Sue-Ellen Welfonder - [MacLean 03] (26 page)

Such were the hearthside tales that fired every Highlander’s romantic heart and spoke deepest to their loyal-bound souls.

His own, too.

All the more reason to avoid hearing them!

Still, he probed his memory for a tale to recommend—any tale.

But then a sparkling torchlight caught and gleamed on Hugh’s bright-shining auburn hair and inspiration seized him.

“Will of the Bright Sword!” Magnus blurted, regretting his choice before the echo of his words could fade from his ears.

He opened his mouth to unsay them, but shut it again as quickly. Calling undue attention to the tale would only have his lady more determined to hear it.

Will of the Bright Sword, indeed.

Only Reginald’s tired yarn would have proved a worse choice.

But wave after wave of reaction swept the hall as though a dam had burst, each man present clamoring for the well-loved tale.

The choice made, Hugh began to stroll through the rows of long tables, strumming his lute as he went, waiting for the din to lessen.

And when it did, he began his tale.

“Many are the legends spawned from our beloved hills,” he said, pausing beneath a well-burning wall torch so its flickering light could add to the drama. “Some of our stories are great Celtic fables known and loved by all, and some . . . the rare and little-told tales . . . have the power to leave memories like no other.”

He started walking again, sipping from proffered ale cups, and letting the mood ripen. For the moment, the stage was conceded to the gusting wind and the soft crackle of the hearth fire.

Such sounds, too, were inherent to the Highland night. They possessed the power to stir and rouse Celtic blood.

“He is good.” Amicia tilted toward Magnus, squeezed his hand.

If fate is kind, he will have forgotten the words,
Magnus muttered beneath his breath.

“Aye,” Hugh was saying, “some stories reach deeper and one such tale comes to us from remote times and mayhap the loneliest of our shores—the tragic tale of Will of the Bright Sword and his beloved Mariota, a fair maiden of high rank but doubting heart.”

Against his better judgment, Magnus slid a glance at his wife. Like his kinsmen, she stared at Hugh, a wistful smile curving her lips. The dewy-eyed expression proving that beneath her fiery MacLean spirit, there beat a soft and tender heart. One that wouldn’t fail to be moved by the sad ending to Will and Mariota’s story.

Theirs was just the kind of tale that would make a lass’s eyes mist with unshed tears and have her snuggling closer to her own true love, seeking the comfort of his arms and more.

Such was the power of Will and his fool bright sword.

As if to prove it, she turned a damp-eyed gaze on him and . . . sniffed. “I am thinking your brother has the true gift of the
fili,
studied bard or nay.”

“M’mmmm.” Magnus gave a noncommittal grunt, not failing to notice that
her
voice held a smoky warmth every bit as soothing as Hugh’s.

His blood beginning to burn hot and fast again, he turned his attention back to his brother, leaning dutifully forward and pretending enthrallment when, in truth, he’d fixed his gaze on a conveniently-placed window splay just across the hall.

“. . . and so it was on
Eilean Ma-Ruibhe,
a wee isle in the middle of Loch Maree,” Hugh was saying, “that a tragic ending came to two young lovers, as a pair of very ancient gravestones standing side by side in the island’s small burying ground will attest.”

He paused to take a long sip of frothy heather ale. “Aye, my friends, Loch Maree is blessed with a haunting beauty scarce to be matched in all the land, but the mortal dust lying in unsleeping watch beneath those two gravestones marks the sadness of a great love that ne’er reached full bloom.”

As if he sensed his inattention, Hugh slid Magnus a pointed glance. “Will of the Bright Sword was a warrior of great acclaim, his sword arm and war skills prized by many,” he went on, continuing the tale. “E’er desirous to help those in need, he found himself off on various war expeditions more often than he was able to visit the fair Lady Mariota on her lonely isle of
Eilean Ma-Ruibhe,
called the Isle Maree by some.”

His gaze once more fastened on the window splay, Magnus snatched up his own ale cup and hid his frown beneath its rim—a wee cautionary measure should Hugh happen to look his way again.

He would not be caught tight-lipped and flush-faced when Hugh recited the most damning part of the foolhardy tale.

“Plagued by Will’s ever-increasing absences, Lady Mariota endeavored to test his affections—test them most severely, and to lamentable end,” Hugh explained to his hushed audience.

“The moment Will’s war ship was spotted sailing up the loch, his lady love had herself rowed out to meet the approaching galley—to meet it with her appearing to lie dead within her own small vessel. She had her maids aboard and had instructed them to pretend to mourn over their ‘dead’ mistress’s prone and lifeless body.”

Another sniffle sounded beside him and Magnus risked a glance at his wife, caught her dabbing at her eyes with a linen napkin.

His watery-eyed da did the same. And from the assorted shifting and soppy-sounding noises rising from the long tables, a fair number of his clansmen had succumbed to a similar affliction.

Immune himself, and with his own eyes unblinking, Magnus kept his ale cup in place and fixed a narrow-eyed stare on his brother’s back as he strolled through the middle of the hall, strumming plaintive chords on his lute—letting his listeners wallow a bit in the sadness of the tale.

Not about to be lulled by such a ploy, Magnus set down the silly ale cup with a purposely loud
clack
and leaned back in his chair . . . determined to remain demonstratively unaffected.

“. . . Poor Will of the Bright Sword, pleased beyond measure to see his Mariota coming to greet him, finally noted her condition, saw her lying still and pale within the nearing boat.” Hugh glanced over his shoulder again, sent Magnus another telling stare. “Overcome with grief, Will called to his lady’s handmaidens begging them to deny that his love had perished, but under their mistress’s strictest orders, they confirmed her supposed death.

“Upon hearing the despair in Will’s voice, Mariota’s heart swelled, for she now knew without doubt that her beloved loved her true. But just when she meant to scramble to her feet and call to him, her little boat drew alongside Will’s galley, and upon looking down and seeing her lifeless form, Will’s grief overcame him and he whipped out his dirk, plunging its blade deep into his heart.

“Mariota’s eyes snapped open in that very moment, and agonized by her own piercing anguish, she leapt over the low-slung side of Will’s galley and, before any could stop her, pulled the dirk from his dying body and thrust it into her own.”

Hugh paused as everyone in the hall held their breath and leaned forward in anticipation of the story’s end.

“Aye, my friends, such was the tragedy of Will’s and Mariota’s love,” he began again, his voice rising with every word of the tale’s climax. “The two gravestones marking their end bear no names, each one only having a faint cross incised upon its age-pitted stone. But those who hear and see with their hearts know Will and his lady lie buried beneath those stones, for time has caused the stones to lean upon each other, allowing them to be united in death as they ne’er were in life.

“And to this very hour,
Eilean Ma-Ruibhe’s
silence shelters them as, together, they walk its distant shores . . . gazing out across the still waters of Loch Maree. And they await the day their sadness can be assuaged by knowing a thousand and one pairs of young lovers have heard the telling of their sorrowful tale and, through it, dared to cast aside their own hearts’ doubts and live joyously, filling each new day with happiness, loving and being loved. . . .”

For long moments, no one spoke. Hugh’s tale, his deep, rich voice, and the mournful chords of his lute’s melancholy tune seemed to linger in the smoke-hazed air.

But then the first thick-voiced cry of appreciation rose from the crowd, and Hugh made his way back to the high table amidst the plaudits of all.

And only later, when the mood in the hall swung from sentimental to ribald again, and the first raucous shouts for the bedding ceremony began to shake the walls, only then did Magnus realize that he’d been affected indeed.

So much so, that, unbeknownst to him, at some point in the telling of the silly tale, he’d slipped his arm around his wife, pulled her close, and—saints preserve him!—had been gentling kisses across her brow!

Much to the amusement of those sitting about who weren’t yet too drink-taken to cast a clear-eyed glance in the direction of the high table.

Truth to tell, those hardy souls now surged forward, eager to hasten the laird-to-be and his lady abovestairs for the most rousing part of the evening’s entertainment.

And none amongst the revelers, who were half-dragging, half-carrying Magnus and Amicia up the winding turnpike stairs, looked forward to the bawdy ritual more than a certain hungry-eyed individual caught up in the very heart of the gleeful carousers.

It’d been a long time since a MacKinnon had suffered such passion for his lady—even if this one tried to hide it.

Not that it mattered.

A certain someone could tell.

And meant to use that passion to unleash the wrath of vengeance long overdue.

The bare-fleshed and lascivious delights of the bedding ceremony were all that would be needed to undo the last vestiges of Magnus MacKinnon’s waning restraint . . . and smooth the way to his crushing devastation.

’Twas only a pity the lass would have to be sacrificed to achieve it.

A certain someone had grown rather fond of her.

Chapter Twelve

L
ADY, I MUST HAVE
words with you . . . at the soonest.

The hushed female voice tried to find her ear, but when Amicia looked round, she saw only ale-flushed faces and swathes of disheveled plaid. The boisterous troop of clansmen who saw it as their duty to hustle her and Magnus ever higher up the curving stairs to her bedchamber.

Nevertheless, she kept searching.

Scarce louder than a sigh, the hurriedly whispered words had come from close behind her and were spoken in greatest urgency, the voice sounding much like Janet’s.

If indeed she’d heard anything.

With the smoking flames of the wall torches tossing in the night draughts and constant sprays of fine damp mist gusting through the arrow slits, like as not she’d simply heard the cry of the wind and imagined spoken words.

The saints knew on such a wild night, and with her emotions in a whirl, no one could fault her for hearing voices where none had been lifted.

Or so she thought until the jostling throng neared her bedchamber door and she caught a quick glimpse of Janet’s fair head in the crush.

“. . . would e’er be a burden on my heart if I did not . . .”

And this time Amicia
did
hear the words—if only a snippet of them before Janet fell back, her odd message and her hurrying feet no match for drink-taken clansmen set on reaching their laird-to-be’s bedchamber and the finest entertainment of the evening.

The seldom-offered opportunity to tease and heckle their future chief without having to suffer for it. And the undeniable boon of catching a wee look at their new lady’s full exposed plentitude.

A ritual nuisance Amicia determined to endure with dignity.

Much worse could befall her.

Aye, were she honest, Janet’s queer behavior unnerved her more than the thought of a few scant moments spent standing unclothed before a clutch of ale-addled but good-hearted Islesmen who’d like as not have no true recollection of all they’d seen, come the morning.

Islesmen who were grinning foolishly as they kicked open the door and surged into her room. They tossed Magnus onto the great four-poster bed, some of the most ale-headed amongst them falling onto the mattress with him.

“Remember my words, lassie.” Dagda appeared at her elbow, Amicia’s fur-lined cloak draped over her arm. She leaned close, her dark eyes glittery with excitement. “You must make him want you.”

Amicia jerked, all thought of Janet’s strange whisperings evaporating as a flood of intimate images sailed through her mind.

She slid a glance at Magnus, her heart thundering even though he was still fully clothed. He sat on the edge of the canopied four-poster, an expression of tolerant good humor on his handsome face as two red-bearded kinsmen struggled to yank off his boots.

Someone had pulled back the bed hangings and the glow from the hearth fire threw dancing patterns of shadow and light into the bed’s curtained interior. The pristine white of the bridal sheet gleamed bright and beckoning, its significance sending a cascade of heat streaming through her.

By sundown on the morrow, that same sheet would have been paraded throughout the castle and held under the noses of every MacKinnon old enough to appreciate the reddish smears that, by then, would mar its snowy weave.

“Make certain he catches your scent,” Dagda persisted, dropping her voice. She tap-tapped a finger on Amicia’s arm to make her point. “Mind you well if you wish to besot him.”

“You are kind to share your . . . wisdom,” Amicia said, tearing her gaze from Magnus and praying no one else had heard the woman.

Feeling naked already, she indicated her cloak. “Thank you for bringing my mantle abovestairs,” she blurted to deflect the seneschal’s interest from carnal activities. “I should not have left it behind in the hall.”

Dagda stroked the mantle’s ermine lining. “Och, to be sure, such a fine cloak ought not to be left about. Not at Coldstone. . . .” Letting the sentence go unfinished, she turned aside, all bustle and business, to hang the cloak on its peg by the door.

“Off with you, you great clumsy-fingered oafs!” Magnus half-roared, half-laughed from the bed. “I can undress myself, and in half the time!”

The words were hardly spoken when, one by one, his boots hit the floor with two loud
thuds.