Chapter Eighteen
How did he get to this point? Rory asked himself. He’d stormed out of the crypt, hatred and betrayal roaring through him, and hadn’t seen his mother until she’d grabbed his arm.
His mother was quiet and reserved, but her fingers had gripped and yanked him out of his thoughts of the past and into the present.
When he’d registered who it was, he’d waited for her to speak. He was more than ready to hear her. Hamish his father, if true, meant he didn’t know this woman at all. Had she lain with him willingly or had he raped her?
But she gave a gentle smile and, once she’d held his attention, released his arm and requested he attend evening meal.
Of all the subjects to talk of, food wasn’t one of them. Shock must have been his response for he’d agreed.
Before another was spoken, she’d left. For one terrible moment, he’d wanted to run after her, to demand answers. But out in the open wasn’t the time.
Food. Evening meal. This was the first night the Lochmores could greet and congratulate him and his wife. For Ailsa’s sake, regardless of what was disclosed and shared in that crypt, he’d be there.
So that’s how he got here, sitting at the High Table, wondering if leeks with rosemary would be served. But there were no leeks and nothing was garnished or flavoured with rosemary. A tiny detail that meant the missives he’d sent to home had been read.
And he sat next to his wife. She’d arrived in the Hall, stunning him with her beauty. Her hair was plaited and intricately bound and she wore a soft green gown, the fabric so fine it shone. To show respect both for Lochmores and McCrieffs she had taken pains with her appearance.
He wished he had done the same, but he hadn’t returned to his rooms. Needing to gain control of his thoughts, he couldn’t go where he would be found. Instead, he’d wandered the village outskirts. A few tenants greeted him, but most stayed away.
Hamish was his father? He was a hated man, who’d decided to poison his own clansmen. Finley had met with him many times and never trusted him.
Did Finley know that Hamish was his father? That would explain why he was so hard on him. It also explained that, no matter how hard he endeavoured, he would never be what Finley wanted.
However, Finley must truly love his mother.
For the life of him, and all the secrets kept, he could not see her being unfaithful to Finley.
It fit that Hamish would have raped her.
At that thought, a blinding rage swept through Rory.
He already hated Hamish for what he’d done to Paiden, what he’d attempted to do to Frederick.
Rory wanted to confront him, kill him. He wanted to rail against himself for having Hamish’s tainted blood running through his veins. And yet, Finley acknowledged Rory as his son. Whether she was unfaithful or raped, the babe she carried—him—had been acknowledged as a Lochmore.
Well, somewhat acknowledged. The Lochmore brooches had not been presented at their wedding. But was that because Hamish was his father, or because of Ailsa?
Ailsa, who talked to his clansmen and was kind to the servants who congratulated them on their nuptials. His wife, who gave furtive glances his way to see how he fared.
Another bite of food he didn’t taste, another drink of ale that didn’t quench his thirst.
His wife knew he was Hamish’s son and had married him. How had she known and what had she meant by saying there was more? What more could there be? It had been foolish of him to run out of that room. But he’d been avoiding the past for so long, it’d become habit.
He wasn’t angry at her for not telling him. They barely knew each other and, worse, she’d told him of her guesses before he’d told his. No, he wasn’t angry, but so much more had to be said.
Right now, he couldn’t talk, couldn’t demonstrate his affection and care for her. But he wanted to. Very much. And something of his desire must have shown in his eyes because the worried wariness faded from her expression and she gifted him with a true smile. One he wanted to echo back.
His eyes on Ailsa, and all that she meant to him, Rory caught the glimpse of his mother motioning a servant to gather her chair so she could stand.
His father stayed seated. An unnatural quiet fell upon the Hall as it became clear his mother was about to address the clan.
Not once in all his history had his mother done so.
He didn’t think her soft voice could even carry across the long expanse.
Except it did as she gave her thanks and greetings to the clan. Then, with another nod, a flat clasped box was placed on the table in front of his mother. Rory knew that box, recognised it. Out of all the revelations today, this box’s appearance might have stunned him the most.
‘I wanted to wait until you arrived to give these to you,’ his mother whispered to him.
‘I want to say so much more and will soon. But for now, I hope this will be a start.’ Turning to the clan, his mother said further words and the clansmen grew quieter to hear every one of them.
He grew quiet and he knew Ailsa heard every word as well.
His mother was addressing the clan, but also addressing Ailsa and him.
As a married couple. As husband and wife.
She hadn’t made it to the wedding and wanted to give them a token of her love and appreciation for their marriage.
She even teased that it took him long enough.
By doing so, his mother was honouring him in a way that went beyond the vows he and Ailsa shared.
Raped by Hamish, that was the only conclusion he could come to. Did his mother see Hamish every time she looked at him? Was that why she cloistered herself away with needlepoint and flowers?
Whatever had occurred, his mother, in front of family and clan, demonstrated with words and now deed the affection she had for him.
A click of the box clasp and a slow measured opening of the lid.
Inside, cushioned by velvet were two silver brooches of two varied sizes with an intricate pattern: A thrift flower surrounded by a solid circle and a pair of swords that crossed over the centre.
Eternal. For ever. Scotland’s strength, his clan’s endurance.
They were as beautiful and awe inspiring as he remembered.
‘This day we celebrate the joining of Rory to Ailsa.’ His mother took the smaller brooch out of the box and turned to Ailsa, who stood.
Rory stood as well. When he gently clasped Ailsa’s hand, he felt her trembling and knew she was as affected as he was. Her face was part wonder and wistfulness. His mother’s expression was one of tearful joy. Never could he have known that this was waiting for him upon returning home.
‘With this brooch, Clan Lochmore celebrates the joining of Rory and Ailsa. Celebrates the joining of families.’ His mother’s hands were firm and sure as she pinned the brooch on his wife’s gown just above her heart. ‘As a mother, I celebrate and welcome my new daughter.’
When his mother turned to him, his father stood, passed her the second brooch and placed his hand on her shoulder. The significance wasn’t lost on Rory. The brooch was the same that his father had worn on his wedding day and his father before him.
‘With this brooch, your father and I celebrate your marriage. May it endure through the storms ahead and flourish underneath Scotland’s brilliant sunshine.’ The brooch stuck within his thicker tunic and she gave a quick exasperated sigh.
The sound was incongruous for his mother, as was his father’s quick quip. ‘It always did that,’ his father whispered and her mother’s slight frown turned grateful.
‘With this brooch,’ she continued in a louder voice, ‘once I get it pinned, I, as a mother, welcome my son’s wife and my son’s children. Which, if he knows what’s good for him, will be here very soon.’
Laughter ringing in the hall, his heart filling with familial love, Rory could not fully comprehend the fortuitous turn in his life. When the brooch was finally secured, his mother gave a hard pat on the brooch, then she rubbed and patted over his heart...a gesture she’d made since he was a babe.
When he’d opened the box at McCrieff Castle and seen only the necklace and ring, he’d never thought to be honoured with these brooches.
Ailsa seemed to understand the significance for she clasped his hand that much tighter.
The way he felt, he was one beating heart away from sweeping his wife into his arms and carrying her off to their room, to their future.
For now, he would keep holding his wife’s hand.