Highland Passage (12 page)

13

The Homecoming

Ciarán took the oars and rowed the boat to the castle while Mac sat, untroubled for the first time since she had arrived. But as she watched Ciarán row, with his arm muscles flexing, a new trouble took over. He was simply a fine man to look at. Strong body, sure mind, and a smile that made her want to lift her chin to it as though it were the sun.

He smiled curiously at her. “What’s on your mind, lass?”

Suppressing her own smile, she said, “Nothing.”

He stopped rowing and leaned his elbows on his knees. “Oh, I think not, my fair maiden. ’Twas something. Your face was fair glowing.”

A blush spread through her cheeks, but something about his self-assurance made her want to conceal it. “You don’t have to know all that I’m thinking.”

“But I want to.” He lifted his eyes to meet hers with a gaze so direct that her heart leapt to her throat. “I want to ken every part of your mind and your body.” He reached out for her hand, and she gave it to him. He slid his fingertip up one of her fingers and down the next as he said, “Every nook, every cranny, every hidden part that no one else sees or touches, I want to make mine.” When she did not look at him, he took her face in his hands. “Mac.” And he tilted her face so she had to look at him. He said simply, “I love you.” Not waiting for her reaction, he kissed her.

Mac sank into his arms, gripping his shirt fabric as though she might drown. There was no help for her now. From this point on, her heart would ache in his absence.

Sensing her apprehension, Ciarán looked at her calmly and said, “I will be by your side, and I will keep you safe.”

Mac knew that he meant it, but she knew he could not keep her heart safe—not from him or from her own flood of emotions. Common sense told her to flee, but she stayed and said nothing. And by failing to voice her true feelings, she set a new course. She could no longer convince herself that this feeling was anything other than love, for she knew that it was. And this love was the sort that would last, even though she would soon have to leave him. Still clutching his shirt, she pulled him close and kissed him. She wanted him now with no thought but to touch him and taste him until it was time for her to leave. He held her and answered her longing with his. And that was when she was sure that both their hearts would break.

*

When they arrived at the castle, the celebration had already begun. Hamish and Fergus had already arrived. A great feast and much ale and whisky were provided for all to share in the celebration of Ciarán’s release from captivity. Hamish did not directly claim credit, but neither he nor Fergus discouraged people from forming such a conclusion.

Clasping Mac’s hand, Ciarán kept her in tow for a time until whisky and manly pats on the back and embraces swept him away. He looked back once or twice, but Mac just grinned and waved as someone new would draw him into more talking and laughter.

Perhaps if there had been a woman to talk to, to pull her aside and draw her into a circle of friends, she might have felt more at home. But there was none. All the women here were either working or scattered about in small groups, heads together in close conversation. None of them invited her to join them, so Mac wandered around largely unnoticed. They had seen her with Ciarán, so they knew she belonged in the sense that she was not a threat, for no one belonged there less than she. Even so, she reminded herself that this was a rare opportunity to observe life in these turbulent times in history. Flames from the fire and wall sconces cast a soft light on the people whose faces were lined not only with the harshness of life but also with laughter. There was a sense of community that had been lost in the generations that led to her lifetime.

She glanced over at Ciarán and smiled. He was having a grand time. He was clearly well-liked and as happy with his friends as they were with him. He was rooted in the history of his clan and held up by the loyal clansmen around him as much as they were by him. They were strong and secure as a people and as individual men and women who were parts of something much greater. And Ciarán was one of them, inextricably bound to life here. This was something that Mac loved about him, but it would be their undoing. For as much as he was part of his life here, so she was anchored to her own life—to her sister. Without Cam, she would feel adrift, as would Cam without her. It was one more reminder of why she could not stay.

Someone handed her a cup of whisky, which she drank, and another, which she also drank. At some point, Ciarán was swept away, and she lost track of him. Guests made their way to long tables set up in the great hall for supper. A young woman handed her baby to an older woman beside her and took her place beside a small group of musicians. While the fiddle, lute, and bodhrán played, the young woman sang with a tone that was clear and pure. Mac was transfixed.

A firm hand grasped hers. Without looking, she knew him. His touch sent a surge of energy passing between them.

“Bonnie lass, would you join me for supper?”

A smile formed unbidden from her heart, and it shone through her eyes as she looked at him. “Why, yes, sir, I would.”

He grinned and led her between the two long rows of tables lining the walls until they arrived at the dais. There they sat at the high table beside Hamish, the constable of the castle. Although Clan MacKenzie owned Eilean Donan, the MacRaes were entrusted with keeping it for them. Mac did not need to wonder what Ciarán’s role was in the castle. Although he was clearly liked and respected, he held no formal title. Any function he had in the workings here was of Hamish’s granting. Hamish respected his brother and sought his advice. Mac suspected they had fought side by side. Although Ciarán showed no signs of it bothering him, Mac had to wonder if it sometimes irked him to be at Hamish’s mercy solely because of birth order. But as the thought came, she dismissed it. She thought of her sister and how it would be if they had to share power. There would be the usual squabbles, but they would rise above it. It must be so with Ciarán and Hamish.

While the meal was served, a series of toasts began, the first one being to Ciarán. Hamish welcomed him home, and a rumble of echoing sentiments followed.

Ciarán stood and quieted them. “I am here by the grace of my brother and this lovely lass by my side. She goes by the name of Mac. Although I find her name passing strange, I find the lady, herself, passing fair.” A low rumble of agreement rose from the tables. “And I ask that you welcome her here.” With that, he lifted her hand and bent down to kiss it. With a boyish grin, he lifted his eyes and gave her a wink. Turning back to the guests, he said, “Celebrate my good fortune, my friends, for I will, I assure you!” People laughed and returned to their own drinks and conversations.

She caught ribald remarks and crude glances from those at a table nearby. Diverting her glances only brought other similar looks. “Ciarán.” She turned to him and said his name again. When he turned, she said under her breath, “People think you’re going to ‘celebrate’ me.”

He glanced at her air quotes with a now-familiar look of confusion. It always passed quickly, for he seemed to have learned to dismiss such things as small signs of her strange, modern ways.

Mac tried again. “They think I’m your round-heeled wench.”

After a moment of thought, he grinned, having understood her meaning.

Mac met his grin with narrowing eyes. “I did not travel back in time just to boink you.”

He started to laugh, for her meaning was clear, but the hurt look in her eyes stopped him. He looked somberly at her. “Why did you come back?” he asked as if he knew the answer.

Mac looked down at her food. She would not make a scene. Softly, she said, “I don’t know. I was curious to know what you’d be like.”

He cocked his head slightly. “To boink?” He let his grin spread to his eyes and watched for her reaction. He leaned closer and whispered. “There it is.”

“There what is?”

“The color in your cheeks.” He brushed one of her cheeks with his knuckles. “If dozens of eyes were not watching, I’d kiss you here, and down here on each patch of color.”

With a glance toward the tables of people that lined the great hall, Mac took hold of his hand and gently pulled it from her neck. “Please stop. You’re embarrassing me.”

He drew back, plainly confused, but he acquiesced with a nod. “As you wish.” He then turned away and proceeded to busy himself drinking whisky and talking to Hamish. For the rest of the evening, he made no further effort to talk, let alone touch.

More music followed dinner. This was livelier. The crowd spilled out to the bailey. For the first time in more than an hour, Ciarán rose and left her sitting alone. Hamish was turned away, talking. Mac felt ill at ease, so she rose and, with no place else to go, went out to the bailey. Amid all the merriment, she was lonely. A few women greeted her with shy respect. Men went out of their way to avoid her, no doubt out of respect for Ciarán. If she had been told where her room was, she would have gone to it now. She was exhausted. The one place she knew in a castle was the kitchen. Even if they saw her as Ciarán’s wench, they would not dare turn her away. So she went there and sought out a corner near the fire where she could curl up and rest.

The activity calmed down around her as the kitchen work was completed and the hour grew late. Mac drifted to sleep, sitting on the floor, leaning against the stone wall. As she dozed, she heard the distant scuffle of feet but then drifted into a deep sleep.

After the fire had grown cold, powerful arms lifted her. Mac awoke. She breathed in his scent and knew without looking that it was Ciarán. But she did look up at him. “I fell asleep.”

“So I gathered.”

“I’m awake now. I can walk.” After she said it, she wished she had not, for his arms were so warm.

Ciarán set her down and took her hand to lead her through the castle and up a narrow spiral flight of stairs. They stopped in front of a door, which he unlocked and gently pushed open. Embers glowed in the fireplace, casting a warm glow on the foot of a bed thick with linens and blankets.

“Sleep here.”

“Where will you be?”

“Dinnae fash yersel. I’ll be nearby.”

“Where?”

“Across the hall.”

The way he said it made it sound far away. But he was close now, and she wanted to feel his arms on her and his body against hers.

Ciarán gestured for her to enter. “Go on. Get some rest.”

She passed the threshold but then turned and put a hand on his arm. “Ciarán, wait. I’m sorry. I know that you’re angry. But I felt uncomfortable. People were leering as though I were—”

“I ken what you thought.” His anger cut through the air between them as he lifted her hand and set it carefully down to hang at her side. “Go in. Latch the door.”

Mac glanced at the door, hoping door locks had not changed in the past three hundred years.

Seeing the look on her face, Ciarán opened the door and stepped inside her room. With a hint of impatience, he showed her the latch. “Here. Close the door and then slide your thumb so, and ’tis latched.” He took a step back but stopped short of leaving the room.

Masked in shadows, they looked at each other, feeling more than they saw in the dark of the tension between them. Mac opened her mouth to speak, but words did not come easily. Ciarán shifted his weight, and she feared he would leave.

“Ciarán, I’m sorry.”

“Are you?”

Mac started to reach out, but he undid the latch and started to leave her room.

“Yes.” She withdrew her hand. “I just felt—I don’t know. I’m not used to a lot of attention and the way they were staring.”

“Aye, ’tis true. They were staring. And you thought the worst—of them and of me.” He walked into the hallway toward his room but stopped and turned back.

Mac stood in her doorway. “They were leering,” she said. “It was no reflection on you.”

“No reflection?” Deliberately dispassionate eyes met hers. “Because I am a barbarous man who puts his women on display for the rabble to ogle?”

“I never said that. I just felt uncomfortable.”

“Aye, ’tis no wonder.”

Mac was not sure what he meant by that, but she did not have to wait long to find out.

Ciarán said, “I’ll not argue that your ways are not different from ours, but I’ll not agree that they’re better. For what good is it if you’re so caught up in yourself that you cannae see what’s before you?”

Mac bristled. “Well, I don’t appreciate that.”

“You don’t like it, you mean, because it’s true.”

Mac gasped as her temper flared. “I just don’t like people staring. If that makes me caught up in myself, you’re no better.”

“Oh, aye?”

“Aye—I mean, yes! You put me on display like a trophy to puff up your ego.”

“My what?”

“Never mind!” Only then did she lower her eyes, but she could not get past his full lips. They were now inches from hers.

Ciarán fell as silent as she, except for their breathing. Mac leaned away, but it was not enough, so she took a step backward.

The light from the wall sconce flickered across Ciarán’s muscular arms as he gripped the doorframe and leaned closer. In a voice so controlled that it was chilling, he said, “If anyone stared, it was because no woman has sat by my side at that table before.” Mac’s eyes widened even as Ciarán’s narrowed. “They were happy to see it for my sake. So dinnae judge my people harshly for being different from yours. They love me, as I love them. And they would have loved you.”

He glanced down as he quietly closed the door between them. Mac stared at the door until the echo of Ciarán’s own closing door faded to nothing.

14

The Proper Order of Things

A series of raps at the door woke Mac. She had hoped to hear Ciarán’s voice, but it was only a chambermaid. She set down a tray with porridge and ale and then added some wood to the fire. Mac asked if she might have a bath. The maid left and returned with an armful of clothing and a series of servants in tow carrying a wooden bath tub and pails of steaming hot water. When they offered to stay to assist, Mac thanked them and insisted that she would manage from there.