Page 29 of Bride of the Wicked Laird (Sparks and Tartans: The MacKinnon Clan’s Romance #11)

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

E verard kissed her awake. She rolled over in a languid movement that set his blood racing. How could it be? After a night of lovemaking that scorched his heart, he wanted her more than ever.

She opened those green-gold eyes of hers and gazed at him, her lush lips molding into a smile. Her hair was mussed across the pillow, her cheeks flushed and pink and her lips just a tiny bit swollen. His breath hitched in his throat at the sight of her.

“Come, lass, the maids have brought us some tidbits tae break our fast. If ye’re like me, ye’re famished.” He gave her a sly grin. “I wonder why me appetite so sharp.”

She laughed and sat up, placing her dainty feet on the floor and sliding them into her velvet slippers. He handed her the robe and she shrugged it on. She yawned and smoothed her hair.

“Dinnae fash about yer hair, lass, ye look fair beautiful just as ye are.”

The meal was waiting on the small table between the large chairs in front of the fire. Along with a jug of ale, there were platters of cheese and bannocks, strawberry jam, bowls of porridge with honey and cream, and coddled eggs flavored with onion and chopped herbs.

They had barely finished the meal and were sipping the last of their ale when there was a knock at the door.

“Come,” he called, expecting it was the maids to carry away their dishes. He was contemplating returning to his bed, mayhap to get some sleep at last, when Mildred entered.

“Forgive me fer calling on ye both so early,” she said, although the light streaming in from the high window suggested the morning was well underway. “There’s a gentleman here tae speak wi’ the laird.”

“And what would the name of this gentleman be?” He frowned. This news put an end to his pleasant thoughts of bed.

“Forgive me, but the man refused tae give his name. He’s nae a rogue nor a ruffian though, his clothes are grand and he holds himself with the air of a nobleman.”

Everard sighed and rose to his feet. “Thank ye, Mildred. Please ask this person tae await me in the solar. And,” he added with some reluctance, “offer him a dram of whisky.”

After Mildred had left them, he bent to kiss Davina once more and went to collect his plaid, that was still lying in a crumpled heap on the floor beside the bed.

By the time he’d washed and dried off, donned a fresh, clean shirt, and pleated and belted his plaid, Davina had splashed herself clean and was clad again in the forest-green broadcloth she’d worn the day before.

She turned up her face for a kiss before he headed out.

With any luck he would make the meeting with this stranger short and to the point and then bid the well-dressed stranger goodbye while there was yet time to return to lie with the lovely Davina once again.

Smiling as he took the stairs leading out to the solar, his thoughts were all on Davina. Mayhap his decision to handfast had been rash, given the disapproval of the Clan Council, but it gladdened his heart to know that she now was sheltered by the MacNeil name. Whether the Council approved or not, their handfast was recognized by law. All members of the Council were bound to defend her honor and her life.

He entered the solar to find the gentleman standing with his back to the door, looking out the window, where he seemed to be studying a tree in the courtyard.

Turning to Everard, he held his hand out and Everard had no option but to step forward and shake the proffered hand.

“Good morrow, Laird Everard.”

The man’s voice was deep-timbred, and well-bred. Mildred’s assessment appeared to be correct. Everard took a moment to scan the clothes the man wore. His great kilt was a fine woven wool in an unfamiliar plaid, but his boots were of polished black leather, his shirt made of silk under a waistcoat of black velvet. Across his shoulder he wore his kilt shawl with a gold brooch embossed wi’ a coat of arms. His grey hair was long, worn in a queue and tied at his nape with a black silk ribbon.

“Allow me tae introduce meself.”

Everard remembered his manners and before the man had introduced himself, he nodded toward the chair before the fire. “Please join me,” he said politely, although wishing the man anywhere but here, as he poured them each a dram of whisky.

“I am Dùghall MacKinnon, Laird of the MacKinnons of Pabhay.”

The glass almost slipped out of Everard’s hand and the whisky splashed. This was the man he’d sought. The man who held the key to a secret Everard was desperate to unravel.

Passing the full glass to MacKinnon, he took his seat beside him in front of the fire. He hauled in a deep breath, his eyes raking the man’s face for any hint of Davina. Mayhap those gold flecked green eyes? Although his face was weathered, his lean features showed refinement, his nose was straight and his jawline sharp and well-defined.

“I am pleased tae welcome ye tae Kiessimul at last, laird Dùghall. I’ve long been anxious tae meet wi’ ye as I have many questions. I appreciate yer coming.”

“And I have many fer ye, Laird Everard. Mayhap our answers tae these questions will converge.”

Everard raised his whisky glass. “ Slàinte math , Laird Dùghall. Please ask me whatever ye wish.”

Dùghall straightened his shoulders. “I believe someone connected with the MacNeil Clan has recently been on Pabhay inquiring about meself. Is that not so?”

Everard nodded. It was only reasonable to explain. “Aye.” He stood, his back to the fire so they could speak face-to-face. “What I learned is that as a lad ye were a close friend of the Lady Sorcha Comyn, daughter of the Laird Nicol Comyn of Freuchie Castle.”

Dùghall sighed. “Och. Ye’re cutting tae the bone already lad.” His eyes grew misty. “Sorcha Comyn was me true love. I’ve ne’er forgotten her, although she married me distant cousin, Murchadh, against her wishes.” His face darkened. “It is me suspicion that she met a tragic fate at the hands of this man.”

The MacKinnon’s remark gave Everard pause. He had already pointed the finger of suspicion at Murchadh for the sudden death of Davina’s mother. A grim possibility he might explore one day.

“I heard ye left yer home on Pabhay after Sorcha was wed and spent some years fighting against the English in France?”

“Mayhap that was a mistake. Had I but kent…” His eyes misted. “Before I departed Scotland fer France, I met with her and begged her tae leave that brute and accompany me. We could have lived abroad. France, Italy, Denmark. But she’d nae leave her wee son, Tòrr.”

“And, instead, ye made a cuckold of Murchadh and then left fer France.”

MacKinnon groaned. Leaning on his elbows he brushed his hands over his eyes. “I was a young fool and mad wi’ love fer the lass. Now that I’m a grey-hair and me blood has cooled, I see the foolishness of me actions.” He looked directly at Everard. “Mayhap if ye fall in love wi’ a lass, and yer world belongs to her and there is naught left fer ye, ye might understand me actions.”

Everard thought of his love for Davina and how willingly he had risked his life to save her from Murchadh Mackinnon and how he’d defied the Council’s wishes. His heart went out to Dùghall.

“Aye, I ken such a love.”

“After many years had passed and I returned tae Pabhay tae take up the lairdship after me father’s death, I sent a lad tae spy fer me. I wished tae learn if Sorcha was well and I entertained a faint hope that Murchadh may have met the kind of ugly fate he deserved and that me love was at last free. It was me fervent hope that someday we might wed.”

“And?” Everard rose and splashed their glasses with whisky again. He was already half-certain of Dùghall’s response.

“I learned that Sorcha had borne a daughter some months after the one and only time we shared the bliss of making love. I learned of Sorcha’s death.” Dùghall stared disconsolately into the rising flames. “I learned that me daughter with Sorcha was named Davina, and that she had been disowned by Murchadh as a bastard…”

Everard drew a sharp breath. “And ye believe Davina is yer true daughter?”

Dùghall nodded. “Aye, that I dae. Murchadh was away swearing his allegiance tae Edward Longshanks, the English King, when I was on Mull wi’ Sorcha. He was gone from the isle fer more than two months.” He grunted and when Everard looked at him, he saw tears trickling down the deep creases in the man’s cheeks. “There was nay possibility that Murchadh could be her faither.”

“And ye have come here, tae Castle Kiessimul, in search of yer daughter Davina?”

The Laird Dùghall nodded. “Me search over the years took me from Mull, where I was told initially that she had died drowned, tae the Priory at Iona. There were rumors that a girl had been brought there by the laird’s son around the same time of her death. Kenning me standing, the nuns admitted that Davina had spent almost a decade there but had just recently fled and was once again believed to have drowned. With a heavy heart, I returned again tae Mull, asking questions of anyone who would listen, hoping tae find out what had become of the lass I firmly believe is me daughter.

“After much investigating, I came upon a lass who told me a strange story of the Laird of the MacNeils and a lass rescued from drowning. She directed me tae the Widow Lachlan’s boarding house. The widow told me the story of how ye’d saved a wee lass. In me heart, I could only believe that lass ye saved was the one I sought.”

“And yer searching brought ye tae the Island of Barra.”

Dùghall nodded. “I think, by chance, I may have found the lass in the market at Castle Bay. I was so out of me mind at that moment, I simply let her disappear intae the crowd.”

“But ye found out she was most likely here, at Kiessimul Castle.”

“That is what has brought me here today. I have prayed that ye can set me mind tae rest and tell me that me daughter lives and is safe here wi’ ye.”

“Ye ken that the Laird Murchadh has made more than one attempt tae end her life? That is why she was hidden away at the Priory on Iona. Tae try and keep her safe from him.”

Dùghall shook his head. “I didnae ken such a thing fer certain but imagined that was the case. He is a monster. I’d put naething past him. The life of a wee lass would mean nothing tae him…”

It was at that moment, before Everard had even begun to think of whether it would be within the realm of sanity to allow Dùghall to meet Davina now, that the door burst open and she swept into the room, her sweet Feather clutched in her arms. Her hair was still a storm of wild curls down her back, she carried her trug full of flowers – daffodils, bluebells, buttercups and a scattering of the last of the snowdrops. He’d never seen her look so full of joy and never had she seemed more beautiful.

As she caught sight of Dùghall, she froze. Her greeting died on her lip as she looked from Everard to the MacKinnon, who had risen to his feet and turned toward her as she’d stepped into the solar.

MacKinnon seemed to stagger, reaching a hand to support himself on the back of the armchair. “Sorcha…” He fell back into the seat, ashen-faced, and snatched a bracing gulp of whisky, as Davina hurried forward.

“I apologize fer interrupting, I thought ye gentlemen where elsewhere… are ye all right, sir?” Her voice was filled with concern for the man who was so clearly unwell.

“Me apologies, lass. Fer one moment there it was yer maither I saw walk through that door.”

Davina threw him a look puzzlement. “Did ye ken me maither, the Lady Sorcha MacKinnon?”

“Come sit, me love.” Everard stood so that Davina could take his chair and crossed the room to bring another seat to the fireplace.

“There’s a story tae tell, me sweet Davina. Gird yer patience, fer ‘tis a long and winding tale, but one I believe ye’ll warm tae.”

Looking mystified, she gazed from Everard to Dùghall as she settled into her seat.

Everard lowered himself into the other chair next to Davina, and leaning forward, took both her hands in his. Beside them, Dùghall MacKinnon, was breathing slowly, as if attempting to calm himself before speaking again.

“There is something I must say tae ye both.” Everard glanced at Dùghall. “After I’ve said me piece, I will let ye tell the Lady Davina yer story and how it is entwined with that of Sorcha Comyn, who became Sorcha MacKinnon.”

Still holding Davina’s fingers curled in his hand, he took a deep steadying breath and it exhaled slowly.

“I have recently discovered that the lad who took ye tae the Priory at Iona was yer half-brother, Tòrr MacKinnon.”

“Me braither, surely, dearest.”

“Nay lass, that is what I must tell ye before the Laird Dùghall begins his tale. The monstrous Laird Murchadh MacKinnon is nay yer rightful faither.”

She gasped, her hand flying to her heart. “But…”

“I’ll say naught further now, yet I ken this tae be true. The man who treated ye so cruelly is nay yer faither .”

“But how…. who…?” She trailed off as Everard raised a hand.

“Now,” he said quietly, “I leave it tae ye, Laird Dùghall, tae tell the story of yerself and Sorcha and the love ye had fer each other.”

Folding his arms, he sat back in his chair. He was concerned for Davina, yet the time had at last come when all the pieces of her puzzling life must be brought together to make the whole.

Dùghall’s tale began when he, as a lad, was sent as a squire to Freuchie Castle.

Davina’s eyes sparkled when Dùghall described the lass who had won his heart from their first meeting. He glanced up at her as he spoke. “I see ye in her. Ye’ve the same green-flecked, golden eyes, the same glorious tresses.” He smiled faintly.

As his story progressed Davina’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, how sad!” she exclaimed when Dùghall told her how Sorcha’s father had insisted on a wedding to unite the power of the MacKinnons of Mull with the Comyn Clan.

At that point, Dùghall rose to his feet and stood by the fire, his shoulder against the mantel. “’Tis hard fer me tae tell this.” He turned his eyes to the flames, his chest rising and falling steadily before he swiveled to meet Davina’s gaze.

“I resolved tae leave Scotland, fer me love was lost and me heart broken. But I longed tae set me eyes on me true heart’s love one more time afore I travelled tae France, and perhaps tae convince her tae flee with me.”

Davina dabbed her tears with a linen cloth as she listened to the story of the last meeting between Sorcha and Dùghall, and his despair at the thought of never seeing his beloved again. He made it clear that when it came to the time of Davina’s birth, it was impossible for Murchadh to be her father as, counting back the months during which Sorcha was with child, Murchadh had been absent for some time in the court of the English King.

Now Davina was weeping silently into the linen kerchief.

Everard reached his hand and she clung to it.

At last, she raised her eyes to meet Dùghall’s. “So… it is ye… who I should now call Faither.”

She rose unsteadily to her feet as did Everard, who kept a strong grip on her arm.