Page 14 of Dorchad

“She didnae drown but swam to shore, my lord.” Ivor’s upper lip curled. “The fishermen that saw think her a witch, but our watchers spotted that grim bastart Dorchad MacRune helping her from the water. They report she wore strange garments, much like the other female who came before her. I’ll wager the dark Fae had much to do with the wench.”

He nodded. “Make inquiries and see what you may learn about her. Dinnae alarm your spies.”

After Ivor bowed and left him, Fifer’s thoughts drifted back to the days when he hadn’t been obliged to rule over the MacAlen. In that far simpler time he had only to safeguard the two people he most loved. He’d grown up in a small village near the sea among fishermen, sailors and salt makers. Hard work had provided plain but plentiful food for Ishbel, his widowed lady màthair, who in turn cared greatly for him. Gael, the only son of an older salt maker, had been his constant companion in boyhood, and later had worked with him at the brine pits. Over the years he had become like a second son to Ishbel, who loved the lad as much as Fifer.

Did she ever ken the truth about us? He sometimes suspected she had.

Remembering those days of happiness always brought with it the pain from how his life as a widow’s son had ended. The darkest days of his life did not begin when he had left his village with the kinsmen who had come to find him so they might become a clan. After many months of traveling the length and breadth of Scotland, Fifer’s terror came when he’d returned home to disaster.

He closed his eyes as the memory of finding the village half-empty, thanks to the pestilence, which had killed off every other person he knew. Then he’d learned the dread sickness had also taken Ishbel and Gael. Finding their bodies in the charnel house had nearly driven him mad. He’d dragged them both out into the sunlight and tried to shake them awake. Then he’d torn at himself, wailing in despair.

How can you take all I love from me? he’d shouted over and again at the heavens.

Although the headman attempted to insist on burning them along with all the other victims, Fifer had wrapped and carried their bodies to the dunes, where he dug their unmarked graves deep in the white sands. That was the old way, the better way. He could not bear to think of them reduced to ash and charred bone. In time the tide would reclaim their remains, taking what remained of them out to sea.

From whence we came, Ishbel had told him when she spoke of burying her own parents, so we must return.

Fifer’s fledgling clan had silently helped as he buried his first and last loves. Not one man asked about Gael, or why the lad mattered so much to him. Their unwavering and unquestioning loyalty to Fifer, someone they barely knew, had given him new purpose. Instead of joining those he had lost, he forged ahead and created a new life with the kin who had found him. In time they gathered more of those wishing new lives to build Dun Maor, a stronghold to protect them and the vassals that so loyally served them. In time they had chosen Fifer as their laird, and that trust made him place their needs forever before his own.

“My lord.”

The sound of the soft, weary voice made Fifer banish thoughts of his lady màthair and Gael before he turned to smile at the young lad he’d rescued from slavers. “Fair morning, Kiamh. How do you fare today?”

“Much better, thanks to your healer’s harp music.” Short, too thin and graced with a beauteous face, the young druid had big, soft eyes and a delightful head of light brown curls. “My feet no longer pain me at all, and I sleep so well here.”

“I’m glad.” Fifer wanted to hug the adorable boy, but settled for a gentle pat on his shoulder. “Soon I shall take you to visit the nearest tribe of your kind. They should ken how we might locate your people, or at least send word of you to others who might recognize you.”

Kiamh’s shoulders drooped. “I’d rather stay here, my lord. I can work, of course, mayhap as a scullery, or gardener...” He ducked his head, and made a choking sound. “I didnae tell you the truth, for ’tis shameful. I cannae return to my tribe, for ’twas they who cast me into slavery.”

“Why should they do such to you, lad?” Fifer asked, appalled.

“My parents dabbled in dark magic. When the tribe found them out, they ended their lives, but I...I couldnae.” He forced himself to meet his gaze, his gentle eyes filled with pain now. “’Twas cowardly of me, I ken, but I had done naught wrong, and I wished to live. As I’m a man grown, and responsible for my kin, the elders declared me an outcast. To punish me they sold me to those slavers.”

Those sobbed words made Fifer reach for the druid lad and fold him gently into his arms. “’Tis over now, Ki. None shall ever harm you again. I swear to you.”

It took some time for the boy to stop weeping, but he didn’t mind holding and comforting him. The slightness of his body and long, thin limbs made him all the more determined to protect him from the brutes of the world. Gael had died, but Kiamh could live. He had to live.

At last the druid boy quieted, and wiped at his face, his expression weary again. “Apologies, my lord. I’m easily overcome by sad memories.”

Fifer bent over to kiss his smooth brow for reassurance, but Kiamh lifted his face at the same moment, and their lips met. It had been so long since Fifer had kissed anyone that, at first, disbelief held him frozen. The lad’s mouth clung to his, sweet and giving, and he moved closer, clutching at his tunic.

Tasting him made Fifer’s head spin as if he’d swallowed a jug of whiskey, and sent a streak of white-hot longing into his heart. Yet how could this be happening to him again? He’d buried his love with Gael. When his cock swelled he finally came to his senses and pushed the lad back, ending the kiss. Only he used more strength than was necessary, which sent the druid careening back against a drum rack, which fell over.

“My apologies,” he said, righting the rack and reaching for the lad, who skittered out of his reach. “Did I harm you?”

“’Tis but a wrench.” Kiamh winced as he pulled his right arm against his narrow torso, cradling it as if wounded. “You didnae mean to embrace me?”

“’Twasnae my wish, no.” He hated that he had hurt the lad. “I rule here. Every clansman and vassal expect me to lead them. I cannae do thus if I’m dallying with a druid.”

“Of course, my lord. Forgive me.” Fresh tears streaked down the lad’s face. “I meant naught but gratitude.” He turned and ran back into the stronghold as if chased by hounds.

Fifer rubbed his stinging eyes, appalled at his own lack of control. He should never have spoken as he had to Kiamh. Yet if he pursued the lad to apologize, he might do more than kiss him. When he looked up he saw Lomond, his white-haired seneschal, standing and watching him. His expression made it plain he’d seen everything.

“Shall I collect the druid and bring him to your chamber tonight?” the seneschal asked.

“You heard him. ’Twas from gratitude, naught more.” Fifer gave Lomond a wan smile. “Send the healer to attend to him. He cannae return to his people, so we must find a position for the lad. Mayhap you could find work suitable for a druid?”

“’Tisnae much to him.” Lomond frowned. “I’ll speak to the head gardener. The lad’s kind, they’re said to be skilled with plants and such.”