child represented so much more than just a bairn he had made and that Madeline had grown. In those curls, he saw crops of barley, a prosperous wood crafting shop, a solid stone great house, and a rugged but bountiful life. That bucolic estate and farm, his woman and his bairns, growing old together…it was suddenly in his reach, he realized, as his finger touched a curl.
“What’s his name?” he asked Madeline, his voice rough.
She looked over at the boy, a glow warming her eyes. She reached to him, took back his swaddled body from the maid, and lovingly caressed her palm over his crown. She turned him toward his father. “Teàrlach, meet your faither, my sweeting.”
Another punch to the gut. Another surge of pride. For a moment, he had thought she addressed him, not the child. She had named the lad in his memory. He had a namesake.
He examined the bairn, instant love blooming in his heart as he absorbed the image of his wee cheeks, wee nose. The babe’s eyes were open, roving toward him, watery gray-blue. “He has yer eyes,” he whispered to Madeline, staring into the young Teàrlach’s eyes. “My unruly hair…” His voice threatened to crack again. “He’s a stout, wee thing. Handsome, aye…”
“Here. Hold him,” Madeline said, offering wee Teàrlach to him.
“I, eh,” he hesitated. He could break such a tiny thing as this, the size of a young pup in his broad palms. His heart was racing, and his leine was filthy. No doubt, no child should touch such an indecency. Madeline was already draping a clean swaddling blanket over his shoulder, as if knowing his conundrum.
“Go on,” Madeline giggled, passing the babe off, and forcing him to receive him.
His whole body tensed as the infant settled against him. Too afraid to clench him, he was too afraid to hold him loosely, as well. And yet, the child molded into the crook of his forearm and elbow, the babe’s chubby face against his heart.
He looked at the boy. Touched his golden-brown curls, soft and wispy still. Examined a stray hand that had come untucked. Such tiny, tiny fingers. It was hard to fathom such a creature would one day be the size of himself and these hands, strong enough to wield a sword. And he had made this wee thing. He looked up at Madeline, who wasn’t looking at him, but was looking at their son, smiling. Nay. He might have seeded this child, but Madeline had done the work. He would never be able to make up for the months of his absence, when he should have been here to help her, but he would sure as hell spend the rest of his life trying.
“I was gone, when I should have been here, lad,” he whispered to the infant, watching the child’s eyes stare up at the sounds coming out of his mouth and resonating against his ear. “But I’m here now. And I’ll never leave you or your mither again.”
He placed a gentle kiss upon the boy’s forehead and inhaled his infant smell.
He looked back to Madeline, who was now watching him make his declaration to his child, with tears in her eyes. And he realized, that in his eagerness to hold her and feel her, she hadn’t actually said that she would forgive him or make that family with him.
“Will ye forgive me, lass? I know I’ve hurt ye.”
She furrowed her brow, as if to question what exactly he meant, and then molded against his other side. He draped his arm around her shoulder, pulling her against him as she reached out to fix the babe’s swaddling and tuck his fingers back into his blanket. She rested her face to his chest, wrapping an arm around his back to hold his waist. His heart swelled, holding his new family in his arms. He looked down at Madeline and she looked up at him. Her lips were softened. They parted as she looked to his mouth. Slowly, he lowered his lips to hers, offering a gentle kiss, a dusting of lips slow to come, yet seeming to last an eternity, much like that first kiss they had shared so long ago.
The fresh, tingling excitement of a first kiss burgeoned anew, this time, without the constraint of his woman being promised to another. Not anymore. They pulled apart, their eyes still locked, and her lips curled up playfully.
“Keep kissing me, Teàrlach, and mayhap, eventually, you’ll be forgiven.”
He grinned at her jest, spoken quietly, and pressed his lips against hers once more as his son cooed lightly in his arm. He replied, his response spoken with a smile, but meaning every word. “Hold your breath, then, lass. I’ve got a lot of forgiveness to request.”
He pulled apart from her. The babe began to squirm and fuss. Teàrlach froze. Had he done something wrong? But Madeline withdrew him and transferred him back to the maidservant without a concern, who carried him across the well-lit, well-furnished hall and up the stairs. “’Tis time for a wee nap. He fusses the most before he rocks to sleep.”
Still framed by the doorway as the sun began to set, she turned to face him.
“I saw you reading in the yard,” he said. “It pleases me to see you still practicing.”
She looked down. “In truth, I read aloud to Teàrlach. He enjoys the sound, and I never want him to be without books, like I was.”
Teàrlach pulled her against him and squeezed. “You bestow the gift of knowledge on him. ’Tis a better gift than anything.”
“I beg to differ,” she replied, resting her cheek against his heart. “A faither is a better gift than any.”
“Nay,” he whispered, tipping her chin up so he could see her eyes. “A family. In the Highlands. You and me, eloping, raising our bairn together.”
She closed her eyes at his description of a dream that had dried up long ago, as if fresh rain poured on a parched valley. “Raising our bairns together,” she corrected.
His brow furrowed. “I thought…eh, are there more?”
Her face broke out into a smile and she giggled. “Nay yet. But I have faith that you know your duty in the matter.”
The jest caught him off guard. He grinned. “Aye, and I’ll never fail to excel at it.”
“Indeed,” she concurred, nestling against him.
“Then why wait? That is, if ye’re able…I mean, ready…”
She blushed, but nodded, whispering. “I’m both. The babe came a fortnight earlier than expected, and so, I’ve healed. Which is why Rabbie came now and nay sooner.”
He scooped her up, turning to glance at Rabbie, now chatting amiably with the guardsmen, his arms folded and bulging out each bicep. Over my dead body.
The Highlander waved a dismissing hand at them.
“Get ye gone, ye two!” Rabbie grumbled. “Ye’re in clear need of a bed, Eejit!”
Teàrlach chuckled, Madeline blushed, and he ducked through the door, sweeping her skirts over the threshold. A reunion was long overdue, as was his intent to handfast with her until a proper ceremony could be planned. Their lost time could never be replaced, but he would make it up to her as each sun rose and set. The sun seemed to usher in a new dawn. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t a laird. It mattered that they had each other. But a sound bedding and full bath were the first priorities, in that order. He sniffed the air. Were those tarts he smelled?
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