MacKinnons' Hope: A Highland Christmas Carol (5 page)

“Nay,” Kellen said, leaning back on one arm. “We have a village, same as ye.”

Constance shivered, rubbing her arms.

“Are ye cauld, lass?”

“Just a wee bit,” his cousin said softly, batting her lovely, long lashes. Och, but she had no idea how dangerous those sultry looks could be…

Kellen cast a wary glance in Malcom’s direction and Malcom smiled thinly. As long as he stayed near, they were bound to behave themselves, so he settled in for the duration and laid his head back to stare up into the stars, giving his eyes a bit of rest and letting his ears do the listening.

But he had no notion how tired he was. He’d only meant to close his eyes for a moment. Without warning he fell fast asleep…

D
ecember 22
, 1135

D
awn broke over a smoky landscape
.

The bonfire that had burned so bright the evening before was now reduced to ash, leaving naught but a bed of burning coals.

Malcom awoke with a start.

Quick on the heels of the realization that he’d fallen asleep was the realization that he was also the first to wake. The first pleased him not at all. The second filled him with relief, because everything and everybody—as far as he could see—was still in one piece.

The ground was covered with sleeping forms. Feet intertwined, arms and legs askew, heads over and beneath leaf-covered tartans. It was a veritable sea of sleeping folk, all wearing cherry-red noses from the cold and dirty faces from sleeping on half burnt grass.

He didn’t spot Constance, and hoped she would have gone to her bed.
Good girl,
he thought, and said a little prayer that it must be so.

Rubbing at his eyes, he stumbled to his feet, realizing that the haze of the morning was more mist than smoke. Even now, the rising sun was burning it away, brightening the landscape. Yawning, he stretched, intending to go searching for Constance, and froze where he stood.

It wasn’t possible.

He rubbed his eyes and looked again.

Nay, it wasn’t possible.

But it was.

They were surrounded—not by half finished homes—but by fully formed cottages, all with roofs complete with thatch. For an instant, he wondered if some faerie had lifted him up and carried him to another place…

Mute with shock, Malcom stepped over Angus, who lay sprawled at his feet, one hand still wrapped about the neck of his
uisge
flask. Mouth agape, he moved soundlessly toward the nearest hut, quite certain he was dreaming and that the cottage would vanish any second. “’Tis but a dream,” he said to himself.

“What’s that?” Angus mumbled, half asleep. Rather than bring his
uisge
flask to his mouth, he brought his mouth to the flask, struggling to drink with eyes half closed.

Malcom didn’t answer. He put one foot in front of the other, stepping over sleeping kinsmen, until he reached the hut and splayed his hands against the new wood.

It was solid, but there was no way a few stubborn men with a handful of hammers could have so quickly completed what they’d begun just a few day ago. Last night, after the sun went down, most of these houses were still not complete.

“What the devil?” he heard Angus ask.

And then another kinsman asked, “What’s this I see?”

“The houses—look, they’ve all built themselves!”

“Look! Look!”

“Tis a gift from the Cailleach!”

“Impossible!” he heard another man exclaim, but Malcom stood transfixed, examining the newly erected hut.

Aye, it
was
impossible.

Would they have him believe some old woman had simply waved her staff and thereby erected all these huts?

Glenna would have sworn it must be true.

His pleasure over the discovery was fully dampened by the simple fact that all these cottages could not have been constructed without a lot of help. Unless every last guest had put aside his
uisge
and his ale, and then worked all night whilst Malcom snored away, there was simply no way this could have been done.

He turned to scan the horizon as the mist and smoke gave way to sunshine, and found row upon row of finished houses. Startled by the discovery, his cousin was summarily forgotten. Malcom raced toward the keep to alert his Da.

C
hreagach Mhor’s
great hall had never seen such an audience—not even during trials. Presiding from his dais, Iain MacKinnon contemplated the faces surrounding him. Quite literally, everyone he knew was present here today, along with the lairds and families of many of the neighboring clans. Some who did not fit inside the hall were listening from the hall. His son straddled the dais steps, suspicion hardening his usually gentle features.

Iain leveled his question directly at his firstborn. “There is no proof anyone set the fire, son, and if they had, why the devil would they burn the village and then rally to rebuild our homes whilst we slept? It makes no sense, Mal.”

Malcom gave a half shake of his head, as though he too could scarce fathom the reasons behind such an act. “I dinna ken, Da. All I know is I’ve this feeling in my bones.”

“I had a feeling in my bone this morning, too,” Angus quipped.

Laughter erupted throughout the hall.

Iain shot the old man a quelling glance and Auld Angus had the good sense to look chagrined. “I’m sorry, lad,” he said, casting Malcom a contrite glance.

Malcom’s jaw set tight, ignoring the old man’s apology. “Ye take me lightly,” he complained. “I have never cried wolf, Da.”

This much was true.

His son was not the sort to go running about half-cocked, yelling to anyone who would listen that the sky was falling. But Iain also realized his son distrusted everyone he barely knew. He had little notion how to relax amidst so many guests. He searched the shadows for traitors and watched in vain for betrayals at every turn. This truth had only worsened as he’d aged. Glenna, the old bat, had only encouraged him with her claims that Malcom had the sight—as recompense from the Gods for all the travails he’d endured.

Broc stepped forward to place a hand on Malcom’s shoulder. He did not have to climb the steps to do so, for at Broc’s height, he could easily peer into Malcom’s face, had the boy merely turned. “Your Da has never taken you lightly, Mal.”

Malcom shrugged Broc’s hand away. “What do ye know?” he said, without looking back at Broc.

“Malcom!”

It wasn’t often Iain raised his voice. The occupants of the hall visibly started, some retracting their necks well into their shoulders.

Broc stepped back, out of the way, looking pained.

Iain glowered at his firstborn child. “You’ll not speak to your elders in such a manner. Do I make myself clear, son?”

Malcom barely nodded. Still, he said, “I’m sorry, Da.” And he cast a short glance over his shoulder at Broc.

“No offense taken,” Broc allowed.

Malcom turned once more to address his father, his expression tormented. “I
know
something is amiss, Da. I sense it in my bones. Dinna ye ken?”

Iain sighed portentously, weighing the facts. This is what he knew: The village had burned a few days ago. No cause had yet to be found. It appeared to be a random fire that began in precisely the wrong spot. Although, even were it set apurpose, there could be no rational connection to the sudden and immediate completion of their homes.

“Did anyone spy anything at all?” he asked the crowd at large.

A sea of faces peered back at him. “Not I,” said a few. “Nor I.”

“We heard hammers cracking all through the night, but we dinna think to look to see who was still at work.”

“It’s the
bodachan sabhaill
!” suggested Glenna, raising her hand. The auld woman was ever inclined to believe in faerie folk and brownies, too.

Iain furrowed his brow. The last time she’d claimed there was a haunting in their barn, it turned out to be Aidan’s sister Cat, who’d stolen a palette of candles, along with a lot of thatch from Montgomeries farm.

“Nay,” Iain said. And yet, inasmuch as the two events could not be connected—at least not in his measured opinion—it was nevertheless a mystery as to how so much work could have been completed in so little time. It was true they had a large company of new faces—certainly more than enough to have seen the job done if they so pleased, but no one seemed inclined to take credit for the work. Nor, in truth, did Seana’s
uisge
ever seem to inspire such acts. “No one?” he asked again.

“Laird!” someone shouted at the back of the hall.

Iain turned to spy his man Kerwyn shouldering his way inside. He was dragging in a shamefaced Constance behind him, hair mussed and filled with bits of straw. “Constance, here, has something she would like to say…”

Iain frowned at the sight of his niece. Dear, God, that’s all he needed now—to hear she’d bedded one of their guests. The chance of it turned his gut.

Looking entirely too contrite, Constance stumbled forward, and Iain mentally counted all the available lads she might have seduced.

He cast a glance at Aidan dún Scoti, searching for his son. To Iain’s memory, Kellen was the one his niece seemed most drawn to.

He didn’t have to look far. Behind Kerwyn and Constance came the dún Scoti lad, pulled into the hall by the scruff of his neck.

Iain whispered a silent prayer for strength.

Aidan dún Scoti’s hands fell away from his chest to his sides, his eyes rolling backward, his jaw turning taut.

“Constance—what in Biera’s name ha’e ye done?”

The lass had been weeping, Iain could tell. Red-eyed and pink nosed, she swiped away tears from her cheeks with a trembling thumb.

Kellen dún Scoti had the good sense to remain quiet, despite the manhandling he received, and thankfully, his father remained precisely where he stood, frowning though he was.

The hall fell silent as both youths were brought before Iain—neither a day past seventeen. When it rained, it did pour, he thought, and cast another wary glance at the boy’s father. To the dún Scoti’s credit, he merely nodded, giving Iain leave to rule as he pleased, but he crossed his arms again, clearly none too pleased.

“We found ’em sleeping in the stable loft,” Kerwyn announced.

Iain leveled Kellen a stern look, and another one for Constance. “Is this true?” he asked.

Constance nodded, swallowing tears. “Aye, though we were merely sleeping,” she said, with a watery hiccup.

God save them all.

Even were that true, her reputation would now be ruined. No decent bloke would have the girl if he thought she’d given away her maidenhead so easily. He saw visions of Constance running about as a dirty old maid, lifting up her skirts for all the married men to see—not that she would ever do so, mind you. She had long outgrown the need to show everyone her lily-white arse, and yet the image plagued Iain nonetheless. He turned to address Kellen. “How old are you, lad?”

To his credit, Kellen’s gaze never faltered. “Sixteen, laird.”

Iain remained silent, contemplating what best to do. He tapped his fingers angrily on the arm of his chair.

“But we didn’t do anything,” Constance wailed, shrugging free of Kerwyn’s constraints. “Let me go,” she said defiantly. “Ha’e ye not embarrassed me enough already? I’m going to tell your minny!” she declared.

A few of the men snickered at her threat, because Kerwyn, the lump of clod, still lived with his mother and some suspected she still took a switch to his bum now and again.

Iain waited for the hall to quiet, rubbing his brow wearily. The mystery of the huts properly forgotten for the time being, he gave his niece his full regard. There was only one way to handle this, and he feared it could come to blows.

If Kellen’s father would not have it—if Aidan rued the thought of losing even one more of his kinswomen to another clan—it would not bode well.

His voice was deceptively soft when he spoke again. “Get out everyone,” he commanded. “Out,” he said. “All save the boy and his Da.”

“And you!” he shouted at Constance, when she suddenly made to leave.

“Och, Da!” Malcom exclaimed, realizing that Iain meant for him to leave as well.

“Out,” he told his son, a bit more gently. “This does not concern you, Mal.”

“Only gi’ me two men to search the woodlands,” Malcom begged. “I will not bother you again. And if there is naught to be found I will speak of it no more.”

“Malcom,” Iain said tightly. “Dinna try me, son. We have no cause to believe there is aught amiss, and the men have worked hard enough. Please go.”

Malcom stood stubbornly, glaring at him.

“Now,” he said.

As the crowd disbursed, Aidan moved forward, and finally, Malcom turned to go, casting Iain a baleful glance as the dún Scoti laird came to stand behind his son. Thankfully, Malcom said naught more. He marched down the steps, his hands forming fists by his sides.

Iain sighed. His only son and rightful heir was nearly a man now, fueled by the fears of a little boy. He felt far more comfortable with the notion of passing down his legacy to his daughter, Liana. At least he knew Liana had an even temper and a level head. He watched Malcom go, torn between his unwavering love for his firstborn child and fear for the future of his clan. Only once Malcom was out the door did he turn to address the youths presented before him.

“I stand by whatever judgment you make,” Aidan said and Iain felt a surge of relief.

Kellen had no need to turn to look at his father to speak. He peered up at Iain and said, “I love her and I will wed her here and now, if you please.”

“
G
reat gods
who create and bring forth life, we ask your blessings on this day of celebration.”

A sea of faces stared up at the wedding couple, but Lìli was not among them to see her firstborn son take his vows. Aidan imagined all the possible ways he could die at his wife’s hands. She was an accomplished alchemist, and with Una’s help, she was bound to know a few ways to make him suffer hideously before he departed this plane.

For his part, Kellen looked far more pleased than he had a right to. The lad stood next to his bride, grinning broadly. The girl was merely fourteen, Kellen sixteen, and both were little more than babes to Aidan’s eyes.

He remembered the day Kellen arrived at Dubhtolargg, with those deep-brown eyes. He’d given the lad a safe haven, and as a result Kellen lived a far less guarded life than most. Aidan had to remind himself that his own parents were already wed by this age—the difference being that neither of these two young folk had ever met ere now.

Alas, mayhap Lìli would see it as a boon; that he was bringing home yet another soul to love.

It could be worse; he could be leaving Kellen as he had Cat.

And then he would surely die.

“You will join hands,” the old woman called Glenna commanded the pair.

Eager to see the ceremony done, both Kellen and Constance rushed to do the woman’s bidding. Aidan must confess, they looked quite please with the turn of events.

Glenna held in her hand a number of ribbons and she looped one over their joined wrists, binding them together, as Una had once done for Aidan and for Lìli. Despite the hasty ceremony, the memory brought a wistful smile to his face and he longed to hold his wife, wanting little more than to be with Lìli now.

“Constance and Kellen, do ye come forward of your own free will to make this union?”

“I do,” Kellen said quickly, and loudly enough for everyone to hear.

“And you, Constance,” the auld woman continued.

“I do!” Constance replied happily. She was a lovely little thing, and the excitement in her voice was genuine. Aidan recognized the look of love—or if not love, precisely, the seeds of love. Nurtured properly, it might grow into something as glorious and extraordinary as a rose.

Glenna first looked to the boy’s uncles—Broc and Iain both—respectable lairds in their own rights. They could do worse than to be bound by blood to these men.

Each gave a nod. And then Glenna looked to Aidan; Aidan did the same. Glenna gave a nod in return, acknowledging their grace.

For better or worse, this union was now blessed. If these two young folk would not deal well with one another, they would discover it soon enough.

Dressed in a pale blue dress, with goldenrod and sage in her hair, Constance looked radiant and resolved.

“This hand fasting will bind you together for the period of one year,” Glenna explained. “During this time, Constance and Kellen, will you honor and respect one another?”

“I will,” said the pair in unison.

The old woman then wrapped yet another ribbon around their wrists and continued, “Will you forever aid each other in times of pain and sorrow?”

“I will,” both said once more, and once again, the old woman looped another ribbon about their joined wrists.

“Will you be true to one another that you may grow strong in this union?”

“I will,” Kellen said at once.

“I will,” agreed Constance. She gave Kellen a lover’s glance, albeit one filled with such innocence that Aidan realized his son had spoken truth. Kellen did not bed this girl as yet. The two had simply hied away to do what young folk were wont to do—whisper sweet nothings into each other’s ears and maybe steal a kiss or two.

“As your hands become withered, will you now reach out only for each other?” the old woman continued, and Aidan wondered if Kellen realized exactly what she’d meant. Not only that he must he confide in his bride, forsaking all others, but he must also never swing his willie near other lassies. Thankfully, Kellen was his mother’s son, kind and respectful of others.

“We will,” said the two in unison, and for a fourth time, a ribbon was looped about their wrists.

“Is it your intention to bring peace and harmony to these united clans?”

“It is.”

“When you falter—and you will—will you have the courage—and loyalty—to remember the promises you have made to one another?”

“I will,” Kellen said, smiling brightly.

“With all my heart,” Constance agreed. She gave Kellen a smile that brought one to Aidan’s face as well. The sight of the two warmed the cockles of his heart.

“Verra well, “ Glenna declared, “Constance and Kellen, now as your hands are bound, so too are you bound to one another. Kellen, you may bestow a kiss of peace upon your bride.”

Timidly at first, looking toward Aidan and then to Broc and then to Iain—as though he were asking for permission—Kellen leaned in with puckered lips. But he’d closed his eyes and when his lips touched upon his bride, they’d missed their mark. He planted a rather chaste kiss upon her eye. To the girl’s credit, she merely smiled.

The gathering laughed quietly.

Red-faced, Kellen reached out to hold his bride’s cheeks, as though to keep her still for his kiss and then, with eyes wide open, he gave the kiss another try. Before he could accomplish his mission, Constance thrust her hands out eagerly, pulling her new husband close—much too quickly and the two knocked chins, moving away from each other with startled yelps of pain.

The gathering laughed once again, a few old men not so politely as before.

Finally, Kellen pulled his bride into his arms, and kissed her sweetly, lips still closed and Aidan thought mayhap it was past time to have a talk with the boy. His shoulders shook gently with mirth.

Now pleased with himself, his son turned to raise their bound arms for everyone to see and a cheer rang throughout the gathered crowd. And that swiftly and thoroughly the handfasting was done. The sound of music lifted at once, and Kellen embraced his bride. The sight of them together once again quickened Aidan’s smile.

“She’s a verra lovely lass,” his sister whispered at his side.

Aidan turned to look at Catrìona, marveling how well the years had treated her. Her hair was full with lively red curls, and her cheeks were blooming still. “That she is,” he agreed, taking Catrìona’s arm into his, and pulling her close so he could whisper in her ear. “Are ye still pleased with your mon?”

She nodded quickly, and Aidan peered over at his brother by law. “’Tis a good thing ye’ve loved my sister well, Mac Brodie.”

Gavin chuckled. “Och, mon, dinna think for one instant she would have it any other way.”

Aidan laughed over that truth. None of his sisters were weak or timid, he acknowledged. Each had her own manner of strengths. As yet, only Caitlin and Sorcha remained unwed, although Caitlin would have it otherwise if Aidan would simply give her leave to wed the man she craved. However, Aidan could not quite bring himself to do so. As yet, she had not actually used that word, and so far as Aidan was concerned, that simple fact left him wondering if she harbored some doubts. But this was a quandary for another day. Today, his youngest son was wed.

With bawdy shouts, the crowd made way for the Kellen and Constance as they moved down the hill, half dancing to the music as they went. All banter was soon swallowed by the uproar. Ribald laughter followed the wedded pair. Little ones tossed late blooming flowers at their feet. Despite the haste, it was a lovely wedding, and as far as Aidan was concerned, this visit far surpassed his last. He found himself clapping his hands as the festivities carried them toward the night’s bonfire—a massive undertaking that had been built to honor the Mother of Winter. Tonight, it would honor the bride and groom as well.

Catrìona fell behind, walking with her husband arm in arm. “He likes ye,” Aidan heard her say. “Dinna fash yersel’, Gavin.”

Aidan smiled, realizing they must be speaking about him. He wanted to laugh, and turn and put the man at ease, but such an act did not come easily to him. It was quite enough that Cat could reassure him, and this much was true: he valued any man who could bring such unrepressed joy to his sister’s heart, whether or not he was an outlander.

T
he fire spat
glowing cinders against a twilight sky.

‘Twas said the winter solstice was a time for rebirth, a time for growth, a time for atonement. For those who believed in faeries and brownies, it could easily be said that for any who came ill prepared for the long winter, the solstice would be the hour of reckoning. On the other hand, if one did not believe in faeries and brownies, it could also be said the hour had come…

Afric smiled.

The fire had been a ruse, a means to draw his prey out into the open. If, in fact, it had been his intent to devastate the entire clan beyond restitution, he would have killed them all whilst they’d slept in their beds. But nay, he already had a long list of souls he wouldst need make amends for, and he had no desire to add to that list unnecessarily.

Earlier, as he’d stood inside the hall—a stranger in their midst—listening to the laird’s son attempt to convince his father that there must be foul play at hand, Afric worried his opportunities would all be lost. But then the MacKinnon dismissed the lad, and here they were, none the wiser.

Celebrating like filthy Pagans, no one appeared to care that flames destroyed half the village little less than a week before. In his arrogance, the MacKinnon had ordered yet another bonfire, one that was even bigger than the last.

Of course, it was easy enough to believe all was right with the world, when neighboring clans all came together this way.

For an instant, it left Afric with a guilty pang…

For only an instant.

These were not his people. Given the opportunity, they would mete him the same fate. Survival depended upon which side you were on—and Afric was most assuredly not on theirs. Neither was he on Hugh’s—stupid bag of wind.

Did Page truly believe their father’s apathy was reserved only for her?

Nay. He treated Afric as he did all his bastards—with very little regard, ordering him about like a common servant. He couldn’t even be bothered to read his own letters—a fact for which Afric would be eternally grateful, because he still had not heard the news…

Everything was going according to plan.

It was simple enough to hide amidst so many faces, old and new. Afric could come and go as he pleased. No one had the first notion who he was, or whence he hailed.

Not even Hugh had yet to spy him. His father was a doddering old fool, far too easily deceived. Whilst he’d run about gathering supplies and men for the journey north, Afric had ridden ahead, under the pretense of racing toward France. Instead, he’d come here, and set the stage to see his mission done. Once he was rid of his competition for Hugh’s lands, and Hugh, as well, then he would go to Lyons-la-Foret and claim his prize.

Smiling, despite the fact that they’d lost nearly everything save the clothes upon their backs—poor dumb Highlanders—the clansmen all ate, drank and made merry, kicking up their heels and singing obnoxiously to the accompaniment of the pipes.

Oblivious.

Obnoxious.

Obligors.

Once they heard the news, all else would pale in the face of it. Music would end in a discordant note. The skies would darken with the dimming of hope. The air would chill with heralding fate…
Henry Beuclerc was dead—poisoned some might say.

Upon the king’s death raged the winds of war. Agents had been disbursed at once, like a sickness transmitted unto the lands. All pawns were now in place, and everyone who’d sworn fealty to Henry’s shrewish daughter Matilda would mete their makers one by one—including the man who’d impregnated his mother.

Even this very instant, the King’s nephew, Stephen of Blois, was moving to seize the English throne and David of Scotia—Henry’s ally in the north—would needst fight to hold all he owned. No Davidian supporter would be allowed to assume control in Normandy, and that included the baronetcy of Aldergh. No one was left but Hugh’s estranged daughter who might take his place, and Stephen would never endorse a woman.

On the other hand, were Henry’s daughter to sit her arse upon England’s throne, she’d no doubt sanction Page’s claim. Albeit, if Page were dead, and the baronetcy forfeit after her father’s death, that would weaken Matilda’s claim in Normandy, and most conveniently ’twould leave control of Aldergh… perhaps to someone who’d facilitated its end.

Thinking of all the things he would change once returning to Aldergh, Afric tamped his foot merrily as the bride and groom came dancing near. None of Hugh’s men would even think to question him when he came to seize control, for Hugh was stingy and mean and one good turn with these Highlanders would hardly buy him indulgences.

“Long life to ye,” he shouted at the happy couple, raising a toast to the pair. Little did they realize it was a flout in their faces.

“Thank ye kind sir!” exclaimed the bride. She rushed over to kiss Afric upon the cheek, her breath warm and sweet.

All too easy,
he thought to himself. How fortuitous this would be… in one fell swoop he would rid himself of father and daughter both.

“’Tis a bonny pair they make, dinna ye think?”

Careful to hide his accent—for his mother had been a Frankish maid—Afric nodded to the man who’d spoken—the Montgomerie laird, he surmised, for he wore the Lion-head livery beneath his blue tartan cloak. His lovely wife stood at his side, unmistakable in her beauty, her face the inspiration for bard’s tales for leagues around.

Some day, Afric could have a wife like that—bought and paid for with his father’s gold.

Piers de Montgomery stared at him a bit too long and Afric realized he was waiting for him to speak. “Indeed,” replied Afric. “To you and yours, sir.” He raised another toast.

Lyon Montgomery smiled uncomfortably and so did Afric as he took a heaping swig of his
uisge
—the only good thing to come out of these Highlands. Although he must be careful not to drink over much, or he’d end up again in a pile of limbs. Moving slowly away from Lyon Montgomerie, he watched and waited for the opportunity to strike…