A Promise of Love (36 page)

Malcolm shook the dying man until his eyes opened in protest or sudden awareness. Judith forced herself to look into Bennett's eyes.

There was death here; she could hasten its coming. With one short stroke she could kill, send this demon back to his hell. For all the nights of agony, she could repay him, for every bruise on her soul she could be avenged, for every moment she’d been degraded, she could force him to atone.

At what price to her already damaged soul?

Her hand would not move forward, her arm was frozen into place, her eyes remained as fixed and staring on Bennett as if she, herself, were close to a corpse. Malcolm said nothing, watching her with hooded eyes. Still, she didn’t move, not even when Malcolm shook the dying man again. A glimmer of recognition was all she saw before it faded and Bennett slumped against Malcolm's hold.

For a long moment, she did nothing. Then, slowly, she stood, holding out the dagger to Malcolm, who replaced his dirk in his boot. Judith stripped a length of material from her one remaining dress, helped bind Malcolm’s wound, tenderly wiping the blood from his face. All of this was accomplished in the most perfect of silences, as if the sound of the blood leaving Bennett’s body was not an accompaniment to the moonlit night.

When she finished binding Malcolm’s wound, Judith began to cry. Tears flowed down her face unchecked, and it was only then that the old Scot opened his arms to her. She grasped his coat, buried her face against his bloody shirt, and wept.

Malcolm wavered between unconsciousness and a pain filled observation that his judgment wasn't wrong after all.

He had thought she had promise.

CHAPTER 34

It was a sad and dispirited pair they looked, Alisdair thought.

Malcolm rode into Tynan’s courtyard, Molly plodding docilely beside him. Judith sat atop her sway backed mare, exhausted and more than a little concerned about the crusty Scot at her side. The journey to Inverness would have been too much to expect of him, wounded as he was. Twice, he’d swayed on the saddle and would have fallen if she hadn’t held onto his waist. They'd been on the watch for the rest of Bennett's patrol, but Malcolm reasoned they were no doubt passed out on the side of the road by now. The retracing of their journey seemed to take forever, too slow for the state of Malcolm’s wounds.

Even so, the old Scot made use of the time.

"Lass, doubt me all you wish, but don't doubt the MacLeod. Who are you afraid of, lass? Him, or yersel'?" When she’d looked at him in puzzlement. "It's no' an easy thing ta love a Scot," he said, by way of explanation.

“You’ve wished me gone for weeks, Malcolm. Why do you argue with me to stay, now?”

"I'm thinkin' he could do worse," he muttered, which was the greatest compliment he'd ever given any woman, had the daft lass the sense to know it. She'd refused to back down, although he'd given her nothing but sour looks for weeks. She'd refused to become conciliatory, had matched him look for look, the way a good Scot would do. He had heard her story at Meggie's bedside, seen her real grief at Sophie's passing. And when she had unerringly and without hesitation thrust the dagger into the horse's rump, he had almost kissed her feet. She was more Scot than English, and of course she was a worthy mate for his laird.

Now, if he could only convince the two of them.

"You do not know, Malcolm," she said somberly. "I am not what you think I am."

"Because ye were marrit ta a cruel mon, Judith? Who used ye in foul ways?

I'm no' so hurt I canna remember." She bowed her head and stared at the neck of her long-suffering mare.

"Give the lad a chance, Judith." It was a statement he had made more than once on the dark road.

Outside Tynan’s gates, he’d tried once more. "Ye don't need to go, lass," he said finally, "now that the bastard's dead." He gripped his lips tight against the pain of his wound. He did not want her to turn her back on Tynan. "You canna do this to him, lass. He needs a wife."

“Inverness is that way,” Alisdair greeted them, pointing to the west.

“Aye, lad, and don’t we know it.”

The emotion Alisdair felt at Judith’s return was immediately supplanted by concern, as he saw the makeshift bandage wreathed around Malcolm’s head. He bounded down the steps and peered into his old friend's face. Blood matted the bandage and the front of his shirt.

“Judith?” His eyes scanned her figure, but there was no sign of injury.

“I’m fine, Alisdair. Malcolm is the one needing tending.” For a flash of moments, Judith allowed herself a fantasy. She was returning from a necessary journey and Alisdair awaited her. His frown was for the days apart, for their blessed end. His arms were reaching out to hug her, not to scoop Malcolm from the saddle. His radiant anger was for the presence of others. Blessed welcome, a promise of a warmer greeting, later.

Alisdair had no time to frame the question before Malcolm turned on him.

“It’s an English wound, MacLeod, I’m lucky the brainless bastard dinna cut off my nose. I’m sure he was aimin’ for my heart.”

“How did it happen?” Alisdair unwound the bandage, inspected the wound. The old man’s slight moan was not the only sign of his pain. He began a series of voluble curses which grew in volume as they entered the bronze doors, Judith following behind.

"You left here intact and returned without an ear. I'd congratulate you on your sleight of hand, but I’d rather know what happened.”

"I’ll tell ye for a spot of brandy, lad," Malcolm said wearily, the pain filled journey having taken its toll.

“The brandy would be better served to bathe your wound, Malcolm.”

“Aye, but it’ll better serve my stomach.”

He swore as Alisdair helped him onto the kitchen table, eyeing the beams above his head with distaste. He knew their shape well. Judith had shamed him into climbing a ladder and ridding them of their festoons of webs. Now, she simply stood beside the table, holding Malcolm’s bonnet and the bloody strip of dress she’d used to bind his wound.

“‘Twas the English patrol, lad, come upon us near to Inverness.”

Alisdair shot a look at Judith. She didn’t look at him, merely kept her gaze riveted on Malcolm. There were words that needed saying, but not now, not when Malcolm so urgently needed medical attention.

"Ye’ll do fine with only one ear, you stubborn old fool," Alisdair said as he wiped away the crusted blood from the side of Malcolm’s head.

"Aye, The better ta ignore ye,” Malcolm grumbled.

It was a good thing his old friend wasn't a lady's man, Alisdair thought, as he stitched what he could. The remainder of Squire Cuthbertson’s brandy was used, not to bathe the wound, but to soothe the victim. Still, it was not a pleasant procedure, and Malcolm made sure his displeasure was well known. Alisdair had not realized how voluble his old friend could be, and in how many languages.

When he finished, Alisdair surveyed his handiwork. Like a war weary mongrel, Malcolm would win no prizes for beauty. The other wound took less time to suture, the saber having gone clean through Malcolm’s shoulder, missing any vital organs.

Only then was Malcolm established in Ian's bed - it crossed Alisdair’s mind that it had almost as many visitors recently as when Ian was alive and had a penchant for sneaking his lady loves in and out beneath their parent's noses.

“Are you going to tell me what happened, or will I have to drag it from you word by word?” The question was asked with a nonchalance Alisdair was far from feeling.

“I’m thinkin’ that’s a question ye need to ask of yer wife, MacLeod.” Malcolm’s statement was softened by the liberal amount of brandy he’d imbibed. The alcohol, the feeling of warmth and the softness of the bed upon which he lay induced in him a feeling of mellow comfort.

He did not see the stricken look Judith sent him, or the swift study his laird made of his wife.

****

The bench on which she sat was crafted from pine, the wood new, the splinters not yet smoothed by the plane. Still, it was one of the few pieces of furniture in the Great Hall, the others were charred or nearly ash from the fire which had seared the heart of Tynan.

She’d never spent time in this room, it did not urge the inhabitant to linger. The walls were thick, the ceiling high, shadows occupied the corners. Its dimensions were too large to feel cozy or secure. Upon the blackened walls were round iron handles, once used to hold the shields and claymores of the MacLeods. The weapons were contraband now, the room itself denuded of its ornamentation. Only the black smoke and the stench of burnt wood remained, traces of the inferno which had raced through Tynan at the Duke of Cumberland’s command.

It was the perfect place for this conversation.

Alisdair had not moved from his position near the mullioned windows. The glass had cracked from the heat of the fire, splintered apart and then glazed back together. It was an odd, fragmented picture he appeared, backlit by the sun filtered through a thousand shards of crystal. He had not looked anywhere but at her since he’d led her to this room, a scrutiny she was unprepared to face.

“You must curse your luck, Judith, for bringing you back to Tynan.” She had returned due to circumstance, not inclination, that was obvious.

“Malcolm needed you.”

Malcolm needed you. The words swirled in the air. An indictment of such delicacy that he was surprised at the pain he felt, as if speared by it.

“And you, Judith, do you not need anyone?” Anger was an easier emotion to swallow than despair, and he’d had a bellyful of that.

Alisdair didn't know if this confrontation was wise, or foolhardy. All he knew was that he had to understand. Why had she turned her back on Tynan, on him? Once that was answered, once she told him, he would be able to leave her alone. Banish her from his mind the way all the other ghosts of his life had been expunged.

A wiser man would let her go. A saner man would not question why she’d left him. A prouder man would not, even now, hope to convince her to stay.

Life, however, was not lived on the brink. It was a pool into which you plunged, headfirst, immersing yourself to the neck. He could no more have loved Judith in half measure than he could have turned his back on his clan and Tynan.

She did not answer him. He was unsurprised by her eternal silence, prepared for it. What she did not realize was that he had time and endless patience and a budding rage which fueled them both.

Her knees were pressed together like a child learning decorum, her feet planted on the floor next to each other, toes aligned perfectly. Back straight, the angle of her chin a testament to military precision. She was a perfect example of ladylike manners, but he didn't care if she had a board strapped to her back. Her hands were clenched before her, not folded calmly. Nor was she otherwise composed. He saw how tightly she held herself, as if she would shatter into tiny pieces if she did not. She'd learned to school her features, to exhibit an incredible stillness which masked her emotions to everyone but him.

Her eyes, however, never failed to give her away. There was pain which dwelt there, surface deep. Pain and resolution.

He would have gone to her then, had not her hard won dignity and composure been so apparent. He would have encased her in his arms and led her to a cozy corner, near a fire where she would feel safe and warm and protected.

But he did neither, only stood and watched and felt a premonition of doom steal over him, as strong and as eerie as the morning he'd stood beside Ian on Culloden field and waited for the battle to begin.

He saw the half smile she gave the room, and wanted to shake her. She was being so damnably English right now.

Her composure was fragile, tenuous had he known. She suspected he did, and she also suspected he goaded her to see an end to it.

"What do you want from me, Alisdair?" she asked, forcing the issue.

"The answer to a riddle, Judith."

She tilted her head, a questioning gesture, and he complied.

"Why did you leave me?" Not why did you choose to leave Tynan? Not why do you want your freedom? He had personalized the question, made it intimate, real, painful.

She closed her eyes against the sight of him standing there with his hands clenched at his sides, the pride etched on his face so strong a blind man could see, the softness of his eyes an odd counterpart to the resolve there. He towered in the room, even as large as it was. He overwhelmed her by his very presence, but in the end it wasn't his size, or his formidable strength, or even his beauty which compelled her to tell him the truth. It was the soft curve of his mouth, the compassion in his eyes. A compassion she did not deserve.

For a long moment, she stared at the ruined flagstones of the floor, her gaze fixed not upon them, but upon some distant vision imprinted upon her soul. She was summoning the courage from a thousand places, where it had splintered like the glass in the window.

There was always something restrained, he thought, almost hidden about Judith, as if she were careful to keep a part of herself shielded from him. There was a control about her that still appeared even in their most intimate moments, as if she were afraid of him gleaning her thoughts. He wanted to crush that control, break her silence in two, extract the real Judith from the hard shell she encased herself in, as if she were a nutmeat.