Elusive (3 page)

She thanked the good Lord that the droughts
of the past were over. She had heard the stories of the starvation
and loss suffered throughout her country. Now they could look
forward to continued prosperity, if not freedom from the dreaded
English rule. The Union had been forced upon them before her birth,
and she prayed that someday her homeland would be free to rule
itself again.

Their clan-oriented society was being
threatened. Their loyalty remained with their lairds, despite the
show
of loyalty they were forced to display for the English.
Life in Scotland could be hard, but Scots were a sturdy, stubborn
people who would resist the English or die trying—Union or no
damned Union!

“Good morning to you, Caena.” There was no
answer as Ròs, Caena’s maid, entered Caena’s rooms. She caught the
expression on her charge’s face. The girl’s mind was far off
somewhere. Knowing her mistress as well as she did, she recognized
that Caena was upset this morning. Why, oh why, is so much pressure
placed on such small shoulders?

Shaking her head, she quietly went about her
morning duties—selecting the clothing for Caena’s day. Watching
Caena out of the corner of her eye, she set out her hair brush and
ribbons. She found fresh hose and assured that the girl’s slippers
were clean and ready for the day—despite the fact that she herself
had made sure of this the night before.

All the while she moved around the room, she
watched Caena closely. How very much like her parents she was, Ròs
mused. Her strength and stubbornness came from Finnean, her beauty
from her dear mother. Finnean doted on his daughter
–and where had that gotten her,
Ròs
scowled.

How much she herself loved the girl. She had
tended to her with the love of a mother for her child since moments
after the girl’s birth. So much joy and sadness all wrapped up in
one day. Ròs sighed and went about her business.

In the meanwhile, Caena was lost in thoughts
about her father. From time to time, Finnean was misunderstood by
his peers for his ideas which were considered extreme. Some even
thought his ideas were threatening to their way of life. Unlike
other men of his time, he held the minds and wisdom of the women in
his life in high esteem. He had adored his wife, the sweet Morgana,
who had died when Caena was born.

Caena’s thoughts took her to the enmity that
brewed beneath the surface of her family. She shuddered as she
thought of it. Like so many wealthy families of their day, plots to
overthrow the leader of the family were lurking in the dark corners
of the estate. Power was always a temptress ready to seduce those
of lesser character—which were plentiful in the McDonnough clan
these days.

God forbid any outsiders tried to battle with
the McDonnoughs, for the McDonnoughs would band together to fight
their way through hell itself. But the McDonnoughs were, amongst
themselves, a warring brood. Knowing such plots existed was only a
small part of the matter. Finnean would have to outsmart all of
them. She realized that he had managed to quell such plots for his
twenty-two years as Laird without any help from her
.
After all, she was a mere
female
. But loving
him,
she could not help but worry about her father’s
safety.

It was difficult for her to remain in her
dark mood when she thought of her father. The thought of him always
brought a smile to her face. The tale was told that when Finnean’s
parents saw the mop of light hair on their new born babe, they had
agreed immediately on his name which meant
white-headed—
she
had been given the name Caena for its same meaning. The flowing,
near-white blond hair she wore with such pride fell to such a
length that she sometimes sat upon it—even when it was plaited.

Oh, how
Caena loved her father. He was the most important person in her
life—other than the man she met on the cliffs—and had been for as
long as she could remember. Her protector, her teacher, her
supporter, both mother and father—he had been all of them. He would
give her any desire of her heart, if he could. But, sadly, there
were some things even
The McDonnough
could not do. Caena
could never inherit all that was his and dear to his heart.

Ròs watched the girl move to her dressing
area. She knew where Caena’s thoughts had taken her. Ròs could
always tell when the girl thought of Finnean.

As Ròs dressed her, Caena watched herself in
her looking glass. Caena McDonnough strongly resembled her mother,
or so she had been told as long as she could remember. Of course,
she had never seen Morgana. But she often heard that—while she had
her father’s pale, blonde hair—she had her mother’s fine features,
huge gray eyes, and the full lips that settled in a near pout when
she wasn’t smiling.

She blushed to think of her other features.
With her tiny stature, narrow waist, full bosom, she had a figure
different than most of the maidens in the castle. This too she got
from her mother. She had seen the way some of the men in her
father’s service looked at her. She shuddered again as she thought
of it.

“What is the matter, child?” Ròs asked.
“Would you like me to get your shawl? Are you chilled?”

“No, I’m fine, Ròs,” Caena responded
quietly.

Ròs seriously doubted that. “Perhaps you
would like some tea?”

“No. Thank you, Ròs.”

Ròs was worried about her mistress and dear,
dear friend. The girl had been in a state for days. Something was
weighing heavily on her heart, and it upset Ròs to see the pain in
the girl’s eyes. Even the thoughts of her father didn’t remain on
her face for long.

While Ròs worried about Caena, Caena’s
thoughts returned to their previous path. She cared little of what
others at court thought of her figure. Some of the women at court
hid the fullness of their figures by wearing the binding
undergarments of the English—copying their so-called English
counterparts. While they more often wore the Scottish homespun
chemises at home, they would give in to English fashion in public,
especially for special occasions. They cared too much about what
the
English
thought, in Caena’s opinion—not that anyone
asked a woman’s opinion, she scowled again. Sighing to herself, she
thought most of these women were probably just doing as their
husbands expected them to do. That, after all, was what a Scottish
woman’s life amounted to—making your husband happy!

Caena felt her temper flaring. She recognized
that her temperament was like her father’s. Aye, she could be what
Finnean called ‘a fiery-tempered lassie’ when pushed—some said she
was stubborn. She preferred to think she was just
determined
! Thinking of the imagined slight, she lifted her
chin in defiance as she watched her reflection in the mirror. If
they did not like her for herself, then
damn them all
. She
caught herself before she would have stomped her dainty foot on the
hard stone floor of her rooms. She sneaked a peek at Ròs to see if
she had noticed how close she had come to displaying that
determination.

Finally, her thoughts settled back on the
real reason for her dark mood. Her father had given her the worst
of news. She felt her eyes starting to fill and her chest
tightening. He had, despite his own heart, told her she had to make
a dreaded decision. For the third day in a row it had clouded her
thoughts and certainly her mood. The man, who if left to his own
devices would give her anything he had, asked for a decision from
her on a choice of husband. She wiped an escaping tear from her
cheek, refusing to let herself break.

Seeing the tears on Caena’s cheeks, Ròs could
stand it no longer. “Lassie, dinna tell me that you are alright
now. Come, sit next to me.” She guided the girl to a chair, then
Ròs sat beside her, holding the weeping girl’s hand. “Now tell me
what is bothering you so, child.”

“Oh, Ròs, this should be one of the happiest
days of my life. Just to know that I am to wed and—aye, to have any
say in the matter—my heart should be bursting with joy.” She
stopped to blow her nose on the little handkerchief Ròs handed her.
“Father has given me a choice of husband. I should have been able
to tell him, without any thought or consideration, that I chose the
man I love above all—save father himself—but I could not.” She rose
to pace the floor again.

“Oh child, why did you not tell me afore
now?” Ròs wrapped her arms around Caena for comfort, and then she
backed away again to finish dressing her.

“I needed to think this through before I said
anything. But I just do not seem to be able to clear my head and
make a decision,” Caena said quietly.

“Ròs, I am very fortunate that he gave me any
choice in the matter at all. He knows that I love one who is, in
father’s eyes, not the best choice considering all that
must
be considered. And God knows none of my peers would have any say
whatsoever in such a matter.” She turned and looked at Ròs. “He
would not force me to go against my heart, Ròs. But to be loved
enough to be given the choice…” she sighed, “I must live up to such
a responsibility.”

“Aye, lass, we knew this day would come, and
your sixteenth celebration of birth is just days away.”

Caena knew that the law demanded estates only
be inherited by men. Therefore, what was the Laird’s—his fortune,
the title, the lands, and the castle—must go to a male heir. She
knew that it weighed heavily on his mind and heart that he had no
son. She was his only child.

For years others had pushed him to select a
new wife. However, his deep and abiding love for his dear Morgana
had prevented any lasting relationships with other women. Friends
had thrust every available young woman into his path, but he would
not be tempted to take another wife. Thus he had no male heir in
his future. This decision may well have saved him from the plotting
of other family members over the years. All they had to do was just
wait him out and reap the rewards of patience when the Laird
finally died.

“How was the choice given to you?” Ròs asked.
She’d heard rumblings throughout the castle but would not take them
seriously. She was not, after all, a gossip like so many of the
other simpering women in the family’s service. She had waited to
hear it from Caena herself.

Caena turned to look out her window again,
hoping the view of the Loch would bring her some peace. “You well
know that I will have to choose between the sons of my uncle.”

“Aye, it is as I feared.” Caena’s
uncle—Finnean’s brother, Mordag (MOR dak)—had two sons. “Yes, those
would be the only two choices…that is, if you wish to claim your
father’s estate,” Ròs responded.

Caena scowled with disgust as she thought of
the eldest of the two—the dark, brooding, ambitious, and hateful
young Macrath (mahc RA). He made Caena’s skin crawl with discomfort
especially when he cast his dark, sullen leer in her direction. His
black, hard eyes gave a piercing stare. What should have been a
strikingly handsome face instead held a malevolence that spoiled
its beauty. It made her shiver when he settled that stare on
her—and he did so often—as if for no other reason than to unnerve
her. She sometimes thought he loathed her as much as she did him
but, for some reason, he was willing—indeed had asked Finnean’s
permission—to take her to wife. Once again she felt herself
shudder.

The youngest son—the fair-haired and
gentle-featured, sweet-tempered dreamer and poet, Sòlas (SOH
lus)—was her love. He had been her love since he first kissed her
cheek. She would not forget that kiss to the end of her days. It
had been so sweet, so tender. She heard herself sigh.

He had kissed her as they sat in the shade of
the huge, old gnarled tree that they considered theirs. The aged
tree had tenaciously dug its roots deep into the rocky soil at the
rear of the forest opening, high on the cliff above the loch.
Smiling, she remembered the moment. She had been all of six—but
then so had Sòlas.

The reality was that Caena loathed Macrath
with a passion as deep and lasting as her love for Sòlas. Macrath
had a heart as black as the hair that, held back by a leather
strip, fell down his back to his waist. Macrath would never miss an
opportunity to cause harm, shame, or sadness to any person in his
path. She had even witnessed his cruel treatment of his own
mother.

Her Sòlas’s love was as strong and sweet as
the man himself. He was kind, generous and loving. Another sigh
escaped her lips.

“Yes. Yes, that has always been the path
ahead since your mother died,” Ròs said quietly.

Of course, if anything happened to Finnean,
the estate would be entailed to his brother, Mordag first. Then in
turn, the estate would go to Mordag’s sons—his heirs—in their birth
order. Unless Sòlas outlived them all, he would never inherit. The
only way that all her father had built would remain with his own
bloodline would be for her to marry Macrath. It was a fact that
burned inside her and, she knew, inside her father.

“Oh, Ròs, I know how fortunate I am. I owe my
father a great deal. The women of Scotland have no rights, and so
many of us receive no education whatsoever. Men want to impose
their
opinions on us instead of permitting us to learn and
establish our own!” She scowled and her hands made fists at her
sides. “Our men selfishly keep women from learning to read or
write. Unless they have been fortunate enough to spend time in
France or elsewhere where women are encouraged to learn, the only
education they receive is from the oral stories passed on by others
from generation to generation.”

“Aye,” Ròs looked down at the floor. “Had it
not been for you, lass, I would not be able to read or write what
little I can. You have been very kind to me.”