Chapter 11
Naturally, David was gone come the morning.
Shawna hadn’t actually expected to see him when she awoke, and she was glad for once that he’d disappeared.
As the sun filtered into her room, she tried to make sense of the tempest his most recent visit had created within her heart.
She had thought him dead once and the pain had been so intense she had hardly wanted to go on living herself.
And now it seemed that he was intent on arousing every conceivable emotion within her again.
Revenge. He didn’t know it, but he’d had his revenge against her years ago.
She couldn’t begin to imagine what he’d been through—especially since he wouldn’t speak about those lost years—but neither did David know what he had left behind for her to deal with alone.
Did he use her now? Was making her want him the vengeance he sought?
Or was his passion caused by a deeper, far different feeling?
She didn’t want to admit how deeply she felt for him now, and she didn’t want to admit that nothing had really changed.
She had always loved him. When she had believed him dead, she had been half-dead as well.
A light tapping at her door brought her flying out of bed and hurrying to it. She leaned against it, listening. “Aye?”
“Shawna? It’s Mary Jane. I’ve brought you fresh water. Is something amiss?”
Feeling foolish, Shawna started to slide the bolt.
She realized that her nightgown had wound up on the floor during the night, and she raced for it, quickly slipped it back on, and returned to the door, sliding the bolt and opening it.
Mary Jane offered her a curious smile, her pretty face speculative.
“What on earth is going on with you, Shawna? I don’t remember you bolting doors before this last week! ”
Shawna shrugged. “I—I hadn’t even realized that I’d bolted it,” she lied.
Mary Jane stepped into the room, bringing a fresh ewer of drinking water.
She set the water down, then walked to the window, looking out.
She shivered but offered Shawna another smile.
“Maybe we’re all a little excited.” Her eyes widened, and she said dramatically, “The Night of the Moon Maiden draws near!”
“As it has every year since just about forever,” Shawna said dryly.
“You seem unnerved by Laird Douglas’s appearance.”
“Umrnm…possibly,” Shawna agreed, thinking that it was the understatement of all time. But since Mary Jane didn’t know that a different Laird Douglas had actually arrived straight from the grave, she couldn’t understand just how seriously unnerved Shawna could be.
“Well,” Mary Jane told her, “You are usually the most ardent supporter of tradition and ceremony, so I hope you’ll not forget what an important occasion the night is. Actually, I’ll not let you forget!” she promised. She walked back to Shawna and kissed her cheek. “Shawna, smile!”
So, Shawna offered her a smile and assured her, “I’m quite enthusiastic about the coming occasion, I promise. We’ve guests this year as well. Not guests—since Skylar Douglas is actually lady here.”
“You will always be lady here,” Mary Jane said loyally.
“Skylar is Laird Douglas’s wife,” Shawna said. “But the point is, we must involve her and her sister in the festivities.”
“We will embrace them fully!” Mary Jane promised happily. “Well, let me leave you to dress then. Don’t let the men—your kin or the new arrival—wear you down!”
“I’ll not,” Shawna promised her, and Mary Jane departed.
As soon as her maid had gone, Shawna bathed and dressed quickly.
When she went downstairs, she saw that Andrew Douglas and the men of her family had already breakfasted.
She spent the morning in the office with Hawk, as Andrew preferred to be called, Gawain, Lowell, Aidan, Alaric, and Alistair.
It was a good meeting, she thought. The MacGinnises had kept sound control of Douglas interests, showing a profit in the various enterprises, while also managing the domestic affairs of the properties equally well.
Hawk listened during most of the meeting, asking a question here or there, then remaining thoughtful as he considered the replies he received.
When the meeting broke up, it was decided that they would have dinner in the great hall together, then Hawk would spend the afternoon showing his wife the haunts of his Scottish youth.
As Shawna’s kin departed the office first, she and Hawk were left alone for a matter of minutes.
Shawna was startled when he leaned across the desk to her and bluntly told her, “If you know anything about what happened, you had best speak now.”
Shawna was alarmed and dismayed by his tone of voice.
She had expected his anger and his scorn for her once he knew she had played a part in the events that led his brother’s “death,” but nonetheless, a wave of despair settled over her.
Rather than dissolve into tears, she straightened her shoulders and stared at him fiercely in return.
“If I don’t? Shall I be scalped on the spot? ”
Hawk leaned back. “I expected far more from you.”
She lowered her eyes to the desk and whispered desperately. “I don’t know what happened.”
He reached over, lifting her chin. “If you betray him again, it will not be me you have to fear,” he warned quietly.
She met his eyes, then sat back in the chair, crossing her arms over her chest. “I don’t know what happened that night, and that is a truth that I cannot change.
I—I haven’t betrayed his presence, though it is my own family, my clan, my kin, I deceive.
A dead man crawls in and out of my window without my leave to do so, and still I have kept my silence. ”
A smile suddenly flashed across his dark features. “So, of course, you are glad that he’s alive.”
Shawna flushed and hissed softly, “Of course I’m glad that he’s alive.”
He suddenly seemed satisfied and stood, indicating with a sweep of his arm that she should precede him from the office.
She did so. When they entered the great hall, she found Alistair in the act of charming Sabrina Conner, while Lowell and Gawain were giving Skylar Douglas a description of the Highlands in contrast to the Lowlands and of the frequent historical differences between the two regions regarding policy and politics.
“Oft enough,” Gawain was saying, “the Lowlanders were first to accept the English ways, and English rule—they were low on the border there, you see. Many lairds in those parts came from England, and their financial holdings are entwined with English interests. ’Twas the Highlanders—mainly—kept fighting for the cause of the Jacobites, protecting the rights of the Catholic strain of the line.
Now, of course, we’ve laws to protect the religious interests of all our people, but it was often the Highlanders who hid the priests when they were in peril during those olden days when religion and politics were often one and the same. ”
“Aye, and the Highlanders were the ones who practiced witchcraft as well,” Lowell commented with a twinkle in his eyes. “We’ve still a number of witches about the place.”
“Witches?” Skylar inquired.
“Uncle Lowell,” Shawna protested, entering into the conversation, “you’ll give Skylar the wrong idea.”
“They are witches,” Lowell muttered.
Shawna smiled. “He is referring to those ladies who practice Wicca, not to broom-riding crones who would cast deadly spells upon the earth.” She gave her Uncle Lowell an exasperated frown.
Smiling at Skylar, Alistair explained further.
“Before the advent of Christianity, so many peoples settled here. Gaels, Picts…the Scoti from Ireland who gave our country its name. Druids ruled here, the Norse invaders brought their old gods, and in the days before Christianity, many people practiced Wicca.”
“The earth is honored in the religion,” Shawna said, “along with Mother Nature, and herbs are used for healing, stones give strength, and beauty and peace are found in the ground, sky, and water themselves.”
“We burned our last witch just about a century ago,” Lowell commented. Her great-uncle was teasing her, Shawna saw. Taunting her because she liked to defend the right of people to live as they chose. Lowell was a staunch member of the Scottish church, and that was that.
She imagined he might like the idea of burning witches once again.
Hawk Douglas slipped his arms around his wife. “Many of the Wiccan practices are similar to our Sioux beliefs,” he mused.
“If Wicca is such a benign religion, what caused the furor over witchcraft?” Sabrina inquired, accepting a glass of wine from Gawain as they began to draw together.
“Satanists!” Lowell advised, adding a dark roll to his voice.
“Father,” Aidan said patiently, smiling at their visitors as well, “the point here is that Satanists and witches are not one and the same.”
“The Pope,” Gawain offered dryly.
“Gawain, y’canna go blaming the Catholic Church—” Lowell began with irritation, but Alaric nobly interrupted in his father’s defense.
“Uncle, I don’t think my father intends to attack the Holy Roman Church,” he assured Lowell. Alaric, sound and steady as always, intended to allow no real arguments here before guests.
Whereas Alistair loved a good rousing discussion, Alaric was quite Victorian in his outlook—dignity and protocol above all else.
Gawain, however, seemed in a peaceable enough mood himself—though he did intend to get his point across.