Page 19 of Falling for His Cousin’s Betrothed

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The sun rose above the valley as a capercaillie landed on a Scots pine branch outside the castle window of the Upland birchwoods. A light breeze drifted through the valley, and only a few scattered clouds floated above the horizon. As was the custom on the first Saturday of the third month of the year, the local merchants and farmers had gathered in the town square for the market festival. Laila and Robert, still holed up inside Alastair’s castle, had no inkling as to what was happening anywhere else, so as they attempted to hash out their love triangle of sorts, the vendors of Highland sorted their wares and counted their coins.

“Arrow, dear lass, how are you?” asked a tall man in a navy coat, its buttons polished and bright.

“I’m doing well, Galahad. Thank you.” Arrow tossed a long tress of raven-colored hair over her shoulder and arranged a series of tea bags inside a small, blue basket. She looked up at the sky and wondered if the rain would hold off. They’d seen so much of it lately, she thought, moving the tea bags from one small log round to another and tugging gently at the corner of her butterscotch-colored tablecloth.

“I believe the farrier will be here around ten to showcase his latest handiwork,” said Galahad as he rubbed his hands together. Are your kinfolk joining you later?” He took a shiny red apple from his pocket, rubbed it against his coat, and then bit into it with gusto.

“Yes.” Arrow nodded and reached into a tan sack. She pulled out a honey pot, a small box of beige sachets, and a tiny package of rose petals, then set them on the table. The breeze, still soft and unthreatening, blew her hair. She smoothed it out with one delicate, ivory hand.

“You do look lovely today if I haven’t mentioned that.” Galahad took one more bite of his apple, tossed the core, and winked at Arrow, then spun around on his boots and headed for the baker’s table. Arrow blushed, then went back to admiring her tea.

“Morning, Galahad.”

“Morning, Cameron.” Galahad tipped his hat and stood back, admiring the raisin scones, oatmeal cookies, blueberry muffins, and sourdough bread displayed before him. “I shall circle back around her shortly to have a sampling.” He sniffed the air, closed his eyes for a second, then went back to walking the grounds, proud as he was of his people.

“Please do, sir.” Cameron smiled and rubbed his hands across his belly, which was poorly contained by a white, flour-covered apron. Cameron had been the lead baker at Cameron’s Bake Shoppe for almost ten years. He and his wife had become favorites among the local people, and their name was well-known across the land. “I think this one has a good rise.” Cameron lifted up a baguette and eyed it with curiosity before setting it into a parchment bag. He was just about to take out a knife and slice a loaf for the townspeople to sample when he caught sight of a man, tall and thin, drifting across the market grounds. “Strange-looking fellow,” he said quietly as he set the knife on the table.

“When death’s dark stream I ferry o’er a time that surely shall come,”the man sang softly, his long white hair trailing down his back like a gentle waterfall.

Cameron frowned, then picked up an oatmeal cookie and took a bite, dazed. “Quite a character,” he said, swallowing the sweet treat.

“I’m heaven itself. I’ll ask no more. Than just the Highland welcome.”The curious white-haired man continued his song.

“Why on Earth would the chap come through here reciting Burns? That’s a song fit for a funeral,” said Cameron, shaking his head and taking another bite of his cookie. He was just about to reach for another when he noticed the white-haired man’s stick. It was a long, twisted piece of river vine, dark brown and speckled with sections of black. Cameron was fascinated. “I reckon he’s one of the ancients.”

“I come along the banks of Dory Way to fetch the girl, fetch the girl,”the man sang, and Cameron watched as he floated further away from the market. As if his presence had just altered the weather, a large, gray cloud rolled through the valley. Arrow looked up with worry. She had only sold a small portion of her teas so far and knew that foul weather would put a damper on her attempts to make a profit.

“Fetch the girl, must fetch the girl.”The white-haired man walked along the cobblestone path that led toward the river. He was familiar with the Highlands, especially Dory Way, and recalled with great pleasure the time he’d gone hunting for pearls along this very countryside. Although it had been almost thirty long years ago, his memory, like a steel-trap, provided him with a view into the past where he often liked to stay. On that particular outing, he’d found a shallow, fast-flowing section of water and lowered his glass-bottom bucket inside. The water had been so cold, he recalled, and as he scanned the soft gravel bed, he’d wondered if that would be his lucky day. Mussel after mussel flowed into his bucket, their shiny black backs moving effortlessly with the current into his fine, clear trap. He’d next climbed out of the water and eased up onto the riverbank, then, using a cleft stick, fished them out on the river and tore them open, his thick, split fingers eager for the reward. “Aha!” he’d cried, each one revealing a pearl. “I’m going to be rich, after all.”

One raindrop, then two fell on the man’s head, and he looked up in time to see the large gray cloud hovering in the sky. “Joining me for a spell, are you?” he asked the cloud, then laughed, his toothy grin exposed. It was a smile that reminded many of a rickety stretch of fence and one that could use a good whitewashing. “I’ve arrived, at last.” He stretched his arms over his head, reached up to the sky to welcome the precipitation, then dropped them to his side and inched forward until he was at the tall, wrought iron castle gates.

“Laird Fairfax. We are pleased to make your acquaintance,” said two of the gatekeepers. “Do let us see if Lady Lyall is ready for your meeting.” One of them walked off, a long baton in his hand. The other remained at the gates, a young Scottish deerhound at his side. The dog lowered his head and sniffed the air as Laird Fairfax waited patiently, his hands resting gently at his side.

“It’s been a blue moon since I’ve set foot on these grounds.” Laird Fairfax looked around and clucked. “Been a time, an era, a vintage eon.” He nodded, then looked straight ahead as Lyall appeared by the gates.

“Laird Fairfax. I’ve decided to come down myself and give you a proper greeting.” She was dressed in a long, purple velvet gown, and her hair was pulled up in a neat, tight bun. She clutched a tan umbrella and watched as he made his way closer toward the gates.

“Lady Lyall. Pleased to see you once again.” Laird Fairfax bared his toothy grin and tightened his thick, beige robe knot. Lyall was about to shake his hand when he dropped to one knee. He looked up to the sky as if a hound watching the moon, then steadied his kneel. Lyall watched with curiosity as he scooped up a handful of soil. The earth was soft from the rain, and it smelled like worms and water and dust. “Finally, I can rule!” He balled the soil into his fist and then slowly, his thick fingers releasing like the wooden planks on a dried-out, sun-baked drawbridge, let it fall to the ground.

“Laird Fairfax.” Lyall looked at him, her eyes wide. She wasn’t sure what to make of his behavior but assumed, since he was, after all, a laird, that perhaps he’d dreamed up some new sort of prayer or rite in the name of something prosperous. “I do wish to find out what your actions symbolize but first, I’d like to walk inside to get out of this weather we’re having.” Her body tensed, and she bit her lower lip in pause. She was now, having witnessed his performance, a twinge unsure about inviting him inside, but she tucked her head deeper inside her umbrella and walked to the large, ebony-colored door anyway. The knocker—big, brass, and shaped like an eagle—loomed before her, and she placed one hand on a chiseled feather to give her support.

“The girl must die,” Laird Fairfax whispered under his breath. He smiled to himself and rubbed his hands together, anticipating his castle entrance.

Lyall placed her hand on the golden knob, turned it to the right, and opened the door, the gate kept flanked by her side. “Please come in,” she said, turning sharply to keep watch of Laird Fairfax’s moves. Just as she was about to take his rod from him, she heard hoofbeats outside the castle grounds. Alarmed, she ran to the porthole and peered out the door.

“Well, this is quite an odd coincidence. If it isn’t Laila, herself!” she exclaimed, feeling at once overwhelmed and anxious. She and Elliot had searched high and low for her to no avail, and now, she’d come home on her own accord? A bead of sweat settled on her brow, and for a moment, she felt a tad faint. What was she going to do? She had spoken with Alastair about finding her, and he hadn’t yet returned. Is he with her? she wondered. What will Elliot think now that I’ve arrived back home? Surely, he would be most ashamed of this young woman he so effortlessly called his daughter, even though she wasn’t his by blood.

“Laila!” Lyall ran from the foyer and out to the front gates, the dog at her heels. Laird Fairfax followed slowly behind her, yet he was more interested in the art on the walls than he was in entertaining a new guest, even if it was the girl he’d only moments before sang about. He would have to feign his interest lest his plan for her demise be discovered. For now, it would suffice for him to simply sit in the weeds, like a crouching tiger, and wait.

“Lyall? How are you?” Alastair stood by the door and bowed in respect. “It’s been a while since we last saw one another, but I am here to tell you that Laila is in good hands once again.” He smiled and coaxed Laila forward, who was most obviously content standing behind him. She stared at the ground and pouted as soon as she was face-to-face with Lyall.

“I don’t suppose you have a good word for me, now, do you?” asked Lyall, her tone as condescending as ever.

Laila’s face grew red, and her ears turned hot. “The good word is that you appear to have a peculiar man standing in the foyer.” Laila folded her hands across her chest and squinted to get a better look at him. She was perfectly fine with skipping the entire homecoming conversation in exchange for even a hint as to who this disheveled, hobbled-looking soul was in her deceased father’s castle.

“And I do. This is your uncle Laila.” Lyall nodded once, then looked at Laird Fairfax, who hadn’t said a word since Laila arrived.