Forgiving Hearts: Duncurra 1-3 (59 page)

“Any idea why?”

Gillian took another sip of wine. “Not really. Everyone has always held Rhiannon in very high regard. I’m not sure whether it was her status as Lady Nuala’s companion, or because she is rumored to be a seer.”

“Do ye think it is a good match?”

“My mother would be livid if she heard me say this, but no. I guess it isn’t so much that I think it is a bad match, I just think it’s the wrong time.”

“How would ye handle it?”

“So much has changed for us over the last year, and even more so over the last few weeks. I don’t think it’s fair to Fallon to add to that stress. As ye said, if she wanted the match it would be different. If it were up to me, I would wait a while. When things are truly more settled, perhaps in a few months, I would discuss the idea of a betrothal with Fallon first. Then I’d figure out who the best candidates were.”

“Then that is what I will tell yer mother when she broaches the subject tomorrow, as I’m sure she will.”

“God’s breath, Fingal, ye can’t tell her I said that.”

Fingal laughed. “Have ye no faith in me, lass? I won’t tell her ye said it. I’ll tell her that with all of the recent changes, I think it is better to wait a few months before discussing this.”

Gillian was completely taken aback. He had asked her opinion and listened to her. “What would ye have done if I had said a betrothal for Fallon to Coby was a brilliant idea?”

Fingal grinned. “I might have slightly questioned yer judgment. I agree the timing seems wrong. However, ye know yer family and clan better than I do and if ye were wholeheartedly behind it, I would support ye.” At her shocked expression he added, “Gillian, this marriage will work much better, for us and for the clan, if we view it as a partnership.”

This was the last thing Gillian expected but it was exactly what Jeanne and told her days ago. She had no idea how to respond. Finally, she simply said, “Thank ye.”

“Ye’re welcome. Now there is something else we need to discuss. A few moments ago I mentioned that we need to rebuild our ties with other clans. One way to do that and reestablish our own internal strength is to add several highly skilled warriors to our ranks of guardsmen. As ye know as soon as we can finish the wall we need to focus on training our men. I intend to ask Niall for some additional men to help with that, but that’s only a temporary solution. I want to ask Bran MacBain and Quinn MacKenzie to become guardsmen.”

“I remember Bran MacBain, he trained here. My da always liked him.”

“Aye, the elders think well of him too. I trained with Quinn MacKenzie and he is young but has solid skills.”

“They seem like good choices then.”

“I would also like to ask Laird MacKay if he would consider sending his nephew Dougal to foster with us. He is old enough to begin training as a squire and that would give us ties to both the MacKays and the MacLeods. As Lady MacLennan, ye would have a role in that as well. Are ye willing to take him on?”

“Aye. Of course I am. Ye are right, we need these alliances. I just don’t understand how we can do it all. We have very limited resources.”

“I understand, and that is what I need to talk with ye about. As it turns out, Eithne left a very large estate.”

Gillian did not like the direction this was heading. She wanted nothing to do with Eithne’s wealth, especially after learning even more about her evil nature from Fingal. Her reservation must have clearly shown on her face.

“I can see ye like that idea no better than I did. Until today, I had refused to accept it. Eithne built her wealth by stealing from the MacIans and I felt it should go back to them. Niall has always disagreed. However, I discussed this with Eadoin and the elders earlier today. They all believe, just as Niall did, that that money should come to our clan.”

“I don’t want anything that belonged to her.”

“I understand. I don’t either. However, we cannot do the things we must without funds.”

“There has to be another way.”

“I have been considering our options for weeks now and haven’t been able to figure out another plan. None of the elders have any suggestions either.”

“Ye’ve already discussed it with the elders and clearly they agree. Why did ye bother even asking me? If I flatly say no, it doesn’t change anything. Ye will still use her money.”

“Nay, Gillian. If ye flatly say no, and there is no changing yer mind, I will go back to them and we will have to change our plans. I won’t lie to ye, it will leave us vulnerable and I’m not sure we can survive for long. But this is too important. Ye must understand where the money is coming from and agree, as repugnant as it may be, to use it for the good of the clan.”

“Ye would do that? Ye would turn it down if I asked ye to?”

Fingal looked grim. “I think it would be the wrong decision but yes, I would.”

Gillian stared into her goblet of wine and wondered what her father would think. She could almost hear him,
Gillian, don’t cut yer nose off to spite yer face, lass.
“It is the only way?”

“It is the only way that any of us can see.”

She swirled the wine in her goblet and thought about it a bit longer. As much as she hated to accept anything that belonged to that dreadful woman, he was right. They had no choice. She sighed in resignation. “Then I suppose we must use it.”

Fingal was obviously relieved. He reached for the decanter and poured wine into the other goblet. “Here’s to our partnership.” They touched goblets and both drank, Gillian draining what remained in hers. Fingal wrinkled up his nose. “That isn’t particularly good, is it?”

Gillian blushed. “Nay, I guess not. We brew heather ale, but we have to buy wine and we couldn’t afford good wine. Sometimes Jeanne steeps herbs in it to improve the flavor but it doesn’t help much. I just thought it was stronger than what I am accustomed to—I usually mix mine with water. It’s gone to my head a bit.”

“No matter, I would rather seal our partnership with something else entirely.” He stood, put both hands on the arms of her chair, leaned down and captured her lips with his. There went every rational thought in her head and the butterflies that had seemed to take up residence in her belly all took flight at once.

He broke the kiss far too quickly. She wanted more.
Nay, Gillian, get a hold of yerself
. How was he able to do this to her? She was over-tired. That must be the explanation. She was, in fact, more tired than she realized. She had closed her eyes when he kissed her and waited far too long to open them again after he stopped. When she did open them, it was to see a bemused smile on Fingal’s handsome face. She stammered, “I—uh—I—well—I’m awfully tired. Do ye mind if we don’t play chess tonight? I think I’ll turn in.”

His smile became a wide grin. “Whatever ye wish, Gillian.”

To Fingal’s delight, Gillian had become as befuddled as ever when he kissed her. After he broke the kiss and stepped away from her chair, she rose and wobbled a bit, tittering nervously. “The wine seems to have gone to my head. I really should have watered it down.” She motioned toward the decanter, accidentally knocking his full goblet over, spilling the contents. “Fingal, I’m sorry. I can be so clumsy sometimes. I’ll just clean this up and pour ye some more.”

“Don’t worry about it, lass. It isn’t very good wine anyway.”

She grabbed a towel from the washstand near the hearth, but in her hurry to wipe up the spill, she knocked over the whole decanter. “Oh for the love of all that’s holy, what’s wrong with me?”

Fingal righted the decanter and took the towel from her. “Ye are just tired, Gillian. Ye have been overworking yerself. Let me clean this up and ye can get ready for bed.”

She looked distressed. “But ye are injured.”

“It is just a scratch. I can manage this.” He gave her a quick kiss. “Go on. I’ll keep my back turned.”

As he mopped up the spilled wine, she undressed quickly. In no time, the bed creaked softly as she crawled under the covers. When he turned around, she was curled in a tight ball on the edge of the bed just as always. He put the wine soaked towel in the wash bowl and wet another towel to wipe up any residual stickiness. When he was through, he hung it on a chair to dry. Then he banked the fire, blew out the candles, removed his clothes and climbed in bed beside her. Her slow, steady breathing told him she was already asleep.

He wanted to do so much more with his new bride than sleep. The changes in her over the last week were beginning to give him hope. Maybe she had finally stopped fighting with herself where he was concerned. Clearly logical, Gillian had had a list of reasons why she shouldn’t love him but they were dwindling. Furthermore, logical Gillian was not always in control. There was part of her that was warm, affectionate and needed both to give love and be loved in return. When she had talked about her parents, this had been painfully clear. He could love her. He certainly admired and respected her. She was smart, strong, and beautiful. What man could ask for more? Aye, not only could he love her; he believed he already did. Now, she just needed to let him.

~ * ~

Fingal wasn’t sure how long he had been asleep but he awoke with a start, alert that something was wrong. The room was filling with smoke and fire crackled loudly. He scanned the room quickly and saw that a log had rolled from the hearth and onto one of the woven rush mats. Thick smoke was filling the room.

He jumped out of bed and yelled to Gillian, “Wake up, there’s a fire, ye have to get out!” The smoke filled his lungs and he was racked with coughing. He used the first tool at hand, his sword, to shove the log off the rug and onto the stone floor. He glanced back at Gillian. She hadn’t wakened. “Gillian! Wake up!” He reached for the water pitcher to pour water on the smoking rush mat but it was empty so he grabbed the wet towel he had used earlier and beat at the mat. With the burning log removed, the mat appeared to be smoldering, but there were no remaining flames. Using the poker and fire tongs he returned the log to the hearth.

The immediate danger of fire had past but the thick smoke burned his throat and eyes. He turned, intending to throw open the window shutters and clear the air, only to realize that Gillian still hadn’t stirred. Terror seized his heart. The smoke was so thick he feared she had already been overcome by it. He ran to her side and scooped her up blankets and all before rushing out of the room with her in his arms, closing the door behind them to keep smoke from filling the corridor. Between coughs he yelled for help. Diarmad was the first to arrive, followed by several men-at-arms and serving maids who had been sleeping in the hall.

Coughing, Fingal sank to the floor with Gillian still in his arms. “Diarmad, there was a fire. It’s out, but the smoke—” He was overcome with a coughing spasm. However, Diarmad seemed to understand, cautiously entering the room while Fingal turned his attention to Gillian. He shook her. “Wake up, love. Please, wake up.” Another coughing spasm gripped him.

Someone tried to remove her from his arms. “Nay, don’t touch her. Send for Agnes. Please, love, wake up.” Finally she seemed to rouse, coughing as she did. He rested his forehead on hers. “Thank God. My precious lass, ye’re alive.”

She coughed until tears ran down her cheeks. Finally she whispered, “What happened?”

“Gillian, my love, a log rolled from the hearth, catching a rush mat on fire. It is out but there was so much smoke. I couldn’t wake ye. I was afraid I had lost ye.”

“I must have been more tired than I thought. How could I have slept through that?” She rested her head against his chest, closing her eyes even now and making no attempt to move from his lap. He wouldn’t have let her if she had tried.

Lana arrived moments later. “What in the name of all that’s holy is going on? What is all this commotion about?”

When one of the men at arms explained, Lana rounded on Fingal. “Thank God Gillian is all right. Clearly ye must not have banked the fire properly Laird and ye nearly got my daughter killed. Why are ye just sitting there? Gillian, get up.”

Fingal had to rein in his anger. “Lana, we were nearly overcome by smoke. Please, if ye wish to be helpful, see that a room is prepared where Gillian can rest.”

“We could have all been burned alive. I have to check on Fallon.” Lana turned in a huff and stomped away. Fingal was shocked by her lack of concern.

One of the maids, a lass named Peg, stepped forward saying, “I’ll see to it Laird.”

Diarmad came out of the room. “Lady MacLennan is all right?”

“Aye, thank God.”

“I have opened the window shutters to air out the chamber. The smoke needs to clear and the room to be cleaned well but other than the rush mat, there doesn’t appear to be any other damage. Ye must have woken right away—the mat was just blackened. If it had caught fully on fire, it could have been disastrous.”

Fingal nodded, rising from the floor with Gillian in his arms. “Aye, I must have.” However, something nagged at him—something was wrong. “Gavin, Tarmon, return to yer duties. The rest of ye should find yer beds. Things are under control now.” He turned to Diarmad. “Thank ye. I want to see that Gillian is cared for now. I would speak with ye privately in the morning.”

Fingal carried a still very drowsy Gillian to the bed chamber Peg had prepared, realizing for the first time that he was completely naked. He had barely tucked her into bed and wrapped a blanket around himself when Agnes, the healer, arrived. Agnes checked Gillian over, finally saying, “Lass, ye seem to be all right. I suppose this terrible ordeal has exhausted ye. Get some sleep and I will check on ye again in the morning.”

“Aye, Agnes, I’ll rest.” Gillian curled up under the blankets and was instantly asleep.

Agnes turned to leave but Fingal stopped her. “Agnes, are ye sure she is well? I had trouble waking her. I worry that she breathed too much smoke.”

“Well that could have made her hard to wake, sure enough.” Agnes winked at him. “Did ye wear her out before sleeping lad?”

Fingal smiled at the old woman’s teasing. “Nay, I don’t think so. She did have a glass of wine before bed.”

“That might have made her sleep a bit more soundly. She isn’t accustomed to strong drink. I don’t think there is any need to worry. She is breathing well now and although sleepy, she can be awakened. I think she will be fine in the morning.”

Fingal showed her out. He washed the soot from his own face and hands before crawling in bed beside her. He pulled her close, and in her sleep she didn’t resist. His mind was racing and he couldn’t sleep. He thought back over the events of the night, trying to determine what left him feeling so uneasy.

Lana had accused him of not banking the fire properly, but he was certain that he had. He banked the fire immediately after cleaning up the spilled wine. He had awoken later as the room was filling with smoke from the smoldering rush mat.
Why wasn’t it burning?
He had jumped out of bed, shoved the burning log off the mat and grabbed the water pitcher, which was empty. He beat it with the wet cloth, but there were no flames. None of it made sense. Dried rushes catch fire easily and the water pitcher was half-f when he went to bed. He had only used a little water to wet the towel he used to wipe the table.

He slipped quietly from bed, wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, lit a candle, and made his way back to their chamber. He entered the room cautiously. The smoke had cleared and with the windows all open, the room was frigid. The wine soaked towel was still in the wash bowl where he had put it. The decanter and goblets stood on the table and the pitcher lay on the floor where he had dropped it when he discovered it was empty. He looked at the place where the burning log had rolled onto the rush mat. It was blackened, but barely burned. He ran his hand over it and found it wet. How had it gotten wet? The wine had spilled over the edge of the table, closer to the middle of the mat—he could see the stain. This whole corner of the mat was wet.

Well at least the wet rush mat explained the unusual amount of smoke. It would have smoldered and smoked for quite a long time before it caught fire. It was a blessing really. They could have been engulfed in flames otherwise. He just couldn’t figure out how it had gotten wet. Perhaps Gillian had arisen at some point and spilled the water remaining in the pitcher. He would ask her in the morning.