Chapter Twenty-Nine

Home. Diarmad reined his horse involuntarily on the crest of the rise and gazed into the glen below. The sun, sinking low into the west, shed golden light across the well-known scene like a balm of magic, and his battered heart tried to rise. He had been too long away and far too sorely tested, but love of the deepest kind still rooted him here.

Aye, his da might have said, and that love is why men such as we fight, bleed, and die—for love rather than loss, and for belonging most of all.

For once, Diarmad and his da agreed.

He belonged here and wanted never more to stray. Was he willing, though, to live in this place under England’s iron heel, as opposed to being free?

He sensed more than saw Mara MacIvor glance at him. He tore his gaze from the beloved scene below and fixed it on her.

She looked weary, worn, and as filthy as he. Her hair made a wild, red tangle around a face still far too pale and drawn. Doubt and darkness yawned in her eyes.

“Rest soon,” he assured her, “a hot meal, and something to drink.”

She merely nodded, words from her still being few.

He would scarce believe the lass he had met after Culloden could be so silent.

But she cleared her throat and spoke after all. “So that is your home. ’Tis beautiful, just.”

“Aye, beautiful.” He did not tear his gaze from her face. Still, in an effort to reassure her, he said, “You may regain your strength here before you go off home.”

Her face tensed, and the darkness in her eyes flared. “As you will.”

“Nay, lass—as you will.”

She looked away from him, her profile rigid. “You must be anxious to get home; let us ride on.”

****

“Master Diarmad!” The cry split the air in this place that, to Mara, seemed almost impossibly peaceful. After the discord behind them—battle, fear, and death—Ramsay’s glen appeared untouched, as if somehow magically removed from the rest of the world.

Could it be real? Mara blinked as they rode down the slope, and peered at the lad who hurried to meet them. Tow-headed, he had not yet achieved the ability to control his thin limbs, and they flew out like bent wings. But his face shone with gladness.

“Eamon,” Ramsay returned, his voice happy but his expression guarded.

The lad reached them and stayed Ramsay’s horse with a hand to its bridle; Mara drew her weary mount to a halt.

“I am that glad to see you!” the boy exclaimed. “Laird Elliot has been and gone; he brought the terrible news even before our men came, carrying the Chief’s body. The rest of us—we kept praying you would return home.”

Ramsay looked at the cluster of buildings ahead, his heart in his eyes. “ ‘We’?” he repeated. “Lad, tell me my brother, Cainnech, awaits me.”

“Nay, master.” The lad’s mobile face dissolved into tears. “Ne’er say you did not know? Laird Cainnech did no’ come home.”

Diarmad rode the rest of the distance in grim silence, and Mara followed, her heart aching with all the pain he refused to show. The settlement, nestled beside a quiet loch that shone mirror-like in the last of the light, looked ancient, its stone works far older than the present structures.

Folk came streaming out to meet Ramsay as to a beloved son, relief—and grief—visible in their faces. Before they even reached the main building, which must be the Chief’s house, Ramsay and Mara were forced by the press of bodies to pause. Ramsay swung down from his horse and helped Mara down after.

Mara, standing by in silence, learned much from that scene. The affection of these bereaved folk flowed at Diarmad Ramsay like a tide of welcome and claiming. Women, old men, and children made up most those gathered—had the bulk of the young men been lost in the south?—and only a few men of fighting age appeared, all bearing injuries.

He belongs here, Mara thought, as fundamentally as that light slanting in from the west. He will become their light now that his father and brother are gone, whether he likes or not.

He was right to come home, his instincts true. But surely she, Mara, would lose him to these demands.

You never had him, my girl, she told herself sternly. Oh, perhaps she had held his body for a time, while he played at being someone else—kissed his lips and fancied she might touch his heart. But now he saw her for what she was and, anyway, none—none—of that had been true.

Indeed, caught fast in greeting his folk, clasping hands and giving assurances that aye, he had returned to stay, he appeared to forget Mara’s very existence.

Upon that thought she caught sight of yet another figure hurrying toward them.

The crowd surrounding Diarmad parted for her as for a strong wind, though she moved far more gracefully than any mere rush of air. Indeed, something fluid accompanied her movements, and her long, black hair flowed out behind her as she came.

Mara did not need to wonder who she was—the name supplied itself. Una, she who was supposed to wed Diarmad’s brother. She who now pushed through to Diarmad’s side and reached with both hands to claim him, sharp gladness visible on her beautiful face.

And he? Mara saw him close his eyes as for an instant of prayer or in gratitude for longing answered, and she felt her heart slowly break into a thousand pieces in her own breast.

****

“Laird Elliot brought us advance word of your father’s death, and Seumas here news of Cainnech’s loss, when he made it home not long since.”

Una spoke the words softly, even her sadness unable to detract from her beautiful, musical voice. Mara, seated among the group gathered near the small fire in the Chief’s house, tried not to hate her, and failed.

Their group consisted of Ramsay and herself, Una, the aforementioned Seumas, and an older man called Gregor—a contemporary of Diarmad’s father who, as advisor, had been helping lead the clan during the absence of the Chief and his sons. Seumas, a friend of Diarmad’s and, apparently, Cainnech’s, had been gravely wounded in the battle and now went on sticks, his handsome face contorted with pain.

Una… Just thinking of the woman lifted Mara’s hackles. She sat as near as she could to Diarmad’s side, speaking in that soft voice, plying him with food and drink, and touching him whenever she could with her narrow, white hands.

Mara remembered all too well what Diarmad had said of her—she had been betrothed to Cainnech but had never revealed to whom she had given her heart.

Aye, well, she showed it now, right enough, with her every word, every gesture, and each glance from her lovely eyes.

Those eyes—they should be as black as her hair; instead, large, misty gray, and as mysterious as an autumn morning, they dominated her face.

Mara had been introduced to her, to all of them, yet Una’s eyes just skipped over her as if the woman considered her insignificant. As evidently she was, to Una’s world. And to Diarmad Ramsay’s? How could he spare so much as a glance from the woman beside him?

So far he had not. They’d gathered at the Chief’s house ostensibly to discuss the clan’s situation, but so far their talk all centered on how desperately the clansfolk, and Una, needed him.

The older man, Gregor, watched it all with grave concern. The younger, Seumas, had been one of those few surviving clansmen not present at Chief William’s death, and due to his injuries had not had the honor of helping convey the body home, a loss he seemed to feel deeply.

“I arrived too late for his burial,” he told Diarmad when they met, “to my sorrow. Your father is up on yon hillside with his ancestors.”

Mara had felt it then, the weight of history that settled on Diarmad’s shoulders.

And now as he sat with Una’s fingers on his forearm and the firelight flickering over his features, Mara acknowledged the fact that aye, she had lost him—lost what she never truly had.

“I learned of Cainnech’s death before I left Culloden,” Seumas told Diarmad, pain sounding in his voice. “I had the sad task of bringing that knowledge home. I reached here with the heavy news only a few days after your father went into the ground. They told me when I got here that you were off about your mission sworn.”

His face dark with grief, Ramsay asked, “I suppose you are certain my brother is dead? There is no cause still for hope?”

“Nay cause for hope—I met up with Callum, who was at Cainnech’s side when he died and who died himself soon after I found him. He was fighting alongside Cainnech, the two of them having been cut off from the bulk of us by the push of the battle. He said Cainnech slew many Sassenach soldiers before he fell.”

“He is lost to us,” Una said, tears filling her eyes, “and not even his body brought home.”

“It is a tale of sorrow,” Diarmad stated flatly, but his fingers clasped Una’s where they lay on his arm.

Una leaned toward him. “You are here now, Diarmad, and your presence gives us the heart we so sorely need. These times are black, aye, but as Chief you will lead us out of them.”

“Aye, Laird.” Gregor spoke quickly. “As the last member o’ your father’s house, you are the man to help us begin again. ’Tis what your father would ha’ wanted, and your duty is to wed and beget a new generation to lead us. Only that can heal the past.”

“I am no’ certain aught can heal it,” Diarmad objected.

“’Twill no’ be easy,” Gregor confirmed, “but as always before, you will do as your da would wish.”

Aye, Mara thought, her heart aching, and his duty lay in the lovely Una’s arms.