Keeper of my Heart (36 page)

“Laird,” the warrior Dunslaf said, stepping forward with Charles. The room stilled to an eerie hush while the two men faced their laird. “We think you need to see this.”

Dunslaf took another step forward, then held out his hand. Iain reached for the object in Dunslaf’s palm and looked at it. “Where did you find this?”

“We found it at the place where you and the others were attacked. It was lying in the grass.”

Iain clenched Roderick’s brooch in his palm.

“It is your brooch, Roderick. The one you lost. They found it at the place where you killed four other loyal MacAlisters and left me for dead.”

The room exploded into a cacophony of tumultuous shouts demanding justice.

“Nay!” Roderick bellowed. “The witch put it there,” he said pointing to Màiri.

Iain shook his head. “It is too late to deny it, Roderick. Màiri knows your lies. You tried to kill me, just as you killed your wife, Adele.”

Roderick laughed, the sound a demented cackle. “See,” he said, turning to face the elders. “See how evil she is? She has put a curse on our laird. If we do na rid ourselves of this witch, she will destroy us all!”

Iain looked at Roderick. “Why, Roderick? What did I do to make you hate me so?”

“Surely you do na believe her? You would take the word of a witch over that of your brother?”

“I would take the word of my wife. She would na lie to me.”

Roderick backed away. “Damn you, Iain! You are as cursed as she. I have lived with your perfection my whole life and am sick to death of it. They all think you can do na wrong,” he said, swinging his arm out to the crowd of MacAlisters staring in shocked disbelief. “They do na see your weakness. Your obsession with peace makes you cower before aggression. You have taught them to cherish peace so long they do na know how to fight.”

Iain held his shoulders rigid with one arm braced against the edge of the table. “You are the one who poisoned me, all because you wanted to become laird.”

“Nay! It is her.” He pointed at Màiri. “She is the one who is poisoning you.”

Yseult stepped forward. “Then prove it, Roderick. Here,” she said, holding out a goblet. “It is the ale you left on your laird’s dressing table. If you are na the one poisoning your laird, drink it.”

Roderick glared at Yseult, his eyes filled with malicious hatred. “There is nothing wrong with this ale,” he said, clasping the goblet in his hand. “I am not afraid to drink it.”

In a show of great confidence, Roderick lifted the goblet and put it to his lips. He halted just before he took the first swallow. “Damn you, witch!” He swung out his arm and threw the goblet across the room. With a movement so swift Iain barely had time to move away, Roderick pulled his broadsword from his sheath and swung it through the air. Iain pushed Màiri behind him, then reached for his sword to deflect Roderick’s next attack.

Donald and Lochlan and the other loyal MacAlisters cordoned off any movement from the dozen or so warriors loyal to Roderick. Màiri stepped away from Iain to give him room to protect himself just as the first clash of steel rent through the air.

“Damn you, Iain. And damn that witch you married. If you would have drunk that ale instead of Ferquhar, it would all be over now and I would be laird.”

Iain deflected another blow, stumbling backward and rubbing his fist across his eyes. “Why, Roderick? Do you crave power so much that human life holds so little value? How can you sleep at night knowing the innocent lives you took, the four MacAlisters we played with as lads, Ferquhar, Devon’s babe… Adele?”

Roderick slashed the steel through the air again, almost knocking Iain to the floor. “Adele! Ha! She deserved to die. Did you know she was in love with you?”

Iain did not answer, but shook his head. “She was young, Roderick. She did na know what she wanted.”

Roderick laughed, his laughter harsh with a demented sound Màiri knew she would never forget.

“Adele knew exactly what she wanted,
laird.
She wanted you. And she made sure she told me at every turn how much she desired you instead of me.”

“So you killed her?”

Roderick smiled. “It was only fitting. She’d stolen a potion from the witch and killed the babe growing inside her because it was not yours. It was mine.”

A loud gasp echoed in the room. Roderick ignored it and stepped closer to Iain. “She said she would na risk her life birthing any babe that was na yours.”

With his broadsword pointed upward in front of him, Roderick stepped nearer until he was but a foot away from Iain. “Are you content with the witch you married, laird?” He inched closer. “Are you eager to plant your seed inside her belly and have the next MacAlister heir be the son of a witch?”

A leaden fist twisted in Màiri’s chest, weighing heavily against her heart.

“Or would you rather I spare you from such devastation? I can, you know.”

With that, Roderick raised a dagger he had hidden at his side and brought it down, aiming to plunge the blade between Iain’s shoulder blades. Iain twisted, but Màiri knew the two were too close for Iain to step beyond Roderick’s reach.

She threw herself forward, grabbing Roderick’s arm as the dagger swung downward. The blade twisted in his hand, missing Iain’s back by mere inches, but slicing the flesh of her forearm. A slow burning pain inched up her arm, the steady stream of dark red soaking through the sleeve of her gown.

“Màiri!” Iain bellowed, grabbing her from behind and pulling her close to him. “Nay!” 

Iain raised his broadsword, his eyes focusing on Roderick, but he could not swing the sword forward to kill him. Màiri knew he would not be able to kill his own brother.

Before Roderick could raise his dagger again, Donald and Lochlan rushed forward, stepping in front of Roderick to protect Iain and Màiri.

“Laird! Laird!” Rauri hollered from the entryway. “The Cochrans are almost at the castle wall. They have come armed!”

“We must fight!” Roderick ordered. “All of you, follow me,” he said, rushing across the hall with only his few followers running behind him.

“Nay, Roderick!” Iain yelled. “We will na fight the Cochrans.”

Roderick turned at the top of the stairs. “Do na listen to him,” he said, raising his broadsword. “We must fight!”

None of the MacAlisters joined him. Only his band of followers moved. But Iain was surprised at how many dissenters Roderick had gathered.

Roderick glared at them. “Cowards! All of you. Cowards.” With a loud cry of battle, Roderick and his army raced from the keep, their swords drawn.

“Should we stop them, laird?” Donald asked.

Iain ignored Donald’s question and wrapped a strip of cloth around Màiri’s arm then cupped his hand behind her head and held her cheek gently against his chest. “Are you all right, my Màiri?” he whispered in her ear.

“Do you want us to go after them, Iain?” Donald asked again.

When Iain didn’t answer the second time, Donald backed away, the look on his face telling that it was too late to save Roderick.

“I am fine, Iain,” she whispered against him. “The cut is na worse than the one before. It is good you have had practice with a needle.”

“Roderick and his men have ridden across the drawbridge and charged against the Cochrans, laird,” Rauri yelled from the top of the stairs.

Màiri heard the desperation in Rauri’s voice and she held onto Iain with all the strength she could give him. Every muscle in his body trembled and she feared he might crumble against her.

“God help him,” Iain whispered, lowering his head until his forehead touched hers.

“There was nothing you could do. Roderick’s hatred was buried too deeply.”

Màiri stood with Iain cradled in her arms, the MacAlisters standing around them in stunned silence. The minutes stretched into a never-ending abyss of unreality. Finally, the sound of footsteps coming near brought them out of the world of silence they’d entered together.

“Roderick is dead, milord,” Rauri announced solemnly. “Along with the men that rode with him.”

“And the Cochrans?”

“They have gone home.”

Iain shuddered beside her and his arms wrapped around her tighter. The mighty strength he’d always had in such great abundance before flowed out of him as he leaned heavier against her. And then he stood tall. That one short moment was all the time he allowed himself to grieve. With a great rush, he filled his body with a deep breath of air and held his head high. He looked every inch the laird he was meant to be.

“Take some men and bury Roderick and his followers outside the castle walls, Rauri. Make it a place where their graves will na be disturbed.” Iain turned to Donald. “Go to the Cochrans with enough men for a show of strength. Explain what happened and tell them the MacAlister laird will come within a fortnight to rebuild the peace between our people that was almost destroyed.”

Iain turned to face the crowd still gathered in the great hall and staggered. He grasped the edge of the trestle table and held on to support himself.

Màiri noticed his pale complexion and the pain he couldn’t hide from his eyes and stepped closer to him. She wrapped her arm around his waist and let him lean against her. She wanted nothing more than to be the helpmeet he’d come to rely upon; the other part of himself he could not live without; the other half of his heart that made a whole. She wanted nothing more than to love and be loved by him. She held him closer and pressed her cheek against his chest.

“Here, milord,” Yseult said, holding out a goblet. “Drink it.”

Iain looked first at the woman he’d accused of being a witch then to the potion she held in her hand. Màiri could read the hesitation in his eyes.

“The poison already inside you will kill you in time. If you truly love her,” Yseult said, looking at Màiri, “you must drink it.”

Iain reached for the cup and drank it until it was gone, then pulled Màiri closer to him. “I do na want to die yet, my Màiri. I love you far too much to leave you. Tell me that you still love me. I need to hear the words.”

“I love you, Iain. More now than before. Less this moment than the next.”

Màiri heard him breathe a deep breath.

He leaned down and pressed his lips to her forehead. “I can survive anything as long as I know I will always have your love,” he whispered.

“It is yours to keep.”

“Even if I am not laird.”

“Even if you are not laird.”

Iain nodded, then turned to face the crowd still watching them in silence. “There will be a count taken,” he announced boldly. “Every man and woman will have their say. Know that if you accept me as your laird, you accept your mistress as well. Just as you will accept the gift she has brought with her. The choice is yours to make.”

There was a great gasp that echoed through the room. “Nay, laird,” a voice hollered from the back. “We do na want another laird.”

“The count will be taken,” Iain issued, placing his arm around Màiri’s shoulder and walking with her up to their chambers. Màiri knew if only one vote was against him, he would step down. She smiled. She did not need Iain to be laird. She only needed Iain to love her.

She had given him her heart, and whether he was a warrior or her laird, it made no difference. She knew her heart would always be safe as long as it was in his keeping.

Màiri took the familiar path across the bailey toward the practice area. She knew this was where she would find Iain with their sons.

“Have you come to see the laird, mistress?” Donald asked, placing the dull metal object he held in his hand close behind his back. “He is at the far side by the wall.”

“Thank you, Donald. I would walk with you, if you do na mind.”

“Nay, mistress,” he answered, shifting the sword he was trying to hide to his other hand. “I would be pleased for the company.”

Màiri pretended not to notice what Donald had in his hand as they walked toward the practice area. “Has your laird been training with the boys all this time?”

“Aye, milady. Alexander is as good as the laird was when he was the boy’s age. When I left, he had Rauri nearly pinned to the wall.”

Màiri smiled as she thought how much her oldest son took after his father. Even though he was only eight, he was already tall for his age and promised to have the same broad expanse across his shoulders as Iain. “I do hope the sword you are hiding behind your back is not for Alex. I have warned Iain repeatedly that he is too young for something so dangerous. Ones fashioned from wood are good enough for now.”

“Oh…uh…nay, mistress,” Donald stuttered uncomfortably. “The sword is not for Alex.”

“Good,” Màiri sighed, nodding her head because of the truth her gift told her Donald spoke. At least in this her wishes had been granted.

She kept her pace even, then stopped to let Donald walk ahead of her when she saw Iain. In one arm Iain wielded a small wooden sword, battling their second to the youngest son, Malcolm, just barely four. In Iain’s other arm, he held little Duncan, just two this summer. The giggles coming from her youngest as he clenched his stubby little arms around his father’s neck to hold on tight was a sight that warmed her to her soul.