Claimed by the Highlander (35 page)

Angus shook his head in disbelief. “Even after what your brother—and your own mother!—did to you? How they used you, Gwendolen?”

She answered without the slightest hesitation. “Aye, because what is the alternative? To give up on trust completely? People make mistakes sometimes, but if we care about someone, and he or she is truly remorseful, then we must forgive. And occasionally, a second chance is all that’s required for true redemption. You of all people should know that.”

He inhaled sharply. “Does your brother not deserve a second chance? Or do you offer your forgiveness selectively?”

“He tried to kill you, Angus, and I believe if given the chance, he would do it again. So there are limits to my forgiving nature. My brother feels no remorse. That is how I know I am doing the right thing. He is not the man I once thought him to be.”

They stood apart in the prison cell for a long time, saying nothing. After a while, Angus realized that the fiery rage he had experienced earlier was gone, and he felt a great admiration for his wife.

He was quite certain now that he believed her about the wine and everything else, but he wasn’t sure why he had been so blessed to have claimed such a woman as a wife. He did not feel worthy of her.

Perhaps that’s what was holding him back. Or was it something else? Perhaps he was simply incapable of giving his heart to another person. Perhaps it was too deeply scarred, and there was no hope of absolute, fearless love. Not ever. Perhaps this was the best he could do—to love cautiously.

He thought of his mother just then, and experienced a jarring flash memory of her face as she lay dead in the snow. He was only four years old when she was taken from him.

His eyes fell to Gwendolen’s abdomen, where his own child was growing in her womb. Somehow he knew this child would be brave and strong and sensible. How could he, or she, be anything but, with this woman for a mother?

He gazed serenely at Gwendolen from across the distance of the room. “You are free to go,” he said. “I’ll not keep you locked up.”

“Thank you, I suppose.”

He turned from the room and instructed the guard not to bar the door behind him, for his wife would be returning to her own private apartments. Then he descended the stairs and headed for the treasury. He needed to speak to Gordon MacEwen and send an important dispatch.

An hour later, after the battering ram was removed from the drawbridge and the debris from the broken gate was cleared away, Angus stood on the rooftop, watching his dispatch carrier leave the castle. The young clansman trotted over the bridge and broke into a gallop on the midday field. He circled around to the east, in the direction of Fort William.

Angus walked along the stone battlements, watching the clansman grow distant, and already, he felt impatient for his return.

Chapter Thirty-one

Gwendolen pulled off her shoes and stockings and sat down at the small table in her bedchamber, which she had dragged closer to the fire. A kitchen maid had delivered supper on a tray. It was a tasty meal of rabbit stew with chunks of hearty bread for dipping, and sweet fig pastries for dessert, but her appetite was sparse, for her mind was consumed by thoughts of Angus and what had passed between them that day.

She was angry with him. There was a part of her that wanted to shout and scream at him, and call him a fool for assuming the worst about her and failing to see the love she bore him.

The other, less volatile part of her understood why he was so guarded. Her family
had
tried to poison him after all. On top of that, he had lived a violent life, and not only had he witnessed considerable cruelties, he had inflicted a great deal of cruelty upon others. He was fierce, vicious, and brutal, and openly admitted that he had done things he was not proud of. Because of all that, he was damaged—which was why she felt she must be patient and allow him some time to accept the idea that she would never intentionally cause him pain.

A knock sounded at the door, and she sat forward in the chair, her heart beating fast. Was it too much to hope that Angus had come at last to reconcile?

She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin and struggled not to get her hopes up. Pushing her chair back, she rose and padded across the plank floor. “Who is it?”

“It’s Mother.”

Gwendolen sucked in a breath of surprise, then quickly opened the door. “You’ve returned. What happened? Did you bring the English army with you? Please tell me that you didn’t change your mind about—”

Her mother entered and shut the door behind her. “Nay, I didn’t change my mind, and aye, we brought the English army. Colonel Worthington is here, and they are taking Murdoch into custody now.” Her eyes darkened with remorse. “But I don’t know if I will be able to live with myself, Gwendolen. What have I done? He is my only son.”

Gwendolen recognized the depth of her mother’s sacrifice and took her into her arms. “It cannot have been easy, but you did the right thing. Murdoch would have dragged us all into a hopeless war for his own selfish gains. You have saved many lives and ensured peace for our clan. It’s what Father would have wanted. He never believed in the Jacobite cause. He was a Hanoverian.” Gwendolen stepped back and looked into her mother’s eyes.

Onora wiped a tear from her cheek.

“Come and sit down,” Gwendolen said. “Tell me everything. What news is there of Lachlan? Did he return with you?”

Onora sat before the fire. “Aye. He’s with Angus and Worthington now. They are discussing everything over a bottle of whisky. As it turns out, your husband sent a dispatch to the fort, confirming what we already told Worthington about Murdoch, and we crossed the rider’s path on our way here. The colonel sent his army back to the fort and pushed on with a smaller number of men to arrest Murdoch. It seemed all the hard work of breaking down the gate had already been done.”

“Indeed it was.” And now Angus would know that she had been telling the truth about sending Lachlan to Fort William. “Have you heard anything of Raonaid?” Gwendolen asked. “No one has seen her since Angus escaped.”

“I’ve heard nothing, except that she promised to curse Lachlan for taking Angus away from her in the first place.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, each reflecting upon the events of the past week.

“What happened between you and Lachlan over the past few days?” Gwendolen asked. “Did he forgive you for what happened in the passageway?”

Onora looked down at her hands on her lap. “He was upset with me, to be sure. As soon as we were out of sight of the castle, I thought he was going to wring my neck. Thankfully he kept his mind fixed on escaping and helping Angus reclaim Kinloch. By the time we sneaked away and made it as far as the forest, he was grateful for my assistance at least. As for gaining his forgiveness … Well…” Onora shook her head. “He has accepted my apology. That will have to be enough.”

Gwendolen poured her mother a cup of wine and gave her a moment to compose her emotions. “Is there no hope at all for something more between you? Perhaps someday in the future?”

Onora looked as if she had already given that question ample consideration and had made peace with the answer.

“None, darling,” she replied. “There is absolutely none, and strangely I am not heartbroken. I have, after all, done something brave this week. I stood up to my son.” She lowered her eyes to her lap. “I hope Murdoch will see the error in his ways and become a better man. It is possible, I believe, because I have just discovered that there may be something more to me than looks alone. I am beginning to understand that I do not always have to rely on my feminine charms to exert some influence in the world. I never believed it before, but I believe it now. People can change.” She glanced up at Gwendolen and managed a small smile. “Perhaps I, too, will learn how to handle a claymore.”

Gwendolen regarded her mother with a smile and raised her goblet into the air.

*   *   *

That night, the lion came to Gwendolen in her dreams—a beautiful golden spirit stalking across a lush green meadow. He sat down in the tall grass and waited for her to approach.

Gwendolen knelt down and smiled, and stroked his soft, tawny mane. The lion sniffed her ear and nuzzled her neck.

“I don’t know why you are so angry with me,” she said. “I didn’t do anything wrong.” Then he roared in her face. It was so loud, she felt it rumble in her chest and had to cover her ears and shut her eyes.

Gwendolen sat up and looked around her bedchamber. Everything was dark. Her heart was racing. “Angus? Are you here?”

But the door was shut. The room was silent. She laid her head back down on the pillow, and tried to go back to sleep.

*   *   *

Murdoch MacEwen was removed from Kinloch Castle the following day in a secured prison carriage. Gwendolen stood at the battlements over the East Tower, watching as her brother was taken away, escorted by Colonel Worthington, a few mounted officers, and a small company of foot soldiers.

A part of her felt unspeakably ashamed, for she had orchestrated the capture and arrest of her own brother. The more logical side of her knew, however, that it had been the right choice. Tragedy would have befallen their clan had she allowed Murdoch to continue toward his selfish ambitions of securing a dukedom for himself. She had to think of the welfare of her people, as well as her unborn child, and there was never any doubt in her mind that she was absolutely, unconditionally loyal to her husband.

She hoped that one day Angus would come to appreciate that fact and understand that she wanted the same things he did. Peace, most importantly. She had, after all, sacrificed her brother for it.

“I have it now,” a voice said, behind her.

Startled, she swung around to find herself gazing at her husband, the great Scottish Lion. His hair was tied back in a neat queue. He wore a clean white shirt, and the brooch that was pinned to his tartan was polished to a fine, bright sheen.

“What is it, exactly, that you have?” she asked, determined to challenge him, for he had certainly challenged her in recent days.

“Proof. Proof of your loyalty to Kinloch. And to me.” He strode closer, slowly, and a warm breeze lifted a lock of his hair that had fallen forward at his temple.

“How wonderful for you,” Gwendolen coolly replied. “Now you can rest easy at night knowing your wife isn’t going to poison you, or dirk you in your sleep.”

She saw a spark of amusement flash across his eyes. It was not something she’d expected, nor had she seen it often in the past. He was a very menacing sort of man, most of the time.

“Unless I take up with Raonaid again, or some other woman,” he added, seeming quite determined to correct her on that point. “You threatened me once about that, if I recall, and I took you seriously, lass.”

She strolled closer to him. “Ah yes, I remember. It was after you raised my skirts and had me on top of a desk. It was not our finest hour, Angus. You had just accused me of lying about carrying your child, and you suspected me of plotting your death.”

“But you enjoyed the lively shagging, didn’t you?” he asked, ignoring all the rest. “I’m quite sure you did.”

They stood before each other on the rooftop, barely a foot apart, and Gwendolen wondered if it was possible for a woman to collapse from the overwhelming effect of conflicting emotions—for despite everything, her husband was still the most beautiful, fascinating man alive, and she would have done anything at that moment just to touch him.

“Maybe I did enjoy it,” she said, “but the fact remains, you thought the worst of me. You did not believe I was loyal. You later thought I knowingly gave you poisoned wine when I did no such thing. I would never have done that, and I told you so, but still—you could not trust me.”

His thick, broad chest expanded with a deep intake of breath, then he drew his sword. Gwendolen stepped back, unnerved by the threatening sight of Angus the Lion, looking as if he were preparing to engage in battle. To her surprise, he dropped to one knee and rested the point of his sword on the stone floor in front of him. He gripped the hilt in both hands.

“I am Angus Bradach MacDonald,” he softly said, “and I pledge my allegiance to you, Gwendolen MacEwen—my wife, mother of my child. I was wrong to doubt you.”

He closed his eyes, as if he was waiting for something.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked. “Tap you on the shoulder and say that you are forgiven?”

He looked up. “Aye, that would do.”

She frowned and smacked him across the side of the head. “Are you mad? I did nothing but pledge allegiance to you repeatedly and satisfy you in bed—also repeatedly. I was fertile enough to make you an expectant father after a mere month of marriage, and still, was that enough? No. I admit, my mother was a devious vixen and my brother was a self-seeking scoundrel, but
never
did I do anything to betray you. I was a good wife, who was deceived, just as you were. Yet you treated me like a woman deserving of punishment. You locked me up like a criminal and didn’t believe me when I told you I was innocent. Bluidy well right, you are on your knees now! I ought to tell you to stay there for a year!”

Her husband looked up at her with surprise, then his lips widened into a smile, and he bent forward, laughing.