As High as the Heavens (25 page)

"It can be."

"Nay, it can't. I learned that the hard way, after yer
mither and I wed and we tried to start a family."

Duncan shrugged and again began poking the fire
with the branch. "And what was so difficult about that?
Ye had me."

"Nay, we didn't."

Ever so slowly, Duncan laid down the branch and
turned to his father. "What do ye mean, ye didn't have
me? I'm yer son, a Mackenzie, and-"

"Ye may or may not be a Mackenzie, but ye never were
our son, leastwise not by birth." Malcolm dragged in
an unsteady breath. "Angus brought ye to us one night,
after we'd tried for years to breed a child of our own
and failed. Ye were but a wee babe, and Angus said ye
were an orphan, that yer real mither died in birthing ye,
and yer father soon followed her. He gave us no further
information about ye, though, swearing us to secrecy. And he demanded we never ask him about yer true family ever again."

The wind whipped up just then, sending the flames
arching high into the night. A fire-eaten log split at its
center, tumbling with a crack and shower of sparks
into the campfire. And still Duncan sat there, shocked,
speechless.

His father and mother weren't his birth parents? He
may or may not even be a Mackenzie? And their laird
had refused, for some unfathomable reason, to reveal
the true story of his birth?

"Mayhap we erred in not demanding to know all there
was to know about ye, lad," Malcolm said, "but we were
desperate for a bairn. Yer mither, after all the years,
was beside herself with sadness and longing. What did
it matter to us whose bairn ye used to be? They were
dead, after all."

"Did ye ever think it might matter to me?" Duncan
demanded hoarsely, finally finding his voice.

Anger, frustration, confusion ... all swelled in him,
churning together so chaotically he suddenly felt sick
to his stomach. "Why now, after all these years, have ye
decided to tell me of this?"

Malcolm looked down, unable to meet his son's searing gaze. "Yer mither thought ye should know. She felt
it might affect yer decision about the Gordon lass."

Duncan gave an unsteady laugh. "Och, aye. I'd imagine
it might. It's bad enough I'm a common Highlander, but
now I learn I don't even know who my real father was, or
my real name, or even which clan I truly belong to."

"Yer given name is Duncan. That much Angus would
tell us."

"A lot of good that does me," Duncan snarled, the
bitterness welling within him. He shoved to his feet,
staring down at the fire.

"What will ye do . . . about the Gordon lass, I
mean?"

For a long moment, Duncan closed his eyes. Indeed,
he asked himself, what would he do? He had been a fool
ever to imagine there could be a life together for him
and Heather. This newest and most startling of news
but confirmed it. For all he knew, he might well be the
offspring of some illicit love affair.

There was no way of knowing, unless ... unless Angus
Mackenzie could be brought to tell the whole tale. Duncan opened his eyes and riveted his gaze on his father.

"Heather Gordon isn't the issue here. The truth of my
heritage is. And only Angus Mackenzie can tell me what
I need to know."

"And what if, in the knowing, ye discover things even
more hurtful than what ye know now? Let it be, lad. Fiona
and I, we've been good parents to ye. No one need know
any different. And, once the Gordon lass is gone from
here, life can go back to the way it was. Ye'll see."

Nay, life can never go back to the way it was, Duncan
thought bitterly. Now, atop it all, he was a man who
didn't even know from whence he truly came. And that
made him even more unworthy of Heather than he had
been before.

Choking back a curse, Duncan turned and strode off
into the night.

Three days later the steady, rhythmic clatter of morning
rain on the thatched roof woke Heather from a restless
sleep. She rose, bathed, and dressed, then helped Beth
prepare a simple breakfast. Fiona's dropsy had flared up
again, and the older woman soon took to her chair by
the fire, her painfully swollen legs propped on a stool.
Beth spent the morning playing cards with Tavish, and
Heather, as she had for the past two days, commandeered
a chair by the window, where she anxiously watched for
any sign of Duncan and Malcolm's imminent return.

The mood in the cottage was quiet, somber, as it had
been since Duncan and his father's departure. It was
how it always was when Duncan wasn't about, Heather
thought, struck yet again by the realization of the significant and positive impact the big Highlander had on
the day-to-day attitude of all. Duncan was just so full of
life and living, so strong and sure in all he did. A person
would have to be deaf, blind, and daft not to be stirred
by him.

Her thoughts couldn't help but turn again and again
to the unsettling discussion they'd had about religion.
And, though Heather had battled long and hard against
the realization, she had finally yielded to the inevitable
truth. Duncan was the man he was because of his spiritual beliefs, and not in spite of them. If she wished ever
to spend her future with him, she would not only have
to accept that fact but respect it.

If the truth were told, as they had spoken of her
spiritual pain and his staunch faith, Heather had felt a renewed stirring of her own heart toward God. If the
truth were told, she longed for some of Duncan's love
and trust in the Lord.

Once, she too had loved and trusted Jesus with all
her heart. Once her most favorite part of the day was
bedtime when she would kneel to say her prayers, followed by her mother reading her a story from the Bible.
They were practices that had filled Heather with such
peace, comfort, and joy. Would times like those ever be
hers again?

She stared through the leaded windowpanes, straining
to see past the water sheeting the glass and distorting
the view. It was such a wet, miserable day. She hated
to imagine Duncan and his father out in the drenching
weather, herding back the cattle they had surely rescued
by now.

The mouthwatering fragrance of a fine venison stew
wafted past. A stew rich with thick chunks of turnips and
potatoes, cabbage and carrots, and succulent pieces of
venison, all blended together in a savory gravy. Heather
smiled to herself. It was a stew she had made without
any help from Beth or Fiona. A stew made to welcome
back Duncan and Malcolm, to fill their bellies, nourish
their bodies, and warm their hearts.

She didn't know how she knew it, but somehow
Heather felt certain the two men would return this day.
Fiona had but laughed when Heather had announced
that this morning, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered
save that Duncan return safe and whole ... return to
her.

The hours passed; the gloomy, waterlogged day drizzled into an equally gloomy, sodden eve, and still there was
no sign of Duncan and his father. Then, just as Heather
finally gave up hope and began setting the table for the
supper meal, a horse neighed close by outside. Heather
dropped the pewter spoons she held, which fell to the
tabletop with a clatter. She wheeled, gathered up her
skirts, and hurried to the door.

"M'lady. A moment!"

Tavish leaped from his chair with such haste it toppled
over backward. Grabbing up his sword, he stalked over
to block Heather's path to the door. Sword in hand, he
glared down at her.

"Ye haven't any inkling who might be outside. Permit
me to go before ye, in case it isn't Duncan and Malcolm."

She opened her mouth to protest, then thought better of it. "As ye wish, Tavish. Though ye'll soon see it's
indeed Duncan and Malcolm."

With an amused quirk of his mouth, the big groomsman turned, opened the door, and looked outside. "Who
goes there?" he cried. "Identify yerselves."

"I-it's me ... Duncan," a voice called faintly back.
"H-help me. Father ... he's sorely wounded."

At her son's words, Fiona gave a cry and shoved awkwardly to her feet. "Malcolm!"

The older woman motioned frantically for Heather
and Beth to follow Tavish, who had already hurried outside. "Make haste, I beg ye. Go, see what ye can do to
help my husband."

Heather exchanged a quick look with Beth, then hurried after Tavish. In the light streaming from the cottage, she could barely make out the form of a man riding
astride a horse, holding the other man wrapped in a plaid
and slumped over before him. Even as she flew down the
steps, Tavish was drawing up beside the two men.

"Duncan, what happened?" she cried as she slid to a
halt beside Tavish and looked up at the big Highlander.
"Are ye hurt as well?"

"A-aye," he replied unsteadily, "but first see to my father." He met Tavish's glance. "Can ye hold him if I hand
him down to ye?"

Tavish nodded. Heather signaled to Beth, who had
just arrived.

"Come. Stand with me. We'll grasp Malcolm's legs
while Tavish takes him by the arms. It'll be the easiest
way to get him from the horse."

Beth joined her mistress. After a few tense moments,
they had Malcolm down. He was unconscious.

"Can ye carry him into the house?" Heather asked
her groomsman.

"Aye," Tavish said, gathering Malcolm up into his
arms.

"Good. Then Beth and I will help Duncan to the
house."

Tavish stalked off, carrying Malcolm's limp form.

Heather turned to look up at Duncan. "Come
down."

He stared at her for a long moment. "Step back then.
If my strength fails, I don't want to fall on ye."

"Swing yer leg over, then lean on yer horse and lower
yerself to the ground." She signaled to Beth to move to Duncan's right while she moved to the horse's head. "That
way we can catch ye and keep ye on yer feet."

"Do ye really think so, lass?" Duncan asked, managing a weak grin.

Even in the meager light from the cottage, Heather
could see how pale and haggard Duncan looked. Fear
gripped her. Though his father might be more seriously
wounded, Duncan's wounds-whatever they might bewere also severe. She whispered a quick, fervent prayer,
then squared her shoulders and took hold of the horse's
reins.

"We'll catch ye, and no mistake," she said. "Now, come
down, I say."

Thankfully, though Duncan's dismount was awkward
and slow, the horse stood quietly. As soon as his feet
touched ground, Heather released her hold on the reins
and grasped Duncan by the arm. He swayed unsteadily
for a moment before finding his balance. Then, with Beth
supporting him on one side and Heather on the other,
he limped up to and inside the house.

From the open doorway to Duncan's parents' bedchamber, Heather could see that Tavish had already
placed Malcolm on the bed. Fiona was standing over her
husband, peeling away layer after layer of blood-soaked
bandages-bandages that had done little to staunch the
constantly oozing, gaping abdominal wound. Heather
winced, then looked quickly away. Even with her limited
knowledge of sword wounds, she knew such an injury
was fatal.

Duncan faltered at that moment, and it was all the
two women could do to keep him on his feet. Once he had steadied, Heather took a firm grasp of him about
the waist.

"Beth," she then said, "turn back the covers on my bed
and lay a sheet down to protect the bedding."

"N-nay," Duncan groaned in protest. "I can't take yer
bed. My ... my pallet will serve."

"And do ye think I care to minister to ye on my knees?"
Heather chided softly, knowing she would only win this
particular battle by turning his concern for her comfort
against him. "Nay, my bed-yer bed-will be yer resting place until ye're healed. I'll hear no further word
on it."

He lifted his head, eyed her briefly, enigmatically, then
nodded. "As y-ye wish, lass. I haven't ... the strength ...
to debate it just now."

"Or ever, Duncan Mackenzie. And it's about time ye
realized that, too."

His mouth quirked. Before he could waste further
strength on a reply, however, she urged him forward.
Once they reached the bed, Heather sat him on the edge.
Then, with Beth's help, she stripped off Duncan's ruined
shirt.

Multiple superficial slashes rent his arms and torso.
Painful though they might be, none were serious enough
to so severely weaken a man as hale and hearty as Duncan. Puzzled, Heather met Duncan's gaze.

"M-my leg," he whispered hoarsely.

Reaching down, he lifted his kilt to expose his right
thigh. A soaked, mud-stained bandage, apparently fashioned from the lower part of his shirt, was wrapped about
a wound that had, from the looks of the blood already staining the blanket beneath him, pierced through the
outer edge of his upper leg. To Heather's dismay, an odor
of putrefaction already emanated from the bandage.

Steeling herself to what lay ahead, Heather turned
to her maid. "Beth, fetch soap and hot water, a washcloth, bandages, heated oil, and some of Fiona's healing
salve."