Demon Laird (Legacy of the Mist Clans) (38 page)

The fit continued for one heartbeat, then
another. Then, just as quickly as it had taken him, it left. Ronan suddenly relaxed, fighting to suck air into his lungs.

“Praise the saints,” Lia murmured and pulled him into her arms.

Ronan opened his eyes. At first they rolled wildly as he tried to identify his surroundings. Then he looked at Lia and the panic Aidan sensed within him eased. But he still could not move, nor could he speak.

“
Lachlan,” Aidan said. “We need tae get him tae his quarters. I’ll take his head, ye take his feet.”

“Aye, young MacGrigor.”

Carefully they lifted Ronan and carried him out.

Lia rose, leaning heavily on Ronan’s old cane.

“Milady,” Alba said stepping forward and entwining her arm around Lia’s. “Let me help ye, those stairs be too precarious.”

“Thank you, Alba.”

Aidan and Lachlan cautiously carried Ronan out of the keep, with Alba helping Lia.

****

Lia’s entire body quaked and she felt as if a chill possessed her being. She had to stop this, she had to keep her head in order to help Ronan. But as she gazed at his pallid face, she understood the terror growing inside her. She truly loved him, and it was her fear of losing him, just as she had lost her family, that nearly crippled her. She drew a deep breath into her lungs, determined to control her fear. Aye, she loved Ronan and looked forward to becoming his wife, but right now he needed a healer, and she would not disappoint him.

Aidan and
Lachlan placed him in his bed and helped remove his tunic and boots. “Lia, will ye be giving him more medicants?”

“After he wakes up. Trying to rouse him now will probably be an exercise in futility.”

“Lassie, right before the fit struck him, he gave me instructions tae arrange a meeting for tomorrow. But honestly, after the severity of this, I dinna think he will be prepared. I ken my brother; he will want all of his wits about him for this meeting.”

“Can you delay it
?”

“I was considering simply scheduling it for two days hence.
”

She studied Ronan a long moment. “Make it three.”

****

Ronan was grateful to his betrothed for telling Aidan to schedule the meeting three days later instead of the next as he originally wished.

Betrothed.

The term made his nerves coil
, but not in a bad way. He stepped out of his temporary solar and his gaze scanned the bailey. Lia once again worked under the pavilion, but there were no wounded to treat. Her leg was healing, although she still used Ronan’s cane and tried to stay off of it as much as she could. It was now more black than blue, but her limp seemed to be lessening. She worked on her medicants, replacing those she had used, pressing some into oils and whatnot. Ronan realized that by making her his wife, in the future he would no doubt see all sorts of people coming to his keep seeking the aid of the healer who could work miracles.

As she had done with him.

Yet he knew he would have to be cautious about the people he permitted within his walls. Lia would not turn anyone away, but the safety of his clan came first, and Ronan abruptly realized he would need a plan to deal with that. He would speak to Aidan about it later, after he dealt with le March.

Just thinking of the bastard made Ronan’s anxiety jump tenfold
, and he drew a deep breath into his lungs. In a very short amount of time, MacFarlane and MacLaren would arrive and Ronan hoped to get to the bottom of this foolishness. His gaze automatically slid to the open gates, gates that le March would be stepping through later. A black rage seethed in the pit of his belly and he clenched his fists. Le March was unfinished business and Ronan longed to put an end to it… by ending the bastard’s life.

“You will never be free!”

He battled to force the voice from his mind but wondered if he’d ever be truly free of it and the hatred residing in his soul. Again his gaze landed on Lia. He had defeated his hatred of her and now loved her more than life. But in truth, it was she who had defeated the blackness within him with her kindness and compassion.

In the past five days, since she started sharing his bed,
he had awakened from the nightmares only once, and Lia had been there, her voice a soft soothing counter to le March’s mocking laughter. Her touch had pulled him from the black abyss his soul teetered upon during these episodes. But there remained one fear that he could not truly rid himself of. The feel of living flesh under his hands as his grip closed on le March’s neck.

Yet Lia
still insisted he never touched her. Damnation, this didn’t make sense. If he had not, why was the sensation still so vivid? Still perfectly clear? The fact that the whole thing had been so instinctive, a primal reaction that he could barely acknowledge on a conscious level, let alone control, tormented him the most.

The terror that his hatred was so evil
, that he might turn on her without realizing it, poisoned the joy he felt in loving her.

He stared down at his open hands, but he could not gaze upon them without noting the white scars on his wrists from the manacles that had chained him. His hands trembled and he clenched them into fists.

Even though Lia had encountered the hatred of the Demon Laird upon the night of her arrival, she did not fear him. He had startled her, he had worried her, his antics while stalking her in the shadows had frightened her… until she realized it was him. She had never, not once, been truly afraid of him… and… he swallowed hard with the realization. She had never run.

Ronan abruptly realized
that if she ever looked upon him with terror in her eyes, he would not be able to bear it.

“Ronan?” her soft voice, suddenly next to him, startled him.

Lia gazed up at him, holding a cup in her hand.

He sighed softly
and took it from her. Bracing himself, he downed it. “Holy hell,” he muttered as an involuntary shudder passed through him. “Ye made it stronger this time.”

“Aye,” she said and took the cup from him
, but her free hand reached up and her fingers stroked through the lock of hair at his temple. “This parlay weighs heavily on you.”

“Aye,” he said. “’
Tis prudent, no doubt my blood will be boiling long before we are finished.”

“That’s what worries me, Ronan.”

He felt his lips lift despite his melancholy thoughts. “I shall endeavor tae maintain my temper.”

“I know you will,” she said, smiling up at him. “But this situation would test even the patience of a saint.”

A cry of a sentry announced the approach of the two lairds to his gate.

He cupped her face in his hand, his thumb lightly brushing her cheek.
“Tha gaol agam ort,”
he murmured. His smile grew at her confusion. “Forgive me, lass. But I enjoy seeing your expression when I surprise you with phrases in other languages.”

“Ronan,” she scolded playfully.

A chuckle bubbled within him, chasing away his melancholy entirely. “Although, James tells me at the rate ye be learning, I willna be able tae do that much longer.”

She rolled her eyes at him
, but a blush stained her cheeks. “I can barely grasp Common.”

He returned her eye roll with one of his own. “That’s why when James started ye on
yer letters, he apparently only had tae remind ye of some of them before ye took off and wrote them all on yer own.”

“What did it me
an?”

“Pray pardon?”

“What you said… what did it mean?”

His mirth faded but not his ha
ppiness. “’Tis Gaelic… I love ye.”

Her smile was as brilliant as a new dawn. She reached up, weaving her fingers through his hair at the back of his neck so she could pull his head down. Her lips touched his as she spoke.
“Je t'aime,”
she whispered with fine French inflection.

I love you.

Ronan’s heart soared as he seized the initiative and kissed her powerfully. “And ye just proved my point for me,” he said as he lifted his head.

Suddenly Ronan couldn’t wait for her to learn. He discomfited her at times with his changes in languages
, but he did it because he recognized her sharp intellect. Soon, they would not only exchange pleasantries in other languages but arguments as well. Seeing the fire of his Sassenach was something that provoked him on a far deeper level.  He found himself looking forward to it.

The sentry barked again and Lia
looked over her shoulder. She turned back to him and stunned Ronan by lifting the hood of his cloak over his head. “We must present the Demon Laird properly.”

His heart turned cold and horror cut through him. He gently gripped her wrist and stopped her. “Lia, nay,” he whispered
, his voice breaking. “Ye never believed in the Demon Laird.”

She paused and looked at him, her beautiful hazel eyes piercing straight to his soul. “I believe in you.”

Ronan blinked at her, but he did not release her.

“You made me realize,” she said, gently disengaging her wrist from his grasp. “’Tis all in the presentation and the demonstration.”

“What are ye saying?”

“Ronan, the Demon Laird is a part of the man I love. I only hated that persona when you hid behind him, when you buried yourself. But you came to terms with him, and have now done something far greater. Don’t you see?”

Confusion assailed him. “Nay, lassie.”

The sentry cried again and Ronan wanted to curse.

Lia stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek.
“Vous êtes si belle pour moi,”

You are so beautiful to me.
             

His heart threatened to stop and his arms closed tightly around her.
He dismissed his worries as foolish. “Tonight,” he growled. “Ye shall tell me in every language ye ken how it feels as I make love tae ye.”

Her blush burned brighter.
“You’d better go.”

He didn’t want to but knew she was right.
He caressed the soft silk of her cheek. Drawing a deep breath into his lungs, he released her and strode toward the gates.

Lairds MacFarlane and MacLaren rode their horses through the gate and into the bailey as Ronan approached. A single retainer for each laird flanked them. They dismounted and Ronan stepped forward to greet them. He forced down his rage and his suspicion over the rumor of the blighted grain, reminding himself he had no evidence.

Da had died only two years after Mum passed
from an ague that had settled in her lungs. Seemingly losing his will to live, Da’s health had declined rapidly after her death. At the time, Ronan could not comprehend what was happening, why his father had fallen into such a deep depression and had not been able to pull himself out. Da’s death had forced Ronan to step into the position of laird at a younger age than they had expected, but Ronan had accepted the challenges and proven himself. Ronan glanced over his shoulder and saw Lia watching him. Now he understood exactly what had happened to his father.

“Praise the
saints,” MacFarlane said, pulling Ronan’s attention back. The man was now growing a bit long in the tooth, but Ronan had to admit he was glad to see the laird’s warm smile. MacFarlane extended his hand.

Ronan gripped his forearm warmly, reminding himself
again that the sale of the blighted grain was nothing more than a rumor.

“I canna say how
verra glad I am tae see ye so well recovered, MacGrigor,” MacFarlane said with a bright grin. “When I accompanied yer brother and brought ye home, I was terrified ye’d not survive.”

“Thank ye,” Ronan said, finally allowing himself to match the man’s smile.

MacLaren also dismounted and extended his hand. Ronan greeted him warmly as well.

“Aye, MacGrigor,” MacLaren said. “The rumors and tales we heard were troublesome indeed. I too am glad
tae see ye hale.”

“Thank ye, MacLaren,” he gestured toward his temporary solar. “Please, join me. Ye can refresh
yerselves and we can speak at our leisure.”

MacFarlane looked up at Ronan’s damaged keep, then his gaze slid to the tower. He whistled softly. “Ye have
yer work cut out for ye, laddie.”

“Aye,” he said, escorting them to the door. “I fear the great hall is still something of a mess, but we can discuss business in here.” He opened the door and they stepped inside. Ronan noted that both retainers took up positions as guards on each side of the door. He followed the two lairds inside and closed the door.

Ronan quickly removed his cloak and stepped to the small table where the servants had left bread, cheese, wine, and a bottle of MacGrigor whiskey. He gestured to the chairs as he poured three small glasses of whiskey. The two lairds sat and Ronan gave them each a glass and lifted his own. “MacGrigor,” he said as a toast and they drank. He refilled the glasses two more times as they toasted each of their clans. It was a tradition his da had started long ago, and he was more than honored to maintain it.

He then poured the wine and sat in his chair as the lairds helped themselves to the bread and cheese. Ronan
decided to allow them to gather themselves first before he addressed the issue at hand.

“Ye appear completely recovered, lad,” MacFarlane said.

“Aye,” Ronan replied. “My stamina still be a bit low, but my strength is returning tae me.”

“We were stunned when we heard that
yer brother sent for a Sassenach healer.”

Ronan nodded. “The lass kens healing like no other. She is the reason I survived.”

“So that be why ye now plan tae marry her?”

Ronan chuckled softly and winked at MacFarlane. “Word spreads surprisingly q
uickly, but aye.”

MacFarlane chuckled again. This time he reached for the whiskey
and filled the three small glasses. “Congratulations,” he said by way of a toast and drank.

Ronan inclined his head in acknowledgement and tossed back the drink. He bre
athed a soft sigh as the whiskey warmed his gut and finally chased away the chill of worry gripping his insides.

“Now, lad,” MacFarlane said, settling back in his chair. “I fear there is a bit of business we must address.”

“Aye,” Ronan said and nodded. “Ye just said yerself, MacFarlane, ye were there when my brother brought me home. Ye ken what le March did tae me. Ye ken why I dinna want him tae set foot in my home.”

“I understand, lad,” MacFarlane said, his expression growing more pensive.

“Do ye ken what this parlay is about? I defeated him. He ran with his tail between his legs.”

“And that was an impressive victory, lad, especially since ye destroyed the War Wolf.”

“For all the good it did us, since Longshanks simply builds a new one.”

“Aye, and it is because of Longshanks that we be here.
Stirling is the last holdout of Scottish resistance. When it falls, the war will be over, and we will have lost.”

“Aye,” Ronan said softly.

“That be the reason… the only reason… why I—” he paused and gestured to MacLaren. “Why
we
agreed tae support le March regarding this parlay, MacGrigor. We dare not anger Longshanks. We must look tae our future now.”

“
But what is his purpose?”

“I honestly
dinna ken,” MacFarlane said. “Le March refused tae tell us the specifics, only that he needed our help in securing yer agreement tae the parlay. He kenned ye wouldna agree tae one otherwise.”

“That is sooth,” Ronan growled and took a drink of wine. “I
dinna like that he refuses tae tell ye. As I said, he lost; there is nothing tae discuss.”

MacFarlane stared at his cup a long moment.

“MacFarlane,” MacLaren said. “Ye need tae tell him our worries.”

“What is this?” Ronan asked scowling.

“Ye ken, laddie,” MacFarlane said softly, “le March has lost the king’s favor.”

“Of course. This is Longshanks we are speaking of, he
isna the forgiving type.”

MacFarlane nodded. “He stripped le March of his command and even confiscated some of his holdings. Le March will be returning
tae England in shame.”

Ronan couldn’t help himself. He grinned viciously and grabbed the bottle of whiskey. “That calls for a toast,” he said and refilled the cups.

MacFarlane chuckled softly, took the cup Ronan filled, and lifted it. All three drank again and MacFarlane’s chuckle bubbled into laugh. “I tell ye, lad, I see more and more of yer da in ye every day.”

“Thank ye,” Ronan said, taking it as it was meant
—a compliment.

“Since
there be no obvious reason for this parlay,” MacLaren said, “we are worried, MacGrigor.”

“About what?”

“Ye,” MacFarlane said.

“Pray pardon?”

“Considering what le March did tae ye, considering that ye thrashed him so soundly in battle, and considering he gives no good reason for this parlay, we fear his goal is tae get within yer walls and assassinate ye.”

Ronan blinked at them, startled. They believed le March would betray the peace accord of the parlay? Then his wits returned. Of course he would if given the opportunity. Ronan knew le March only wanted him dead.

“Yet ye support him in his request?”

“I told ye why,
laddie,” MacFarlane said. “Even though le March has lost the crown’s favor, we dinna want tae anger Longshanks by refusing a parlay request from an English nobleman. Le March’s lord, the Earl of Pembroke, is a powerful man, and he maintains Longshanks’s indulgence.”

Ronan nodded, understanding the delicate political
ramifications.

“Even though we will lose this war, we can take steps now that will demonstrate our willingness
tae accept Longshanks as our king. We need not lose our lands and homes.”

“What are ye suggesting?”

“That ye allow the parlay tae go forward, find out what le March wants. I will place my most trustworthy man at yer back. So if there is an attempt on yer life, it will fail.”

Ronan stiffened. “
There is only one man I trust tae guard my back.”

“
Yer brother,” MacFarlane said, nodding. “I ken that, MacGrigor, but think on it. By placing my man at yer back, plus me and MacLaren at yer side, we present a united front tae le March, yet also one that willna anger Longshanks. And more, it will free up yer brother tae hopefully get tae the bottom of this intrigue.”

“Longshanks be the least of my worries right now.”

“Yet he should be yer greatest,” MacFarlane countered. “Ye were the one who destroyed his precious War Wolf, after all.”

“Aye,” Ronan said, scowling.

“What if, after Stirling falls, Longshanks decides tae pay a visit here simply in answer for what ye did? Ye ken he willna let the slight ye paid him stand.”

Ronan’s anger rose. He took a drink and forced himself to calm. MacFarlane was right, and Ronan would not endanger his clan.

“What if le March’s desire is tae present a parlay that will soothe Longshanks’s anger? Ye ken he wants tae return tae the king’s grace.”

“Aye, he believes killing me would do that.”

“Which is why I want Fionnlaoch at yer back. If le March attempts tae kill ye under a parlay banner, we will stop his plot and further embarrass him. Yer anger at his treachery will be justified and reflect badly on Longshanks.”

“Longshanks would vent his fury on le March,” Ronan said, “and would not attack
Clan MacGrigor, instead, he might even seek tae make reparations in order tae help smooth the road so the Scots will accept him as their king and not reignite the rebellion.” He paused, pinching his bottom lip in thought. “But what if le March does not plan tae assassinate me? What if his request for parlay brings with it something entirely different?”

“Then we have lost nothing and can deal with whatever situation presents itself.
I am certain any information Aidan can glean will help us in that regard.”

Ronan took another drink, his thoughts spinning. MacFarlane presented several valid points. Normally, Ronan would have agreed to them wholeheartedly. There was only one thing that gave him pause. Ronan only trusted Aidan to guard his back. Placing a man who Ronan did not know
troubled him greatly. Yet MacFarlane was also correct in stating that would free up Aidan to use his talents and get to the bottom of this if assassination was not le March’s goal.

What of the blighted grain?

Ronan studied both MacFarlane and MacLaren intently. He saw no sign of guile in their eyes but had to admit he did not look too closely. Suspecting them of treachery would have angered his father. Ronan knew Da would have trusted both with his life and would not hesitate to trust the man MacFarlane placed at his back.

O
nly question remained, was his son made from the same mettle?

Ronan nodded and rose from his chair, extending his hand. The two lairds also rose. “We have an accord,” Ronan said as he gripped MacFarlane’s forearm then did the same with MacLaren.

“Excellent, lad,” MacFarlane said, grinning up at him. “I kenned ye’d see the wisdom of this solution.”

For some reason, doubt still plagued Ronan
, although he couldn’t define why. He forced himself to smile and gestured toward the door. “Come, let us prepare for le March’s arrival.” He paused and looked at MacFarlane. “Although ye’d better warn Fionnlaoch, he may find himself not guarding my back but stopping me from killing the bastard the moment he sets foot inside my gates.”

MacFarlane laughed and slapped him on the back. Ronan’s reflex was to automatically flinch
, even though his wounds were long healed.

“Worry not, MacGrigor, he shall be ready
tae assist ye in whatever fashion ye need.”

“Thank ye, MacFarlane,” Ronan said and escorted them through the door.

****

Lia avoided Ronan’s temporary quarters while he met with the two lairds. But she was certain the anxiety was going to kill her. He had recovered well from his latest fit
, and Lia had changed the dosage of his medicant. But she worried over him, especially knowing that it was le March he would ultimately meet.

She didn’t understand what this was all about. Le March had lost, there was nothing to negotiate. No terms to discuss, no gold exchang
ing hands, no treaty to haggle over. She sighed heavily and turned her back on the door. She had to do something to keep her mind occupied. But first she needed to sit down. She limped to a chair, leaning heavily on Ronan’s cane.

She stretched her sore leg out and noted it was swelling again. She propped it up but knew stay
ing off of it was what it really needed. While she sat, she pulled her journal to her along with the inkwell and quill. She and James were supposed to work on it again later today.

Although she worked hard to learn all that he had to teach her, they had both agreed that any documentation she had to make at this point would be done with her cypher. The notes were too important to risk confusion over an error regarding a
language she did not yet know how to write.