Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
W ar was an ugly affair.
Aiden took no enjoyment in battles or wars or fighting. Whenever possible, he preferred diplomacy over violence.
But the MacKinnons, Duffies, and MacLeans had left him no choice. He was never the kind of man to start a fight, but he would damn sure finish one. And he was determined to finish victorious.
Their enemies were cowards, as far as Aiden was concerned. The bastards had attacked in the middle of the night, without warning. Fifteen of his men had lost their lives defending their borders. Fifteen good and decent men. Most had left behind wives and children.
Aiden decided to lead his warriors at their northern border, to fight the MacKinnons. He sent Thomas, Keith, Danial and David to fight to the west and south.
Aiden hadn’t thought it possible to hate a man he’d only met once as much as he hated Alex MacKinnon.
For reasons he could never fathom, the man had been attacking the Randalls for decades. Even his own father had problems with the man.
He now stood over a table, looking at a map of his lands. The X ’ s on the map signified where the MacKinnons were. Each X represented fifty men. Eight X ’ s in all.
Emery entered the tent in a rush. He went to the table and picked up a quill, adding two O’s to the western border. “Our scouts say the Duffies have only one hundred men.”
Aiden was surprised by that bit of information. “Only one hundred? Are ye sure more did nae hide in the forests?”
George gave a quick nod of his head. “I am certain, Aiden. Our scouts say he only has one hundred warriors with him. Nearly all are on foot.”
That was perplexing information. “What about the MacLeans? Have we heard from our scouts about them?”
“Nae yet,” Emery replied. “But I am nae worried. Our southern border takes longer to get to than our northern and western.”
Aiden found no comfort in his statement. “I ken it does, Emery. But I cannae make any decisions until I ken how many of these bastards we are up against.”
His brother couldn’t have agreed more. “Would ye like me to send more scouts out?”
He pursed his lips together for a moment and thought on it. “Nay. We will give them two more hours. If they are nae back by then, we will send out more scouts.”
He couldn’t take the risk of leaving their current position undermanned. They were already outnumbered two to one, by their current estimations.
Oh, how he hated war.
’Twas evening time before the first of the wounded arrived back at the keep. Margaret was thankful that Aiden wasn’t among them, nor were any of his brothers.
Five men in all, and all five declared their injuries to be insignificant. “Just stitch me up, lass, and send me back.”
She could agree to do that with four of those men. A few stitches on an arm or a leg and they would be right as rain. Lizabet and Elayne had far more experience with stitching up flesh than Margaret, so she left them to those men.
The fifth, however, required much more attention.
“Bah! Head wounds always bleed like this,” the older man informed her gruffly.
Blood had turned his blonde hair an odd shade of red. It covered his face to the point it looked as though he had painted himself with it.
Margaret let out a gasp when she saw the long, deep gash that ran across the top of his head. How the man hadn’t bled to death was beyond her.
“Och!” he groused when he heard her gasp. “’Tis nae but a scratch, lass.”
Thankfully, Lizabet came to her aid. “It be more than a scratch, John,” she told him after inspecting the wound.
If she were at all worried over the man she didn’t show it. “Margaret, we need to clean the wound carefully. ’Tis deep and I can see the mud inside it.”
Hope brought forth a basin of warm water, a jar of soap, and bandages. She sat the supplies down on the table next to John. “Would ye like me to clean it?” she asked Lizabet.
“Nay,” Margaret answered on her behalf. “I need to learn to do it.”
’Twas only then that John grew concerned. “Ye have never stitched a man up before?” His worry was readily apparent for he nearly shouted his question.
“Ye settle down, John Randall,” Lizabet said. “Of course Margaret kens what she is doin’.”
No, no she didn’t. ’Twas a lie. A big lie, but one Margaret wasn’t about to admit to. “Nae one quite this deep,” she told him.
Reluctantly, the man sat still and allowed her to proceed. Lizabet stayed beside her, giving words of encouragement. More to Margaret than the patient.
Speaking in a soft whisper, Lizabet said, “Ye must get every last bit of dirt out. I dinnae ken why, but if ye leave the wound uncleaned, it will fester.”
John didn’t like hearing that and tensed up again.
“Use care, and a gentle touch,” Lizabet directed. “As gentle as ye would be with a newly born babe.”
Before Margaret could even begin, Lizabet had more instructions. “Flush out the wound with some warm water first.”
“I thought ye said she has done this before?” John asked anxiously.
“She has!” Lizabet retorted. “Now settle down, man. Let her work.”
Due to the location of the wound, and the fact that John Randall seemed to be as tall as their granary, Margaret had to step onto a stool in order to see what she was doing. She dipped a bit of linen into the basin letting it soak in as much water as possible. Holding the linen over the wound, she squeezed the water out, repeating the task several times.
John complained about the water running into his eyes. Margaret ignored him. She had to focus on her task and make certain she had flushed the wound as cleanly as possible.
When no more dirt or mud came out, she grabbed the tweezers and began to remove the small bits that were stuck to the jagged skin.
“Good lord, woman!” John bellowed with a start. “Are ye tryin’ to kill me?”
Margaret stopped and began to apologize. She truly felt awful that she had caused him any pain. Lizabet, however, had no such qualms.
“John Randall! Ye settle yourself down, ye big bairn! I am certain it does nae hurt nearly as bad as the sword that hit yer head to begin with.”
“How do ye ken ’twas a sword that did this?” Margaret asked curiously.
“Ye can tell by the wound,” Lizabet replied. “It is long, and deep, and the skin is nae too jagged. Had it been a mace, ye would have seen several punctures, all of them deeper and more jagged.”
Margaret stood in awe of her sister-by-law’s knowledge.
“That, and he would be dead,” Lizabet added.
The image of a mace bashing in someone’s skull didn’t set well with Margaret. She swallowed hard and turned her attention back to John Randall.
Her twins decided then that it would be a fine time to eat. They began to fuss before their cries turned into full wails.
“I will leave ye to it,” Lizabet said as she headed towards the hallway. Faith and Hope were there, keeping the children safe and out of harm’s way.
“I will try to be more gentle, John,” Margaret told him.
He studied her closely for a long moment. “Dinnae fash over it, lass. Do what ye must.”
For the remainder of her mission, the man didn’t so much as flinch. He sat quietly, allowing Margaret to do her work.
The stitching was far more difficult than she had anticipated. Embroidering the sleeves of a gown, or pillow, or anything else, was far easier than stitching up a man’s skin. Fabric didn’t complain if you inserted your bone needle too quickly, hard, or deeply.
Thankfully, John Randall didn’t complain either.
It took her an hour to stitch the poor man’s skin back together. When she was finished, she let out a heavy breath. “I believe I am done,” she declared, although she didn’t feel any sense of accomplishment. She was simply relieved that it was over.
John jumped down from the table and touched his scalp with light fingertips. His look of relief turned to confusion. “I feel no gaps,” he said.
“Gaps?” Margaret was confused as to what he meant.
Elayne had apparently overheard him and came to see what was the matter.
John leaned over and said, “Look.”
Elayne took one look at Margaret’s handiwork and giggled. “There are dozens of stitches!”
’Twas true. There were dozens of tiny stitches drawing the man’s skin together.
“Aye,” John said as he stood to his full height. “Lass, in future, remember ’tis a man’s flesh and nae a tapestry.”
The first day of the war made it seem as though it wasn’t nearly as bad as Margaret had imagined. A few injured men came and went. She was able to sleep soundly that first night.
By the fourth day, however, she realized just how ugly war can be. More men, more seriously injured men were brought to the keep.
By the end of the sixth day, the keep stank of blood, urine, vomit, and despair. Her keep was no longer the peaceful, happy place it had once been. Nay, ’twas a sorrowful place now. Instead of children’s laughter filling the halls, ’twas the sounds men moaning in agony.
There was not a moment of peace to be had anywhere. From one man to the other, Margaret went to tend them. She was truly grateful for the help Elayne and Lizabet could give her.
Annabella wanted very much to help. But she was heavy with child. ’Twas cumbersome to walk, let alone stand over a seriously wounded man to tend to him. Therefore, she was relegated to the hallway to help with the children. The number of children was growing rather rapidly as more and more women came into the keep to help. Or to be by their husband’s sides while they healed or, worse yet, died.
Symon, Hugh, and Duncan understood what was happening. They were no longer the carefree boys of the week before. They didn’t chase one another around the keep, innocently playing their games of war or whatever else they happened to think of.
Sleep was nearly impossible. The women did their best to take turns resting, but it was next to impossible. A few moments here and there, scattered over the days, made for exhausted women.
Even with the help from their clanswomen, Margaret was feeling more than just a little overwhelmed. The gathering room was bursting at the seams with injured men. As soon as they finished tending to a man, he was forced to leave to make room for the next.
Tents had been erected in the courtyard as a place for the men to heal. The gathering room was strictly for mending and tending. After finishing with a man, he was taken out of doors to the tents.
’Twas as back breaking as it was heartbreaking work. Time no longer held any meaning.
Not only did the hours run together, the faces of the injured did as well. It was beginning to be too much for Margaret.
The only thing that kept her going was knowing that her husband was alive and well. He would send word with each new batch of injured men. Tell Margaret I am well and nae to worry.
That was easy for him to say! He wasn’t the one stuck here, in a sea of blood, torn flesh, and broken bones to mend. Her biggest worry was that Aiden would be amongst the wounded brought to her.
If that happened?
She was convinced she would simply curl up into a ball of regret and tears and wait for the sweet release of death. There would be no way she could survive without him.
On the third day of fighting, the Duffies suddenly disappeared. Why the left or where they went was anyone’s guess. Mayhap they were tired of seeing their men slaughtered by the Randalls and MacCallens.
The MacKinnons and MacLeans, however, refused to give up. They were ruthless bastards; that much was certain.
Even with the MacCallens at their side and the Duffies in retreat, they were still outnumbered three to one. Yet the Randalls and MacCallens continued to fight valiantly and to hold their own.
’Twas only when night fell that the fighting would come to a halt. There were exhausted warriors on both sides and rest was needed.
On the fourth morning, just before dawn, Aiden received a missive from the MacKinnon. He was in the war tent, with Emery and Connor MacCallen, who were eagerly awaiting to hear what was in the message.
Aiden held a small bit of parchment in his hand and read it aloud. “I request we meet within the hour to discuss the terms of yer surrender.”
Their first reaction was a blend of surprise and confusion. Their second was to laugh heartily at the MacKinnon’s audacity.
“Surrender?” Emery shook his head as he laughed. “The man is tetched.”
“This request proves my previous theories,” Aiden said.
“And what are those?” Connor asked as he scratched his stubbled jaw.
“He is insane.”
Aye, they could all agree on that part.
Connor stepped to a small table in the corner and poured himself a cup of ale. “Have we been able to reason out why he has declared war upon ye?”
“I wish I knew,” Aiden replied.
“’Tis because he is a ruthless bastard,” Emery said.
“Ye are beginnin’ to sound like George,” Aiden replied. George had been complaining about Alex MacKinnon for nearly a decade. “And our father told ye that as well.”
“The answer is even more simple than that,” Aiden said. “He wants our lands and our holdings. ’Tis greed that motivates him more than anythin’ else.”
Emery wasn’t so certain it was quite that simple. “No matter his reasons, whether it be greed or insanity or both, there has never been a more ruthless son of a whore to walk the earth.”
No one could disagree with him on that point.
’Twas Connor MacCallen who asked the next question. “And how will ye respond to the MacKinnon?”
Aiden chuckled slightly as he grabbed a quill from the table and dipped it into the small jar of ink. It didn’t take long for him to write his reply. When he was done, he sprinkled writing dust over the ink and folded the parchment in half. He called for Richard and Charles, the two young men they had been using as messengers since the war started.
The two men came at once. “Take this to Alex MacKinnon,” he said, handing the parchment to Richard.
Neither man needed to ask for further instructions. They nodded and quit the room as swiftly as they had entered.
“What did ye say?” Emery asked.
“I told him “not bloody likely.”
’Twas after dark when another group of men were brought to the keep. Only seven this time. And of those seven only two were gravely injured.
Margaret took possession of the older of the two. A man in his fifties, with a thick, long, red beard and even longer red hair.
“What is yer name?” she whispered as she stood over him.
“Gideon Randall,” he said with a wince, clearly doing his best to hide his pain from her.
“I am lady Margaret,” she told him as she lifted the bloody blanket that covered his torso.
Oh, Heavenly Father, she thought when she saw the wide, gaping hole that ran across his chest. A sword wound. Large and nasty, it crossed from his collar bone down to his belly button.
It was already beginning to fester. “When did ye get wounded?”
“Two days ago,” he admitted.
She didn’t bother asking why it had taken so long for him to be brought here. “Were ye at the north or south and west?”
“South, m’lady,” he said, his breathing ragged and labored.
“Hope,” she called out over her shoulder. “I need lots of water.”
To her patient she said, “We will get ye as right as rain in no time.” She hoped that her eyes didn’t tell him the truth.
Picking up a pair of scissors, she began to cut his tunic away so that she could tend to his injuries. Before she could do anything more, he grabbed her arm. “Lass, I ken I am nae long for this world.”
“Bah!” she replied. “Ye let me decide that, aye?”
He shook his head and loosened his grip. “My daughter. She is married to a Hay.” He sucked in a long, deep breath and closed his eyes against the pain. “She is all the family I have left in the world, lass.”
He was growing weaker by the moment. He had lost so much blood, and the skin around his wounds had turned an ugly shade of red, a sure sign they were beginning to fester. Gently pressing the back of her hand to his forehead, his skin felt cool and dry. She was relieved that he didn’t have a fever, but ’twas early days yet.
“Please,” he begged weakly. “Please get word to her for me. Her name is Joan. She is married to Peter Hay, of the Hay clan.”
Margaret tried to sooth away his worries. “Wheest, now,” she whispered. “Let me do my work.”
He shook his head again. “Lady Margaret, please. Dinnae let me die alone. Please send for her.”
“Of course I will,” she told him.
’Twas one of many lies she had told over the last few days. Nay, lad, ye are nae goin ’ to die. Nay, lad, ye can live without an arm.
Oh, how she was hating this bloody war.
Apparently, Alex MacKinnon didn’t like Aiden’s response to the missive he had sent that morn. Almost as soon as he received Aiden’s reply, the fighting began again.
Aiden fought alongside his brothers and Connor MacCallen. Word had spread quickly through the Randall and MacCallen war camp regarding the MacKinnon’s missive regarding their surrender and Aiden’s response to it.
With a new found vigor and determination, the Randall men fought most valiantly. Today, the number of their injured men had dropped next to nil. And the MacKinnon suffered more losses than they had to date.
By the middle of the afternoon, they were able to finally push the MacKinnon’s off their lands and back to their own. ’Twas a victory to be certain, but it did not mean the fighting was over. The MacKinnon was nothing if not relentless.
Reinforcements were sent to the head of the line to make sure the MacKinnons stayed put. With the lull in fighting, one of Aiden’s messengers was able to make his way to the front. They had word from Aiden began to make his way back to his war tent. “Emery, make certain these bastards dinnae cross onto our borders again,” he commanded as he walked away.
The messenger, Patrick the Red, hurried to catch up to him. “George has sent word,” he told him. “It does nae look good, Aiden.”
“What do ye mean?” He asked, his gut suddenly tight and uneasy.
“He is askin’ for more men.”
Exhausted, covered in blood, sweat, and filth, and angry as hell, Aiden through open the flap to the war tent and thundered inside.
A moment of success, he mused angrily, followed by this. He went to a small table in the corner, poured ice cold water into the basin and tried his best to wash away some of the muck.
Patrick the Red was waiting, rather nervously, by the entrance. He waited until Aiden grabbed a drying cloth before asking, “What shall I tell him?”
Aiden’s head throbbed as uncertainty began to filled his gut. He couldn’t afford to leave either war front weak from lack of men. If he sent too many away now, the MacKinnon would be able to break through and back onto their lands.
But if he didn’t send help to his brothers, they risked the same fate.
Aiden now stood on the precipice of the biggest decision he would ever be forced to make. “Find Connor MacCallen,” he told the ginger haired young man.
Before Patrick the Red could say anything, a commotion began to take place outside of the tent. Aiden could hear men shouting and the sounds of horses coming towards them.
Good lord! We are under attack!
Grabbing his sword from its sheath, Aiden raced out of the tent. Some twenty-five of his men had formed a line of sorts, all with swords drawn and shields at the ready.
Aiden turned in the direction they were staring.
Andrew MacKenzie had ridden right into their camp.
Alone.
“Put yer swords down,” the MacKenzie bellowed over the camp. “I have nae come to attack ye.”
As cautious as he was curious, Aiden slowly approached the mounted man. What in the bloody hell is he doin ’ here? Aiden wondered silently.
As soon as Andrew saw him, he pulled his mount to a stop. He was smiling, if one could call it that. ’Twas difficult to tell, what with the man’s thick, long beard and devious nature.
“Why are ye here, MacKenzie?” Aiden stood but ten feet away from the man, sending silent prayers up that there weren’t hundreds of MacKenzie’s waiting nearby for their laird’s call to attack.
“I hear ye have gotten yerself into a bit of trouble with my cousin,” he replied.
Aiden was unaware as to whom he was referring. As far as he knew, the MacKenzie was not related to any of the clans he was currently warring with. Was there, by chance, another clan on its way to do battle?
Aiden maintained an air of calm indifference and silently waited for the man to explain himself.
“I am referrin’ to the MacKinnon,” Andrew said from atop his mount.
Aiden did a rather fine job of hiding the shiver of dread that had just punched his insides. Still, he remained silent, his sword at the ready.
With a heavy sigh, Andrew hung his head for a moment before he began to dismount. Each of Aiden’s men took several steps forward, ready to gut him if he should make even the slightest misstep.
When his feet his the ground, he tossed the reins over the back of his horse. “I really despise Alex MacKinnon. Cousin or nae.”
Aiden didn’t know if the man was telling the truth or if this was all a ruse to get close to him. He wasn’t about to let his guard down. Hell, the man had declared war on the Randalls weeks ago, over a simple letter written by his wife Margaret.
He had to wonder if the man was not as insane as his cousin. “I was unaware of your kinship to the MacKinnon,” Aiden said.
Andrew chuckled slightly. “Only by marriage. He is my wife’s cousin.”
Aiden didn’t care how the two clans were related. “Why are ye here?”
Andrew laughed again. As he did, he removed his fur cloak and tossed it over the back of his horse. Next, he turned around, with his hands up, to show that he was unarmed. Aiden didn’t believe that proved much of anything. Most men carried weapons tucked into their boots, and some even under the sleeves of their tunics. He wasn’t about to take any chances with Andrew MacKenzie.
“I am here,” he said, smiling rather wickedly, “to help ye.”
Aiden raised one brow ever so slightly. “To help?”
“Aye,” Andrew said with a nod.
“Why?”
Andrew MacKenzie laughed heartily for a long moment. “Och!” he said with a broad smile. “I have two reasons.”
“And they are?”
“One, I cannae stand Alex MacKinnon. He is a ruthless bastard.”
No one here would deny that.
“And?”
Andrew took a few steps closer to Aiden. “And I could nae stand the thought of yer pretty wife cryin’ over yer grave.”
Thanks to the help of Andrew MacKenzie, the Randalls and MacCallens were victorious. By the end of the day, they had pushed Alex MacKinnon and his men all the way back to his own keep.
The MacKenzie had also sent reinforcements to those fighting in the south. That battle took a little longer to win. Two days in fact. But once again, they managed to get the MacLeans to retreat.
On the third day, Aiden Randall and Alex MacKinnon met in the middle of a small glen. A little bit of land on their border.
Each man rode his mount to the center of the field. If a truce had not been called, and if Aiden weren’t a man of his word, he would have run Alex through with his sword. His hatred for the MacKinnon had grown to new heights over the past ten days.
The MacKinnon was not nearly as frightening as Aiden remembered. But then, Aiden had been a young boy of twelve the last time he’d seen him. Back then, he was a fierce looking, giant of a man, with a full head of black hair and a matching beard.
But today? Today the man simply looked old. No where near as big and mighty as he had seemed in his younger days. Now, his hair was streaked with gray and his face clean shaven. Shoulders that had once been broad and intimidating, now sagged with age.
Aiden almost felt sorry for the man.
Almost.
The two men were silently scrutinizing each other. Aiden refused to speak first. They were here because Alex MacKinnon had requested it.
“Ye fought well, Randall,” Alex said.
Aiden detected more than just a hint of loathing in the old man’s tone. He wasn’t surprised at all surprised. He chose not to respond. Silence could be far more intimidating than words at times.
“The battles may be over,” Alex said. “But the war is nae.”
Aiden shrugged with indifference. “Pray, tell me, MacKinnon. Why did ye declare war upon us?”
“As if ye dinnae ken.”
Aiden wasn’t about to play a game of cat and mouse. He was tired. Tired of the fighting and weary of the MacKinnon. “I would nae have asked if I knew the answer.”
Alex shifted his weight in his saddle and studied Aiden for a quick moment. “I would tell ye to ask yer da, but he up and died on ye.”
He met the comment with silence.
“Yer da dishonored me, Aiden. Long ago. ’Twas a transgression I shall nae ever forget or forgive.”
A transgression? Dishonored? Aiden hadn’t the slightest notion as to what Alex was referring. “I want no war with ye, MacKinnon. Each of us have lost enough men over this transgression. Mayhap, it is time for ye to forget.”
“I will see ye and yours burn in hell, Randall, before I forgive or forget,” he ground out angrily.
There would be no talking to the old fool. No amount of diplomacy would work. “Verra well, MacKinnon. But I will warn ye now. It matters nae how many times ye attack us. It matters nae how many declarations of war ye make upon me and mine. I will win. And there will come a day when I hang yer foolish head on a pike over the gates to my keep.”
He didn’t give the old man any time to respond with any threats of his own. Aiden clicked his tongue once and turned his horse away. He didn’t run, nor did he crawl. Nay, Aiden sat tall in his saddle and trotted back to his brothers.
“Ye will regret that decision, Randall!” Alex called out to him. “I will have my revenge, ye son of a whore!”
Aiden stopped his horse and turned around in his saddle. “Nae bloody likely, MacKinnon. Nae bloody likely.”
Margaret couldn’t remember the last time she slept. Every muscle in her body ached with fatigue. She had made a promise to Gideon Randall. She wasn’t going to let him die alone.
It had been impossible to send word to his daughter. There was no way to get word to anyone save for the MacCallens. Randall lands were surrounded by their enemies and too busy fighting to protect their lands.
Therefore, she stayed at Gideon’s side for two days. She only stepped away to tend to the newly arrived injured men. Those numbers had lessened over the past two days. Margaret could only pray that it was a sign they were winning this awful war.
A fever hit Gideon in the middle of the night. He shivered almost violently. “’Tis so cold in here,” he muttered.
Margaret covered him with yet another wool blanket. “Wheest, now,” she told him. “All will be well.”
Neither one of them believed what she was saying. Gideon knew, in his heart, that he wasn’t long for this world. Death was barking at his door.
Still, she refused to leave him. For some reason, she could not leave the man’s side. He was alone. Being all alone in this world was something she understood all too well.
So she sat by his side, near the hearth. The fire hadn’t gone out in she didn’t know how long. Days. Maybe weeks. Time no longer meant anything to her.
Before dawn, Elayne came to her side. “Ye need to sleep,” she whispered as she placed a warm palm on her shoulder.
Margaret patted her hand, thankful for her sister-by-law’s kindness. “Nay, Elayne. I promised him I would stay.”
“But, Margaret, ye need to sleep,” she argued softly. “Besides, we have nae received any more wounded since yesterday.”
“I will close my eyes for a bit,” she promised her. “I cannae leave him.”
Elayne soon realized that she wasn’t going to convince her of anything. “Ye are just as stubborn as yer husband,” she quipped.
Her husband.
Aiden.
How long had it been since he had sent word that he was well? Her head began to buzz and she felt as weak as a newly born kitten.
Elayne was speaking to her, but for the life of her, Margaret couldn’t hear what she was saying. “I will be fine, Elayne. I promise, I will close my eyes and rest. I canna leave him just yet.”
The next thing she knew, she was dreaming. Aiden was there and he was furious with her. But she couldn’t quite make out what he was saying. All she knew for certain was that he was angry.
“Oh, Aiden,” she said weakly. “I am so verra sorry.”
“Ye should be,” he replied.
“Why are ye so angry with me? I did my best. I tried to save as many of them as I could.”
“I ken lass, I ken.”
He didn’t sound quite so angry now. Dreams were such peculiar things. One moment ye believe a thing only to believe something else the next. One moment ye could be floating in the clouds, the next, ye are bein’ chased by an angry bear.
“I am nae an angry bear, lass,” he said. “I am simply worried over ye.”
Was she dreaming? Or had she completely lost her mind from lack of sleep?
Nay, she wasn’t dreaming. She opened her eyes wide. Was he truly crouching next to her? “Oh, please, dinnae let this be a dream,” she murmured.
Aiden’s laughter echoed off the walls of the gathering room. “’Tis nae a dream, lass. I am home.”
Had she not been so utterly and completely exhausted, she might have had the energy to jump into his arms. But as it was, she couldn’t. The only thing she found she could do, was to cry. “Aiden, ye dinnae die!”
“Of course nae, lass,” he chuckled softly.
The next thing she knew, he was lifting her into his arms. “Come now, lass. Ye need sleep.”
“Stop!” She shouted. “I cannae leave Gideon!”
Elayne shushed her protests. “I will stay with Gideon. I promise.”
“But I promised him I would nae leave him. I promised him I would nae let him die alone.” Her protests, while valiant, were as weak as she was. Aiden ignored her as he carried her across the room. “He will nae die,” he told her.
“How do ye ken that?” she asked him as she rested her head against his shoulder.
“Because I ordered him nae to.”
’Twas nearing nightfall when Aiden finally made his way through the gates of his keep. He wanted nothing more than to find his wife and hold her for the next hundred years or so.
He and his brothers were met in the courtyard with mighty cheers. Everyone was glad the war was over. Aiden didn’t have the heart to tell them otherwise. Let them enjoy a few days of peace, without worry over Alex MacKinnon.
It took some time to actually get inside the keep. His people were eager to pat his back or hug him tightly, and congratulate he and his brothers for their victory.
Finally, he made his way indoors. He was met by Lizabet and Elayne. “We tried, Aiden, we truly did,” Elayne exclaimed.
Worry instantly filled his gut. “Tried what?”
“Margaret,” Lizabet said. “She will nae rest!”
The two women pointed him to his wife. “She refuses to leave Gideon’s side,” Elayne told him.
He waited, just inside the doorway, for them to explain what had happened. Flossie was soon in front of him, as were Faith, Hope, and Grace.
They all had quite remarkable stories to tell him about his wife. He only heard half of it. Mostly, his attention was set on his wife, who was sleeping on a tiny stool, next to Gideon. A blanket was drawn up to her chin, her head resting on the cold stone wall near the hearth.
His lips pursed with concern. Even from this distance, he could see the circles under her eyes. It also appeared that she had lost weight in his absence. Gaunt, ashen.
“She would nae rest, Aiden,” Flossie told him. “I have never seen anyone - man nor woman - work so hard in my life.”
That was high praise coming from her.
He wanted to shout and yell and blame someone for his wife’s current state. Why hadn’t they kept better care of her? Why hadn’t they insisted she rest?
He knew the answers to his questions. Margaret wouldn’t have listened to anyone regarding the need for food and sleep. She was a stubborn, beautiful, kind hearted woman.
“She has barely slept in days,” Lizabet told him. “We were about to slip a sleeping draught into some warm cider before we heard yer return.”
“I thank ye all, each of ye, for yer hard work these past weeks. I owe each of ye a lifetime of gratitude.”
They thanked him for winning the battle against their enemies before he crossed the room to see to his wife.
He laid her down on their bed with such care that she wept even more. Margaret was beyond relieved to see that he had survived the war, that he was home, and apparently without so much as a scratch that she could see. But then, she could barely keep her eyes open.
Lizabet was there, helping her out of her dress and into a nightrail. She thought she heard Hope and Grace speaking, but she couldn’t be certain.
Oh, the fur-lined night rail felt so soft and warm against her skin. It had been days and days since she had slept in her bed, or slept at all for that matter.
Aiden drew the furs gently up to her neck. She had missed him so much.
“I missed ye as well, lass,” he whispered from somewhere near the hearth.
“Did I say that aloud?” she asked sleepily.
He chuckled. Oh how she had missed the sound of his laughter. It was balm to her soul.
Moments later, heat emanating from the hearth touched her exposed skin. That too felt good. But what she wanted more than anything was to feel Aiden laying next to her with his strong arms wrapped around her.
As if he could read her thoughts, he was soon slipping out of his clothes and into the bed. Safe. She felt completely safe in his arms and she thanked him for that.
“Ye need to sleep now, Margaret,” he whispered softly against the top of her head.
“I am so verra tired, Aiden,” she told him with a yawn. “Ye must be tired as well.”
“I am,” he admitted.
They each fell quiet before worry pummeled her heart. She had heard of people dying from lack of sleep. ’Twas the truth that she hadn’t slept in days. Far too many days. What if she died before she could tell Aiden what was in her heart?
Tears filled her eyes again as she sat upright in the bed. “Aiden, I must speak to ye.”
“We can speak later, after ye have slept.”
“Nay!” she cried. “I will nae be able to sleep until I speak with ye.”
He let out a frustrated sigh and sat up in the bed. “Verra well lass, I am listenin’.”
She was uncertain where exactly she should begin. More than anything she wanted to share her secret with him. After all this time apart, she had had time to think. Time to realize that he would always protect her. No matter what.
“Lass?” He said as he took her chin betwixt his fingers.
“Aiden, I think I have fallen in love with ye.” She had blurted the words out so quickly that she wasn’t sure she had said them correctly or with any feeling.
He chuckled at her again. “I ken ye do, lass.”
“Ye do?”
“Aye,” he said as he helped her to lay back down. “Now, go to sleep.”
She tried, truly she did. But she simply could not sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, her body would involuntarily jolt and she would open her eyes again.
“How do ye ken?” she asked him some time later.
“How do I ken what?”
“That I love ye,” she mumbled. Lord above, she was tired and wished her mind would settle.
“Sleep, lass. I will tell ye after ye have slept.”
She quieted again, but not for long. Her mind was racing hither and yon, images of dying men flashing before her eyes.
Once again, she jolted upright. “Aiden! Please, please dinnae leave me. Dinnae let me die alone. Promise me, ye will nae let me die alone.”