The Rogue (23 page)

“Give us this day our daily bread.”

“And forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors.”

She leaned forward and frowned. “Ye have debts?”

He squeezed the bridge of his nose in an effort to ease the pain building behind his eyes. “No, Birdi. It means to forgive those who injure ye.”

She snorted in derisive fashion, but repeated the phrase.

“...and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil, Amen.” When she’d repeated that, he asked, “Would ye like me to say it again—all at once this time—so ye can better learn it?”

“Nay need. I ken it just fine.” She sighed, propped an elbow on the armrest and rested her chin in her hand. “Our sire in heaven with the hallowed name—which Angus has apparently forgotten—thank ye for the day and bread. Forgive your debtors then lead us away from tempting evil, amen.” She heaved a mournful-sounding sigh. “What means amen?”

Good God.
“Amen means the end.”

His, by the sound of things.  Could he pass off her strange phrasing as a regional oddity? “Would ye mind trying another?” Mayhap she could get this one right.

She sighed. “I suppose. I’ve naught better to do.”

He forced a smile, and considered the Hail Mary. ‘Twas short and easy enough, but mayhap it would be better if he taught her something more encompassing, one she could recall should Blackstone’s priest—or anyone else, for that matter—question her about doctrine. Settling on the Apostles Creed, he said, “This one is long but verra important. Are ye ready?”

She sighed again, her elbow still on the armrest, her chin still in her hand. “If ye insist.”

“Repeat after me.....I believe in God, the father almighty, creature of heaven and earth...”

“Nay, nay, nay.” Sighing, Birdi straightened. “Ye have it all wrong, Angus. Goddess, Mother of all, made earth,
is
earth in fact. In the beginning...”

Angus stopped listening.

The throbbing pain behind his eyes, the one that now pulsed with the rhythm of a ferrier’s hammer on steel, made it impossible. He slowly dropped to his knees on the sheepskin rug at Birdalane Shame’s feet and reached for her tankard. He drained it and reached for the flagon. He’d been wrong in assuming this might prove a long night. He’d yet to mention Christ, the Immaculate Conception, or the Resurrection, and he could already tell ‘twas, in fact, going to be a verra, verra long night if they survived it at all.

The flagon emptied, he wondered where Argyll hid his whiskey.

  ~#~

Ian sat to the left of the Duke of Argyll, whiskey in hand, before the great hall’s blazing fire. To their right the duke’s toy sword-wielding offspring tormented the guards and a pair of gray hounds, their great heads tucked beneath equally great paws, while the ladies sat at a distance in apparent oblivion, their needles flashing through embroidery hoops.

He noticed a green-eyed beauty shyly eyeing him from beneath the wide brim of her headdress as she labored. He smiled back, arched an eyebrow in question, and as expected she giggled and ducked her chin, her cheeks glowing bright red. Ah, virgins. Lovely to look at, but not to touch.

He sighed feeling both comfortable and envious of those in the hall. There was definitely something to be said for living within a keep with kith and kin. Ye didn’t have to worry about private agendas and subterfuges, nor spend a fortune to look the part of a courtier when all ye really wanted to wear was a coarse shirt, yer breacan feile, and naught else.

He’d not seen his home—the lands in the far northwest—in five years, not since becoming the Duke of Albany’s spy.

Aye, the glamour of being at court, of traveling to the continent, had definitely waned, but ‘twas a sacrifice he would continue to make willingly. First to assure his sept remained secure within their holdings despite their frequent confrontations with their neighbors, the Earls of Caithness and Sutherland; and second, to keep Scotland safe until their true king returned. Though given what he now knew of Albany, Ian wouldn’t be holding his breath as he waited.

The duke cleared his throat. “MacDougall’s ladywife is verra quiet, and has such an odd name...Birdi.”

Ian grinned. “‘Tis MacDougall’s pet name for her. She can be a bit flighty.”

Ian had introduced Angus and Birdi as husband and wife, since Birdi had no chaperone. The blood on their clothing he’d explained away by explaining how he’d been wounded and that Birdi had been soiled while tending him. The lie garnered not only sympathy for hi but elevated the status of the fair and fulsome Birdi.

“And who is her sire?” Argyll asked.

Ah. Argyll wanted to know what alliances Birdi and Angus’s union may have formed. Ian yawned, feigning disinterest. “Her father was a lowland sheriff of little note who died many years past. She came with no dowry to speak of. Her gown is a wedding gift from MacDougall.” He shrugged. “I fear my friend made an alliance of the heart rather than one of the purse. But ye can’t fault the man— one only needs to take one look at Lady MacDougall to understand his reasoning.”

Argyll snorted. “Aye, she is most fair, but ye’d be wise to avoid such foolish. Beauty won’t fill a hungry belly nor defend a holding. Marry power, my friend. Marry a full purse.”

Relieved his lies weren’t being challenged—having Argyll for an enemy could prove disastrous to all of them, Ian promised, “When the time comes, I shall heed yer advice.”

“Do.” After taking a sip of his ale, Argyll said, “Now tell me what ye hear of our imprisoned laddie and the Gunn.”

~#~

The Macarthur growled deep in his throat. His best swordsmen, good men both, were dead? “Nay,” he growled at the man he’d sent to hunt the brothers down after growing impatient for word about his kidnapped spae.

“Aye, sire, they’re dead.” The messenger cast a quick glance at Mary Macarthur, heavy with child, keening for all she was worth by the fire. Nodding in her direction, he whispered, “Beheaded, sire.” He shuddered and said in a normal tone, “I buried them and brought back their swords and ponies for their families.”

Macarthur, not giving a wee bawbee what the man did with the damn swords and ponies, bit down on his tongue. ‘Twould not do to appear frazzled before the clan. “The MacDougall and the spae, man. What of them?”

“I believe they’re heading west, sire. I was but an hour from Cairndow when I found Robbie and Fegan’s bodies.”

Ah ha! The Blood and his spae were heading for Drasmoor and Castle Blackstone. To his captain, Macarthur said, “Get the weaponry ready. I want every man over the age of five-and-ten armed and ready to ride at dawn.”

He’d have MacDougall’s head on a spike before the next full moon if he had to lop it off himself.

~#~

As the sky lightened with the rising sun, Angus shifted on the uncomfortable pallet he’d made from the few bedcoverings he’d found in the chest at the foot of the big bed Birdi occupied, the bed their host had intended for both of them to share. Her face was as serene as a newborn babe’s. Came from sleeping with a clear conscious, he supposed. He envied her. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d slept through the night.

And what was he to do about Birdalane Shame?

She’d learned the Apostles’ Creed, not well, but had committed the broad points to memory but she wouldn’t concede in any fashion or form to the notion that God—and not Goddess—had crafted the world.

Getting her to accept the Immaculate Conception and Resurrection had been easy—she had similar beliefs in her own faith—but getting her to understand the Crucifixion of Christ had been a nightmare. No way was she going to accept an all-powerful father deliberately allowing his son—one he claimed to love—to die on a cross. They’d gone around and around on that singular point for most of the night. He’d finally admitted defeat when she’d suggested we hang God on a cross and see how he likes it.

His head started to throb just thinking about it.

To make matters more untenable, they—he and Ian—had declared Birdi his wife before the Duke of Argyll, which meant there was absolutely no way Father John would not hear about it. He’d raise bloody hell about the handfasting and insist on a kirk ceremony. “Humph.”

He might as well kiss Donaliegh and his chiefship goodbye. And all because he saw a fair maiden rise out of the water like a mythical kelpie and wanted her.

Hell, he still wanted her.
Just look at her.
She was not only stunningly beautiful, but funny, irreverent—and lusty, if their one bout of lovemaking was any indication. Worse, he could still taste her, still feel the texture of her skin at the tips of his fingers, could still smell the sweet scent of grass and woman that emanated off her.

Ack, what to do?

One thing was certain. This was the absolute last time he’d let his poke-a-sweeties rule his head. 

Seeing Birdi’s eyes open, he murmured, “Good morn.”

“Morn.” She cleared her throat. “Frog,” she told him. “Minnie said they crawl in if ye sleep with yer mouth open.” She stretched and yawned. “Though how one got all the way up here is beyond kenning.” She rolled into a sitting position, her shoulders and arms exposed, her bandage evident, the sheet clamped in a fist at the junction of her high breasts. “How was yer sleep?”

“Wonderful.”

“I’m hungry. Do ye think anyone is awake below stairs?”

Angus rolled up and onto his feet. Pouring water into a washbowl he said, “I’ll wager we can find some griddle cakes.”

“Oow!” She beamed at him, dimples making crags in her cheeks.

He grinned. “Ye like havers, huh?”

“Oh, aye. They’re best right after hulling, but I’ll eat them anytime.” She bounded out of bed, her front covered, her backside jiggling ever so slightly, obviously enjoying the freedom and air.

She would definitely be the death of him.

Birdi settled beside him to watch his ablutions, stretching her mouth this way and that as he shaved.

Staring at his blade, she asked, “Why do ye do that?”

“I’m told ladies prefers a clean-shaven man.”

She gave that some thought. “It does appear cleaner.” She ran a careful hand down his cheek. “Feels nicer, too.”

He had all he could do to keep from grabbing her wrist and planting a kiss on her palm. “Ah, the lady does apparently prefer a clean-shaven man.”

“Am I a lady?”

“Of course.”

“Because we’re handfast?”

“In part.”

Her brow furrowed. “What will I be when ye break the handfast?”

Ah...when
he
broke the handfast, huh? “Ye’ll still be a lady but not Lady MacDougall. Ye’ll be Mistress Shame.”

“Nay!” She jumped off the stool and went to the open window. Voice cracking, she hissed, “I’ll not bear the shame of my... consepshin...as my name. She’s dead. So is he, for all I ken. Let the ghosts lie.”

Frowning, he dropped the toweling he’d been using, walked to her and, taking her by the shoulders, turned her to face him. “Birdi, what are ye talking about? Is yer clan
not
called the Shame?”

“I have no family, so how can I have such?”

Unease made mush of his already abused gut. “Birdi, when I asked ye who yer sire was ye told me Shame.”

“Aye, ‘twas what
she
said.”  A tear shimmered on the cusp of her thick lashes. In a low tone she hissed, “‘Shame’s yer sire, his shame, my shame, and now yer shame for asking.’” The tear toppled as a dewdrop might off the bend of a rose petal and made its way down her cheek. He caught it on the tip of his finger, where it sat like a liquid diamond.

He suddenly felt very ill. “Ye poor birdalane.”

“Aye, ‘twas what she called me.”

Birdi might as well have shoved a knife in his gut and twisted it. Merciful Mother of God. Her mother hadn’t even had the decency to name her. If she’d been alive he would have strangled the woman right then and there and taken great pleasure in the doing.

He pulled her to him and kissed her forehead. “Today you must choose a new and special first name. One as beautiful as ye.” His arm about her waist, he walked back to the water bowl. “After yer ablutions, we’ll eat. As we ride we’ll think of yer new name. We’ll get Ian to help.”

And from this day forward Birdi would bear the last name of MacDougall, and he’d slit the throat of any man who claimed she hadn’t the right.

Birdi sniffed. “I would like that.”

“Verra good. Now turn so I can unwrap this bandage.”

 # 

In Castle Blackstone’s great hall, Duncan MacDougall, laird of all he surveyed, smiled.

“What are ye grinning about?”

He looked up and found his ladywife, Katherine Elizabeth MacDougall Pudding MacDougall—Beth to those who loved her—leaning over his shoulder. Good God, he was a lucky man. He’d found her in a fractured coach one stormy night, and believing her to be the woman Albany intended for his bride, Duncan had immediately married her. By the time he discover the astonishing—and at the time horrifying—truth, that she was a woman of the future transported back in time by the wedding ring she now wore, he’d already lost his heart to her, and his life had forever changed. The three bairns that romped about his feet were but a small measure of the many ways.

She bent down and kissed his cheek. “Well?”

“I just received a missive from my cousin Kelsea Lindsey Frasier.”

“That’s nice. What did she have to say?”

S
ince the missive was written in French and his dear wife couldn’t get her mind around the language, Duncan read aloud, “My most revered cousin, I write on behalf of a most astonishing woman named Birdi, who believes this missive is addressed to a person of her acquaintance named Tinker. If you are reading this I must assume your captain-at-arms Angus MacDougall has not seen the light and is behaving the fool.”

  Beth laughed.

  Trying not to laugh himself, Duncan continued, “He obviously loves Birdi, and she, I assure you, is much in love with him. Their circumstances are, however, most different and difficult. Birdi is, in a word, extraordinary, both in visage and heart, but she is not one of us, not of the gently bred. I beg you to look kindly upon her should she arrive on your threshold. She has done me a great service, one I will never be able to repay in this lifetime. She is truly pure goodness and more than a match for your Angus. If you please, your humble servant, Kelsea Lindsey Frasier.”