Chapter Two
Had this man, this laird, just offered his daughter to him?
Surprised by the chieftain’s welcome, he’d made his way slowly through the arranged tables to the front of the hall, dripping every step along the path. He studied everything around him as he moved and somehow he knew that this hall, though impressive, was not as big as. …
His? Someone’s. … A place he’d seen before.
Though those present had been quick to lower their gazes from his, he’d examined their faces, looking, always looking, for one that would be familiar to him. His sleep was haunted with faces, so surely he would see one of them sooner or later?
The mask, fashioned by the monks who’d cared for his injuries, chafed the skin of his neck and the upper half of his face. No matter what fabric they used, ‘twas always the same. The healer suggested leather, but the expense was something the poor monks could not afford. So, he trained himself not to scratch against the itch or it worsened. Tugging his hood down closer to his brow, he reached the steps that led to the high table and watched as the nobleman positioned himself there.
Before he could ask a question, the young woman, dressed in a gown the color of spring, wilted just like a flower too long in the sun. Her long, flowing blonde hair, free of anything but a circlet, swirled around her body like a cloud as the woman fainted.
He was up the steps, around the table and at her side before any of the others reacted to her condition. He slid his arm under her and eased her onto the chair. The other young woman aided him and, by the time the one he’d assisted was settled there, her eyes began to flutter open.
Eyes the color of the emeralds in his… father’s?…. mother’s? … Eyes so deep and green that he could lose himself in them gazed back at him. Now ‘twas his turn to be surprised.
It was her.
The one.
The woman who came to him in the dark of night and the light of day. He could always see her, but never once did she speak to him. He would reach out and call out to her, but she would fade even as daylight did at evening’s arrival.
Now, she was here. Alive. Real. Breathing.
“Who are ye?” she asked, giving a voice to all the imaginings he’d had these last months.
“I …” He released her and moved back. He glanced from her to the woman at her side and then to the chieftain standing across from them. “I ken not.”
“I dinna understand,” she said. “What are ye called?”
“Come now, tell us yer name,” the nobleman said as he beckoned him over. “Are ye kith or kin?”
“My lord, I ken not. The monks who cared for me didna recognize me when they found me.”
“Found ye?”
“Husband, let us take this to a private place,” the other young woman said, arriving at the laird’s side. She was the mighty man’s wife … second or third from the looks of her youthfulness.
The one who filled his dreams just stared wordlessly as he searched his memories for something to tell them. To tell her. He wanted to scream out in frustration and pain.
The weeks and weeks of searching for a place or a person who would be able to tell him his story wore heavily on him. The last hours spent walking in the wind-blown rain had sapped his strength. No one knew him. No one was missing from among them. And he’d not recognized anyone he’d met along the way.
Until now. Until this place and this woman.
From the way her face paled and those eyes filled with fear and something else, some great sadness, she didn’t know him. The laird nodded at his wife. He motioned to two servants who led the way for him out of this great hall and up a stairway to the next floor.
He stepped aside as the nobleman led his wife and daughter into the room. Allowing the women to sit, the laird motioned to his servants to bring cups and stoke the fire. When the flames flared, he found himself stepping back, even from the welcomed warmth of it.
“Who are ye and why are ye at my keep in this storm in the dark of night?” The laird drank deeply from his cup. “A few minutes more and my gates would have closed until morn.”
“The monks told me they found me unconscious and gravely injured some months ago,” he began explaining what he knew. “They expected me to die.” At the slight sound of distress, his gaze moved to the woman of his dreams.
“The mask?”
“The scars.” The laird nodded. “I beg yer pardon, my lord, but I dinna ken who ye are. I have been traveling for days. …”
“Were ye with the monks of Iona?” the laird’s wife asked.
