Highland Brides 04 - Lion Heart (2 page)

He would remember Alma’s words always, but he never once looked back.

A
blackbird chased its mate across the sunlit sky. The pair fluttered together into a nearby tree, chirping merrily as lovers are wont to do.

Broc felt somehow empty at the sight of them. It was the second time during the span of the day that the feeling had come over him. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what troubled him, but he was restless.

It was a beautiful summer day with every tree a verdant green. The scent of something delightful but elusive hung in the air like an invisible mist, teasing his nostrils. Something like sweet pollen mayhap, though he couldn’t name the flower of its origin.

He stopped to watch the birds mating upon a branch overhead. Furious little creatures, they struggled together as though battling. His brows drew together as he watched them pair off. God’s truth, it seemed everything and everybody was mating except him.

He was the last of his clan.

It hadn’t much bothered him before today. He hadn’t allowed it to darken his thoughts. But after Gavin Mac Brodie’s sermon at his brother’s wedding, he found himself remembering an old woman’s blessing.

Find ye a good woman to cherish and give her strong bairns. Let your father’s blood live long in your veins and those of your children! You are the last of the MacEanraig clan, lad.

The echo of her voice had faded through the years. But her words came back to haunt him.

They left him strangely bereft.

If someone had asked him only a few months before if his best friend might ever wed, Broc would have laughed in their face and shaken his head with absolute conviction. But Colin was now a married man, and Broc had never seen him so joyful. He was pleased for them. And yet… in the aftermath of their nuptials, he found himself obsessing over an old woman’s last words and craving something he couldn’t name.

He turned away from the birds and continued on his journey home. In times past, Merry, his dog, would have been at his heels, and he might have had to drag her barking away from the damned tree.

He missed the sweet mutt.

He sighed and pushed her memory away, only to be besieged by another more poignant.

Always it hovered on the edge of his consciousness—the sound of his parents laughing together.

The two of them had been deeply devoted to each other, and his da had so obviously cherished his mother that as a child Broc had felt enriched by their love. But as happy as his childhood had been, despite the hardships, his memories were tainted with the hideousness of their death.

He could never think of them without remembering his mother’s screams.

He had no idea that he had stopped again, nor that he sat upon the ground, but he was left reeling by the images that accosted him. Even after all these years his kinsmen’s faces haunted him. He plucked a woodland flower from the soil and crushed it in his fist, his gut burning with remembered rage.

Nay, it was better never to open one’s heart at all, better never to be left so defenseless. The little boy he had been was long dead now. The man he had become was far stronger alone. His devotion was reserved the clan that had embraced him as a child and made him one of its own. Aside from his clan, he didn’t want to cleave to anyone.

A wife would be little more than a burden—one he couldn’t afford.

A dog’s growl startled him from his reverie.

For an instant, he forgot Merry was dead and mistook the sound for that of his old companion. He turned, expecting to find her black eyes watching him, and instead saw a strange, overgrown hound instead. The animal’s teeth were bared, but something about the eyes seemed docile and harmless, mayhap even afeared. Its coat was bedraggled, wet and dirty, mayhap from a trek through the bog. It was in desperate need of a bath, food and a warm place at someone’s feet.

It was just so that he’d found Merry. He’d had to win her over, as well. The memory brought a wistful smile to his lips.

But then he thought about the brutal way she’d died and how much it had hurt to lay her to rest, and that empty feeling returned.

It was too damned difficult to lose the people you loved, and it seemed to Broc that everything he loved most, he lost.

Some part of him wanted to rise up now and brush himself off, walk away from this beast, but he didn’t. He sat there, making no move either to leave it or approach it.

The animal’s bright eyes stared back at him.

Broc didn’t avert his gaze. He tried to convey to the beast that no harm would come to it. He removed from the pouch at his waist a small sliver of smoked meat and offered it as a token of his friendship.

He spoke to it softly, and the animal laid its ears back, cocking its head curiously. Broc smiled and continued to gaze at it, willing it to come to him. Extending his hand, he began to coo to it, and soon it lowered its head and took a step forward.

It took yet another when Broc made no move to close the distance between them.

“That a girl,” he crooned, though he had no idea the sex of the beast. Gender didn’t matter much with anything that traveled on four legs, he decided, as he waved the meat at the animal, cajoling it nearer.

It wasn’t long before the hound was at his side, shaking its wet coat and spattering him in the face with stinky bog water. Broc chuckled and rubbed the pate of its head vigorously, rewarding it for its bravery. He handed over the meat. The poor beast snatched it quickly, devouring it in one gulp, then peered up at him as though expecting more.

Broc laughed, patting it. “There ye go,” he said again, and stood, continuing to pet it. Its coat was soft, though it was damp and dirty. It was obviously hungry as well, but he had nothing else to feed it. Still, it looked up at him appreciatively, and his heart melted.

He was a fool for animals—they were loyal without fault and always grateful.

Aye, who needed women when they were never appeased and rarely faithful?

Let Colin and Leith and Iain and the rest of the lads have their fill of them. He was better off alone. He wasn’t about to saddle himself with some nagging, complaining bitch. Nay, a dog was all the companion he needed. If you tossed dogs a few scraps, they followed you blindly till the day they died.

He should take this one home, he decided, as he stroked its head, feed it, mayhap bathe it, as well. He’d learned the merits of bathing his animals. His laird’s wife had taught him how to rid the beasts of fleas, and since he didn’t seem to be able to keep them off his bed, it served him well to heed her advice.

“Good lass,” he said, and the animal lowered its head, enjoying his attentions. He wondered where the hound had come from and to whom it belonged. He didn’t recall ever seeing it before today. Hungry it might be, but it didn’t appear famished, so it couldn’t have come very far. If it ran off after he cleaned it up a bit and fed it, he would certainly understand.

He started to walk away, hoping it would follow. The hound took a few steps, then stopped abruptly, and Broc stopped as well, determined to befriend it. And then all at once it began to bark as though it wanted him to stay.

Or mayhap follow.

“What is it, lass?” he asked and took a tentative step toward it. The hound took a step back, and Broc scratched his head, trying to figure out what the moody beast was trying to tell him.

Must be a bitch, he decided, because she didn’t seem to be able to make up her bloody mind whether she liked him or not.

E
lizabet felt like ripping out her hair in frustration.

She tethered the mounts and sat, disheartened, upon the roots of an old oak to await the return of these unruly men with whom her father had burdened her to travel. She sighed and hugged her knees, wondering about her father’s cousin. Would Piers welcome them warmly?

Or would he eye them as her father’s new wife had—like some viper trying to slither into her home?

God’s truth, she was weary and just about as snappish as her mother’s hound—which by the by had gone missing yet again! And the men were off doing who knew what! On top of everything else, it seemed to her that they were lost and wandering in circles.

They’d passed a small hut a furlong back, with a kindly-looking old woman standing before it. What harm could the old woman possibly have done to five burly soldiers? Four, she amended hastily—as her half-brother wasn’t exactly burly. A simple, polite inquiry would likely have gotten them a simple, polite response.

It was true that they were in strange woodlands and possibly enemy territory, but it didn’t seem very likely they would get where they were going without daring to ask where they were.

The crude maps they had been given were useless. Following them precisely had led them to the edge of a steep cliff, and the implication might have been clear to Elizabet if she wasn’t so certain her father had sent them on this journey for their betterment, not to their demise.

His new wife, on the other hand, Elizabet wasn’t quite so certain about. Were dear Margaret to have her way, all of her father’s children would disappear from the face of the earth forever. And just to be certain Elizabet and John were the first to go and stay gone, she had sent her brother Tomas along to see the task done. She had insisted vehemently that Tomas accompany their party, and Elizabet was certain Margaret had done so to be sure that Elizabet and John would be safely out of her way forever. It had been made quite clear to Elizabet that Margaret did not appreciate them in her home.

Elizabet didn’t like her.

There was something about her dear stepmother’s demeanor that seemed a bit deceitful—although why her father seemed so blind to it Elizabet didn’t know. Margaret was beautiful, to be sure, but her eyes lacked any warmth. Alas, her father was old, and Elizabet supposed he was grateful enough to have a wife so young no matter that she might be a shrew.

Men were silly creatures.

Jesu, but she never wanted to be attached to one. If Piers would be so kind, he’d simply allow her to keep her dowry and spare her the misery of finding her a husband.

By the rood, these men who traveled with her were a perfect example of male stupidity. Of the four sent to escort them, all were of fairly equal standing, and none seemed the least inclined to follow the other. Not even Tomas seemed able to quell their endless bickering. If her brother John had been a little older and perhaps more confident in himself, he might have taken matters into his own hands and dared to make his own decisions as his father’s heir. As it was, they were each intent upon following his own direction, and John was helpless to lead them.

No wonder they were lost.

Well, Elizabet had nearly had her fill of them all. In fact, she was tempted to seize John’s sword from his scabbard and force them all to follow her. She was wholly unaccustomed to standing meekly aside whilst men bickered amongst themselves like old women.

Her mother had not taught her to be a damsel in distress. Nay, the men her mother had known had been strong men of stature, accustomed to giving orders, but her mother, in her own way, had been as strong as they were. She had been well educated, intelligent and full of mettle. As a result, Elizabet had little patience for feeble people of any gender.

Where were those doddering fools anyway?

They had all dashed into the woods to relieve themselves, her brother included, and the hound had gone missing right behind them. None, as yet, had returned, and Elizabet was growing impatient with the wait.

She rose, brushing herself off. “Harpy!” she called out, craving the comfort of her hound’s presence.

If the truth be known, she didn’t particularly like it much that Harpy had attached herself to John. Finicky animal! It was
her
dog, not his and she loathed to be petty about the matter, but it was the only thing she had left of her mother, aside from the crucifix she wore on her girdle.

She started into the woods, calling after the wayward dog.

Although Elizabet could hear the men’s voices nearby, she couldn’t see them. If Harpy were with them, the dog would surely have heard her calling by now so she must have wandered farther away, she reasoned. If Elizabet waited for those babbling men to return before setting out to search for her, the dog would be halfway back to England before they found her. Elizabet called the hound again, praying she wouldn’t stumble upon the men at their business.