Page 84 of Rebellion's Fire

“I think you should sit down again so I can reach you more easily,” she said calmly and called to one of the MacHeth men lounging in the yard to bring her some fresh water from the well. It was only after the water arrived at her side with impressive speed that she realized she hadn’t even been sure he’d obey her. She wondered if Findlaech had glared at him over her head while she opened her box in the light of the sinking sun.

He sat on the damp ground in silence, his head bowed while she washed and anointed his wound. Only when she faced him again to bind it did he raise his head and look at her and become aware, apparently for the first time, that she was kneeling on the ground in front of him.

“You’ll have spoiled your gown.”

Laughter surged up with so much force that she feared hysteria. She let it shake her for only a moment. “This gown has been through too much to care,” she managed. “Besides, it will always look better than your tunic does now.”

She saw his thin lips stretch in a smile as he watched her work with open curiosity. After a moment, he said abruptly, “Are you afraid of him?”

“Who?” she asked calmly. She knew, of course. There was only one “him” to Adam MacHeth’s men.

“Adam mac Malcolm.”

“Should I be?” she countered.

“No. But some people are.” He stirred. “Some people should be, of course. You’re not one of them.”

She said nothing, concentrated on tying the ends of his bandage to keep it in place.

“He isn’t mad,” Findlaech said, “whatever anyone tells you. Strangers sometimes think he is because his manners are…different. And the lads like to exaggerate because battle madness is a traditional virtue among fighting men. But he’s got a clearer mind than anyone I’ve ever met, including his mother.”

“Despite the visions?” she said lightly, mostly to see Findlaech’s reaction.

He didn’t bat an eyelid. “Despite the visions. Or because of them. I don’t know.”

So, she should marry her husband’s killer because he had a clear mind? Didn’t that make it worse?

“Would it have been easier ifI’d killed Sir William?” Findlaech asked as if he read her mind. “Or if Donald mac Malcolm had done it? One way or another, in losing the battle, he was going to die. Between you and me, he was lucky to die in battle, for the man was a—”

“My husband,” she interrupted. “Thank you. Look, it’s getting cold out here. You should go into the hall. I’ll help you.”

But Findlaech refused her hand, rising on his own although he staggered slightly. “Lost a bit of blood,” he explained with dignity.

“I know,” she said gravely. For some reason, Findlaech seemed to wish her well, had tried to reassure her. He hadn’t needed to do that. As they walked together toward the hall, she looked up at the sky, blue in the low sun with only a few drifting white clouds. “You know him well.”

Forgetting his wound, Findlaech shrugged, then winced. “All his life. I was fourteen years old when Malcolm mac Aed was taken. I became a sort of foster father to his sons when my own father died. I taught them both to ride and fight and hunt. But I spent more time with Adam.”

“And now you’d die for him.”

Findlaech laughed. “I’d always have died for him, for his father, mother, brother. Dying’s easy.”

She blinked, pausing with her hand on the hall door. “Then what’s difficult?”

Findlaech winked and pushed the door open for her. “Living with him. Fun, yes, exciting, mostly, but definitely not easy.”

*

Every inch ofAdam was aware of her at his side. Although the hall was lively and convivial with talk and laughter as they ate, he and Cairistiona barely spoke to each other. What could he say?“Sorry I killed your husband. I did it so Donald wouldn’t have to and you wouldn’t feel obliged to hate him. Only then I decided to marry you myself.”

For one thing, he wasn’t sorry he’d killed William de Lanson. For another, she needed time to come to terms with all that had happened in the last few days. Besides, his wounds were aching, distracting him from clarity, and he felt the importance of every word he said to her now. Best to hold his tongue, especially when his body reacted so. One brush of her clothed arm against his felt like any other woman’s most intimate caress.

And so, he joked with Findlaech and the men as they discussed the battle, and talked with Loegaire about the land. The Norman prisoners who could do so sat scattered among his own men, disarmed but otherwise unbound. He was aware of Cairistiona observing this as she picked at her food in silence.

She had changed into another gown. He’d seen her come into the hall with Findlaech while he talked to Loegaire and Eua. Without looking at him, she’d carried her medicine box into the bedchamber he’d forced upon her. Eua had seen that her things were already there, and when she’d emerged, she wore a clean mask and veil and a different gown. Like most of her clothes, it was respectable rather than beautiful. In fact, since she wore not the smallest ornament with it—even the mask was plain, unadorned linen—he suspected she was deliberately trying to look drab. Perhaps she was making the point that marriage to him was nothing to celebrate. Or perhaps she was trying to discourage him from the intention.

Because he truly wanted to, Adam turned his head and gazed at her. He would like to see her in bright colors one day—in crimson silk and rich greens and blues. He thought she would shine. But in truth, whatever she wore, the beauty of the half face she revealed moved him more than any other woman’s more obvious charms. This, more than her birth, was the true reason he would marry her, but he’d no idea how to deal with her.

Without warning, she turned her gaze on him, frowning with curiosity. “Why are my husband’s men sitting among yours? Are they not prisoners?”

---