Keeper of my Heart (6 page)

“I do na think you can lay your friends’ deaths at the MacBride’s doorstep,” she said, looking at him through knowing eyes, the pain etched on her pale face evident. “Ewan MacBride has many reprehensible qualities but cowardice is na one of them. He is cunning and ruthless and a threat to anyone trying to take what is his, but bravery is na something he lacks. He would have worn his colors proudly so you would have na doubt as to who took your life.”

“You sound as if you know the MacBride laird very well.”

Màiri studied her hold on the reins, a slight color creeping to her cheeks. “As I said, I spent my whole life in the MacBride’s keep.”

“Were you happy there?”

Her breath caught as her cheeks paled even more. “Nay. I was na happy.”

“I owe you, Agatha. Let me give you a home at MacAlister Castle to repay you for all you have done for me.”

Màiri shot him a stunned look of disbelief. “Nay.”

“Why?”

“I do na want to live my life among strangers.”

“You would na be a stranger for long.”

“I will always be a stranger na matter where I go.”

Kenneth pulled on his reins to slow his mount. “There is a spot ahead,” he said, pointing to a clearing near the stream. “We will stop there for the night.”

The only one who objected was the girl. Even though her face was as pale as the shirt he wore and her hands shook from exhaustion, she still urged them on. “There is still a little daylight. We can go a little ways further.”

Iain shook his head. “You are about to fall from your horse. We will still make the convent by early afternoon tomorrow even if we stop now.”

Iain was glad Kenneth turned his mount toward the clearing, leaving the girl no choice but to follow. Once they dismounted, he helped Kenneth build a fire for warmth, then laid out their food and they ate in silence. With the cup of ale still gripped in her hand, the lass fell asleep leaning against the trunk of a tree, the food in her lap barely touched.

Iain picked her up in his arms and placed her on the plaid Kenneth spread out by the fire then covered her with his own plaid. He was not sure he could leave her tomorrow.

“She does na belong in the convent, Kenneth. Why is she so intent on being there?”

Kenneth moved by the fire and added another log for warmth. “I am sure she sees it as her only choice.”

Iain started to ask another question, but Kenneth gripped his broadsword in his hand and turned his back to him. Iain noticed, though, that Kenneth did not let the lass Agatha out of his sight, even when he slept.

. . .

She stood on her tiptoes to reach the latch the servant had forgotten to push down when they’d brought them their meals, and stepped out into the dark, stone corridor. Except for the rare times her mother was allowed to take her on the battlements to play in the sunshine, the four chambers in the far tower of the castle made up her entire world. In her six years, this was the first time she’d ever ventured from their rooms by herself.

Shadows lined the stone passageways as she made her way past narrow arrow slits then down the wide stairway. She thought herself very brave to leave by herself. If she did not stay away long, her mother would never find out.

Sounds of laughter and music echoed in the silence and she skipped with excitement as she came closer. There was another world outside their tower and she could not wait to see it. She could not wait to glimpse the merriment. It was inconceivable that people lived where it was common to openly laugh and sing and sound so jovial. All she knew of life was the quiet loneliness she and her mother endured every day in their tower.

She made her way down the stairs, then down another long hallway, then along the wide balustrade that overlooked the great hall below, making sure she always stayed in the shadows. She could not let him see her. She remembered the last time her mother had angered him. She did not want his anger directed at her without her mother there to protect her.

She searched the great hall first to find him. Her gaze stopped when she spied his huge figure sitting on an elaborately carved chair on the dais at the front of the room near the fire. He had not changed from how she remembered him. He was still as broad shouldered and commanding as he’d been before. His lordly presence dominated the room. She looked around to compare him with the other warriors. None of them seemed nearly as powerful. She stared at him in awe. No wonder he was the laird.

A pretty dark-haired lass sat on his lap feeding him a piece of fruit. He licked the juice dripping from her fingers in a way Màiri found disgusting, then pressed his mouth against hers and held it there. Màiri couldn’t imagine letting a man touch you like that but the lass must have liked it because she whispered something in his ear and kissed him back.

Whatever she’d said to him was humorous because the laird dropped his head back on his shoulders and laughed with a deep rumble that echoed through the hall. With robust enthusiasm, he kissed her again while his hand roamed her body.

Màiri turned away. She would never let a man touch her like that. Even if he was the laird and as handsome as her father.

She shifted her attention to the rows and rows of trestle tables lining the great hall, filled with platters of roasted meats, steaming loaves of warm bread, and bowls of candied fruits that crowded every inch of space. She had never seen such a feast. Her mouth watered when she thought of the thin broth she and her mother had eaten hours before. She breathed in the delicious aromas, wishing she could sneak down and steal some of the food from the tables. She was sure such a treat would bring a smile to her mother’s face.

Scores of warriors filled the room, making jokes, then slapping each other jovially on the backs. Some pulled serving wenches to their laps, kissing them the way her father had kissed the dark-haired lass, then lifted tankards of ale and toasted each other in reckless abandon. Their empty cups were refilled by lasses with broad smiles and friendly greetings. Everyone seemed happy. Could this be the normal way of life in her father’s keep? Could laughter and gaiety be a part of life outside the somber chambers she shared with her mother?

The happy sounds of a gay tune drew her attention. She listened as a red-headed Scottish warrior held a small stringed instrument in his hands and sang a lively tune. Although she could not understand some of the words, the ribald laughter they inspired made her laugh along with the warriors. She sank to her knees and stared through the bars, engrossed in watching some of the lasses dance to the music while the warriors clapped their hands in rhythm.

Something deep inside her exploded with a lightness she’d never experienced before. Even though she did not know why, she soon found herself bouncing to the music and clapping and laughing with the rest. Never before had she felt so free. So happy. So—

Her gift warned her of the danger at the same moment his large hand clamped around her arm, jerking her away from the railing. She tried to run but he threw her into the air as if she weighed nothing, her arm nearly pulled from her shoulder. With a loud growl, he dragged her behind him, his fingers pinching into her tender flesh as he stormed down the long hallway. His strides were so long she could barely keep up with him, her feet stumbling on the uneven steps, her knees scraping against the rough stones.

Once she managed a look at the ferocious scowl on his face. Her stomach lurched from fear. When they reached the far tower where she and her mother lived, he kicked open the door with his foot and dragged her through the opening. Her mother stood in the middle of the room, waiting. Her gift had obviously warned her of the danger too.

“I told you to keep the brat up here and not let her out,” he roared with a bellow that hurt her ears.

Màiri’s mother lifted her daughter from the floor and held her close. “She is not an animal to be locked away, Ewan. And neither am I.”

Her father took a menacing step nearer and lifted his hand as if to strike her. He stopped in mid air. “And what are you? A witch? A sorceress? I certainly do na want you for my wife. It is na natural to be able to tell a lie from the truth just by hearing words, or tell when something bad will happen before it occurs.”

“I cannot tell when something will happen, Ewan. The gift only warns me after it has already occurred.”

“That is not a gift. That is the devil dwelling in you. You are cursed and I am cursed for marrying you.”

“It is not a curse. It is a gift.”

“It is a curse, and it lives in your daughter as well.”

“She is your daughter too.”

“Nay! She was spawned by the devil. Just look at her. Look at her eyes, as green as the devil’s. Would that I were brave enough to rid myself of the both of you. I have been cursed since the day I took you as my wife.”

“Your lies and your immorality are your curse, Ewan. You think yourself cursed because your falsehoods are an open book to me. You think me bewitched because you cannot hide your licentious pursuits from me.”

“Enough! Would that I had never set eyes on you. Would that I could find a way to be rid of you.”

“You can. Send us to live with the sisters at the convent. I will petition for an annulment and you will be free to marry as you will.”

“I canna and you know it. The church would never allow it.”

“The church will,” she pleaded, stepping closer to him. Màiri followed, clinging to her mother’s skirts, even though she was scared to death of the formidable man who was her father.

“It is your own superstitious nature that will na let you,” her mother continued. “You are so convinced I am in league with the devil that you think you will bring down the wrath of Hades if you turn me away.”

“You are! And your father kept your curse hidden from me until I had already wed you. He was just as desperate to rid himself of you as I.”

“Nay. He did not think you would ever discover it.”

“But you could not wait to punish me with your curse.”

“Nay. I could take your lies na longer. Every word that came from your deceitful mouth was a falsehood. I could na turn a blind eye to your lies and your cruelty and your women. You are the one who is evil, Ewan. You are the one the devil has within his grasp. When you take your final breath in this life, the devil will be standing at your bedside to take your soul to Hades with him.”

“Nay!”

The MacBride raised his hand in the air and brought it down hard across his wife’s face. He raised it again and again and struck her on the shoulders and her back until she fell to the floor.

Màiri pushed against her father with all her might, fighting and kicking and hitting, but her small fists were useless against such a big brute. Finally, in a desperate attempt to protect her mother, she lifted an iron from the grate and swung it at him. Because of her shortness, the metal struck him square on his bare knees.

With a loud bellow, he turned his anger on her. He brought his hand down with lightning speed, his blow tossing her across the room, her body stopping only when her back collided with the hard stone wall. He took two giant strides and stood over her with his fist raised again.

Màiri opened her mouth and screamed as loud as she could, praying that someone would hear her cry for help.

. . .

Her restless tossing woke him first and Iain sat up and threw the cover from him just as her ear-splitting scream rent the air. She covered her face with her arms to ward off an imaginary blow as she rolled toward the fire.

“Naaay!”

Iain dove for her. Before Kenneth could reach her, Iain had her trembling body in his arms, holding her close while scalding tears streamed down her face. He cradled her head in his hand and crooned gentle whispers in her ear but she did not calm. Her breathing came in ragged gasps and when she spoke, her breathless voice was filled with fear.

“Don’t let him find me. Dear God in heaven, don’t let him find me,” she pleaded over and over.

“Shh, lass,” Iain crooned. “It’s all right. We’re right here. Nothing can harm ye.”

She threw her arms around his neck and clung to him as if the very devil was on her heels. Iain wrapped his arms around her slight shoulders and knew she fought the same fear as he’d battled when he’d opened his eyes to find he could not see. For him it was a fear of something he couldn’t understand. For Agatha, he knew she could call her fear by name.

“Don’t let him get me. Please. Please, don’t let him take me back.”

Iain looked at Kenneth for answers but received none. “Nay,” Iain answered instead. “He’ll na find you. I promise.”

He had no idea who ‘he’ was, nor where she did not want to go back to, but whoever and wherever it was, it frightened her to death.

“Kenneth.”

“Aye, lass. I’m right here.”

Kenneth knelt at her side and stroked her long, loose hair. She’d fallen asleep before she could plait the dark locks that cascaded almost to her waist and Iain felt its silky softness against his bare arms. Kenneth’s fatherly touch confused Iain and he noticed that she calmed some when she heard his voice.

“Has something happened, lass? Do you sense something?”

She stiffened in Iain’s arms then relaxed again. “Nay. It was only a bad dream.”