Highland Jewel (Highland Brides) (38 page)

"Ye knew that if I fully recovered I would ensure peace between the Forbes and the MacAulays. Ye feared that, for ye know she is me daughter in truth."

"Nay."

"Aye. And that is why ye planned to kill me last night."

"I could na kill ye, me laird. But we canna have peace. Because of the Forbes, me Owen is gone. He must be avenged." Murial sobbed. "She will die!"

"I'll kill the lad!" Roderic's voice thundered throughout the hall and suddenly he stepped forward, his own dirk pressed to the throat of a child who'd wandered too near.

"David!" cried Murial, her voice breaking.

"Tis na me way to harm an innocent," growled Roderic, his face hard above young David's fair head. "But for the lady's life, I will." He pressed the blade harder.

"No!" cried Rose. "Please, Roderic, I beg of you, let the boy go. He's done naught to deserve to die." Her face was pale and tilted painfully back away from Murial's dirk, but she managed the words. "Let this feud end with me."

Pain thudded hollowly in Leith's chest. Sweet Jesu! "No!"

Roderic tightened his grip, his gaze caught on Rose's wide eyes.

"Please," she whispered again.

Roderic's hands relaxed, letting the boy slip, unharmed, to his feet.

"Mama."

"David!" Murial gasped, and, dropping the dirk, she stumbled forward to embrace her son.

Rose gasped for breath, trying to still the tremor in her limbs.

Leith's heart bumped to life. Sweet Jesu, she was free. She was safe. But from behind him Silken snarled. He whirled to see Dermid, claymore in hand, ready to lunge.

Leith's axe flew, true and hard, plowing into Dermid's midsection with a sickening thud, forcing him back against the wall like a felled tree.

He lay there, half-upright with his back against the wall, his sword beside him, his bearded face twisted in a grimace of hate and pain. From his chest a broken arrow protruded. "I should have kilt the bitch that first time." He coughed, clutching his gut where the thick blade of Leith's axe was embedded. "Should've kilt her like I kilt yer sister." His eyes, hard and flinty, flitted to Leith. "That slut." He coughed again. "Saw her with the MacAulay lad." He chuckled, but the sound gurgled in his throat. "They paid to keep me from tellin'. But she tired of that... game. Threatened to tell ye." Bloody fingers curled spasmodically. "Strangled her, I did. Tossed her from the cliff.

"The lad," he gasped with a weak shake of his head. "He used to go there to mourn her. Besotted with the... bitch." His eyes rolled back for a moment, blood frothing at the corner of his mouth. "He accused me of her death." Coughing again, weaker now. "So I kilt him too. Fought—like a bastard MacAulay. But I bested him. Pushed him from the same cliff." A crazed grimace twisted his face. "Should have been... grateful... that I sent them off... to be ... together." He chuckled, but the sound was horrible, ending in a garbled last gasp.

The hall was silent.

"Leith." It was Rose who spoke, stumbling into his arms.

He encircled her in his strength, pulling her close.

"I am sorry," she whispered, her cheek pressed to his chest. "So sorry. Poor Eleanor. Poor Owen."

"Nay, lass." He kissed her brow, his eyes closed, his great arms locked about her. "Nay, me love, dunna mourn her now, for the truth is out. She is at peace. We shall return home."

“This is her home." Murial MacAulay straightened, her son cradled in her arms. "She is Ian's daughter."

Dugald's face was pale and strained as he came forward to lay a broad hand on his son's small arm. "How do ye know this, wife?"

Her eyes were fixed on Rose. "I know. I knew her when she first came here, felt her spirit..." She lifted her hand toward her temple. "I knew she must die," Murial whispered. "I went to Forbes' land to kill her. She was picking flowers as I watched her. We draw each other, for she has the MacAulay gift. I could feel it like a strong wind. She came up the hill, but..." She shifted her gaze to the wildcat that stood in the hall's entrance. “The cat warned her of me presence, and ... I couldna kill her anyhow. Na then. Na now."

"But Dermid could." Leith said the words quietly, still holding Rose tightly to his chest.

"Aye." Murial nodded once. "Dermid could. He has long been a spy for me and promised to do the deed."

“Then it was he who pierced her with the arrow?" questioned Leith, his voice little more than a whisper as the enormity of his own actions settled in his mind. "And na Harlow."

"Aye," said Murial. "I felt her wound when the arrow pierced her flesh." She touched her own shoulder, wincing with the movement, then drawing herself from her reverie, shrugged at the men's wary expressions. "We are kinswomen," she said softly. "In our blood, but more so in our souls." Her eyes lifted again to Rose's. "I dunna ask yer forgiveness." Her eyes were deep with sorrow. "For I loved Owen so."

Rose felt the woman's emotions like a stinging slap, knew the pain as if it were her own. "Eleanor loves him deeply," she whispered.

Murial smiled, her expression misty and wan. "Ye have strong sight indeed, to feel a woman's thoughts from beyond her grave."

"You know it is true," murmured Rose, the eerie feelings so strong that she could no longer deny the forces that empowered her.

Murial closed her eyes, letting the need for revenge drain from her. "Aye," she said finally. "She loved him. As did we all."

'They would want peace," added Rose softly. "For the MacAulays. For the Forbes."

"Peace is a fragile thing," whispered Murial. "And hard it is to hold."

"But worth the effort if one can but find and nurture it."

"Aye," said Dugald. "Well worth the effort, is it na, me Murial?"

"Aye." She met his eyes over their son's head. "That it is."

Purest happiness sparked in old Ian's eyes. “Then let there be peace," he declared. "Peace between me daughter and me nephew's wife. Peace between our tribes. And now it seems..." He looked to Leith's wary face. "All that is left is to prove yer lady's identity." He lifted his hand, motioning to Rose again. "Lass, if ye will permit me to lift yer hair."

Rose felt as if her breath had long ago left her lungs and that her heart could not beat for the pressure in her chest. She raised her eyes to Leith, knowing fear showed in their depths.

"There is na longer need for a feud betwixt us, Ian," Leith said, his voice low, his embrace unrelenting. "The man responsible for our sorrow is dead. The lass is na needed to forge a peace."

Ian lifted his brows and his eyes twinkled. "Could it be ye doubt the lass?" he questioned, then motioned again. "I wonder now if ye have tried to play me false."

Rose's grip was tight on Leith's arms, but Ian motioned again so that she stepped from the Forbes' embrace to stand before the old man.

"Dunna fear, lass," he said softly, touching her arm with his open palm as he looked into her wide amethyst eyes. "Ye have the MacAulay spirit if na me blood. But come. Let me look." He smiled outright. "I dunna fear the outcome," he said softly, "for I too have some sight."

"Me bairn ..." he said more loudly, addressing the crowd at large but most specifically Leith, who stood with every sinew taut, every muscle ready to launch himself into battle. "Me bairn had a patch of dark skin." He took Rose's hand, holding it gently. "The shape of a cloud, it was," he said, and, pulling her close, he gathered her heavy hair in both hands and pulled it aside, revealing the back of her slim, elegant neck—and the dark cloud that marred it.

Gasps echoed about the hall.

"What?" Rose asked.

Murmurs. Silence. More murmurs.

"What is it?" she demanded, her brow lifting in irritation as she twisted about in an attempt to look behind her.

Ian let her hair drop. "Ye have the beauty of yer dame, lass, and the temper of yer sire." He laughed, then bent to kiss her cheek. "Would that I could pity me son by marriage for what ye have inherited from birth."

Rose's jaw dropped slightly. Her head shook once. What of the accusations? The denials? "But-b..." she began, but Leith was across the room before her first word was out, gathering her in his arms and shushing her against his chest.

"Tis a miracle of God," he whispered, his own voice breathy with awe. "Tis a miracle. We can but accept—"

"Ye shall drop yer weapons, Forbes." The words rang from outside the hall.

"I but come to speak to me brothers," answered a voice Rose well remembered.

"Drop them," ordered the first man.

There was a clatter of steel and then the sound of hurrying feet.

"Leith!" Colin called, his gaze skimming the assemblage and settling on his liege. "Leith," he said again, with relief now. "And... me lady." He smiled at Rose, displaying every whit of that unforgettable charisma. "We have come as fast as ever we could."

Rose frowned in bewilderment.

Colin smiled, raising his brows as if challenging her to ask the questions she longed to voice. Before she uttered a word, however, he reached behind him and drew forth a bonny, dark-haired woman.

"Ye will remember me bride." He smiled crookedly. "Devona of Millshire."

"Devona," Rose said, blinking once and finding no other words.

"Yer bride?" questioned Leith, his expression somber, but a little more certain than Rose's.

"Aye." Colin shrugged, pulling his wife possessively to his chest. " 'Twas a long and slow journey to her homeland. There was little she could do but..." He paused, smiling wickedly as Devona's face pinkened and the crowd waited in silence. "…but grow to love me," he finished matter-of-factly, then laughed. "Though she tried to do otherwise."

"Poor lass," commented Roderic, at which there were chuckles and amused nods.

"My lady," Devona said finally, stepping tentatively forward, her hand deep within the pocket of her gown. "I have something for you." She pulled a rolled note from her pocket. "Tis a message from the abbess."

"Message?" Rose could seem to make no sense of such a riotously unsteady world. "From the abbess?" The parchment was crisp in her hand and unrolled with a gentle crackling.

Rose's hands shook. The tiny, fair hairs along her forearms rose, bristling with the eerie feelings, and for a moment she could not read the script, could not look down or draw her eyes from Leith's deep gaze.

"Dunna fear," he murmured gently. "I am with ye."

She smiled ever so slightly, and then shifted her eyes to read. The words ran together, making no sense, and she read again and again, until she felt weak and drained with the news—the new knowledge that was not truly new at all, that her heart had perhaps known for all time.

"Lass?" Leith questioned, touching her pale face.

"The abbess," Rose began weakly. "It seems she knows the truth of my birth. I am told I arrived as an infant in my mother's arms. I was wrapped in a Scottish plaid, but my mother was very ill." Tears welled in her eyes as her voice dropped to a whisper. "Before she died of the fever she begged the abbess to keep my presence a secret, lest my father come to take me back. And so..." She shrugged in disbelief. "I was given to the Gunthers upon the death of their own daughter, who was buried in my place. And I am..." She shook her head slowly, feeling all reality crumble about her. "I am Fiona," she breathed, holding Leith's gaze in a desperate appeal for logic. "Fiona Rose MacAulay."

"Did I na say it was so?" Ian chuckled, his tone light with pleasure, his eyes settling on Leith's stunned face as he finally laughed aloud. "But then, ye already knew that, did ye na, Laird Forbes?"

Chapter 30

Not only the hall was filled for the wedding, but also the courtyard beyond—crammed with milling Scots who had come to celebrate the uniting of Leith Forbes with Ian MacAulay's long-lost daughter.

Lifting her gaze to skim the crowd, Fiona Rose realized there were plaids of a great many hues, representing more sects and clans than she could name.

From the window in her bedchamber, Roman waved, his smile bright as he stroked Silken, who sat on the ledge.

"Me lady." Gregor MacGowan bent over her hand, drawing her gaze from Roman as he kissed her knuckles with courtly tenderness. He looked hale and hearty, she noticed, judging his hand and skull with a healer's eye. "Tis a sad day indeed when I must give up me fondest dream to the laird of the Forbes." He straightened with a melodramatic sigh and a languid shake of his head. "Mayhap ye should have left me in the river for all eternity."

Fiona opened her mouth to speak, but in a moment Leith was behind her, resting his hand possessively on her waist.

"And mayhap ‘tis na too late to throw ye back in, lad," he said, but his tone, Fiona noticed, was light and tolerant.

Gregor nodded with a lopsided smile. "Had I na seen yer bride meself, Laird Forbes, I might be offended by yer words. But..." He shrugged. "Alas, I ken yer wariness and dunna envy the battles ye will needs wage to keep others from her."

Leith's back was straight, his eyes slightly narrowed, but he nodded finally, accepting the man's words. "Then let there at least be peace between us," he suggested solemnly, "so that me wounds may be fewer."

"Aye." Gregor nodded in sober agreement. "For yer lady, the fairy princess, there shall be peace. But na only betwixt ye and me. Between all the MacGowans and the Forbes." He lifted her hand again, and, placing one more kiss to her knuckles, one last glance to her face, he turned to mingle with the crowd.

"He is right, of course," Leith said with a sigh. "Methinks I will needs fight off every lad with moss upon his cheek to keep ye from their greedy grasps."

Fiona turned in his arms, feeling a pleasant shock as her breasts rubbed sensuously against his fine red doublet. He was regally dressed today in his ceremonial plaid and his bejeweled sporran.

"And would ye fight for me, my laird?" she murmured softly. "Or in truth would ye let them take me?"

For just a moment Leith remembered the grinding fear of seeing her empty bed, of racing through the darkness in search of her. Against his will his arms tightened about her. "Would ye have me throw ye over me shoulder and carry ye to our room like a trophy of war so that I might prove me feelings for ye there?"