Once a Warrior (25 page)

She swallowed thickly, struggling to absorb this terrible knowledge about Malcolm. “MacFane has helped us learn to defend ourselves, and for that I am grateful,” she admitted. “But now he must leave. The clan is becoming too fond of him. They don’t know of his awful past, or the fact that he is no longer laird of his people. They are unable to see him for what he really is.”

“Are they?”

“Yes.” She went to the door, then stopped.

“MacFane is convinced that Roderic will return.”

Alpin said nothing, evidently engrossed in stirring the foamy mixture growing in his pot.

“Will he, Alpin?”

A long moment passed.

“Aye, Ariella,” he said finally. “Roderic will return. And when he does, he will not be so easily defeated. His anger is great, and he will seek to punish us for humiliating him.”

A shiver of fear went through her. “Then I
must
find the wielder of the sword. It is vital I do so before he returns.”

“You mean Roderic?”

“No,” she replied, opening the door. “MacFane.”

Somewhere, a woman was weeping.

Ariella moved slowly through the thick white mist, brushing her fingers through its cool veil, trying to find her. The woman’s sobs were long and tormented, the cries of someone whose heart has been torn in two. Ariella could feel her pain as surely as if it were her own, for the sound reminded her of her own cries when she had lain beside her murdered father and hysterically begged him to come back to her. The filmy gauze around her thickened, making it impossible to see. She closed her eyes and let the weeping be her guide. On and on, through the damp shroud of feathery softness, closer and closer to the pitiful grief pouring from this woman’s heart. Finally, sensing she had found what she had been seeking, Ariella opened her eyes.

The curtain of white had parted, revealing a beautiful young woman with red-and-gold hair, kneeling beside a gravely injured black wolf. The animal’s flesh was torn wide in many places, his breathing was rapid and shallow, and flecks of pink foam bubbled from his mouth. The woman held his head in her lap and gently stroked him as she wept, touching him as tenderly as she would a lover. The wolf endured her ministrations for a moment. Then suddenly his lips curled into a snarl and he clamped his jaws on her hand. Pain streaked across her ashen face, but she did not cry out. Instead she silently waited for the enraged animal to release her. Once he did, Ariella expected her to run away from the beast, who was obviously crazed by his suffering. Instead the girl raised her bloodied hand and began to stroke him again, soothing him with soft words, and still weeping. After a moment a stream of scarlet began to trickle from her neck, seeping down her chest and into the fabric of her gown. At first she didn’t seem to notice, but as her gown became drenched, she weakened. She lifted her gaze, and Ariella was horrified to see her throat had been cut. Finally she sank to the floor, one hand still resting protectively on the snarling wolf.

A warrior appeared, a furious, powerful-looking man with hair the same red-gold as the girl. He roared in horror at the sight of her, lifeless and soaked in blood. Enraged beyond measure, he picked up the wolf as if it weighed nothing and hurled it into the air, far from the body of the woman. Then he knelt and lifted the girl into his arms, cradling her against his massive chest. He turned to leave, permitting Ariella a glimpse of this mighty warrior who had arrived too late.

It was Harold, laird of the MacFanes.

Ariella. Wake up.

She sat up, breathing hard, and searched the darkness. There was no one there. Unnerved, she rose from her bed, draped a blanket around her shoulders, and went to sit before the dying embers of the fire. She drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, feeling small and alone as she contemplated her dream.

It was clear the black wolf she had seen was a gravely injured Malcolm. But who was the beautiful woman weeping openly over him? And why had he turned on her so viciously? It seemed Harold blamed the wolf for her death, which was why he violently threw him into the air. Perhaps that represented Malcolm’s banishment from his clan. Was the flame-haired girl one of the many who had died the night Malcolm had been drunk and failed to protect his people? How many women and children had died that night? she wondered. Fifty? A hundred? Two hundred? She shivered, unable to imagine such a horrendous tragedy. The guilt of such a terrible, unforgivable blunder must have been agonizing.

She stayed like that a long time, huddled before the hearth, contemplating her dream. And during those long, quiet hours, as she reflected on the horrific slaughter that had befallen his clan, a realization began to take hold. It was hazy and uncertain at first, but the more she considered it, the clearer and more obvious it became. Finally, as morning light began to creep across the cool stone floor, she accepted the meaning of her dream.

Harold, laird of the MacFanes, the man who had stripped Malcolm of his position and cast him from his people, was destined to be the next MacKendrick.

C
HAPTER
11

Malcolm shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, trying to ease the pressure on his throbbing back and leg.

After nearly two weeks of travel, his broken, cursed body was rebelling. Before his injuries he would have thought nothing of riding for ten days or more. But on this journey his back was cramped and stiff as he rose from the damp ground each morning, and during the long hours in the saddle his suffering increased. He had forced himself to stretch his back, arm, and leg several times a day, and perform the exercises Ariella had suggested to him. He wasn’t certain, but he thought his arm and leg might be getting slightly stronger. Still, when he lay against his cool bed of grass at night, he felt bruised and exhausted. Because Ariella was not there with her warm oils and gentle, healing touch, he sought relief in the wine and ale they were given each time they visited a clan. He tried to drink just enough to dull the pain, as he wanted a clear head for his negotiations. Although this required an enormous amount of self-control, it pleased him to discover he was capable of knowing when he had had enough. On his return to the MacKendrick castle, he would find a plain, married woman to give him regular massages, and he would continue his exercises. Perhaps, in time, he could learn to manage his pain without the need of drink.

The MacKendrick castle loomed through a silvery veil of mist, its pink-and-cream stonework glistening in the soft light of early morning. A flame of anticipation lit within him, causing him to urge Cain faster. It surprised him that he was so anxious to return.

He had never thought of himself as a man who required comfortable surroundings. After all, he had lived most of his adult life as a warrior, traveling and existing outdoors for months at a time. When Harold banished him, Gavin had built a tiny hut for them to live in. Although Gavin had often talked about expanding it and making decent furniture, Malcolm had ordered him not to. The rough, cramped structure served them well enough as a shelter, and because he was drunk most of the time, he had seen no need for more rooms or fine furnishings. But these past weeks he had been living in an elegant castle, surrounded by exquisite tapestries, intricately carved ceilings, and handsome furniture. Every night on this journey he found himself missing the comfort of his bed, when only a short while ago he had been satisfied to lie on a lumpy straw pallet. He had also longed for the fine meals the MacKendricks served, and the wonderful music performed each night as they laughed and dined, even if he had heard it only from his chamber.

Above all, he had longed for Ariella.

He did not know what had possessed him to kiss her the way he had. At first he told himself it was merely the relief of having defeated Roderic, which had awakened a long-forgotten sensation of triumph and achievement, even though he knew the victory was fleeting. The velvet darkness of the night sky also had its effect, as well as the magnificence of that view he had somehow never noticed before, and the cool summer breeze rippling through the trees below.

Then he would remember Ariella standing alone against the battlements, her auburn hair blowing softly around her as she contemplated the land she loved so dearly. And he would be filled with a desire so intense, he thought he would surely die from it.

He had watched her for a long time, absorbing every glorious detail of her, before she had finally noticed him. She was small and slender, almost delicate in that sapphire woolen gown, yet Malcolm had known he gazed at a woman forged of the strongest steel. Alpin had once told him that Ariella was a fighter, and he was right. Had she been a man, she would have been a formidable warrior. But she was not a man; she was a woman with the heavy burden of finding and marrying the next laird of her clan, whoever he might be. For the sake of her clan, she would lie naked beside a man she barely knew, regardless of whether she desired him or not, and permit him to touch her intimately and plant his seed deep inside her. For the sake of her clan, she would honor and respect this man, at least before others, always deferring to his judgment because he was the one titled laird. For the sake of her clan, she would bear him children and try to give him sons, so the lineage to the ancient founder of the MacKendricks could be preserved. For the sake of the clan, she would put her own dreams and desires aside, just as she had when she’d accepted her father’s decision that she marry the Black Wolf, a man she had never even met.

If there was one lesson Ariella had learned far better than he, it was the bittersweet, unyielding lesson of duty to one’s clan.

Duncan rode up beside him and gazed contentedly at the valley below. “It is beautiful from here, is it not?”

Malcolm halted his horse and studied the view of the castle rising on its emerald slope, with the blue-black surface of the loch sparkling below it. None of the gloomy, forbidding fortresses of the surrounding clans compared to the graceful lines of the MacKendrick stronghold. Its architecture was a testament to balance and symmetry, an elegant arrangement of rounded towers and perfectly measured crenellations, with many arched windows and newly chiseled archers’ slits inviting light through the intricate stonework. It had not been built to keep people out, he reflected, but to invite them in, so they might enjoy its comfort and beauty. And by striving for comeliness, by building out of joy and pride rather than fear, the MacKendricks had created a structure that was not only pleasing, but far more civilized than the great, dark bastions of those who lived in constant fear of attack.

Why had he not been able to appreciate its beauty before?

“I didn’t think Roderic would be able to return for at least two weeks,” he reflected, noting there was no sign of either him or his warriors. “We relieved him of many of his men. He must either wait until his wounded heal, or try to attract others to his band. Now that he knows the MacKendricks are prepared to fight back, he will have to plan a better offensive.”

“But this time we have allies ready to come to our aid,” said Ramsay. “Roderic will never be able to defeat the armies of the Campbells and the MacGregors, or the others who have agreed to help us should we need them.”

“True,” Malcolm conceded. “But these allies are some four hours’ ride away, which means they will be of help only if we can hold an attacking army off for at least eight to nine hours. The MacKendricks still need an army of their own.”

Why don’t you just send for your army, MacFane? wondered Ramsay. “Surely even a small number of warriors trained by the Black Wolf would be more than enough protection.”

Malcolm found himself moved by the compliment. Moved and saddened, because the mighty army he had led for so many years was no longer his.

And worse, every one of his warriors despised him.

“My army is engaged elsewhere,” he lied, repeating the explanation Duncan had given the clan when Malcolm had first arrived. “Come, let us hurry back,” he continued, changing the subject. “I find myself yearning for a long, hot bath.”

Duncan raised a brow, as if he thought he might be joking. Then he laughed.

“Why is that amusing?” Malcolm demanded.

“No reason,” he replied with a shrug. “I was just remembering when we brought you here.” He urged his mount forward and galloped toward the castle.

Malcolm wasn’t sure, but he thought Duncan was still laughing.

“They’re back!”

“Come quickly!”

“MacFane has returned!”

Ariella’s stomach lurched as she heard the excited cries of her people. She had planned to wed Harold before Malcolm’s return. But the real Laird MacFane was not able to come immediately, as she had requested. He had sent a message back to her saying he accepted her terms of marriage and would come in about a week. Which meant he would arrive anytime now, possibly even today. She shivered, fearing Malcolm’s reaction when he learned of her hastily planned marriage to a man he could only despise. She was also worried about the reaction of her people, who did not yet know of their new chief.

“He’s back!” shrieked Catherine happily, racing through the great hall, where Ariella, Elizabeth, and Agnes were cleaning. “MacFane is back!”

“Catherine, don’t run,” scolded Agnes, putting her broom aside to follow her.

Elizabeth stopped arranging the fresh rushes they had scattered on the floor. “It’s a good sign, his coming back so soon,” she declared. “It means the journey was a success.”

“Perhaps,” allowed Ariella, fighting the dread unfurling in her stomach.

“Hurry now, lasses, have you not heard our MacFane has returned?” demanded Angus as he shuffled eagerly toward the door.

“I saw him through my window, and he looks as fit as ever,” added Dugald. “A fine warrior returning home.” He glanced surreptitiously at Ariella.

Ariella shook her head, wondering at their thinly disguised attempts to promote MacFane to her. She knew the council still hoped she would choose Malcolm as their next laird. But they did not know him as she did, and she could not bring herself to inform them of his terrible past. To do so would crush their illusions and humiliate Malcolm beyond endurance. Despite his hideous failure as laird of the MacFanes, he had brought hope, confidence, and pride to her people.

He did not deserve to be repaid by having her expose the dark truth.

Malcolm was surprised by the MacKendricks’ enthusiastic welcome. As he, Duncan, and Ramsay rode by, everyone ran up the hill behind them, then burst into the courtyard, smiling and laughing and asking excited questions about how the men had fared in securing alliances. The moment was warm and enjoyable, reminiscent of when he would return to his own clan in the years before he had become laird.

“What news, MacFane?” demanded Gordon eagerly.

“Did it go well?” asked Gavin.

Angus waved to him from across the yard. “Welcome back, laddie. Did you secure an alliance with another clan?”

“Not just one,” he replied, gazing around at the clan. “There are four clans who have signed an agreement to come to our aid if needed. The MacGregors, the Campbells, the Grants, and the Frasers.”

Everyone cheered.

“That’s wonderful!” burst out Helen. “Now we can all feel safe!”

“Safer,” qualified Malcolm. “We still need to—”

“MacFane! MacFane!”

Little Catherine was running toward him, her slim legs bare against her flapping gown, her chestnut hair floating behind her. She raised her arms high so Malcolm could lift her and seat her on Cain in front of him.

She regarded MacFane happily a moment, delighted to be in what seemed to her an enormous place of honor. Then her little face scrunched with disapproval. “You were gone a long time,” she said, poking him in the chest.

“Not so long,” he replied, though it pleased him she had thought so. He brushed a wayward lock of hair off her forehead. “Only twelve days.”

“More like twelve years,” countered Catherine petulantly. “I tried to get Ariella and Agnes to teach me to ride, but they said they didn’t have time for it. They wanted me to practice my sewing instead.” She rolled her eyes, then leaned in close to whisper, “I much prefer riding to sewing.”

“I don’t blame you,” admitted Malcolm. “But I think perhaps you can find time to do both.”

“I made you something,” she announced, suddenly remembering. She reached into her sleeve and withdrew a folded piece of paper. “Here.”

Malcolm carefully opened the sheet. On it was a clumsy drawing of a very large warrior on a disproportionately small horse, riding beside a small girl on her own small horse. Beneath the image, in a childish scrawl, was the title
The Black Wolf and Me
.

“Do you like it?”

“It is wonderful,” he murmured honestly.

“I think I made you a little too big for Cain,” she admitted, “but that’s how you seem to me.”

“I will always treasure it,” he said, folding it and tucking it under his belt. “Thank you.”

She smiled, and he was strangely content.

“It’s good you’re finally back,” said Thomas. “That dog of Ewen’s has been digging in my garden again, and I’ve been waiting to hear what you have to say on the matter.”