Highland Moonlight (28 page)

comes,” Alexander said. “Grandmother wishes to be here as well.”

“Father has already stated his intent to be here too,” Duncan added.

“‘Twill be his first grandchild. He will not wish to miss such an event.”

“Aye. In truth, I believe he is anxious about the lass giving birth.”

“Not so, her own father. ‘Tis doubtful he will wish tidings sent about

the birth,” Duncan commented.

Alexander’s jaw tightened as anger surged within him. “Mary has

renounced him and does not wish further contact between them. She fears

he may betray her again in some way.”

Duncan nodded.

“Has there been talk amongst the men?” Alexander asked.

“Aye, all thus far are showing loyalty to the lass because of her stand

agin her father on your behalf.”

The tight feeling in the pit of his stomach eased somewhat. “Good.”

“It could change,” Duncan warned, his gaze wandering to Tira where

she sat at a table with several village women talking and laughing.

Alexander followed Duncan’s interest. “I have warned her to hold her

tongue.”

“She has been here for some time. There are those who are loyal to

her.”

“They owe their first loyalty to me, Brother.”

Duncan shook his head, his expression grave. “You have much to

learn about women, Alexander.”

“Mary has more than proven her loyalty to the clan with the care she

gives our people. Artair would not have regained the use of his arm had she

not given him such care. Derrick may not have lived. It angers me that she

will have to continue to prove her loyalty again and again when she has

done nothing to deserve suspicion.”

“You do not have to defend her to me, Brother,” Duncan said with a

grin.

Alexander gave a wry smile. “I will not see her harmed by gossip

mongers. She has borne enough.”

“For all you would spare her, there are some battles Mary will have to

fight on her own,” Duncan warned.

“Aye, but those I have brought her are the ones I would fight for her.”

“There will be none left,” Duncan teased.

A presence at Alexander’s side drew both their attention. Tira stood

close to Alexander’s shoulder. “Tis a word I would like to have with you,

Alexander.”

“What would you be speaking to me about, Tira?”

“‘Tis about Cassidy,” she said.

He frowned. “Is the lad ailing?”

“Nay, ‘tis about something else.”

His responsibility lay in serving as a guide to his people and settling

their disputes Tira was one of his people. He rose, with some reluctance, to

his feet and led the way to the antechamber just off the great hall.

“And what is it that can not wait until the morrow for you to discuss with

me?” he asked as he closed the door and turned to face the woman.

Tira’s emerald gaze settled on his face and a pout ripened her full lips,

drawing attention to their lush shape and color. “‘Twas for nearly a year I

served you as a wife, Alexander. ‘Tis cold you have become to treat me as

though I have never been anything to you.”

He kept his tone even. “I am wed now, lass. You do not expect to

continue as we were after I brought my wife to
Caisteal Sith
, did you now?”

Tira’s eyes narrowed. “Had she proven less fertile, you would not have

wed her.”

Her insolent tone sparked his anger and his jaw tightened. “Fertile or

not, Tira, she was two years betrothed to me. I meant to wed her.”

Her lips grew thin as her mouth tightened.

“You spoke of Cassidy,” he reminded her, hoping to finish the

conversation and escape the room.

“Aye.” Her gaze dropped. “‘Tis my wish for him to be fostered with a

clan where he might gain some advantage.”

Surprised, Alexander’s brows rose, his gaze probing her expression.

The sons of a yeoman were rarely fostered. Only those with royal ties were

normally done so.

“You owe me some recompense for the service I gave you, Alexander.”

She raised her chin in a haughty gesture.

He remained silent a moment. Would this then satisfy the woman and

end her enmity toward Mary? “Do you not have kin of your own with whom

you would see him fostered?”

“Nay.” She shook her head.

“You may wed again, lass, and have no need to foster the lad,” he

suggested.

“Nay, I do not wish to wed,” she said her words quick and emphatic.

“Very well. I will think for a time on the matter,” he said with a nod. He

would think on what clansman would make a strong husband for the lass,

as well.

Her quick smile gave him pause, he searched her expression once

again.

“‘Twould be better for him to be accepted in a household where he

might find his place as a warrior like his father, Alexander.”

“Aye, but you do not have to be separated from the lad for him to do so.

He is but a wee lad yet. You may be with him, if you wish it.”

“Has she succeeded in turning you agin your own traditions,

Alexander?”

His anger flared anew. “‘Tis not for you to question what I do, Tira.”

Mayhap Mary had changed his reasoning about some of their

customs. He could not deny he had a desire to guide his son into

manhood, just at his father had him. He had wed a woman who would fight

him should he try to separate her from her child, be it lad or lass. Why was

the woman who stood before him so eager to rid herself of her son?

“I will speak with you again on the matter in a few days. ‘Twould do you

well to think about such a decision for a time.”

“I will not change my mind.”

He urged her toward the door and opened it. They stepped into the

passageway in plain view of the company in the hall.

“‘Tis grateful I am to you, Alexander,” she murmured and rose on tiptoe

to press an unexpected kiss on his cheek.

He frowned after her as she made her way back across the great hall

to her place at one of the tables. His gaze circled the chamber then rose to

the staircase above to see Mary standing on the steps midway down, her

pale blue gaze locked on him. Her expression remained composed though

two bright spots of color stained her cheeks.

Alexander bit back an angry oath and stepped to the base of the stairs

to offer her a hand.

She stopped, one step above him, and her eyes looked directly into

his, their color so pale a blue they looked almost white around the darkness

of her pupils. “Is there some problem you would share with me, Alexander?”

“‘Tis a matter spoken to me in confidence, Mary,” he said with a shrug.

Mary’s features went still.

He wished he could read what lay behind the careful stillness of her

features.

“We must begin the dancing,” she said, her tone short. Placing her

hand on his sleeve, she allowed him to draw her forward to the center of the

floor.

The mandolin player strummed a chord, then the flute and fiddle

started a moderate, lively tune. Mary turned in his arms to face him, her

palms melding to his as her feet caught the beat of the music. The plaid

skirt of her wool surcoat fanned out, brushing his legs as she spun in a

graceful turn. The loud cadence of voices died as the crowd’s attention

came to rest on the two of them.

Alexander rested his hand against her waist, and his other grasped

hers as they promenaded the circle, their feet stomping an intricate rhythmic

pattern in beat to the music. She turned before him over and over again, the

golden length of her hair swinging free, mimicking the movement of her

skirt. As the music ended and they halted. Her pale gold tresses clung to

the sleeve of his russet shirt, spilling like liquid moonlight over his arm.

The men pounded on the wooden tables and clapped their hands in

approval.

The noise died down and a female voice carried well above the crowd.

“‘Tis shamed she should be to be barely wed and five months bairned.”

Alexander’s anger flared hot at the insolent remark. His gaze focused

on Mary’s features in time to see the dark color creep upward into her face

and her hand moved defensively to the front of her gown. He turned to face

his people and his gaze circled the room traveling to each table, seeing

speculation tainting the women’s expressions seated with Tira, but outrage

and anger directed at their table from others.

“Fergus.” He motioned to the steward where he stood near the barrels

of ale. “Bring us each a cup so we may share a toast.”

The man rushed to do his bidding and brought them both a stein filled

with the brew.

Alexander lifted his tankard aloft and raised his voice so all would hear

his words. “To my first born, and to my wife, Mary, the woman who carries

him. May this child be the first of many we will have together. I would ask you

all to drink a toast to them and their continued health.”

A rowdy cry of agreement came from the tables where his men sat.

The villagers followed suit. Gazing directly at the women at Tira’s table,

Alexander waited for each of them to raise her tankard before he tipped his

head back and drank his fill.

He guided Mary to their table. He noticed how her hands shook as she

set aside the stein, smoothed her skirt then clasped them in her lap. He bit

back an oath.

His gaze settled on Tira once again. As Duncan said, she had been a

member of their clan for some time and the loyalties she had secured could

prove a problem if left unchecked. His resolve hardened. He would find a

mate for the woman as soon as possible. He would see her out of the

castle and back into her own hut before the week passed.

“‘Twill take some time, Mary,” Duncan said, his tone soothing.

“Aye,” she agreed. She directed her attention on the stein before her.

The color having faded from her cheeks, she now appeared pale. She

raised a hand to once again brush back the feathery curls from her

forehead.

Alexander placed a palm against her back in a gesture of comfort and

her eyes rose. “All will be well, Mary.” She did not look as though she

believed him.

Mary eyed the reddened flesh of the man’s arm in hopes of seeing

some improvement. For hours, she had applied warm compresses laced

with salt and oak bark to clean the injury and sooth the inflammation around

it. The wound seemed less angry now. She spooned tea made from dried

sorrel leaves and willow bark into his mouth to cool his fever.

“You must seek your rest, Lady Mary,” Grace urged. “‘Tis not good for

you or the bairn to go without.”

Brushing the curling twigs of hair from about her face and brow, Mary

straightened, so stiff from bending it was painful. She rubbed her back to

ease the ache. Studying her fingers, she grimaced at their pruned

appearance.

“He does not deserve such care, Lady Mary,” Gabriel said, his

displeasure palpable. “He would kill you if he had the chance.”

Her eyes focused on Gabriel’s face. “Aye, and he would have to live

with that.” Her attention shifted to the man on the bed. “‘Twould pain me

much more should I turn my back on a man who asked for my care.” Her

attention returned to Gabriel. “Every life is a precious thing, Gabriel. I do not

begrudge the effort it takes to preserve it.”

She rested a hand on Graces shoulder. “‘Tis to your care I shall leave

him, Grace. I will seek my rest for a short time.”

Her steps heavy, Mary climbed the stairs to their chamber. She eased

the door open so as not to wake Alexander then secured it behind her.

A single candle on the bedside table lit the room. She shed her

clothing then slipped beneath the pelts beside her husband. She caught

her breath as Alexander’s warm body pressed close to her from behind. An

arm snaked around her waist to pull her more firmly back against him. His

knees followed the bent posture of hers, and his manhood rested with bold

familiarity against her buttocks. The stark intimacy of his maleness brought

Mary no fear, but a shocking sense of comfort.

“Our bed has been empty without your presence, Mary,” he

complained in a voice gravely with sleep.

As tired as she was, the comment brought her quick pleasure and a

smile sprang to her lips. “‘Tis a relief to seek my rest, Alexander.”

His lips found her shoulder, making her shiver.

“Sleep, lass. You need your rest.”

She would have been more than happy to do that, but worrisome

thoughts plagued her, making it impossible for her to close her eyes. She

drew Alexander’s arm more tightly about her and tucked his hand beneath

her cheek.

“Do not fash yourself about the pettiness of a few lasses, Mary,” he

soothed.

“Gossip is like a festering wound, Alexander. It spreads and eats into

the flesh until it can not be healed.” She drew a deep breath and turned her

face against the pillow in an effort to hold back her tears.

He withdrew his hand from her grasp to run his palm over the