Caelen's Wife - the Complete Collection (2 page)

C
aelen McDunnah was well
on his way to being good and completely drunk. Aye, he drank far more than he ought, but not so much that he passed out or made a fool of himself. Today, however, was different. ’Twas the one day of the year that he allowed himself to get so bloody drunk that he could not find his arse with both hands.

He sat at an old, worn desk in his private room, staring out the narrow window at the horizon. ’Twas a beautiful summer day in the Highlands. Little wisps of clouds dotted the bright blue sky and a light breeze tickled at the tall grass. From his vantage point, he could see the top of Mount
Sidh Chailleann -
the Fairy Hill of the Caledonians —
in the distance.

Scotland was at war with itself and with England, but no one would be the wiser by looking out at the peaceful land. Caelen longed for a simpler time, when his fellow Scots knew peace. He was afraid, however, that the days of peace were gone forever.

Edward Baillol had declared himself the King of Scotia. As far as he was concerned, the man was an arrogant, selfish fool. Caelen’s alliance was with Scotland’s one true king: David, II.

Edward could bugger himself for all he cared. Baillol was in bed with the English and if there was anything or anyone Caelen hated more than the English, it was any Scot who sided with them.

There were days when he was glad he was not married and had no children. Aye, he missed his sweet wife and his babe. She had died trying to bring the boy into this world and the boy had been stillborn. Part of him was glad that neither had lived to see these dark and uncertain times.

Then there were other days, like today, when he wished his wife and son were alive. He often wondered what kind of man the bairn would have grown into. With a certainty, Caelen believed he would have been a strong and stubborn young man, something Caelen would have been quite eager to boast over. Mayhap, the world was better off without another
Caelen McDunnah.
He took another drink of the fine whisky, hoping that soon he’d be so numb he could not think or feel, and hopefully, on the morrow, he could not
remember.

A long sigh, filled with melancholy and frustration, passed through his lips. ’Twas not often that he allowed feelings of longing or loneliness to besiege his heart, but today was special. ’Twas the anniversary of the death of his wife and babe. Sixteen years, now, Fiona and their son had been gone.

Deciding long ago that he would not openly mourn their deaths, Caelen allowed himself one day a year to mourn. Others might think he was wallowing in self-pity and they were probably right.

One would think after all this time, ye’d be done with these useless feelings, Caelen McDunnah
. He knew it served no purpose to be morose or sad at losing something he’d never had to begin with. He had never truly had
Fiona, at least not the part he didn’t realize until after her death he found himself longing for. He had never had her heart.

Aye, she liked him well enough he supposed. But in the end, he knew she did not truly love him. And why would she? If ever there was an unlovable man on God’s earth, ’twas Caelen McDunnah.

He hadn’t always been so dark, so angry. Nay, that all came after Fiona’s death. ’Twas the guilt, he reckoned. The overwhelming sense that her death and their son’s, was entirely his
fault. ’Twas the guilt that had turned him into the heartless bastard he had become. Had he been there for Fiona, instead of off fighting against an enemy he could not now remember, he could have done something, anything, including bargaining with the devil himself, to have prevented her death. He would have spent the rest of his life trying to win her heart.

Ye canna change the past, Caelen. He grunted as he took another sip of whisky. But ye can get good and drunk.

Nay, he could not change the past any more than he could pull the moon from the sky or change his future.

’Twas of his own doing, he supposed, as he poured more whisky into his cup. His own doing as well as the man whose blood ran through his veins. He was Nerbert McDunnah’s son — may he find the peace in death that he could not find in life. Or may he rot in hell. It mattered not to Caelen, and in the end, he supposed he didn’t have much to say in the matter. ’Twas all God’s choosing, not his.

And God had chosen to give him Nerbert McDunnah as a father. Not exactly the best example on how to be a man, husband, or father. For that matter, a leader of people. Nerbert was cold and distant toward his wife and children and he had run his clan with a stern and hypocritical hand.

How Caelen’s mum had stayed married to the man as long as she had, without slicing his throat in his sleep, remained a mystery. Never a sweeter woman had graced God’s earth and she was married to the likes of Nerbert.

As a child, Caelen had made a promise to himself that he’d not replicate his father’s behavior. He had vowed to be a generous, kind husband and father and if ever he were made chief he would treat his clanspeople with far more respect and generosity than his father ever had.

But something had happened between childhood and becoming an adult. What exactly that something was, Caelen didn’t know. Aye, he had been generous with Fiona, the sweet, auburn-haired lass, but mayhap, just being generous wasn’t enough. He’d been generous with possessions, not with his time.

Secretly, he wished for the love and comfort of a wife. Someone he could simply talk to and mayhap with whom he could share a dream or two. A kind, sweet woman who could help him rid the guilt he carried like an anvil around his neck, making him tired and angry.

It had been impossible for him to move forward, to take another wife and try again for another child. Guilt over failing his sweet Fiona and their son had prevented any forward movement as it pertained to his heart. Nay, he’d never marry again. He was certain. He would never allow himself to fail another human being as he had failed them.

In the end, he supposed, none of it really mattered. Now he was a lonely man, who was becoming more bitter as the years wore on. There was, he reckoned, no hope for him.

Ye bloody bastard.

’
T
was
well after the midnight hour when three clan chiefs sat in a well appointed study next to a roaring fire. They sipped on fine whisky and exchanged stories they’d all heard countless times before.

Whilst two of the three told bawdy tales and exaggerated stories of battle, one sat quietly, lost in his own thoughts as he attempted to find a way out of his current predicament.

The proposals were getting out of control. Everything was getting out of control. He really needed to give up these meetings with the McGregor and the McKenzie. At the very least he shouldn’t drink as much when he was with these men who gossiped and lied to the point of hilarity.

Months ago, on a night much like this one, he had shared a secret with the two men. He was going to propose to Fiona McPherson. When asked why he’d do such a thing, when every man and woman within three hundred miles knew the woman was a bit off, well, he couldn’t very well tell the truth. So he lied and told them the water on McPherson land was magic. The mountain,
Sidh Chailleann
was rumored to be the place where fairies lived and ghosts roamed. ’Twas why everyone stayed the bloody hell away from the spot the McPhersons had claimed centuries ago. Not many wanted to battle fairies for a wee bit of land.

’Twas that belief in fairies, ghosts, and brownies, that added to the believability of lie he had told. Which was the
how
and the
why
of the current situation at hand. He’d told a lie in order to protect the truth.

Before him were the McGregor and the McKenzie with tongues wagging like banners in the wind. Mayhap he should look for new friends.

“I just couldna ask fer her hand meself, ye ken, bein’ as I’m already happily married,” the McGregor explained as he told them again for the fifth time, how Fiona McPherson had denied him. “And I couldna offer me first son to her, either, so I offered me third, and the wench said
nay.”
He shook his head in disbelief. “I just canna understand it.”

“Aye,” Leradont McKenzie agreed. “’Tis odd, don’ ye think? Mayhap she prefers the company of women?”

The McKenzie and the McGregor found the thought quite amusing and laughed for some time over it.

“I wonder,” the McGregor said through bouts of laughter, “if magic water be worth havin’ Fiona McPherson as a wife? She’d probably no’ care if ye took a leman as long as she had one fer her own!” Tears fell from his eyes as he slapped his hand on his thigh.

I must really try to find new friends
, he mused. He would replace the McGregor first for he was the reason why things had gotten out of control.

In addition to being a horrible gossip, the McGregor was also a greedy son of a whore. After he learned of the magic water his greed got the better of him and he went to ask Fiona McPherson for her hand. Thankfully, the woman turned him down. So he got in line behind the rest of the greedy bastards who were all vying for the tetched woman’s hand.

And thus far, she had turned all four of them away.

In truth, he had no desire to marry the woman. What he truly wanted was access to her land. More specifically — the caves and tunnels that ran under her land.

Aside from murder, he could not think of another way to gain access. If one of his comrades were to marry her, why, they’d think nothing of him visiting or wanting to see for himself if fairies did in fact exist. Then he’d be able to explore that bloody mountain without restriction. And if what he’d been told was true, it would not be long before he was the richest man in all of Scotia, nay, in all the world! He’d have enough coin, enough gold to buy the bloody throne of Scotland if he chose.

If it came down to it, he’d kill if he had to, in order to gain the access he needed.

F
iona masked
her fury well as she held the swatch of McDunnah plaid and a McDunnah dagger in her hand.

“How many?” she asked, directing her question to Collin. She sat at the long table in her private room. Surrounding her were her three brothers, Collin, Brodie and William.

“Seventeen,” Collin answered. Fiona watched as a tic developed in his jaw. ’Twas rare for Collin to show any signs of anger, but today, he was quite beside himself with it.

Seventeen sheep stolen in the dead of night.

Fiona looked down at the evidence before her. The image of a growling wolf with the sun blazing behind it was intricately carved into the handle of the dagger. There was no mistaking the emblem as the McDunnah’s.

Anger and confusion built. Of all the people she might have listed as possible suspects in the raid that took place late last night, Caelen McDunnah’s name would never have made the list. She’d met the McDunnah only once, more than ten years ago, and long before she had married James. Though nearly everyone did their best to avoid the man with the terrifying presence, Fiona had found him to be intriguing, and quite handsome, even with the jagged scar that ran down his face.

They’d been at a summer festival on MacDougall lands and several of the clan chiefs had gathered together over food and drink at the McPherson table. Fiona had been helping to serve the men when someone called out her name.

Caelen had reached out and placed a hand on her arm. “Fiona?” he asked with a wan smile. “That be a right pretty name.”

Fiona had been taken aback by the profound sadness she’d found in his dark brown eyes. Something unsaid had passed between them, something she couldn’t identify back then. Now, as a widow, she knew all too well what it was. On Caelen’s part, it was a deep sense of loss and longing. On her part, it was the sense of wonder and excitement that only a girl of six and ten could feel.

She let loose with a frustrated breath and pushed the memory aside. “Seventeen sheep?” she repeated with dismay. “The McDunnah owns at least ten times that many. Why on earth would he reive ours?” she asked to no one in particular.

William cleared his throat before answering. “I believe ye ken why, Fiona.”

“Ye think he stole the sheep as a means of a proposal?” she asked with a raised brow.

“Mayhap not a romantic proposal
,
” William answered. “More his way of warnin’ ye he can take whatever is ours unless ye agree to marry him.”

There was a strong possibility that William was correct, but doubts still lingered. “But he’s no’ yet come to me to make an offer.”

William ran a hand across his bearded chin. “Aye, ’tis true. Mayhap this be a warnin’ that he’ll be comin’ to do just that.”

Brodie spoke then. The frown creasing his brow took nothing away from his handsomeness. “I’ve known Caelen McDunnah for many years, Fiona,” he said over the din of voices. “This does no’ seem like anythin’ he would do.”

“Nay?” Fiona asked. “Ye think him above such a thing?”

Brodie shook his head. “Caelen McDunnah is no’ the kind to play games such as these. He’s far more blunt and to the point. If he wanted to ask fer yer hand, he’d ask fer it.”

Uncertainty and doubt lingered in Fiona’s mind. In view of the manner in which the other clan chiefs had behaved of late, she’d put nothing past any man at the moment.

William apparently shared her concerns and doubts. “Ye canna deny the evidence, Brodie. The knife? The plaid? It all points to the McDunnah. Besides, how long has it been since ye’ve seen Caelen?”

“More than two years, but still, I do no’ think—”

The more she thought on it the angrier she became. Rapidly, an idea began to form. An idea that turned her skin to gooseflesh with anticipation. “Well then, let us say we
go to him and let him ken well that his scare tactics will no’ work.”

A collective moan went around the room as one brother after another tried to talk her out of going to the McDunnah.

Fiona raised both hands to stop them. “Lads! I’m no’ sayin’ we attack the fool.”

Her brothers stopped their protests to listen.

“I’m just sayin’ that we visit him, in person, to let him ken that I canna be frightened into marriage.”

And if he won’t listen to reason, he can listen to me sword.

N
ot long after
the nooning hour, Fiona, Brodie, William, and several other McPherson men, were standing outside the gates of the McDunnah keep. Brodie shouted to a young man standing on the wall, announcing who they were and requesting to see Caelen McDunnah.

When asked what their business with the McDunnah was, Fiona eagerly answered. “I’ve come to discuss Caelen McDunnah’s proposal of marriage.”

Even from atop her horse and a good twenty feet from the wall guard, Fiona could see the man’s eyes grow wide with surprise and confusion. He turned on his heel and raced away. Moments later, another man appeared atop the wall. He was older than the first, sporting a long beard and a scowl. He asked the same question: what did they want with the McDunnah.

“I’ve come to discuss Caelen McDunnah’s proposal of marriage,” Fiona repeated.

From the way the color drained from his face and how his eyes widened, she could see the man was bewildered by her statement. Mayhap the McDunnah hadn’t shared his intentions with anyone yet.
No matter,
she mused. She knew the truth and that was all that mattered. Better to catch them all unaware than to allow them time to plan any further deviousness.

C
uriosity trumped
Kenneth McDunnah’s good sense.

He knew Caelen was in his room, sleeping off his once-a-year drunk that he felt honored the death of his wife and son. But when the McPhersons said they were here to discuss Caelen’s marriage proposal, he couldn’t help himself. He had to find out what the bloody hell these people were about.

Caelen had returned to McDunnah lands three days ago. He’d been gone for more than a year, fighting the good fight against the English. He had returned, as he had done nearly every year for the past sixteen, just in time for the anniversary of Fiona’s and the babe’s deaths. Caelen’s way of memorializing his wife and child was to get good and bloody drunk.

Now, a group of McPhersons waited at the gates, talking of a marriage proposal. Kenneth couldn’t help but wonder what exactly his chief and cousin had gotten himself into whilst he was away.

Kenneth raced into the keep, up the tower stairs and barged into Caelen’s chamber. The foul aroma of sweat, whisky, and heartache stopped him just inside the door. He shook his head and let out a frustrated sigh when he saw Caelen — sprawled out sideways on the bed, lying on his stomach with one arm dangling toward the floor and an empty tankard lying not far from his fingertips. Shirtless and bootless and if Kenneth had surmised his chief’s current state of mental health correctly, away with the fairies.

Sighing again, he first went to the window and pulled back the fur to allow more sunlight and fresh air into the room.

“Caelen,” he said as he gave him a good shake. “Caelen, ye fool, wake up!”

Not so much as a moan of reproach from the man.

Kenneth rolled him over to his back. Several days’ worth of whiskers lined Caelen’s cheeks and chin and his dark hair was matted to the side of his face that bore no scar. ’Twas depressing a sight as there ever was, Kenneth reckoned.

“Caelen!” He shouted and shook him again. “The McPhersons are at the gate sayin’ ye made a proposal of marriage!”

Caelen opened his eyes, albeit slowly, and stared up at Kenneth. “What?” he asked, his voice thick and scratchy from a whisky induced slumber.

Kenneth nodded and crossed his hands over his broad chest. “Aye. Ye’ve apparently proposed to someone.”

C
aelen hadn’t quite slept
off enough of the drink he’d consumed the day before. Shaking his head, he closed his eyes. “Quit jestin’, Kenneth, and go away,” he said through thick tongue and throat.

Next to the fireplace was a table that held a pitcher and bowl. Kenneth stomped over, poured cold water onto a cloth and returned to Caelen’s side. “I be no’ jestin’ with ye, Caelen,” he said as he tossed the cloth at Caelen so it landed on his face.

“The McPhersons are here and they say ye’ve proposed marriage to someone.”

The words
marriage
and
proposed
worked as well as a bucket of icy water to break through the fog of whisky. Caelen opened his eyes again and tossed the cloth aside. It was painful enough to feel the sun burning against his orbs. But what pained him even more was the look on Kenneth’s face. The man wasn’t jesting.

Kenneth was quite serious — as serious as an apoplexy or the pain pounding in Caelen’s skull.

He searched his mind for something,
anything
that he may have done the day before, or even over the past months, that would lead anyone to believe he’d offered for a woman’s hand. There was that comely bar wench in Stirling, but that was at least six months past. Even though he’d been quite drunk at the time, he knew he hadn’t proposed to her. She was, after all, a bar wench.

Try as he might, he couldn’t think of anything that even remotely resembled a proposal. Besides, he hadn’t seen anyone from the McPherson clan for more than a year. Still, doubts lingered as dread began to seep into his achy bones.

“How bloody drunk did I get?”