Wee William's Woman, Book Three of the Clan MacDougall Series (61 page)

Nora had to suppress the urge to laugh aloud as he continued to talk about their babe.

Aye, he may be a little dumb and more than just slightly tetched. But he’s mine and he loves me and I’m his woman.

Epilogue

Eight Months Later

U
ntil the moment he saw his babe for the very first time, Wee William of Dunshire was wholeheartedly unprepared for the love a father feels for his babe. That unconditional, amazing, and strong bond increased a thousand fold when he set his eyes upon the
second
babe, right before he fell into the chair next to his wife’s bed. God’s teeth!

Two babes. One each. And they were very tiny, just as he had once been.

Isobel and Aishlinn had helped his wife bring his two beautiful babes into the world. Unfortunately for Nora, she had not had as easy a time as Aishlinn had experienced. Nay, it took Nora two full days to birth her first babe, a son, then surprisingly not long after that, his sister.

His beautiful wife now lay in their bed, smiling as if it had been the easiest thing in the world to do. Wee William knew better. Nora had not cried out in agony, hadn’t cursed him to the devil and back again, nor had she otherwise fussed. Throughout it all, she displayed a quiet strength, not, he remarked, unlike a Highland warrior in battle. It wasn’t until the very end, when it was time to push, that she made more than just a slight moan. When he had heard that blood-curdling cry come from his wife, he felt the blood rush from his head. It was almost too much for his heart to bear.

Now Wee William held his son and daughter in his arms as he sat on the bed next to his wife. Isobel had reassured him at least a dozen times that Nora was doing very well, as were his babes. He could not get over just how wee and tiny they looked or felt in his arms.

His son began to fuss and cry while his daughter slept on as if she didn’t have a care in the world. Gently, Wee William handed the boy over to Nora. The babe quieted the moment he latched on to his mother’s breast.

“I knew that if I had a boy, he would have an appetite like his father’s,” Nora smiled down at her son and caressed his cheek.

Life was a wonder at times. One day you believe you have nothing to call your own, and before you know it, you have a family.
Family
, Wee William mused, was the most important thing a man could have. It was more precious than gold or silver. Nay, a man couldn’t put a price on the value of a family.

So much had taken place in the past year. Most of it was for the better. The rest of it was heartbreakingly sad.

 
The seven clans had come together in a formidable union, even though Gillon Randolph had done his level best to see that it didn’t happen. Of course, he hadn’t come up with the idea of his own accord. He’d been deceived and in the end, the deception was more than the young man could bear.

Gillon had been duped by his blood father, deceived into believing falsehoods and unimaginable lies. Part of Wee William felt sorry for Gillon Randolph. Gillon had put his belief in the man who had raped his mother and was long believed to be dead, only to come back a year ago and claim otherwise.

After learning the truth, the
real
truth, Gillon Randolph had been so over wrought with grief, anger, and betrayal that he took his own life. It was James Randolph who had found his son hanging from the rafters in his bedchamber just three short days after learning the truth about the man whose blood ran through his veins.

Apparently, Gillon could not stand knowing that Randall Bowie had lied, that Randall wasn’t the man he had portrayed himself to be. He ended his life without leaving a letter of explanation. One could only assume that it was guilt that had led him to it. Overcome with his own grief, James Randolph swore he would kill Randall Bowie as soon as he was found. To date, Randall Bowie was still out there, hiding only heaven knew where. Wee William prayed that James Randolph would soon be able to avenge his son’s death. Gillon may have hung himself, but as far as most were concerned, Randall Bowie might just as well have killed the boy by his own hands, for the blame lay with him.

 
Rowan had married the beautiful Kate Carruthers and they were now living quite happily at Castle Áit na Síochána, a little more than a week’s ride from MacDougall lands. Though for years Rowan had been quite reluctant to set a date for him and Kate to marry, once he had set eyes upon the beautiful woman, all his worries faded away rapidly.

Findley had written months ago, announcing that Maggy had given birth to a healthy, beautiful baby girl. In his letter, Findley had informed Wee William that he was in the process of building four trebuchets and having a moat installed around their home.

A soft knock on their chamber room door broke Wee William’s train of thought. He smiled down at his wife, kissed the top of her head, thanked God once again for all the blessings He had bestowed on him and bid whomever entry.

Elise bounced in, excited that she was an aunt at the ripe old age of seven. John followed behind, with his arms crossed over his chest, looking every bit the Highlander with a dagger in his belt and the MacDougall plaid draped across his chest.

Not long ago John had informed Nora and Wee William that he had decided Scotland wasn’t such a bad place after all. Witnessing the way his former villagers had treated Nora last summer had left a very bitter taste in his mouth. John vowed never to return to England. Scotland was now his home.

Wee William watched quietly as Elise carefully climbed into the bed and placed herself directly between him and Nora. John stood next to Wee William and looked quite amazed by his niece and nephew.

“What are you going to name them?” Elise asked.

Nora and Wee William glanced at each other. There were many names to choose from and they had decided to wait until they saw their babe before naming him or her. Now that they had two, the choices had doubled.

“Well,” Nora said as she looked adoringly at her husband. “I would like to name the boy William John.”

Wee William and John each looked very pleased with that choice. “I’d be verra honored,” John said. Nora giggled when she heard the faint Scottish brogue that had begun to form in John’s speech.

“And my daughter,” Wee William said as he looked down at the sweet little bundle in his arms. “She should have a name to go with her beauty. Siusan Elise I believe will work. Suisan is Gaelic for lily or beautiful, dependin’ who ye ask. And I do believe she be as delicate as a lily and just as beautiful.” He pressed a gentle kiss to his daughter’s forehead before looking to his wife.

“What say ye, wife?” Wee William asked with a broad smile.

Nora could never say no to that braw, handsome smile of his. “Aye, I think that is a very fine name, William.”

So the little family sat looking in awe at the wee, tiny babes.

And never was a man more proud of his family than than Wee William of Dunshire.

Prologue
to Rowan’s Lady

Scotland, Summer 1350

The Black Death did not discriminate.

Like fire from hell, it spread across England, Wales, Italy and France. Untethered, unstoppable.

It cared not if the lives it took were of the noble and wealthy or the lowly born and poor. It showed no preference for age or gender. It took the wicked and the innocent. It took the blasphemers and the righteous.

The Black Death took whomever it damned well pleased.

It took Rowan Graham’s wife.

Rowan would not allow his sweet wife to die alone, cold, afraid, and in agony, no matter how much she begged otherwise. He would not allow anyone else to administer the herbs, to apply the poultices, or to even wipe her brow. He was her husband and she, his entire life.

Knowing that the Black Death had finally reached Scotland, Rowan’s clan had prepared as best they could. The moment anyone began to show signs of illness, they were immediately taken to the barracks. Seclusion was their only hope at keeping the illness from spreading.

Within a week, the barracks could hold no more of the sick and dying. The quarantine was all for naught.

By the time Kate showed the first signs of the illness, the Black Death had taken more than thirty of their people. Before it over, Clan Graham’s numbers dwindled to less than seventy members.

At Kate’s insistence, their three-month-old daughter was kept in seclusion.
 
It was the last act of motherly love that she could show her child. In the hours just before her death, Kate begged for Rowan’s promise on two matters.

“Ye shall never be afraid to speak of me to our daughter. It is important that she knew how much I loved her, and how much
we
loved her together.” ’Twas an easy promise for Rowan to make, for how could he ever forget Kate?

’Twas the second promise she asked that threatened to tear him apart.

“And ye must promise ye’ll let another woman into yer heart. Do not save it long fer me, husband. Yer too good a man to keep yerself to a dead woman.”

He swore to her that yes, someday he would allow his heart to love another. Silently however, he told himself that day would be in the very distant future, mayhap thirty or forty years. For there could never be a woman who could take Kate’s place in his life or his heart.

 
“I love ye, Kate, more than me next breath,”
Rowan whispered into her ear just before her chest rose and fell for the last time.

Fires were built to burn the dead. When Rowan’s first lieutenant came to remove Kate’s body to add it to the funeral pyres, he refused to allow Frederick anywhere near her. Rowan’s face turned purple with rage, his chest heaved from the weight of anguish. He unsheathed his sword and pinned Frederick to the wall.
 

 
“If ye so much as think of laying a finger to Kate, I shall take yer life,” Rowan seethed through gritted teeth.

Later, with his vision blurred from tears he could not suppress, Rowan bathed his wife’s once beautiful body now ravaged with large black boils. He washed her long, strawberry blonde locks and combed them until they shined once again.
 
When he was done, he placed a bit of Graham plaid into the palm of her hand before wrapping her cold body in long linen strips.

Alone in the quiet hours before dawn he carried her to final resting place under the tall Wych Elm tree. He stayed next to her grave for three full days.

Frederick finally came to see him late in the afternoon of the third day.

“I ken yer grievin’, fer Kate was a fine woman.” Frederick said.

Rowan was resting against the elm tree, with his head resting on his knees. In his heart he knew Frederick was right, but that did nothing the help fill the dark void that Kate’s death left in his heart.

“Ye’ve a wee bairn that needs ye, Rowan. She needs ye now, more than Kate does.”

For a brief moment, Rowan could have sworn he heard his wife’s voice agreeing with Frederick. Deciding it best not to argue the point with either of them, Rowan took a deep breath and pulled himself to his feet.

For now, he would focus on the first promise he had made to Kate.

“Ye be right, Frederick,” Rowan said as he slapped one hand on his friend’s back while wiping away tears with the other. “I need to go tell me daughter all about her beautiful mum.”

Prologue
Laiden’s Daughter

Northern England, Late Winter 1329

The wee bairn wept as bitter winds whipped down from the hills thrashing whirlwinds of snow around the feet of those gathered to pay their last respects.  They were there to say goodbye to Laiden, the bairn’s mum.

The little girl clung to Moirra; her tiny face buried in the auld woman’s wool skirts. Moirra had been her mother’s best friend until the day she died. Now she was the only good thing the child had left in the world and the only person who remained who would protect her from her father.

The bairn tried to be brave, as Moirra had told her she needed to be, but it wasn’t easy for someone so young.
 
When Laiden had died, Moirra had made the sign of the cross, wiped tears from her wrinkled face, and told the bairn that her mother was in a much better place.
 
Young though she was, the bairn wondered what better place could there be than here with her daughter?

The priest spoke in strange words the little girl did not understand. The tone of his voice and the leaden sky matched the heaviness in her heart. He didn’t seem to be reading from the book he held in his claw-like hands; he seemed instead to have memorized the words. There was no sadness or feeling to his scratchy voice. The bairn did not care for the skinny man with the dull brown eyes and wished he would go away.