Read When the Laird Returns Online
Authors: Karen Ranney
The chaos was overwhelming. The shouts of men, the clash of pikes, the occasional sound of a pistol being fired, rang in Iseabal’s ears.
How a man could tell a friend from foe, she didn’t know. But it seemed that killing was not the aim as much as was survival. A man fought back when he was struck, and fought
again to prevent yet another blow. From the look of the combatants in the courtyard, she was as well armed as the others.
Searching the crowd, she couldn’t see Alisdair, but she spotted Fergus easily enough. He was plowing through the men, brandishing a cane as a weapon and using it expertly from the bodies in his path.
Suddenly she saw him. Alisdair was encircled by men, each of them intent upon striking him. She watched, panicked, as he turned, his reaction slowed by surprise when he saw her.
Someone struck him on the shoulder and he went down to his knees, one hand flailing against his attacker. She saw his mouth open, knew he called her name. Too many men moved between them, separating him from her sight.
She wanted to rail and fight and weep and scream, scratch each face with her fingernails and dig in the ground with her hands in order to reach him. Dropping her store of rocks, she jerked a staff from a man lying still on the ground, and began to make her way to her husband’s side.
Swinging blindly, she made a path through the men. At one point, a man stepped in front of her, determined to stop her. He gripped her pike and wrenched it from her grasp, only to fall to his knees a second later. She and Brian stared at each other over the other man’s body. He’d struck the man over the head with the butt of his pistol and now stood watching her as if she were a ghost.
Retrieving her weapon, Iseabal stood facing the young man who’d once been her friend.
She would have spoken had the noise not been so great. Her lips tightened as she widened her stance, gripping the pike in front of her at an angle. Whether the obstacle was Brian or an enemy, it didn’t matter; she was going to be at Alisdair’s side.
For a moment she thought he was going to block her way, but he only stood aside. The moment, slowed and silent, lasted just that, until Brian was caught up in the melee and she was free to reach Alisdair.
Whatever happened today, she was not going to lose him again.
He should have known she wouldn’t stay safe, Alisdair thought, standing. She’d never done anything he’d expected. Another blow struck him, and he fought back, using his dirk, his feet, his balled-up fist.
The fight reminded Alisdair of another war, one his father had described out of hearing of his mother. Culloden had been fought by Scots armed the same, with clubs and hoes, and with pikes created from the upper branches of saplings.
They had cried aloud in the same rage, yet their enemy this time was not the English, but a man so greedy that he saw the cost of a single sheep, and not the damage done to innocent people.
Drummond’s men didn’t seem as enraged as the villagers of Lonvight and the crewmen surrounding him. Although they fought well, they did so more defensively than aggressively.
Alisdair spun around, fighting off another attack, a wound on his cheek bleeding, his arm aching from where he’d been struck by a pike. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Iseabal now armed with a wooden spar. But before he could consider her inopportune bouts of courage, a shadow fell over him, and he heard Iseabal’s shouts of warning.
Looking up, Alisdair realized that one of Drummond’s mounted men was nearly on top of him. He saw the man’s
face, thinking instantly that he had been here before, had viewed that sharp-toothed, feral grin. The day had been the same, with a warm breeze in the air and the sun in the exact position in the sky.
But here there was no smoke.
Yet the pistol in the other man’s hand was steady, just as before, and the look in his eyes was the same, as if the granting of death were a pleasure.
Alisdair rushed his horse, surprising him. Drummond’s man held onto his pistol with a tenacious grip as Alisdair pulled him from the saddle, but he lost his hold on it when Alisdair smashed a fist into his face.
“That’s for the villagers,” he spat out, feeling the man’s nose soften beneath his fists. “And that’s for me,” he added, hearing the crack of a jaw.
“Give
us
a chance,” someone called out. Alisdair turned, recognizing him as one of the men he’d seen in the village. Now he was holding a club the size of a small tree trunk and grinning at him.
Alisdair tossed Drummond’s flunky in his direction, thinking that when the villagers were finished, he’d send the man off with the
Molly Brown
. The British navy could use a person of his dubious worth.
“Fergus.”
He turned at the sound of his name, as if able to hear her voice over the cacophony of battle. In the midst of the fighting, the two them stared at each other, the seconds lengthening until it seemed an eternity.
Her mother would have stood there forever, Iseabal thought, had not Fergus moved, limping through the fighting
men, easily pushing those aside who would have separated him from Leah.
Iseabal felt like an interloper in this poignant scene, but she was not alone, she abruptly realized. Her father sat so still on his horse that he might have been carved from stone. His eyes were slits, his face twisted by rage. With a roar, he suddenly spurred his horse on, lifting his pistol and aiming not at Fergus, Iseabal realized with horror, but at her mother.
All of it happened so swiftly that Iseabal was hard pressed to recite the details later.
Fergus moved quickly, pushing Leah behind him, squaring his shoulders, and bracing his legs. Before her father could shoot, Fergus, brandishing his crutch like a weapon, knocked the gun from Drummond’s hand, sending him flying from the saddle.
“What kind of man tries to kill a woman?” Fergus shouted, standing over him. “Are you that much of a coward?”
Drummond kicked at Fergus’s good leg, the larger man toppling to the ground like a felled oak. Scrambling on his hands and knees for his pistol, Magnus reached it, turning and once again aiming for Leah.
A shot rang out, as loud as a clap of thunder. Her father arched back, a blossom of red appearing on the front of his shirt. His face seemed to change, to relax in the instant before he crumpled to the ground.
Her mother collapsed as well, falling to her knees beside Fergus.
Iseabal glanced toward Alisdair. He stood there, his pistol leveled in her father’s direction. On his face was a look of steely determination, his eyes fixed and wintry. But James
stood beside him, holding a similar weapon, smoke still wafting from the barrel.
“He didn’t pay me enough to die with him,” a man unexpectedly said, throwing his pike to the ground.
“We’ll never see the rest of our money,” another man said, doing the same. He began walking toward the land bridge. A mumbling assent followed him as one man after another dropped his weapon and began to leave Gilmuir.
James walked to where Iseabal’s father lay, kneeling at his side. Stretching out a hand, he held it against Drummond’s throat as if hoping the other man still lived.
“Merciful God,” James said dully. “I meant to strike his shoulder, not kill him.” He bent his head and closed his eyes, visibly shaken.
“We’ll work on the God part, but I, for one, thank you,” Fergus said, rising to one knee with the aid of his crutch and Leah. “He would have killed Leah if not for you.”
Alisdair strode to Iseabal’s side. She stood motionless, her gaze blank and fixed on the body of her father. For an instant she’d felt a killing rage, the same emotion mirrored on his face an instant before he died.
“God forgive me,” she whispered.
Alisdair enfolded her in his arms, and when she remained straight and unbendable, he remedied that by picking her up and carrying her some distance away. “What sin have you committed, Iseabal?” he asked tenderly, rubbing her arms.
“Too many,” she confessed. “I wanted to hate him with all my heart, but instead, I find myself too much like him.”
He said nothing, simply wrapped his arms around her again. “How are you like him?”
She leaned into his chest, pressing against him to feel his warmth. “I would have killed to protect you.”
“And I you,” he said, holding her close. “Are we both to be condemned, then?”
She didn’t know. The question was beyond her at this moment.
“I’m sorry,” he said gently. “For his death.”
Iseabal nodded.
He was her father, and for that alone, he would be mourned. Not for who he was, perhaps, but who he might have been. And when she buried him, Iseabal thought, she also would put to rest any hope. Only the living can change.
Together they stood, man and wife, in a joint embrace. One not simply of lovers, she realized, nor only of friends. Companions, perhaps, but that word did not quite suit, either. They were partners, and thinking that, she smiled and closed her eyes, feeling him place a kiss on the crown of her windblown hair.
“Is that why you never came home to me, you daft idiot?” Leah shouted, pointing to his missing limb.
Fergus frowned at her. “I never came home to you, Leah, so that you might have a whole life with a whole man.”
“With him?” she asked in disgust, glancing at the corpse of her husband. “He beat me, Fergus.”
“I’d no way of knowing that, Leah, and sorry I am for it. By the time I realized how bullish I’d been,” Fergus said, cautiously walking toward her, “it was too late. You had already married. It would’ve been worse to see you and know that you loved another.”
“It would have made me miserable,” she conceded, “to be married to one man and love another.”
Despite her words, however, she took one step away from him, her hands clenched into fists and resting on her hips.
“And now, Fergus? What will you do now?”
“I’ve nothing to offer you, Leah,” he said gently. “Unless”—he glanced behind him at Gilmuir—“you count one ancient fortress and a man as badly beaten.”
“Leave Gilmuir to Alisdair,” she said firmly. “I’ve Fernleigh as my dowry. And you shall be lord there.”
She began to smile, stretching out her hand to him. Since he had no wish to tumble to the ground again, Fergus kept one hand wrapped around his crutch, the other gripping hers.
“I’ll be a rich widow, Fergus MacRae, and I intend to spend every coin Drummond ever hoarded.”
“You’re testing my pride, Leah,” he told her softly. “I’m to let you support me?”
Once more she glanced at Drummond. “I’ll take him home, Fergus, and give him a proper mourning. Not because he deserves it, but because I’m a good wife. I’ll be expecting you after that time.”
They stared at each other, Fergus thinking that it wouldn’t be such a bad thing to have a wealthy wife. Besides, he’d already discovered that pride was a foolish thing when compared to love.
“I’ll be there, Leah, money or no.”
“Good,” she said, standing on tiptoe to kiss him. He bent his head, and this moment, yearned for all these decades long, seemed perfect and just right.
S
he and Alisdair walked slowly up the hill to the cairn stones, a place Iseabal had come to only once in all her visits to Gilmuir.
The battle at Gilmuir had ended as quickly as it had begun, the sailors from James’s ship coming to the brothers’ aid. But there had been little need for them by that time. Most of the men her father had hired had left, only those loyal to Drummond fighting on.
Her mother had surprised them all by standing in the middle of the courtyard and shouting, “I’ll not have any more fighting while Drummond lies cooling on the ground.” Shamefaced, his men had draped his body over his saddle and followed her mother back to Fernleigh.
There were duties to perform, and buildings to build. Bridges to be mended, Iseabal thought, recalling Brian and the other crewmen. But for now, everything else could wait.
Both of them needed this stolen moment, not for passion, but for peace.
Placing one hand on Alisdair’s arm, she felt the heat from his body, a warmth that seemed to reach out and envelop her as well. Although bloodied, he was safe. Bruised, but not broken. Only one other emotion besides gratitude could find its way into her heart. Love.
She would protect him with her life, shield his body with her own, defend him and support him. The essence of love in all its guises—wanton, maternal, supportive, passionate, and courageous.
“I need to find myself a wife,” Brendan said, staring at Alisdair and Iseabal as they crossed the glen and walked up the hill hand in hand. “Do you see how he keeps touching her?”
“And she him,” Hamish added, his attention also directed at the couple.
“They need an hour alone,” Brendan said with a grin.
“Not an hour,” Hamish corrected. “A day, maybe a week.”
James silently watched Alisdair and his wife. Never before had he been jealous of any of his brothers, accepting and understanding that each had his strengths and weaknesses.
“No,” he said, certain of his words yet feeling a disquieting pang of envy. “They need a lifetime.”
He’d never come here before, but it seemed fitting to Alisdair that he did so now, paying homage to his Scots ancestors. His grandmother’s grave appeared especially honored, a wooden cross inscribed in childish lettering marking her resting place and protected by a stone shield erected on three sides.
He knelt and, to his surprise, Iseabal moved into place beside him. He glanced at her profile, backlit by a fading sun. She was more than his wife, Alisdair suddenly realized. She was the woman he had never sought and yet always expected in his life.
He’d grown up witnessing the looks between his parents and sharing in their love. Instead of falling in love as a child as his father had, he’d felt the emotion creep up on him, coming to him in the form of a black-haired Scots lass, Iseabal of the shy smiles and hidden thoughts. Iseabal of the stubborn nature, he amended, and surprising passion.
Their marriage, instead of linking them, had created a rift. Yet their courtship had begun even so, occurring beneath the surface like an ocean current—beginning with curiosity, emboldened by interest, and finally resulting in a growing respect and admiration.
Alisdair felt as if the two of them had merged to become one person and then had split apart again, each carrying pieces of the other. She had the courage he had always possessed, and in his heart was the vulnerability that had once belonged to her.
Bowing his head, he said a prayer for Moira MacRae, the grandmother who would remain forever young in his mind. And for Patricia Landers, the woman who’d taken her place and loved a family so well. A fitting moment, he thought, to realize that there were other words he needed to say.
Reaching out, he placed his fingers over Iseabal’s hand, tracing a path across her knuckles. Her hands were dirtied, her knuckles bruised. If he examined each palm, Alisdair was certain he would find splinters embedded in her skin. Marks of courage, determination, and perhaps stubbornness, too. This woman, with her somber looks and secret
thoughts, was the only one he wanted in his life, for this day and forever.
Her gaze was on him as he stood, stretching his hand down to her. The moment reminded him of the first time he’d seen her, so solemn and wide-eyed, staring up at him as if he were the ghost of Gilmuir.
Slowly she stood until they faced each other. Iseabal stretched out her fingers to touch the edge of his jaw. Her gaze was steady, relentless in its offering of her deepest emotions. Something he should have seen long before now.
What did a man say when a woman had reduced him to wonder? Did he thank her or bless Fate itself for giving her to him?
The words were held there on his tongue, trapped by a sense of restraint. Alisdair felt as callow as a young boy, suffused with feelings aching to be said and at the same time terrified to speak.
At that instant he understood what Iseabal had felt, why she’d surrounded herself with a cocoon of silence and withdrawal. Standing before her, he felt nearly naked, baring his mind and soul wordlessly to her.
Her eyes had never looked so green, the color of the forest that enveloped them, or perhaps the shine of newly mined emeralds. Where her cheeks had been subtly colored before, now they were a fiery red, her lips the same shade and swollen, as if he’d kissed her a thousand times.
How could he tell her what he felt? Which words would be suitable? He didn’t know, the blankness of his mind almost frightening.
Gripping her shoulders, Alisdair pulled her forward until, her cheek was pressed against his shirted chest. Her shoes were aligned next his much in the way their fingers had of
ten entwined, and for a moment tenderness spiked through him.
“I wasn’t entirely honest, Iseabal,” he said, his words strung together with the delicacy of a spider’s web. “It wasn’t because of honor or responsibility that I wished to marry you again.”
Reaching down, he brushed the hair from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear as his thumb gently removed a smear of dirt from her chin.
“I fell in love with you,” he said softly, his voice little more than a whisper.
He drew back and looked into her eyes, thinking that he’d been more blessed than a saint. Ionis had lost the love of his life, while he had been granted Iseabal.
“Alisdair.” She made his name an endearment, but then, she had a way of invoking so many emotions with only a few words—tenderness and passion, wonder and gratitude.
Her smile was luminous as her hands reached up and framed his face. Words were unnecessary; all he needed to know was shining through her eyes.
Turning, they looked out at MacRae land rich with color and history. The day was ending, the last rays of sunlight lending a golden color to Loch Euliss and illuminating Gilmuir. They’d have months, if not years, of hard work ahead of them, but the result would be glens as fertile as they had once been, and inhabitants who need not worry about survival.
Alisdair had a revelation at that moment, one not of sight but of heart. His home was not Nova Scotia, or the ship he loved to sail, or even Gilmuir.
Iseabal was his home, his haven, and his harbor.