Page 19 of Mist Warrior (Legacy of the Mist Clans #1)
Six Months Later
“Branan, are you sure you want to do this?” Catriona asked worriedly as she fought to keep up with him. Her belly was becoming cumbersome with their growing babe. She paused for a moment, trying to catch her breath, and received a good kick in the ribs for her efforts.
“I told ye,” Branan said gently, as he walked back and took her hand. “Ye didna have to come with me.”
Catriona rolled her eyes at him and he helped her over a rough part of the trail.
The overgrown path turned slightly and Catriona’s gaze locked on the reason for their journey. Her mouth went dry as she stared at two weathered headstones. Branan led her forward, his stride resolute, but his face was pale and his jaw set too tightly for her liking.
“Branan—”
He shook his head. “Ye ken I’ve put this off for too long.”
She sighed and said nothing more.
They stopped before the headstones and Catriona felt tears prick her eyes. Branan released her and knelt before them, resting a handful of flowers on his mother’s grave.
Catriona also carried flowers, two white roses, which she had cut from the gardens of Penrith. Branan helped her kneel. She placed one rose on Raina’s grave then placed the second on Raulf’s.
“Thank you both,” she whispered. “For the gift of your son.”
Branan helped her regain her feet. She stood still for a moment, her breath evading her, her hands supporting her swollen belly.
“Are ye all right?” Branan asked, his arms moving to encircle her from behind. He placed one hand on her belly.
Again the child kicked—hard.
Catriona gasped and Branan’s eyes widened. “Glory, lass.”
“Our babe does not enjoy so much activity.”
Branan’s expression turned stricken. “I told ye—”
She turned in his arms and quickly touched her fingers to his lips, silencing him. “You know activity is good for both of us. You hired the best midwife to tell you everything I have always said.”
His worried expression eased only slightly. “Aye.”
“It matters not the abuse my insides are suffering, remember the midwife also told us that a kicking babe is a strong one.”
He smiled and kissed her brow, then looked back at the graves. “Why did ye gift a flower to my father?”
“Because I wanted to thank him too.”
His sea-green eyes sparked with a radiant fire. “Careful, lass, ye may spoil me.”
“You are already spoiled.”
“Och, lassie, now ye wound me. Be easy on my battered pride.”
She rolled her eyes again.
Branan placed another gentle kiss on her brow, then slowly turned to face the graves, sighing heavily.
“Would you like to be alone?”
“Nay,” he whispered, holding her hand. “I need ye here, beside me.” Branan knelt before the graves and slowly drew his gleaming claymore.
A memory intruded on Catriona’s thoughts, of standing in the chapel, Branan kneeling before the priest and offering the weapon. The priest anointing it with holy water, murmuring the blessings of Saint Michael, purifying the blade of the innocent blood it had claimed.
Carefully, Branan rested the hilt on his father's grave so the blade lay across it and touched his mother’s.
He took a deep, shuddering breath. “Mother, Father, I have succeeded,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. “I have reclaimed what is mine and found justice.” His voice broke, and he took a deep breath to steady it. “I miss ye.”
Catriona covered her mouth, her throat and her heart aching.
Branan touched the hilt of his claymore, the gold wedding ring glittering on his finger. “But I have achieved more than that. I truly found my heritage and the legacy you left for me. Not in land or title, not in possessions or gold, but in discovering the love you shared. I have found the strength of soul.” For a long moment, he remained silent, staring at the graves, then bowed his head, his body quivering.
Catriona felt a hot tear slide down her check. She touched Branan’s head, her fingers stroking his thick, glossy black hair .
He looked up at her, his sea-green eyes turbulent and shimmering like the ocean. His lips lifted as he caught her hand and kissed it, then turned back to the graves.
“Now ’tis I who look forward to the birth of my bairn. I will make one last promise to ye. My son shall bear the MacTavish claymore in courage and honor. And mother...” Branan paused, smiling brightly. “He shall hear the stories of the chivalrous knight and his beloved lady every evening.” He paused again, inhaling deeply. “May ye both finally find peace and love in the arms of the Almighty,” he whispered.
Slowly, Branan rose and picked up his claymore. Catriona watched him uncertainly as he returned it to its scabbard. He took her hand in his once more. He kissed her cheek and smiled. “I have walked the path, Catriona. Now ’tis time for me to turn to a new road.”
She grinned up at him and he led her away. As they walked back, Catriona frowned, thinking on his words.
“Branan?”
“Aye, lass.”
“Telling our child the stories, I can understand. But what about the sword?”
“What of it?”
“What if this babe is a girl?”
Branan chuckled, a deep rumble in his chest, and winked at her. “Then the lass had better be as good at wielding a sword as ye are with a bow.”