Chapter Two
Had this man, this laird, just offered his daughter to him?
Surprised by the chieftain’s welcome, he’d made his way slowly through the arranged tables to the front of the hall, dripping every step along the path. He studied everything around him as he moved and somehow he knew that this hall, though impressive, was not as big as. . . .
His? Someone’s. . . . A place he’d seen before.
Though those present had been quick to lower their gazes from his, he’d examined their faces, looking, always looking, for one that would be familiar to him. His sleep was haunted with faces, so surely he would see one of them sooner or later?
The mask, fashioned by the monks who’d cared for his injuries, chafed the skin of his neck and the upper half of his face. No matter what fabric they used, ’twas always the same. The healer suggested leather, but the expense was something the poor monks could not afford. So, he trained himself not to scratch against the itch or it worsened. Tugging his hood down closer to his brow, he reached the steps that led to the high table and watched as the nobleman positioned himself there.
Before he could ask a question, the young woman, dressed in a gown the color of spring, wilted just like a flower too long in the sun. Her long, flowing blonde hair, free of anything but a circlet, swirled around her body like a cloud as the woman fainted.
He was up the steps, around the table and at her side before any of the others reacted to her condition. He slid his arm under her and eased her onto the chair. The other young woman aided him and, by the time the one he’d assisted was settled there, her eyes began to flutter open.
Eyes the color of the emeralds in his. . . father’s?. . . mother’s?. . . . Eyes so deep and green that he could lose himself in them gazed back at him. Now ’twas his turn to be surprised.
It was her.
The one.
The woman who came to him in the dark of night and the light of day. He could always see her, but never once did she speak to him. He would reach out and call out to her, but she would fade even as daylight did at evening’s arrival.
Now, she was here. Alive. Real. Breathing.
“Who are ye?” she asked, giving a voice to all the imaginings he’d had these last months.
“I. . . .” He released her and moved back. He glanced from her to the woman at her side and then to the chieftain standing across from them. “I ken not.”
“I dinna understand,” she said. “What are ye called?”
“Come now, tell us yer name,” the nobleman said as he beckoned him over. “Are ye kith or kin?”
“My lord, I ken not. The monks who cared for me didna recognize me when they found me.”
“Found ye?”
“Husband, let us take this to a private place,” the other young woman said, arriving at the laird’s side. She was the mighty man’s wife. . . second or third from the looks of her youthfulness.
The one who filled his dreams just stared wordlessly as he searched his memories for something to tell them. To tell her. He wanted to scream out in frustration and pain.
The weeks and weeks of searching for a place or a person who would be able to tell him his story wore heavily on him. The last hours spent walking in the wind-blown rain had sapped his strength. No one knew him. No one was missing from among them. And he’d not recognized anyone he’d met along the way.
Until now. Until this place and this woman.
From the way her face paled and those eyes filled with fear and something else, some great sadness, she didn’t know him. The laird nodded at his wife. He motioned to two servants who led the way for him out of this great hall and up a stairway to the next floor.
He stepped aside as the nobleman led his wife and daughter into the room. Allowing the women to sit, the laird motioned to his servants to bring cups and stoke the fire. When the flames flared, he found himself stepping back, even from the welcomed warmth of it.
“Who are ye and why are ye at my keep in this storm in the dark of night?” The laird drank deeply from his cup. “A few minutes more and my gates would have closed until morn.”
“The monks told me they found me unconscious and gravely injured some months ago,” he began explaining what he knew. “They expected me to die.” At the slight sound of distress, his gaze moved to the woman of his dreams.
“The mask?”
“The scars.” The laird nodded. “I beg yer pardon, my lord, but I dinna ken who ye are. I have been traveling for days. . . .”
“Were ye with the monks of Iona?” the laird’s wife asked.
“Nay, my lady,” he said. His throat labored to speak aloud after months of mostly silence. “A small community some days from here to the south.”
“I am MacKinnon and this is my wife, Lady Davina.” Then the man nodded at his daughter, the one he’d offered in marriage. “That is my eldest, Lady Ailis MacKinnon.”
Ailis MacKinnon.
Now, the beauty had a name. He let it roll through his thoughts, not struggling to find a connection, for that most often led to failure. Instead, as Brother Gavin had instructed him, he let it simply be there. Staring at her and repeating it again within himself, he waited on a revelation. ’Twas simply a feeling when it finally happened. Joy. Joy and contentment. He closed his eyes and waited for more.
“Father,” she said. He opened his eyes and watched her speak. “I canna marry this. . . stranger.”
“If he will have ye, aye, ye will.”
The laird’s pronouncement shocked him. What in the name of the Almighty had he walked into?
“But, Father, we ken not his name or anything about him. Ye canna mean to give me to him.” Her voice was edged in fear and desperation. It sliced through him. He didn’t want her fearful. He didn’t want her to worry.
“What is yer name?” The MacKinnon asked again.
“When I couldna remember, the monks called me ‘Iain’, after their favorite of the blessed Apostles.”
The MacKinnon walked closer to him, examining him frankly and openly, from his boots to the plaid that covered the hood on his head. They were of a similar size and build it seemed.
“Ye have the look of a warrior about ye. Have ye fought before?”
“Aye.” He did not remember when or why, but he knew, his body knew, he was a warrior. Even now, he shifted on his feet and slightly turned as the laird moved around him.
A warrior must be always in readiness for the fight when it came.
At first, Iain thought the laird spoke the words. Then he realized they were a memory, spoken by another. An older man. The man who trained him. The shadows wouldn’t part enough for him to see the man, so he brought his attention back to the laird.
“Are ye sworn to any man?” the laird asked.
“Aye.” Iain shook his head. “I dinna ken who, but I think I must be.”
“Are ye married then?”
“Nay.”
He glanced over at Ailis and watched as any remaining color drained from her lovely face. Those eyes widened in anticipation of the next words from her father.
“Before yer arrival, my disobedient daughter swore to marry the next man who entered our hall if I allowed her to refuse Lord Duncan.”
“The older man at the table?” he asked, his gaze still captured by hers. The slightest of nods gave her answer before her father confirmed it.
“Aye. Lord Duncan agreed to marry her after she refused others. I allowed her to refuse due to promises made in a moment of weakness. I realize now ’twas a grievous error on my part in dealing with her.”
“Father,” Ailis whispered. “I pray ye. . . .”
“My lord husband,” his ladywife began.
“Nay, Ailis. Nay, Davina, my love,” the laird said.
If Iain had not been watching her so closely he would have missed the pain that shone in her eyes when her father spoke so to his wife. Only then did Iain realize that these two women were close in age.
“I stand by our agreement, Daughter. Ye promised to marry him and, if he will have ye, ye will.”
The MacKinnon meant it. He would give his daughter to Iain, if he but said the word. A complete and utter stranger, not only to them but to himself, who had nothing to offer in return. Had the whole world gone mad? Or was this one of those waking dreams he’d suffered for weeks after the monks had found him?
It took but one more glance at her to know that there was some connection between them. How else could he explain her presence in his dreams? Now that he’d heard her voice, he could hear the words she spoke to him every night since the first one he could remember.
“All the days of our lives,” she whispered.
She stood before him, naked. Her hair formed a golden, shimmering curtain around her. Her pert nipples, seen as they parted the locks of hair, grew into tight rosettes, begging for his mouth. She moved and her hair moved with her, sliding across her rosy breasts and over the curves of her hips. The darker triangle of hair at the place above her thighs, beckoned to be touched. He reached out his hand and she waited with eyes closed for his caress.
“Iain?” The MacKinnon asked.
All the days of our lives.
Iain blinked to clear his thoughts of the erotic vision he’d remembered, or dreamt, and knew what his answer must be.
“Aye.”