Claiming the Highlander (14 page)

“I always loved to ride,” Finian said. “There is such pleasure in it.”

Brenna snapped straight. Caelen lifted his cup.

Brenna rested her elbow on the table and leaned her chin on her hand. “Aye, I find great
pleasure
in it as well. I will like to do it again.”

Caelen choked on his wine.

“Are you well, husband?”

He set down the cup and sent her a look that instructed her to behave. This time, she let herself smile.

Finian ducked his head and returned his attention to his plate.

“Caelen, I have seen Rowen,” Father Murray said, filling the silence.

“Is she well?”

“Aye, she is worried about your father. We prayed and I promised to share her love. She wishes to be here. At least, she is not alone at this time. Lachlan has been with her.”

“What?” Caelen slammed his fist against the table.

“Our good Lord has drawn them together. Rowen is a dutiful daughter. She will do as expected.”

“It shall only hurt her in the end. Lachlan cannot offer her the life she deserves.”

“Rowen knows it too,” Father Murray said. “Do not pry them apart just yet, or you may cause more hurt than help.”

“Do you truly believe, Father, that two people in love belong together?”

Father Murray gave her a benevolent look. “If the couple does not cause more harm.”

“Of course, but a man and woman blessed by king and church surely belong together.”

“Aye, my lady.”

She nodded pleased at his reply.

“My lord!” A frantic cry cut through the hall. A servant raced into the dais. “My lord, please hurry. Her lairdess demands you come.”

Caelen jumped up. The heavy wooden chair tottered on the legs and then fell back. Brenna hurried after him.

She pushed into the laird’s chamber. The door almost slammed on Father Murray. Stillness crammed the room. The air felt heavy against her. Brenna froze. Her hand covered her mouth.

The laird laid in his bed. His eyes were open. Gone was the light of life. He was still. Life had departed. Caelen collapsed to his knees. He buried his face in his father’s chest.

The lairdess cried into her hands. Brenna went to her and wrapped her in her arms. She buried her face against Brenna’s shoulder. The dogs had barked. The omen of death had come true again.

A chill spread from her chest outward. When she had first arrived, a girl of seven, she had craned her neck back all the way as he towered over her. His wide legs planted and his arms crossed. His blond hair fluttered about in the wind so that she barely saw the ends shining in the light. Her eyes had narrowed. She had gulped. She had wanted to return home. Then he kneeled and smiled at her. He had smiled a great deal.

She would never see his smile again. She’d never hear his booming voice or his crackling laughter. Her eyes burned and the tears fell.

Caelen kissed his father’s hand and bowed his head. The lairdess lifted her own and scraped her hands across her eyes. “I must prepare him.”

“I can help,” Brenna offered, crossing her arms over her middle to hold herself up or to give herself some comfort.

“Nay, I shall do this alone.” She squeezed her hand. Her knuckles whitened as her fingers filled with blood.

Caelen rose and exited the chamber. Brenna trailed behind him. He knew she was there but from his stiff shoulders, he was pushing her away. In the shadow of the doorway, she watched him cross the courtyard. She stepped back inside.

Chapter Seven

Caelen crossed the bridge and then halted halfway. He gripped the rail. Wood slivers dug into his thick skin. He kicked the post again and again. He banged his big toe. The small ache stopped him. It was as if his body was finally able to express the pain raging within him. Spent, he bowed his head.

He stared at the moss covered stones littering the loch’s shore. His father was gone. Part of him felt relieved that his father no longer suffered. His stomach churned at that betraying thought. Was it wrong to feel that? Was it wrong for him to want his father here now?

He should have been here…before his father became ill. If he had come, he could have given his father peace. But Caelen had been selfish. He should have been a better son and heir.

He was never ready to face his clan and most importantly, his father. He couldn’t return without being the man the clan needed. He had disappointed his father with Dairmad. He still believed he made the correct choice in his actions. He never told the truth. How did one share the story without destroying a father’s life? He swore he was man enough to bear it. But he might have been wrong. He was unsure if he was that man now.

He had to be.

He ran his hand through his hair. He rubbed the nape of his neck. He’d follow his father’s wishes.

First thing was to keep this land and raise its power. His father wanted an heir and he would do his duty.

Caelen stood there, letting the cold within him spread. At least he could feel something. The truth was, he barely had the will to move. Memories raced through his mind, blurring together and never settling on one. They were too painful to remember. That didn’t stop him from thinking about the memories he never made or would.

He rubbed his hand against his chest. He didn’t know how long he lingered on the bridge. A thick mist swept across the sky, blocking the last light of the lowering sun and tangled within the trees along the mountainside. Rain. Rowen always said rain was God weeping for the dead. That always made him laugh because it rained a great deal in the Highlands, so many people must have died. Rowen said that was why the land lacked people.

Caelen believed her now. He couldn’t weep for his father. Tears clogged his throat and choked him.

He turned about and made his way to the tower. Silence blanketed the courtyard. He heard weeping but failed to find the source. He went inside. Brenna rose from the chair.

She stood at the other end of the hall. Her hands twisted in her plaid, unsure if she should come to him. She took a step forward and then she rushed to him.

“I have sent a messenger to Rowen.”

He nodded. She opened her mouth and then closed it. “Is there anything else?”

“Nay,” she answered, her voice hollow.

“Do not send any other messages.”

“To my father you mean. He will learn of this.”

“We don’t have to tell him.” He didn’t wait for her to answer and left her standing alone in the center of the hall.

* * * *

Brenna soaked in the tub. The water lessened her aches but it soon chilled and the dull throbbing returned. Steading herself, she gripped the tub’s rim and stood. She wrapped the linen about her and plopped down on the bed.

The day had passed without her seeing Caelen. He hadn’t joined the evening meal. Coinneach informed her that he had ridden out. Every opening of a door had her jumping to attention. She spent the day quivering. She barely ate her portion. Her stomach was empty, but she wasn’t hungry. She retired to her chamber and spent her time staring out the window for him. She had seen him ride in. The castle gates had grated to a close but he had not ventured up to see her. After a while, she had climbed into bed and fallen into a fretful asleep as the fire died.

She lifted her head at the door opening. Caelen shut it behind him. He approached the bed. When he stood at its side, she sat up. She noticed the jar in his hand.

“I’ve brought something for your aches.” He held it out to show her. “Take off the linen and turn on your stomach.”

She did as he said. The bed dipped and creaked from him climbing on. He spread the ointment across her back. He began to knead her muscles. She cringed, yet beneath the pain, she luxuriated in the release of it.

His hand moved over her back. His fingers danced along her spine. Her lashes drifted down. She moaned. Her skin heated. His care of her warmed her heart and she knew he loved her.

She opened her eyes and looked to her chest where his letters where buried. Those missives had seen her through times when she was alone. It filled her days and banished her loneliness. She had reread each one until the letters cracked and smeared from her finger oils. And the gifts—the looking glass, the threads, and she couldn’t forget the brooches. She fell in love with him through those letters, the way he spoke to her, keeping her in his thoughts so that he had to write to her. She was not just a wife but a beloved wife.

When the letters had stopped, she fell into a dark mood. She had lingered each day at the top of the stairs, waiting for a message. Soon, she had given up and spent her time weeping, thinking his love died.

Then a messenger arrived. Now, she would not doubt him again.

His hands kneaded her buttocks. The muscles loosened and she sighed.

“Feels good,” he asked, laughter lightening his tone. Her heart soared at the sound. The Caelen she had known was still in him only buried beneath his grief. “Brenna,” he started as his hands drifted down her legs. “You will not be riding again.”

She rolled on to her back. “Whatever do you mean?”

“I cannot risk your life again. One day, I shall teach you to ride, but not yet. I cannot risk losing you.”

She leaned up on her elbows. “Do you remember when I visited you on MacLean lands?”

“Aye, you jumped about when I arrived back.”

She sent him a glower. “I was thrilled to see you. Though you wore a glower.”

“Truth was, I was glad to see you too.” His words held a sheepish tone, and then he chuckled. “You had turned in to a beautiful woman.”

“You were glad you hadn’t been shackled to an ugly one.”

“I like beautiful women.”

“More than one?” she questioned, hoping she kept the accusation from her voice.

“At this time, no more than one.” He snagged her chin between his fingers.

He placed a peck on her lips. “I remembered I kissed you.” He claimed her mouth again, lingering for a moment. “I also remembered you vowed to be the best wife in all of Christendom. That means that you will listen to me and not ride anymore.”

The need to deny him filled her. At this time, he required her promise. “I shall not ride.”

His eyes narrowed so the unmarred blue of his eyes cut through his lashes as if he decided whether or not she spoke the truth. “Very good.”

“I am the best wife.”

“The best I’ve had.”

She gave a playful slap on his arm. He glowered at her. She might have worried if not for the twitch of lips.

“The best wife would never assault her husband.” His face fell as if he felt guilty for being playful with her when his father’s body rested so near.

She could do nothing. She wrapped her arms around him. She squeezed when he snaked an arm around her. His finger dug in to her skin, not hurting her, but holding on to her. He buried his face in her neck.

“I need you more than ever.” The bass of his words reverberated against her skin. She shivered.

“I am here whenever or wherever you have need of me.”

Without releasing her, he lowered them to the bed and tucked her tightly against him. She threw her leg over his. She rested her hand on his stomach and her head over his chest.

What would tomorrow bring?

* * * *

Light flooded the castle and burned Caelen’s eyes from its glare. The candles had been lit as custom demanded to keep the demons away. His father rested on the
bier
in the center of the Great Hall. Caelen dragged his feet. He had seen death before, but this was his father.

This shell of a man, though, was not his father. Coins were placed on his eyes. His flesh resembled parchment stretched over bone. His boney hands wrapped around the grip of his claymore.

The wood scent of the rush torches filled his nostrils, or as he thought of it, the smell of death. They would burn for seven days, never allowing his mind to turn to other thoughts. He flinched at the touch on his arm. His mother never took her sorrowful regard from her husband. Her eyes were swollen and red-rimmed. Tears pooled along the edge and in the corners. She wore the same clothes as yesterday. This morn, they were wrinkled. She wrapped a shawl around her shoulders.

“I am pleased you are home. Your father and I know there is more to Dairmad’s death than you have shared. He wished you had told him. One day, you will tell me.” She caressed his father’s hand. “I stayed the night with him. Do you think he knows that?” The skin around her eyes and mouth were pinched.

His shoulders slumped under the weight of her words. “Aye, Mother. You should eat and then sleep.”

“Oh, I cannot do that. I have to make sure everything is seen to. I have duties requiring my attention and a husband to care for.”

“What would father say if he saw you now?”

She gave a watery grin. “He would demand me to rest and send me to the chamber. He would have worn that smug look, as if he’d bested me.”

“That pleased him more than anything. As laird,” his voice thickened. “I demand you rest. If you are needed, I will call for you. Brenna can see to the duties.”

She looked ready to fight him but then she nodded. “I shall be in Rowen’s chamber. I cannot be…”

“I understand. Don’t fret, Mother. I shall do all that is required.”

She gave a half-nod before she turned away.

Brenna came in, along with a servant. She gave orders how to set up for the
caoine.
Was he ready to hear people lament, their wailings buzzing in his ears? He always hated that part. Caelen had much praise to proclaim during it. Three days…then it would be over, and then in another four days, his father would be interred.

He would be gone.

“How will your father react to his death?”

Brenna blinked rapidly. “That I cannot tell you.”

“I must warn you. If I must, I will war against him.” He faced her.

His vow dazed her. Her mouth fell open. Her arms hung at her side. “Do not—I cannot—Do not ask me to choose sides. He is my father.”

“I am not asking you to. Just don’t betray me.”