Page 23 of Desiring the Highland Laird (Highland Destiny #1)

S ilence descended in the room as both Callum and Malcolm remained after the passing of their father. Neither said a word. Malcolm stood straight, unmoving, his hands clenched at his sides and his face stony.

“What did he mean there was someone willing to kill for the stone?” Malcolm said, breaking into the silence. “Someone else?”

Callum shook his head as if to say he didn’t know. He thought of the tapestries in Evie’s room and how they were changing, how the images were morphing as though showing the past history of the fabled keystone as well as the present with her falling from the sky.

He had no other explanation for that other than there were mystical forces at work. Mystical forces he had long denied.

He could no longer deny their existence, for Evie was here with him in the past.

Malcolm’s gaze was still on their father. “I will kill Rory MacDonald for what he’s done.”

“Aye, he will pay,” Callum agreed.

Malcolm charged toward the door. Seeing the look of fierce determination on his brother’s face, Callum stepped up to grab him by the arm and stop him.

“Where do ye think yer goin’?”

“To war, brother. I will rally the rest of the clan and pay MacDonald a visit.” Fire sparked in his brother’s eye. The same fire he, himself, felt.

“Nay, brother. We cannae attack.” When Malcolm started to protest, he said, “No the now. We must wait, lay Da to rest, and then rally the rest of the clansmen.”

He stared at him a long moment, and then seemed to relax his stance, releasing his clenched fists. His shoulders slumped as he gave him a stiff nod. “Aye, then. Yer laird now. I willna go against ye, brother. But Ian MacLeod needs to hear of this.”

He tugged his arm free and stomped from the room, slamming the door behind him.

Ian MacLeod was leader of Clan MacLeod and resided on the far reaches of the isle.

His brother was right in that their clan leader would need to know, and he would in time.

For now, he would find Dougal and ask him to prepare his da for burial.

He didn’t need to search for the man. When he opened the door to the bedchamber, he waited outside in the hallway, apprehension pinching his face.

“He’s gone, then?” the man asked.

Callum nodded, his jaw clenched as a sense of melancholy settled over him.

“Dinnae fash, my lord. I will take care of him.”

He patted Dougal on the shoulder. “Aye, ye have my thanks.”

“Yer lady waits for ye in yer chamber,” Dougal added.

He thought of Evie and her fiery red hair and flashing eyes.

Eyes that had mesmerized him from the first moment he looked into them.

How she had fretted over him, determined to clean the blood from his hands.

He glanced down and saw his skin was still stained with it, the grit and gore still under his fingernails.

Dougal didn’t wait for a reply as he entered the bedchamber that already smelled of death.

It turned his stomach. He headed down the hallway to his own bedchamber and pushed open the door.

Evie sprang to her feet from the chair by the fire, worry creasing her pretty features.

She clasped her hands in front of her, waiting for him to tell her.

But he didn’t. She knew by the look of him.

“Oh, Callum. I’m so sorry,” she said, her breath but a whisper.

The was a fire blazing in the hearth. With a weariness, he settled into the chair next to it, stretching his long legs out in front of him.

He heard water splashing in the basin and then she brought it over with clean linens.

She kneeled at his feet, dipping a cloth in the water.

He watched her with interest as she began to clean the dried blood from his hands.

“So much…” she whispered as the linen turned pink with every swipe. “Are you hurt?”

She glanced up at him, meeting his gaze. Firelight reflected in her deep brown eyes. The one gold fleck in her right eye seemed to wink back at him. Concern creased her face—concern for him. He shook his head to indicate he wasn’t hurt at all.

No, it was his da who had taken the great axe to the gut. His da who had shoved him out of the way when MacDonald charged toward him. His da who died to make sure he lived.

She went back to cleaning his hand, doing the best she could. When she had his right hand mostly cleaned, she dumped the water in the chamber pot and replaced it with fresh from the pitcher. Then she returned with a clean linen and started on his left hand.

“Ye dinnae need to do that,” he said, his voice gruff.

He wanted to pull away, to tell her to go back to her own room, but his voice faltered and his hands remained still.

He was reluctant to make her leave. Her touch was gentle, her hands soothing as she carefully cleaned his.

The soft cloth moved over his skin, her movements unhurried and full of care.

The warmth of her closeness and the care in her touch made him hesitate, lingering in the comfort she unknowingly offered.

“I know, but I want to.”

Surprise flickered through him. She wanted to?

He watched her as she dipped the cloth into the water, then held his hand in her small one while she dragged the cloth over his knuckles, revealing redness there.

Ah, yes. He had punched one of the MacDonald lads in the nose.

A young lad, too, by the looks of him. Young and green and not well versed in the ways of war or battle.

Callum had knocked the sword out of his hand and when he charged, thinking to fight him hand to hand, it had taken nothing more than one punch to lay him flat on the ground.

Silence hung between them, soft and heavy, like a comforting blanket.

The gentle trickle of water echoed through the quiet room, mingling with the steady crackle of the fire as flames flickered and danced in the hearth.

The warmth from the fire washed over him, a soothing contrast to the cool air.

As she continued to tend to him, her touch careful and reassuring, a deep sense of peace settled in his chest. The gratitude swelled inside him, warming him more than the fire—grateful for her presence, grateful he didn’t have to face this moment alone.

He dared not speak of his da yet. He wasn’t ready to discuss it with her or anyone else. While Malcolm channeled his grief through fighting and war, Callum was a different sort. He preferred to brood in silence alone.

And yet, he wasn’t alone.

He had spent the long days after his mother’s and sister’s deaths quiet and alone, preferring the company of his horse to anyone.

All of this could have been avoided had Jamie not been such a lascivious knave. Why couldn’t he marry the girl to keep the peace?

When Evie finished her task, she sat back on her heels and looked up at him. “There. Not perfect but better.” A faint smile fluttered over her pretty face.

There was still blood under his nails. Still, he appreciated her.

She rose and dumped the bloody water into the chamber pot as she did before. Then she picked up the soiled linens, tucking them under her arm. She picked up the bowl and the pitcher.

“I’ll leave you be, now,” she said, heading for the door.

“Ye dinnae have to,” he heard himself say.

This stopped her in her tracks as she came even with his chair. She tipped her head down to look at him, curiosity and question in her eyes.

“I should let you rest and…be with your thoughts. Besides, I need to clean these.”

“It isna necessary now, lass.”

He wasn’t sure what he was thinking. Perhaps his mind was too mottled with grief and despair to think about it. But he rose from the chair and turned to her, taking the items out of her hands and placing them on the floor at their feet. Then he tugged away the linens, dropping them too.

It was easy to see how her chest rose and fell with each quickened breath. Her cheeks were pink as she looked up at him and he thought he saw her hands shaking.

“Did you…want me to stay?”

He wasn’t sure what he wanted. On the other side of the room was another chair.

He went to it, dragging it toward the hearth and placing it across from the one he had vacated.

He motioned her to it. Without a word, she sat, smoothing her skirt under her as she did so.

She crossed her feet at the ankles, perching on the edge, and placing her hands in her lap. An expectant look crossed her face.

He sat across from her, frowning and staring into the fire, which was starting to die. He reached for a small brick of peat and tossed it on, watching the flames reignite. She remained silent, waiting for him to say something. Anything.

But he didn’t know what to say.

“When Hamish is laid to rest,” he said finally, “I will ride out to speak with the clan leader.” He cut her a glance, meeting her gaze. “Will ye come with me?”

Her face remained impassive for a long moment until she finally nodded. “If that’s what you wish.” Then she gave him a ghost of a smile. “It will give me a chance to practice my riding skills.”

He turned back to the fire, his hands resting on the arms of the chair to keep from reaching for her. All he wanted to do was run his fingers through those fiery locks, letting the strands fall through his fingers like the day when she arrived and he had held her close.

“Callum,” she said, her voice soft. “Is there anything I can do?”

He gave her a questioning look.

She spread her hands. “To help.”

His initial thought was to say no, but when he looked at her, her expression one of concern and care, he changed his mind. “Stay with me here.”

She nodded, though he saw the apprehension in her face.

He wasn’t sure why. Mayhap she worried staying would bother him in some way.

Or that being in the same room with him would not be wise.

He was aware of the fact she didn’t return to his room the night before.

That she had stayed in the guest bedchamber with the tapestries.