Chapter 8
Chapter
Eight
The blare of a shepherd’s horn heralded their approach.
Straightening in the saddle, Kellen dún Scoti rode side by side with his new bride—he on a winter-white mare, and she on a Barbary black.
Riding ahead, along with his captain, Kellen’s father picked up the pace, eager to be home. So was Kellen, although he was overanxious about what his mother might say about the lovely woman riding at his side.
The past few weeks had proven a wonderful adventure, and he had come home a brand new man, but he cast a nervous glance at his bonny new wife and felt far less grown than he would have liked.
Would his mother welcome Constance with open arms? Would she be angered over the present circumstances? Would she acknowledge that, at sixteen, he was a man grown and allow him to establish his own home?
Or would she embarrass him before his MacKinnon wife?
Either way, Kellen realized that his mother was bound to be disappointed, if for nothing else, for not having been present for his nuptials.
But ultimately, he hoped she would see it as a boon, for by his marriage to Constance, they now held blood ties to the MacKinnon laird, a man who was well respected throughout the north.
These were turbulent times, and it would behoove them all to bind themselves together.
Painted white beneath a great blue sky, the hillside meandered into a valley that was protected on three sides by corries and on the fourth by a beautiful loch.
Down in the valley below, encircled by bare-limbed rowan trees, sat row upon row of stone cottages—one of them soon to be his own.
Today, the vale appeared much the same as it did when he’d first arrived at the tender age of five, but during the summer those same trees would all bloom, and in the fall they’d be filled with bright red berries that would hold fast to their boughs until frost. Even now the last stubborn fruits were layered in frost, shimmering like jewels beneath the waning sun.
He grinned, for the look on his wife’s face was worth the wait and she smiled beauteously as the small cavalcade approached the village, and one by one, his people filed out of their houses to welcome them home.
Out on the loch stood an enormous structure with a cone-shaped roof.
This was the crannóg he’d spoken to his wife about, where he and his family kept their beds.
While at Chreagach Mhor, she had been fascinated by Kellen’s stories and he couldn’t wait to show her the crannóg firsthand, although his father had already promised him a cottage of his own.
After all, it wasn’t fitting for a man to bed his wife under another man’s roof—or so his father had said.
It was far more meet for Kellen to make himself a home all of his own—so long as his mother agreed.
“’Tis lovely as ye said,” Constance avowed, and the sweet sound of her voice filled Kellen with joy.
“Not more lovely than you,” he countered.
How far he had come since Keppenach, eh?
At Keppenach he’d been just a wee lad, all alone, without any friends, and no siblings.
His room had been cold and his bed as hard as stones.
If they’d stayed there any longer, he might have been dead by his uncle’s hands.
Neither he nor his gentle mother had ever had any love from Rogan MacLaren, but Kellen rarely thought about that odious man anymore.
His real father had died when he was but a tot, and Aidan was the only father Kellen had ever known.
While Stuart MacLaren had been a goodly man, Kellen was far more a dún Scoti than he had ever been a MacLaren, despite that he did not share his step-father’s blood.
Through his years, he’d come to understand that familial bonds were not forged by blood, but by mutual respect and love.
“Ye will love my sister and my aunts,” he reassured Constance.
“If they are anything like Cat, I know I will,” she happily agreed. “And ye may have yoursel’ another sister soon,” she suggested, referring to his mother’s new babe. “What think you of that, Husband?” she asked with a smile.
Like a sapling that had been shown the sun, Kellen sat a bit straighter in the saddle at hearing her endearment.
“I hope it will be a boy,” he confessed.
It would be good to have a wee lad to replace him, for his father’ sake.
No matter how well his step-father loved him, he realized that it plagued Aidan quite a lot to lack an heir of his blood.
They had a legacy to continue, after all, and Kellen did not bear the Guardians’ blood.
He said naught for a moment, trying to picture his mother with a wee bairn.
It was a strange thing to think about—particularly if he and Constance were breeding as well, though he supposed his mother was not so old as she liked to believe.
How would that work? he wondered. His son or daughter might be a niece to his infant sister.
Confusing, though it was no more confusing than to think of his step-sister Sorcha as his aunt, as well—a fact that was not known except by a chosen few.
Since Kellen shared none of their blood, his mother had been quick to reveal this truth so that he might never think of Sorcha untowardly.
As yet Sorcha still did not know, and Kellen was sworn to secrecy.
But Dubhtolargg was full of secrets—not the least of which included the Stone that had been stolen from Scone and now lay hidden in their ben.
“And your aunt Lael wed the demon butcher?”
Kellen swung about in his saddle, peering over his shoulder to see who else might have overheard. He lowered his voice as he turned to his wife, placing a finger to his lips. “Shhh,” he said. “I wadna use that name about here. Lael wadna like it verra much.”
“Oh.” Constance replied. “Will she be here as well?”
“Nay,” Kellen said, though he wished it were otherwise.
His eldest aunt was by far his favorite aunt of all.
Lael had embraced him first, protecting him with her life that wintry night he’d arrived in the vale.
In fact, he sorely regretted having told Constance about the Butcher at all, for how many times had his mother and father both cautioned him to carry no tales of the vale.
It was for this reason Kellen had yet to tell her about the Stone from Scone.
He’d lived here many, many years before he’d ever learned about the Destiny Stone himself—and not before he was old enough to comprehend its value.
And it was the first thing his father had pulled him aside to warn him about, even before he’d taken his vows…
The secrets of the vale remained in the vale, he’d said in his firmest voice.
“His name is Jaime,” he corrected her.
Constance nodded obediently, although her words were not quite so conforming. “Dinna fash yoursel’, husband. I will not speak the Butcher’s name again.”
Husband.
She’d said it again, and Kellen felt the tell-tale heat rise into his cheeks.
“Verra good,” he said, puffing up his chest. “He saved my aunt from the gallows,” he informed Constance.
“That’s how they met. He cut her down from the gibbet, took one look into her eyes and fell in love—at least that’s what my uncle claims.” Constance blinked prettily, her long blond hair blowing softly in the cool breeze, and Kellen could scarce believe his good fortune.
“A bit like you and me,” he explained “I knew I loved you from the instant I looked into your lovely blue eyes.”
Constance blushed and smiled. “You have such a way with words and such exciting tales to tell. Nothing ever happens much in Chreagach Mhor.”
Kellen lifted a brow. “What about FitzSimon?” he asked her, referring to the ordeal they’d only just left behind.
Her cousin Malcom had saved his stepmother from certain death at the hands of a brother she’d not even realized she’d had.
In the process, Malcom slew his own grandfather.
Kellen heard tell now that Malcom might inherit a castle in Northumbria that was three times the size of Keppenach.
Whether he did so or not would be a matter for kings to decide.
Nevertheless, Kellen was content enough with his own lot.
His tiny cottage in Dubhtolargg was worth a thousand castles anywhere else and he couldn’t wait to make a home with his lovely new bride.
But he could see that Constance was still worrying her thumb, nibbling it thoughtfully—a habit that reminded him very much of his aunt Sorcha.
“Do you think your mother will like me, Kellen?”
Kellen wanted so much to tell her yes. His sister and aunts would embrace her easily.
But his mother… well, that was another matter entirely.
Despite that she had rarely ever taken a dislike to anyone, she had long expressed other ideas for the course of Kellen’s life.
She might not wish to be thwarted, and she could very well blame Constance for the way events had unfolded.
But this was the truth: Kellen never touched Constance untowardly, not until they were properly wed.
They had merely sought a bit of privacy up in the stables so they could kiss awhile.
Not once had he put his hand up her skirt, nor did he place his palm across her breast…
not until their wedding night. In fact, the very thought of it still made his cheeks burn, and he hated that fact for he was supposed to be a man.
They were near enough now that he could spy his mother emerging from the crannóg, unmistakable with her belly and her wobble and the pit of his stomach heaved, even as she waved and hurried down the long pier to greet them.
“Dinna worry, Constance. She will love you as I do,” he said, and prayed to God it would be true. Whatever the case, they would know it all too soon, for awaiting them below was the moment of truth.
The rations were gone.