Meghan: A Sweet Scottish Medieval Romance (3 page)

Meghan shrieked in protest and covered her ears. “I dinna wish to hear such things!”

“Well,” he continued, lecturing her now, “you should know that a pretty face is not all a lass needs in order to win herself a mon. She must have a pleasin’ body, as well.’’

Meghan narrowed her eyes at her brother.

He nodded. “And ready laughter.”

“And I’m supposing she must know how to cook and mend and wash and—”

“And make healthy bairns,” Colin agreed with another nod.

“Argh,” Meghan shrieked again, and leapt at him in outrage, pummeling his chest.

Colin yelped in protest.

“You’re incorrigible, Colin Mac Brodie.” She smacked his arm, and made to go around him. “You’re such a mon,” she declared, as though that were the worst thing he could possibly be. “And I’ll not be listening to ye any longer.”

“And you’re a bloodthirsty lass,” he returned. “We’ll be having to pay a mon to take you and your temper off our hands.”

“Nay, ye will not,” Meghan argued, swinging about to face him as she reached the chapel door. “You will not, because I’ll not be a wife to
any
mon. You’re stuck with me, the lot of ye, don’t ye know?” And with that she pivoted about and made to open the chapel door.

“Thank heaven for that,” Colin swore at her back.

She swung about to face him again. “What did you say?”

“I said heaven help the lot of us, Meghan Brodie.”

She eyed him doubtfully. “Heaven help you is right,” she agreed, and turned, jerking open the door.

From the rafters above, the raven let out a terrible shriek of protest, and Meghan froze in her step. Frowning, she turned slowly to look at Colin.

“What?” he asked, reacting to the harassed expression upon her face. “What is it I’ve done now?”

Meghan shook her head as she gazed up into the rafters. “Not a thing,” she said, and with a harried sigh, she made her way toward the chapel’s single window.

There at the window, she threw the shutters wide and peered down in exasperation. It wasn’t that far a drop to the ground, but it annoyed her that she should feel compelled to adhere to some silly bit of superstition only because her grandmother would have done so. She tossed a leg over the sill, all the while vexed with herself for succumbing.

“Meghan lass?” Colin sounded bewildered. “What the devil are ye doing?”

Meghan turned to look at her brother and snapped, “What does it appear I am doing, ye daft mon? I’m climbing out the window.”

“Och, Meggie. I see that you’re climbing out the window, but
why
are you climbing out the window?”

“Because I feel like climbin’ out the window, Colin,” Meghan answered peevishly. She cast him an annoyed glance. “Doesn’t everybody now and again?”

He answered with an exasperated shake of his head. Meghan ignored him.

“You’re going to be as mad as auld Minny Fia one day,” he announced with certainty.

Meghan thought it might well be true. Only a mad old Brodie would feel compelled to climb out a window in order to revoke a nonexistent curse.

Rotten bird.

Colin came to the window and peered down at her while she hung by her fingers from the sill. Meghan glowered up at him as she tried to locate the ground with her toes. He merely stared at her, unaffected by her threatening look, and watched.

A knowing grin unfurled across his handsome face. “Um, Meghan,” he said, as she dropped to the ground, “If I recall correctly, you were supposed to make the bird fly out the same way he flew in, not go out that way yourself.”

“Ouch,” she exclaimed as her food twisted in the drop to the ground. She bent to massage her ankle, and peered up at her brother, nettled that he felt compelled to point out that minor detail just now—or that he should even remember, for that matter—and worse, that she should feel compelled to heed such a silly ritual in the first place.

“I tried,” Meghan explained quite reasonably. “But he would not listen to me, so I did the next best thing.” She slapped her hands together, ridding them of grime from the windowsill, and straightened. “Anyhow,” she informed him baldly, casting a wily smile up at him, “superstition is naught but silly nonsense. And I dinna believe a word of Fia’s ravings.”

“Nay?” He chuckled. “Silly wench.”

“Nay,” she answered pertly, and turned to go, limping away.

“Alright, Meggie. Go on with ye, then, before I change my mind and make you stay. Leith would peel the skin from my backside if he knew I’d let you leave, with all the trouble brewing with that idiot Sassenach.”

“Tell him you tried to keep me, but I escaped.”

“I’ll tell him, instead, that I never saw you,” he shouted after her. “If I wanted to stop you, he knows verra well that I could.”

“Only if you sat on me,” she called back. “But I wadna suggest it,” she apprised him, “unless you’re certain ye never want to conceive yourself a bairn.”

“Impertinent wench,” her brother shouted after her. And then: “Be careful, Meghan. See Alison, then hie thee home at once.”

“Dinna fret, Colin. I will be fine.” She turned to wave him away from the chapel window. “Go on now, and get that bird out for me,” she demanded.

“Alison awaits you by the old cairn in the meadow just beyond the forest,” Colin apprised.

“I’ll hurry back,” she promised, limping backward toward the woodlands, shading her eyes from the brightness of the noonday sun. She grinned impishly. “And I’ll be sure to gi’ Alison your love when I see her,” she teased.

“Do that, brat,” he warned, crooking a finger at her, “and I’ll take a switch to your backside when you return.”

Meghan laughed. “Dinna even try it, Colin Mac Brodie. Dinna even try.”

And with that, she turned her back to him and hobbled into the cool shade of the forest.

S
he
didn’t think
she could do it.

Alison, youngest daughter of Dougal MacLean, sat fretting upon a boulder, the noon sun glaring down into her face. She sat unblinking as she contemplated the dilemma at hand: How was she supposed to face her best friend and explain that it was her own guile that had instigated the feud between King David’s English Lyon and Meghan’s brothers? Whatever could she say to make amends?

I’m sorry, Meghan, but I did not wish to wed the awful brute, so I stole his goat and blamed it on your kinsmen?

The very thought of such a confession made her miserable.

The truth was that she had never meant to blame it on Meghan’s kinsmen; it had merely worked out that way. Her plan had simply gone awry. She nibbled anxiously at her thumbnail.

Terribly, terribly awry.

Her shoulders slumped dejectedly.

Horribly awry.

She’d intended, in fact, to initiate a feud between her own kinfolk and Montgomerie,
not
the Brodies and Montgomerie, except that the evidence had strayed upon Brodie land and Montgomerie discovered their rotten little goat in the wrong hands.

Of course, she regretted her fouled plan wholeheartedly, though she knew it was entirely too late for regrets. What was done was done, and it was up to her to make amends. Somehow, she had to set things right.

The rope within her hand jerked, recalling her attention to the gift she’d brought for Meghan and her brothers—her own pet lamb, paltry compensation although it might be for the loss of an entire flock. She tugged the wee lammie within arm’s reach and patted its newly sheared coat as she considered her options.

She could go to her father and reveal to him what she’d done, but he would blister her rear and then make her marry the loathsome Englishman anyhow.

Or...

She could confess to the loathsome Englishman, wed him as she was supposed to do, and then die of a broken heart—if, in fact, he didn’t murder her first for her duplicity.

Or...

She could continue to wait for Meghan here upon the meadow, tell her the truth, beg her forgiveness, and then help her rectify the situation. Meghan always seemed to know what to do.

Why, oh, why couldn’t she be more like Meghan? Meghan was pretty and kind and brave and intelligent. She was all the things Alison wished she could be, and more.

Beauty alone was not enough recommendation, she realized. Her eldest sister, Mairi, had been beautiful beyond words, but not so very intelligent, and certainly not so kind. Mairi’s beauty hadn’t gotten her anywhere but dead. And although her father had blamed Iain MacKinnon for Mairi’s death, Alison knew very well that her sister had always had a tendency toward melancholia.

Her sister hadn’t loved her husband; she had chosen to kill herself rather than share her life with him. As dour as Mairi had always been, the prospect of living with a man she couldn’t possibly love must have proven such a terrible burden for her to have committed such an atrocious sin. It made Alison heartsick to think her sister had been so unhappy. The last thing she wished to do was to end like Mairi.

Nay, she couldn’t wed Piers Montgomerie—she just couldn’t. She didn’t love him. Alison had been so relieved when her father had refused Lagan MacKinnon’s offer of marriage. As flattered as she had been that a man such as Lagan would take interest in a girl as plain as herself, her heart was already pledged to another. And if she couldn’t bear the thought of wedding Lagan, less could she bear the thought of wedding some English vulture, who preyed upon their lands.

The faintest smile curved her lips at the thought of Colin Mac Brodie. His very name made her quiver. His face made her sigh at the mere sight—och, but it was the sort of face that tied a girl’s tongue into knots and made her heart leap like an exultant dancer.

And his voice... it was the voice of an angel... soothing like warm honeyed mead. It made her belly flutter and her heart ache with longing. Oh, what she wouldn’t give to hear him whisper in her ear.

Resting her chin upon her hand and her elbows upon her knees, she thought about Colin’s eyes... clearest blue, they were... like the reflection of a bright-blue summer sky upon a glass pond.

Aye, Colin Mac Brodie was a beautiful, beautiful man...

But he didn’t know she existed.

Her wistful smile faded.

She’d come upon him here this morn in the arms of another woman, the two of them stealing kisses and laughing together. And oh, how it had made Alison’s heart ache to watch them. How she wished it could have been her.

But alas, it was not.

She sighed heavily, knowing very well that Colin had a great fondness for women of all kind; it was obvious. He was with a new one every time she saw him. Usually, it didn’t bother Alison so much, because she hoped he would take his fill of them all, and wished with all her might that he would someday see her as someone more than simply Meggie’s little friend. But this morn it had been different. Alison hadn’t yet been able to dispel the heaviness from her heart over seeing the two of them together. It had taken all her resolve to approach him and ask after Meghan with the two of them laughing and carrying on so.

Perhaps it had been harder than ever because she knew Colin was like to loathe her once he discovered what she’d done—she couldn’t bear that.

She stared at the lamb, wishing there were more she could give... more she could do... but there must be something...

The Brodies still had possession of the original goat she’d stolen from Montgomerie, but she could scarcely count that a boon. That rotten little beast had prompted Montgomerie to steal two of the Brodies’ sheep before the spring shearing.

To which the Brodies had responded by thieving his cow.

To which Montgomerie had responded by thieving a horse.

To which the Brodies had responded by taking four more goats.

And then Montgomerie had taken two more cows.

Alison sighed wearily at the thought of so much stubborn male pride.

The Brodies had then stolen seven of Montgomerie’s sheep—and Montgomerie had responded by thieving them all back, and then some. In fact, he’d left them with none at all. And this one poor lambkins wasn’t nearly enough to compensate for the loss of so many beasts.

What did she think she could possibly say to the Brodies to set things right?

In truth, there was nothing at all.

She could confess to Meghan, aye. But what could Meggie do?

Nothing, and then her dear friend would surely feel compelled to tell her brothers—Colin included. After all, how could they possibly think to put an end to a feud without having someone else to blame for it?

That someone would be Alison.

And then her father would discover her perfidy and take a strap to her bottom.

And the English Lyon would feast upon whatever remained of her thereafter.

And worst of all, Colin would know everything. And he would cast her hateful glances instead of looking right through her as he did right now. While she could scarcely bear his present disinterest, the thought of his enmity was entirely tragic.

She nibbled contemplatively at her thumbnail as she deliberated the possible consequences of coming forward.

What should she do?

Stay and confess to Meghan?

Or go?

Her sense of obligation vied with fear.

What to do... what to do...

Och, she should simply let these silly men carry on their feud. To fight amongst themselves was what they loved to do, after all. Although what would be its conclusion? She’d heard of these things outlasting even the memory of their origin.

Foolish men.

Would the Lyon feud with honor?
she worried.

Or would he resort to bloodshed? Mercy, she hoped not. She had to believe he would not. But he
was
an Englishman after all.

She should speak up and put an end to the escalations once and for all, she knew. All she had to do was step forward and take responsibility.

Right?

She tapped a nail against her teeth, considering what she should do... What precisely would confessing accomplish? As she’d very likely still have to wed the Englishman, after all—and truth to tell, the Montgomerie-Brodie feud had reached a level to which her simple confession of stealing a single Montgomerie goat was like to make no difference at all. Too much had passed between them already, she reasoned.

So, then... all Alison could truly hope to accomplish with her confession was to make everyone angry with her—and that simply wouldn’t do.

Springing up from her think-place upon the boulder, she hurriedly tethered the lamb to a nearby bush.

All of a sudden, she didn’t wish to wait for Meghan, because Meghan would know intuitively that something was wrong. And if she should happen to ask, if she merely glanced at Alison with that canny way she possessed, Alison would be forced to confess everything. She would never be able to keep anything from Meghan, she knew—and truth be told, she didn’t wish to confess anything at all.

The only thing worse than having Colin Brodie angry with her, she determined, was to have everyone angry with her.

Abandoning her gift for Meghan to find, she hurried away from the meadow as fast as she could go.

T
here was
no sign of Alison when Meghan entered the clearing—only a wee lamb tied to a bush near the old cairn, where Colin had said Alison should be waiting for her.

Meghan’s brows drew together into a frown as she contemplated the bleating creature. Either her dear friend had left in a terrible rush, abandoning her charge, or this was some cruel joke of Colin’s in order to make clear his feelings toward Alison MacLean. But she didn’t think Colin would be so cruel. It had to be that Alison had hurried away for some reason. But... unless Alison were in danger... why would she leave without taking her sweet little lamb?

Meghan’s gaze scanned the meadow for some clue as to her friend’s sudden disappearance, but there was no sign of disturbance at all: the hillside meadow seemed as serene as ever. The posies swayed with the afternoon breeze, like little dancing folk with painted faces.

In the distance the birds chirped merrily from the lush green treetops of the forest.

All was as it should be.

Shrugging, Meghan made her way to the little lamb, intending to set it free. She stroked it gently while she untethered it and then wrapped the lead rope about her wrist. “Poor wee lammie,” she commiserated with it. “How could anyone abandon such a sweet little thing as yourself?’’

The lamb bleated shyly and peered up at her with bright trusting eyes, and Meghan smiled as she drew upon the lead rope, prompting it to follow.

“Let’s go now,’’ she urged. “You’re comin’ home with me. Findings, keepings.” she announced. Och, but why would anyone bind an animal and then leave it? she wondered.

Unless the owner planned to come back for it later?

“Poor wee lost lammie,” she said, coaxing it to follow.

She scanned the meadow once more, still finding nothing and shrugging, and started away. The lamb hesitated, and then followed, and Meghan smiled down at the beast. Well, then, it was her wee beastie now, she determined. They could use the livestock after having been so thoroughly raided by David’s English lackey. And this was Brodie land, after all. It made little sense that someone would abandon their animal here, whether they were returning for it or not. And furthermore, they didn’t deserve the poor animal if they could so cruelly leave it to bake beneath the hot afternoon sun.

Unless...

She faltered in her step. Perhaps it belonged to Alison and she’d had to abandon it suddenly—though what Alison would be doing with a single lamb this far from MacLean land, Meghan couldn’t possibly know. Her brow furrowed.

Could Alison be in danger?

The tiny hairs at the back of her nape prickled.

Perhaps she shouldn’t leave so hastily?

She halted again, and the little lamb stopped, as well. Meghan peered down at the wee thing, frowning, and then once more looked around.

What, indeed, if Alison were in danger? What if Meghan left and forsook the opportunity to help her dear friend?

And yet what could Meghan do alone?

Suddenly, she wasn’t certain what to do.

“What do you think, wee lammie?” she asked. “Do we stay or do we go?”

The lamb bleated and stared up at her, its expression blank.

“Ye dunno, ye say?”

She unwrapped the lead rope from her wrist and stared pensively at the frayed end, brushing it absently with her thumb.

There weren’t any signs of a struggle here in the meadow, as best she could tell, but Alison was nowhere to be found. The best thing she could do, she decided, was to get her brothers to order a search. And suddenly... she was beginning to feel a bit uneasy—as though someone were out there...
watching
.

“Well,” she concluded, frowning, “I dunno either, though I’m supposin’ I should take you home.” She cast an anxious glance over her shoulder, and told the wee lamb, “Come along then.” And she led it toward the forest path from whence she’d come.

It wasn’t the safest way home, but it was certainly the quickest, and since she’d only just come that way and had encountered nothing amiss, she decided it was the best route to take. She didn’t particularly care to take the long way home with the sun bearing down upon the meadow as the poor lamb was enervated already.

The shaded forest path, although it meandered in and out of Brodie and Montgomerie land—the latter being filled with thieving, conniving Sassenachs—was well worn by Brodie feet and little-traveled by anyone else. It sat at the far, far edge of Montgomerie land—land that had once belonged to the MacLeans until King David of Scotia had
requested
it from Alison’s father.

The very thought made Meghan glower.

As she understood it, Alison’s father had agreed to give it, only so long as Alison wedded the lumpish, greasy English beast—well, Meghan didn’t know if he was lumpish or greasy, precisely, because she’d never set eyes upon the man, but she certainly knew he was greedy.