Awakening
Alec stood by a window in some chamber—he didn’t really know or care which one.
He simply stood, peering out into the darkness, feeling trapped in a never-ending, hellish nightmare.
It had been three days, and yet he still couldn’t believe his brothers were truly gone.
The more sudden the death, the more it hurts.
He’d heard those words oft enough, but had never truly understood them until now.
In the rooms around him, he could hear Sorcha and Taran moving about, preparing for the king’s feast.
As Earl of Eglinton, his arrival at Edinburgh Castle had elicited a fair amount of fanfare and hubbub.
The king’s own cousin, the stately Abigal, had personally escorted him to a well-furnished apartment.
It was a far cry from a grumpy maid shouting directions at him to some arbitrary cell tucked near the servant quarters.
And though Taran, as heir to the Mackenzie of Leod, commanded an almost equal courtesy, the highlander had steadfastly insisted upon staying at Alec’s side—neither man trusted that Cunningham mischief had run its full course.
The wail of pipes rent the air, intruding upon Alec’s reverie to announce the evening feast. He knew he should go. He couldn’t ignore the king’s own invitation to sit at the high table. But yet, his feet were leaden, refusing to budge.
Dimly, he noted a loud knocking on the door, followed by a slight commotion. He didn’t move, trusting that Taran would deflect whoever had so indecently imposed upon his solitude.
“We weep with ye, Alec,” a voice sounded behind his shoulder.
Alec turned to see the king, holding out his arms.
King James VI of Scotland was a rather spindly, red-haired young man with a pale, narrow face and a long nose with a bulbous tip. Approaching Alec with an ungainly, awkward gait, he drew him into a long embrace.
“We shall bring the malefactors of these odious murders to justice,” the monarch announced, genuine tears brimming in his dark eyes as he pulled away. “Robert’s death will be avenged.”
“Andrew,” Alec appended as if in a dream. He had to name them all. “David. Aonghas. Eadan. Niall. Sean.”
“Aye,” the king murmured, bowing his head in respect before lifting it to add, “We swear a great oath to ye, Alec. Never shall we pardon any who committed these crimes against ye. Justice shall be served. The house and lands of those involved shall be rendered to ye and yours.”
“True justice will be seeing John Cunningham of Corsehill, John Cunningham of Clonbeith, David Cunningham of Robertland and Hugh Cunningham of Aiket, holding the bloody plaids of my kin in their hands as they swing on the end of a rope,” Alec responded harshly.
The king reached out to clasp his shoulder.
“We have sent for the Cunningham of Glencairn to attend us immediately,” he said.
“He is close by and will arrive on the morrow. He shall abide by our decree and not dredge up this ancient grudge atween clans to stop ye from seeking justice of the men ye named.”
Alec’s pulse leapt at that. “Aye,” was all he said.
The king turned his head to the side and raised a slight brow.
Curious, Alec followed the line of his gaze to see Taran with Sorcha behind him, curtsying low.
The king looked back at him, mildly surprised.
“Ye can dawdle with this lass as much as ye please, Alec,” his majesty murmured.
“But dinna doubt your marriage will be of our choice. As Earl of Eglinton, ye canna revolt as ye did with Merry MacLeod. Though now, we would see a different alliance for your house.”
Marriage? Alec simply stared at the man in bewilderment. How could he possibly expect him to think of marriage at such a time?
“Come,” the king said, apparently appeased by his silence. “Tonight ye sit by our side.”
Numbly, Alec trailed behind the king making his way into Edinburgh’s high-ceilinged great hall, replete with floor-to-ceiling tapestries, regally bedecked tables, and finely crafted suits of armor guarding the doors.
An entire tree burned brightly in the massive fireplace, its light rendering the candles smoking in their iron floor holders virtually useless.
The king sat, and the feast began.
A chaotic medley of the senses assaulted Alec’s nostrils from every direction. Roasted swan and eel pies. Spiced pears. Sliced oranges on platters of venison. The spicy scent of cinnamon.
But he had no appetite for any of it.
Nor was he inclined to enjoy the company.
He sat at the king’s left, and though his majesty attempted to engage him in trivial conversation a time or two, the monarch soon riveted his attention upon the young man at his right instead.
The fondness between them was there for all to see, in their every glance, and in the constant light touches they feathered upon one another.
The man lounging on Alec’s left was a quiet fellow himself, clearly more interested in draining his Venetian-glass wine goblet than anything else.
It suited Alec just fine. He was scarcely in the mood to talk.
As the second course started, Alec’s eyes wandered over the hall in boredom. Surely, the king couldn’t expect him to sit through all of the courses. ‘Twould be hours of hell. Aye, a different kind of hell than the previous days … but hell all the same.
He saw her then. Sorcha. Three tables away. He didn’t recognize the men she sat between. She appeared ill at ease, her brows drawn into a frown and her gaze focused on the roasted piglet before her.
Frowning himself, he cast a quick glance around for Taran and spied him by the door, speaking to a man in a Mackenzie plaid. Clearly, a clan matter.
Alec’s gaze flicked back to Sorcha.
Something was wrong. He could tell by her pinched expression. He arched a brow, focusing on the men at her side. The bald man to her left clearly ignored her, having engaged his other dining companion in a heated conversation that involved much waving of the hands.
But the man hovering at her right. Nay, he sat too close to the lass. And she scowled at him. Suddenly, the man reached out and pinched her cheeks, causing her lips to puff out like a fish.
Heat flared through Alec. Raw anger.
Leaping to his feet, the force of his movement upset his wine glass, but he didn’t care.
With a hard clench of his jaw, he stalked towards Sorcha’s assailant, noting for the first time that she’d been given a new dress—one fit to be seen by a king—made of a dark green velvet with white lace, gold braid, and covered with a patterned overdress of delicate leaves.
It flowed over her curves sensuously, adding a different kind of heat to the raw anger rampaging in his blood.
“Then, ‘tis true the Montgomery fancies ye?” he heard the man ask as Sorcha tugged at his large beefy hand clamped upon her cheeks.
“Aye!” Alec thundered, stepping up behind him.
The next moment, the man lay sprawled on the floor with Alec’s booted foot upon his chest.
“Ask the lady’s forgiveness,” Alec ordered, keenly aware of Sorcha standing in shock, her small hands covering her mouth.
The din of the hall quietened as a horde of curious gazes turned their way.
He didn’t care. Ignoring them all, he repeated, “Ask the lady’s forgiveness.”
“Forgive me, my lady,” the man wheezed from the floor.
“Aye, thank ye,” Sorcha breathed, dropping into a curtsey, clearly not knowing what else to do.
Alec snorted. “Ye owe the cur nothing, lass,” he growled before looking down on the man and removing his foot. “Away and chase yourself now, ye daft fool, afore I change my mind and take this slight further.”
The man hurriedly stumbled away.
The king tossed Alec a glance of mild curiosity from the high table, but a moment later, reached out fondly to touch the cheek of the man at his side. As they shared a laugh over some private jest, the steady hum of the hall returned to its previous volume.
Alec gritted his teeth. Aye, he was done. Grabbing Sorcha by the wrist, he pulled her past Taran and out of the hall, not stopping until he stood in his assigned apartment once again.
For the first time, he noticed the diamond-paned glass in the windows and the soft rich velvet of the chairs. Someone had already lit the fat beeswax tapers resting upon the carved desk. A bearskin rug covered the floor, and there was a stag's head mounted above the door.
Feeling oddly alive for the first time in days, he turned to Sorcha, overwhelmed with a sudden sense of longing, and wanting nothing more than to simply sweep her into his arms and keep her there, safe—even from the torturous suffering of her dreams. A pox on the king and his grand designs of a political marriage!
He was a Montgomery—and not one to take such orders.
After all that had happened, he wouldn’t be losing Sorcha, too.
The lass stood only an arm’s length away, her lavender eyes studying his face, but before he could move to hold her, she dipped her chin politely—a little too politely distant. “Thank ye, my lord,” she said in a strained whisper.
Alec blinked and caught her chin with gentle fingers. “My lord?” he asked.
“Ye are the Montgomery now,” she replied softly.
The dark smudges under her tired eyes evoked a sudden sense of guilt on his part.
He released her chin, and his hand dropped to his side.
The wee lass was exhausted. From what he could recall, he’d ridden hard from Lainshaw.
She must have struggled to keep up with him. Aye, and with an injured foot.
“Take your rest,” he said gently. “We can speak in the morning.”
She dipped in a graceful curtsey of respect, which he found only insulting.
He almost called out in complaint, but then she moved away, limping, and guilt descended over him once again.
It was all he could do to keep from lifting her off her feet and carrying her to the bed, but with the roaring senses awakening within him, he quickly thought better of the idea.
Nay, he would win her heart in proper fashion.
Ye’ll be a wise earl, ye will, and with your bonny lass by your side, ye’ll see your lands prosper. Aye, ye’ll end more than a hundred years of hatred, ye will.”
He paused, stunned to recall that not all of Auld Bertha’s words had foretold horror and pain.
Silently, he blew the candle out, immersing the room in darkness, and taking heart, he returned to his previous post by the window.
The stones were cold as he leaned his head against them, peering out over the town of Edinburgh twinkling at the base of the cliff.
Dimly, the sound of the pipes filtered up to greet his ears from the castle’s great hall below.
Sometime later, Taran entered, moving with catlike stealth in the darkness to a bedchamber down another passageway.
Still, Alec stayed by the window, watching the clouds race to cover the moon, heralding the return of more rain. He grimaced. The next few weeks would be trying ones, riding in the mud after his quarry while keeping his clan on a tight leash to stay the true course of seeking justice.
And Sorcha?
He’d find a safe haven for her until he was done. Crossing his arms, he weighed various names, finally stumbling to a bed in some chamber to sprawl upon it in pure exhaustion.
He awoke some time later.
Bewildered, he lifted his head, noting the first hint of a dull gray morning sky in the window by his bed.
Then he heard it again.
Sorcha’s heart-wrenching sobs.