Angel of Skye (12 page)

But something even stronger drew her on, and ahead the moonlight spilled glowing, white, and liquid into the ordered greenery of the open gardens.

“Tell me, is this place very old? No one at Dunvegan seems to want to tell me anything of the Priory’s history. How did it come to be founded here? What happened to Newabbey?” Alec knew he had to draw her out. He wanted her to feel comfortable, to be as at ease with him here as she had been in her workroom. “For that matter, what happened to the old abbey?”

And then, gently, Fiona slipped her hand from his grasp and started to talk. They walked past the darkened buildings, past the rear of the church, and as they did, she spoke of it as the place she called home. She told him of the Priory’s sometimes colorful history, of the nearby abbey that had been raided, burned, and abandoned in the times of the Norse invaders hundreds of years before. She spoke of the succession of women who had guided the construction of the various buildings. Women who had seen the need for changes and had made them. She told Alec of the work of the present prioress, of the improvements that were even now happening.

Alec listened, amazed by the depth of her concerns, and the vast degree of her knowledge. He knew from his discussions with the prioress and with David that Fiona was neglecting to take credit for her own efforts. He looked at her in the glow of the rising summer moon. She was so young, so beautiful, so resourceful, so inventive. And tonight he had discovered something else about Fiona. She was so candid about her emotions and beliefs. She expressed them with no fear or reservation and displayed them with a great degree of animation. Nothing was hidden within her, and no opinion was held back.

They had been skirting the gardens. Fiona hesitated at the edge of the shadowy grounds which lay ahead. She fell silent, but watched as Alec started to move along the crushed shells of the pathways. She followed.

As they walked, Fiona became aware of a gentle humming emanating from the golden-haired warrior. She smiled at the ease in which he fell into the tune; she took comfort in the sound of his voice. The rich night scents were rising from the garden beds and mixing with the odor of crushed thyme produced with each step they took across the greensward between the paths.

Their senses came alive as each found a kind of restless joy in the place and in the magic that was stirring within them. Hardly wanting to end the night, Alec looked about him for a way of prolonging it. Spotting a stone bench, he guided Fiona toward it, stopping at the last moment and cutting off her path.

“I could use a short rest,” he said, seating himself and not leaving Fiona much choice in the matter. “How about you?”

“So Malcolm did wear you out,” Fiona said with a laugh as she watched him stretch his long legs out before him. She sat at the end of the bench, a discreet distance between them.

“Aye, he is quite a lad.”

“May I ask you something, Lord Macpherson?”

“Anything.” Alec turned, looking at her profile. She had gathered her hair and tied it at the nape of her slender neck. She was looking straight ahead, avoiding any eye contact. He took in the beautiful features: the fiery hair, the straight back, the modest dark dress, the rise and fall of her bosom with each gentle breath.

“Why...I was wondering...” she stammered. She could feel the heat of his gaze on her. “Why your attentions to Malcolm? I mean...”

“The visits here, the trip to Dunvegan, the riding, the hawking?” Alec asked.

“Aye.” She nodded. “He even calls you by your given name.”

“You might, as well.”

“That is not what I am getting at,” she insisted, the flush rising to her face once again.

“I know,” he answered. “Well, I like Malcolm.”

“Malcolm is a wonderful lad,” she pressed. “But surely that is not the only reason. After all, his father was your enemy.”

She turned and looked directly at him, awaiting his response.

“My understanding is that his father was not all that popular here, either,” Alec responded quietly, meeting her gaze and indicating the Priory with a sweep of his hand. “If you don’t hold it against the lad, why do you think I would?”

“Because blood feuds seem to drive the actions of many in your class.”

The warlord paused for a moment before answering, arrested once again by her frankness and her honesty. And her beauty.

Gazing into her face, at her finely sculpted features so delicately lit in the glow of the moon, Alec fought hard at the sudden urge to throw caution to the wind, to pull her fiery locks free of their bonds, and to lace his fingers into the silky tresses as he drew her to him. Caught up in the moment’s fantasy, the young warrior was left torn between his desire to communicate with this young woman of wit and intelligence...and his growing need to feel her slender body against his, to mold her soft, full lips to his own.

“M’lord?”

“Aye...blood feuds. But do you mean the baker in the village does not occasionally argue with the blacksmith?”

“Of course they do,” she conceded with a smile. “Though I have only once or twice seen the baker raise an army to settle the dispute.”

“You see? I am already behind in this area.”

“I have a hard time believing that, m’lord,” she teased, raising an eyebrow at the long sword tied at his belt.

“It is true,” Alec protested. “Although I have personally slaughtered thousands upon thousands—this week—I am certain that I have only gathered an army once.”

“Well, m’lord, you had better hurry. Think of how your reputation will suffer among the other clan chiefs when they find out our baker is ahead of you in raising armies.”

My reputation will suffer tenfold, Alec thought, if anyone, including Ambrose, ever discovers that I sat next to a beauty such as this and let her escape without so much as yielding a kiss.

“You have nothing to say about it?”

“About what, Fiona?”

“Your poor reputation.”

“Until a moment ago, I had no idea that my reputation was even in jeopardy. Now it sounds as if my honor has been called into question. Has it?”

“It certainly has in my mind.”

“Fiona, I am truly shocked to think you would feel this way about me,” he complained smilingly. “What have I done to deserve such low opinion?”

Shifting his position on the bench, Alec moved toward her slightly, taking hold of Fiona’s hand.

She looked at him with mischief and let him hold her hand in his. “You can be assured that I have no opinion of you whatsoever, high or low. It is merely your reputation that I am concerned about—a reputation, m’lord, which has preceded you.”

“Wait!” he cried, feigning a deep wound to the chest. “Now you have no opinion whatsoever?”

“None, m’lord,” she responded innocently. “But seriously, going back to where we started, you have not answered my question.

“Your question?” He ran his thumb over the silky skin on the back of her hand.

“Regarding your interest in Malcolm, m’lord.” Fiona shivered at his caress, but still did not withdraw her hand.

“I like Malcolm,” Alec replied earnestly. “But you are correct. That is not the only reason.”

She gently withdrew her hand from his grip.

Alec looked at the young woman whose direct gaze spoke volumes about her affection and concern for her young charge.

“I do not want Dunvegan forever.”

“But you are the laird,” she exclaimed, stunned by his comment. “The Stuarts gave these lands to you.”

“Only because they needed to secure Skye and the Outer Islands. But they belong to the MacLeods and to the other clans that have lived here from the beginning.”

“So, how does Malcolm play into this?”

“Malcolm is the rightful heir. He is the future laird.”

“Malcolm is a child,” Fiona said. “You do not know what happened before.”

“Then why not tell me,” Alec suggested.

Fiona started uncomfortably at first. But then, as more of the events of the past flashed in her mind, the more she realized how important it was for this laird to know about Malcolm and his experience with Dunvegan Castle.

Fiona talked, and as Alec listened, his own revulsion at those first glimpses of Torquil’s dungeon sprang to mind. Upon their arrival, they’d found a tangle of skeletons in the manhole that had been carved deep in the rock beneath the castle’s dungeon. To think that a mere child had been exposed to that made him even more determined to help Malcolm in every way possible.

“So what if Malcolm is not the kind of leader that is needed?” Fiona concluded. “He has seen brutality, but he has been raised by people who preach gentleness and peace. He’s been raised in a convent. He is smart, do not mistake my words, but he is not a fighter.”

“Leaders are what Scotland needs for the future, not fighters. And leaders must have much more than a strong arm and a quick sword.” Alec looked at the woman before him. “But don’t shortchange Malcolm. He has spirit, even if Torquil couldn’t see it.”

“Aye, I know he has spirit, but—”

“As his teacher does,” he interrupted, placing his hand momentarily over hers.

Flustered, Fiona lost her train of thought. Even after he removed his great hand, she could feel the imprint scorching her skin. The man had a way of distracting her. Of sweeping her up on some unseen current. Like a rolling ocean wave. Like the wind.

“I just don’t want to see him hurt. Disappointed,” she continued after a pause. “He obviously likes you and wants to spend time with you. I think that is wonderful. He has never had someone like you to look up to. But do not give him promises that cannot be.”

“Cannot be?”

“Aye. I know how easily promises are made and how easily they are broken. I do not want Malcolm become a fool, dining on hope.”

The warlord’s tone changed abruptly. “You are talking of my word, Fiona. A promise is a promise, and my promise will not be broken or tampered with.”

Fiona heard the irritation in the warrior’s voice. She had not meant to be offensive. She had not meant to be disrespectful. But she was the only voice that Malcolm had right now. Rather than have Malcolm hurt later, she was more than willing to take the heat from Lord Macpherson now. “But what of your own heir? Are you not making decisions now that might be changed later? Will your future heir be so generous? Are you not giving away things today that you might regret not having tomorrow?”

Alec felt the tension charge his body. Memories of broken promises still ruled his life. He looked up at the sky above. The stars scowled down upon them.

When he finally spoke, Fiona saw a face that had hardened, and there was no hint of softness in his voice. “These lands will be Malcolm’s. That is my final word.”

Fiona watched as the laird stood, ready to take his leave. She had wrought a change in him with just a few careless words. She had questioned his honor. And perhaps unjustly so. As they walked back beneath a cold moon toward the nun’s quarters, she felt a gnawing regret over what she had said...and about the short-lived friendship that seemed to have wilted as quickly as it blossomed.

It is true; there is much I have to learn about people. So much I do not know, she thought. A knot was forming in Fiona’s throat, and she dared not look up from the path. So much I will never know about Alec Macpherson.

He that is without pain or strife

And lives a lusty, pleasing life,

But then with marriage he does mell

And binds himself to a wicked wife...

—William Dunbar

“
He Brings the Sorrow to Himself
”

She wanted Alec Macpherson.

Everyone at court knew Kathryn Gray had set her cap for the heir to the Macpherson lands.

He was everything she wanted. He was of noble blood. He was handsome. He was charming. He was rich. He had been the favorite hunting companion of King James, and he was now celebrated for his role in saving the life of the new infant king. He had all the finest qualities of the courtly gentleman.

And, after all, how could he refuse?

She was of the noblest blood in Scotland. She was beautiful. She had grown up in the courts at Paris and Avignon. She was also rich...but not rich enough. She had power...but not enough. Never enough. Not as much as Alec Macpherson could give her.

And she was the mistress of seduction.

The court buzzed with activity when the news of their intended betrothal was made known. They were seen everywhere together, and all the ladies at court pined at the loss of such a dashing and eligible bachelor. But all the gentlemen at court smiled into their cups and exchanged knowing looks. The lady would soon tire of this one. After all, she had tired of all the others.

And she soon did.

But there was too much to gain through marriage to this man for her to let him go. She was the model of propriety in his company. But she was infidelity personified when his back was turned. Whenever his back was turned.

But Alec Macpherson was not long fooled.

“She is a faithless whore,” Alec muttered, pounding his fist on the table. “And if she is anywhere near Benmore when you go home, Ambrose, throw her and her whole filthy lot out in the moat.”

A messenger had just come to Dunvegan with word of Kathryn Gray’s visit to Benmore Castle. She had stayed a few days before continuing her journey through Highlands. From all that could be gathered, she was heading for Kildalton Castle and the Western Isles.

“Well, it is clear she has not yet given up on you, big brother,” Ambrose offered tactfully. He knew this to be a dangerous subject for discussion. “Do you think she will come to Skye?”

“If she does, I will drown her with my own hands.” He’d thought he loved her. He had tried to be what she wanted. But now the only feeling left was disgust.

It was truly over between them. Her own conduct had nailed that coffin shut. But even before Alec had found out the truth about her, she had made clear to him that the sparkling courts of Europe were the places she wanted to be. She had called the life at Skye barbaric, devoid of culture. She had said she never had any intention of living in a place so far beneath her. Journey through the Highlands? Whom was she trying to fool?