The Raven's Wish (34 page)

"Mairi," he said, "where is—"

She nodded toward the tower. He turned.

A woman stood at the top of the long flight of stone steps that angled up to the tower entrance. Her hair was as white as the soft clouds that sailed overhead, her eyes as blue as he remembered them. She was tiny, her stooped shoulders wrapped in a plaid over a brown kirtle. The woman watched him for a long moment.

Duncan moved forward. He glanced back at Elspeth, motioning her forward with him. She came with some hesitation.

He stopped at the bottom step, Elspeth standing behind him, and looked up the long flight.

"Grandmother Innis," he said, "I have come home."

"Duncan." Innis Macrae looked at him for a long time. He grew nervous under her resolute stare. "I had heard from Alasdair that you were in the Highlands." Her voice was older, tremulous, her face more gaunt than he remembered. He wanted to mount the stairs toward her, but her eagle's stare kept him where he was.

"You have brought a wife?"

He remembered that she had never missed any detail; age had not dimmed her sight or hearing. "I have," he said.

"I tell you, Duncan Macrae," she said, "if you had not come here, I would have ridden to the Fraser castle myself to fetch you home again." She beckoned him forward. "Welcome home."

Chapter 21

Come lay me soft, and draw me near,

And lay thy white hand over me,

For I am starving in the cold,

And thou art bound to cover me.

~"Love in Despair"

Duncan leaned against the bedpost and looked at the bed, where Magnus lay beneath a pile of fur coverlets. Innis stood nearby, his grandmother's small blue-veined hand on Magnus's brow. Beside her, Kirsty leaned over to apply warm, wet herbs over the wound, then gently wrapped a folded cloth over his bared abdomen. She drew up the sheet and stood back.

"He has no fever," Innis told Duncan. "He will sleep like the dead on that potion we fed him, and he will wake feeling stronger. But he must stay in bed for a long time to let those stitches heal. What is damaged inside, I cannot say, but he has a better chance of healing inside and out if he lays still."

"We will stay as long as necessary," Duncan said.

Innis looked at him strangely. "You are the laird of Dulsie. Of course you will stay."

He sighed and looked away. Innis moved closer, a tiny, wraith-like woman who did not reach his shoulder. There was a slight bobble to her head as she looked up at him. She had aged, and he felt sudden regret that he had not been here for those lost years.

"The laird of Dulsie is home now," Innis said.

"I have a home in Edinburgh, and duties there," he said. "I am a lawyer for the queen and her council."

"I know that. But that Lowland place is only a house, not a home. Your family is here."

He sighed. "I cannot stay here, just now," he said. "And Elspeth is a Fraser. She is not ready yet to leave her home."

"She is the laird's wife. Her home is here as well."

He was silent, feeling his grandmother's steely stubbornness still in evidence. That, at least, had not changed much. He glanced at his sister, who shrugged calmly.

He expected his grandmother to say more of what she thought, and waited. Innis Macrae had never held back her opinions; that had been one of the problems between them, years ago. But Innis sighed and turned away, walking to the door.

"I am an old woman," she said, "and I need my rest. I will come back later to watch over your friend. Kirsty will stay for now. She is a capable girl." She laid her hand on the door latch. "We will talk, you and I, later. For now, you also are wounded, and very tired. Mairi showed your bride to your bedchamber a while ago. I will expect you both to sleep through the day tomorrow. Then we will talk." She nodded to him and pulled open the door.

He looked at Kirsty after the door closed. "She has not changed much," he said.

She nodded. "More than you know, Duncan. Your absence, these years, has been a lesson in humility to her."

He glanced at her quickly. "Humility? I never meant—"

"But that is how she views it, and has told Mairi and I that many times. Go to bed, Duncan," she said, touching his sleeve. "You look as if you barely have the strength to stand."

He smiled wearily. "Little Kirsty, grown so tall and lovely. And you have a fine mothering way about you. Are you wed?"

"Not yet," she said. "Innis needs me here."

"Ah," he said softly, feeling a pang of regret that he had not been here for these people, his family, out of his own stubbornness.

Magnus groaned and rolled onto his side. Kirsty moved to pull his shoulder back. "I stitched his wound myself," she said, adjusting the covers over him. "He is a strong man, your friend. He took the pain of the stitches without complaint. A wound such as that, and the ride you made, might have killed another man."

Duncan nodded. "You will have the devil's own time keeping him to his bed when he wakes up."

"Well," Kirsty said, looking down at Magnus, "he is a fine strong man, but he will have a devil of a time getting past me."

She flashed a smile at Duncan.

He laughed, shaking his head. "Innis said you were a capable girl."

"I am. Now go to your bed, Duncan Macrae. I will watch this Fraser, and all you need to do is rest yourself."

He nodded, hugged his youngest sibling, and left the room.

* * *

Entering the bedchamber in which Elspeth slept, he moved across the rush-covered floor with quiet steps. The room was fully dark, the window shuttered. In the hearth, a banked peat fire sent out a soft, dim glow and waves of heat. He paused by the bed.

Elspeth slept, her breathing soft and even, her shoulder upturned, her hair spread out over the pillow. He watched her, feeling weary, but restless. Wanting to lay down beside her and gather her softness against him, he steeled himself and walked past the bed. There was too much rushing through his mind; he could not rest. He had to think.

He went to the window, recessed in a deep niche above a stone bench, and sat heavily on the cushioned seat. Blowing out a loud, tense sigh of frustration, he leaned forward and shoved his fingers through his hair.

He, the queen's lawyer, the human pledge for the Frasers' bond of caution, had broken that bond when he had ridden after Ruari MacDonald. He had allowed his temper to overtake him, as it had years ago. His temperament, inherited from generations of wild Macraes, had ruled him once again, as it had ruled him in his youth. He had thought his wild nature conquered, tamed, dispirited for good.

The broken promise now directly endangered his life. Once the Council heard of this—and they would, he was certain, for the MacDonalds themselves would waste no time in reporting it to the crown—he would be arrested, and brought to trial.

Remembering what Elspeth had said of her vision, he shook his head slowly. He had always thought that prophecies were the warped blossoms of crazed minds. He had told himself, and told Epeth, that there was no truth in visions.

Quickly enough, he had learned that Elspeth was not mad. And she loved him, he was certain of that. Her vision was no scheme, as he had once thought it. The mystery of her Sight eluded his ability to explain it.

And now he knew, with a startling sense of dread, that she might very well be right after all. He had brought himself to the edge of his own doom by his own actions. He cursed softly and thumped his fist against stone.

Turning slightly, he lifted the iron hook that held the window shutters together, opening one side. A cool, damp breeze ruffled his hair as he looked out. A brilliant sunset flooded the skies, and sparked his thoughts to greater hope. He was in the Highlands, far away from the Council and the Lowland courts. He had time to ponder this dilemma, and decide what must be done.

Towering reddish-gold clouds and bands of glittering, transparent light filled the heavens. Below lay the black silhouettes of tall mountains, and the gleam of a long sea loch.

He had looked upon such sunsets countless times as he was growing up, and he had never noticed the pure strength and power in them.

"I have never seen a sunset like that," a soft voice said behind him.

He started, and turned to look at Elspeth. She wore a simple white shift, probably borrowed from Mairi, and her hair flowed loose around her shoulders. In the reflected light of the sunset, her hair looked like golden fire.

She moved into the wide niche and sat beside him, turning to look out the window. Her knee brushed his.

"Only in the western Highlands will you find sunsets like these," he said. Though he looked at the sky, he felt her gaze on him.

"These Highlands are your home," she said. "You belong here. Your family has missed you."

He shrugged.

"Duncan," she murmured, "why have you stayed away from here so long?"

"You are tired," he said. "Go to bed."

She sighed, and stood. He looked at the floor, at her bare toes beneath the hem of the white gown. The cloth blew softly in the breeze. "Duncan—"

"Go to bed." He turned away.

She reached out and touched his back through the clean shirt that he wore. "I have felt the pain you hold here. Tell me what happened."

He was tired. He did not have the strength to explain it all to her now. Closing his eyes, he shook his head slowly.

Her finger traced the scar hidden beneath his shirt, brushing over it as if she knew its track by heart. "You were wounded here by the MacDonalds. That much I know for myself. Tell me the rest."

"These matters are in the past. They are done." He heard the harshness in his own voice, heard the pain beneath the surface, and wondered how much longer he would be able to hold it at bay. Her fingers stroked along the scar, and rested at the spot just under the shoulder blade, where the scar had its source. Like the spring of a river, his anguish, his anger flowed from that spot. He trembled with the effort to hold in his feelings.

"These matters are not done, not for you. Duncan, please—" He heard her long intake of breath. Her fingertips grew hot through the linen of his shirt. The heat spread along the arc of the scar.

"I see a lad asleep, in the dark. He is tall, thin, dark-haired. I know this is you, years ago." Her voice went on soft and low, near a whisper. "Men come, they raise their dirks. Blood drips, black in the moonlight. I see a man who sits up and tries to defend himself. He is older than you are now, but he has your face, broader, thicker. He is killed through the heart."

"Stop!" he shouted, and stood up to tower over her. "What good is this to you, or to me?"

She leaned back slightly to look up at him, her eyes clear and luminous in the sunset glow. "The pain will destroy you," she said. "Let go of it."

"Leave it be, will you, girl," he growled.

"Ruari told me that MacDonalds caught your father and brothers reiving, and killed them. He said that you and your remaining brothers went wild in revenge, harassing his people without mercy."

"It is a cursed lie," he said, and grabbed her shoulders. "And why do you ask me? Witch that you are, you have seen it for yourself. Look again, and know the rest. Leave me be."

Tears slowly formed in her eyes as she gazed up at him. He knew his words had hurt her. He could see it in those gray depths; he could sense it through his fingers on her skin.

She blinked, and spilled one tear. He began to speak, could not form the words. Dropping his hands, he turned away from her.

"If you will not share your pain with me, I will not beg it from you," she said. He heard her soft steps as she walked away.

Something made him turn. She stood near the hearth, her arms folded over her chest, her white gown diaphanous where the low light glowed through the thin fabric. Her hair streamed down like liquid copper, hiding her face, flowing over her rounded breasts and slender arms.

She looked so vulnerable, childlike, ethereal, an angel caught by the harshness of this world. And he had hurt her with unthinking, unkind words. She was no witch, far from it.

He sighed and walked over to stand behind her.

"We were sleeping," he said, his voice hushed. "We had been out on a hunt in our own territory. Four men came into our camp that night. They murdered my father and my brothers. My father woke and tried to fight, but was killed through the heart. My brothers never woke up at all, I think."

"And you?"

"I watched it. I woke, and tried to reach my dirk, but I made a noise. One of them turned and cut me down to the bone, from the shoulder around to the chest. He left me for dead. Then they ran." He felt a pressure in his chest like an iron band squeezing his breath. His voice was flat, hard. "I lived. I tied a shirt around my wound and half-dragged myself to a farmer's croft for help. When I recovered enough to ride, my remaining brothers and I went out on the first of our raids."

Elspeth bowed her head, her hair swinging down, a soft gleam. He wanted to touch it, to wrap it around his sorrow.