Page 56 of Highlanders for the Holidays
There were a number ofcairnsalong the landscape here, but most of these were not built by the hands of seven-year old boy. He, more than anyone, understood what it was like to see a village burn… The scent of seared flesh and the haunting refrain of terrified screams tainted his childhood memories. And yet none of these were things he ever wanted his children to suffer. Although mayhap it would behoove them to know from whence they’d come?
Very near where he’d buried his beloved dog, Merry—bless her sweet four-legged soul—he had erected a cairn for his murdered kinsmen and carved each of their names upon the stones, earmarked with the year of their deaths. Their bones rested leagues away, but this was Broc’s private monument to a life he’d abandoned and a people whose legacy would perish along with his own death… lest he fathered a son—and now he had.
A sliver of sunlight stabbed him in the eye and he turned away, casting his gaze backward along the cavalcade, settling his sights on his flaxen-haired boy seated in one of the carts near the new wet nurse. There was barely enough room for the children amidst food supplies and heaping piles of cloth, but none of them had complained.
Griffin was nine. Maggie was ten. His eldest, Suisan, was already twelve. And Lara, at seven, was the image of her minny, with bright red hair and soul-stirring green eyes.
He’d never told any of them how their grandparents died… all his children knew was that Broc’s mother and father and all his kinsmen all perished under unfortunate circumstances and that was how Broc had come to live most of his life with the MacKinnon clan. They’d embraced him as a child of seven into their fold—something for which he would be indebted to them until the day he died. Whatever he had was theirs to share—which was why he’d dragged six hefty wagons along a mountainous countryside, and spent two entire days rebuilding a wheel to replace the one they’d lost after dragging the lot across a wide burn.
By all the accounts Broc had received,Chreagach Mhorlay in ruins. And so they’d come expecting to spend the entire winter, bringing as many of their household as they could spare, and leaving Broc’s most trusted men to garrison the keep.
Dunloppe’s defenses were entirely secure, and, for the moment, they were no longer at war.
Mulling over the complexities of a visit to his parents cairn, he considered asking his wife for counsel. Seated next to him, she was as lovely as the day he’d met her, her curls aflame beneath the afternoon sun.
As though by instinct, Elizabet peered down in the direction of the cairn—where Broc had first confessed his love for her. After a moment, she met his gaze, crooking her arm about his and squeezing gently, guessing at his thoughts. “Only think on it awhile, my love. If you still feel the need to share, we can stop by on our way home.”
Broc nodded, considering his children, who’d barely known a day of hardship. Even more than the MacKinnons, they were blessed.
Elizabet said, “Perhaps of greater import than the way they died is the legacy you will leave in their names?”
Together, they peered back at their band of wee ones sitting in the carts.
His daughter Suisan was becoming such a little lady. She’d kept all her siblings preoccupied the entire journey, telling them stories and playing games all along the long, bumpy way. All four children were perfectly content at the instant, leaving Broc to worry less about his brood, and more about the state of affairs ofChreagach Mhor.
It pained him immensely to think of his laird—he would always think of Iain this way—in such dire straights. Even now, ten years gone by, he could not quite fathom himself laird of his own demesne. And yet he was. He was proud of all he’d accomplished—risen literally from the dust of his own clan—and for this he had mostly Iain to thank.
Leaving the cairn for later, he clicked the reins, moving along down the road, eager to see his cousin Constance—willful little lass that she was—to know the woman she had become.
Beside him, Elizabet pulled her heavy cloak around her shoulders and pinched a loose fabric from her dress. “I’d forgotten how long this journey could be.”
Noting the weariness in her face, Broc nodded back toward the cart where the children rode. “Why do you not take a rest? You need not keep my company the entire way.”
“I am fine,” his wife persisted. She gave him a crooked smile. “If you can do it, I can do it,” she said saucily. “Anyway, when was the last time you spent so long in a saddle or in a wagon seat, my dearest husband? You’ve hardly left our home save to attend the King’s council. You must have sores on your bum the same as me.”
Broc chuckled low. “’Tis God’s truth,” he said, and gave his wife a bit of a grimace, offering on a more serious note, “You know I wadna ever leave ye, but for the agreement I have made with David. I like my bed very well, thank you, please. One damp winter in a cauld dungeon is quite enough discomfort to last a mon his entire life.”
They fell silent after that assertion, and Broc realized the memory of that particular winter must plague his wife even more than him. In fact, he wished he hadn’t brought it up at all, for that was the winter he’d come far too close to hanging on the gallows—both he and Lael dún Scoti.
In truth, he was greatly pleased Elizabet had insisted on coming along. Not only could the MacKinnons use all the help they could get, but he never relished leaving his family alone for very long. Dunloppe he could lose if it be God’s will, but Broc could never bear to lose the love of his life or the children they’d born together.
“We’ll arrive there soon,” he ventured to say.
Elizabet’s answering smile could scarce hide her fatigue. “Do not fash yourself, Broc Ceannfhionn.” He smiled, because she’d used the name he’d given her when they’d first met,Broc the blond. His wife kept him humble—as did the name itself, given to him by Iain MacKinnon on the day Broc arrived atChreagach Mhor.
“’Twill be alright, Broc Ceannfhionn,”Iain had said, giving Broc hope.
Now it was Broc’s turn to return the favor.
* * *
Aidan dún Scotiarrived with more than two-dozen strong backs to join the reconstruction. Each man saw to his own mount as Iain greeted the dún Scoti laird.
It humbled him to know that a man like Aidan—who rarely left his vale in the Mounth—would come so far to help. Allies though they were, they were hardly neighbors. Now, more than ever Iain was coming to realize the value of the brotherhood they’d formed ten years before—a bond of seven noble clans that included all of the dún Scoti—the hill Scots—who bore no other name, the MacLeans, the Montgomeries, the Brodies, and the last of the McNaught and MacEanraig clans.
All except Jaime Steorling had come to offer aid, and Jaime, ’twas said, had been summoned to yet another of David’s councils. The rest of the clans had been spared the majority of these, for David only levied their men whenever it was unavoidable. He knew better than to abuse the fragile oath they’d all sworn.
“I believe the last time you were here was for your sister’s wedding,” Iain said.
