Angus could not fathom such a thing—that God would choose to punish Gwendolen. If anyone deserved to be punished, it was not she.
“I was so angry with him,” she continued, “for not coming home when Father died. I blamed him for the defeat of the MacEwens after you broke through the gates. I prayed that he would somehow see what had occurred on that day and suffer a lifetime of remorse for his selfish desires to better himself with education and culture, while we were here, fighting to defend his birthright.”
Angus kissed her on the forehead and held her close. “Do not blame yourself, lass. You had good reason to be angry with him. You felt abandoned.”
“But it was not his fault,” she said. “He was ill, and he was not able to return home, even if he wanted to.”
“But you knew nothing of that. His death is not your fault. You did nothing wrong.”
“Then why do I feel so wretched?”
“Because your brother is dead,” he replied. “There is no escaping the grief.”
She stepped back and looked into his eyes. “You said you came here after your mother died. You have never spoken of her to me, except that one time in the chapel, when you said she was a saint.”
“Aye. At least, that’s how I remember her.”
“How old were you when she died?”
“Four.”
She watched him closely, waiting for him to offer something more, but he did not like to speak of his mother.
“What happened to her?” she asked.
He looked at the waterfall. The sound of it filled his head with noise, made him feel as if he did not exist. But hedid. There was blood running through his veins, and sensation in his heart. There was no escaping either of those things, but he found he did not want to escape them. He had wanted to for most of his life, but not now.
“I know what guilt is,” he said, looking down at her again, “because my mother was killed at Glencoe.”
Glencoe… where dozens of MacDonalds had been massacred because their chief failed to sign an oath of allegiance to the English Crown. Glencoe was not Angus’s home, but it had been his mother’s, before she married his father.
“She threw me into a trunk to hide me from the enemy,” he explained, “then she was marched out into the snow and shot dead.”
“You were at the Glencoe massacre?” she said with concern. “I had no idea.”
He shrugged. “It was a long time ago.” Though he still remembered with astounding clarity how he had climbed out of the trunk and seen his mother’s dead body, and her blood staining the snow. He would never forget it.
“I am so sorry,” she said.
Neither of them spoke for a moment. They simply stood on the rocks and watched the water in the basin below as it rushed and swirled.
“Is that why you have always been so fearless,” she asked, “and ready to sacrifice yourself in battle? Because of what happened to your mother?”
“I suppose. For a long time I lived only for the kill, and most who knew me would probably say there was revenge in it. Especially against the English.”
She nodded with understanding, then tilted her head to the side. “Did you tell Raonaid about your mother?”
“Why do you ask that?”
“Because she told me that I didn’t really know you. She suggested that she knew you better.” She dropped her gaze. “It bothered me.”
Angus sat down on the cold ground. “I did not tell her, lass. She saw it in her visions. That’s what convinced me that she was a true mystic and not just a mad witch. But it didn’t mean anything. I didn’tchooseto confide in her.”
“But you did trust her with private information about yourself,” Gwendolen said. “I wish you could talk to me like that.”
“I just did.”
A hint of melancholy colored her expression, and she sat down beside him. “Perhaps all we need is time to get to know each other better. There are so many things I want to know about you, Angus.”
