Amanda Scott (41 page)

It was a solid arm, a reliable arm, and he was a man who looked after his own. She had known the moment she had seen his arms go around Isobel that the child was safe, and had known, too, that Isobel truly felt safe, because who would not? She herself had certainly felt so, facing the abbot with Hector’s hand on her shoulder.

Her spirits thus felt lighter by the time they passed the garderobe tower and entered the guest wing. As she stepped into their bedchamber, she was conscious only of Hector behind her. Hearing the door snap to, she turned to face him.

“I don’t want to go to bed yet,” she said firmly.

“We’re not going back downstairs, sweetheart. You might as well rest.”

“I’ll rest if I must, but I won’t sleep, sir. My head would simply fill with images again, and I don’t want that. I want to remember Mariota as she was when she was laughing and merry, not as she was when she . . .”

“I understand, sweetheart. We can talk if you like.”

“Not if you mean to scold me.”

“Nay, lass, I’ll not do that, although you frightened me witless when you rushed at that knife. I had all I could do not to throttle the bastard.”

She nearly told him again that she did not think Fergus Love had meant to harm her, but she knew it would be a waste of breath, since Fergus might not have been able to stop himself in time. Moreover, defending him might stir Hector to anger again, and she did not want him angry with her, not tonight.

He had taken off his doublet and was kneeling on the hearth, tucking spills beneath logs and kindling already arranged for them and ready to light.

“Won’t you have to be present when they question Fergus?” she asked.

“Nay, for I’ve told Lachlan I’ll be taking leave of him for at least a month,” he said as he took out his tinderbox. “I want time with my bride and time to finish putting Lochbuie in order. He has plenty of men to do his bidding. He can get along without me for a time.”

Having lighted the small fire, he stood and walked toward her, his expression sober and searching. “We should talk more, lass, about what happened today. I fear you are still blaming yourself.”

She sighed. “Mayhap I am somewhat, but I understand what you meant about the arrogance of doing that. Still, I keep thinking ‘if only this’ or ‘if only that.’”

“Everyone does that, and you took care of them all for a long time.”

“Aye, but that is certainly no reason to have blamed you as I did, nor in truth, do I blame you at all.”

“Never mind about that now,” he said, moving to put his arm around her.

“Something was wrong with her, Hector.”

“I know,” he said. “Come and sit with me by the fire. I want to hold you.”

“She always said she was not like everyone else,” Cristina said as she sat beside him on the settle and leaned her head against his shoulder. “But I never thought she could be capable of what she did today.”

“No one did, sweetheart. I didn’t see anything at all amiss with her until I found her with you at Lochbuie and came to realize that she thought only of herself. Even then I saw naught but selfishness in her behavior. Later I realized that talking with her, trying to understand what she was saying, was like trying to grab smoke. I could see wisps and curls of the way she saw the world, but if I tried to pin it down and see the clear picture, I couldn’t do it. No one could.”

“I’m glad others did not see her like that,” Cristina said.

“Aye,” he agreed. “Oddness in one’s family is better hidden.”

Narrowing her eyes at him, she said, “So it is good that she died?”

“I did not say that, nor would I,” he said. “Mariota’s death was a tragedy, sweetheart, but she will be remembered as young and beautiful, even noble. Troubadours may even sing ballads about her, and bards will repeat the tale of her courageous sacrifice forevermore. How she would have loved to know that!”

Cristina was silent. She had not thought of such a possibility. She did not want to think about it, but she could not bear that he did not know the truth.

Glancing up at him, she said, “There is something you should know.”

When he did not reply, she drew a breath and said, “I do not think Mariota was really behaving nobly. I think—” Saying the words proved exceedingly difficult, but she forced herself. “I think she thought only of herself again today, because I’m nearly sure she was not trying to help Isobel. She was trying to climb right up her, sir, and I nearly dropped them both. If she hadn’t fallen—”

“We need not think about that now,” he said, drawing her closer against his solid, warm body. “You will remember her as merry and laughing. Most everyone else can remember her as they please, too.”

“You won’t tell Isobel what I told you, will you?” she said. “’Tis better for her to believe that Mariota tried to save her, I think.”

“I won’t tell her,” he said solemnly, but a note of laughter in his voice made her look up at him again.

“It isn’t funny,” she said.

“Nay, lass, but you should know by now that Isobel knows more about some things than the rest of us all together, and your sister Mariota was one of them.”

“Isobel knows?”

“Of course she does. She’s the one Mariota tried to climb. She told me not to tell you though. She said
you
needed to believe in Mariota’s sacrifice.”

“I should have known,” she said, snuggling closer. “She told me once that I never want to depend on anyone else. She was right, too, because I never believed I could do so before, and I suppose I’m still not used to trusting other people completely. But thanks to you and Mairi and Isobel, I’m learning.”

“I know how hard it was for you to let me pull Isobel up alone,” he said.

“Aye, but I knew she was safer in your hands than mine. I think seeing Mariota fall must have disordered my senses, but in truth, I knew Isobel and I were both safe the moment you fell on top of me. I just couldn’t . . . the shock . . .”

When he remained silent, she drew a breath and went on, “But then you pulled her up, and when you put your arms around her, I knew she felt as safe as I feel whenever you put them around me. Anyone would.”

“I’m glad
you
do,” he murmured.

The fire crackled comfortably, and the air in the chamber had warmed. So, too, had Cristina. Her left hand rested lightly on Hector’s muscular thigh, and her head leaned against his solid chest. His arm around her felt good and right. She could hear his heart beating, slowly and powerfully. She was content.

He, too, seemed to feel no need to talk. One of his fingers toyed with a curl that had escaped her caul. As he did, it tickled her neck, and she turned her face up toward his, invitingly.

Obligingly, he kissed her, but although she responded at once, the kiss was light and most unsatisfactory. His eyes gleamed, and she knew he felt the same stirrings that she did, that he was restraining himself out of respect for her loss.

Still looking into his eyes, she murmured, “Is it wrong of me to feel like this with Mariota lying dead below?”

“Nay, sweetheart, ’tis but a natural urge that many feel at such a time. Death often makes folks yearn to create new life.”

“Then will you make love to me?”

He smiled. “If you want me to, I will, and gladly. Shall I send for Brona to help you prepare for bed?”

The thought sent heat to her cheeks. “I don’t want Brona, but mayhap we should send for enough hot water to wash our faces and hands. Indeed,” she added unhappily, “mayhap we should wait until they bring our supper.”

“And mayhap we should not wait at all,” he said. “I can serve adequately as a maidservant, can I not?”

She smiled. “Aye, you can.”

“Don’t move,” he commanded, releasing her and standing. “I’ll be back.”

With that, he strode to the door, flung it open, and shouted for a gillie. When one came, she heard Hector ordering him to arrange to keep their supper hot for at least an hour and to have whoever brought it up rap on the door before he entered.

Then, shutting and barring the door, he faced her with intent.

“Come here to me,” he said.

“It is warmer by the fire,” she said. Her voice sounded strange to her, low and husky, deep down in her throat. Her lips suddenly felt dry. She licked them.

Without taking his eyes off her, he walked slowly back to her. Standing close enough to make her body sing, he stopped, looked down at her, and said, “A good wife obeys her husband.”

“Aye, but it is warmer here by the fire.”

He pulled her to her feet. “Turn around,” he said.

She turned, trembling when she felt his fingers lightly touching her back.

“I did rip this gown,” he said. “But ’tis only a small tear. You can mend it.”

“My mending basket is overflowing,” she said.

“Then I’ll get you another gown,” he said, slipping his finger through the rip in the gown and making her tremble again as it caressed bare skin above her shift. He kissed her neck and kissed it again, laying a trail of soft kisses from just under her left ear around to her throat. And then her caul was off, pulled without ceremony from her head and tossed aside, and he began to seek the pins in her hair, kissing her as he dropped them to the floor one by one until she could stand no more. She turned abruptly, throwing her arms around him and holding him tight.

Moments later, her bodice and skirt were off and her shift pulled over her head and cast aside. He picked her up then and carried her to the bed, laying her on it, then standing over her, gazing down at her with visible pleasure.

“Are you just going to stand there?” she asked.

In reply, he began to take off the rest of his clothing, slowly this time as if he taunted her, and her desire for him increased as she watched. He was a splendid-looking man, and she never tired of watching him move.

He lay down beside her, took her in his arms, and kissed her, saying, “I think we’ll invite Isobel and your aunt to live with us. They amuse me and will make good company for you whenever I’m away. Do you think your father will object?”

“No,” she said. “Adela is competent, and the others are growing up fast. He won’t miss either of them, and I’d love to have them with us.”

“Good,” he said, kissing her again. Then, to her delight, he eased lower, teasing her with kisses all down her body until she squirmed as she had on the floor of the croft with the rain beating down. He brought her to near release, then took her swiftly, his own passion clearly more than he could contain and more than enough to ignite hers. She felt as if she were on fire one moment, soaring the next.

As they lay sated in each other’s arms afterward, she murmured drowsily, “You do make me feel so safe.” Then, when he hugged her in response, she added, “I will miss her, though.”

“I know.”

“I’m just sorry for your sake that I’m not as beautiful as she was.”

He chuckled, turning to face her as he said, “When I first saw your sister, I was foolish enough to think I would value her for her beauty and her charm. I have since learned that I did not know the meaning of those words.”

“Their meanings are scarcely obscure, sir. She was stunningly beautiful.”

With a wry smile, he said, “Aye, well, in my foolish ignorance, I actually thought I could be happy gazing at her for the rest of my days, as if her looks would never fade. As to her charm, I recognized only the sort that made no secret of admiring me. I was a most despicable fellow then, I’m afraid.”

“Never,” she murmured.

“Sweetheart, the woman I thought I wanted was not, fortunately for me, the woman I won. The woman I married is much, much more valuable to me and will be so to the end of our days. I have been more fortunate than I deserve, because you have taught me that true beauty only
begins
with flawless skin, golden eyes, and a smile that lights any room—and that charm is but one facet of timeless beauty, the sort that radiates from within. I love you, Cristina, with all my heart.”

“I love you, too,” she said. “But I have loved you much longer.”

“Wise lass,” he said, kissing her gently. “I owe your devious parent a far greater debt than he will ever know.”

She arched her eyebrows. “You do not mean to tell him?”

“Sakes, no. The man is insufferable enough. Only think what he would be like if I were to admit to him that you and I belong together and always will!”

Dear Reader,

The germ for
Lord of the Isles,
like that for
Highland Princess,
sprouted from a collection of bards’ tales [
West Highland Tales
by Fitzroy Maclean, Edinburgh, 1985]. When I discovered that the progenitors of the two clans were possibly twins, and their names were Lachlan Lubanach (“the Wily”) and Hector Reaganach (“the Ferocious”), I was hooked. Further research revealed that although Hector was likely the elder of the two, Lachlan became chief of Clan Gillean because his father thought the clan needed a leader with brains rather than brawn. When I learned that Lachlan had employed questionable methods to marry the daughter of the Lord of the Isles and greatly increase the clan’s power, I knew I had at least one good story. The problem arose in finding (or creating) Hector’s story.

Other than his famous battle-axe, his ability to expedite his brother’s plans, his skill with weapons, his marriage to Cristina Macleod, the name of the son who succeeded him at Lochbuie, and the line that succeeded him, we know practically nothing about Hector Reaganach. His story springs from my own imagination augmented by a bard’s tale about a superstitious man with too many daughters.

The real Cristina Macleod may well have had seven sisters. We’ll never know, because unless women married very prominent men, their names and antecedents rarely appear in ancient genealogies (or less-than-ancient ones, for that matter). We do know that her father was Murdoch Macleod of Glenelg and believe that her mother was a MacNichol. We also are nearly sure that Cristina had at least one brother, Torquil Macleod, who deserves mention because he became Chief of the Macleods of Lewis, but I decided to dispense with him in
Lord of the Isles
. I rarely take such license when I have the facts, but some question does exist as to whether they were brother and sister or of entirely different generations, so rather than try to fit him in without cluttering up the story, I just left him out.