Only For A Knight (37 page)

 

“Simple perturbation at my wish to wed a lass who may not be a gentlest birth cannot qualify the need to hide away in here and subsist on moldy bread and black scowls,” he said, pinning his father with a stare of his own.

 

The Black Stag bristled, shook back his still-magnificent mane of raven-black hair. “You ought not go poking your nose into places it does not belong,” he groused, not looking at Robbie—or the mess on the table.

 

Instead he went to a shadow-hung corner of the room, one little used and not illuminated by the flickering wall torches.

 

To Robbie’s amazement, his father seemed to shrink as he stood before the dimly-lit corner. His great shoulders dipping, much of the Black Stag’s bluster and fury appeared to slide off him, letting him fade and dwindle in their wake.

 

But as quickly, he seemed to recover. With a great flourish, he reached into the corner and retrieved a . . . stick.

 

Wheeling round, he waved the thing at Robbie, his aggravation palpable. Worse, his eyes now glimmered with a brightness that set Robbie’s heart to lurching and made his stomach clench into a tight, cold knot.

 

As did the
stick
clutched ever so firmly in his father’s hand.

 

Not a stick at all, but the toy wooden sword Robbie had so cherished as a lad.

 

A relic of a pain-filled past and one Robbie had not seen in more years than he could count.

 

A once-treasured prize, crafted for him by a father who loved him well, carved in the early days before Robbie’s mother and her disastrous dalliance with his Uncle Kenneth had ruined all their lives.

 

Especially Robbie’s.

 

Dark memories rushing him, he stared at the small wooden sword, his heart beginning to thunder. “Where did you get that?” he blurted, his voice hoarse with an emotion he did not care to examine.

 

Not with other more pressing matters plaguing him.

 

“I have always kept it,” Duncan said, clutching the toy sword as if his very life hung from its blunt wooden blade.

 

Robbie nodded, his throat too tight for words.

 

“I saved it as a reminder of the worst treachery to e’er stain these walls,” his father revealed, smoothing a hand over the sword’s child-sized hilt. “And so that I would ne’er forget how close I came to losing everything I held so dear.”

 

His fingers still clenched around the sword, he looked at Robbie, his eyes shadowed with some dark and long-simmering emotion.

 

Robbie blinked, his own eyes beginning to burn the longer he stared at the sword. He swallowed against the swelling ache in his throat.

 

“Everything you held dear?” he got out, the words scarce audible above the roar of blood in his ears.

 

“You, son,” the Black Stag admitted, propping the toy wooden sword against the wall and resuming his pacing, his hands clasped behind his back. “I lost my heart in those days, see you?” he said, shooting a glance at Robbie, his expression dark but no longer forbidding.

 

“And I almost lost
you
—ne’er my own love for you, which was always there, if buried deep inside, but I almost lost
your
love. Years later, you felt the need to leave us . . . to journey far from here, choosing to make your name elsewhere, rather than staying in Kintail . . .”

 

“You ne’er spoke of such concerns.”

 

“Ach, well,” the Black Stag said in an overgruff voice, “did you not spend enough time in the south and amongst the nobility and landed men thereabouts to ken great men hardly go about spilling their heart’s blood for all and sundry to gawk at?”

 

Robbie shook his head, cut the air with a dismissive hand. “I believe the greater man
does
lay his heart bare—leastwise about the important things in life,” he said, his gaze lighting on the wooden sword again. “I wish I had known your feelings.”

 

“And now you do.” Duncan poured himself another measure of ale. “Ten long years I waited for your return . . . ten years, I kept this clan—our family and home—free and safe from the taint of others, keeping away all hurt . . . even the barest tinge of a threat lest such grief and sorrow found its way to our door again.”

 

“Yet now I am returned and you would snatch my own happiness out from under my feet.” Robbie joined him by the table but refused the ale his father offered him. “You would deny me the bride I choose for myself . . . a lass I have wanted since I first glimpsed her. She is my heart’s treasure, see you? Ne’er have I—”

 

“You cannot wed her. I—”

 

“You spent years sending monies and goods to her mother.” Robbie threw down his gauntlet at last, slapped his hand on the table to emphasize the truth of the words. “Juliana has regained almost all of her memory now. She has told me what she knows. Including that she was on her way here—to you! To bring you a sackful of siller. Recompense from her mother for the aid you supposedly gave her.”

 

Duncan blanched. “She told you this?”

 

The words fell as ice between them, his father’s expression revealing he had known Juliana’s identity all along.

 

“She told me that and more—but I would know what
you
have to say about it?”

 

His father turned aside, his clenched fists and the furiously ticking muscle beneath his left eye showing his distress.

 

“You knew who she was all along . . . yet you never said aught. I would know why?”

 

“For the love of Saint Columba!” Duncan raked a hand through his hair, stared at the ceiling. “I only
thought
I knew who she was. See you, she is the image of her mother.”

 

He looked back at Robbie, the bluster gone from him. “I was not sure at first—only when she remembered her name . . . I knew her name, though I had not seen her since she was but a wee little lassie.”

 

“Then you admit you sent her mother . . . aid?” Robbie pressed, tilting his head to the side. “You must’ve cared strongly about the woman’s well-being to help her for so many years? And if you felt she was worthy of such attention, why deny my wish to marry her daughter? The woman is dead now, so you may as well speak true.”

 

“Dead?” Duncan blinked when Robbie nodded. “Saints, I had no idea,” he said, pulling a hand down over his chin. “She was e’er branded on my memory as a woman so full of life. Vibrant, and . . . good.”

 

“Yet you would punish her daughter.”

 

“I would punish no one,” the Black Stag said, tight-voiced. “’Tis you who do not understand. I only meant to protect my own from further heartache. To be sure, Marjory Mackay is . . . or was . . . a fine woman. She was more than deserving of the help I spent her, and ’tis glad I was to do it. But she was also a woman tainted, branded with a stain so damning, I made her vow ne’er to come anywhere near Eilean Creag. Nor any living man, woman, or child of my blood.”

 

Robbie could scarce believe his ears. “So you dislike her daughter because of this . . . stain?” he demanded, heat spreading up the back of his neck. “You esteem Juliana a threat to this house?”

 

The Black Stag heaved a great sigh, suddenly looking far older than his years. Tired, and worn. “Not a threat, son. Ne’er that,” he said, his voice, too, sounding weary. “But she is a hurtful reminder of the darkest days to e’er pass beneath this roof. I worried her being here might unroll—”

 

“Guidsakes!” The protest burst from Robbie. “I thought you a man of sensibility and judgment! Do you not see she is like a freshening breath of bright summer air—full of warmth and smiles?”

 

When his father only stared at him, neither denying nor agreeing with him, Robbie seized the advantage. “Perhaps the old grief and shadows you speak of can be wiped clean by the good of my marriage to her?”

 

“You still do not understand.” Duncan tossed back another measure of ale, then hastily dragged his sleeve over his mouth. “Even if I willed it so, you could still not wed the lass. Truth be told, you ought not even make her your leman!”

 

Robbie’s heart began a slow rise to his throat and the walls of the solar started to inch close, creeping ever tighter around him until he feared he might lose the ability to breathe any moment.

 

“What do you mean . . .
even if you willed it
?” Robbie’s voice thrummed with dread. Bile, hot and bitter, near choked him. “Because of the aid you sent her mother, Juliana feared you might be her father. Is that it? Are you her sire?”

 

Duncan’s jaw dropped, his astonishment undeniable.

 

And seeing it, relief swept over Robbie in great waves . . . until he saw the sad shake of his father’s head.

 

“Nay, I did not sire the lass,” Duncan said, his gaze locking with Robbie’s. “Would that I had . . . much sorrow could have been spared.”

 

Robbie swallowed hard. “But you know who her father was, do you not?”

 

“Aye.” The one word fell with laming precision.

 

A sickening queasiness began spreading through Robbie’s innards. “Pray tell me she is not the daughter of my Uncle Kenneth?” Robbie’s tongue somehow formed the words. “The man who was my mother’s lover?”

 

And just as he’d known he would, his father nodded, that simple gesture extinguishing all the light and hope that had burned so brightly in Robbie’s heart.

 

“Aye, I regret that is the way of it,” Duncan said, in a slow, measured voice. “The lass is my half brother’s daughter—she is your own first cousin.”

 

 

 

 

Chapter Sixteen

 

 

 

“AYE, THAT IS THE WAY OF IT.”

 

The stranger’s deep voice came from the solar door, his cold words tossed like a handful of ice into the heated discourse crackling between Robbie and the Black Stag.

 

Shocked silence filled the room, quickly shattered as father and son drew sharp breaths and spun round, their hands flying to the hilts of their swords—until the stranger stepped forward and a shaft of gray morning light fell across his face, the MacKenzie plaid draped across his broad shoulders.

 

“Saints, Maria, and Joseph!” Duncan stared, his eyes full wide. “On my soul, it is you!
Kenneth’s son.
”

 

“To be sure, and I am,” the young man said, his voice as frosty as winter. “Your forgotten nephew, also christened Kenneth—if you were not aware.”

 

White-faced, Duncan strode toward him, reached out a hand, but let it fall as quickly. “You have come—”

 

“I am come from Glenelg and, aye, parts still more distant to fetch my sister,” Kenneth coldly declared, even in seething anger looking so much like the other two men Juliana might have found some amusement in their wide-eyed gawping if the reason for their astonishment wasn’t so inextricably bound to her own greatest sorrow.

 

The dashing of her dreams.

 

The damning, undeniable heartbreak of her identity—a laming discovery that had shot through her like scorching hellfire the instant her brother had pushed open her bedchamber door and marched inside, his startling and unexpected arrival bringing full remembrance and, with the memories, an end to all her brightest, most golden hopes.

 

“Aye, good sirs,” her brother said again, looking at the other two men as he wrapped a firm arm around Juliana’s waist, drew her close. “My sister and I have the same tainted blood as your own flowing in our veins.”

 

His agitation palpable, he narrowed his gaze on Robbie. “Wedding you, Sir Robert, is not only imprudent, it is the last favor I would allow her,” he vowed, his face tight with disapproval. “Even if the two of you were not blood kin.”

 

Robbie could only stare at him, wordless. His chest so tight he could scarce draw breath, he glanced round the circle of other faces, each one grim-set. There was a long pause before he spoke.

 

Striving for calm, he shook his head, pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is no time for heated words and lost tempers, my friend,” he said at last, accepting a brimming cup of
uisge-beatha
from Sir Marmaduke who, despite the Black Stag’s dark glare at him, had somehow found his way to Robbie’s elbow.

 

“Aye, I vow ’tis all ill talk—perpetrated by malicious tongues and naught else!” Robbie declared, looking round again, daring any in the little chamber to deny it.

 

None did, but enough of his long-nosed kinsmen who’d elbowed their way into the solar shook their heads with such forlorn sadness that Robbie’s bravura collapsed.

 

In a rage of disbelief, he glared at them, then at Kenneth, and tossed down the fiery Highland spirits with relish, glad for the numbing warmth its welcome heat left in his throat.

 

“Curse it!” he railed, throwing aside the cup. “I am no fool—I ken you speak the truth. But, see you, the whole of it rips my soul. I ne’er—” he broke off, spun around to face Juliana, his expression bleak. “On my life, I love— . . . I need—”

 

“The only
need
I care aught about is my sister’s health and peace of mind,
cousin,
” Kenneth shot back, tightening his hold on Juliana. “If I can speak plain with you, I’ll mind you that this house has a devil in it—and e’er has! If you wish the best for Juliana, say her Godspeed and accept that I must remove her from here.”

 

“That may be one way, son,” Sir Marmaduke spoke up, his deep voice e’er a river of calm, “but I hold there can be no good in hieing the maid to other bounds now, this very hour. Perhaps—”

 

“I do not know who you are, sir, but I trust myself to ken what is best for my sister,” Kenneth rapped out, eyeing Sir Marmaduke with suspicion. “And while I appreciate your solicitude, there are others present who would be glad to be cleansed of us!” he added, with a scathing glance at Duncan.

 

“By God’s good mercy, I understand your bitterness.” Robbie pushed past his stony-faced father to stand before Kenneth. “But I say you, I love your sister and I wanted to meet you. Just not under such circumstances. Nay, ne’er this . . .”

 

Kenneth arched a brow, looked skeptical. “I dinna see how you could have wished to make my acquaintance. You ne’er knew I existed. Your father made my mother vow that nary a word of my existence—or Juliana’s—would e’er come to your ears.”