Page 4 of The Story of his Highland Bride (Dancing Through Time #4)
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“ H ave ye ants under yer kilt or somethin’? We’re supposed to be suppin’ a warmin’ drink together, and now I’m afeared ye’ll wear a hole in the stone and fall through it!” Jackson’s grandmother scolded from her armchair in the ironically named ‘Sun Room.’ Lorraine Buchanan was a fierce, hardy, and amusing woman who had reached the ripe old age of seventy without so much as a cold.
Jackson halted, only half aware that he had been pacing back and forth. “Sorry, Nan. I’ve a lot on me mind.”
“As all ye fine and noble Lairds do, but when it’s our time together, ye sit and spend that time with me, nay on whatever ledgers and tithes and wars are knockin’ about in yer head.” His grandmother took a pointed sip of her spiced plum tea. “Unless, there’s somethin’ fairer snatchin’ away me only grandson’s attention, eh?” She winked, gaining a withering look for her less-than-discreet remark.
“If ye’re speakin’ of the lass, ye’re clawin’ up the wrong tree,” he retorted. “Well, ye’re nae, but it’s nae what ye think it is.”
He had not stopped thinking of the blood-red mark since leaving the hallway outside Eloise’s bedchamber, two hours ago. It haunted him, not least because of the location of it. Of course, he’d seen plenty of gruff old warriors, and even a couple of equally gruff old female warrioresses, who had the mark of the old ways marking their bodies and faces, but they were marks with a purpose he understood. Moreover, they were imprinted on the skin of Scots, not a peculiar Englishwoman.
And the Scots who wear those marks with pride are takin’ their lives into their own hands, with priests like Father Hepburn on the hunt for anythin’… ungodly. Jackson scratched his stubbled chin in confusion, for the placement of Eloise’s mark seemed deliberately hidden; not something that his eyes were supposed to see. If Kaitlyn and Old Joan had seen it too, they would not say a word, but the longer Eloise remained in the castle, the risk of gossip spreading would increase.
“She’s very pretty,” his grandmother said, grabbing his attention.
“Pardon?”
“The lass. She’s very pretty. Spied her from me window, wonderin’ what could have kept me grandson out until all hours of the night. Once I saw her, I needed nay explanation,” his grandmother explained, with a mischievous grin creasing the wrinkles of her wise face. “Och, and Lennox couldn’ae keep his mouth shut. Told me ye’d found her on the road with a nasty blow to the head, and that she’d fainted from the fright of havin’ a sword to her neck. Ye ken what I’ve told ye about pokin’ with yer blade first, Jackson! Poor lass must’ve been terrified out of her wits.”
Jackson went to sit in the spare armchair, though he doubted he would be able to stay still for long. “If ye’d been there, ye would’ve drawn yer sword first and asked questions second.”
“I wouldn’ae. I could never grip a sword right,” his grandmother replied, pouring more of the spiced plum tea from the cast iron kettle on the table beside her. “It’s a queer time for a lass like that to stumble into yer path, though, is it nae?”
Jackson concentrated on his own tea, fixing his gaze out the window, where a light rain had begun to spit from the morning’s stampede of bruised clouds. “Why do ye say that?”
“Ye ken why,” his grandmother replied, in a softer voice. “The anniversary is drawin’ near, and usually, by this time in the season, ye’ve retreated into yerself like a snail into its shell. Ye were on yer way to withdrawin’ when I saw ye yesterday but, today, ye’ve… purpose in yer stride and life in yer eyes.”
Jackson frowned at the raindrops that chased one another down the windowpane, wondering if that could be true. His grandmother was right in that he usually spent the month of December in a hermit-like seclusion, while she took care of the festive gatherings and feasts in his absence, but after meeting Eloise upon the road, his mind had filled with her instead of his seasonal grief.
It'll come, though, once she’s gone, he told himself. And she needs to be gone soon.
“If I were a religious woman, and ye ken I pick and choose when there’s nay priest around to call me a heretic, I’d say that lass was sent to ye by the Lord Himself,” his grandmother declared, with a triumphant sip of her tea. “Or the Old Gods. Now, they have always worked in mysterious ways. It’s why I like ‘em so much. Ye never ken what they’ll do next.”
Jackson snorted into his tea. “Aye, it’s more likely to be the devil.”
“Wisht, ye’ve men in black garb all across this country that would tell ye, with all the strength of their self-importance, that our Old Gods are the devil,” his grandmother shot back, with a sour expression upon her face. “But, let me tell ye, nay one has ever burned a pretty young lass at the stake in the name of our Old Gods, just because she has a way with healin’ or a keen intelligence or she saved a bairn from dyin’ or someone happened to take ill while she was walkin’ by. Most of the time, there’s nothin’ witchy about the lasses—it’s just the spite of a spurned man.”
A light of worrying possibility flared in Jackson’s mind, as he thought of the Old Gods, and the tales that his mother and grandmother used to weave for him when he was a child. They always spoke of the Aos-sídhe —the Fairies of Scotland, otherwise considered the divinities of the country before Christianity swept through.
Is that what Eloise’s ‘A’ represents? His heart lurched into his throat, for if she belonged to those who still worshipped the old ways in secret, bad fortune would befall him if he did not protect her. Perhaps, that was why she had been wandering in such garish attire, not to hide but so she would be seen. A test of sorts, like those that his mother and grandmother told him of in the old myths and legends of Scotland.
And she said she came from Clava Cairns… that site, even now, was known to harbor the magic of the old ways. So much so, that Father Hepburn had long hoped to destroy it, and would have done, if the people had not insisted that it was not Christian to raze a burial ground to dust. Even an unhallowed one.
“What happens if ye daenae offer guest rites to one of the Aos-sídhe, or a disciple of theirs ? ” he asked absently, more to himself than to his grandmother, as he tried to remember his childhood stories. Some had been grislier than others.
His grandmother gave a low whistle. “A bad harvest, a plague, the crumbling of castles, war—ye name it, those vengeful spirits will do it if they’re nae satisfied with the rites they’ve been offered. I still leave out a saucer of milk and a nip of somethin’ strong for the wee creatures, just in case they pass by.” She tapped the side of her nose. “But if Father Hepburn ever asks, it’s for the cats. What made ye ask that, all of a sudden?”
“Nothin’,” Jackson lied, knowing his grandmother could see right through him.
Still, she did not press him for an answer; she merely returned to sipping her tea and said, “If ye think one has wandered into this castle, ye’d best treat her like the goddess she might well be workin’ for. Or on yer own head, and ours, be it.”