The Rogue (14 page)

She picked up Wee Angus and reluctantly followed the men into the sitting room. Once the widow Kelsea was settled, Birdi turned to Angus. “Go, both of you.”

The grandfather started sputtering, “But I dinna—”

Years of deep-seated fear coupled with her current despair, and Birdi growled, “
Do as I say
!”

Angus eyed her warily for only a moment, then took the auld man by the arm. “‘Tis women’s work they’re about. We men best take our leave.”

When she heard the door close, Birdi took a deep, settling breath and tried to steel herself.

Slowly she spread the woman’s thighs, stepped between them, and laid her precious Wee Angus in the woman’s flaccid hands. The bairn, trapped as he was between them, would be safe as she did what needed to be done.

Feet firmly planted on Mother, she looked into Kelsea’s eyes. Terror stared back at her. “‘Tis nay reason to fear,” she whispered, “only reason to hope.”

Accepting the babe would belong to another, that she now had nay reason to hope for or protect herself, Birdi placed one shaking hand behind the woman’s neck and the other on her forehead. Voice cracking, aware her heart was already fracturing, she whispered, “Goddess, Mother of All, I beg to take upon myself this woman’s pain and grief, to ease her heart...to mend her spirit. Please...though ye must see me as unfit”—she choked on a sob—”please help her.”

She then closed her eyes and waited for what would come.

The babe would no longer be hers to cherish, and Angus the Canteran would soon leave as well. Minnie’s voice rang in her ears.
Luckless birdalane, yer fated to be alone.

A
s the auld man calmly cleaned his nails with a gleaming sgian dubh, Angus, his gaze locked on the Fraser’s door, paced—six strides right, six strides left. “How long can it possibly take to put a wee laddie to breast?”

Birdi had been inside for well onto an hour now, and something inside Angus’s head had been chafing in warning every minute of it. He never ignored such warning in battle and was hard pressed to keep ignoring it now.

Malcolm Fraiser shrugged. “Kelsea’s breasts were bound after our Brion passed. Mayhap it takes time to get milk flowing again?”

“Aye.” But his gut said ‘twas more than that.

The door latch finally clicked and he heaved a sigh of relief. “Thank God.”

When the door opened, he was startled to see not Birdi but the Fraser woman, her cheeks now touched with a bit of pink and in her arms—sucking contentedly at her breast—Wee Angus.

Alarmed, he said, “Where’s Birdi?”

“Come.” Kelsea stepped aside so they could enter.

Angus came to an abrupt halt just inside the door.

Birdi—so pale he could see the vessels carrying her life’s blood pulsing from across the room—sat on the floor before the chair the Fraiser woman had once occupied, greeting as if her heart would break. ‘Twas as if Birdi and Kelsea had crawled inside each other’s skin, or mayhap exchanged souls, which made nay sense at all. “Merciful Mother of God!”

He rushed to her, scooped her onto his lap, and cradled her to his chest. “What the hell happened to her?”

Instead of answering, the Fraiser woman squatted and took Birdi’s tear-streaked chin in her hand. As they stared at each other, he could almost feel an understanding pass between them. That, he didn’t like.

The widow Kelsea kissed Birdi’s cheek and then rose. As she adjusted the babe in her arms, she murmured, “I dinna ken, sir.”  She then sat in the chair, her attention directed toward the babe.

Unaccustomed to being thwarted, he growled and lifted Birdi’s chin with a gentle finger and stared into her tearing eyes. Seeing only desolation and grief, his skin crawled with apprehension. “Lass, what ails ye? What can I do?”

“‘Tis naught ye can do, Angus.”

She shuddered and he pulled her closer. Her answer wasn’t acceptable. Not so long as he drew breath. There had to be something he could do. Spying Malcolm Fraser he said, “Bring her some mulled wine, mead, I dinna care what, so long as it’s warm.”

Brow furrowed, Fraser answered, “Aye, right away.”

As he shuffled off Angus called after him, “And a blanket. She’s freezing.”

Wee Angus gurgled into the ensuing silence, and the Fraser woman lifted him onto her shoulder. Pounding gently on his back, she asked, “Does this precious laddie have a name?”

Before Angus could give it, Birdi’s nails dug deep into his arm with surprising strength. She took a shuddering breath—one he felt clean into his gut as he held her.

“Nay,” Birdi whispered, “ye need choose one for him.”

The corners of Kelsea’s lips lifted ever so slightly. “Aye, but I must think hard.” She put the babe to her other breast and stroked his cheek. “It must be perfect to compensate for all he’s been through.”

Birdi murmured, “Aye,” and pressed her face into Angus’s shoulder, which did naught to muffle her next sob.

He never should have asked about a wet-nurse, and sure as hell shouldn’t have brought Birdi here.
Ack! Birdi, lass, I’m so sorry. Had I known...

Fraiser came back into the room bearing steaming tankards, a blanket, and a tin of shortbread. He knelt before Angus. “I brought mead for ye as well.”

“Thank ye.”

Angus wrapped the blanket about Birdi, then held a tankard to her lips. “Lass, drink this.”

She took a sip, choked, and pushed it away. He forced more on her, until he was satisfied she’d consumed a good half pint. ‘Twould make her sleepy, and sleep, he’d decided, might prove the best medicine for whatever ailed her. She certainly hadn’t had much sleep since they’d found the babe.

Fraser cleared his throat. “Since Collin’s death, Kelsea’s been staying here with us. Why don’t ye spend the night in Kelsea’s croft? I’ll take ye, ‘tis only a short walk away, the first one just beyond the kirk. I’ll bring some sup to ye after a wee bit.” 

Kelsea murmured, “Aye, please do. There’s peat for a fire by the inglenook and ye’ll find the bed comfortable.” Her gaze shifted from Angus to Birdi, who now appeared to be asleep. “And please, have her choose a gown and whatever else she might need from the wooden chest at the foot of the bed. Anything at all may be hers.”

“‘Tis most generous of ye.”

Kelsea shook her head. “‘Tis yer wife who is generous. I shall never be able to repay her kindness.”

~#~

Fraser held the door open as Angus, with Birdi in arms, angled his way into the one-room croft. Two sturdy chairs, one with rockers, sat before an ingle-side made from smooth river-rock. A pile of aged peat lay on the hearth. A waxed pine table and two cuttie stools stood to the right, and a large pine bed to the left. Alongside the bed stood an empty, polished oak cradle.

Angus laid Birdi on the fine feather mattress, pulled the blanket about her, and turned to find Fraser lighting the fire. “I thank ye for offering yer daughter’s home to us for the night. Birdi would not have been comfortable at the inn.” He’d noticed she’d been anxious earlier when surrounded by strangers and couldn’t imagine how she’d respond in her current state.

Fraser rose and dusted off his hands. “Ack. ‘Tis our pleasure. And ye’re right; the men over yon will be arguing half the night trying to decide what to do about the Gunn and his lot. Yer ladywife would get nay rest.”

As Fraser walked to the door, Angus said, “Ye should take the cradle with ye. Wee...the wee one will need it.”

And Birdi need not see it. She’d likely greet until her generous heart was reduced to the size of a shriveled plum.

Fraser picked up the cradle. Looking from it to Birdi as she lay pale and still, his eyes grew glassy. “Take good care of her. What she did today...” His voice cracked and faltered. Using the heels of his hands he scrubbed the wetness from his eyes. “I’ll come by in a few hours with ye sup.”

After Fraser took his leave, Angus dropped the wooden bar over the door.

Standing bedside the bed, he whispered, “What happened to ye behind that door, lass?”

He’d left her fearful but hale and the Fraser woman looking about to waste away. An hour later he found the reverse, and it frightened him.

He lay down beside her and cradled her in his arms, her head resting on his chest. He brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. Rolling the curly tip between his fingers, he recalled the first time he’d set eyes on her, how he’d imagined burying his fists in her hair.

“Do ye have any idea how much I want ye, Birdalane Shame? And despite ye being a bit willful and painfully proud.” He sighed, examining the bruise in the middle of her forehead. “Ye should have told me about yer wee secret, lass...that ye canna see but a short yard ahead of ye. Aye. It might have saved ye a few bonks on yer beautiful head.”

And just as she wanted Wee Angus and couldn’t keep him, he wanted but couldn’t keep her. And the knowledge made something deep inside his chest ache with regret.

“‘Tis a sorry state we’ve got ourselves in, Birdi, my love. A truly sorry state.”

He’d asked Fraser if he kenned the Shame clan. The man said he’d never heard mention of them. Angus then asked after the location of a sacred well. Fraiser shook his head and suggested Angus those in Cairndow.

If a well wasn’t to be found there, they’d have to ride north, around the northern tip of Loch Fyne, then ride south to Inveraray, all of which would eat up precious time. Ack. Would Birdi be up to such a ride given her current state?

Birdi, mumbling incoherently, stretched. As she pressed against him, he felt the soft compression of a breast against his chest. A second later her left leg fell across his thigh and settled between his legs, her knee close to his groin. Two days ago he’d have killed to get her in the same position. Now, his heart only ached for her. Her brow then furrowed, and he stroked her back as gently as possible. What manner of goblins would dare chase such a lovely lass in her sleep?

~#~

The darkness parted.

Birdi crept closer to the clatter of wood beating on wood. The village bairns were back playing sword-fight at the edge of the golden field.

She kenned better than to show herself—her mother had warned repeatedly that she’d come to harm if she did—but the lads sounded so happy. What harm could there be in just listening to them? They were, after all, just bairns about her age.

As she ducked behind a tall weed patch one lad shouted, “My da can flatten yer da any time he chooses, Will Macarthur.”

“Nay, ye braggart, my da’s a smitty, the strongest in the realm. He can whip yer da in thrice.”

She heard a scuffle and an “Ooow” before one of the lads, keening, ran away.

“Ack, Robbie,” the other called as he followed, “I dinna mean to bloody yer nose!”

Disappointed—kenning they wouldn’t likely return this day—Birdi turned for home, her mind ablaze with a dozens questions for her mother.

She found her before their croft. “Minnie, who’s my da?”

Grinding a pestle, separating oat from husk, her mother grumbled, “Ye dinna have one.”

Birdi’s heart tripped at her lie. She’d spent enough time spying on the villager’s to ken everyone had one. She stomped a foot. “Tell me about my da.”

Minnie rounded, startling her, fists on hips. “Shame’s yer sire; my shame, his shame, and yours for asking about matters that are none of yer concern and best forgotten.”  Minnie’s face loomed large as she clamped a rough hand on Birdi’s shoulder. “Ye’re never to ask again. Do ye ken?”

Quaking, Birdi squeaked, “But—”

The resounding slap caught Birdi off guard. Cheek and eyes stinging, she keened, “Aye, Minnie, never again.”

“Now fetch me more water from the pool and be quick about it, or ye’ll not be having yer oats for sup.” She then slapped Birdi’s bottom sending her in the direction of the water bag. Birdi fell. Stars flashed; bright white wee suns in a field of black.

Then total darkness returned.

“Minnie! Where are ye, Minnie?” Birdi—her heart quaking against her ribs, her palms and back sweaty and frigid—moved cautiously within the darkening woods. The sun, having slipped behind the hills, left only unfathomable shadows before her.

Minnie had never been gone this long. Never, in her eight summers.

Feeling her way along the path that led to the road separating her world from that of the villagers’, Birdi called out again. The bushes to her right rattled and she jumped. Hands at her throat, readying to scream, she heard the frantic flapping of wings.

She blew out a breath, scrubbed at the tears clouding her vision only to have more form, and resumed her search. Minnie loathed tears, but Birdi couldn’t help it. The dark terrified her and her feet and ears were already aching with the cold. “Minnie! Where are you?”

Birdi had checked everywhere; the pool, the mushroom patch, the traps, even the edges of the fields, and still no Minnie. Where could she be?

An awful tightening seized her chest. Had Minnie left her? Had she been so angered by Birdi’s questions about her da that she’d up and left?

Birdi stumbled down the path leading to the ancient stump, the only place left to look. “Oh, Goddess, please, I’ll be a good bairn, I promise. Please, please, dinna let it be true. Please, Goddess, please help me find my minnie.”

Birdi heard a sob directly before her and froze in place. “Minnie? Minnie!”

Hands outstretched, she ran toward the dark shape lying before her on a bed of fallen leaves.

Minnie lay curled on her side on the path. Birdi dropped to her knees and pushed her mother’s graying, disheveled hair off her face. “Minnie, what’s wrong?” As her mother groaned, Birdi noticed she knelt in wetness and caught the unmistakable scent of blood, metallic and dry at the back of her throat. “Oh, Minnie...” Squinting, Birdi then saw that her mother’s hands clutched her blood-soaked kirtle at the waist.