Highland Groom (13 page)

"Said something insulting or just plain ignorant, did ye?" asked Connor.

"I thought ye were leaving," grumbled Diarmot.

Connor grunted, draped his arm around Gillyanne's shoulders, and started to escort her to the cart readied for her. "I think ye had more than your memory knocked out of ye. Seem to have lost what few manners ye had, as weel."

Diarmot ignored that since the rebuke was earned. He busied himself with the final farewells. The moment his family left, Gay and Fraser took the children back inside. Sigimor and Tait headed toward the stables after assuring Nanty they would bring his mount out to him. Diarmot frowned at his brother when Nanty stood in front of him with his arms crossed over his broad chest. All amusement had faded from Nanty's face and he looked nearly as disgusted as the women had.

"Where are the three of ye going?" Diarmot asked, hoping to divert the lecture he knew Nanty wanted to give him.

"Hunting," Nanty replied.

"We have enough meat."

"Nay that sort of hunting. We are seeking the who and the why behind your beating as I told ye we would. Ye think someone wants ye dead, and we are trying to find out if ye are right. Of course, if ye continue to act like such a fool, the number of your enemies could swiftly grow." He grinned suddenly. "Ye could be courting a wee pointy elbow in the groin."

Since Nanty appeared to be completely on the side of the Camerons, Diarmot did not bother to point out, yet again, that they should also be considered suspects. "The woman has a bad temper."

"I suspect most of it comes from your skill at stirring it to life with a barrage of insults." Nanty shook his head. "Your idiocy could soon cost ye a verra fine wife. I just pray the Camerons and I can find the true enemy ere ye succeed in making Ilsa one, too."

Diarmot watched Nanty stride off to join the Camerons and ride out of Clachthrom. It stung to see how well his brother got on with Ilsa's brothers. He felt both jealous and a little betrayed. Even if Nanty did not agree with his doubts about the Camerons, he could at least attempt to keep a cautious eye on the brothers. Reluctantly, Diarmot admitted to himself that he sorely missed the camaraderie Nanty was now enjoying. Except for a rare time or two with his brothers, Diarmot realized he had become very much alone since his ill-fated marriage.

Anabelle had started to isolate him, although he suspected that had not been her intention. Her attempts to seduce his brothers had caused them such discomfort their visits had grown less frequent and shorter. He had taken fewer journeys for Anabelle would shame him wherever he went, and, if he tried to leave her behind, she had followed only to behave even more outrageously.

Diarmot knew he had also become an angry, bitter man, and poor company. And considering how many men Anabelle had bedded, there were many who found it uncomfortable to be near him, unable to look in the eye a man they had cuckolded.

Somehow he was going to have to shake free of all that, he decided as he turned to go back into the keep only to come face-to-face with his son Odo. The little boy stood with his hands on his hips, scowling up at him. One thing had certainly changed since Ilsa's arrival, he mused as he clasped his hands behind his back and calmly met the child's belligerent look. His children were no longer unseen and unheard.

"I dinnae think ye should be out here all on your own, lad," he said.

"Aunt Fraser said I could come talk to ye," replied Odo. "Mama and Aunt Gay are busy in Mama's solar and Aunt Fraser is watching us rest. The others are resting, but I needed to talk to ye."

"Ah, and what would ye like to say?"

"What did ye do to make Mama hit ye? Were ye mean to her?"

Noting how the boy now held his two small fists up before him, Diarmot realized that he was in danger of changing from the father who had little to do with his children, to the enemy. For a moment he blamed Ilsa for that, but his own strong sense of justice would not allow him to cling to that unfair judgment. If his children found it easy to see him as the enemy, it was his own fault. He was too much the stranger to them, had left them to the care of others. Ilsa, on the other hand, had become their mother, and even he could not deny the honesty of her care for them.

"Have ye come to defend her?" he asked.

"Aye, she is my mama. We have ne'er had one before and, if ye are too mean to her, she might go away."

"Weel, I deserved the punch, but adults of times make each other angry. It doesnae mean Ilsa will leave. Ye want her to stay, do ye?" Odo's belligerent stance eased slightly and Diarmot decided the boy had accepted that explanation.

"Aye," replied Odo. "She is a true mama. She talks to us, and plays with us, and tells us stories, and," he grimaced, "she kisses us a lot. I dinnae want her to go away. I want her to stay," he stood up very straight and his expression bore the hint of martyrdom, "e'en if she keeps kissing me."

It took a moment for Diarmot to control his urge to laugh, then he said, "She is my wife. She will stay." He put a hand on Odo's shoulder and turned the boy toward the keep. "Now, I shall take ye back to Fraser." He frowned slightly as, taking the child by the hand, he started back toward the keep. "Did ye ne'er consider Mistress Fraser as a mother?"

"Nay. She said she was only the nursemaid. Now she is our aunt."

Diarmot nodded, understanding that the woman had felt it best to keep her position clear, for she could not be sure if he would take a new wife. Allowing the children to see her as their mother could easily have caused strife within the household when and if there was a new lady of the keep. He knew Margaret would not have cared what position Fraser took with the children, probably would not have even cared if Fraser had taken his brood far away and never returned.

The fact that he knew, without any doubt, that Margaret would have been as uncaring a mother as Anabelle had been, proved it. Since one of the reasons he had stated for marrying again was to get a mother for his children, he had to wonder what he had been thinking of to choose Margaret.

Ilsa had been thrust upon him, claiming a past and promises he could not remember, yet she was proving to be a very good mother to his children. He doubted he could have chosen a better one. Ilsa did not berate him to his children, as far as he could tell, and she did not take her anger at him out on his children, either. She might scorn him for his licentious behavior which had led to their birth, but she treated the children themselves exactly as she treated her own sons. Despite all of the other problems besetting him and Ilsa, it appeared he had inadvertently gotten one thing he had been seeking--a mother for his children.

He quietly entered the nursery, looking around as he released Odo's hand.

This room, too, had been changed a little. Fraser had made it clean and comfortable, more so than many another room in the keep, but it had still been a little stark, Ilsa was making her mark here as well. He could not name each change precisely, save for noting cushions on benches and a few wall hangings, but the room was definitely softer, more cheerful and welcoming.

Even though he told himself to leave, that he had a lot of work to do, Diarmot moved toward the twins. The babies were sprawled on their backs on a soft pallet near Fraser's chair, awake but looking sleepy. One just stared at him and the other smiled. Finlay was the smiling one, he decided. He recalled Gillyanne's description of the differences in the boys' nature and was a little surprised at how clearly he could see it now. It was almost as if Cearnach waited and watched before giving his approval whereas Finlay simply accepted most everyone. Although it seemed foolish to credit such small children with those attributes, Diarmot could not easily scoff aside his impression.

Nor could he ignore how greatly those big eyes resembled his. Diarmot knelt by the twins, reached out to touch Finlay's curls and sighed with resignation when the baby grabbed one of his fingers and shoved it in his mouth. He glanced up at Fraser who was grinning as widely as Odo who now sat on her lap.

"Go lie down now, Odo," Fraser said. She gave the child a kiss, set him on his feet, and gently nudged him toward his bed at the far end of the room. "I hope Odo didnae trouble ye too much, m'laird."

"Nay," replied Diarmot. "One cannae fault the wee lad for the reasons he came to speak to me." He watched how the twins followed the conversation with their eyes. "They appear to be bright lads despite Finlay's compulsion to see near everything at hand as food."

Fraser chuckled softly. "Aye, they are. Bright and strong. Do ye still wonder if they are yours?"

"I sometimes wonder if any of them are truly mine," he murmured, then grimaced, wondering if he sounded as petulant as he thought he did. "Ah, weel, they are certainly all mine now, aye?"

"Aye, m'laird. Tis my feeling that they are all yours. Most women, e'en those of easy virtue, ken who fathered their bairns. Most arenae as Anabelle was, left with too many choices to be certain. These two laddies are most certainly yours, though I ken twill take more than my word on it to convince ye."

Since Finlay had fallen asleep, Diarmot gently extracted his finger and stood up. "Aye, it will. And, as for the rest of them, I fear their mothers might have had the same reason to doubt as Anabelle did."

"Mayhap. Most of that sort dinnae bother kenning names or faces and dinnae trouble themselves with the fates of their wee ones, however." Fraser returned her attention to the small shirt she was mending. "Lady Ilsa isnae like that and I think ye ken it. She wouldnae have to puzzle o'er who fathered these dear bairns for a moment. Lady Ilsa isnae like those other women and ne'er could be."

"How can ye be so certain of that?"

"Because I lived with one of that ilk, m'laird."

"So did I."

"Aye, ye did, but I wonder if ye truly learned the right lessons from that misery."

Diarmot snorted. "I learned ne'er to trust any lass, especially nay one who stirs my blood."

Fraser sighed but did not look at him. "Tis as I feared. Ye brand all for the sins of one."

There really was no response to make to that so Diarmot left the nursery. It was a cowardly retreat, but he did not falter in making it. Fraser was not so many years older than he, but she displayed a true skill at making him feel like a foolish child. She could also quickly and precisely ferret out the truth of a person's heart, which was another good reason for him to get away from her. His heart was filled with far too many tangled, conflicting emotions at the moment to allow anyone to stare into it.

Once inside his ledger room, he poured himself a tankard of wine, and sat in a high-backed chair before the fireplace. It was a moment of glaring into the low fire and sipping his wine before he noticed the heavily carved oak chair he sat on was a lot more comfortable than it had ever been before. He looked to see what he sat on, then studied its match on the other side of the chest he used as a table. There were cushions on the seats and a thick, soft sheepskin draped over the back of each chair. Ilsa was obviously not satisfied altering the rest of the keep to her tastes; she had entered his sanctuary. Diarmot wondered if she had spent her youth plucking bald every goose in Scotland and was now turning to skinning the sheep.

Diarmot slouched in his chair and drank his wine. He was sulking and he knew it. He also knew he was being unreasonable. The chair was comfortable and the needlework upon the cushions was exquisite. The design was of a large griffin encircled by thistles, not some far too feminine display of flowers. It was foolish to feel as if she had unforgivably intruded. Complaining about it would only make him look petulant. It was his wife's job, after all, to make her husband's home more comfortable, more elegant and welcoming. Considering how often he retreated into this room, he did wonder when she had managed to change it without him discovering it until now.

He had a brief vision of Ilsa lurking outside the room, waiting until he left, then dashing in to toss cushions about and he smiled. And hang tapestries, he thought, as he finally noticed the one over the fireplace. Diarmot frowned slightly as he looked around seeing two others, one behind his ledger table and one on a wall near the door. Where was the woman finding all of these things? He did not recall her bringing that many chests of goods with her.

A rap at his door drew his attention and he called out, "Enter."

His man Geordie walked in, smiling faintly as he looked around. "Tis looking verra fine in here, m'laird," he said as he shut the door behind him. "S'truth, the entire keep begins to look verra fine."

"Aye, my wife has been verra busy indeed," he murmured. "I was just wondering where the devil it was all coming from."

"Ah, weel, from a storage room down in the dungeons. Tis a perilous warren of passages and rooms down below. Her ladyship insisted upon wandering through it all and found a veritable treasure trove."

"No one has e'er made mention of it."

"We all thought ye kenned it, but wouldnae touch it because it had been gathered by your uncle. The mon gathered up many fine things, yet ne'er used them, or used verra few. Tis as if he liked bonny things but didnae ken what to do with them. He must have been a wealthy mon."

Or would have been if he had not tossed it all away on things he couldnae use, thought Diarmot. He felt the return of an old anger as he recalled how little his uncle had helped Connor in caring for his family and his clan, in rebuilding Deilcladach after the devastation wrought by years of war. That his uncle had hoarded wealth while he and his family had fought starvation was simply more proof of how badly his uncle had wanted them to fail to survive. It also explained why the man had never brought any of them to Clachthrom, even in an attempt to hide his guilt and hate behind simple familial charity. One of them could have discovered his wealth, rousing their suspicions about him.

Diarmot pushed aside those dark thoughts and asked, "Do ye think he was a thief?"

"Nay," replied Geordie. "Those who were here in his time all mutter about his waste of coin on things he ne'er used. Her ladyship was told of the things when she began to ask if there was anything set aside that she might use to add some warmth and color. She had already raided Lady Anabelle's rooms. Your late wife also hoarded many lovely items."