Page 20 of The Splendor of Fire
The pieces fitted into place. End of December? Léo came to Cràdh half-dead the first of January. The boat skittered to the right with force and she hung on for dear life.
A deep rumble of laughter came from Father Mac. “That boy was the only likable child poor Laird MacKinnon ever had. Son of Blanche d’Audrehem, the woman he took for leman.” For a few moments the auld man’s wizened face went dreamy. “I saw her once. Most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen—not even Elspeth MacKinnon could rival her beauty or kindness. Eyes the color of raw amber, hair the color of sand after the tide’s gone out.”
Léo.
“His brothers always resented him. I’m sure you can imagine how Lady MacKinnon felt about it, having her husband’s illegitimate child under her own roof, and his leman.” His voice dropped to a loud whisper. “Blanche died, then his father the same week. Poisoned, they say. Not a week later his brothers dumped young Léo in France. Not more than seventeen. Been there ever since, I’ve heard. Some muckety-muck in the French court, they say. No, I’d not be surprised to hear Léo was involved in working against his brother. I don’t know how he’d know the Beithir though.”
The bìrlinn bucked upwards and the disc of Léo’s necklace pattered against her breast, bouncing off the missive. Clutching therough sketching paper through her wool gown, she held it steady and bent forward to protect it from the driving rain, unwilling to let it come to ruin.
Thunder cracked overhead and a violent gust of wind pushed the bìrlinn faster through the surf and her hands gripped the soaked wooden boards. Father McElduff kept talking as if there was nothing wrong, but his voice was lost in the storm.Dear God please don’t let me die. Forgive me, Lord.
The hood of Father McCaffrey’s brat fell over his eyes and he continued to sleep. These Irishmen were crazy. Lightning streaked across the heavens and she gripped Father McElduff’s ankle in fear.
“Only…clouds. Not toward…we’ll be fine.”
Fine? This wasn’t fine. Her mind drowned in the whirlpool of her memories. The dolphin’s glossy back. Cold black water.Think of something else…anything else.She squeezed her eyes shut.
Léo’s warm hands settling the necklace around her, the feeling of her beating heart as his face nuzzled beside her ear. His breath upon her neck, his lips brushing over the skin. His rough, gentle hands upon her throat. She forced that memory away as hard as the memories of her near-drowning in the surf, feeling foolish.
Gabriel. That was why she was here. Not Léo. Some little boy in France was missing his da, thinking he was dead. That little boy deserved to know his da was alive and hadn’t forgotten him, and loved him very much.
Oh very much, indeed.The story of Gabriel’s birth and the loss of his wife had torn Léo, and her heart, to pieces. By the love in his voice when he’d talked about the little boy’s thumb sucking and curiosity, and the way Léo’s eyes had filled with such affection as he held her drawing, she’d known with all her heart he was a good, attentive father. He’d pressed his lips to the page and shuddered with emotion, needing his boy, needing the link to his wife.
Regret that she hadn’t come to Cràdh Prison when he’d first asked assailed her. He’d wanted to see the only piece of his wife he had left, and she had been caught up in her own hurt.
Moira’s heart cracked a little further thinking of their afternoon together. After all her wondering, it turned out he did remember theirkiss, but he remembered the regret even more. Of course he did. No man wanted Moira the Mute.
The chains tightened around her heart. That was all right. He did not know. No one did. She wasn’t Moira the Mute. She was Aileen the Brave.
Chapter 7
CRÀDH PRISON - JUNE 20, 1384
“Open ye to me the gates of justice: I will go, and give praise to the Lord.”
Léo crossed one ankle over the other, his lips reciting the psalm he was committing to memory this week. “This is the gate of the Lord, the just shall enter into it. I will give glory to thee because thou hast heard me: and art become my salvation.”
He checked his memorization against the scripture and leaned his heavy head back against the stone. On cue, his stomach cramped and rumbled and he licked his dry lips, trying not to vomit the bit of porridge he’d been able to get down this morning.
It had been six months and nineteen days since he’d arrived at Cràdh, and his body had wasted away to a glimmer of the warrior he used to be. The trews Moira made were now loosely bound to him by Father Allen’s old hose, his tunic as baggy as a gown. Every bone in his body hurt, every muscle was stiffened, every joint in pain. How long he could continue to hold on, he did not know. The only thing keeping him from death was Father Allen’s increased visits and extra portions of oats and bannocks, which were now difficult to swallow without stomach upset. That—and the company of the voice that called itself God.
Testing to see if the voice would answer today, as it had each day, Léo spoke aloud to the empty room. “Es-tu là?”
The rasping sound of his voice echoed off the stone, and he waited.
I’m beside you.
Satisfied, Léo picked up the Psalter. “Took you long enough to answer.”
It’s time, Léo.
“Time for what?”
The door slat snapped open and for a moment Léo stared at it, trying to make sense of the brown eyes staring back, as if the voice had not just warned him something was about to happen.
The gruff voice of the guard lost patience. “Well? Get over here.”
With a chorus of creaks and cracks, Léo struggled to hoist his aching body to its feet. Slowly, he shuffled to the door, expecting Father Allen. Yet as the door opened, a familiar, but strange, red-headed man stood in front of him, dressed in an immaculate MacKinnon tartan?1.
