Page 6 of It Began With A Kiss
“At what cost, Aiden? Is taking this castle really going tae get ye the respect of the very people ye have just conquered?”
“Only time will tell the outcome,” Aiden answered swallowing hard the bitterness that leapt into his throat.
“Ye are far beyond the English borders, my friend. I would think yer Scottish heritage would be warring within itself.”
“Leave off, Finlay.”
They sat in silence, both lost in thought. The only sound was the fire crackling in the hearth. All else was eerily silent, as though the castle itself was a shadow of a ghost. Finlay’s words hit far closer to the truth of the matter than Aiden cared to admit, even to himself.
“What of the woman?” Finlay finally asked.
“What woman?”
“Let us not play games, my friend. Ye and I both know which woman I speak of. It cannot sit well that ye killed her husband.”
A low growl erupted from Aiden. “I did not kill him. Someone stabbed the man in the back. I never could stand a coward, but he did not die by my blade, I swear it.”
“Again… ’tis a situation that is too common tae the happenings at Berwyck, only instead of a father dying ’tis someone’s husband.”
“’Tis always someone’s husband or brother. People die in war, and such cannot be helped.”
Finlay clucked his tongue. “Well… no matter the cause, she will hate ye for it.”
Aiden looked up. “Have you found her as yet?”
“Nay. If she is still somewhere inside the castle, then she is hiding herself well.”
Aiden nodded finishing off his wine. “I am certain she will turn up. If nothing else, she will wish to see that her husband is given a proper burial. Make arrangements for the people to claim their kin so they may be buried. We must needs also find a priest who will bless the graves.”
As Aiden watched Finlay leave to fulfill the orders he was given, he looked around the empty hall as his friend’s words echoed inside his head. God above, he hoped all his efforts would be worth it.
CHAPTER6
Iona stood at Ewan’s gravesite, tears streaming down her face. Her son was oddly silent, given he had just lost his father. The priest’s words, as he droned on in prayer, barely reached her numb mind. In one heartbeat, her life had changed. Now that Ewan was gone, how was she to support her son? Her small farm had barely made enough for her to survive prior to her marriage, let alone to sell goods to see them through the coming winter. Her fields were fallow, for the land had not been worked to provide for the coming winter. Now she needed to support herself and Gregor, and with no husband.
That her brother-in-law was not in attendance at Ewan’s burial bothered her only somewhat. The two men had never been close, and she had no idea what Broden’s fate had been when their home had been overcome by their enemy. Did he yet live or did he perchance also die in the heat of battle during a siege that was over before most knew it had even begun? She only knew that, if he were dead, she would no longer have to worry about his obscene advances whenever Ewan was nowhere in sight. She shivered at the thought of his touch.
The sound of those around her sayingamenbrought Iona out of the musings. She walked closer to the grave and took up a handful of dirt. She scrunched the soil into the palm of her hand before tossing it into the grave. She stood by silently and watched as the gesture was repeated by those who had known her husband. Two men who were her neighbors came and began shoveling the dirt into Ewan’s grave while the priest moved on to the next burial site. Iona did everything in her power not to break down in front of her son.
“What will become of us now, mama?” Gregor’s small voice echoed Iona’s own thoughts. That a boy of only nine summers should be worrying over his fate did not seem fair. She took a deep breath to steady her nerves.
“We shall take things one day at a time, son. Do not fret. I will think of something.” She reached out to ruffle his dark hair, so much like Ewan’s that her heart ached. She heard her son’s name being called by a few of the other local lads. Iona did not have to wait for Gregor to ask if he could join them. He might as well find whatever happiness he could. “Go on. Be home for supper.”
Gregor handed her a flower he had been holding and did not wait to see if she would change her mind. He ran to join his friends. At least for a while he could be a carefree lad once more.
Once Ewan’s grave was filled, the men gave her a nod before moving on to the next one. Iona went to kneel beside it and placed the flower Gregor had given her below the crude wooden cross with her husband’s name etched upon it. Caressing the lettering, she began to cry in earnest, now that she was alone, and she hid her face in the palms of her hands. Despair all but consumed her whilst she pondered how on this earth she would survive.
A whisper on the wind sounded as though it carried her name, giving her pause in her grief at losing her husband. She gazed around almost in the hopes of seeing Ewan coming towards her. Tears of grief turned sharply to tears of anger at who was drawing near.
Now that she could see this man in the light of day, she almost choked that someone she vowed to hate could be so handsome. Hair as red as her own framed a chiseled visage that surely must be carved from granite, much like the chest that she had been molded against the night before. A black cape hung from broad shoulders and billowed behind him from the ocean breeze. A sword swung from a scabbard that was belted at his lean hips and she cursed herself for taking a moment to appreciate the fine-looking man that he was. He appeared no older than herself and yet the way he carried himself made him seem much older.
Iona looked away and was startled to realize that her heart was racing the closer this stranger came. Considering what this man had cost her, she had to find it in herself to guard against such an immediate attraction.
A hand was thrust in front of her face, and she slapped away his offer to help her rise. She did so instead, on her own. Raising her head, she put on what she hoped was a calm face but resolve slipped when she stared into the most amazing violet eyes she had ever seen before.Violet? Really? God’s wounds, how could this man have eyes the shade of the heather on the Scottish moors?
His hand fell to his side as he made her a short bow. “Madam, I am sorry for your loss,” he said reverently.
If Iona had not known better, then she might believe his words of condolences. “I somehow doubt the person responsible for my husband’s death would care tae offer me solace.”
