Chapter 35
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Outside, the garden still burned in places. Flames clung low among the broken hives, feeding upon spilled wax, dry heather and splintered timber. Smoke rolled over the eastern wall in gray sheets, stinging Roy’s eyes and carrying the heavy sweetness of scorched honey across the grounds.
The scent was wrong. Honey ought to have belonged to sunlight, warm bread and Donaldina’s hands moving carefully among living bees. Here, mingled with wet ash and burned wood, the sweetness had become almost sickening.
MacIver and MacNicol men formed a line between the well and the garden.
Buckets were passed quickly, amid shouted commands.
Red and green plaids moved in unison through the smoke, blending together under soot and water.
One man used his cloak to beat out sparks on the grass, while another pulled a burning frame away from the rosemary hedge before the fire could spread to the outer wall.
A MacIver warrior slipped in the mud. Two MacNicol men caught him before he fell and shoved the emptied bucket back into his hands.
No one paused to consider which clan had given the command. They simply obeyed it.
Roy stood near the gate, his sword still in his hand. Blood had dried beneath his torn sleeve. The wound in his shoulder burned each time he moved, while a deeper ache had begun spreading down his arm. He ignored both.
Pain could wait. The castle could not.
“The northern ground is clear,” Malcolm reported as he crossed the courtyard. His hair hung wet against his forehead, and soot darkened one side of his face. “Two men fled beyond the marker stones. The patrol followed far enough tae see them enter the trees.”
“Nae farther.”
“They are wounded.”
“And may be drawing us from the walls.”
Malcolm’s jaw tightened. He looked toward the dark line of forest beyond the gate, plainly disliking the order. Then he nodded.
“Call the men back. Double the northern watch and place archers above the side entrance.”
Malcolm turned away. Hamish reached Roy a moment later. One sleeve had been torn entirely from his formal coat, and one eyebrow had been singed nearly away.
“Three attackers taken alive,” he informed him. “Five dead within the hall. Two more near the service passage.”
“The guests?”
“Being counted. One envoy is missing, though his horse remains in the stable.”
“Find him.”
Hamish glanced toward Roy’s shoulder. “And ye should find the healer.”
“I have.”
“Where?”
Roy looked toward the hall. Hamish muttered something uncomplimentary but followed his gaze.
The great doors stood open. Smoke drifted through them, thinner now, carrying the metallic scent of blood and the crushed-green smell of trampled rushes.
Guards escorted shaken guests into the courtyard while servants carried the wounded toward the lower chambers.
A woman knelt near the wall with a child pressed against her chest. Two elders stood beneath the archway, staring at their bloodied hands as though uncertain how they had come to hold swords.
Then Donaldina appeared. Malcolm walked beside her, though she required no support. Her green wedding gown was torn at one shoulder. Soot darkened the hem, and blood marked one sleeve, though Roy could not tell whether it belonged to her.
Her hair had almost entirely escaped its ceremonial arrangement. Winter heather still clung to one dark strand near her temple.
She looked across the courtyard. She found him at once. Something in her face broke not into fear, but relief so naked it struck him harder than any blade Cormac had raised.
Roy crossed the courtyard before thought could restrain him. Donaldina moved toward him at the same time. He caught her arms.
“Are ye hurt?”
“Nae.”
His gaze moved to the blood.
“Not mine,” she said quickly.
He did not believe reassurance until he confirmed it for himself.
His hands moved over her shoulders, her arms, the sides of her face.
He saw the reddened skin beneath her jaw where Cormac’s dagger had been pressed.
Blood marked her lower lip. Her wrist was already bruising where the attacker had held her.
Roy’s anger returned so swiftly that for one impossible moment he forgot Cormac was dead.
Donaldina caught his hand. “Roy.”
He looked at her.
“I am here.”
The words tumbled out beneath his anger. He knew men watched. He knew a laird should display more dignity in front of two clans and half the visiting Highlands. He could not bring himself to care.
Roy pulled her close without hesitation. For a moment, the courtyard, the fire, and the voices faded away. Donaldina’s forehead pressed against his chest. Roy cupped the back of her head, feeling the heather intertwined in her loosened hair.
She was alive.
Cormac was dead.
The certainty should have brought peace. Instead, Roy felt the delayed terror of how narrowly he had almost lost her again. He remembered the blade against her throat, the blood appearing beneath its edge and the six paces between them that had seemed wider than any battlefield he had crossed.
His hold tightened. Donaldina’s arms closed around his waist. Her cheek pressed against his coat near his heart, and Roy wondered whether she could feel how violently it beat.
After several breaths, she lifted her face.
“The attackers?” she asked.
“Captured or driven north.”
“The gates?”
“Secured.”
“The guests?”
“Being accounted for.”
“The fires?”
“Nearly contained.”
Donaldina nodded. The questions appeared to restore something within her.
With each answer, she gathered herself again, not hiding the fear, but placing duty around it until she could stand beneath its weight.
Roy understood then that this, too, was survival.
Not merely breathing after danger passed, but turning back toward the work that remained.
Her gaze dropped to his shoulder. “Ye’re bleeding.”
“It is shallow.”
“That is what men say when they mean painful.”
Roy almost smiled. The expression did not fully form, but Donaldina saw the attempt. Her fingers tightened briefly in the torn cloth of his coat.
Father Maol emerged from the hall with one hand pressed to the bruise forming beneath his jaw. His robes were torn near the collar, and soot streaked the white of his hair. A younger priest attempted to support him, but Father Maol shook off the assistance with injured dignity.
Donaldina stepped toward him. “Father.”
“I have endured better weddings,” he murmured.
Her mouth trembled with something between laughter and grief.
“So have I,” Roy replied.
Despite everything, a faint sound of amusement escaped Donaldina. The priest’s gaze moved between them.
“The altar remains standing,” he continued. “The vows werenae completed, nor were they profaned by what Cormac attempted. Nae binding can be made beneath violence.”
Roy looked toward Donaldina. Father Maol followed the exchange.
“If ye both still choose it,” he said, “the marriage may proceed.”
The words settled between them. Men around the courtyard kept carrying water. Prisoners were made to kneel near the western wall. Beyond the garden, a roof beam collapsed, sending sparks flying. Guests gathered under the covered passages, their wedding clothes stained with smoke and blood.
It was not the ceremony they had prepared. Nothing remained untouched.
Donaldina reached for Roy’s hand. Her fingers closed around his, steady despite the soot upon them.
“We still choose it,” she said.
Roy looked down at her. The green gown was torn. Blood marked her mouth where Cormac had struck her. Smoke caught in her hair, and tears stood in her eyes without falling. She had never looked more certain.
“Aye,” Roy confirmed.
Father Maol bowed his head. “Then it will be done.”
“Today?” Hamish asked from behind them.
The priest gave him a weary look. “Unless ye intend tae invite another army tomorrow.”
Hamish glanced toward the ruined hall. “I would prefer a smaller gathering.”
Donaldina’s fingers remained intertwined with Roy’s.
“First,” she said, looking toward the eastern garden, “I need tae see what remains.”
They went to the garden while the last buckets were still being carried away. Roy kept Donaldina on the side farthest from the damaged wall, though she noticed and said nothing. Their hands remained joined until the path narrowed between the rosemary hedge and a patch of soaked earth.
The final flames had been extinguished. Smoke curled upward from the ground in pale, twisting tendrils. The rosemary on one side was charred, releasing its sharp aroma under the heat and water. Broken frames were scattered across muddy pools, their combs shattered into amber ruin.
Honey covered the earth like a glaze, shimmering in spots beneath the ash with a dark, blood-like hue.
Bees moved slowly across the ground; some crawled over broken wood, their wings weighed down by water.
Others hovered above the destroyed hives in swirling, erratic patterns, repeatedly returning to their crumbling homes.
Donaldina stopped. Roy watched the strength leave her face by degrees. She endured a blade against her throat without pleading. She watched Cormac die and walked through a hall filled with blood. Yet the sight of the broken garden struck a quieter wound, one no sword could defend against.
The oldest hive leaned near the far wall. Its roof had burned through. One side collapsed inward, and the timber Lachlan helped her shape years before split beneath the heat.
Donaldina crossed toward it. Roy followed but did not touch her.
She crouched beside the box and laid one hand upon the scorched wood. Soot blackened her fingers. For several moments, she said nothing.
Roy knew what the hive contained for her. Not merely wax, honey and bees, but a brother’s clumsy hands, an afternoon of laughter and a time when Dun Ard had not yet learned how completely grief could alter its rooms.
“I am sorry,” he whispered.
Donaldina closed her eyes. “So am I.”
Her voice was scarcely more than breath.
Roy knelt beside her. He could offer carpenters, timber and labor. He could rebuild every box in the garden before the next season. Yet, he knew repair could not restore the precise angle of Lachlan’s hammer marks or the memory of his hand beneath hers.
Donaldina reached carefully beneath the broken edge and lifted one frame. The upper comb had melted, but part of the lower section remained intact. Bees moved across it, dark with smoke but alive.
“This one survives,” she whispered.
Roy leaned closer. A queen could not be seen among the moving bodies, but workers clustered protectively near the center of the frame.
Donaldina examined another section. “The brood is sheltered here.”
“Can it be moved?”
“Aye. If the queen lives.”
She rose and went to the next hive. The outer wood had been scorched, but the lower frames remained protected beneath the soaked cloth thrown over them during the fire. One corner had warped from heat, though the box still stood.
“And this one,” she said.
Farther along, two of the newer hives remained almost untouched except for smoke stains along their roofs.
Donaldina drew a slow breath. “They destroyed less than they intended.”
“They always do,” Roy replied.
She turned toward him. The meaning passed between them without need of explanation.
Cormac had intended to destroy the marriage, leaving both clans fighting together under the same banners. He intended to take Donaldina’s choice and died before witnesses who heard her refuse him. He intended to burn the garden and had left living bees beneath the ash.
Donaldina looked around the ruined grounds. “They can be rebuilt.”
“Aye.”
“Some of the old wood may be saved.”
“We begin at dawn.”
She glanced at him. “Roy, half the castle requires repair.”
“Then the carpenters will be busy.”
“The wounded require tending.”
“They will be tended.”
“The hall is destroyed.”
“It remains standing.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Ye intend tae argue with every objection.”
“Aye.”
Something softened in her expression.
“The old hive first,” she said. “We preserve whatever hasnae burned.”
Roy nodded. “And the surviving colonies must be moved before nightfall. They willnae endure the cold in damaged boxes.”
“I will send men.”
Behind them, men carried away the final buckets. Two MacIver warriors lifted a damaged hive frame under the direction of an elderly MacNicol beekeeper, who scolded them both with complete disregard for rank. Near the wall, servants cleared burned heather while soldiers hauled wet timber aside.
Dun Ard had already begun repairing itself not as two clans, but as one household.
Roy rose and offered his hand. Honey, soot and blood stained the leather of his glove. Donaldina placed her fingers within it. When she stood, her gaze traveled toward the castle.
Smoke drifted from the open hall doors. Several windows had broken. The ceremony lay unfinished, the feast overturned, and half the guests would carry the story into every glen west of the mountains.
Yet the gates remained closed against their enemies. MacIver and MacNicol warriors stood watch together upon the walls. The prisoners were secured. The fires were dying. Hammers already sounded somewhere near the damaged side entrance.
Donaldina leaned lightly against Roy’s uninjured arm.
“We should return,” she said.
“Tae the healer.”
“Tae the altar.”
Roy looked at her. She met his gaze without hesitation.
“The day has taken enough from us,” she urged. “I willnae give it the wedding as well.”
Pride moved through him first, followed by something far more vulnerable. He lifted her soot-stained hand and pressed his mouth against her knuckles.
“Nor will I,” he replied. “But I willnae have ye speak vows while blood dries upon yer gown and half the hall is being carried tae the healer.”
Her mouth tightened. “Roy—”
“Cormac willnae take the wedding from us.” His thumb moved over her bruised fingers.
“We will stand before both clans in a hall restored, with nae blade at yer throat and nae fire beyond the walls. Ye will walk tae me because ye choose tae, and every man present will have leisure tae understand it.”
Donaldina’s resistance softened, though reluctance remained in her eyes. “How long?”
“A few days.”
“That sounds suspiciously reasonable.”
“I have me moments.”
She studied him, then released a quiet breath.
“A few days,” she agreed. “Nae longer.”
“Nae longer.”
Together, they turned toward Dun Ard. The altar could wait. For now, the castle and the people who had defended it needed them more.