Chapter 31

Thirty-One

As evening fell on Aldergh's parklands, one by one new tents arose on the horizon, replacing the king's red with bright gold, white and blue. From the midst of these new tents came a modest cavalcade, sporting familiar colors, banners and cloaks flying at their backs.

"Open the gates!" shouted Malcom. "Now! Open the gates!"

He was downstairs even before the portcullis's first groan. The heavy metal rose, and Malcom himself pushed open the gates, ordering a path to be cleared. Kicking ash and bone out of the way, their men swept aside the debris, leaving the way clear.

Elspeth rushed over to join him, and together they watched from the bailey as his father's older, wiser face came into view, followed by Angus, Dougal and Kerwyn—all faces he recognized from his youth.

Angus, the auld sot, was still alive and wielding a sword, old as he was. Dougal looked worse for wear.

Riding tall and proud before them all, Ian MacKinnon rode straight into his bailey for the first time in eleven years. Malcom awaited him with a little boy's glee, telltale tears stinging his eyes, but he told himself it was the sting of the wind.

His father took his measure for a long moment, then dismounted without a word. But whatever he didn't say with words, he said with his eyes as he came to embrace Malcom, clapping him hard on the back.

At fifty-four and thirty, father and son's embrace was equally as emotional as it was during their reunion two score and four years ago. And though some might deny it, there wasn't a dry eye in the house for anyone who understood the momentousness of the occasion.

Father and son, reunited. At last.

His jaw taut and chest straining with emotion, it occurred to Malcom that he was now precisely the age his father had been that day when they'd stood together embracing outside Aldergh's gates when Malcom was but six. But though his father hadn't changed much over the past ten years, his hair was as silver as his sword and his golden eyes were bracketed by crow's feet. Once again, he clapped Malcom on the back, and Malcom gulped back the lump in his throat.

"Aren't ye too auld to be wielding a sword, Da?" he teased.

The MacKinnon's amber eyes were glassy with emotion. "God's truth. I'd face the devil himself tae see ye, son, and naught but death could keep me from ye."

True to his words, he seemed unable to unhand Malcom, and Malcom endured the embrace with honest tears stinging his eyes. Finally, the elder man released him, stepping back once more to appraise him. "'Tis guid tae see ye," Malcom said, and his father nodded, pulling him back again for one more hug. This time, Malcom complained, his words muffled by his father's leather tunic. "If ye dinna unhand me, ye'll have my men teasing me like a stripling."

His father laughed hoarsely, releasing him at long last, and then wiped his face on the sleeve of his tunic.

It took him yet another moment to compose himself before he could speak, but then he said, "Where's your manners, boy? Ere ye going to let an auld mon freeze to death standing in this drafty palace, or will ye take me somewhere tae warm my bones and fill my belly?"

Malcom laughed at the complaint. It wasn't the least bit cold outside, but he well understood: His father needed a reason to mask his quivering face and hands. He smiled fondly, and said, falling easily into his Scots brogue. "What's the matter, Da? Yer auld bones getting saft in yer auld age?"

His old man laughed. "Betimes," he confessed. "Betimes." And he nodded and patted Malcom's shoulder, just a wee bit less enthusiastically as he said, "Your mother sends love, my son, bids ye come meet your brother and see your sister. Ye'd nae even recognize Liana. She's bonny as her ma. And you're brother, Alex is anxious to know ye."

Malcom's eyes crinkled with joy. In truth, he'd love to take Elspeth home to Chreagach Mhor. And remembering suddenly that she was here with him in the bailey, he turned to give his wife a smile and wave her forward, eager to introduce his father to the woman he loved.

Elspeth stared,knowing intuitively who it was.

No two men had ever looked more alike—barring the silver in the elder's hair, and the subtle difference in the color of their eyes. She hesitated when Malcom called her, loathe to intrude on their heartfelt moment, but he insisted, and she rushed forward, only to be enveloped into a bear hug by his father.

She choked back laughter, pinned between his arms.

"My wife," Malcom said, only after his father presumed as much.

"Ach, my boy, ye think I dinna ken? I see the way ye look at her."

Elspeth could barely breathe, much less speak, swallowed as she was by enormous arms—strong, burly arms, nearly as strong as his son's. At long last, the MacKinnon released her, and stepped back, bowing to greet her. "Tis glad I am tae meet ye, Lady Aldergh." He winked, his amber eyes glinting, with unfailing good humor, very much like his son's. "I prayed my son would get himself a good lady to warm his bones and cool his hot head. I ha'e never known a lad so cross."

Malcom chuckled,though his wife was quick to argue.

"Nay, my lord, I have never known your son to be aught but full of mirth. In truth, he has the same twinkle in his eyes as you do."

His father laughed again and peered at Malcom, winking. "'Tis guid to hear," he said. "Tis guid to hear." And then he gave Malcom his back, wooed by Elspeth's smile and demeanor. Taking Elspeth by the hand, he bade her tell him her story, from beginning to end, promising to be only ears and Malcom watched as she led them toward the keep, enjoying the sight of his father and bride walking hand in hand. Half-drunk with joy alone, he overheard his father say, "Ye'll visit for the Yule, daughter, and I'll be hearing nae argument over the matter."

Elspeth peered back at Malcom, smiling beautifully, and he gave her a nod.

"That would be so lovely," she said, leading the burly man into their hall, and Malcom stopped, if only for a moment, to watch the two conversing as though they'd known each other an eternity. The sight of them made his heart glad, even as he realized their tribulations were far from over.

Morwen Pendragon was still out there, scheming.

Elspeth's sisters still needed saving.

And even now, the northern barons were being rallied, and the Scots clans were gathering under David's banner.

Malcom had no doubt that David of Scotia would ask him to bend the knee. But right now, for the moment, he was a man unfettered, save for the loyalty he bore his kin.

Eleven years ago, he'd wanted naught more than to leave his father's home. Today, he would be pleased enough to return. He called his steward over, asking, "How is Cora?"

"Well, m'lord. She is well. I am only grateful ye asked."

Much like his father had done, Malcom clapped the man on the back. "Do me a favor and see that our tables are laden this evening. Make certain our wine flows freely and bring up the Spanish wine. Everyone is welcome. Have the poor lad in the field returned to his parents and see he is given a proper burial. Then, after you have seen to these matters, see to your wife as I will to mine."

"Aye, m'lord," the man said, with gratitude.

"Go, then," Malcom said, and then he hurried to catch his wife, who was even now regaling his father with some overwrought tale of Malcom's heroics.

"And when did you realize you loved the fool?" his father asked jovially, sliding an arm about Elspeth's waist.

"But, of course," she said with a giggle that Malcom had never heard before—girlish laughter that, for the instant, was free of strife. "Once I learned the name of his horse."

"Oh? And what might this be?" his father inquired.

"Merry Bells," Elspeth replied, laughing. "To this day, I cannot imagine such a name for a warrior's horse."

His father peered over his shoulder, blinking, meeting Malcom's gaze, his old amber eyes filled with some unnamed emotion. His jaw was taut, his lips in danger of quivering. But so was Malcom's. Ach, Da, I never really left ye, he said, never moving his lips. My heart remains in Chreagach Mhor

His father pulled Elspeth closer, and something about his gaze said, I know, my son. I know.

But perhaps it was only Malcom's imagination—a contrivance of the moment because the MacKinnon spoke not a word to him. He turned about, following his wife into the hall, laughing joyfully as he went with her hand in hand. "Yule," he said again, with great meaning.

"You can be sure I will insist," Elspeth promised.

But she wouldn't have to.So long as Malcom had breath in his body, and war did not keep him, he would move heaven and earth to be in Chreagach Mhor on the Yuletide.