The Highlander's Tempestuous Bride (28 page)

Conn heard the wistfulness in her voice. “Aye. There are things I wish were different, too. But we cannae change the past.”

He took her hand and her delicate fingers curved around his. “Gilda, will ye and young William become a part of my future?”

Chapter 26

Ferlie eyed the mares appreciatively. Even beneath the torches they were magnificent. “I wish I had time to see them in daylight. But my ship leaves at dawn and I must be on it.”

Bray leaned over the half-wall of the stable. “Which do ye prefer? The chestnut or the dainty white mare?”

“The little mare has spirit. A bonnie lass. But the chestnut is sleek and well-built. I have never seen anything like them.”

“No. They are bred almost exclusively by monks in Spain. It is rare to find one outside their walls and quite unusual to obtain permission to bring them here.” Bray chuckled. “
Mon père
has interesting friends in interesting places.”

The white mare shook her head, her long, flowing mane sliding over her neck like a heavy, silken veil. She picked her way across the stall, hooves making crinkling sounds in the deep, fresh hay. Nudging Ferlie’s hand with her nose, she snorted.

He laughed. “She expects gifts, aye?”

“I could beggar myself supplying her with treats.” Bray reached into a nearby tin and retrieved a small apple. “These are from our orchard. Small and a bit tart, but they are good in cooking. Here, give it to her.”

Ferlie held the piece of fruit to the mare and she nibbled it daintily from his flattened palm. Biting down on it, she jiggled her head up and down until the apple broke in half. With great relish, she chewed the first piece then searched Ferlie’s hand for the second. Saliva mingled with slivers of apple peel as she nudged him impatiently.

“She isnae much of a lady, despite her looks, is she?” He could not keep the pleasure from his voice.

Bray grinned. “She is yours,
mon ami
. I will have a man prepare a space for her on your ship. She will be ready to leave in the morning.”

Eyes wide, Ferlie could only stare at Bray. His hand strayed to the mare’s thick forelock, his fingers twined amid the coarse strands. He shook his head.

“Nae. ’Tis too soon for her to travel again, even if I could accept yer offer. I cannae.”

“
Mon père, l’capitaine,
bade me make one of these a gift to you. We will see to it she is well cared for on your journey home.”

Ferlie’s insides swirled.
Yer journey home, young Macraig. Yer journey home
. Another ship. Another horse. Another time. Home.

“Are you well,
mon ami
?”

Bray’s concern pierced the fragmented memories. Ferlie gave himself a mental shake. “My memories of home arenae clear.”

“I understand. They will, mayhap, return in time.” He turned back to the matter at hand. “I hope you will take
la petite jument
. She will make a fine broodmare one day. And give you much pleasure as well.”

Ferlie understood Bray’s and the captain’s desire to see him well equipped on his journey. He had brought them safely to the end of theirs, against staggering odds and amid great peril. They merely wished to assure themselves they had done what they could to aid him in return.

“I wish for no reward, and I have no way to purchase her from ye—”

Bray waved aside his words. “Our houses will always be open to one another.” Emotion darkened his eyes. “There is no way I can ever repay you for what you did for my family. The mare is but a mere token of our friendship. Please accept the gift.”

Finally Ferlie acquiesced. He stroked the mare’s satiny neck. Lantern light turned her coat a creamy gold. “Does she have a name?”

“Her name is
Chance
. That is French for ‘luck.’”

Ferlie tossed his head back, laughter spilling from his throat. “’Tis a match, then. Mayhap between the two of us, ‘luck’ will mean something.”

A low rumble reached their ears. Both men glanced out the open doorway of the stable. On the horizon, lightning split the sky. The flame in the lantern guttered and nearly went out as a freshening breeze slipped through the building. Long moments later, thunder rumbled again.

“You are lucky,
mon ami
. The ship will sail tomorrow no matter the weather.”

Unpleasant memories of storms at seas crossed Ferlie’s mind. He wasn’t so certain luck was with him yet.

* * *

Laird MacLaurey’s eyes bulged and his face mottled an unpleasant pattern of dark and light red. He rose to his feet and pinned Conn with a glare.

“Ye
amadan
! Have ye completely gone off yer heid? Ye will be laird here, one day. Ye will marry close to home, a lass of our clan bloodlines, one who understands our ways. Not a widow who brings a bairn and uncertainty with her.”

Conn returned his father’s look with grim determination. “Ye are overreacting, Da. Gilda is a lovely young woman. Surely ye dinnae hold her parentage against her?”

The laird waved a hand dismissingly. “Och, she is as much Ranald’s daughter as if he sired her.” He stared at his papers arranged on the desk before him, not meeting Conn’s gaze.

Conn felt dismissed, but he pressed on, leaning forward for emphasis. “What is on yer mind?”

“There is Lord Wyndham’s daughter—”

“Ye havenae signed a betrothal without my knowledge, have ye?” Anger rose and he bristled. “We have had this discussion before.”

Laird MacLaurey raised a hand in supplication. “’Tis a wish her da and I—”

“The two of ye can wish all ye want. I will pick my own bride.”

His father angled his hard gaze at Conn. “Ye would bring the woman who disgraced yer sister here? To live?”

Too intent on his own pleasures, Conn hadn’t considered that particular perspective. Then again, he was aware his da had accepted an offer of marriage for Mairead who prepared for an alliance with a chieftain to the east. She would leave Corfin Castle long before Gilda could arrive.

“Da, Mairead will be wed and away in a matter of weeks. I wouldnae bring Gilda here until after. She still needs time to recover from young William’s birth.”

Laird MacLaurey slammed a fist on the desktop. “That bairn would inherit Macraig lands and ours as well should ye sire no sons of yer own. Ye would hand us over to a lad of Macraig and pirate blood?”

“I will raise him as a MacLaurey.”

Shaking his head violently, his da denied Conn’s claim. “I willnae hear of it. The woman challenges my pride and yer sister’s honor. The bairn upsets the rule of the clan. If ye raised him as a MacLaurey, he would expect to be laird here one day. That cannae be his future.”

Conn regarded his father’s words carefully. Struck by the possibility of being able to raise Ryan’s son, he had not looked to the bairn’s future as a man. His da was right. He must never let William forget he was Ryan’s son. It would be up to him to see to it the lad knew his heritage and understood he would rule Ard Castle one day, not the MacLaurey lands. And it would be his pleasant task to see to it a MacLaurey son followed him as laird.

“I will love him as my own, but ensure he knows his birthright. This, I can do.”

For long moments Laird MacLaurey battled with Conn’s proposition. Several times he started to speak, and each time he stopped. At last he shook his head, disappointment etched across his features.

“What of the lass?”

Conn stared at his da uncertainly. “What do ye mean?”

“The lad would grow up loving ye. Of that I have no doubt. But what of Gilda? In her heart, whom does she love?”

* * *

Land was a faint smudge on the horizon. In another hour, they would lose sight of it completely as they left the coast of Wales for Larne’s harbor on the coast of Ireland. Ferlie stood at the bow, weary after three weeks at sea. Anticipation for their next port of call was hard to muster, even though it brought him that much closer to home.

He squared his shoulders against the fading sights behind him and scanned the open waters, sunlight flashing on the waves as they kicked up brisk and hard against the ship’s hull.

Dear God, be good to me; the sea is so wide, and my boat is so small
. The prayer whispered effortlessly from somewhere deep within him. A part of his past. A fisherman’s prayer?

That would put an end to the idea I am part of Laird Macraig’s brood
. He snorted, more than sure such thoughts were but wishful on Greum’s side.
Unless I was birthed on the wrong side of a Highland plaide.
That was much more likely. Personally, he did not care who sired him. He only wished to find a home and someone who remembered him.

Red hair, adoring eyes—gray, full of laughter, twinkling with delight. He closed his eyes, savoring the sweetness of the vision in his mind. Sunlight sparked strands of gold glimmering against vivid embers. Heavy curls tossed across burnished ivory skin, supple and warm to the touch. An aura of mist behind the sweet face crept inward, dissolving the memory.

No!
His eyes flew open, met with the vast aloneness of the sea. Overhead, gulls banked and dipped, their cries harsh on the wind. If the weather held, ’twould be only a few days until he was back on Scottish soil. Salt air whipped around him, tugging at his clothing, wrapping loosened tendrils of hair about his face. Absently, he dragged the strands away.

“Sir, we will be in Larne tomorrow. Ye’d best get a good night’s rest.”

Ferlie turned toward the first mate. “Aye. Staring ahead doesnae make the land approach faster, does it?”

“Nae. Not as I’ve noticed.” The man’s rueful voice caught in the wind and was torn away. “May as well sleep now. This swell foretells a storm.”

“No
pirr
to gently fill our sails?” One side of Ferlie’s mouth quirked upward. Already the slap of water against the hull grew more pronounced, the pitch steeper as the ship rode higher and higher waves.

“Nae, more of a
rumballiach
—a fickle wind that will hopefully not be at cross-purposes with our journey.”

“I will check on
Chance
. I fear she tires of the long journey, and this
jaup
may sour her sweet temper.”

“We all eagerly anticipate a night ashore, I assure ye.” The man laughed and jerked his head toward the makeshift stall. “’Twill take more than choppy seas to sour yer beast. I wish my wife were as sweet-tempered and easily pleased. But yer mare is a noble animal and I would not wish her to come to harm during the rough passage.”

“She is a rare creature, and I cannae thank the good captain enough for her.”

“My friend, Captain Rousseau owes ye and Greum not only his life, but those of his wife and daughters.” He gripped Ferlie’s arm. “He is a man of honor, and will never be able to repay that debt.”

Emotion tugged inside Ferlie, warm and deep. “I wouldnae be here were it not for him. He treated me well, as more than a friend in his home. But I am eager to be back in Scotland.”

“We should spend a day offloading and taking on new cargo. ’Twill put us at Ayr a day after that.”

“I have been studying yer maps with the captain. Greum and I will head inland once we disembark. He insists we pay a visit to the Macraig clan just along the coast.”

“I wish ye well on yer journey. Every man should know his past.”

“’Tis something I must pursue.”

No reply came from the first mate, and Ferlie felt the deep silence between them. Memory loss was difficult to explain, even more difficult for others to understand. Part of Ferlie was missing—that much was simple. Explaining how it gutted him, made him feel only partly alive, was something that defeated his words. He longed desperately for a way to understand who he was, how he had gotten where he was—a way to point himself to the future. He felt like a rudderless ship bereft of even the meanest navigational skills, needing a welcome port to call home.

With a short nod of understanding between them, Ferlie turned his steps to the partitioned area that housed his mare. Half-walls stood bolted securely with an oiled tarp attached several feet above the mare’s head, keeping her out of the sun’s harsh light, yet allowing the fresh air to swirl through. His eyes scanned the lean-to behind the makeshift stable. Wisps of hay drifted out onto the deck, but the bin still contained a good bit of fresh hay. He’d ordered it refilled at each port as well as a complete mucking and refurbishing of the straw in the stall. Despite the deckhand’s muttered complaints, Ferlie had insisted the straw freshened daily. Even in the short time he’d owned the dainty mare, he was besotted with her.

Chance
crossed the roomy box and hung her head over the chest-high wall. Ferlie smiled. Already she’d learned her master’s footstep, and they formed a close bond. He ruffled her long forelock and she tossed her head, nickering softly.

Ferlie inspected the stall, approving the crisp, fresh straw. “How do ye fare, lass? I dinnae like the feel of the wind kicking up. I fear we are in for a bit of weather before we make Larne.”

Reaching in his shirt, he retrieved an apple core he’d saved from his supper. He watched in fascination as the mare delicately plucked the proffered fruit from his hand, her thick lips tickling his palm.

“As much as I like the way we are named alike, I dinnae think ‘
Chance
’ rolls well from a Scotsman’s tongue. I have thought it over and believe I will change it a wee bit to ‘Shona.’ ’Tis a sweet lass’ name and I dinnae think our friend Bray will mind.”

Shona swallowed her treat and nuzzled him, looking for more, clearly unconcerned with her name change. Ferlie stroked her satin neck, her skin warm and soft beneath her heavy mane. The ship rolled beneath their feet as it crested a wave.

The mare stomped a hoof.

“Easy, lass. I cannae make the storm go away. Our ship is sturdily built. We must wait it out.” Crooning to her, he continued to rub her glossy hide. The waves built steadily and the ship rocked harder, hitting the bottom of the waves with a solid thwack. The timbers creaked and groaned, men’s shouts rang out as they rushed about their duties. Shona nickered again, louder, her head up, eyes wide and intent.