Chapter Seven
By the end of the first week, Ruaidri had almost convinced himself that Màiri Beth would be his bride. So far, he’d stopped short of signing an agreement, despite Lachlan’s regular encouragement. But a decision had to be made, and there really was only one, since he could find no real reason to refuse. The lass was a prize to be coveted. He’d be a fool to turn his back.
So why was he hesitating? Perhaps because he sensed that the lass was also hesitating. She’d sent her apologies the day before, stating she was feeling unwell, and unable to keep their rendezvous. The same thing had happened today, with a message from Màiri Beth’s maid stating that her lady was still unwell, though the specifics of the ailment were not supplied.
Ruaidri had wandered out into the brightness of a spring morning and paused, breathing deep of the sea air. He figured Ewan would likely be practising at the pell again, and headed toward it. As he was passing a small building to his right, he heard the soft laughter of a woman, followed by the voice of a man. A familiar voice, one that drew Ruaidri to a sudden halt.
The door to the building stood slightly ajar. Ruaidri moved toward it, pausing at the threshold before easing himself through the gap. He found himself in some kind of store room, the floor littered with boxes and bulky burlap sacks. Standing still, he squinted into the shadows, his eyes adjusting quickly to the dim light. And that is when he saw them, seated on a wooden bench beneath the window, their bodies almost touching.
“I think you would love it, my lady,” Brochan said. “’Tis a quiet, peaceful place.”
“Oh, but it sounds like Heaven, Laird MacAulay” Màiri Beth parted with an audible sigh. “I wish I could see it.”
“Maybe you will, one day.”
“I pray so.”
Ruaidri’s gut twisted. He could scarcely believe what he was seeing and hearing. Then Brochan MacAulay leaned in and whispered something in Màiri Beth’s ear. Her eyes widened, and she laughed, her head lifting as she did so. That was when she noticed Ruaidri. Her laughter died on her lips and her eyes lowered. Brochan snapped his head around, saw Ruaidri, and shot to his feet.
“MacKellar.” He winced. “’Tis no’ what you think. I was just telling Lady Màiri about—”
“It appears you’re feeling better, my lady,” Ruaidri said, shifting his gaze to Màiri Beth, whose cream-coloured had turned an impressive shade of red. “I’m pleased to see you looking so… fresh.” Narrowing his eyes, he regarded Brochan again. “As for what I think, MacAulay, I think my low opinion of you and your kin requires amending. It is still much too high.”
“Will you tell my father?” Màiri Beth asked, looking at him, wide-eyed.
Ruaidri raised a brow. “Tell him what, my lady?”
“That I…” She looked at Brochan, and Ruaidri saw something in her eyes, in her expression. Trust, and maybe another thing besides. He clenched his fists.
“There’s naught to tell.” Brochan took a step closer. “Lady Màiri has done naught wrong.”
Ruaidri scoffed. “Aye, I’m certain the fault is entirely yours, MacAulay. I suggest you pack your things and leave Roscraig before word of your secret liaisons with Lachlan Ranald’s daughter get’s out.”
Brochan shook his head. “I’m no’ going anywhere, MacKellar.”
Ruaidri shrugged. “I shall leave you to it, then.”
He turned and left. Close to breaking point, he had no choice. If he stayed, blood would be spilt. What to do? To report MacAulay to Lachlan would mean bringing disgrace to Màiri Beth. Then again, why should he care? The lass had lied to him. Misled him. How could he even consider wedding her after this? Then again, to do so would be the ultimate act of revenge on MacAulay.
Right now, Ruaidri needed to punch something, or someone. Brochan MacAulay, preferably. Seeking to gather himself, he headed for his chamber. The knock came to his door almost as soon as he’d closed it.
“Aye, come in,” he snapped, assuming it was Ewan. The door opened and Brochan MacAulay stepped into the room. “We need to talk, MacKellar,” he said, shutting the door behind him.
Ruaidri sneered. “Hell’s teeth, you have a nerve coming here. Talk about what? The fact that you cannae keep your cock in your trews? I should’ve known you’d do something like this.”
“And what is it, exactly, that I’ve done?” Brochan lifted his chin. “Admit it, MacKellar, Màiri Beth isnae for you. You know it and so does she.”
Ruaidri moved closer. “The lass is promised to me.”
Brochan stood his ground. “She deserves better.”
“Watch your mouth.”
“Nay, MacKellar, I willnae. Not anymore.” Brochan’s lip furled as he set himself toe-to-toe with Ruaidri and looked him in the eye. “I’m sick and tired of kissing your pathetic arse just to keep the peace between us. I’ve also had my fill of your false respect, especially when it comes to Elspeth. Do you think she cannae see through it? Tis no’ just us, either, who have to tolerate your strange moods. Everyone at Cathan tiptoes around you, including your own kin. ’Tis piteous to watch. The saddest part, and what you fail to understand, is that you’re still at Alastair’s mercy. He may be dead, but it’s clear he has you firmly by the balls. You’re just too damn blind to—”
With a howl of rage, Ruaidri hurled himself at Brochan, both of them crashing to the floor. Breath hissing through gritted teeth, Ruaidri straddled Brochan’s upper body, put his hands around Brochan’s throat, and squeezed.
Hard.
Brochan clawed at Ruaidri’s wrists and bucked beneath him, but Ruaidri, riding a euphoric wave of vengeance, held fast. Fury, such as he had never felt, burned through him like fire, stoking his hate and feeding his strength. “You should have been drowned at birth, MacAulay,” he said, spittle flying from his lips. “The Devil’s spawn is what you are. May you rot in Hell.”
“Aye, go on then, you mad bastard.” Brochan, still clawing at Ruaidri’s wrists, gurgled and gagged, his face turning vivid red beneath Ruaidri’s deathly grip. “Kill me if it’ll give you the peace you seek. Except it... willnae. You’ll no’ find peace till you take the blinders off and see that Alastair... is... controlling you from the grave. You... see... him when you... when you look at me, but I’m... no’... God help me.” His clawing weakened. “Just... promise me you willnae harm Ellie. The lass love... loves you. Prom... promise me... Ah, Christ, Ruaidri.” A tear trickled over his temple. “I’m... sor... sorry...”
The sight of that single tear pulled Ruaidri back from the edge of madness. He let out a roar, released his hold, and rolled onto his back. Breathing hard, he gazed up at the ceiling, his heart beating so fiercely, his entire body shook.
“Are you dead, Brochan?” he asked, silently praying for a response.
There followed a rasping cough, then, “Nay.”
“That’s good.” Ruaidri rolled onto his hands and knees and crawled to the nearest wall, where he flopped onto his arse and leaned back against the cold stone. “That’s good,” he said again, and then buried his face in his hands, his entire body convulsing as one sob after another tore silently from him.
He heard a knock at the door, which opened, followed by a gasp and Ewan’s voice. “What, in God’s name, is—?”
“Get out, Ewan,” Brochan said, and then coughed once, twice. “Get out.”
Silence fell for a few moments, and then the door closed again.
Ruaidri felt, rather than, saw, Brochan crawl to his side, where he sat beside him in silence. It was a while before Ruaidri ran out of sobs. It left him feeling oddly free. Unfettered. As if a shackle had been removed from somewhere, a shackle he never knew existed. Freedom tasted sweet, and familiar. He’d tasted it once before, when he’d spent the night Deòir na Gealaich. He’d wept then as well. Buried his face in Cristie’s hair and wept. Cristie. Alastair’s sister.
“Forgive me, Brochan,” he said, lifting his head.
“I already have,” Brochan replied, his voice still raspy.
“It’s over.”
A hand landed on his shoulder. “I’m glad.”
“Thank you.”
“Happy to help.” Another cough. “I think.”
“Never thought I’d thank a MacAulay.”
Brochan made a sound similar to that of a donkey’s bray.
Ruaidri regarded him. “Was that supposed to be a laugh?”
“It was, aye. You bastard.”
Ruaidri smiled, got to his feet, and held out a hand. Brochan took it, and Ruaidri pulled him upright. “I’m going to talk to Lachlan,” he said, tears coming to his eyes again when he saw the marks on Brochan’s neck. “About my intentions towards Màiri Beth, if you have no objection.”
“None at all,” Brochan replied, sounding rather like he’d swallowed a bucketful of sand. “And you can take that sorry look off your face, MacKellar. There’s been no harm done here today. To the contrary. I’m fine. More than fine. In fact, I plan to get thoroughly drunk tonight, though I dinnae think I’ll be doing much singing. You might want to find your brother, though, and put him out of his misery. I guarantee he’s pacing somewhere.”
Later that day, after Ewan’s mind had been put to rest and Lachlan had been amenable to his proposal, Ruaidri returned to his chamber. For some reason, he couldn’t stop smiling. Heaving a contented sigh, he went and dug in his satchel for his candle, and froze.
His hand shaking, he reached in and pulled out the sprig of heather. The single sprig of heather, now fully intact, the flowers on it dry but firmly attached.
It had to be some kind of trick. A different sprig. But put there by whom? No one knew he’d brought the damaged sprig. There was a mark of some sort on the stalk, he realized, and brough it closer to his face. Then, using his fingertip, he traced the near-invisible scar that exactly matched where the break had been.