Highland Promise (16 page)

As she helped him get his dusty clothes off, she talked about James and how much he had grown. She made him smile with her tales of all the new skills and words the boy had learned. By the time he was ready to walk her to the great hall, she felt she had cheered him. Then he pulled her into his arms and gave her a quick, hard kiss before leading her out of their bedchamber.

“What was that for?” she asked as she struggled to calm her racing pulses.

“For working so hard to help me cast off my dark mood,” he answered.

“Oh.” She grimaced. “Ye guessed what I was doing, did ye?”

“Dinnae look so guilty. I think that may be one of the things wives are supposed to do. I am almost tempted to send ye to Thomas, because that mon was verra beset with wounded pride and anger.”

“How does Wiliam keep slipping away? I would ne’er have believed he could be so skilled at it or so clever as to elude us for so long.”

“Neither did I believe it, but Bowen thinks madness sharpens his wits.”

“Aye, that is possible. ’Tis sad that madness can make a mon stronger than most, sly and devious when they ne’er have been before. Mayhap we need to lure him into a trap,” she said, frowning in thought.

“A trap requires bait and if ye are thinking of offering yourself as that bait, I should pause a moment to think again.”

“It might work,” she grumbled, a little annoyed that he had cast aside her idea before she had even had a chance to speak of it.

“And it might get ye killed. We arenae dealing with the mon we thought we were, or the mon William used to be. He appears and disappears. E’en Thomas cannae follow the mon, and Thomas could track thistledown. William’s trails seem to start, then stop, then start somewhere else as if he is leaping o’er the land. Aye, setting ye out in the open, apparently unguarded, would certainly draw him out, but I am nay longer certain we
could stop him from killing ye and getting away again.”

Bethia shivered and walked a little closer to his side as they entered the great hall. Her mind was so consumed with the problem of William that she took her place at the head table beside Eric and barely noticed her parents’ customary scowls of greeting. Next to the threat William posed, her parents were but a small irritation. They had a true skill for making her feel useless and for hurting her feelings, but William could kill her.

“So ’tis nay enough that ye have taken all of your sister’s gowns,” Lady Drummond began in her cold, hard voice, “or that ye are taking away our grandson, but now ye plan to take some of our men as weel.”

“I havenae taken any of your men,” Bethia said, pulled from her thoughts about William so abruptly that she did not really understand what her mother was complaining about now.

“Wallace has kindly offered me some of the men of Dunnbea to help me take and hold Dubhlinn,” Eric said.

That seemed to hint at fighting and Bethia frowned. She had not allowed herself to think about how Eric would get Dubhlinn away from Sir Graham Beaton. The king had given it to Eric and told Sir Graham to leave. Bethia supposed it had been extremely naive of her to think that was the end of it. Sir Graham had refused Eric his rightful place for thirteen years. He probably would not calmly ride away from the land now.

“’Tis the wrong time of the year for a battle,” Lord Drummond said.

“I dinnae mean to ride to the gates tomorrow and demand that Sir Graham leave or fight.” Eric took a long drink of wine to steady himself, refusing to let them anger him. “I, and your daughter and grandson, will need men at our side as we travel to Donncoill, however. And since spring is soon to be here, it seemed reasonable to hold the men Wallace gives me until then. That will allow them to train with the men the MacMillans are sending as weel as my brother’s men.”

“I wasnae consulted on this.”

“The Murrays are our allies now, and the MacMillans have always been,” Wallace said. “I didnae think we had any reason to refuse their request for aid in this matter.”

Bethia could tell that that calm reasoning annoyed her father. Although she dreaded even the thought of a battle, she could not understand his reluctance to offer aid. She knew Dunnbea would not be left unmanned and certainly would not have its purse depleted by much.

“I will do my best to see that your men arenae carelessly thrown into a needless battle,” Eric said, “and that they are returned to you as swiftly as possible.”

He chanced a look at Bethia, but could tell little by her expression. She always assumed a calm, meek look when in the presence of her parents. He realized he had grown to dislike that look intensely. Right now, he was eager to see how she was taking the talk of battle. It was something he had tried to keep away from her. Since there was nothing to be read in her face, however, he decided he would have to wait until they were alone to talk about it.

Bowen entered at that moment and brought Sir David MacMillan with him. Bethia was a little astonished at how much the young man looked like Eric. It was no wonder everyone had begun to question Eric’s claim of being a Murray from the moment he had drawn near to the MacMillans’ holdings. After the introductions were made, Sir David sat across from her and Eric, and Bethia found herself subjected to even more talk of a
possible battle to gain Dubhlinn.

She sighed to herself as she struggled to finish her meal. None of the men sounded particularly bloodthirsty, but it was evident that they held some degree of anticipation for a battle. They saw it as a good cause, right being on their side. Bethia wished she could too. All she could see, however, was that men, including the man she loved, were about to risk their lives and the lives of others for a piece of land.

“Mayhap ye should leave the laddie and Bethia here until this is all settled,” Lord Drummond said.

“Nay,” Eric replied firmly, his voice a little sharp as he reached out and took Bethia’s hand in his. “My wife and James travel with me.”

To Bethia’s complete surprise, her father did not argue. “Are we to leave soon?” she asked quietly.

“Aye, tomorrow, if the weather holds,” replied Eric.

Bethia opened her mouth to argue, then quickly shut it. She would not question Eric in front of her parents. Instinct told her that they would try to take advantage of any hint of disagreement and that would only add to the tension she could feel in her husband. In truth, she had no real complaint about when they would leave. She had simply reacted to the tone of command Eric had used. That in itself surprised her a little, for she had grown very good over the years at bowing to that tone of indisputable command and arrogance. Her father and mother used it a lot.

“Weel, lass, it seems your husband insists on thrusting ye right into the middle of his troubles,” her father said. “I hope ye are ready to behave as a wife should. ’Tis time to cast aside all of your recklessness and disobedience and follow your husband.”

“Recklessness?” Bethia murmured, wondering when she had ever given her father the idea that she was reckless.

Lord Drummond looked at Eric and said, “I fear we have nay prepared the lass weel for marriage. Ne’er thought a mon would have her since she is such an odd-looking thing. But I am sure ye can teach the child what she needs to ken to be a good wife. We did our best. ’Tis to our shame that it was ne’er enough.”

Eric stood up abruptly and dragged Bethia to her feet. “I think ye did more than enough. We will leave at dawn. Mayhap we will see ye to say our fareweel then.”

Bethia stumbled after Eric as he dragged her out of the hall. Something had made him furious and she had a feeling it was her father’s remarks about her. She was so accustomed to such complaints about her looks and behavior that she had not paid them much heed.

“Mayhap I should begin to pack,” Bethia said as Eric pulled her into their room.

“’Tis nearly done,” Eric replied sharply, then sighed and pulled her into his arms. “I am sorry. ’Tis nay ye I am angry with.”

“I ken it, although I am nay sure what has made ye so furious.” She wrapped her arms around his waist and glanced up at him.

“That ye are so used to hearing such things said about you that ye feel no anger at all only adds to mine.”

“Father was disappointed with me from the day I was born, or at least from the day he saw that I wasnae exactly like Sorcha. If I heeded his remarks too much I should have gone quietly mad by now.”

He smiled faintly and began to nudge her toward the bed. “And I shall go mad if I
must stay here and continue to swallow such insults to you. So for the sake of our sanity, ’tis best if we leave as soon as possible.”

Bethia laughed, then gasped with amused surprise as Eric tumbled her down onto the bed. “If we are to begin traveling so soon on the morrow, I think we had best get a lot of rest,” she said, but did not stop him from removing her clothes.

“Oh, we will,” he murmured against her breast. “After.”

Huddled in a blanket and pressed close to Grizel, James tucked up between them, Bethia stared out at the men riding with them. They looked as cold as she felt. For three days, they had ridden as hard as they dared, always watching for the weather to turn against them. Instead it had remained no more than cold, although Bethia was beginning to think that was becoming as great a danger as any snow or icy rain would be.

She was going to be glad to reach Donncoill. Any shyness or uneasiness she might have felt about meeting Eric’s family had already been frozen right out of her. Her first concern was going to be getting warm.

The cart started to slow down and Bethia leaned forward enough to look at the sky. It was late and she realized with a groan that they were going to have to spend one more night outside. The large fires the men built, the tents, and the way people all huddled together had eased some of the chill, but Bethia was eager to crawl into a nice warm bed.

“Only one more night, my heart,” Eric said as he rode up behind the cart.

“’Tis all right, Eric,” she said as she grasped his outstretched hand and let him pull her up in front of him on his horse. “Connor shall be verra glad of his stable though,” she murmured as she patted the mount’s neck.

“If we had even as much as that at the moment, he would have to fight the men for some room.”

“At least there has been no storm. I keep reminding myself of that each time I feel inclined to complain.”

“Aye, I have been doing the same.” Eric shook his head as he started to ride away from the camp the men were setting up. “Still, it may not have been wise to travel now. I probably should have waited.”

“Ye were eager to get home. I am sure everyone understands that.”

“Come, lass. Ye ken that part of my need to ride home now was because I was angry with your parents.”

Bethia sighed and pressed closer to him, murmuring her enjoyment when he wrapped his plaid around her and pulled her into its warmth. “I ken it. Father is a hard mon to get along with.”

“Wallace manages.”

“Nay, Wallace just ignores him most of the time.” She smiled when Eric laughed. “And Wallace doesnae have to put up with much, for he sleeps with the men a lot, and since he has already been named my father’s heir, my parents are reluctant to criticize him too much. After all, that could steal away the men’s confidence in Wallace, and my father might have to lead the men into battle himself.”

Eric almost kissed her. There was a definite bite to her words, and for once, she did not immediately rush to apologize for what she had said or try to excuse her father in some way. He did not want her to come to hate her parents, but he was very pleased at this sign that she was starting to look at them more clearly. Once she began to see their faults, she would begin to see that they were wrong in what they had believed about her and what they had raised her to believe about herself.

“Where are we going, Eric?” Bethia asked as she realized he was riding far enough away from their camp to be out of sight of the others.

“I wanted to show ye Dubhlinn,” he murmured, touching a kiss to the top of her
head.

“’Tis near here?”

“Just through these trees.”

“’Tis odd that we can draw so close without being challenged.”

“We have been seen. Word has already reached Sir Graham that the king has accepted my claim. He darenae cause me trouble. Not yet, leastwise.”

Bethia glanced back at him. “I dinnae suppose he has already fled the keep.”

“Nay.” Eric kissed the tip of her cold, reddened nose. “He still sits inside. I will give him some time to leave, but nay much. He has bled these lands of all their worth for too long already.”

She said nothing and Eric was a little disappointed. He wanted her to openly support him when he had to go fight. He sympathized with her belief that people should not die for the sake of land or coin. For the most part, it was a belief he shared. There was more to the taking of Dubhlinn than that, however. It was for that reason that, despite the cold, he was showing her the land he now claimed but did not yet hold.

“There sits the keep,” he said as he reined in.

Bethia frowned toward the large, dark keep. It sat in the middle of barren ground—that emptiness enhanced by the cold deadening of the land winter brought. The gates were closed and no one lingered in the open. She pressed even harder against Eric. Dubhlinn did not look welcoming. In truth, it gave her a chill.

“Ye truly want that place?” She was almost relieved to see the hint of movement on the top of the encircling wall, even though it meant that Dubhlinn was well guarded, for it was a small touch of life.

Eric briefly chuckled. “I ken that it doesnae look verra warm and inviting. ’Tis built for defense, after all. And winter steals the softening green of the fields that surround it. For all of my life and many years before that, this keep has been little more than a place for carrion to roost and feed on the surrounding people.”

“Those carrion being the Beaton lairds?”

“Aye. I fear that, for now, the place reflects the darkness of its masters. I stayed there but once, when my father captured me. He still thought I was naught but a bastard, but he needed a son. He had bred no others and he was ill, thought he was dying. He didnae want to leave the keep to some distant kinsmon. So he took me and planned to make me into the mon he thought I should be.”

“And ye didnae take to his training.”

“I spent most of the time in the dungeons until he captured my half sister Maldie and she got us out. The thing I can most remember—the time that still haunts my dreams—is when he made me watch him kill one of the Murray men. I was but thirteen and had lived a somewhat sheltered life. He tortured that mon to death and I was forced to watch each pain inflicted, forced to hear every scream. He felt this would harden me.”

“It made ye hate him, didnae it?” Bethia whispered, horrified by the tale he told and fighting the urge to weep for the boy he had been then.

“It did. After seeing just how cruel he could be I was nay pleased to find out that he really was my father.”

“Ye arenae afraid that ye are like him in any way, or could become so, are ye?”

“Nay, although it did worry me for a wee while.” Eric turned his mount and rode toward the village. “It helped to watch another who carried his seed, to see that none of
his poison marred her. Aye, especially since she had lived a far harder life than I had and her mother wasnae fit to raise a child. Even with the bad on both sides, Maldie carried no taint. So how could I?”

“’Tis why ye continue to call yourself a Murray, isnae it? Ye cannae abide to use the mon’s name.”

“Nay, I cannae, and those who went before and after him deserve no honor either. My grandfather was so evil, my father was driven to kill him.” Eric shrugged when Bethia gasped with horror. “I also remain a Murray because I feel like one. I have kenned no other life, no other family.”

“Then a Murray ye shall stay.” Bethia looked at the few villagers who were not huddled inside their homes as Eric and she rode slowly through the village. “Do ye plan to make all of these people claim the name as weel?”

“Nay. They can call themselves what they will. There will be a strange mix of people and names here for a while. Some MacMillans will undoubtedly stay and so will some Drummonds. And if needed, a few Murrays will join us.”

“A new beginning.”

“I hope so.”

Bethia looked down at the village when Eric stopped at the top of a small rise at the end of the rough, narrow road. Although she was not much of a judge, since she had rarely left Dunnbea, she felt there was something very sad and neglected about the place. Even though it was late in the day and cold, there should have been some sign of activity. The only movement there was was the scurrying of a few people into their houses. The passage of a man and a woman sharing a horse was enough to send the villagers into hiding.

Despite the increasing shadows, Bethia looked a little closer. There were no horses at the stables, no sound of animals at all. Only a few of the houses emitted smoke, revealing that a hearth fire was lit. Several cottages had only part of the roof left. The village was dying. Bethia began to think that Sir Graham had bled it dry.

“I begin to think that ye will be taking on more trouble than gain if ye get this place,” she murmured as Eric turned their mount back toward the camp.

“I ken it. ’Twill be a while ere I see any gain.”

It was hard not to think about all she had seen as they returned to camp. It was sad to see what could have been a prosperous place brought to near ruin. There was little life left at Dubhlinn—as if it had all been choked out of the place.

As they dismounted in the camp, Bethia hurried over to sit with Grizel and James before a very large fire. She ate the meager, but filling meal of porridge, telling herself that tomorrow she would feast. The men stood guard, their tense stances telling Bethia that they were not alone, not unwatched.

“Ye dinnae think the Beatons will try to attack, do ye?” Grizel asked, frowning toward the wood her husband had just disappeared into.

“Eric doesnae think so,” replied Bethia.

“Ah, so Sir Graham is just going to hand over the land?”

“Nay, I dinnae think that will happen. He just willnae attack Eric here and now. He should ken that he has lost by now, but he obviously needs time to decide how and if he will fight.”

Grizel sighed. “Weel, I am nay surprised. No mon likes to give up land and wealth.
Sir Graham may have no right to this place, but he does hold it, and I think it will have to be wrested from his hands.”

“It will be,” Eric agreed as he paused by their campfire to kiss James good night.

“Are ye standing guard?” Bethia asked Eric, returning his quick kiss.

“Aye, for a while, and then I will find the biggest of the fires and curl up in front of it.”

Bethia just smiled, then watched him walk away. She helped Grizel get James cleaned up after his meal, then joined her maid and nephew in the wagon. Someone had drawn it very close to the fire, and once the covers were tied off, it was almost warm inside.

“I could almost feel guilty for being here whilst the men are out there,” Grizel said as she settled into her bed of blankets next to James.

“Almost,” Bethia agreed and exchanged a grin with Grizel as she too crawled into her pile of blankets. She lay on her back and stared up at the wooden frame that held up the little wagon’s tentlike cover. “I will still be eager to crawl into a proper bed on the morrow. Mayhap I willnae e’en wait until the sun sets.”

“I think I shall find whate’er bed they give me and Peter and crawl right in, dirt and all. Ha! I shallnae e’en wait for Peter. Nay, the only thing I shall do first is light a verra big fire.”

“Actually, I think I shall drag my bed right up close to the fire.” They both laughed softly and then Bethia sighed. “Although ye and James are warm enough, I will also be glad to have Eric back beside me.”

“Aye, I ken what ye mean. Noisy, hairy things though men be, they can be verra fine to curl up with.” Grizel exchanged a grin with Bethia over James’s head. “Are ye worried about meeting your mon’s family?”

“A wee bit. I come with some trouble”—Bethia lightly touched the sleeping James’s curls—“and already burden their kinsmon with a child.”

“A burden he seems more than happy to bear. The way Sir Eric acts with the lad and the other children tells me that Donncoill is a place that will accept another bairn with open arms. A mon isnae so good to a lad nay his own unless he has been raised to appreciate the gift that the wee ones are.”

“I believe ye have the right of it. Ah, weel, we will be there on the morrow. ’Tis good to feel sure that the wee laddie will be welcomed. I just pray the people of Donncoill are willing and able to accept a wee lass as weel.”

Looking around as she rode into Donncoill seated in front of Eric on his horse, Bethia immediately saw the differences between it and Dubhlinn. Here was life and warmth. Men hurrried forward to take the horses and see to the men who had ridden with Eric. There was noise. There were the smells that came with horses, fires for heat and cooking, and a lot of people. Some of those smells were not always the best, but this time Bethia welcomed them as readily as they welcomed her.

Just as Eric helped her down, Grizel hurried over and handed her James. The maid just as quickly disappeared back into the crowd, undoubtedly searching out her husband and making sure that they got a warm place to sleep. Wallace and Sir David joined them and followed closely as Eric led her to the huge iron-studded doors of the keep. She was a little startled when they were thrown open even as Eric reached the steps leading up to
them.

Holding tightly to Eric’s hand, Bethia found herself and the others hastily ushered into the warmth of the keep, introduced to several people: a large brown man named Balfour; his tiny, beautiful wife Maldie; a man named Nigel, who was nearly as handsome as Eric; and his beautiful, pregnant wife Gisele. Bethia was just getting that clear in her mind when maids and pages hurried them all up to the bedchambers to get clean, changed, and warm. Bethia was bathed, dressed, and left sitting before a large fire with a goblet of heady mulled wine in her hand almost before she knew what had happened.

Eric laughed as he sat down next to her, helped himself to some of the wine, and kissed her frowning mouth. “Ye look a wee bit stunned, lass.”

“I dinnae think I have e’er arrived, said a greeting, and been ushered to a bedchamber with such speed.” She grimaced and shook her head. “Of course I havenae. I have ne’er been anywhere until I met you.”

“Weel, it was done swiftly. E’en I was impressed. I sent a lad ahead to tell them we were coming and that we were verra cold after three days and nights of no shelter. I think it was the thought of how cold we must all be that did it. Gisele especially hates the cold.”

“Ah, Gisele. The pregnant one. Nigel’s wife,” she muttered, then asked, “Is she related in some way to Maldie, the laird’s wife?”

“Nay. That similarity in looks did cause a wee bit of trouble in the past, for Nigel once believed himself in love with Maldie, left for seven years, and came back with Gisele.”