Page 69 of A Highland Rogue to Ruin

The abbot turned toward another shelf with stacks of flat portfolios, pulling one down, and sifting through the documents within, finally pulling out the parchment he sought and shifting it to her to read.

“’Tis a peace agreement, betwixt yer clan and the MacLeods. It’s been in effect for decades as an attempt to bring stability to the Highlands.”

“Why was it so important, though, for the MacDonalds and MacLeods? If it’s been in effect, it’s been woefully poor, for there’s been no peace at all.”

He shook his head as if she didn’t understand. “The possibility of peace has been attainable. The MacLeods have been hard to bring to heel over the centuries. They’ve submitted to no king and many still worship their Norse forebearers’ gods, and so the monarchy attempted to create a title to bestow upon an heir created of a marital union betwixt yer people.”

“The Earl of Stornoway.”

The abbot nodded. “But nothing has worked. Each attempt to fulfill the terms of The Great Peace was met with opposition from Clan MacNicol. For establishing the earldom would bring stability among the two biggest, most influential clans, and unfortunately, Laird MacNicol continues to contest MacLeod’s claim of the Hebrides, even though it has been so for nigh two centuries now. The bairn is the closest anyone has gotten to achieving it, for he would have ruled the Hebrides in the king’s stead when he reached majority, thus bringing the MacLeods into the kingdom’s fold, and subduing all the smaller septs that continue to fight for their own sovereignty. ’Twas a great sadness for many to learn of the babe’s passing, as well as his parents’. For they had seemed committed to securing this authority for their son, and sowing peace betwixt their people, and they were so close.”

She flopped down into the chair. Finger twisting her talon. “What was his name?”

“Whose, my lady?”

“The babe’s. If ye baptized him, surely ye knew.”

“’Twas Goraidh. Goraidh Moidartach MacLeod.”

“Goraidh,” she whispered, withdrawing her kerchief from her lavender sleeves. “’Twas my grandsire’s name.”

“God’s Peace,” the holy man added.

Was he buried here? Was that the secret Tormund seemed wont to keep? Did he tithe, and visit often, to sit beside his nephew’s grave?

“Where is he buried?” she asked, when the scrape of a chair and a wee sneeze echoed.

Her brow furrowed, and she stood once more and peered around the bookshelf, down the steps, into the library proper. The young lad who’d watered her horse had scooted to the table beneath the window where the Tafl game sat.

His dark hair sat tousled on his head, as if he’d enjoyed a morning frolic out-of-doors in the wind, and although his plain tunic and trews were finely tailored, grass stained the knees, as did dirt stain his toes where they peered out of leather sandals. A wee blade sat sheathed at his waist upon a belt.

He swung his legs, too short still to meet the floor. “Reverend Father,” he called, turning to look up at where the abbot stood. “Will ye play the new Tafl game with me…” The bairn’s voice trailed off as his wide blue eyes settled upon her.

Gooseflesh erupted up Brighde’s skin.

The abbot nodded. “I believe I have time for one game.”

The lad’s gaze remained on her with curiosity, and she returned to her seat, sweeping her gowns out of the way, when the abbot stopped beside her on his way down the stairs to join the child.

“The Peace is still achievable, Lady Brighde.”

“How?”

He smiled gently.

“Reverend Father?” The abbot glanced at the bairn then back at her.

“Any MacLeod laird and MacDonald noblewoman can make it so.” His eyes dipped to her talon, then lifted back to her eyes. “And I find it quite strange indeed that just two days ago, the laird Tormund MacLeod was here, seeking a book for a woman he wished to court. And today, ye are here, seeking answers that are right in front of ye.”

Tormund wished to court her? Then he’d meant that he wanted to keep her, to find a way. He didn’t want it to end, either. And mayhap he feared his secret about her fated nephew—a secret he’d for some reason felt he’d needed to protect—would betray her.

Yet as the afternoon wore on, as the happy sounds of the child playing Tafl, that Tormund’s brother had crafted, filled the background while she scoured documents and wrote notes on the monastery’s offered parchment, frustration remained.

What was she still missing? Marjorie had been barren. That’s what Owen’s men had said when… She slammed down her quill, realization striking like a quintain to a knight. Nay, not Owen’s men! Owen’s men would have known he loved his wife! Imposters brought her sister home.

She cupped a hand over her mouth as the abbot’s explanation whispered: an enemy who didn’t approve of the MacLeods gaining concentrated power and solidifying their hold over the Hebrides with a prestigious earldom. MacNicol?

She shivered. Alasdair MacNicol had warned her about what company she was keeping. MacNicol’s sire was adamant about securing a betrothal between her and him. She burned to tell Jamie! And yet, it didn’t make complete sense. Marriage to her didn’t gain MacNicol back his ancestral lands, even if it would gain him considerable clout. And if they had been involved in Marjorie’s abduction, then why? How would they have known about the babe, if the babe had been so much a secret, that she, the godmother, hadn’t even known?