Becca St.John (22 page)

As he prayed, they both shattered into a million pieces of earthly pleasure.

He’d fallen asleep. Padraig rolled over, reached to Seonaid, patted the empty ground, as though she were just out of reach, sat up, twisting to look in all directions at once.

She was there, outlined in moonlight, sitting on top of the rise. He’d thought she’d left, gone for good. Should have been better prepared than to sit there with his heart pounding in his chest. He started to go to her, then thought better of confronting her naked. She was new to the joys of the body, so he’d best allow her some modest expectation of civility, especially if she was at her prayers.. He wrapped a plaid about his waist and climbed the hill.

He had grown used to her early morning ritual, on her knees, praying to her God. Only tonight, she wasn’t on her knees, but sitting cross-legged, back straight, eyes closed, breath steady, even. He felt the peace in her. Felt it, like an invisible light coming from the core of her, and stepped back, unnerved.

This wasn’t the prayer he’d witnessed in times past. He wasn’t quite sure what it was, feared disrupting it. Feared
it
would disrupt his dreams.

Is this what nuns were about? And when did Seonaid begin doing this…this…whatever she was doing?

“What are you about?” He broke into her quiet.

She drew a deep breath, eyes still closed. “Praying, sort of.”

“Aye, I know that, but this is…”

“It’s a different kind of prayer,” she explained, before he could even form the question. “Inner prayer.”

“It…it makes you different,” he admitted, feeling like she was a long way away from him, even though she was right there, with him.

“Yes, it does. I suppose.” She relaxed her back, shifted her legs, faced him. “I suppose it makes everyone different.”

“When did you start this?”

“Years ago, a traveling priest taught me, but I was young and he didn’t stay with us long, so I forgot. But when I went to confession…”

“You went to confession?”

“I did.”

Padraig stalked away, returned. “To confess what we share?”

“No, but I had killed. It is something to confess.”

“They deserved to die.”

“They did,” she countered, “but should I die, I want it off my soul.”

She was rattling him now, more than any other time. She felt enough guilt because of her brother, guilt that wasn’t hers to bear. He didn’t want her to take on more than that. “What else did you confess?”

She didn’t answer, just sat, watching him. He knew he should settle, but this inner prayer, or whatever it was, agitated. It called her away from him. It possibly urged her to a convent.

He forced himself to sit with her. “So you went to confession.”

“And part of my penance was to work on this prayer, develop it, use it.”

“Father Kenneth?”

“Yes, he talked to me about it, thought it would help me find peace in my spirit.” She gestured, circling her head. “I don’t know, he said something about thoughts circling like carrion, that this prayer would help stop that.”

“Does it?”

She smiled then, at him. “I’ve been so disturbed, like he said, too many thoughts, worries, fears, it was just too hard to quiet them. But tonight…” She beamed at him. “I woke and thought to try and it felt lovely. Like there is peace inside, if I’d just stay still long enough to see it.”

They sat quietly, him caught between relief she could feel as she did, while fretting the prayer stole her from him.

She bowed her head. “It was only for a moment; perhaps I was asleep and dreaming, but it was, well, like oh, like I was a mother’s love and a calm loch in the sunshine. Like there is no skin dividing me from these rises and valleys. Like I dissolved into love.” She looked at him, earnest and joyful.

He latched on to the best part of what she said. “You coulda’ been asleep. That’s possible.” But that was selfish, so he amended with the truth. “That’s how I see you, as all those things. You’re like the highlands to me, strong and harsh, soft and loving. Giving if a man is willing to fight for it. All those contradictions. So maybe there’s something to this prayer, that teaches you who you are.”

“Aye, a dream.” Her smile dimmed, she nodded.

He took her hand. “Do you feel the ground?”

“Riders are coming.”

“Aye. But they’re coming from the keep. I saw them head out. We’re safe.”

“Padraig.”

“Aye.”

Again, that luminous smile. “All will be well, that’s what I felt. I donna’ know how or why, but I feel light as the wind.” She faced the stars. “Whatever happens,” she sighed into the darkness, “this night has been special.” Met his eyes, hers aglow. “You are special. I’ll never forget this.”

“We’ll have more nights like tonight.”

Her smile turned wistful, as though he spoke the impossible.

He fought her disbelief. “We will. I’m beginnning to trust in your God. I think he’s going to make it happen.”

“And are you sure He’s a he?” she teased, and rose as one of the Reah riders started up the slope toward them.

CHAPTER 22 ~ HIGHLAND SONG

Despite the short nights of summer, dawn was still a ways away when Padraig and Seonaid stepped into Lady Alissa’s chamber.

“Mama!” Deian shouted and ran to her, clung to her. She clung back, grateful for love when he’d hated her so vehemently only hours before.

“What is it you’re wantin’ us for?” Padraig asked Angus, who sat quietly by the fire.

Father Kenneth rose from a high-backed settle, across from Angus, his bald head barely as tall as the back of the seat. “Ah, you are here,” he said needlessly, and crossed to the window alcove, where Lady Alissa stood. Where Deian had been playing with Brut before rushing to Seonaid.

Bouncing with excitement, Deian took Seonaid’s hand, tugged her toward Lady Alissa. Angus rose, wearily, though he offered a smile warm enough to put her at ease. He even bowed his head to her and to Padraig. They returned the gesture.

“What is it you want?” Seonaid asked this time.

Lady Alissa lifted her chin. “We’ve arranged for Eban’s adoption.”

She’d spoken without warning, without easing into her meaning. Seonaid’s knees buckled. Padraig caught her, helped her to the seat Angus had vacated.

“Not an easy thought, is it?” Lady Alissa pressed, her lips a tight line. “I’d thought as much.”

“Now, Alissa, calm yourself.” Angus said.

“It’s a needless sacrifice,” she snapped.

“Aye, which is why you’ve constructed this brilliant, if not convoluted, solution,” Angus informed her.

Solution? Crouched beside Deian, Seonaid looked up at the woman. Deian turned her face to his. “She does, Mama, she knows how to free you from the shadow of the Dark Evil Monster!”

Seonaid stood, glared. “What does he know of the past?” she demanded.

Lady Alissa pleated the fabric of her skirt. “Well, he had to know something.” She looked up. “Children see everything, you know. They deserve to have it explained in their own language.”

“He’s too young.” Seonaid argued.

“Not for fairy tales!” Lady Alissa countered, both ladies rigid.

Lady Alissa calmed first, straightened her skirts, tilted her chin to the side, allowed a wee, knowing, smile. “It’s a brilliant idea,” she defended, “though a tangle, to be sure.” Seonaid stared at her. “I have a solution to your woes, if you choose to take that route.”

Padraig placed his hands on Seonaid’s shoulders. “You are adopting her son?”

“Well, no, I am not adopting her son. You are.” Her smile broadened to a smirk.

Seonaid tried to spin around, but Padraig held her firm. “I didna’ know of this,” he whispered to her, “but I am happy to take the boy on as my son.”

“I should think so,” Angus snorted, “as we expect you to take on the mother as well. We are prepared to have you married this night.”

Padraig laughed, disbelief mixed with delight. “Do you hear that, Seonaid. They see us as married, even if you don’t.” He skewered the friar with his gaze. “And are you willing to keep her from marrying Christ?”

“Oh, aye,” Father Kenneth nodded. “The convent would be a fine place for her to rest, find God’s will for her. A temporary respite. She has the heart for God, but not the temperament for convent life. Aye, if it’s what she wants, I would be happy to marry you.”

But Seonaid was shaking her head. “It can’t be.”

“It can,” Lady Alissa told her. “The friar worried about banns, being from England and all, but we informed him that, here in the highlands, a person’s word is enough”

Angus stepped in. “Alissa, it’s time we stopped playing with riddles and started clearing this up. How it can be so?”

“And just how is that so?” Seonaid asked.

Lady Alissa gestured for Seonaid to sit where Angus had been, then sat herself on the settle opposite. Deian moved to his mother’s knee, leaned against her, Brut hovering over them both. Padraig stood behind Seonaid,  his hands on the back of the chair, as the friar sat beside Lady Alissa, and Angus leaned against the bed posts.

Everyone in their places, Lady Alissa began. “We,” she gestured to herself, the friar and Angus, “are the only people in Eriboll who know who you and Eban truly are. That knowledge will not leave this room. However,” she raised a hand, warning any who might interrupt, “our mutual Laird, the Laird MacKay and his wife, have sent out messengers requesting any and all information about the three of you.” She told Seonaid, “We have prepared an announcement stating that you and Eban, in the process of saving captives, were murdered by the heathens who now live in our dungeon.”

“Oh.” Seonaid clasped Deian’s hand, reached up to take Padraig’s, linking them all. Death, no matter how fictitious, rang of finality.

“We stated that Padraig was looking for you at Eriboll. In the end, he told us whose bodies we found.” Lady Alissa drew in a deep breath, as though to cleanse herself of the lie. “We have also prepared another missive, for the eyes of the Laird only, explaining what else we are to do this night. As your Laird, he has the right to the truth.”

Angus pulled a number of documents from within his vest, and waggled them for Seonaid to see. “If you do not agree with this fine Lady’s plan, these will go in the fire. If you do agree…” He adjusted his hold, so she would see the triple seal. “…they will be sent by courier, first thing in the morning.”

“So here is my plan,” Lady Alissa leaned forward, her eyes now sparkling with delight.

Seonaid couldn’t help but pull back, rigid against the chair seat. These people knew too much about her woes, and Lady Alissa was having fun because of them. Fun. This was no joyful matter.

“Stop it, Alissa,” Angus warned, and said to Seonaid, “she loves the drama of a thing, you know.”

Alissa snorted. “Pah!” She brushed his comment aside. “I’ve a brilliant plan, you’ve said so yourself. And the friar agrees, don’t you Father Kenneth?” she asked, without giving a moment for an answer. “The friar says he can christen you with a new name. He says he can do it, and we’ve found a name.”

“I did!” Deian bounced in place. “I found the name.” More earnestly, he told his mama, “It’s not so hard, having a different name. You get used to it right quick.”

She’d done that to him so easily, given him a change of name. She hadn’t realized how truly difficult it was; like who you were, are, was held in your name. By changing it, you changed the very essence of your being.

But they were right, she couldn’t go on as Seonaid. She had to be brave, just as her wee lad had been.

“What name have you chosen?” she asked him, knowing it would help. No one would follow. She’d still have to leave the highlands. Chances were great she’d meet someone who had been to Glen Toric, seen her, remembered her. A name change couldn’t erase that.

“Well, you know how you were named for Seonaidh, the water spirit from the Isle of Lewis?” Deian asked.

“Aye, I do know that story.” Had told it to Deian more times than could be counted.

“Well,” Deian burst out proudly. “I heard a story about a lass called Irvette. She was a friend of the sea!”

“Irvette?” Seonaid asked, noticing the others merely shook their heads. “Do you think that’s too obvious?”

“No,” Deian argued.

Father Kenneth reached over and patted his head. “It’s a good name, Deian, but you keep telling me about your mama’s bravery, which reminds me of a lady who went into battle.”

He shifted, thinking. “She wasn’t Scottish, mind you, but Welsh.” He lifted his head, acknowledged all eyes were on him. “She spent considerable time in Wales, The Healers lived near there.” He patted his knees. “And many told the story of Gwenllian ferch Gruffydd. A heroic woman, this Gwenllian, known as the warrior princess. To this day, a Welsh warrior will call out her name when riding out to battle. A woman worth being named for.”

“What became of her?” Seonaid asked.

“Oh, well, most unfortunate.” The friar fidgeted. “She was caught in battle and beheaded.”

Seonaid sat taller, Padraig smiled broadly. “A fine woman, then. Strong and courageous.”

“The name is unusual,” Seonaid fretted.

“Gwenllian,” Padraig tried the name, shook his head. “But Welsh? We aren’t friends with the Welsh.”

“So who would think it, that she would take such a name?” the Friar asked.

Padraig mulled that over, asking, “Would you be called Gwen, then?”

“I like Irvette,” Deian groused.

It was all happening too fast for her to think. “I could have two names,” Seonaid offered Deian, “Gwenllian Irvette. Would you like that? It would be helpful to have a Welsh name, if we are going there.”

“Or if you don’t,” Lady Alissa amended.

Seonaid’s gaze snapped to her. “I have to go away. I can’t stay in the highlands.”

“We will go away,” Padraig told her. “Don’t fear that.”

Father Kenneth slapped his knees and rose. “There’s time to speak of destinations. Let’s get on with the blessing.” He walked back to the alcove, signalled for everyone to follow. “Lady Alissa, would you be so kind as to pour me a cup of water.”

“Of course, Father.” There was a silver pitcher and jeweled goblet by the bedside. She did as he asked, handing it to him. “Deian, get a pillow, so your mother may kneel.”