Until the Knight Comes (36 page)

A gift he was determined to wear to his birthday revelries later that night.

He would, too. If only the tunic weren’t so tight across the shoulders, the sleeves a mite too short. And his fool fingers so damnably clumsy.

Frowning, Jamie picked up his needle and set to work again. Truth be told, there was nothing wrong with the tunic . . . it was him.

Always had been him.
He was simply too big.

And, he decided a short while later, his hearing was a bit too sharp. Leastways keen enough to note the sudden silence pressing against the closed storeroom door. He tilted his head, listening. His instincts hadn’t lied: gone indeed were the muffled bursts of laughter and ribald song, the occasional barks of the castle dogs, the high-pitched skirls of female delight. Utter stillness held Cuidrach’s great hall in a firm grip, the strange hush smothering all sound.

A deep kind of quiet that didn’t smell well, even held sinister significance—if he were to trust the way the fine hairs on his nape were lifting. Or the cold chill spilling down his spine.

Curious, he set aside the unfinished tunic and his needle and stood. But before he could cross the tiny storeroom, the door swung open. His liege-laird, Sir Kenneth MacKenzie, stood in the doorway, flanked by Sir Lachlan, the Cuidrach garrison captain, and a travel-stained man Jamie had never seen.

The stranger’s rain-dampened cloak hung about his shoulders and his wind-tangled hair bespoke a hard ride. But it was more than the man’s muddied boots and bleary-eyed fatigue that made Jamie’s mouth run dry.

It was the look on the stranger’s face.

The undeniable impression of strain and pity that poured off him and filled the little storeroom until Jamie thought he might choke on its rankness, especially when he caught the same wary sadness mirrored in Sir Kenneth’s and Sir Lachlan’s eyes.

Jamie froze. “What is it?” he asked, his gaze moving from face to face. “Tell me straight away for I can see that something dire has happened.”

“Aye, lad, I’m afraid that is so. Would that I could make it otherwise, but . . .” Kenneth glanced at the stranger, cleared his throat. “See you, this man comes from Carnach in the north of Kintail. Alan Mor Matheson of Fairmaiden Castle sent him. He brings ill tidings. Your father—”

“Of a mercy!” Jamie stared at them. “Dinna tell me he is dead?”

None of the three men said a word, but the tautness of their grim-set expressions said . . . everything.

Jamie blinked, a wave of black dizziness washing over him. Sakes, even the floor seemed to dip and heave beneath his feet. It couldn’t be true. Naught could have struck down his indomitable father. Munro Macpherson was honed from coldest iron, had steel running in his veins. And after a lifetime of the man’s indifference, Jamie shouldn’t care what fate befell him.

But he did, more than he would’ve believed. So much so that the roar of his own blood in his ears kept him from hearing what Kenneth was saying. He could only see the other man’s mouth moving, the sad way Sir Lachlan and the courier shook their heads.

Jamie swallowed, pressed cold fingers against his temples. “Tell me that again, sir. I-I didna hear you.”

“I said your father is not dead, though he is faring poorly, has taken to his bed. That’s why Laird Matheson sent his man to us.” Kenneth came forward, gripped Jamie’s arms. “And there has been a tragedy, aye.”

Jamie’s heart stopped. He could scarce speak. Breaking away from Kenneth’s grasp, he searched the men’s faces. “If not my father, then who? One of my brothers?”

The three men exchanged glances.

Telling glances.

And so damning they filled Jamie with more dread than if someone had leveled a sword at his throat. For one sickening moment, the faces of his nine brothers flashed before his eyes and he thought he was going to faint. But before he could, Sir Lachlan unfastened the hip flask at his belt, thrust the flagon into Jamie’s hand.

“Drink this,” he urged, his face grim. “All of it if you can.”

And Jamie did, gulping down the fiery
uisge-beatha
so quickly the strong Highland spirits burned his throat and watered his eyes.

The last soft-burning droplets still on his tongue, he squared his shoulders and prepared for the worst. “Tell me true,” he entreated, his fingers clenching around the flask. “Which one of my brothers is dead?”

“It grieves me to tell you, lad.” Kenneth drew a long breath, slid another glance at the courier. “’Tis not one of your brothers, but all of them. They drowned in the swollen waters of the Garbh Uisge when the footbridge collapsed beneath them.”

“Christ God, no-o-o!” Shock and horror slammed into Jamie, crashing over him in hot and cold waves as an eerie silence swelled anew, its damning weight blotting all sound but a high-pitched buzzing in his ears and the keening wind.

A low, unearthly moan he only recognized as his own when lancing pain closed his throat and the wailing ceased.

And as soon as it did, he staggered backward, sagged against the stacked wine casks, disbelief laming him. His knees began to tremble and his vision blurred, his entire world contracting to a whirling black void.

A spinning darkness made all the more terrifying because it taunted him with glimpses of his brothers’ faces, cold and gray in death, but also as they’d been in life.

Neill, the oldest, with auburn hair bright as Jamie’s own and the same hazel eyes. Confident and proud, he was the most hot-tempered of Jamie’s brothers. After Neill, came Kendrick, the most dashing with his roguish grin and easy wit, with his ability to create a stir amongst the ladies simply by entering a room.

Then there was Hamish, the dreamer. A secret romantic, good-natured, quiet, and most content when left alone to ponder great chivalric myths and tales of ancient Gaelic heroism. And six others, all dear to him, brothers who’d been his lifeblood in the years his father had shunned him.

His heart’s joy and only solace right up to the day he’d struck out across the heater, found a new home and purpose as squire to Duncan MacKenzie, the Black Stag of Kintail, his liege-laird’s uncle.

And now his brothers were gone.

Jamie closed his eyes and swallowed. He couldn’t believe it. He wouldn’t be able to accept the loss so long as he had breath in his body. But when he opened his eyes and looked into the troubled faces of the three men standing just inside the storeroom’s threshold, he knew it was true.

Still, he tried to deny it.

“It canna be. My brothers knew every clump of heather, every peat bog and lochan, every stone and hill face of our land,” he said, willing the room to stop spinning. “They crossed that footbridge every day, would have known if it was near to collapsing.”

The courier shrugged, looked uncomfortable. “’Tis thought the recurrent rains of late weakened the wood. The planks were aged and warped, some of them rotted. My pardon, sir, but you’ve not been to Baldreagan in years. The bridge truly was in need of repair.”

Jamie struggled against the pain, gave the courier a long, probing look. “You are certain they are dead? All nine? There can be no mistake?”

“Nay, son, I am sorry.” The man shook his head, his words squelching Jamie’s last shimmer of hope. “I saw the bodies with my own eyes, was there when they were pulled from the river.”

Jamie nodded, unable to speak.

The words tore a hole in his heart, stirred up images he couldn’t bear. With great effort, he pushed away from the wine casks and moved to the storeroom’s narrow-slit window, welcomed the blast of chill air, the heavy scent of rain on the raw, wet wind.

He curled his fingers around his sword belt, held tight as he looked out on the night mist, the dark ring of pines crouching so near to Cuidrach’s walls. Swallowing hard, he fixed his gaze on the silent hills, willed their peace to soothe him. But this night, the beauty of Kintail failed him.

Indeed, he doubted that even the sweetest stretch of heather could calm him. He wondered how moments ago his only concern had been restitching his birthday tunic, and now . . . He tightened his grip on his belt, let out a long, unsteady breath just as Cuillin, his aged dog, nudged his leg, whimpering until he reached down to stroke the beast’s shaggy head.

In return, Cuillin looked up at him with concern-filled eyes, thumped his scraggly tail on the floor rushes. Neill had given him the dog, Jamie recalled, a shudder ripping through him at the memory. But as soon as the tremor passed, he turned back to the room, his decision made.

He cleared his throat. “I’ve ne’er been one to thrust myself into places where I am not welcome,” he began, standing as straight as he could, “but I need to ride to Baldreagan, whether my presence suits my father or no. I must pay my respects to my brothers. ’Tis a debt I owe them.”

To his surprise, the courier’s mouth quirked in an awkward smile. “’Tis glad I am to hear you say that,” he said, stepping forward. “See you, as it happens, I’ve brought more than ill tidings.”

He paused, puffed his chest a bit. “Truth be told, I have something that might prove of great interest to you.”

Jamie cocked a brow, said nothing.

Undaunted, the courier fished aside his cloak, withdrew a rolled parchment tied with colorful string and sealed with wax. “Something that might give a lift to your aching heart. See here, I’ve a letter from—”

“My father?” Jamie asked, incredulous.

The courier shook his head. “Och, goodness, nay. Your da is in no form to be dashing off letters. ’Tis from my liege, Laird Matheson. But he sends it in your father’s name—and out of his own wish to do well by you.”

Jamie eyed the letter, suspicion making him wary. “My father and Alan Mor were e’er at odds. It is one thing for Matheson, as our nearest neighbor, to send word of my brothers’ deaths if my father was unable. But to pen a letter in my da’s name? And out of courtesy to me? Nay, I canna believe it.”

“On my soul, it is true.” The courier held out the parchment. “Much has changed in the years you’ve been away. As the letter will prove. You might even be pleasantly surprised.”

Jamie bit back an oath, not wanting to take out his pain on a hapless courier. “I’d say this day has brought enough surprises.” He looked down, nudged the floor rushes with the toe of his boot. “I’m not sure I wish to be privy to any more.”

But he took the parchment, ran his thumb over the seal. “Though I will admit to being . . . curious.”

“Then read the letter,” Kenneth urged him. “What the man says makes sense, Jamie. Now might be a good time to mend the breach with your sire, put the past behind you.”

I have tried to do that the whole of my life,
Jamie almost blurted out. Instead, he found himself breaking the wax seal, unrolling the parchment. He stepped close to a wall torch, scanned the squiggly lines of ink, an odd mix of astonishment and dismay welling inside him.

A brief flare of anger, too. That he should be welcomed home only now, under such grievous circumstances. As for the rest . . . he looked up from the parchment, ran a quick hand through his hair.

He started to speak, but the words caught in his throat, trapped there by the irony of his plight. If Alan Mor weren’t playing some nefarious game, everything he’d e’er wanted now lay within his reach.

If he did what was asked of him.

Seemingly in high favor for the first time in his life, he turned to the courier, tried not to frown. “You know what is in here?” And when the man nodded he continued, “Is it true that my father and Alan Mor have entered into an alliance? One they meant to seal with the marriage of my brother Neill and Alan Mor’s eldest daughter?”

The man bobbed his head again. “’Tis the God’s truth, aye. So sure as I’m standing here.” He accepted the ale cup Sir Lachlan offered him, took a sip before he went on. “Your father is in sore need, asks daily if you’ve arrived. He’s failing by the day, won’t even set foot outside his bedchamber. ’Tis hoped your return will revive him.”

Pausing, the man stepped closer, laid a conspiratorial hand on Jamie’s arm. “That, and seeing the alliance between the clans upheld.”

“Through my marriage to this . . . Aveline?”

“Tchach, lad, which other lass would you have?” The courier drew himself up, looked mildly affronted. “Poor Sorcha is heartbroken o’er the loss of her Neill, and too old for you by years. The other daughters are already wed. It has to be Aveline—she’s the youngest. And still a maid.”

Jamie eyed the man askance, would’ve sworn he could feel an iron yoke settling on his shoulders.

It scarce mattered to him if Aveline Matheson was tender of years. And the state of her maidenhood concerned him even less.

He remembered the lassies of Fairmaiden Castle but, regrettably, not by name. If memory served, there wasn’t a one amongst the brood he’d care to meet on a moonless night. And with surety nary a one he’d wish to bed.

One nearly equaled him in height and build. Another sported a mustache some men would envy. And one e’er smelled of onions. Truth be told, he couldn’t recall a single redeeming feature amongst the lot of them. Binding himself to such a female would prove the surest and quickest route to misery.

But he did want to see his father, help him if he could.

Jamie sighed, felt the yoke tightening around his neck. “I ne’er thought to see my father again in this life. For certes, not because he claims to need me. As for taking one of the Matheson’s daughters to wife—”