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As the glorious brilliance of autumn raged across the land, the Bruce’s army grew by the day as word of his successes over the English. He gained control over much of the lowlands, spread farther throughout Scotland. His successes bred solidarity, and Auchinleck and the surrounding lands filled to bursting with MacKenzies, MacDonalds, and Cunninghams.
Asper Sinclair had sent word via messengers that his wedding was complete — Haleigh had finally made an honest man of him, and his brothers were presenting themselves in advance of his own return within a fortnight.
John Sinclair, in all his fiery charm, entered the hall with his brother Marcus, the red Sinclair giants ready to resume the Bruce’s mantle.
Robert welcomed them with a bear-like embrace. “I hear that congratulations are in order for ye, John! That ye won the wager?”
Robert winked at the younger brother, Marcus, who shook his head in jest.
“Och, such a fair lass, to be sure, but I’m far too young to be wed. Let the old men that my brothers are be shackled to one woman. No’ enough lasses have yet fallen to my charms for me to think of marriage!”
John’s cutting gaze at his boisterous brother let Robert know what he thought of that inflated claim.
“Marcus, haut yer wheest!” John flapped his hand at his brother. “There be ladies present!”
Marcus waggled his eyebrows in an annoyingly suggestive manner. “That I know, and I want them to know I’m no’ wed!”
John brushed off his brother’s antics and focused his gaze on the Bruce.
“And how is Aislynn? She fares well?”
John gave the king a curt bow of his bright red head. “Aye. She has adapted well to the Highlands. She had designs to join me, but I thought it best for her to remain in the Highlands, for now.”
Robert nodded at John’s sage decision. The English-borne niece of an English earl might not be well received amid the sizable number of Scots under the Bruce’s banner.
“And your brother, he will join us soon?”
John nodded. “Aye. After he spends a bit of time with Haleigh, aye?”
This time, it was John who waggled his eyebrows, and the king burst in a rich belly laugh, the smile driving away the deep worry lines on his face. He clapped John on the back.
“Och, then we should celebrate these nuptials with mead! Shall we?”
The Bruce gestured toward his study, and the sprightly Sinclair men followed.
Late the next day, a buzz of excitement rustled amongst the orange-tinted leaves and reached the ears of the Bruce. Following the sounds of the commotion, Robert made his way to the bailey where the sight of the well-built, raven-haired man made his eyes widen. The Bruce rushed to him before the man dismounted his horse.
“MacLeod! What are ye doing here? I sent orders that ye were to remain on the coast, to guard it against the English!”
Ewan swept his leg easily over his beast. The tawny hair-man who accompanied him, Gavin, followed suit, slipping from his steed. Several other MacLeod men had ridden in with Laird Ewan MacLeod, and the king regarded them with a drowning sense of shock.
“Dinna fret, ye old bugger!” Ewan teased as he clasped the Bruce’s forearm. “I’ve no’ disobeyed my king. I left my brothers in charge with a contingent of men as ye directed. Your shores are well protected. Gavin here,” Ewan flicked his thumb to the other man, “could no’ well wait any longer to fight by your side. Our swords were rusting from lack of use.”
A slow smiled worked its way across Robert’s face. “Well, ‘tis good to have ye. We are forming our plan to reclaim all of the Highlands. Ye and the Sinclairs are most welcome, as ye can provide information as to the movements and allies in the north and west.”
“What of the eastern Highlands?” Ewan asked, as he waved at his men to care for the horses as he and Gavin entered the hall with the king.
“The MacColloughs were kind enough to relive me of the Ross and his machinations, so that helped secure it a bit. But the Gordons and Frasers have worked tirelessly to keep some control. The Fraser Laird and clansmen should be joining us within the next few days.” As they walked through the cavernous hall, the Bruce cut his eyes to the left and right. “But, I must warn ye, Ewan, that MacCollough is here and he did no’ come alone —”
The Bruce was interrupted by a high-pitched shrill of command. Ewan blanched at the voice, recognizing it immediately.
“Nay,” he said breathlessly.
The king strode toward the kitchens. “Elayne, Caitrin, are ye within? Might I have a word with ye?”
Elayne glided out, her milky skin and chestnut hair a brilliantly stark contrast to the deep blue gown she wore, and to the green and black plaid that held a bundle to her chest.
“Elayne, I believe ye recall Ewan MacLeod?”
She had the good graces to blush a bit before she clutched at the bundle and curtsied. “Of course, Laird MacLeod, how fare ye? And your wife?”
Ewan’s jaw dropped at her light banter, and he flicked his gaze to Gavin, whose expression conveyed the same question. What had happened to the Harpy of the Highlands? Ewan stepped cautiously forward to greet her when the bundle squawked, and he jumped backward. Elayne’s laugh echoed in the hall.
“Och, Ewan. I know ye’ve seen a babe before. Ye have a daughter of your own, no?”
His mouth opened and closed like a landed fish. Elayne smiled widely at his discomfort and patted his arm.
“Dinna fret. All is well between us, is it no’?”
Before he could respond, Elayne swept to the side and held her arm out to the other woman who had entered the hall with Elayne.
The woman was, in a word, stunning. Only one woman had looks of such renown, with hair more brilliant than sunlight and her face in perfect, beautiful symmetry.
“May I present my sister-by-law and Torin Dunnuck’s wife, Caitrin MacCollough Dunnuck?”
Ewan had no words and bowed to both women. Robert waved them back into the kitchen as his ferocious gazed turned to the Bruce, his eyes sparkling with mirth.
“Quite a bit has changed in the past year, aye?” Robert asked, dragging Ewan and Gavin from the hall.
The buzz of the previous day became a full cacophony of activity as the king solidified his plans to head north in his quest to reclaim the Highlands. Many Highlanders had rallied to his call and poured in droves to the keep. And Robert met every laird and chieftain as they arrived.
The Frasers of Broch Invershin rode in from the northeast shortly after midday, their horses frothy with sweat and the men more worse for wear. The Fraser laird was known to be ill, so his brother Robert Fraser, called Rob when in the presence of the king, had claimed that title and stood in his stead. Rob and his men dismounted, rough-and-ready men, with one smaller lad in attendance. The Bruce eyed the lad warily as Rob and his men approached.
Surely no’ a warrior? The Bruce asked himself as he opened his thick arms in greeting.
“King Robert!” Robert Fraser called out and gripped the Bruce’s forearm. “We have rallied to your call. Half of my men are here, the rest await ye in Beauly as we press forth.” The Bruce nodded at Rob, then flicked his eyes to the lad who pressed close to a tall Highlander with unruly raven hair.
“A squire?” the Bruce inquired.
Fraser glanced at the clean-shaved lad who blushed a bright pink, then caught the side smile on the wild-haired man. All three erupted with laughter.
“No’ quite. May I introduce my niece, Brenna Fraser?” He gave Brenna a scowl. “And remove the bonnet, lass. Let the king see ye are a woman with copper hair.”
The small Fraser removed the bonnet, and a cascade of lush waves unrolled across her shoulders. The king’s eyebrows rose high on his forehead.
“And her husband, Rafe Fraser?” Rob continued.
The wild-haired man bowed low.
“Your niece, eh?” the Bruce asked in a bantering tone.
Rob Fraser shrugged as if this behavior were familiar. “Brenna’s more comfortable with the men. Fighting and hunting and the like. Her husband did promise to make sure she stayed out of the way, though.” From his terse words and cutting glare, the Bruce had the idea that bringing the lass had not been an agreeable idea by all parties involved.
“No’ much place for her with the men here,” the Bruce spoke honestly, “but if the lass is amenable, we can always use extra hands in the keep and gardens. I am sure Lady Elayne can find a use for her.”
Rob Fraser dipped his head and gestured to the rest of Fraser’s men.
Robert the Bruce sighed heavily. What he wanted was a nap, but he put a wide smile on his face and stepped toward them.
His desired nap was not forthcoming. Robert the Bruce had hoped to sneak away later in the afternoon when a lull in the activity meant he could duck into his chambers and find some much needed rest.
It wasn’t to be. Just as he started to sneak away to the stairs, Lady Elayne joined her husband, Declan, with Torin and Caitrin in the hall. Torin informed the king that boats had arrived from the isles to the west, and those men could be seen on the horizon.
Finally, reinforcements from the wavering MacRuaidhrís and stout MacDonalds. Men flooded into the bailey like water from the Minch flooding the shoreline in the spring. Another fake smile, and more salutations.
James stepped into the hall with Tosia as Rudy MacRuaidhrí bowed low to the king. The Bruce stepped close to the man and bent his head so Rudy’s words were heard by his ears alone.
“Christina has been delivered of a boy,” Rudy commented, then straightened and smiled faintly at the rest of those in the hall.
The news came as a bittersweet relief. Christina had been swollen with child by Robert when he’d left North Uist at the end of winter. He’d told her he’d stay until the bairn was born, but Christina had waved him off, flippant as always.
“Lioslaith and Muira are close to care for me,” she’d told him, “and will attend me in my time. There is naught for ye to do, Robbie, but return to the mainland and do what God has set before ye. Be king.”
And he had obeyed, arriving with a small MacDonald party and a pack of hollow promises from the MacRuaidhrí’s that they’d soon join in the fray.
Yet here they were, and none were more surprised than the Bruce. The blur of faces careened before him until one man in particular stepped hesitantly through the door. The chatter in the hall died down, and the heat of summer dissipated as if summer itself turned a cold shoulder to Auchinleck hall.
James noted the terse change in the air and moved to stand in front of Tosia, guarding her from any potential harm or violence this shift wrought. His hand drifted down to rest on his sword hilt, always at the ready. Shabib, too, had entered the hall with James and followed his lead, shifting to stand closer to Lena and resting his long, dark fingers on his scimitar.
Declan MacCollough, conversely, rushed the man, his face a mask of rabid fury.
“Alistair MacNally! What possess ye to set foot on Scottish soil again, ye wee bastard!”
The crowd pushed back, allowing Declan to approach the smaller, compact-muscled man.
Declan’s tone was full of acerbic hatred, and Tosia cowered into James’s backside. “Do something,” she whispered to him. “Or ‘twill be bloodshed in the king’s hall.”
James eyed the scene, shared a glance with Shabib, then crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head.
“Nay. I would see this unfold. Declan is no’ a man to insult his king that way. Something else burns under the surface, and I think it must be revealed.”
He leaned toward Tosia as she nestled closer, peeking from behind James and waiting for a fight in front of the king. The air in the room shifted again; now it sizzled, as if struck by cold lightening, and it seemed every hair on Tosia’s body stood on end. Why didn’t anyone else appear upset? Other than Declan, most faces appeared bemused, if wary, at what Declan might do.
Tosia looked to Lady Elayne to see what her reaction to her husband’s fiery temper might be, but instead of commanding anger, Tosia saw surprise, the hard edge to Elayne’s refined face softened at the humbled-appearing Alistair. Amongst the Highlanders and warriors, he seemed dwarfed, hiding among the MacRuaidhrí and MacDonalds.
Declan had reached the craven, wide-eyed man, and something in those eyes struck Tosia. The shape, the intensity . . . Elayne lifted her skirts and stepped quickly to her husband, laying a commanding hand on his upper arm.
Anger flared in Declan’s whiskey-hued eyes, as if someone had lit them on fire, but he halted himself from finishing the assent of his fist into the man’s face. Tosia was enthralled with the power Elayne wielded with a mere touch of her hand. What mysterious power did that woman contain? Even the most powerful men did her bidding without question.
“Lane, ye must let me.” Declan’s voice rolled like a low thunder to Tosia’s ears. “ I never had my retribution against him for what he did to ye.”
What had this sorrowful man done? Tosia flicked her eyes back and forth from Elayne to the man and it struck her — their face shape, their eyes, the curve of their jaw, all shared. Was this man kin to Elayne? A cousin? A brother? What had he done to her that Declan might want to beat him bloody on the stones?
“Nay, Declan. Look at him.” Her ferocious silver gaze remained fixed on Declan as she waved a hand at Alistair. “He’s suffered his fair share, methinks. What say ye, Alistair? If I miss my mark, then I will unleash Declan and his men upon your person.”
Tosia hadn’t noticed until Elayne spoke that Torin and several other MacCollough men had appeared near Declan, a loose circle of vindication and plaid.
“Lane.” Declan’s voice was tinged with pleading desperation. He was a husband denied a right to dispense punishment, and Tosia leaned around James’s solid form as she would a tree trunk. He moved his arm to lay it over Tosia’s shoulders.
“Lane,” Declan repeated. “Ye canna deny me this.”
Lady Elayne’s hand rose from his arm to cup his jaw, the most tender gesture Tosia could imagine.
“Let him speak. Then we will determine his fate.” Her eyes shifted slightly to the Bruce who had the true final word on the matter, and he dipped his head almost imperceptibly.
Declan’s jaw clenched as he bit back his fury but deferred to his wife’s authority. He moved to her side, ready to step in if needed. Elayne lifted her face to Alistair, who stood apart from the other men with his head bowed. He looked so pathetic, Tosia’s heart went out to the man.
“Alistair,” Elayne’s voice, as strong as the woman herself, carried across the hall. If Alistair heard it, he didn’t react. “Why are ye here? Ye were banished. And ye are fortunate my husband stayed his hand, otherwise he’d have your head for your attempt on my life.”
Several in the hall who didn’t know the rumored history of Elayne MacCollough sucked in harsh breaths, Tosia’s included. Their thoughts had to mirror Tosia’s — how did Elayne not let Declan cleave the man’s head from his body?
Alistair was silent but raised his head and rushed toward her in a swift move that caused Declan and Torin to leap violently toward him. Even James stiffened against Tosia, his hand shifting back to his sword, preparing to leap into the fray.
Instead of attacking her, Alistair slid to his knees into Elayne’s skirts, hugging her legs like a desperate child awaiting consolation.
Declan and Torin froze where they stood, as did Elayne. She held her arms aloft at her sides, her shock at Alistair’s movements emanating from her body.
“I’m sorry, cousin,” he wept — wept! — into Elayne’s skirts. “I’m so verra, verra sorry. I was tainted, a man possessed. I dinna ken what I was doing and have no excuse for it. All I can do is apologize. And I do, with all of my soul, before these men and God Himself. I apologize for what I did to ye in my heated, misguided attempts. If ye canna forgive me, I understand. If ye want your man to have my head, then I will no’ fight. So be it.”
Tosia’s hand flew to her mouth. Whatever the man had done to Elayne, he sounded as if he surely deserved this punishment, and now Elayne was the arbiter of his very life. Would she end it as she might step on a bug? Did Elayne harbor so much hatred for her cousin’s actions that she’d forfeit his life?
For several heartbeats, Elayne didn’t move, her hands upraised like an angel’s wings. Her silvery eyes stared at the tawny head bent into her skirts. Then her fingers twitched, as if the decision she made needed time to flow through the blood in her body and make it move her dictates. One pale, long-fingered hand floated down inch by inch and came to rest on Alistair’s head. She clenched her hand in his hair, threading her fingers through the unruly amber locks.
Alistair clenched as well, gripping her skirts forcibly in apologetic sobs. Elayne’s other hand followed the first, and she hugged his head into her legs. Her chin dropped to her heaving chest. Waves of her dark, burnished hair fell to cover her face, which Tosia was certain was covered in tears.
Declan reached his hand to Elayne’s back, a reassuring gesture meant to provide more comfort as she gave absolution to the most undeserving soul.
“Elayne?” His low voice was meant for her ears but echoed in the quiet of the hall.
She used her sleeve to wipe her hidden face before lifting it to him, then removed her other hand from Alistair’s head. “He can stay with the MacDonalds.”
Then Lady Elayne tugged her skirts from her prostate cousin and, with Declan and Torin, returned to Caitrin’s side. That poor woman was beyond the pale, holding her stomach as if she would be sick over the matter. Cut from a different cloth than her sister-by-law, Caitrin was.
As for Tosia, she again marveled at the Lady Elayne — her stoic nature belied a soft and forgiving woman. Would Tosia have been able to forgive someone for so grave a sin? She didn’t know.
