Lady of Light (11 page)

“Nay, he hasna, has he?” Even as Father MacLaren solemnly agreed, laughter danced in his eyes. “Some-how, though, I dinna think that will remain much of an obstacle. Not for verra long, at any rate.”

Claire finished brushing up one side of her hair, then slid a pretty, tortoiseshell comb in place high on her crown to anchor it. After doing the same with the other side, she tied the remainder of the long, curly length at the nape of her neck with an emerald green ribbon. Critically yet also very nervously, Claire then examined her image in the small wall mirror beside her bed.

Her hair looked passable, she supposed. Her face was scrubbed until it was clean and pink. Her one good linen blouse had seen better days, as had most of her clothing, but at least it had been washed until it was snowy white, then crisply pressed. She wore her best woolen skirt and shawl, both in a Sutherland plaid of blue, green, white, and red. A belt, her plain silver brooch, stockings, and leather shoes completed her ensemble.

She hoped Evan would find her attractive and only have eyes for her this eve at the
ceilidh
. The traditional, periodic gathering of neighbors in the village center for storytelling and songs, a celebration that usually went on until the wee hours, seemed like the perfect way to spend time with Evan and not appear as if she was fawning over him. Still, if a beautiful June night under the stars didn’t finally bring out the romantic in him, Claire figured nothing would.

Three weeks had passed since Father MacLaren’s talk with her, and Claire had yet to discern any sign of Evan’s purported affection. He remained friendly, helping her each night with the evening meal. He went to mass with her each Sunday, had long talks with Ian, and the time he didn’t spend doing chores for Angus or visiting with Lainie and Donall, he spent making small repairs to her croft.

But never once had Evan tried to hasten the progress of their friendship or spoken like a man intent on courtship. If there had ever been a spark of love growing in Evan MacKay’s breast for her, Claire was convinced it had all but died away. Problem was, the more she was with Evan, the deeper her own feelings for him grew. Och, but he was the most maddening of men!

She made a face at herself in the mirror, then turned away. “Serves you right,” she muttered disgustedly. “When you first came to Culdee, you spurned the advances of all the eligible young men. And now you finally understand how much pain your coldheartedness must have caused.”

A sudden restlessness assailed her. Claire paced the confines of her small room until her glance snagged on the old wooden clarsach lying on its soundboard atop her clothes chest. Mayhap its sweet voice would calm her jangled nerves. There was time yet, before Evan came to fetch her. Time enough to spend with her beloved harp.

She walked over, picked up the little clarsach, and carried it to the room’s single chair. Sitting, Claire nestled the instrument in the curve of her left shoulder. With her fingernails, she lightly stroked its brass wire strings, eliciting a melodious, bell-like tone. Then, with a sigh, she positioned her hands and started to play.

After a time, as it always did, the music began to soothe and uplift her soul. Claire played several ancient ballads; then a lively jig, plucking the strings then dampening them with strong, sure fingers. When she finally paused, a knock sounded at the front door.

“Claire? It’s Evan. May I come in?”

She quickly laid aside the clarsach, straightened her shawl, and checked her appearance once more in the mirror. Then she turned and hurried from her bedroom. “Aye, come in, Evan.” As she spoke, Claire pulled open the front door. “Have you been waiting long? I must have forgotten the time. I do that frequently when I play my …”

At the sight of the bouquet of flowers Evan held in his hand, her voice faded. He grinned and thrust them at her.

“I saw these at the market today, and I couldn’t resist buying them for you. A pretty lady deserves pretty things.”

“Why, thank you, Evan.” Claire knew her face must be turning several shades of crimson as she accepted the bouquet. It was a mix of pink and red rose buds, lacy fern fronds, and sprigs of white heather. It was also, she thought, the most beautiful gift she had ever received. “Thank you ever so much.”

They stood there for a long moment, suddenly shy and awkward with each other. Then Claire remembered her manners.

“I’d best be putting them in some water before we leave for the
ceilidh,”
she mumbled, wheeling about and striding into the main room. “I wouldn’t want them to wilt while we were gone.”

Wordlessly, Evan followed her into the room and watched as she found a pottery vase, filled it with water, and placed the flowers into it. “There, that’ll brighten the room, don’t you think?” she asked as she placed the bouquet in the middle of the big table.

At her query, Evan appeared to finally find his tongue. He jerked, then nodded. “Yes, it does look right fine there.” As he spoke, though, he never once considered the flowers, but stared at her. Ever so slowly, a smile lifted his lips. “I must say, as pretty as they are, they can’t begin to compare to how beautiful you look tonight, Claire.”

At Evan’s words, and the undisguised look of admiration in his eyes, a thrill vibrated through her. She managed an unsteady grin. “You don’t look so bad yourself.”

And, indeed, he didn’t. Since she had seen him last, Evan had had his dark hair trimmed. In the cruisie’s flickering illumination, the glossy waves glinted with highlights of ebony and midnight. His skin was tanned from all the time spent outdoors, a most attractive contrast to the white shirt he wore unbuttoned at his throat and rolled up at the sleeves, and his navy blue flannel vest. His black trousers skimmed long legs and slim hips, accentuating even more the width of his shoulders and breadth of his chest. In his hand Evan clutched his ever-present black cowboy hat, a “Stetson,” he had called it.

She thought him a most handsome man, even more so than when she had first met him. It was strange indeed, Claire thought, how coming to know the heart of someone only made him look the better. A month ago, she would’ve laughed such a statement to scorn but now … now she knew how wrong she would’ve been.

“Well, shall we be on our way?” Evan extended his arm to her. “After all you and Ian have told me about these
ceilidhs,
I don’t want to miss a minute of it.”

“Och, aye,” Claire agreed, stepping up to take his arm, “they
are
great fun. Haven’t you any such celebrations in America?”

As Evan led her from the house, his brow furrowed in thought. “Well, there’s quite a bit of excitement and celebrating on the Fourth of July, our nation’s birthday. And the little town near the ranch, Grand View, periodically has a town dance and social. All the single ladies make a box dinner that’s auctioned off to the single men. Then the lady whose box you’ve bought gets to eat the meal with you.” He grinned. “It works out very well, if you’re of a mind to court the lady.”

She shot him an arch look as they walked along. “And how many box dinners have you bought?”

“Not too many. And none of any lady I was ever of a mind to court.”

“That’s a most intriguing custom. Mayhap I’ll have to suggest we give it a try.”

“If you did, I’d be first in line to buy your dinner.”

Her heart gave a leap, then began a faster rhythm. “But only because you know and trust my cooking, I’m sure.”

“No.” Evan pulled her to a halt. “Not only because I know and trust your cooking, Claire. Far from it. I’d buy your dinner because it’d be yet another excuse to spend time with you. And because I’d like to court you, if you’d be of a mind to consider it.”

Claire inhaled a sharp, shallow breath. Now that Evan had finally uttered the first words signaling his intent to change the pace of their relationship—an intent she had been dreaming about since Father MacLaren’s talk—her sudden surge of joy was swiftly replaced by one of fear. What had once been but a pleasant dream had become reality. A reality she must now face and commit to, one way or another.

As she gazed up into his warm, wonderful eyes, however, one by one all of Claire’s fears melted away. She felt as if she had known Evan for a long while now. She trusted him. And she knew, with a woman’s instinct strong and sure, that he was worth the risk, if any man was.

Then the sound of rough, male voices, raised in laughter, drifted down the tree-lined road leading from Culdee. Claire frowned. If she wasn’t mistaken, one of those voices sounded suspiciously like Dougal MacKay’s.

“Is that ye, Claire?” his deep voice boomed of a sudden, rising from the shadows. “I told the lads ye’d be on yer way to the
ceilidh
by now, but they insisted we come fetch ye nonetheless.”

As he spoke, he and a group of four other men moved toward them. Dougal and his gang of thugs. Unease rippled through Claire. If it had just been her alone tonight, she would’ve soon set Dougal straight. He’d back down quickly enough, rather than risk the full force of her temper.

Things, though, wouldn’t go so well for Evan if Dougal found her with him. She knew that from bitter experience, the few times she had walked to some other village social with one of the local lads. Dougal would never back down from anyone he suspected was trying to court her. Especially with all his friends behind him.

Claire looked to Evan. “Mayhap it would be best if you went on without me. I could walk the rest of the way with Dougal and the others, and rejoin you once I reach Culdee.”

His face an inscrutable mask, Evan stared down at her. “And why’s that, Claire? Have you suddenly decided to throw me over for Dougal?”

“Nay.” She shook her head, even as a sick feeling twined and twisted in her belly. “But Dougal won’t take kindly to you escorting me to the
ceilidh
instead of him. He has been known to resort to violence—he and his friends.” She grasped him by the arm. “Please, Evan. Go now, before it’s too late—”

“Well, well, what have we here?” Dougal MacKay growled as he and his cronies at last drew up before them.

“I think it’s pretty obvious, mister,” Evan said, meeting the other man’s narrow-eyed gaze with a steady one of his own. “Claire and I are on our way to the
ceilidh
. You’re welcome to join us if you’d like.”

Dougal looked him up and down. “And what if I say instead, hie yerself along and leave Claire to me? What would ye do then?”

“I think I’d leave it up to the lady in question.” Evan turned to her. “Do you want to go to the
ceilidh
with Dougal or with me, Claire?”

Though her heart cried out the opposite, she forced herself to give the answer for Dougal. “For your sake, it would be best if I went with him, Evan.”

The burly Scotsman gave a hoot of triumph. “Jist as I supposed! Claire wants to go with me!”

Evan smiled with grim resolve. “That’s not what I asked you,” he said softly, never taking his gaze from hers. “Do you
want
to go with Dougal instead of me?”

“Nay,” Claire whispered, her whole heart in her reply. “You know I don’t.”

“Well, then it’s settled.” Evan took her by the arm and turned to face the men. “You heard her, Dougal. Now, let us by.”

As Evan stepped forward with Claire, the big farmer moved to stand before them. “And
I
say, let her go and be on yer way while ye’re still able. Claire’s mine. ’Tis past time ye acknowledged that.”

“Claire’s no man’s unless she chooses to be.”

Evan’s bold statement was finally enough to stir Claire to action. It seemed there was no way to avoid a confrontation now, at any rate. “Aye, Dougal,” she said, glaring up at him. “It’s true. I’ve never once encouraged you in your determination to take me as wife.” She scanned the others. “Have any of you ever seen me once cozy up to Dougal, or heard me speak tender words of love to him? Have you?”

Two of the men standing behind Dougal, John Cameron and Henry MacDuff, actually looked away and shuffled their feet, but, like their compatriots, they refused to reply. With a sinking heart, Claire shook her head. None of them, she realized, would go against their leader—no matter how wrong he was.

Dougal smirked. “Well, enough o’ this.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Lads, help me out here, will ye?”

As if on cue, all four men strode up to Evan. For a split second, Claire thought Evan meant finally to passively acquiesce. Then, he released her arm and flung himself at his opponents.

“Run, Claire!” he yelled, falling into the press of bodies.

In the next instant, Dougal had grabbed her about the waist and pulled her out of harm’s way. Fury swelled in her. Claire twisted and fought in the big farmer’s grip. “Let me go!” she screamed. “Let me go!”

To add further emphasis to her demand, Claire dug her elbow into Dougal’s side. His grip on her momentarily loosened, then tightened once more. He slid his other arm across her chest, pinning her tightly to him.

“Stop yer brattlin’,” he snarled in her ear. “’Twill do ye no good to struggle and squirm. The fight will be over in but a moment as ’tis.”

Yet even as Claire slumped against him, panting for breath, she saw that Dougal’s prediction was far from accurate. Already Henry lay on the ground, senseless. Blood streaming from his nose, Georgie Sinclair flailed wildly and ineffectually at Evan’s head. And John Cameron and Donald MacKay, Dougal’s older brother, though still two-to-one against Evan, seemed to be the recipients of far more blows then they were landing.