Eanruing MacGregon heard a whispering noise at the side of his bed and with effort, he moved his head to see who was there. His poor heart thumped hard in his chest as he took in the angelic creature.
Venora.
But then the lass turned, and he saw that he was wrong; it wasn’t Venora after all but her daughter. The lass was as charming and fair as her mother. She had the same pale, smooth complexion and flaxen hair.
He breathed in slowly, the images of his youth flashing through his mind. He was a braw lad at the time, and he had the lassies hovering around him like bees to a flowering plant. In truth, he had the pick of any lass from the neighboring clans, but he cared for none of them. That was until he met Venora Lochclay. She was a noblewoman, the niece of the laird of Balhain. And she had the rare ability to relate to common and noble folks.
He first saw her at a village fair, and he was immediately drawn to her beauty. Later he learned that she visited the town often with her father to peddle their herbal potions at the market square, and to treat the sick. Eanruing became acquainted with her father, Robart Lochclay, and learned that he was a man who practiced medicinal arts. A way to win the lass was to go through her father, so he befriended Robart while he plied his charms on Venora.
When his wee brother became sick, he felt fortunate in his friendship with Robart, and sought his help. Lochclay came immediately. And after examining Jonat, he began to mix a variety of powders and dried substances into a cup of ale, substances that Eanruing had never seen or smelled before. It was foul stuff. Not surprisingly, the bairn fought and screamed as if a wild boar attacked him. It was surprising how strong the lad was, considering he only had five summers behind him.
“Hold him down,” Robart commanded.
“Nay!” Jonat wailed. “I dinnae want it!”
Eanruing looked over at his mother. Her face was devoid of color, but when she caught his eye, she nodded her head in consent.
He moved to secure the lad while Robart poured the liquid down his gullet.
It should have ended happily, but the lad began coughing uncontrollably.
Sweat formed over his own forehead, and he heard the heavy thud of his heart. “Is this normal?” he asked.
Robart blinked at him, a panicked look in his eyes. He raised his arm to wipe his forehead. “Nay, ‘tis an unusual reaction.”
The coughing went for long minutes, and his brother turned purple. Robart tried to give the lad more of the medicinal drink, but Jonat ended up spewing it into the air. Each cough wracked his poor frame until finally, his thrashing body stilled and his coughing ceased.
Eanruing relaxed his grip on his brother. At first he was glad that Jonat had fallen asleep, but then he sensed that something was wrong. He bent down to inspect Jonat.
“He isnae breathing,” he said.
His mother gasped. She ran to Jonat’s side, grabbing the lad and shaking him by the shoulders. “Jonat, wake up!” she yelled.
Eanruing studied the other man, his blood starting to boil. “What did ye give the lad?”
“’Tis a common formula for — for pneumonia,” he said, backing away.
“Ye murderer,” Eanruing shouted. “Ye killed the wee bairn!”
“Nay,” he shook his head adamantly. “He reacted badly tae the drink —”
But everything around Eanruing grew red, and he couldn’t see or hear anything else. A rage so dark filled his entire being. He already lost his father, and Jonat was too young to die.
The fury inside him grew to a fever pitch, and he drew his blade from his belt. But as he stalked toward the other man, his foot stubbed on a crack on the floor, and he pitched forward, falling hard onto the healer.
A screamed sounded.
When Eanruing recovered, he saw a blotch of red on his tunic, and his hands were covered with blood.
Lochclay stared at him, horror and shock frozen on his countenance. At the same time, his hands clutched at the dirk that jutted out from his chest. A gurgling emerged from his lips and he collapsed onto the ground.
His mother screamed and screamed, the sound reverberating throughout the small bed chamber.
Eanruing staggered back, staring at the corpse sprawled on the floor. The back of his leg bumped into a wooden chair and he sat down heavily on it.
“What did ye do, lad?” his mother cried, her palms framing her tear stained countenance. Fear, worry and panic were betrayed in her eyes.
The words wouldn’t come out, and all he could do was shake his head. He had only wanted to scare Lochclay, not kill him.
He buried his face in his blood stained hands, trying to block out the image of the dead man in his home. But Robart’s shrill scream continued to ring in his ears, and the unmistakable metallic odor of blood permeated the bed chamber.
Eanruing didn’t know how long he sat in the chair, but it was his mother who roused him from his shocked stupor.
“Ye will need tae tell them about what happened,” she said, her voice devoid of emotion. “Ye need tae tell Laird Balhain that ye didnae mean tae kill his brother, that ‘twas an accident.”
And he did tell them, only Edwin Lochclay went into a rampage, declaring war on the MacGregons.
The MacGregons fought hard and valiantly, killing as many men as they lost. But the loss took its toll on his people, and the widows cried for him to stop the fighting.
The Laird of Balhain refused to listen to reason, so Eanruing came up with an idea to end the skirmish once and for all. It was a desperate attempt, but it was worth a try. He sought Venora out at the town market, hoping to win her to his side. With her help, he believed that she could convince her uncle that it was all a misunderstanding, that Robart’s death was accidental. Except the lass refused to speak with Eanruing.
On a third attempt to talk with her, he discovered that she had vanished. All hope of ending the war was gone. After her disappearance, the warfare between the two clans intensified, becoming more bloody and brutal with each passing day. Even at present, the hatred between the clans simmered as hotly as if the tragedy occurred yesterday.
Eanruing let out a sigh, not wanting to think about the terrible past.
He felt someone at his side. Focusing his eyes, he found Darra peering down at him. Her hand was close to his and he reached for it, thankful for a respite from his dark recollections. She gasped and jerked out of his grasp.
His hand hung in mid-air, and for a brief moment, he had a chance to really observe the ugly limb. The skin was pulled taut over the knuckles, and it appeared foreign, as if it belonged to someone else. More than anything, it appeared like a claw rather than a hand, and it trembled slightly. But Eanruing recognized it as his own because holding it up used so much of his strength.
He dropped his hand onto the bed. Never had he felt so weak, so drained. Perhaps it was because he understood that death was near. For many months, he had been sick, but it was only recently that the illness took a foothold. Tears blurred his vision, and guilt ate away at his soul. He was a man damned to hell. The one way to redeem himself was to apologize to Venora, and possibly procure her forgiveness.
But Venora wasn’t here to forgive him. He was saddened to know that he would go to his grave without making amends to the woman who he wronged.
Apparently in his feverish haze, he had called out her name. And when Rory heard it, he set out to bring the lass back to the highlands. It was not surprising that she had refused to come here. She likely hated him. And for good reason. But he was a different man then — cocky, ruthless, fearless and foolish. He cared little about anyone but himself. And as the newly appointed Chief of Clan MacGregon, he believed that he was invincible.
Darra walked slowly to him, concern in her clear blue depths. She carried her basket of remedies and set it down on the mattress. Her presence at his bedside brought back painful, harsh memories that slammed into his gut, and took his breath away. His throat constricted as he tried to shut out the guilt and sorrow. A sudden thought occurred to him. Perhaps by confessing to Venora’s daughter, he could be absolved of these awful feelings that gnawed at his gut. If he was going to disclose his secret, he needed to do it now — before death snatched him away.
“I want tae apologize,” he said, his voice sounding rusty and disused.
Darra placed a cool hand to his forehead.
“There is no need to apologize, Eanruing,” she said, her voice slow and soothing, a voice that was too similar to her mother’s. “You are burning up again.”
She reached over to the dressing table and brought the wine over for him to drink.
He pushed it away except she placed her hand firmly on his, holding it down. “Nay, you need to drink this.”
Eanruing shook his head impatiently, but in the end she managed to get him to drink the entire contents of the cup. She set the vessel aside.
“You should get some rest.”
“I cannae rest now,” he said.
“Why?” she came closer to the bed and caught the edge of his blanket. “Would you like me to take off one of these furs?”
“Nay, ye dinnae understand. I’m tae blame for all that your mother has lost,” he said. All that ye have lost.
She paused in drawing back the bed cover. “The only thing that my mother has lost is my father.”
The revelation made his heart skip a beat. Venora was a widow now, he realized.
“Nay,” he said, his fingers curling over the blanket. “She had lost someone else — her father.”
“Aye, he died before I was born,” she said, her eyebrows were drawn together in puzzlement. “You need to rest. I fear that the fever is making you delirious.”
He smiled grimly. She didn’t understand. Likely Venora neglected to tell her child about the role that he played in destroying her family.
“I’m sorry…” he said, his voice starting to slur. He felt the medicine taking its effect, causing a leaden weight to fall over his eyes. He hoped to clear his conscience before he passed on, except all his efforts were thwarted and the words stuck on the tip of his heavy tongue…