Chapter Two
“Son, I ask ye to do but this one thing for me.”
Alan MacKallan spun on his heel and looked at his mother. Morning light spilled into the solar, and she stood silhouetted against it so he could not see her expression. He did not need to. He could quite clearly hear the pleading in her voice.
“Nay,” he told her. He said it shortly, since he knew an argument would be forthcoming if he did not shut the matter down at once. He could not stand yet another argument.
It seemed to him that for as long as he could remember, naught but discord had filled their lives. And especially of late, his very existence—and that of everyone around him—had broken up into a series of arguments, of quarrels, of ugly scenes, of violent outbreaks.
Ever since his brother, Evan, had married the MacRowan lass. Since her death.
He grimaced at that thought, flinched from it the way he always did when he thought of the girl who had been his older brother’s wife.
A gentle, pretty young woman she had been, one totally unprepared to cope with Evan.
In other circumstances, Alan might have formed a sincere friendship with her.
Indeed, in the beginning he had tried to help.
It had not been the beating Evan gave him for paying unwanted attention to his wife—for he’d given near as good as he’d got—but the fact that Evan had also taken out his displeasure upon Robena that had forced Alan to exercise discretion.
He’d hoped his father might intervene, having authority that Alan lacked. He’d hoped, albeit desperately, his mother would, but she’d proved as helpless against Evan’s rages as the rest of them.
He’d been forced to watch that lass perish by inches, all while knowing anything he did would only make things worse for her.
And at the end—well, none of them, save Evan and Robena herself knew for certain what had happened to her.
He frowned at his mother, standing there like a shadowy angel with her halo of light. Red-haired she was, just like Evan, and if what they said about those with red hair was true, it might explain much.
Only, all those with red hair, and Clan Kallan abounded with such, were not half deranged. Mother was not.
Evan had inherited Mother’s coloring as Alan had not. His hair, like his father’s used to be, was black as a raven’s wing, his eyes near as dark, a charcoal shade of gray.
Did that mean he’d escaped the taint that laid its finger on Evan? After the past few years, he might as well be mad also.
He did not know how many times he’d considered packing up and leaving.
Taking his horse and his sword and whatever clothing he thought he might need and going out into the world.
There were ways for a man skilled at fighting to make his living.
Two things had stopped him. Love of this place where he lived—for aye, he did love it—and love for the woman who stood facing him.
Mayhap, though, now would be the time to—
“Be reasonable,” Mother said.
That sent a bright flash of annoyance through him. “I am always reasonable, Ma. How many times ha’ ye told me I am your reasonable son?”
She stepped closer to him, emerging from the backlight so he could see her face, and laid her fingers on his arm.
“Do this for me and I will ne’er ask another thing o’ ye.”
Alan groaned inwardly. The ultimate plea it was—not that he believed her for an instant.
She, and he, had done little his life long besides ask of each other.
When very small, before he’d grown his fists and learned to stand up for himself, he’d run to her for protection from his brother who could, at the speed of lightning, go from being calm and playful to wicked and cruel.
And she’d called upon him many times, later, to help contain his brother and keep the ugly truth about him from leaking out to the world.
They had both failed Robena MacRowan.
Now Mother gazed up at him with imploring eyes. “We canna allow wha’ happened before to happen again.”
Nay, they could not. They certainly could not.
“Ma, I ha’ nay wish to marry.” He intended never to do so, and thereby avoid the risk that he might pass on the taint that touched this accursed family.
“I know that. But neither can ye allow yer brother to marry again. I ha’ talked and talked to yer father until all my breath is gone. He would keep to the alliance wi’ Robert MacRowan. It is important, so he says, for political reasons.”
So it was. Politically, Scotland was in a tangle and people like his father thought it wise to keep a foot in both camps—Catholic and Protestant.
If the Protestant earls gained control of Scotland, he—having turned Protestant—would be on the winning side, whereas if the Queen held sway, he could say his family was bound in marriage to the staunch Catholic MacRowans.
The alliance benefitted Robert MacRowan also, giving him protection if things went against him. Why else would he be sending yet another of his daughters to ensure it?
Aye, the two men had been friends in their youth. A measure of liking existed between them even now, and a bond of loyalty. They would hang together, thinking it might keep them from hanging individually.
“Surely,” Ma said, “ye want what is best for this family.”
“Aye, so I do.” Anchored to her by her fingers on his arm, he gazed into her face. “Wha’ about what is best is for another wretched young woman being sent here where she will—”
“Yer father will not countenance that happening again. But,” something sparked in her eyes, “after arguing and persuading and threatening, I ha’ managed to convince him that a marriage to ye rather than Evan will still serve to maintain the alliance.”
Alan tried to imagine another young woman like Robena, a slightly younger version perhaps, with the same wide blue eyes, ones that had grown steadily sadder as the months passed, a gentle nature that never could have withstood his brother’s cruelties, great and small.
His mind flinched from it, from watching it happen all over again, and tried to curl into a ball.
“I ken fine,” Ma said in a low, steady voice, “ye canna bear to see wha’ happened to that poor lass happen over again.
Nor can I. That is why I ha’ determined to protect Robena’s sister in any way I can.
The first step to that is keeping her awa’ from your brother.
” She drew a breath. “I can think o’ only one way. ”
“Curse it all!”
Suddenly Alan was angry, flaming angry—at his father for insisting on carrying on with what could only be considered a dangerous alliance.
With his mother for asking this of him. At the possibility of shouldering responsibilities that should not be his, such as seeing to the succession.
For despite Evan’s madness, the estate—this place Alan loved so well—would yet pass to Evan.
To be inherited, presumably, by a nephew—Alan’s son—when he died.
“Alan, the young woman will be sent here. Arrangements are even now being made. If she falls into your brother’s hands and, well, the worst happens once more, ye and I will ha’ only ourselves to blame.”
Nay. There would be Evan to blame. And Father. But, aye, Alan knew what his mother meant. He certainly could not bear to watch what had happened before, to that gentle soul, happen over again.
He might prevent it.
He turned away from his mother and went to the window to stare half-blindly at the morning.
A wild and beautiful place was this land he loved.
From the crown of rock where stood his father’s keep, the glen fell away in a grand, steep vale of green turf as if raked by a god’s hand.
To the north lay the sea where long ago the Norse had come ashore to stake their claims. He himself carried some Norse blood, though you’d never know it to look at him.
He ached with love for what he saw beyond the window, caressed by the liquid, golden light. A son, as Da had always preached to him, should be dutiful. But he wanted nay part of this scheme.
“Perhaps ye will get on well wi’ her,” Ma suggested softly from behind him. “Ye did wi’ young Robena, in the beginning.”
He might, aye, have formed a good relationship with Robena. Or something more?
He frowned at the scene before his eyes. “Let me think on it.”
Ma let out a sigh. She thought she had won. He had not said no.
“Where is Father?” he asked, still not turning around.
She hesitated. “In his chamber.”
“Drinking?”
It was the solution to which Da had taken, and he resorted to it more and more often. It did not affect him, though—at least not visibly. Was that where Evan had inherited his predilection for hard liquor?
She did not answer that. He grunted. “And, Evan?”
“He rode out. Last night.”
Aye, following dinner there had been a shouting match—another one—between Evan and Father. Evan had thrown something at the wall and gone storming off, snarling like the boar he sometimes resembled.
“He has nay come home?”
“I do no’ think so. He may be asleep in the stables.” That sometimes happened, mercifully. The stable master and grooms had learned to give him a wide berth.
Alan turned to face his mother. “If I agree to do this thing—”
She stiffened. In hope?
“—’twill be a marriage in name only. I will ha’ naught to do wi’ the woman. I will no’ speak wi’ her, I will no’ sleep wi’ her. D’ye understand?”
“But—” Ma began. There would need to be an heir.
“Nay,” Alan shook his head so violently, his hair flew. “Ye said ye would ask one thing o’ me and no more. To wed wi’ her. Will ye keep to your word?”
She drew another breath and he could almost feel the thoughts moving behind her eyes. She’d promised herself to keep the second MacRowan sister safe. Marriage with Alan instead of Evan was a big part of that.
“D’ye promise?” she asked in turn. “To wed wi’ her, when she comes?”
“Wha’ sort o’ man is MacRowan? To barter not one o’ his daughters but two—”
“That is o’ nay matter. Alan, d’ye promise?”
He closed his eyes for a moment. Had he been a praying man, he might have uttered some imprecation. But all prayers had long ago flown from him.
“Does she ken, this young woman, that she’ll be marrying wi’ me and no’ Evan?”
The remainder of Ma’s breath left her in a whoosh. “Nay. She’ll find out when she arrives.”
“God help her,” Alan said.