Stolen Vows (39 page)

“Aye, I think yer right,” Graem mumbled, sinking further into his pillows.  He lay still for a moment, but then spoke again.  “Is that the dawn coming, Roan?”

Roan clenched his eyes shut and steeled himself before trying to speak.  “Aye, Graem, in a way,” he whispered. 

And then he sat there as the old Laird slipped away, a comforting presence by his side, which was really all that he could be or do.  It was peaceful.  Roan said a prayer of thanks for that, at least.  He watched Graem’s eyelids close for the last time, saw the final fall of his chest, and felt the life ebb from his limbs.

The doctor shifted in the corner, but Roan didn’t move, not until the other man murmured: “Tis over.”

“I ken,” Roan muttered, nonplussed, and it took another few moments for him to be able to move.  He had to go and tell everyone, Roan realized.  They’d all know the second he walked out of the doors he guessed, but he was still going to have to frame the right words, or maybe not?  Maybe there weren’t any words?

Roan got to his feet, feeling a whole lifetime older than when he’d sat down.  He’d seen men die before, but never - never like this. He took a deep breath and then walked numbly towards the door.  When he opened it, he heard the collective gasp that rippled through the next room.

His sisters were there, and his mother, Ross had stayed and, Roan’s lips twitched in small sad smile, Isla had found her way down.  They were all looking at him expectantly, the same hopeless expression on each of their faces.

“He’s gone,” Roan said, inadequately in his mind. 

Bridghe immediately began to sob.  Sorcha wrapped her arms around her little sister and held her tight, while Eithne drew a sharp breath and turned away to face the window.  Ross bowed his head respectfully.  Isla hesitated for a second, but then hurried to Roan’s side to embrace him, while his mother just stood and said calmly:

“And yer Laird.”

Roan didn’t dignify his mother’s comment with a response.  He did shoot a stern glare in her direction however, which brought color to her cheeks and made her fall otherwise solemnly silent.

There was so much that had to be done now.  Graem’s funeral had to be organized, the clan had to be gathered to swear their allegiance to the new laird, people just had to be
told…
and Tavish needed to be finally brought to trial.  But for the moment Roan couldn’t think about the future, all he could think about was the past, about what he had just lost.

..ooOOoo..

The hours, the days, that followed Graem MacRae’s death passed in a blur of activity that Roan knew he was a part of and yet felt wholly removed from.  He was watching the world carry on while he remained in stasis.  He needed to shake himself out of it, but he didn’t know how.  Isla was an angel, not demanding anything of him, the only one in fact who didn’t demand anything of him.  She was simply there, supporting him as he tried to come to grips with his new role as Laird.

It wasn’t the new tasks or responsibilities that got to Roan.  Graem had been so ill for such a very long time that his tanist had been carrying much of the burden of the Laird’s duties for months, if not years.    It was the feeling of isolation.  As the clan’s tanist Roan had been different from the other men, but as
de facto
Laird he barely felt human.

A few of his friends had warned him that the transition would be hard, but he had thought they meant because the clan might reject him (because of Isla, if he was honest with himself.)  Happily, this fear, at least, proved to be unfounded.  Roan wasn’t entirely sure how Isla had worked her magic, but she had done.  The sick people she had helped care for adored her, and passed their adoration on to others in a steady trickle of goodwill that soon enthused the whole castle.  He swelled with pride at every smile and word of kindness she received.

In time, six months, a year maybe, Roan could believe that things would be all right.  They would be settled and everything would be resolved.  In the meantime, he had some nasty loose ends to tie up, not least of all the matter of Tavish MacEantach.  Out of respect for the deceased Laird, his trial had been postponed until Graem’s burial, but after that something had to be done.

..ooOOoo..

The sun shone brightly on the day that Graem’s body was given over to the grave.  He was laid beside his beloved wife, Maisie.  Practically the whole clan gathered for his funeral and paid their respects to the man who had led them for almost half a century.

“We’ll do it tomorrow, while everyone’s here,” Ross nodded at Roan, who raised a confused eyebrow.  “Pledge our allegiance to the new Laird,” the captain smiled a little.

“Ye think that everyone will pledge their allegiance?” Roan asked with a wry, doubtful smile.

“Ye ken they will,” Ross said, with a quiet confidence that couldn’t help but reassure.  He slapped Roan on the back, and then went to mingle with the other mourners who’d come back to Erchlochy Castle after the funeral to feast.

Roan took the opportunity to fade out of the spotlight and into the shadows.  He had only been there for a matter of seconds, watching the goings on unseen, or so he had thought, when there was a gentle tap on his shoulder.  Roan turned wearily, but the annoyance instantly left his face when he saw who was standing behind him.

“Hello stranger,” Isla smiled up at him shyly.  He winced slightly at the phrasing of her greeting, and looked a tad sheepish.

“I’ve been neglecting ye.” he murmured contritely.

“Oh, nae!” Isla said quickly.  “I dinna mean -” 

Isla
knew
how much Roan had on his plate, but she missed having him with her, and having his full attention when he was actually around. 

Would this be what their life would be like from now on,
she wondered sadly.  Was she going to have to compete with the clan for his attentions?

“I
have
been neglecting ye,” Roan repeated, deeply apologetically.  “I’m sorry,” he whispered, nodded distractedly at one of their highland guests.  “Things will calm down soon, especially once -” but he broke off abruptly.

“Once?” Isla prompted, but she could already guess the answer. 
Once Tavish had been disposed of…

“Nae here, Isla, nae now,” Roan looked grave, and exhausted, and older than his wife had ever seen him look. 

Isla was sure that there were a few strands of gray scattered in his hair that hadn’t been there before, but then he had so many burdens to bear.

The night after Graem’s funeral was long and somber, but eventually dawn came, bringing with it a new day:
  The day
- The day Roan was to officially be made Laird.

When he first considered the matter, Roan thought they should wait.  It seemed disrespectful to Graem, who had not been in his grave a full twenty-four hours, for the clan to move on so quickly.  However, Ross pointed out the practical matter that everyone was gathered together now.  The men who had journeyed to Erchlochy Castle from the outlying boarders of the MacRae’s land could afford to wait a day to pledge their allegiance to the new Laird, but they couldn’t be asked to wait very much longer than that - they had lives to lead, duties to attend - and so Roan had been forced to consent.

It wasn’t as though he had to do anything.  Everyone seemed to be rushing around for him, ensuring that he didn’t have to lift a finger.  He didn’t need to worry about anything except being in the right place at the right time, and he had a feeling that there would be several clan members flitting around him all morning ensuring that he was in exactly the right place at exactly the right time.

Isla found it all highly amusing, Roan was sure.  He was independent.  He was also, as he was just discovering, quite a solitary creature.  Those few friends and family that he loved, he adored whole-heartedly, but Roan found that he had very little time for sycophantic followers hanging off his every word.  Even the non-sycophantic ones grated on his nerves after a few hours.

“Ye’ll be Laird soon,” Ross grinned, “then ye can do as ye damn well please.”

The whole ceremony passed by in a strangely moving blur - it was deeply touching, and left Roan feeling honored.  He named Ross as his tanist, appointed a new war chieftain in Ross’s place, and then everything descended into feasting and revelry.

“What about MacEantach?” Roan growled.

“Tomorrow,” Ross said, sighing.  “Let them have one night to enjoy themselves.  They’ve had precious little to celebrate recently.”

Feeling oddly thwarted and irritated by his new tanist, Roan walked out into the courtyard of the castle for a breath of fresh air, and hopefully a few second’s of peace and quiet.  Fresh air he got, peace and quiet was not to be.

“Looking to run away already?” purred a voice from the shadows that made Roan’s skin crawl.

“
I’m
nae the one running away,” he growled, turning to face Morag.

“Nae?” she pouted prettily and sauntered over to where the new Laird was standing.  “Who is?”

The clan
, he almost grumbled, but Roan knew better than to confide in Morag.  At least, he did
now
.  “Should ye nae be inside, enjoying the party?” he murmured, being none too subtle in his attempt to get rid of the woman.

“Should ye nae?” she countered.  “I believe that the celebrations are in yer honor after all.”

“Roan?” a soft voice called from one of the doorways leading inside.  

A prickle of guilt touched Roan’s conscience as he turned around and caught sight of his wife watching him talk to Morag.

“I believe Ross is looking for ye.  He said something about wanting to start the speeches in a minute.” she told Roan mildly, sauntering out into the courtyard and right up to her husband and his former mistress.

“God, there are
more
speeches?” Roan grunted, forgetting the awkwardness of the situation for a moment in light of the living nightmare that awaited him back inside the castle.

“Indeed,” Isla nodded, and then she did something Roan certainly hadn’t been expecting.  She slipped her arm possessively around his waist, and then shot a superior smile in Morag’s direction, before gazing back up at her husband’s face.  “So ye’d best come inside, dinna ye think, darling?”

“Apparently so,” Roan said slowly.  He draped an arm around Isla’s shoulders, not wanting to spoil her little display and land himself in worse trouble - he didn’t doubt, whatever her reaction might be at present - that he was in trouble. 

His wife gave a satisfied nod.  “Come along then,” Isla said brightly, exerting a little pressure on his arm.  “Excuse us, Morag,” she said smugly.  “But my
husband
and I are needed inside.”

Morag was too shocked by Isla’s nerve to stammer a word, she just gaped, open mouthed and seething, at the couple as they walked back to the castle arm in arm.

“I’m sorry about that,” Roan murmured, unnerved by Isla’s silence now that they were alone.

“About what?” she asked airily.

“Isla,” Roan growled in warning.  And then he sighed heavily.  “I just came out here to escape for a few minutes, only she happened to be out here as well.”

“Mmm, I ken,” Isla said, a little stiffly.  “I watched her follow ye out to the courtyard.”

Roan choked.  “
What?
”

“Oh come now, Laird MacRae, surely even ye can see what she’s after?” Isla said, cocking an unimpressed eyebrow at her husband.

Roan snorted indignantly.  “I’m sure I dinna ken what ye mean,” he then said calmly.  “I only have eyes for one woman after all,” he purred, bending slightly so that he could whisper the words into her ear. 

Isla gave a little squeal when she felt his hand slide from her waist to her bottom, causing a couple of old gentlemen to look at the young couple scandalously.  “Roan!” she hissed breathlessly, but there was an amused flush in her cheeks now, and all of her irritation seemed to have melted away.