Chapter 17

Only death could part them now. Of that Melinda was certain.

All around her, folk were eating and drinking, celebrating her wedding in a way that made no sense to her. They were a strange people these Scots—fierce, combative, yet protective when it came to their bairns or womenfolk. The air around her trembled with the sound of pipes—noise that rolled off the castle walls and poured onto the heads of the folk.

Morag had made her look like a bride; the pity of it was she did not feel like one. Never in all her life had she worn such quality—a dress fit for a queen made of worsted so fine it would pass through the gold ring Rob had placed on her finger. And if she were a queen, the little princes were clearly being spoiled. Becky had taken them to their chamber and made sure they were fed. Melinda’s breasts ached slightly for not having provided her share.

Now both lads were dancing to the music atop the high board, to the amusement of Rob’s father and mother. Even Melinda felt like smiling as she watched. If anything good had come from her time with Rob McArthur, it was Harry and Ralf.

Ralf—she felt a pinch of conscience. Indeed, Cragenlaw could be the best outcome for her younger son—away from Wolfsdale, her father, and a mother who couldn’t look him in the eye.

Out in the middle of the Great Hall, two men in kilted plaids danced to the pipes, arms held high, feet skipping over a dangerous assortment of swords. The lads loved it. Watching them now—so happy, laughing—feelings of guilt again washed over her, flooded her mind. They were her sons, but they had never danced for her. Ralf had never turned to her with a smile. No, scowls she’d had, and they had been all she deserved. She disremembered how long it had been—how many days, hours—since she became able to look at Ralf without feeling the echoes of the fear she felt during his birth, feeling that if she did not get him out of her, the next breath she took would be her last.

The lads were having all the excitement while she and Rob sat side by side accepting the congratulations of the clansfolk who filed past wishing them well—long life and happiness—spoken afore they threw back a mouthful of Uisge beatha, the water of life.

She had grown so used to the sea of faces passing, tugging at their bonnets as she nodded her thanks, that they all began to merge into one—until—“St Clair!” she gasped and on impulse grabbed Rob by the arm.

She had been discovered. Suddenly Melinda realised she didn’t want to go back.

Rob’s first notion that all was not well came from Melinda’s grip—nails and all—on his forearm.

He heard her call a name, more Norman than Scot. Fixing the stranger with a stare, it took Rob but an instant to place him. Tall, dark, with thin, unsmiling lips, he wore the same drab green he had dressed in to go hunting with La Mont.

The pain in his arm increased as Melinda’s nails tensed, left marks on his skin, and one glance was enough to tell she wasn’t amused by St Clair’s sudden appearance at Cragenlaw. Not a guid time for Rob to suddenly feel naked, bereft of weapons, as the priest had assured him befitted a wedding in the chapel. However, this priest hadn’t lived at Cragenlaw as long as he had, or seen some of the gory sights laid out afore the altar—Erik the Bear for one—or the men bristling with weapons who had carried him there.

Covering Melinda’s fine-boned had with his own, Rob released her nails frae his skin with a huff of dry laughter. “What’s this Melinda? Have ye invited one of yer father’s friends to our wedding unbeknownst to me?”

The startled glance the Norman cast over Rob disappeared in a flash, replaced by the swift reach for the hilt of the sword at his waist as Rob leapt over the high board in a flurry of kilt and feathered bonnet, as if in flight. Big though he was, Rob had always been light on his feet, and he landed almost soundlessly behind the men performing the sword dance as an entertainment for the guests. Afore anybody was the wiser, he scooped up a sword frae under a dancer’s feet. Nae plaything, the weapon he grasped was as sharp as Melinda’s quick intake of breath. He was aware every eye in the Hall was upon him, including his father’s and those of the bairn Euan pulled close to his chest momentarily, then placed in Morag’s arms beside his brother.

The McArthur was quick, but Rob had the advantage of him as he moved to even the odds betwixt him and the Norman. “Has La Mont accompanied ye here to our home, and of more import, have ye come here as friend or foe?”

St Clair released the fist clenched around the hilt of a fine-looking blade, and Rob wondered if he wielded it as well as he wore it. Afore he had time to come to a conclusion, a stoush erupted, men pushing, shoving, using their elbows to be in the front of the circle forming around Rob and St Clair. It did his heart guid to be the centre of a ring of the McArthur clan’s biggest and boldest warriors, and to have the McArthur himself, head and shoulders taller than the rest, surveying them all with a sword in hand, his back to the high board, shielding the women and bairns.

Two black leather gloves, palms facing out, formed a slight barrier between Rob and St Clair. “I would be a fool to come here as an enemy. I merely followed the band of gypsies from Wolfsdale to this formidable castle. The gates were open and no man demanded my name as I came through them. I was but part of the happy celebration. La Mont sent me to discover Melinda’s whereabouts so that I might assure him of his daughter’s well being. In return he promised me Melinda’s hand in marriage. No doubt he thought his promise would ensure his daughter ‘s safe return.” With that St Clair made a gracious bow in Melinda’s direction.

It had nae doubt had occurred to St Clair that only Rob’s death would make the keeping of La Mont’s promise possible, yet Rob had to admire the cheek of the man and, tongue in cheek he enquired, “I trust yer now assured of my wife’s safety?”

“How could I be otherwise with all these warriors ready to leap to her defence against a solitary Norman knight? Alas, as at Alnwick I have arrived after most of the shouting is over, so to speak. Melinda has already wed another. As for the battle, I was sorry to discover both the Scottish King and his heir were dead—a foolish act of violence; but then some men, Normans included, can see no farther than the point of their swords. In France I have taken part in many battles—that is how I earned my colours—and why La Mont befriended me at Alnwick.”

He had to hand it to St Clair. The man had courage, standing in the Great Hall at Cragenlaw talking of their king’s death—not only that but confirming that Edward had died with him. “I was there,” Rob, said, “I saw both Malcolm and Edward killed. There was treachery involved, which makes me wary. Why would ye come here openly and admit one of yer compatriots killed our King and his son. Are ye nae aware of the turmoil that is about to descend on Scotland because of that act of treachery?”

St Clair frowned, his disbelief showing as he said, “But surely Edward’s brothers will return home now and all will be resolved?”

Rob shrugged as his father stepped down frae the raised floor that set those at the high board above the rest in the Hall. “It would seem Scottish politics are not this young man’s long suit.” The McArthur fronted up to St Clair and fixed him with one of his penetrating gazes. Rob pitied him, having been on the receiving end of a few of those himself. “By the time news reaches the young princes, Donald Bane, Malcolm’s brother, will have swooped down on Edinburgh frae the Highlands and claimed the throne. This action will rile William Rufus, who will nae doubt send Duncan back home, and Scotland will be a battlefield frae Caithness in the north to Alnwick on the Borders. Best take yerself back to Wolfsdale while it’s still reasonably safe. There are those who would like nothing better than the excuse to kill themselves a Norman.”

“And Melinda and her … her tiny sons will be safe at Cragenlaw with all the strife yer predicting making its way south?”

Nae sooner had the words left St Clair’s mouth, than the truth leapt into Rob’s mind. Henry La Mont was worried about his heirs. “As ye can see, St Clair…” he looked at Morag, who had surrendered Harry to Melinda. Both the important women in his life, his wife and his mother, had wrapped protective arms about his sons, making it obvious whom they considered a danger, rubbing St Clair’s mistake in by finishing, “My sons are well looked after. They have a whole clan at their beck and call, since they are the future of the McArthur clan.”

“Aha,” St Clair’s nod confirmed that at last he comprehended fully. “I don’t think the Baron was aware of the relationship, but then the Lady Melinda refused to reveal that pertinent fact.”

“Ye mean La Mont didnae dare choose to believe the obvious. He’d rather suppose his daughter would take up with any rattle who visited Wolfsdale, than have to admit his grandsons have a particle of Scots blood in their veins.” Rob smiled grimly at the irony. Here he stood defending Melinda, the wife who had cursed him out and proclaimed that she hated him, expecting any moment to hear her deny his attempt to make it seem as though she were there willingly. “Promises were made betwixt the Lady Melinda and myself that hold guid nae matter which country we are in. Assure the so-called Baron Wolfsdale that he got more than a silver ransom when he captured Rob McArthur; he got grandsons descended in a direct line frae those who owned Wolfsdale and all its demesne for centuries. My mother, Morag Farquhar, was born there as was I, though I doubt the knowledge will make him happy.”

St Clair’s thin lips widened into a resigned smile, and Rob felt a wee frisson of admiration for him. “Can I assume that ye have nae intention of holding me at Cragenlaw?” He shrugged. “A pity, for I have liked what I saw on the way here, on both sides of the border. Mayhap I will return one day when the political climate is less fraught.”

“I hope we both see that day, but for now let us offer ye a sup of Uisge beatha afore ye return to Wolfsdale with the information the Baron is so desperate for. I doubt he’ll be as happy with the outcome as my father is. Harry and Ralf are grand additions to the McArthur bloodline.”

Rob was well aware he shouldnae taunt Melinda, but the opportunity was irresistible and he took full advantage of it, tossing a glance in her direction and saying, “Mayhap we’ll have added a few more by the time it’s safe for ye to return to Scotland.” Then he walked through the Great Hall with St Clair and sent him on his way with the warmth of the finest Cragenlaw Uisge beatha coating his belly.

As was the custom, the newlyweds were accompanied to their chamber—Rob’s chamber. Thankfully, nae one would feel the need to examine the sheets in the morning, she and Rob having anticipated their wedding night two years since.

Melinda watched the door close behind the laughter and the jests, and Rob remained on the wrong side of it, the one she herself occupied. “I meant what I told ye, Rob. There’s naught will make me lie with ye again, not tonight, not ever. Ye have two fine sons, one more than ye need. Make do with that.”

Rob walked toward her. The breadth of his shoulders was one of the things that had drawn her toward him the day her father had returned to Wolfsdale with Rob as his hostage. She had taken one look and seen a true knight, a protector—handsome like the knights who filled the songs sung by roving minstrels, tempting a young lass to dream. Reality had brought her up short and her dreams had become nightmares that were only now beginning to fade. Up close, as Rob was now, the powerful male scent of his body stirred up memories of the two of them, limbs entwined, bodies joined. Powerful, aye, but not enough to make her forget where needing and wanting could lead.

“As I remember, I never intimated that I wanted more frae ye than the chance of correcting the mistake we made that night afore I returned to Scotland. I shouldnae have spilled my seed inside yer womb, nae matter how wild ye made me for ye. Our marriage has corrected that now, and that’s all I asked of ye. I might always be a bastard, but nae one will be able to say the same of my sons. That said, we shouldnae give anybody a chance to gossip.”

She listened, lifted her chin—a warning she couldn’t be intimidated—and held her place until he said, “Do ye wish I’d never been captured by yer father, that the bairns didn’t exist and ye were free to marry St Clair as yer father planned?”

“What’s that ye say? I could never wish Harry hadn’t existed, nor Ralf for that matter.” A shimmer of guilt stole her voice and tied a knot in her stomach. “I have two fine sons. It would be selfish to indulge in making more—” She bit her tongue to prevent saying, if one wants to live long enough to see them grow old enough to look after themselves.

“Indulge is it? Time was ye called it love.” Rough with emotion his voice scraped across her over-tender emotions.

It had been a long, weary day, naught like the wedding she had fashioned in her imagination as she sat at her embroidery or lay abed dreaming of princesses and the knights who rescued them from dragons. St George had always been a favourite.

Handsome as he was, St Clair would never fit the image.

“Love is for folk who don’t know any better. I was too young and yerself hardly what folk think of as mature. Some might say we have made our bed, but that doesn’t mean we have to lie in it together,” she finished quietly, top lip quivering, hoping he would take heed of her hastily reasoned argument. “Tying me to St Clair is my father’s notion. I’m well pleased our marriage has put an end to that.”

He curved toward her, his face mere inches from hers. She could taste his breath on her lips and she hated that she wished she were brave enough to want more. Wished she couldn’t see the same in his eyes as he straightened and moved away.

“I wish,” he murmured, “that I could be as confident that Henry La Mont will believe his plans at an end. Our association wasnae one of long duration, yet in that short time I found him to be obdurate, not easily turned aside frae his chosen path. St Clair has gone; it’s to be hoped he won’t return—at least not afore spring. I never thought I’d be grateful to Donald Bane for stirring up Scotland, making clans take sides, but at least their conflict will work to our advantage. For a while at least.”

“And what will happen come spring?” she felt drawn to ask.

“That is something not even Rowena could predict. It is much bigger than us, as big as Scotland and England joined together. For once we can be happy for the ice and snow soon to descend on us. It will give us time not just to prepare for Donald Bane but also for Henry La Mont.”

Her knees felt weak and her footsteps took her backward till the huge bed that had dominated the room as well as her thoughts bumped against her hips and she rested her palms against the soft fur covering the bed. She curled her fingers into the soft hairs, her eyes lifting to Rob’s, and what she saw in them brought reality home to her like a fist to the heart.

The troubles swamping her were her fault, no one else’s. She had taken one look at Rob and wanted him for herself, the way she fancied a pretty necklace or a length of French velvet that matched her eyes, and had ended up the mother of two sons. She bit her lip till it hurt as a substitute for blurting out her thoughts, spilling her guilt all over Rob. How had she fooled herself into laying all the blame for everything wrong in her life at Rob’s feet?

He talked of preparing for the troubles ahead, of winter coming upon the land. It had already layered ice over the love she once believed she and Rob shared. They had two sons betwixt them, and she had a father likely to stop at naught to steal their sons away.

Mayhap it had been shock, the need to abandon the life of a rich Baron’s supposedly spoiled daughter and grow up. Could she achieve such a goal before spring? Her sons depended upon her to stand up for them against her father.

And Rob? She had given him her promise; now she had to search for the strength within her and hope eventually to keep that promise. “I’ll take one side of the bed and ye can have the other, but must sleep atop the covers. Ye have a fire in the hearth, and with yer plaid to keep ye warm we can both keep face with yer family.”

She took the nod he made in her direction as assent, and with her back to him fought her way out of the kirtle fit for a queen, something she hadn’t expected to find in Scotland, but then she had a lot to learn. Folding the fine worsted, she laid it upon a wooden chest and hurriedly pulled back the sheets and wolfskin fur coverlet as Rob placed a couple of sturdy logs atop the crackling flames. The fire greedily engulfed the wood, and its light cast her shadow onto the tapestry-covered wall behind the bed.

The sharp hiss of an indrawn breath made her hesitate, made her turn her head, look over her shoulder, catch the heat in his eyes as he stared at her. Her throat was too dry to speak.

Rob wasn’t hampered by the same problem. The heat in his eyes licked over her the way the flames in the hearth licked across the new logs. He cleared his throat and spoke as if offering her a prophecy. “It’s going to be a long winter.”