English, Elizabeth (21 page)

"—so
high that ye can touch the sky. And they'll be so surprised to see us—"

"They'll
have a feast!"

Robin
never left that part out, she remembered now, tears falling between her
fingers. He was always hungry. She smuggled him whatever she could from the
kitchens, but it wasn't enough. Seven years old and not growing as he should,
he needed more than scraps. His face was all bones and eyes beneath his cap of
golden curls. Yet his smile had a piercing sweetness and his eyes were merry,
fixed on a future that now would never be.

"They'll
have meat and oatcakes and all the honey even you could ask for, Ally!" he
would say, nudging her with one sharp elbow. "We'll eat until we're
bursting—"

"And
then they'll play upon the pipes and we'll all dance and sing..."

Even
now the music of the pipes cut through the gathering darkness and Alyson
pressed her hands over her ears, trying to shut it out. It was all that they
had dreamed of, but all wrong, all spoiled now forever.

A
mighty cheer went up and she walked to the doorway. The bonfire was blazing and
dancers were silhouetted against the flame. Dancing and singing and feasting...

When
Malcolm came to bid her to the feast, she sent him away again, pleading an
aching head, and lay down to sleep, trying to blot the music from her ears. But
even when she slept she heard it still, in her dreams, where Robin laughed as
she danced with a dark-eyed man and was happier than she had ever imagined
possible.

When
she woke in the gray morning light she lay listening to the rain upon the
thatched roof, wondering where she could find the strength to rise and face the
day.

The
rain stopped and the festivities resumed, though
now Alyson made no
effort to join the other women at their work. Instead she walked to the high
moor and sat alone, her heart heavy with confusion and sorrow. Today the
distant mountains were shrouded in mist, only a few jagged peaks rising from
the fog. For all their beauty, these mountains were as harsh and unforgiving as
the men and women who wrested their living from their slopes.

It
was unlikely that she and Robin would have survived the journey, Alyson
reflected. Even if they had found this place, she wondered how long her fragile
brother would have lasted here. The Highlanders existed in a poverty that was
beyond anything she had ever known. Food was scarce and even the simplest
comforts were unheard of. Their dwellings were rough cairns of stone, furnished
with only the barest of necessities.

Life
is very simple here, she thought, propping her chin in her hand. Life and
death. Right and wrong. Loyalty to the clan. There was no room or time for
ambiguity or shades of gray.

Now
she understood how her gentle mother had survived the tragedy that had befallen
her. Clare had seemed so delicate, but underneath had run a strength like finespun
steel. Never once had she allowed herself to sink into bitterness or self-pity.
Her faith had remained as unshakable as the mountains from which she had
sprung.

And
just as beautiful, Alyson thought, tears starting to her eyes.

"Aunt!"
Malcolm cried, arriving breathless at the crest. "Come see! We're to have
racing and archery—hurry, now, I don't want to miss the start!"

He
grabbed her hand and pulled her down to the meadow. The men were all gone,
Alyson noted, off to some meeting at the McLarans' dwelling. It was only the
women who gathered to watch the boys compete with bows and arrows and mock
swords.

Malcolm
had thoughtfully laid a length of plaid upon the ground for her so she felt she
had no choice but to remain. The others drew back a little and she sat in a
little island among the bright tartans and felt utterly alone. But she did her
best to smile when Malcolm ran to bring her the bit of ribbon he'd won in a
footrace. When the games were done the women lingered for a time in the
afternoon sunlight, and Malcolm plopped down beside her with a grin.

"Did
ye see me?" he demanded, laying another ribbon in her lap.

"Aye.
You did very well."

"I
did, didn't I?" He lay back and crossed his arms beneath his head.
"Sean McInnes was good, wasn't he? I never thought I'd beat him. And he's
fourteen! But then Alistair says that I'm like my father and he always won
everything... I think he would have been proud of me," he added on a yawn.

"Oh,
he would, Malcolm. I'm sure he would have been very proud. And your grandfather
will be proud, too, when he hears how well you did."

"Mmm..."
Malcolm murmured, his eyes closing. Most of the women were napping, weary from
the feasting last night and the preparations for tonight's meal. Alyson blinked
sleepily in the sunlight and at last gave into the somnolence of the afternoon.
She lay down beside Malcolm and slept.

It
was an hour later that Jemmy stared curiously at the two figures curled
together on the plaid.

Malcolm
had always refused to hear a word against his new aunt, insisting that she was
his friend. Jemmy had thought it odd, but then Malcolm was an odd boy who he
didn't begin to understand. He had never once imagined that his nephew was
telling the truth and Maude returned his affection. She'd never given any sign of
doing so. In fact, she'd always been quite sharp with Malcolm when he clamored
for her notice.

Now
Malcolm's head was nestled trustingly on her shoulder and her sleep-flushed
cheek rested on his curls. Why go out of her way to make it seem she didn't
care when that obviously wasn't the case? It made no sense, none at all, and
Jemmy distrusted things that made no sense. What harm could there be in showing
kindness to an orphaned boy who obviously adored her?

It
was almost as though there were two people who bore Maude's name, and the one
she showed the world seemed determined to make herself disliked. But why would
she do something so foolish? How could she hope to survive among the Kirallens,
especially after Jemmy was gone?

Malcolm's
eyes opened and he sat up. "Uncle Jemmy," he said excitedly. "I
won the race and the archery—"

"Did
you? That's fine, Malcolm," he said absently, his eyes still on his wife.

He
wanted to see her when she first woke, before she had a chance to put up her
guard. Her expression might reveal something—anything—that would help him
understand her.

"Look,
Uncle Jemmy, I got these—" Malcolm continued, thrusting a bit of grubby
ribbon in his face.

"Very
nice. Now run along, the games will be starting."

The
boy's face fell. "Aye, Uncle," he said, his shoulders drooping as he
walked slowly across the moor.

"You
could show a bit of interest."

He'd
missed the moment of waking. She was already sitting up, her brows drawn
together in a frown.

"I've
other things to do just now," he said.

"You
always have other things to do, don't you?" she retorted, getting to her
feet and shaking out the plaid before folding it neatly across her arm.
"But
he
doesn't."

Malcolm
ran up to a group of men and swung on Alistair's arm, nearly overbalancing him.
But Alistair only smiled, and breaking off his conversation, gave the boy his
full attention. Jemmy glanced at his wife and saw that she was watching, too,
and she shook her head as Alistair put an arm about Malcolm's shoulders and
pulled him close.

"Do
you
want
him to take your brother's place?" she cried. "With
Malcolm, with your knights? Your people need
you,
not him! Why don't you
do
something—anything—to stop him?"

Before
Jemmy could answer she turned and ran across the moor. A man fights for what
matters, Jemmy thought. Well, there was no denying that. And what mattered—the
only thing that mattered—was that he regain his freedom. Let Alistair take it
all. That's what the Laird wanted, and that's what would surely be.

So
Jemmy told himself, standing all alone on the moor. But for the first time he
wondered what
he
wanted—he, himself, not his father's son or Ian's
brother. To sail away and be free of all of them?

But
why
should
he be the one to go? No matter what Father thought of him,
the fact was that Jemmy was entitled to far more than three hundred marks and
his passage back to Spain.

Father
believed he was doing the right thing for his clan in sending Jemmy away. But
Maude didn't agree. Maude believed that
he
was meant to rule, not just
by right of birth, but because of who he was—or who she thought he was. A man
who cared for his people. But did he care enough to fight?

Jemmy
watched her run gracefully across the moor, bright hair streaming behind her.
In that moment he wanted her so badly that nothing seemed impossible, if he
could only keep her at his side.

***

Alyson
tried to hide in her cottage, but Malcolm would
have none of it. He
insisted she go with him to the place where the Kirallens had gathered to cheer
lustily for their men. Malcolm didn't seem to notice the dark looks they gave
her or the way they drew aside as if fearing any contact. The open hostility of
the other clans seemed to have reminded them of the shame they ought to feel at
the connection and even the few women who had been cordial before greeted her
arrival with stony silence.

Despite
herself Alyson was hurt again. As the games began, she watched without much
interest. But soon her attention was caught and held by Jemmy, who competed
with deadly intensity, as though he would win or die in the attempt.

No
man moved more gracefully to toss spear or stone, though in the latter
competition one of the McLarans took the prize. When the wrestling began the
contestants stripped to the waist, and though she tried not to stare, Alyson
could hardly help but notice Jemmy's broad shoulders and slim hips, or that he
was all lean muscle beneath his sun-browned skin.

He
tied a strip of tartan about his brow to hold the hair back from his face,
though it fell behind loose and curling halfway to his waist. He did well,
which was no surprise considering his size—he stood taller than nearly all the
men. But even when set against Hugh McLaran, the enormous, redheaded man they'd
met the day before, Jemmy's agility was so great that he prevailed. The
Kirallens clapped and yelled, and at last Jemmy faced off against Alistair.

Alistair
was half a head shorter than Jemmy, but he was solid with muscle and moved with
a dancer's grace. The match wore on as they came together and broke apart, each
taking the other's measure. At last they stood, arms locked and feet planted,
each striving to bring the other down.

There
was none of the shouted encouragement or good-natured insults that had
accompanied the other matches. This had gone beyond an afternoon's diversion
and become something else entirely. Alyson's stomach gave a little lurch as she
watched Jemmy's muscles knot beneath the glistening skin of his back and arms.
And then it was done so quickly that she could not see exactly how Jemmy moved
to send his kinsman crashing to the ground.

Without
thinking Alyson joined in the applause, laughing. When Jemmy straightened, his
eye caught hers and he smiled in return, sending a rush of color to her cheeks.
And Alyson was so flustered that she did not even see Alistair rise and spring
at Jemmy from behind.

They
fell to the ground, Jemmy pinned beneath his kinsman's substantial form. The
crowd gave a gasp of surprise at the move, then ten hands at once seized
Alistair and pulled him roughly to his feet. Jemmy rose and looked at the other
man coolly until Alistair turned, flushing, and stalked off the grounds. Jemmy
shrugged, refusing all offers of help.

"I'm
well," he said. "It would take more than that one to hurt me."

But
Alyson saw that as he bent to retrieve his clothing he winced and when he
walked to the sidelines he was moving stiffly. Emma saw as well, for she
approached him and laid one hand on his arm, speaking to him earnestly. He
began to shake off her hand, then shrugged again and followed her toward the
cooking fire. Half a dozen women gathered round him, each offering to help. But
Emma said in her clear voice, "Nay, let his lady tend to him."

Then
all eyes turned to Alyson. What would Maude do? she asked herself frantically,
but this time there was no answer. She could not even imagine Maude in this
situation, let alone guess how her half sister might react.

"Belike
she doesn't know how," one of the women said, looking at her slyly. And
they all began to laugh.

Alyson's
back stiffened and she walked toward the fire.

"Tis
nothing," Jemmy said. "There's no need—"

"Let
me see," Alyson said, kneeling. "Now sit still, stop fidgeting."
She passed one hand lightly over his ribs and he drew in a sharp breath. She
looked at him quickly.

"Does
that hurt?"

"No."

She
felt the heat rise to her face but could not seem to look away. "And
that?" she said, trying to sound cool and firm. "Is there pain?"