“The keep is cursed,” Fergus muttered as he wrapped his chapped hands around a steaming tankard of mulled wine. “When Lady Rachel left us, she not only took away the laird’s heart but drained all hope from the Highlands as well.” He slowly shook his head. “The MacKay nay deserves this, but we do. We deserve every feckin’ bit of suffering that’s come to pass.”
“Mayhap when she returns and gives the laird his bairns, she’ll remove the curse and give life back to the land.” Ian heaved more wood on the fire, dodging the popping coals as the damp chunks crackled in the roaring blaze.
“The only way our lady will remove the curse and bring life back to the keep is if she stays.” Florie placed a platter of bannocks on the table and knotted her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “’Tis the laird’s misery bringing the cold and darkness to this hall. That and the winter solstice being upon us. Ye kenas well as I how brutal it is until the sun returns. When the Lady Rachel blesses us with her presence and brings forth her bairns, we must do our best to convince her to stay. Only then will warmth and light return to MacKay lands.”
“Florie is right.” Fergus rose from the bench, shrugged his shaggy black mantle higher upon his shoulders, and moved to stand in front of the fire. “Tell the gossips, the servants, and every man, woman, and child of this clan. We must spread the word. Our lady must be made to feel welcome. We failed her, and we failed our laird. Whether from fear or ignorance, it nay matters. We canna fail again.”
A dull scraping from the stairwell to the right of the dais drew their attention. Several gasped, but a hush fell upon them as Caelan shuffled into the room. He ignored them and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. Any strength and caring he had ever possessed for this clan had left him along with his Rachel.
Weeks of little food had caused his weight to fall away, leaving him bent as an old man. But what did it matter? He nay needed food. He needed his beloved wife. His eyes felt sunken in his face, his reflection in the polished shields reminding him of the old crone living on the edge of the forest at their northern border. His once thick hair had turned thin and lifeless. But again, what did it matter?
He clutched at the ratty plaid around his shoulders, his hand trembling as he cast a disinterested gaze at the shocked faces staring back at him. With a ragged breath, he waved their concerned looks away. They could all burn in Hell as far as he was concerned. And he would join them in those pits. Suffering and torment were with him every waking hour, anyway. At least, if he descended into Hell, it would be a mite warmer. With a shiver, he croaked out an order, “More wood, Ian. Can ye not get the chill from this room?”
“Aye, my laird. I shall fetch more wood and get the chill from this room. I swear it.” Ian rushed from the hall.
“Hold fast, my laird. Fergus will put your chair by the fire, and I’ll fetch more furs to warm ye.” Florie snapped her fingers at Fergus as she ran to the cabinets behind the head table and fetched an armload of furs. As she passed by her man, she whispered, “The MacKay curse of loving one’s true soul is killing him. Our laird is dying of a broken heart.”
Fergus nodded, hefted the chair off the dais, and placed it as close to the fire as he could safely set it. Going to Caelan’s side, he gently took hold of his arm. “Come, old friend. Let us get ye settled.”
“Ye spoke against her,” Caelan accused, his rage gone. In its place was a cold deadness that never left him. He wondered if, when Rachel left, she had somehow taken his heart and soul with her. He shuffled along, too weak to fight off Fergus’s help and make it to the chair on his own. “Ye spoke against her in the hall,” he repeated, determined for Fergus to remember the wrongs he had done against them. “I trusted ye, and ye spoke against her.”
“Aye, my laird,” Fergus quietly admitted. He helped Caelan sit, then knelt in front of him, and bowed his head. “And I am sorrier than ye will ever know. Never should I have spoken against the Lady Rachel. I beg your forgiveness and will take whatever punishment ye deem fitting. I deserve it. My life is yours to do with as ye wish but know that I regret my actions. I was sorely wrong.”
“Live with your choices,” Caelan rasped. If he had more energy, he would avenge his beloved wife and punish Fergus—punish all of them. But it was too late. He was dead inside. She would never return. No matter what she had promised. And he didn’t fault her for it. After all, look how they had treated her. He dropped his face into his hands, needing to sob but unableto because all his tears had been wept. He was as guilty as the clan for making her go. If only he had listened to her fears, listened to her worries, and acted rather than placating her with meaningless words and doing nothing to make things better.
Florie draped a fur around his shoulders and tucked another around his legs. “I’ve a fine venison stew today. Would ye try a bit of it? Ye’ve had nothing since yesterday.”
“If I must.” He stared down at his hands, idly fiddling with his wedding band. It barely stayed on his thin fingers now. Soon, it would slip away and be lost. Like his precious Rachel.
Florie returned with a steaming tankard and wrapped his hands around it as if he were a child learning to use a cup. “It’s mainly the broth, my laird, but if ye finish it, I’ll bring more with chunks of meat and carrot. Take a couple of sips for me, then I’ll leave ye with your thoughts, aye?”
Caelan knew if he didn’t take at least a taste of it, Florie would never leave him the hell alone. In order to be rid of her, he forced down a swallow of the rich broth, then shoved the tankard back at her.
“Well done, my laird,” she praised like a proud mother. “I’m going to set this right here and fetch ye a crust of bread. When I come back, I want to see that ye’ve drained it all so’s I can fetch ye more, ye ken? Dinna disappoint me, now.” She set the mug on the table and wiped at her eyes as she stood beside him, staring down at him, the crust of bread forgotten.
A low humming vibrated through the room. Caelan squinted against it and glanced around, searching for the source of the annoying sound. A shimmering blue light, the tiniest orb of intense energy, burst into the center of the aisle between the rows of tables and steadily brightened.
He grabbed Florie’s wrist and sat bolt upright, knocking the furs from his shoulders. “Florie—is it her? Is she truly returning as she said she would?”
“I dinna ken, my laird,” Florie whispered. She clutched his arm and helped him to his feet.
As the energy filled the room, it brought a warmth as comforting and welcome as a summer sun. At the center of the circle of light, a form appeared, foggy at first, then it sharpened and focused. It was a very pregnant woman. When the mystical gleam faded, Rachel stood there, slightly bent, one hand holding her swollen belly, and the other pressed against her lower back.
Her dark eyebrows rose almost to her hairline. Concern and shock filled her eyes. “Caelan! Are you dying?” She took a step toward him only to stop, groan deeply, then pant. She grimaced and held her belly with both hands for a long moment, then straightened, pulled in a deep breath, and blew it out. “I need to lie down while you tell me what’s wrong with you. Our babies are coming. I need you, Caelan. Tell me you’re going to be all right and distract me while I’m in labor.”
He stared at her, unable to speak, barely able to breathe.
She grimaced and started her strained huffing all over again. A sheen of sweat broke out across her brow as the pain in her bowels nearly bent her double.
“Rachel…my…my Rachel.” He shook himself free of the trance and went to her, almost afraid to touch her, afraid she would disappear again. But he drew on his courage and need to strengthen him as he wrapped an arm around her. Tears streamed down his face, and he didn’t care. She was back. She had returned as she had said she would. “Light every torch! Prepare our room. My beloved has returned, and our bairns are coming.” Renewed energy pounded through him. The will to live and love gave him the ability to stand at her side.
He kissed her hair, kissed her cheek, and held her close as he helped her move up the stairs. Inwardly, he damned himself for being such a fool and allowing himself to grow so weak. He longed to sweep her up into his arms and carry her to thebedroom, but he knew he didn’t have the strength for it. How he wished he’d listened to Florie and Emrys. “Fetch the midwives,” he bellowed back over his shoulder. “And whisky! The solar may need extra whisky while I wait for my sons.”
“No whisky. You’re staying with me and helping me get these babies out.”
“With ye?” he repeated. Surely, she had not said what he thought he heard. “The midwives will help ye. They’ll not allow me to stay.”
“These are our babies, and I want you with me,” she growled while slowly climbing the steps. “If the midwives have a problem with it, I’ll be happy to convince them otherwise.” She halted their ascent and clenched both his hands, closing her eyes and clamping her mouth shut as another pain hit her. Her nostrils flared with her heavy breathing, and her nails dug into his flesh. “How long has it been since you’ve bathed?” she groaned. Before he could answer, she wilted against him, nearly knocking them both off balance and sending them back down the steps.
