The Duke's Dark Secret (Historical Victorian Romance) (14 page)

Martha laughed and swatted him playfully. “You should’ve. It would have been a much better start than knocking me over.” Her smile faded, and her eyes grew serious. “But Eddie…are you sure? I’m so happy if you are, but I don’t want you to change your mind in a week. I need you to tell me why you’re sure.”

Eddie nodded, grasping for the right words. “It’s a feeling,” he said after a moment. “It’s like you said before, everything has a solution. You taught me a new way of seeing, and it just changed everything. My heart’s been so black all this time, I thought it was rotten…but it just needed a new coat of paint.”

Martha grinned. “My, that’s beautiful. Are you writing your vows as we speak, Mr. Poet?”

Eddie laughed and kissed her again,  but she broke away early.

“Before I forget,” she said breathlessly. “I wanted to say…you taught me something, too. When I got here, I was expecting some mess of a man that I’d need to fix or nurse back to health. But you’re already so strong…” she shook her head, her eyes full of wonder. “You’re adding color to my life, Eddie James. You painted
my
heart, too.”

Eddie’s lips were sore by the time they got to breakfast, and by the end of the day, his cheeks hurt from smiling. He wrote a letter to his uncle, picturing the look of joy and simultaneous disbelief that would overtake him when he read the news. They joined Evan and Cheryl for dinner that evening, and Eddie’s heart melted when he saw how sweetly Martha interacted with the children. Evan was watching him through the night, and before they left, he pulled Eddie aside.

“She’s really something, huh?” Evan asked, nudging Eddie conspiratorially. “You look like a new man! Better color, eyes not as puffy…you even look like you’ve been eating better. You guys gonna have kids?”

Eddie looked at Martha as she said goodbye to the babies, who were already wailing for her return. “Maybe,” he said, smiling broadly as she stood and walked toward him. He thought about what she’d said---
you painted my heart, too.
Eddie thought he would die if it were true; Martha’s beauty was so pure and lovely, he knew he had no part in it. But he liked that she insisted that he did. She was a work of art, and he was just starting to appreciate her masterstrokes. Eddie knew he was lucky to even be in her presence. She grinned at him and took his hand as the left. The colors of the sunset in front of him reminded him of her hair, and he wondered if he could replicate it with a brush. She saw his far-away look and smiled.

“What are you thinking about?” she teased.

              Eddie smiled and squeezed her hand as he answered. “My muse.”

THE END

Highlander Desires

by Ainsley Cameron

              It was generally agreed among the people of Bodhuvan village that Fingall MacAllarran was their favorite eccentric.

              Mártainn the Blacksmith - no longer the blacksmith for many years now due to a bad back, yet widely regarded as the village blacksmith thanks to his smithing sons - was fond of telling anyone who asked of Fingall that he was a “fierce, strange man.” To get Mártainn to tell tales would require that the asker loosen his tongue by plying him with whiskey. This would often result in good stories if the whiskey were meted out carefully and less coherent stories interspersed with songs and anecdotes if one weren’t careful about portioning.

              “Strange in his ways, that one. For all the years I knew the man, he never got a girl with child so as we know. There was many a lass wouldn’t mind a night of sport with that lad, I’d have wagered.” He told the crowd of younger men and women who gathered around him one wild, rain-drenched spring night. All of them had heard of Fingall, but few believed the stories were entirely true.

              Still, Mártainn had a way of telling tales that inspired the men through vivid scenes of battle and captured the imagination of the ladies with descriptions of Jocelin’s beauty, so all would sit and listen without interruption while the storm raged outside.

              Mártainn settled back with a drink in one hand, his pipe in the other. A big man, he buried the drink between his bearded lips, set the drink down, and stroked his great white beard.

              “You know him to be strange,” he reminded them, “but let me tell you how my friend became so strange in his ways. I can only tell you the parts of this tale he told me or that which I saw myself.”

###

              Mártainn and the brothers Fingall and Dhugall were spending their free time on the day before their lives changed in much the same way as men in the Clan MacAllarran would do; they were fishing in the Loch.

              “It tell you there’s no chance Ross will move against them.” Dhugall was saying in his usual argumentative way. He and Fingall loved their verbal sparring almost as much as they loved sharpening their skills with an axe. Both men were among the most respected fighters in the clan. While Mártainn could swing a two-handed axe with the best of them, in those days he was more focused on mastering his craft as a smith than he was in taking part in raids. Still, the three were friends and he enjoyed whiling away the hours with the brothers.

              That is, except when they were arguing.

              “You don’t know what the Clans will do, and you never did.” Fingall replied, his voice rising with irritation. “MacKay has gone too far and you can trust there will be hell to pay for it.”

              His brother laughed. The pair shared many physical qualities; tall, muscular, strawberry-blonde hair. The younger of the pair would never be mistaken entirely for his brother, though, thanks to an ugly scar across his right cheek and a signature laugh that resembled a donkey’s bray. “You think all of the lords of the Isles and Highlands are going to unite against him? It’s almost as though you wanted to fight.”

              Though the sun was high and bright, the mood of the elder brother darkened considerably. “You know I don’t want that.”

              Dhugall stared at Fingall. “I know you don’t, and were it any other than you I’d…”

              “You’d what?”

              “Well, you know what some say. No one will say it to your face, but you always sound full of fear, speaking coward’s words. Though,” he quickly noted, “you have proven your worth in battle many a time.”

              Fingall shrugged. His brother was the only man he would suffer to say such things without injury. “None would dare speak it to me, so it is of no concern to me. My heart is not the same as my skill and courage.”

              Mártainn sought to heal the rift between the two and their contention of the possibility of an approaching war, mostly to get them to be quiet. After all, the fish weren’t biting. He slapped Fingall on the back. “Take a wife at last! You won’t be young much longer and if you do, I promise your temperament will be much improved. You see how your brother and I are more relaxed, do you not?”

              “I’ll not marry until I find the right woman.” Fingall replied firmly.

              “Aye, a scolding wife can be a burden, MacAllarran, but a young, pretty, one provides certain... benefits.” He winked at Dhugall and the two shared a laugh.

              Fingall rolled his eyes in response, but chuckled despite himself. “At the rate you take advantage of these benefits, you’ll breed a village to rival Bodhuvan in five years.” He got up, brushed himself off, and slung his fishing pole over his shoulder. “You lads while away your hours at leisure here. There’s work to be done.”

              His brother leapt up to join him, leaving Mártainn alone to fish. The aspiring blacksmith with his short black beard sighed and watched them leave as he kept to fishing alone.

              Soon, Dhugall and Fingall were walking apace towards the village walls. Protected by high wooden barricades, the hilltop collection of huts afforded a nice view of the North Sea. Once, Norse and Danes had come to raid these hills and taken over the region. The North Men had long since faded into the genetic makeup of these people, Irish Gael and Scandinavian alike eventually displacing the former Picts and becoming known as the Scots. It would be many years before Bodhuvan or much of this region would consider itself Scotland, but they definitely shared more in common than the people of the Lowlands or, worse, the English.

              “You’ll see you’re wrong, brother.” Dhugall assured Fingall as they approached Fingall’s outlying home. The young man had inherited the family’s cattle, while Dhugall had a more modest holding not far away. “No one looks forward to putting on the helmet and aketon more than I, but I’m telling you, they don’t dare take up arms. MacKay’s army is too great.”

              “Aye, we’ll see about that.” Fingall said, sounding worried. “I expect we’ll know soon enough if it’s time for more bloodshed. Pointless though it’s sure to be.”

              “I’ll leave you alone with your cattle and fishing, brother. Some of us have better things to occupy our time” Dhugall said, and just to goad him called over his shoulder. “My Murron has a cousin coming to stay with us, you know. Come round to meet her! Perhaps you’ll take a shine to her.”

              Fingall scowled. “Stop trying to marry me off. I prefer to be on my own, and you know it.”

              “Aye.” Dhugall replied, waving and smiling as he walked away. “Alone with your cows.”

###

              Despite ribbing one another, the brothers were fond of each other and each other’s closest living kin. When the day came around that Murron’s cousin was in town, she reminded her husband to reinvite Fingall to supper. “He’ll be around, woman.” Dhugall had reassured her as he dressed in the morning.

              “You know he’s prone to distraction. You’d best go round and remind him again.”

              “Peace! I’ll do as you say.” He grumbled before leaning over in their bed to steal a kiss from her. “I always do, don’t I?”

              “If you did, there’d finally be peace in this house for sure.” She scolded, but smiled as she did so.

              The day shone brightly, and the people of Bodhuvan went about their daily work. It was rare that people such as Dhugall, Fingall, and Mártainn could find the time for fishing or other leisure activities, and this sunny day was no different. Dhugall had been tasked with rebuilding a wall by the elders of the village, and later he’d have to care for the horse and tend to his family’s modest plot of land. Mártainn apprenticed in the shop, Fingall tended his cattle, and Murron had made the day laundry day. She was out with a few women friends of the village when she spied her cousin Jocelyn in the company of a pair of travellers riding into the village.

              “Joss! Down here!” She yelled from the river. Her friends looked up and spotted the lean, fair-complected girl riding a roan horse and exchanged looks. They weren’t overly eager for their menfolk to spy the young beauty.

              Jocelyn stopped her horse while the man and woman in her company politely paused, gazing down at the women with unconcealed disinterest. “Cousin! I have arrived at a bad time, I see.”

              “Not at all! You’ll find Dhugall up the road a bit. Have him take care of your horse and come share the latest word from Inverness with us. It’s been too long, and it will be a pleasure to share your company.”

              “I’ll be glad to,” the pretty young woman agreed, “And I’ll help with the washing up.”

              “No you won’t, not while you’re my guest.”

              “I’m family, cousin. No need for such things, and I don’t mind getting my hands wet.” Jocelyn insisted.

              When she returned, she was as good as her word, scrubbing and soaking the clothing in the big wooden buckets the women had set up alongside the riverbank. As she shared the latest news from town, one of the shyer women in Murron’s social circle spoke up. “Pray tell us, who were those two accompanying you?”

              “A couple kind enough to escort me to the village. The man is a messenger and is delivering some official word to the villages from the Laird. I can’t say what it is; he would not speak of it with the likes of me.”

              “You mean with a woman.” Murron murmured. “As though we were incapable of understanding political notions if they were put to us. These men think treat us as children, yet who is it they run to to nurse a little cough or tend to their scratches which they consider great war wounds?”

              Jocelyn laughed. “You’re still as full of vinegar as ever, Murron. I’ve missed it about you.”

              “I shouldn’t wonder, trapped as you are alone in that house with no one but your mother to speak to.” Murron mused. “And is she any closer to finding a mate for you, I hope?”

              The young woman shook her head. “The dowry was lost to pay debts. None will take me, though I will admit I have not tried so very hard.”

              Some of the women looked scandalized at this, but Murron gave a grim nod. “It may be security some seek, but I believe that if any woman could make her way in this world without a man, it would be you, my cousin. Always the independent minded, I should say. Your love of independence reminds me of someone else I know.” She said, with a sly grin. “But I must say, just don’t surrender yourself to a cloister! You’d be wasted there.”

              “Perish the thought.” Jocelyn laughed.

              “Besides, if you aren’t entirely… well, speak of the very devil. I was to tell you more of the man I spoke of earlier, but here comes now.”

              The brothers were, in fact, walking down the road together sharing their lunch as was their custom, arguing as usual, but with less vigor and in a more amiable way than the day before. Spotting his wife, Dhugall gave a wave, but continued his conversation. Fingall, on the other hand, after glancing in the direction of the washing women and his sister-in-law, gave a second look. His distracted look was notable enough that Murron sidled over to her cousin and ribbed her.

              “That’s the one, see?” She whispered conspiratorially. Jocelyn tried to keep her eyes down on the washing, not to appear immodest, but couldn’t help stealing an occasional peek. The man was fit, with long, brown hair, a neatly-trimmed beard, and a stride and manner of confidence about him. She didn’t want to admit she was drawn to him, but when their eyes coincidentally met, each shared a smile that passed between them as lightning in a storm.

              “Enough!” Fingall finally said. “I’ll talk to the man tomorrow, but the dispute remains. He’ll not be content until he’s encroached on all my land. You’ll come with me tomorrow?”
 

              “Aye, and the village elders. We’ll have it settled at last, I hope.”

              “Good. I’ll.. I’ll see you at supper.” Fingall set off back in the direction of his farm, and Dhugall lingered, looked to his wife, gave a thumbs up, and set back to his own work.