Bride for a Knight (35 page)

He glanced up, his flush an even brighter red. “I would’ve mentioned it as soon as we learned of the bogle goings-on, but”—he touched his bandaged head—“I haven’t been conscious all the while since . . . since the Garbh Uisge. Once the pains in my head started lessening, I remembered the passage.”

Munro arched a brow, looking anything but an auld done man. “And why did you not tell me before the Garbh Uisge?”

Kendrick squirmed on the trestle bench. “I kept it secret for my own purposes.”

Neill laughed and clapped him on the back. “Soft, warm, and accommodating purposes,” he said, wriggling his brows as he glanced round the table. “The sort Kendrick didn’t want attracting Morag’s attention when they passed through the hall on their way to his bedchamber!”

“That’s enough, you.” Kendrick tossed his older brother a warning look, but Neill only laughed all the more and slapped the table.

“Och, aye, Kendrick used the secret passage to entertain the ladies,” he went on, his eyes dancing with mirth. “Accommodating ladies. Including one fair damsel twice his age!”

Kendrick flushed scarlet. “She was five summers older than me,” he blurted, his eyes shooting daggers at Neill. “Not a day more.”

“Ah, well, whate’er you say.” Neill let it go.

Kendrick pressed his lips together. “My business is my own,” he finally said, looking relieved when Morag appeared with a platter of fresh honey cakes.

Grabbing the largest one, he plunked it onto Neill’s trencher. “Eat and quit telling tales no one wishes to hear.”

“But it’s a tale that explains how Sorcha managed her way in and out of here,” Neill couldn’t resist adding as he reached for a honey cake. “She must’ve seen you sneak in one of your lady loves. Some might say
you
showed her the way.”

“And I’ll show you the edge of my blade once we’re fully mended,” Kendrick shot back at him. “Mayhap my fist in your nose as well.”

“Pigs will fly that day,” Neill returned, and bit into a honey cake.

“I’m wondering how we could have e’er missed such bickering,” Morag declared suddenly, though the twinkle in her eyes and the wobble in her voice took quite a bit of the sting out of her words.

“And I’m wondering about
your
lady love,” Munro announced, cocking a brow at Neill. “An Ulster lass if we caught the rights of it?”

This time Neill looked discomfited. “I meant to tell you,” he said. “The day the footbridge . . . ach, you know what happened. She is Oonagh, daughter of O’Cahan of Derry. I met her at Lough Foyle and—”

“You’ll be bringing her here, to wed.” Munro pushed to his feet, looking around as if to dare anyone present to contradict him. “Like as not as soon as you’re fit enough to cross the Irish Sea?” he added, eyeing the great hazel walking stick propped so noticeably against the trestle bench.

Neill nodded. “That is what I’ve planned, aye. Kendrick agreed to go with me. Though”—he shot a glance at his brother— “I’m no longer sure I desire his company.”

Munro hooted. “You’ll both go and be glad of the journeying. And your mission,” he declared, starting to grin. “’Tis time our house is put to rights.’

“Put to rights?” Neill stared at him.

Everyone did.

Something in his tone and the glint in his eye caused breaths to catch and hearts to still.

Aware of the stares, Munro glared around the high table. “Dinna gawp at me like a bunch o’ dimwitted muckle sumphs! I’ve walked an ill path these years and now”—he paused to look at Jamie—“now, by God, I mean to set things aright.”

Jamie swallowed.

Ne’er had he expected an apology from his da. He’d only hoped for acceptance. And mayhap someday, his love. Sliding an arm around Aveline, he drew her close. “He’s overwrought by the day’s doings,” he said, speaking low. “He—” He broke off, his eyes widening when Munro stepped away from the table and turned to the Horn of Days, the clan’s sacred relic, e’er watching o’er the hall from beneath a swath of ancient Macpherson plaid.

An heirloom Munro now lifted off the dais wall.

He held it high, letting all see and admire the elegant curve of the ivory drinking horn, the gleaming jewels embedded in its finely carved sides.

It was truly lovely.

A wonder to behold.

And proof that Jamie had misunderstood. His da hadn’t meant to make peace with him at all. Something inside Jamie broke and tightened. A hot, stabbing flash of pain, but one he knew and was well used to squelching. Doing that now, he took Aveline’s hand in his, lacing their fingers.

Needing her warmth.

“He is about to laird Neill,” he told her, his voice discreetly low. Pleased, too, for Neill deserved the honor.

But no Clan Macpherson lairding vows rang out at the high table.

Indeed, a thick silence fell as all eyes turned on Jamie. Wide, awe-filled eyes boring into him until he, too, noticed that Munro had stopped behind him and not Neill.

Realization sweeping him, Jamie leapt to his feet. “You canna laird me,” he objected, shaking his head. “Neill is—”

“Neill is my firstborn, aye,” Munro agreed, his voice catching on the words. “And ’tis Neill who’ll be the next Macpherson chieftain—someday. This day I mean to start a new tradition. You—”

“‘A new tradition’?” Jamie stared at his father, glancing, too, at the curving ivory horn still clutched in Munro’s hand.

“Call it what you will,” Munro ceded. “The Horn of Days is our clan’s most prized possession and I want you to have it. I can think of naught else worthy enough to express my joy in having you back with us. With me”—he cut a glance at Neill and Kendrick—“your brothers and everyone else at Baldreagan.”

“But, I—” Jamie couldn’t speak further. Not when his father thrust the fabled horn into his hands and then hugged him, clutching him tight.

“You keep the horn,” Munro said, stepping back at last. “Neill and his Irish bride can start their own traditions at Baldreagan. I just hope I can prove to you how much you were missed, laddie.”

And how much I love you,
Jamie thought he heard him say.

An ear-splitting tumult had erupted all around them and amidst the confusion, Munro was suddenly gone. Swept away by shoulder-thwacking, grinning kinsmen, their boisterous calls, salutes, and foot-stomping drowning out all but the thundering of Jamie’s heart, the Horn of Days, its smooth ivory and gemstones already warming in his hands.

And above all, the glow on his bride’s face as she beamed up at him. “I always knew he’d missed you,” she said, her voice hitching. “He loves you, too. In time, you will believe it.”

Jamie leaned down and kissed her, pleased by her words.

But something troubled him and needed airing.

Namely, his lady’s heart.

Setting her from him, he put back his shoulders. Then he cleared his throat. “Lass, I must ask you—do you mind being bride to a third son? You have heard that Neill will be the next laird. And Kendrick will surely wish to have his bedchamber returned. My own old one is not near so fine.”

He looked at her, arching a brow. “I will understand if you’d rather—”

Aveline pressed her fingers against his lips. “Do you mind if we move to your old bedchamber?” she returned, knowing his answer already, but wanting to show him how foolish his worries were.

She lifted her chin. “Would you still rather be in line for the lairdship? And not have two of your brothers safely returned to you?”

Jamie shook his head. “Saints, no,” he vowed, meaning it. “I’d walk naked to the edge of the world and back if I could be the tenth son again. The saints know, I’d even beggar myself if doing so might bring back my other brothers as well.”

Aveline smiled.

She touched her fingers to his plaid, her violet scent drifting up to enchant him.

“I knew you’d say that,” she said, unable to keep a note of triumph out of her voice. “Then you’ll understand when I say that I would walk past a line of all the future lairdlings in the realm and not even glance at them if I knew you were waiting at the end of that line.”

Jamie looked at her, certain his heart was bursting.

Then, heedless of staring, long-nosed kinsmen and a certain teary-eyed old nurse, he pulled his bride against him and kissed her. Long, hard, and deep.

But not near as deep as the feelings welling inside him. Good feelings. The likes of which he’d ne’er dreamt to experience.

“Past so many someday chieftains?” He kissed the tip of her nose, her cheek. “You love me that much?”

“I love you more than that,” she answered, sliding her arms around him. “More than you will ever know.”

Epilogue

B
ALDREAGAN
C
ASTLE
,
THE
G
REAT
H
ALL IN THE
S
PRING

D
id I no’ tell you she’d be here?” Jamie slid a glance down the high table at a tiny, black-garbed woman. A grizzle-headed, ancient-looking woman whose bright blue eyes sparkled with mirth.

“Aye, you did,” Aveline agreed, her heart warming to have the far-famed Devorgilla of Doon present at their wedding feast revelries.

Taking Jamie’s hand, she squeezed it. “I’ll vow even you are surprised she brought along her special friend,” she added, her gaze lighting on the little red fox sitting quite contentedly on the cailleach’s lap.

Looking proud.

And happily accepting the accolades and edible treats many of the guests pressed upon him.

Jamie gave a good-natured shrug. “From all we’ve heard, Somerled earned his place at this high table and many others as well,” he said, smiling as Beardie dropped to one knee beside the crone and, after doffing his Viking helm, began feeding the little fox a handful of sugared sweetmeats.

“As for surprises”—he broke off to sling an arm around his wife, drawing her close—“I dinna think aught under the sun will e’er again surprise me.”

“Say you? I would not be too sure.” Aveline lifted a teasing brow, her mind on a certain lumpy leather pouch hidden beneath the high table.

More specifically, beneath Munro’s laird’s chair.

But for the moment, she let Jamie hold her and simply savored the day.

And it
was
a day like no other.

Full to bursting, the torch-lit, gaily-festooned hall shook with horn-blowing and trumpet blasts, the whole of Baldreagan teeming with well-wishers. Good Highland folk from near and far, all beaming smiles, lusty humor, and good cheer.

One supposedly lusty guest drew Aveline’s especial attention, Gunna of the Glen having arrived quite modestly dressed and proving to be of a pleasing, unassuming demeanor far different than Aveline would have expected.

Surprised by the woman’s warmth and friendliness, Aveline watched her now, looking on as she danced and flirted with Kendrick in the middle of the hall. Neill and his soon-to-be Irish bride, Oonagh, appeared to be enjoying themselves as well, the clearly besotted pair not leaving out a single fast and furious whirl across the broad space cleared for dancing.

The MacKenzie girls danced as well, each one full of laughter and delight—even if partnered only by their father.

“I swear he ne’er ages,” Jamie said, watching the Black Stag deftly maneuver his girls away from a hopeful new partner—a young MacKenzie guardsman who thought perhaps the day’s merrymaking might relax Duncan MacKenzie’s hawk-eyed watch o’er his lovely daughters.

The Black Stag’s wife, sitting next to Jamie, leaned close. “And I vow I have ne’er been so pleased as I was when I heard you’d survived the Garbh Uisge,” she said, touching a hand to his arm. “I ne’er thought to see this day.”

“Nor did I,” a gruff voice said from behind them and Jamie twisted around to see his father standing there, a bulky looking leather pouch clutched in his hands. “But today seems as good a day as any to put this behind me.”

Jamie cocked a brow, something in his father’s expression warning him something of great significance was about to transpire.

“Put what behind you?” he asked, his throat already thickening with emotion.

A grumbled
humph
answered him.

But then Munro looked down and fumbled with the pouch’s drawstring, opening it wide before he unceremoniously plunked the thing into Jamie’s lap.

“Have a look in there,” his father said, stepping back and folding his arms. “But once you do, you’ll keep the contents between ourselves, I’m a-warning you.”

But Jamie’s fingers froze on the well-worn leather and much to his horror, heat began pricking the backs of his eyes. This was the surprise Aveline had hinted at earlier.

His father’s proof that he loved him
.

Jamie knew it so sure as he knew the sun would rise on the morrow.

“Well, go on,” Munro grumbled, nudging the pouch. “Or would you have me standing here like a fool gawping until all the long-noses in the hall notice?”

Jamie drew a deep breath.

Then he looked into the pouch.

It was crammed full with yellowed scrolls, the wax seals broken, each binding string untied. Jamie’s heart clenched, then began thundering out of control when Aveline gave a little sob beside him.

“You must read them,” she said, reaching into the pouch and retrieving one, thrusting the brittle parchment into his hands. “As soon as you do, you’ll understand.”

But, saints preserve him, he already did.

Leastways, he had a good guess. And the knowledge was making his throat so tight he could scarce breathe.

“God in heaven,” he managed, unrolling the first missive and scanning the squiggly, faded lines.

Lines that told all about Jamie’s safe arrival at Eilean Creag Castle in Kintail, his acceptance as junior squire to Duncan MacKenzie.

A second scroll detailed the time he’d fallen from a horse, breaking his arm, while a third extolled his skill at the quintain.

“God in heaven,” Jamie said again, tightening his fingers around the scrolls.

He threw a glance at his da, not surprised to see tears streaming down the old man’s face.

His own cheeks were damp, too.

As were everyone else’s at the high table.

“Do you believe me now, son?” Munro placed a hand on Jamie’s shoulder, gripping hard. “Can you e’er forget and forgive the past?”