Highland Jewel (Highland Brides) (21 page)

Inside the massive doors, the hall lay before them—wide and deep. Rushes covered the floor. Deerhounds, tied to rings in the stone wall, set up a chatter, yipping at each other and the newcomers.

From nearby an old man descended the stairs toward them.

Rose's heart tripped rapidly in her chest. Was this to be her father? Her breath came hard and for a moment she wondered frantically why she had come. She did not know these people and owed them nothing.

“Visits come to see our laird," announced the guard. He had left behind his lance and now held a sword in a grasp so tight it whitened his knuckles.

The old man faltered momentarily and for just an instant Rose thought she saw the spark of something deep inside his ancient eyes.

"So ye are come, Laird Forbes," he said, reaching the floor and pacing across it with stilted movements.

His gaze caught with Leith's. A cautious smile lighted his face.

"I have come, Torquil," Leith said.

The guard fidgeted again and the old man shifted his gaze, speaking in fluid Gaelic.

Without understanding the words, Rose could feel the guard's relief. In a moment the door creaked and a light draft lifted from behind, heralding his exit.

"I would see the MacAulay," Leith said formally. "For I have brought that which he requested."

The old eyes turned slowly to Rose, and though her face was mostly hidden, he drew himself taller, as if he was looking upon something that inspired the return of his youth.

Silence filled the hall.

"We will see him," Leith repeated, drawing Torquil's gaze.

"The MacAulay is verra ill," Torquil said softly. "Na one can see him."

"So Dugald is laird?" Leith asked stiffly.

"Nay," said Torquil, "but he rules until that time when me laird can once again take the reins of leadership."

Quick footsteps pattered down the steps. A small boy dressed in a long, pale shirt and naught else appeared. A wooden sword was clutched in one hand and his eyes were round with awe as they settled on Leith. For a moment he stared in open wonder before skimming his gaze to Rose.

He was a handsome lad with bare, knobby knees. She gave him a smile.

He lifted the sword and said something she could not comprehend.

"In English," Leith prompted and the boy tried again, this time a bit more slowly. "Arthur gave me this," he announced, his brogue charming as he looked up at her. " 'Tis a grand sword, ‘tis it na?"

"Yes. It looks to be quite ... deadly," she said.

The boy could not control a wide, dimpled smile. "Aye." He puffed his narrow chest. "I go to show me grandda."

"David," said Torquil sharply. "Go to yer mother."

"But, Torie," said the lad, his smile drooping sadly, “I have na seen Grandda in ever so long."

"We must let him rest."

"But—"

"Go," ordered Torquil. His tone belied the caring Rose sensed in him. The boy turned forlornly, his bare feet noiseless, his wooden implement bumping along behind him.

"I will see him, Torquil," Leith said tersely, "for I have come a long hard way to bring him his fondest wish."

Again the old man's gaze settled on Rose. "This is she?" he asked in a near-whisper.

"It is."

"Come," Torquil said finally. "Before it is too late."

The MacAulay's room was near the base of the stairs. Rose knew it with some inner sense she could not name. She walked beside Leith feeling as if she were in a dream, wandering through rooms she had never seen and yet remembered.

The door opened and the trio stepped inside, then closed the portal behind them.

The old man lay asleep, his face ashen, surrounded by the immense green drapery of his bed.

"Father," Rose breathed, stepping forward to touch one of his ancient hands.

There was a moment of stillness. But only a moment, and then his eyes opened. They were deep-blue. His lips parted but he did not speak, and one side of his face seemed strangely immobile.

"Me laird," Torquil said, his voice choked with emotion, "'tis Leith Forbes, returned from his quest."

Ian MacAuley's gaze held fast on Rose's face. Time marched silently into forever, and then he lifted one unsteady hand to push the shawl from her head.

Morning light streamed through the window, turning Rose's hair into a thousand glistening rubies.

"'Tis yer daughter," Leith said, his voice low. "Fiona—found many long leagues from here in the heart of England."

Still the old man said nothing, but only stared, as if mesmerized by the vision before him.

"And here," Leith continued, taking the tiny tartan from under his arm and unfolding it before Ian's eyes. "Here is the wee plaid the lass was wrapped in as a bairn. And the brooch..." He paused, lifting the jeweled clasp from its woolen bed. "The brooch ye gave to yer young wife those many years ago."

Silence gripped the room for a seeming eternity.

"Say sommat, auld man," growled Leith finally, but Rose lifted a placating hand.

"He cannot," she said softly. "Can he, Torquil?"

"Nay. He has na spoken since his fall some days ago. I had hoped yer arrival would ..." Torquil's voice broke.

"He cannot speak?" Leith asked in disbelief. "After I have traveled all this way, nearly losing the lass to brigands, leaving my brother behind in an unfriendly land?" He scowled. "Ye will speak, auld man," he vowed, "for ye owe me that much. Ye owe me yer daughter—handfasted to me for a year and a day at the least."

Ian said nothing, but remained as he was, staring numbly up into Rose's lowered face.

"Father," she said again and dropped smoothly to her knees beside his bed. Her eyes were for the old man alone, her voice was soft, so quiet Leith could barely hear her, "'Tis my wish."

The ancient laird lay motionless for some time, and when he nodded the movement was almost imperceptible. Fiona squeezed his hand. His gnarled fingers tightened on hers for an instant before he lifted hand away to move it erratically up and down.

Leith shook his head in bewilderment, but Torquil smiled. "A quill," he said and quickly produced the necessary implements.

Again Ian's gaze held Rose's.

She nodded once, slowly, and he took her hand again, but in a moment he placed it atop Leith's, pressing her palm to his knuckles.

"It is done then?" asked Torquil solemnly. "They are handfasted?"

The old man nodded once toward the quill.

Torquil penned the necessary words before turning the parchment so that Ian might read it. Striking a flame, Torquil melted a bit of red wax, letting it drip onto the document before handing the official seal to the MacAulay.

Ian's hand shook as he stamped the wax, but when he lifted his gaze there was the shadow of a smile upon his wan face.

"It is done then," said Leith. "She is—"

"Forbes!" The portal swung open with such force that it rebounded against the wall. In the doorway a man stood with drawn sword, and behind him a half dozen warriors guarded his back.

"Dugald," Leith greeted him. Though his tone was casual, he stepped forward, easily shielding Rose behind his great form.

"Ye will explain yer presence here," snarled Dugald, sword lifted, "before ye die."

"I came at yer laird's request."

"Ye lie!" accused Dugald, but at that moment Rose stepped from behind Leith's back. She held her head high, kept her expression somber, and when she spoke her voice was low but steady.

"How dare you threaten bloodshed in my father's bedchamber?"

"Elizabeth?" a warrior murmured from behind Dugald. Silence settled for a moment and then the name was whispered by others who craned their necks for a better view of Rose.

"Nay." It was Leith who spoke. "She is the auld laird's daughter—Fiona MacAulay."

"Lies!" a woman's voice shrieked, and suddenly she thrust herself forward, her face a mask of hatred as she stood beside Dugald. "More lies from the Forbes!"

"Nay, Murial." Leith's words were soft, though his eyes were narrowed, his expression cautious. "She is indeed his daughter, and now duly handfasted to me for a year and a day so that there might be peace between yer family and mine."

"Peace!" She screamed the word, taking a bold step forward with her hands squeezed into fists. "Ye kill my brother and think to have peace between us? Never!"

Leith straightened slightly. "I didna kill Owen. In truth he took his own life to—"

"Nay!" Murial cried, and, reaching out, she pulled a sword from a nearby soldier's sheath, grasping it in both hands. "Ye shall na defile his name again," she warned, advancing slowly, blade held tight. "Owen would na have shamed me family so with his death. Ye kilt him as surely as ye lie now—bringing this bitch to me home, proclaiming her kin. But she will die this day!" she shrieked, and flew across the room, sword lifted.

In one deft movement Leith swept Rose behind him, but before Murial reached them, Ian was out of bed and standing, still and solemn, facing down the enraged woman.

"Me laird." She stumbled to a halt, her face going ashen as she let the sword droop toward the floor. "She is na yer daughter," she whispered.

The old man lifted an unsteady hand to take the blade from her.

"The lass has our laird's blessing," said Torquil, stepping forward. "And Leith Forbes holds the document saying they are properly handfasted."

"Nay," moaned Murial.

"Aye. They are bound with the MacAulay's blessing," countered Torquil.

'There
will
be peace," assured Leith. "For I have na wish to fight the MacAulays."

"Get out!" raged Murial, stepping forward again, fists clenched. Dugald caught her, gripping her arm to hold her at bay.

"Quiet, wife," he ordered, but Murial was beyond reason.

"He spews lies about me brother. Lies about the bitch. She is na a MacAulay!"

Ian's knees buckled.

"Laird," Leith murmured, and slipping forward, caught the old man before he reached the floor. The MacAulay was not a small man, but Leith lifted him easily into the bed, settling his head gently upon the pillow.

"Ye shall leave now," ordered Dugald grimly.

"No. Please," Rose pleaded, "let me stay with him. I can help."

"Ye shall na touch him!" growled Dugald, his grip hard on the handle of his claymore. "Take her away, Forbes, or there will yet be bloodshed."

Leith straightened, his eyes clashing with Dugald's, but finally he nodded. "Come, lass, there is naught ye can do now."

For just a moment Rose's gaze caught Ian's, and in the depths of his soul she saw him smile.

"Aye, my lord," she said softly, and turning, strode from the room, Leith at her side, down the corridor lined with wordless warriors.

Outside the air was still, as if the entire world waited, and for a few frantic moments she wondered if she would die with a sword in her back. But they gained their horses with no further incident and in a short time they were through the gate then over the narrow bridge that led toward Glen Creag.

She knew the moment they were spotted, for a high-pitched cry filled the air. A moment later it was echoed farther away, and then farther yet.

"We are home." Leith sounded weary, yet relieved, as if he had long yearned to ride upon his own lands again.

From seemingly nowhere men appeared, dressed in the brown woven tartan of the Forbes and barely visible until they stepped out of the surrounding trees and lifted their fists skyward in a salute of welcome.

With the passing of that last mile Rose could easily discern the emotions of the soldiers that lined their path. They had gathered to greet a man they respected—a man they honored.

The stares Rose received were not so simple to read. They were curious, true, but there was more. Animosity? Or merely uncertainty? How much had these people known of Leith's mission? It had been simple enough to deduce that the MacAulay clan had known nothing of Leith's quest to find her— except old Torquil, who seemed to know all.

Rose wished now that she had questioned Leith more about his people. She turned her gaze slightly, noting the solemn warriors that followed them with their eyes. They were a rugged collection of men, broadly built, some barefoot, while others were shod in shoes of hide and wore varied colored tartan hose that rose to just below their knees. Their plaids were all of the same hue and weave, and though some were bare-chested, most wore loose-fitting, saffron-toned shirts, much the same as their laird’s. Even the brooches pinned at their shoulders were little different from the pewter one that held Leith's plaid in place.

Another cry went up and many voices answered.

Rose's heart beat heavily in her chest. She'd been raised a simple crofter's daughter. How the devil had she ended up here, and what awaited her in this foreign land?

They were climbing now, up a rugged, tree-cropped hill with the speedy white waters of Burn Creag burbling beside them and a hundred barbaric warriors lining their course. A short distance ahead Leith rode on, his back straight, his head rarely turning except to nod in acknowledgment of some spoken word.

Maise skittered, made nervous by the watchful men and snorting indignantly at her temporary position behind the huge stallion. In a moment Beinn was halted and Maise lifted her delicate muzzle to pull at the bit.

Rose gave her a little rein, wishing for one frantic moment to be gone from here, away from the sharp eyes that watched them. But there was no stopping them now.

Maise tossed her head again and pranced up beside Beinn.

"Glen Creag," Leith said. Below her lay a mystical kingdom.

Her lips parted slightly and in that moment she forgot the cluster of men about them. She forgot who she was and who she pretended to be.

It was not the fact that the entire castle was built of stone that affected her so, for in truth, she was too naive to realize the cost and energy needed to build such a fortress. Neither was it the sheer size of the place that stunned her.

It was the setting.

Before them, the land fell away in a rush. At the bottom was a river lined with banks of jagged rock that led down like the huge, rough-hewn steps of a giant.