Chapter Thirteen
Hazy with sleep, Jamie caressed the soft contours pressed against his body. He nestled his face into lavender scented hair. Then his eyes flew open, his senses fully awakened. The events of the day before came crashing down on him. The attack. Niall and Grant’s deaths. His bride’s rejection of his comfort. His anger. He shimmied away, steeling his heart once more against Fiona’s feminine softness. Her breathing remained even. He would let her sleep while he foraged for food.
When he returned to the cave, she sat just inside the entrance, her knees pressed to her chest. He set a handful of mushrooms and blaeberries on the ground beside her. She made no move to take a morsel but kept her gaze downcast, hugging her knees close.
“Eat,” he urged her impatiently. “We’ve a lot of ground to cover.”
Without looking up, she snaked out her hand and grabbed the wild forage. When she had finished, he bade her stand. Taking her hand firmly in his, he started back down the slope.
Hours passed in silence. Finally, they neared the outskirts of MacLeod territory, coming upon the first watch tower. From the highest lookout the MacLeod banner flapped in the breeze. As he expected, when they were close enough for the guard on duty to recognize his laird, the tower gate swung open and a warrior rushed out. Untying one of the horses from its grazing lead, he mounted the animal and galloped toward them.
Jamie recognized Mitchel straightaway with his broad shoulders and tangled red hair. Mitchel brought the animal to a halt in front of Jamie and slid to the ground. “My laird, what has happened?”
Jamie took the reins from his man and mounted, then reached down to the woman at his side, lifting her into the saddle. “We were ambushed on the Hidden Pass. Grant and Niall are dead. Keep watch for a large party with Seumas in the lead. I only pray they’ve fared better than we did.”
Mitchell looked at him with stricken green eyes. Then he dropped his head, crestfallen by the news of their departed kinsmen. Fury and heartache coursed through Jamie. He still could not believe Grant and Niall were gone. He rested a hand on Mitchell’s shoulder. “We will stop the bloodshed. These dark days will end. Stay vigilant, Mitchell.” Words of consolation fled Jamie’s lips, but they did nothing to sooth his own pain or the rage burgeoning within his soul.
“Ye’re hurting me,” Fiona blurted, bringing his mind to the present. He realized his body had tensed with anger, and he held her arm in a fierce grip. Taking a deep breath to regain his control, he loosened his grip and nudged his mount in the flanks. They raced over open moorland. When they reached the village of Làidir, he pushed on, weaving through narrow pathways, skirting peat huts and stone cottages, children at play, and chickens roaming for insects and food scraps. He did not stop, even when his kin called out to him. Grief marked his homecoming. As laird it was up to him to impart the woeful tidings to Grant and Niall’s kin.
As they approached the outer wall of Castle Làidir a horn sounded signaling his arrival. He charged over the drawbridge, passing under the inner wall into the courtyard. Young Edward raced out from the stables to meet him.
“I’ll take yer horse, my laird,” he said breathlessly.
Jamie dismounted and clasped Fiona’s waist, setting her on her feet.
Edward looked about the baily. “Where are the others?”
“Seumas rides with Lady MacDonnell’s entourage.”
“But what of Grant and Niall?”
Jamie closed his eyes against the pain that shot through his heart. He pressed his lips in a grim line. He shook his head, signaling to Edward that their kinsmen would not be returning.
The lad’s eyes welled with tears.
“Get ye to the stables and wipe down the mare,” Jamie said, keeping his tone gentle. “Then clean out the stalls, all of them. Do ye hear.” Jamie did not want word to spread of his kinsmen’s passing until he had personally told Niall’s wife and Grant’s parents.
The lad’s eyes widened. He nodded and hurried off to do his laird’s bidding.
The weight of Jamie’s duty forced his pace to quicken.
“Faster,” he barked at Fiona, pulling her behind him. He thundered up the steps of the keep and swung open the door to the great hall. Instantly, he was struck by the sound of a woman screaming. In that moment, he knew that Katie, Niall’s wife, was soon to be a new mother.
When they had left three days before, she had complained of occasional pains and had been brought into the keep while Niall was away. As another scream echoed through the hall, coming from the direction of the east wing, it was clear the occasional pains had turned to full blown labor. He took another deep breath. Poor Katie struggled to bring her babe into the world, a babe that would never know its father.
Heartsore, he started to walk forward, but for the first time, Fiona resisted. He turned and looked at her. Her face was pale and drawn. Her eyes darted around the hall.
“Aren’t ye going to help her?” Fiona cried.
Jamie lifted his shoulders. “What am I to do? Tis the will of God that women suffer.”
Her eyes nigh bulged out of her head. “Are her cries not excessive? Surely, she has done nothing to warrant such agony.”
“It must be a stubborn one, ‘tis all,” he answered.
Still, her gaze scanned his hall with a look of sheer horror. He circled around taking in the room, searching for what caused her upset. The tables were clean but bare. The woven rushes were due for a change, but they had not begun to rot. The bare stonewalls could have used a tapestry or two, but in general the room was tidy enough but not nearly as fine as the hall in Castle Creagan. He knew then that she turned her nose up at his keep. Long had it been since a lady oversaw the running of Castle Làidir, and it showed in the plainness of the great room. But he was not about to explain this to his shallow bride when he had grieving kin to think about. “Follow me,” he snarled.
Straightaway, she complied. He stormed across the great hall and up the stairs of the high dais and then on through the solar. From that wide room, he took the left staircase that circled around to the next floor. At the very far end of the wing, he opened a door to a small chamber and led her inside. “Ye will stay here until the morrow. Do not think of trying to flee. The door will be locked and a guard posted.”
She grabbed his plaid. “Ye cannot mean to shut me away. I am not yer prisoner. I am yer wife.”
He raised a brow at her. “Until yer my wife in name and body, ye should think of yerself as my prisoner.” Then he motioned around him. “And if ye think this room and my keep not good enough for yer refined tastes, then remember, Làidir has a dungeon where prisoners are usually kept.”
That silenced her complaining tongue. He could not entertain the vapid concerns of his spoiled betrothed, not when he had real tragedies with which to contend. “A maid will bring ye something to eat.”
“Can I have a bath?” she asked. Then her eyes traveled across his soiled body. “That is if ye do bathe here.”
He brought his face a breath from hers. “Do not test me as I am in a foul mood!”
Then he spun around and thundered out of the room, slamming the door on her and her complaints. He locked the door, putting the key in his sporran. Raking his hand through his hair, he expelled a deep breath, hoping to rid himself of some of his anger.
His clan needed a different kind of strength from him that day—his people needed compassion and a shoulder upon which to cry out their pain. He prayed for God to give his own broken heart the strength to console his people.