Starcatcher, page 30
He had to steel himself to speak, to say the words that would hurt his father even more. He had to ensure Marsali’s safety and the safety of their child, if there was one. He could not discount the possibility that Foster might yet find a way to make good on his threat.
His father was looking at him strangely. Waiting.
He took a deep breath and spoke. “I wanted to tell you that Marsali will be with me for supper.”
His father shrugged. “I care not what the wench does.”
“Good. Then you willna mind when I seat her beside me.”
His father drew back, his green eyes sparking. “A Gunn? A hostage? She will sit at the end of the table.”
“Nay, Father,” he said, forcing calm into his tone. “She will occupy the seat at my right. As my wife.”
With a wiry strength fueled by anger, his father shoved himself out of his chair to stand, his right foot wrapped in cloth. “Never!”
Patrick counted to three, then said, “It is done. We were handfasted a week ago.”
His father’s jaw dropped.
Before he could speak, Patrick brought out his greatest weapon. “With luck, there is an heir already on his way,” he said.
The ploy worked. Just. His father’s mouth clamped shut, and he stood trembling from his graying head to his gout-ridden toes. For a full minute, he simply stared. Then, with a sly smile, he said, “A handfast must be made public.”
Patrick nodded. “There were witnesses.”
“Who? That fellow of yours? I willna have it.”
“You will have it—or you will never see me again.”
His father fell back into his chair, his face disbelieving. “You are my son. You will do as I say.”
Quietly, Patrick replied, “You arranged my marriage twelve years ago. I agreed, then, because it was your wish. I honored that contract for twelve years, and in doing so, I honored you. I wouldna dishonor you now by putting it aside so easily.”
“A pretty speech,” Gregor Sutherland said. “I see you have learned guile as well as warfare. But you know my feelings about the Gunns. I willna have one in this family.”
“Then my wife and I will leave by week’s end. You will never see your heir.”
“I will make Alex my heir.”
“As you wish.” Patrick nodded and started for the door.
“Wait.”
Patrick turned to face his father.
The old man took a long time before, finally, he said, “You know we canna fight the Gunns and Sinclairs without you.”
Patrick remained silent.
His father lifted a hand in a helpless gesture. “Alex would die trying,” he said.
“You realize that, do you?”
His father glowered. “I was trying to make a man of him.”
Patrick shook his head. “You have caused much misery, Father. Too bloody much.” He headed again for the door.
“Patrick.”
But he did not turn.
“Patrick. Donna … donna leave.”
He stopped a foot from the door. His father was standing again, and as he watched, the old man took a step toward him. But his body swayed, his hand flailing. In a moment, he tumbled back into the chair.
“Bloody gout,” his father grumbled.
Patrick knew his father was ashamed of his illness, which he considered a weakness. He prayed he would never grow so foolish in his old age. He stood by the chair, waiting for another tirade. But it never came. For a long time, his father stared at the cold hearth, his hands gripping the chair arms.
Finally, he began, “She reminds me of …” He trailed off.
“Margaret?” Patrick said.
“Aye. Be careful, lad. Women are treacherous.” The anger was gone from his voice, leaving it hollow. Lonely.
Patrick had never seen his father the least bit vulnerable, and wondered if he would ever see him so again. Choosing his words carefully, he said, “Sir, I do not believe that Margaret betrayed you. I think someone wanted you to believe that she did.”
Weary eyes looked up at him. “She has been gone two years. If she didna betray me, where is she? I didna kill her.”
“Aye, I know,” Patrick said.
“Nor did she kill herself. Oh, I know”—he waved a hand at Patrick’s surprised look—“I said she threw herself into the sea, but I knew it wasna true. You are my son, and I trust you to know that, in her heart, Margaret never gave up her Catholic beliefs. She wouldna have killed herself.” He paused, staring again at the hearth. “She was my wife. I would never have revealed her faith to anyone. I would never have betrayed her. I thought she …”
“You thought …?” Patrick prompted.
But his father only shook his head. “It doesna matter.”
“Mayhap ’twill matter a great deal,” Patrick said, “if I can prove Margaret was not unfaithful to you.”
His father’s head snapped up. “What do you know, lad? And sit. My neck grows stiff looking up at you.”
Patrick seated himself on the edge of the chair opposite his father’s. Leaning forward, he said, “I believe Edward Sinclair hatched a plan to destroy the Sutherlands, and the first step was to make you think Margaret had been unfaithful.”
His father looked at him as if he had gone daft, but he did not interrupt. “He knew Margaret was the key to creating hatred between you and Donald Gunn. I believe he meant for you to declare war against the Gunns, and force the earl to look to him for help—which is exactly what happened. I am sure he was gracious when he accepted the earl’s offer of his daughter’s hand in exchange for help against our clan. The alliance would have given him the strength to fulfill his ancestral pledge to destroy our clan.” Raising an eyebrow, he added, “You and I both know we would never win against the Gunns and Sinclairs together.”
Gregor nodded but still did not speak.
“More than that, though,” Patrick continued, “in marrying Marsali, Sinclair knew he would be hurting me. And that, I think, was at least as important to him as destroying our clan.”
Gregor’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“The man hates me,” Patrick said. “I saw him cower and run from battle, leaving other men to die. He hoped I was one of them. He claims to have performed valiantly, and I am one of the few men alive who can say otherwise.”
His father scowled. “Why have you not?”
“I am responsible for myself, my own acts, my own honor. No one else’s. I would never have spoken of it, had he not attacked my family.”
His father studied him, and Patrick thought the old man’s gaze was every bit as sharp as it ever had been.
“So you have foiled Sinclair’s plan,” his father said. “You came home too soon.”
His body might be weak but there was nothing weak about his father’s mind, Patrick realized. “Aye,” he said. “To be exact, I came home one day too soon. Had I been a day later, Marsali would be married to him.”
Surprise flickered in the old man’s gaze. “You did have something to do with her crying off the wedding, then?”
“Aye,” Patrick admitted. “She was only going through with it because, if she hadna, her father would have put Cecilia in her place. She wouldna allow it. So I secreted Cecilia in a place where the earl willna find her. Marsali endured a month in her room on bread and water for refusing to go through with the marriage, but she didna yield. She has courage and honor, Father, as great as any man’s.”
His father was silent, and Patrick dared to hope that the fire he saw in the faded green eyes was admiration. Aye, the marquis of Brinaire would admire someone, man or woman, who had true honor.
Finally, his father spoke in a tone that came close to wrenching Patrick’s heart—a brusque but futile attempt to cover pain. “How certain are you, then, about Margaret?” he asked.
Patrick replied, “I am certain that Sinclair’s men, dressed in Sutherland plaids, attacked the Gunns. I am certain they will do it again. Of these things, I have proof. I think Sinclair convinced Abernie to petition the king to have us outlawed.”
At the mention of Donald Gunn, his father’s look became shuttered, and Patrick was afraid he had lost him. “Donald Gunn is as much a victim as we are,” he said. “He truly believes you attacked his crofters only for revenge.”
His father leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful gaze on his face. Patrick saw a glimmer of the man his father had been. A man respected for making hard decisions, for his valor and his cunning—if not for his loving nature.
“You have plans,” Gregor finally said.
It was a statement, not a question, and Patrick knew he had to be careful. This was not the time to tell his father about the scrawny cattle or his renewed friendship with Gavin, much less that he was taking Sutherland clansmen to the Gunns’ northern border to fight against the Sinclairs.
“Aye,” Patrick said. “I have plans. And they include finding out what happened to Margaret.”
“Tell me,” his father ordered, though not in the same autocratic tone he might have used an hour earlier.
“I hope to let Abernie catch Sinclair in the act,” Patrick said, praying he was not asked to elaborate. After all that had been said in honesty, he did not want to have to lie again.
He exhaled slowly when his father growled, “Aye, you make certain Abernie is there to see it. Then he can come crawling to me with apologies.”
Patrick sighed. “He believes you mistreated his sister. At the very least.”
“She …” Gregor Sutherland stopped. He turned his head away, and Patrick saw his throat move as he swallowed hard.
Finally, his father spoke in the quietest tone Patrick had ever heard him use.
“Bring the Gunn wench to supper,” he said.
“You will be courteous to her.”
“You ask too much.”
“She will be the mother of my children.”
“Then God help you.” Some of the spirit was back, but it lacked the force that Patrick remembered.
“You will be kind to Marsali, Father. And you will look after her if anything happens to me.”
His father’s gaze came back to meet his, and Patrick was surprised to see the aging green eyes cloud again with something that, in another man, he would have thought was concern or mayhap fear. It was too much to believe. It contradicted too many years of expecting and receiving nothing; he simply could not believe his father had come to care about his welfare in the course of one conversation.
Yet when his father spoke, the harsh voice was merely gruff and held no hint of resentment.
“I will look after her,” he said.
Patrick left his father’s chamber feeling as if he had already won a war.
Chapter 24
The marquis kept his promise. Almost. Patrick had known cordiality was too much to hope for. Civility would have been nice. Instead, his father grumped his way through supper, acknowledging Marsali’s presence with a single nod. Still, it was far more than Patrick had expected, and the grins of the Sutherland clansmen at hearing of the handfasting more than compensated for his father’s lack of enthusiasm.
It was clear the clansmen liked Marsali. Patrick already knew that the Sutherlands associated a marked improvement in their food with Marsali’s arrival. How she had accomplished it, they did not know. They only knew that—within a matter of weeks—Brinaire seemed a brighter, happier place. Fresh rushes covered the floor, dishes were clean, and a smile graced young Elizabeth’s face.
He accepted the sincere congratulations of his clansmen, who, he noted, pointedly ignored his father’s glowering countenance. Then they drank to his and Marsali’s happiness. And drank some more, until the hall was filled with ribald comments and good cheer.
Marsali’s face, Patrick was gratified to see, glowed at their obvious goodwill. Still, he caught an occasional mist in her eyes and a worried frown on her brow. She knew he was leaving again after supper tonight.
He wished he could wait for Alex’s return, but he dared not; Sinclair could strike at any time, and he had promised Gavin that he would have men in the hills to support him. He had chosen twenty of his most trusted clansmen. Each man had been told not to wear his Sutherland plaids and, once away from the keep, to put a black ribbon around his arm. Cautious lest there be a spy of whom he was unaware, Patrick had issued orders for the clansmen to begin leaving, two or three at a time, after supper.
He himself would leave a bit later, when he had said goodbye to Marsali. Privately.
Patrick looked at his father, who had steadfastly refused to join in the toasts and was staring down at the contents of his goblet. He was not drinking as much as usual, and his gaze seemed more alert as it moved from Patrick to his daughter, then to Marsali.
A sudden movement at the opposite end of the long table caught Patrick’s attention, and he looked to see Hiram push back his chair and stand. When the red-haired giant cleared his throat, and it became clear he intended to speak, Patrick was stunned. He had never, ever, seen Hiram seek the center of attention.
His face red with embarrassment, Hiram looked toward the marquis and lifted his cup. “To the bonniest lass in Scotland, and the truest mon,” he said. “Two braw hearts.”
Cups raised, and fists pounded the table. “Two braw hearts,” echoed the thirty men and five women seated at the tables, as well as the ten servants standing against the walls.
Patrick’s gaze remained fixed on his father, who sat as unmoving as a stone. Gregor Sutherland looked around the room, then at his oldest son. His heir. Their gazes met, held, and the hall quieted. Then the marquis of Brinaire slowly raised his cup, his gaze never leaving Patrick’s.
“Two braw hearts,” he said. Then he took a sip, very carefully pushed back his chair and stood, and limped from a room now wrapped in stunned silence.
Patrick looked at Hiram and arched an eyebrow.
Hiram plopped down on his chair with a noise that brought laughter from the hall. Nervous laughter at first, but then it deepened, and the hall seemed to ring with it.
Marsali tried to smile as she bade Patrick farewell, but it was futile; she was terrified, and surely he knew it.
He was dressed in a dark brown doublet, overlaid by a jack, and dark breeches that hugged his legs. He looked fierce, menacing—and irresistible.
She looked at the face that was so incredibly dear to her and could not imagine living without seeing it again. Mayhap it was her imagination, but she thought some of the deep furrows around his eyes had smoothed out. The scar still bit deeply into his cheek, but it was part of him, a symbol of what was fine and decent and honorable.
She burrowed into his embrace, her hands wrapping around his neck.
“It will not be long, sweeting,” he said. “A day or two. No more than three, I think.”
His voice was calm and reasonable, and, oddly, his apparent lack of fear sent even stronger shivers racing down her spine. One day or three: It might as well have been a lifetime.
His hand touched her hair, then his lips came down on hers, possessing them. Marsali clung to him, feeling as if she were drowning in love—and terror. She wanted to be brave, but the bulge of cloth on his shoulder, under his clothing, was evidence that he was not invulnerable.
A cry of pure anguish ripped from her as his lips left hers. “Oh, Patrick, donna go,” she said. “You are not well enough.”
“I must,” he said softly. “I started this, and I must be there to see it through to the end.” He gave her a crooked smile. “Hiram willna allow anything to happen to me. He wouldna dare, knowing he will have to answer to you.”
She was neither humored nor comforted: Hiram had been with him the last time he was wounded.
“Father said he would look after you,” Patrick added.
Her eyes widened in surprise. “He agreed to that?”
“He wants to see his grandson,” Patrick said with a smile.
A blush crept into her cheeks. “Even one that is half Gunn?”
“Aye,” he replied. “Even one that is half Gunn.”
She sighed. “I wish you didna have to go. I donna understand why you canna send Hiram to meet Gavin.”
His look was mildly chiding. “I gave Gavin my word, lass. I canna leave him and his out there alone. The Gunn clansmen have not the weapons nor the experience.” A frown furrowed his brow. “I had hoped Alex would return by now, but Rufus may have had a problem meeting him. I canna wait.” He took her chin in his fingers, tilting her face upward. “When Alex returns, send him to the hut. I will put a man there who can find me—and I will make sure Quick Harry knows he is coming, lest he decide ’tis best to shoot a trespasser first and ask questions later.”
Marsali nodded, her insides churning. He was leaving. And nothing she said or did would stop him.
Yet he did not move. She saw the glitter of anticipation in his eyes, and she felt the impatience to be gone in the tension in his body. And still he stood there, his fingers stroking her cheek, his gaze moving slowly over her face.
Then, suddenly, his arms went around her, clasping her tightly, and he kissed her, hard and fierce. When he pulled back, his hands framed her face, and his gaze locked with hers.
“I love you, lass,” he said. “Donna ever forget it.”
Then, without looking back, he strode quickly from the room.
For a moment, Marsali stared at the empty doorway, her breath caught in her throat. Then, filled with both glory and anguish, she burst into tears.
Patrick rode with grim determination through the moonlit Highland night. The vision of Marsali’s face, tears hovering in her eyes and lower lip trembling, was like a lead weight on his heart. How he had wanted to stay. Yet it was for her that he had to leave. For them.
And he was about to break his oath, the oath that he would never fight another Scotsman. God help him, he hoped this would be the end of the violence.
And the end of Foster. The man was evil as well as mad, and he had sworn to kill Patrick even as Patrick’s sword stroke had apparently altered his voice. He would not give up. As long as Foster lived, Patrick knew that he and everyone he loved would be at risk.
“My lord?”
