Ciara struggled for some sort of reply. Well, that wily old fox. He’d been onto her all the while. The first case of giggles she’d enjoyed in centuries bubbled up until her laughter echoed across the mountains and ravines. “Well said, Master Maxwell! Congratulations indeed. I agree to your terms since you’re obviously honest to a fault and I must say I look forward to being your friend.”
Maxwell nodded and waved a hand at Faolan when he turned to glare at them both from the front of the group. Then Maxwell chuckled back at her in return. “Aye, m’lady. We’ll be fast friends and I look forward to helping ye in your quest.”
* * *
Faolan stoodon the front steps of the keep, surveying the courtyard with a critical eye. Other than a few minor repairs to some of the storage sheds, the castle stood ready for winter. He’d been a bit concerned as to whether all would be ready since he’d been absent from the keep so late in the season. He should have known better then to fear anything would be amiss. His servants were experienced and diligent. They’d never disappoint their laird. They knew the importance of their duties. Preparing the castle for the long Highland winter was quite a serious task. The survival of the clan depended upon the successful planning and back-breaking work that took place in the early fall.
Fish to be smoked, beef and pork to be salted and cured, root vegetables had to be stored in the massive cellar. Medicinal and cooking herbs must be dried as well.
As Faolan inspected the keep, he grew more satisfied and relaxed with every bit of preparation he saw. Noticing Maxwell coming his way, he groaned and retreated up the stairs to the top of the skirting wall. He wasn’t in the mood to listen to Maxwell’s chatter. He’d seen him plotting with Ciara on the ride back to the keep. He still hadn’t forgiven Maxwell for that first faulty bit of advice that had set him on his slippery slope straight to hell.
Now Faolan realized if he had never given into the temptations of Ciara’s enticing charms, he might’ve escaped this commitment to a woman he couldn’t resist. But it was too late to retreat. He was as addicted to her as though he was a drunkard and she a robust wine.
He leaned against the stones at the top of the battlements, inhaling a deep breath of the crisp, clean air. The isolated crags and mountains surrounding his home mirrored his jagged soul. The feathery clouds racing across the icy blue horizon reminded him of his troubled thoughts. The day shone unseasonably clear for the Highlands; an unnatural calm floated upon the winds. Faolan sensed trouble brewing in the air just as he felt the unrest in his soul.
“Have ye settled the lad and his mother with Mistress Sorcha?” he called out over his shoulder as Maxwell topped the last stair. If Faolan could find a task to send Maxwell running it might spare him listening to any more of Maxwell’s misplaced advice.
Maxwell stood with his hands clasped behind his back, silent, apparently choosing not to answer. He just meandered across the battlement. The stiff, chill breeze blew in from the sea and tugged at the length of his plaid.
Faolan turned just in time to catch Maxwell studying him. With the heat of his temper warming his blood, he spat out his words. “I would appreciate an answer, Maxwell. I asked ye if ye settled the lad and his mother with Mistress Sorcha?”
“I heard ye the first time, Faolan. My body might be a bit scarred from its battles but there is nothing wrong with my hearing.” Maxwell walked to the side of the castle that overlooked the white capping waves. “I didna follow ye up here to speak about the future of some waif and his widowed mother. I came up here to talk to ye about your wife.”
“The way I see it, ye have no rights to that subject, so ye had best be taking yourself back down to the courtyard.” Faolan rested his clenched fists atop the wall.
“Lady Ciara only wants to be a good wife to ye, Faolan. She told me so herself.”
Faolan’s frustration churned like a brewing storm as he remembered Ciara’s words. “She lied to me, Maxwell. She lied to me and now she has admitted to being a witch.”
“Your mother was a witch. A verra gifted witch who helped this clan in many ways. Ye’ve also got the gift of magic simmering in your blood, Faolan. What difference does it make if the lass has magic flowing through her veins as well?”
Faolan’s shoulders tensed as he scrubbed at the dark stubble of his jaw. Why was Maxwell being so stubborn? Was the man blind? Had Ciara cast a spell on him while they rode together back to the keep? “Ciara is not who she said she was, man! She is not the Sinclair’s daughter.”
“Aye, and is that such a terrible thing? Would ye truly want your children to have a drop of Gordon Sinclair’s blood in their ancestry?” Maxwell snorted and shook his head. “I would think that verra fact alone would endear ye to the lass even more.”
“I don’t want to be endeared,” Faolan shouted, his voice echoing across the hills. “Damn ye, man! Can ye no’ see the woman is driving me insane?”
Maxwell clapped his hand on Faolan’s shoulder and leaned closer to look him in the eye. “What I see is a man who’s terrified of leaving his loneliness behind.”
Faolan shrugged Maxwell’s hand away and stomped farther down along the wall. “Ye have no idea of what ye’re saying. Now I suggest ye go and do as I asked and see to young Ian and his mother. Mistress Sorcha will help ye get them settled into the empty croft along the southern wall.”
Maxwell relinquished with an exaggerated bow of his head as he turned to go. “As ye wish, Laird MacKay. I shall see to the lad and his mother. But I suggest ye start seeing to yourself. Our lives are short and often filled with pain. When ye have something good in your grasp, it seems a waste to toss it aside.” Maxwell turned and made his way down the stairs to follow his laird’s commands.
* * *
Ciara peepedaround the garden of the castle to ensure she was quite alone. When she felt sure no one spied on her presence, she waved a healing hand over any plant that seemed a bit on the wilted side.
Her attention restored the late seasonal herbs and vegetables to vibrant health. The greening leaves exhaled a sigh of relief as they stretched toward the fading rays of the sun. With a satisfied nod, Ciara surveyed her results and wound her way out of the gardens across the grounds to the nearby stables.
She had overheard Faolan instruct Maxwell to take the boy they’d rescued upon their travels and show him a few chores he could handle in his still weakened state. Ian’s health had already improved in the short time since their arrival at the keep. His thin cheeks had lost a bit of their pallor, but he still had a way to go. A few more weeks of Sorcha’s belly-stretching meals and he’d soon fill out enough to look his age.
A few at the keep had mistaken his silence for lack of intelligence. Ciara’s heart stirred, filled with pride. She knew Faolan had seen the brightness of the lad’s eyes when his mother had pulled him into the room. Faolan had assigned Maxwell to foster the boy and afford him every chance to learn a useful trade.
An unusual yearning nagged in the center of her chest. Faolan’s acts of caring toward those in his clan, especially his kindness to the child, had melted several centuries’ worth of ice from around her heart.
As she entered the warm, inviting stable, Ciara just made out Maxwell’s deep voice murmuring in the farthest stall. Pausing, she heard him stress the importance of mucking out the stalls to maintain each horse’s health.
She propped her chin atop her hands where she’d latched onto the side of the stall. When Ian glanced up through his scraggly hair, she dazzled him with her kindest smile. “Ian, you look healthier every time I see you. I’m so glad you’re doing better.”
