Angel of Skye Page 9

  “Is the chair safe?”

  She smiled and nodded.

  “I thank you,” Alec said. “This little kelpie has worn me out today.”

  Malcolm skipped ahead of the laird and grabbed the chair, dragging it closer to Fiona’s chair. Alec stopped short, amused by the little boy’s antics.

  The warrior waited beside his chair for Fiona to sit, and the young woman was once more taken by his chivalrous behavior. She felt her color rising into her face again, and wished she had somewhere to hide from such attentions. He was treating her with unwarranted courtesy.

  Malcolm nearly pushed Fiona into her chair, climbing back into her lap as Alec sat across from them. Fiona was glad to have Malcolm between them.

  “So what was it you wanted Lord Alec to tell me?” she queried the boy.

  “We did so much, Fiona,” the boy blurted out, twisting his body to look at her. His eyes were shining. “Alec let me ride Ebon! And I had a lesson in swordfighting! And I met so many people! And the castle! Fiona, Dunvegan is so different now! It isn’t nearly so scary. There are tapestries and all sorts of things on the walls. And there’s furniture now. And there’s...what else? Aye, there are lots of Alec’s men around all the time. They aren’t mean at all, and they even joke with each other. And there’s Robert, Alec’s squire. He talks way too much, but he’s going to be a warrior!”

  Fiona couldn’t help but smile at the young boy’s excitement. She looked over at the laird, and their eyes met for an instant. Suddenly she had an urge to thank him for this. For what he had done for Malcolm. This was certainly far different from what she’d envisioned Dunvegan to be.

  “And Ambrose, Alec’s brother, he has a great scar that he won at Flodden fighting for the king! I want a scar like that. And I...and I...” Malcolm stopped midsentence. He turned and looked expectantly at the laird seated comfortably across the room.

  “Malcolm, what was it that you wanted Lord Alec to tell me?” Fiona asked, looking pointedly at him.

  “I want...Alec asked me...” the lad responded, casting a last hopeful look at the laird.

  “What do you have against falcons?” Alec asked casually.

  “What?”

  Alec smiled at the bright-faced boy and turned his eyes back to Fiona. “He wants a hawk.”

  “A hawk? And have another free animal caged? For God’s sake, why?”

  “Why not?” Alec responded quickly.

  “I need a mistress, Fiona,” the boy explained seriously, interrupting the two.

  “You need what?” Fiona looked from Malcolm’s somber expression to the warlord’s barely restrained laughter.

  “He needs a mistress,” Alec repeated. “You heard him.”

  “Wait a moment,” she began.

  “I do, Fiona!” Malcolm interjected, taking her by the chin. “Ambrose said so.”

  “Oh, he did, did he?”

  “Aye,” Malcolm continued. “Ambrose said Alec has a mistress, and that I should have one, too!”

  Fiona felt an unexpected pang of disappointment, then she considered for a moment. “Malcolm, first of all, you are too young to be discussing such things. And second, I think I would prefer not to hear about Lord Macpherson’s private affairs.”

  “She’s not a private affair,” the lad grumbled. “Tell her, Alec.”

  Fiona looked questioningly at the amused laird.

  “You really need to meet Ambrose,” he answered, nodding. “Before I set him adrift in a rudderless boat, that is.”

  “If he is anything like his brother,” she responded, “then perhaps I will wait.”

  “So I can keep a hawk?” Malcolm interrupted. “I’ll bet the prioress would agree.”

  “I am lost,” Fiona said, ignoring the boy’s comments. “Hawks? mistresses? scars? swords? What other things of value have you taught Malcolm?”

  “I think I should clarify this before we move further afield.”

  “That would be nice,” she said, raising an eyebrow at the laird and hugging Malcolm to her protectively.

  “My brother made a rather off-color comparison of Swift, my falcon, to...well...to a woman.” Alec searched for just the right words. “His comments went something like...to the falconer, a dog is a servant, a horse is transportation, but a hawk is his mistress.”

  “How is that so, m’lord? Though I’m afraid to ask.” Fiona had always believed these animals to be God’s creatures. Beneath man in the natural schema, perhaps, but objects of man’s will? Never!

  “Others besides Ambrose have said that the relationship between a falconer and his bird is very much like the relationship between a man and a woman. When a falconer trains, or rather teaches a bird to trust him, he can only coax her. If he is successful, he is rewarded with the companionship of a creature that could disappear forever in the wink of an eye.”

  “A rather tenuous view of the relationship between men and women, m’lord.”

  “We can only learn from what experience deals us,” he answered seriously.

  “‘Only,’ m’lord?” she asked, a note of friendly challenge in her voice. “I don’t know that women are as inconstant or so much in need of man’s training as you or your brother suggest.”

  “No?”

  “Consider, m’lord, the relationship between falconer and falcon...between man and woman. Suppose, as you say, the man teaches, coaxes, forms her in a way he discerns as desirable. But what of the woman?”

  “The woman? Tell me.”

  “Let us accept, for the moment, that what you say is true. The woman is learning about life. In so doing she is...well...growing a set of wings. For perhaps the first time, she is now able to see more of what the world offers. For the first time she is able to soar. And as she rises higher, she can also see a changing horizon. As you say, she could use these wings to fly away. But she does not.”

  “What stops her?”

  Fiona paused for a moment as Malcolm squirmed in her lap. The laird sat still, watching her intently. She took a deep breath.

  “Her man. She sees the horizon, but she also sees her man. The woman wants him, but her needs have changed. She now seeks more than simply what her man can teach. She wants trust, companionship. The same basic qualities we want in our friendships. And she knows these things are shared, not taught. She stays, m’lord, sometimes in the hope of these things. But when this sharing does not happen—when she knows it will not happen—the falcon flies.”

  Alec rose from his chair and crossed to the window. The moon was just rising above the roof of the church. He turned and leaned against the sill.

  “Do you think men are unable to learn?”

  “Nay, m’lord,” Fiona responded quickly. “But most see no need to change. And is it not true that men learn only what their passions allow?”

  “Tell me, Fiona,” the warlord said, his eyes capturing hers, his tone lightening suddenly. “What do you know of men’s passions?”

  Fiona blushed, averting her eyes.

  “I only ask the question, m’lord,” she answered, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “I believe someone once said, ‘We can only learn from what experience deals us.’”

  “So can I have a hawk, then?” Malcolm asked, punctuating his question with a yawn. Grown-ups talked too much.

  “We can talk about it in the morning, Malcolm,” she said gently, very aware of the standing laird. “You’re falling asleep right here.”

  “I’ve heard that before. But I’ll remind you again tomorrow, Fiona. I won’t forget,” the boy grumbled, edging off her lap. Brightening, he turned to her. “Carry me up?”

  “Get along, you imp.” Fiona laughed. “If you’re big enough for a hawk, then you’re big enough to go up on your own two feet. But I will walk with you.”

  Malcolm whirled toward Alec. “Will you walk with us?”

  The laird nodded, his eyes drawn to the beauty seated at the table. The candlelight behind her caused the red in her hair to flame brilliantly around her face.
She was truly radiant, but there was more than just her beauty drawing him on.

  “Good night, m’lord. Thank you for showing Malcolm—”

  “Wait!” Alec stopped her, reaching out and touching her elbow as she was about to turn away. Malcolm had just disappeared into the nun’s quarters, and Fiona was about to follow him in.

  Alec did not know what had come over him. But he knew he could not let her go, not yet. Since he had seen her last, Alec had not been able to stop thinking about her. There was something about Fiona that haunted him. He was not sure what it was. She was like a waking dream, following him.

  “The porter will let you out, m’lord,” she said. “Unless there was something else?”

  “There is.”

  Alec’s pause after his last word was enough to send both a thrill and an accompanying flush through Fiona’s body. His look was direct, and its effect coursed through her in a way unfamiliar to her.

  “You still have not shown me around, Fiona.”

  At the sound of her name on his lips, Fiona felt her color rising again. How could this be so? she thought, glad for the cover of night.

  “It is dark, m’lord. We...we would not even be able to see the flowers in the garden.”

  “The flowers are not the only thing that interests me.”

  “No?”

  He shook his head.

  What was happening to her? She knew she should go, but she wanted to stay. The idea of walking in the darkness of the night, under the blanket of stars, beside this man sent a shiver down her spine. But it was not proper. It would never be proper for her. And yet...

  “Perhaps another time?” she heard herself say.

  “Nay, lass, there is no moment like the present,” he answered, speaking from his heart. He was attracted to her, and he already knew the reason for it. Yes, she was beautiful—stunningly so. His body was telling him that right now. But more importantly, this woman had spirit and wit. Moreover, despite her willingness to don a disguise in her effort to help those in need, she was devoid of the insidious falseness that defined the courtly ladies he had been dealing with all his life. “You are very difficult to corner.”

  “I am?”

  “Aye, you are. I have been here every day since we last met, looking for you. But you’re never around.”

  Fiona’s eyes were drawn to his. She had heard about him coming here and spending time with Malcolm. But it simply could not be that he’d come for her. Something stirred within her at his candid admission... a seed of hope…but it was a hope for something she dared not admit to, even to herself. But had she heard him right? What had he said?

  “I did not...”

  “How about it, Fiona?” Alec pressed. “We will not go far. Perhaps we could just sit and talk. It is a beautiful night, and it would be a shame to waste it.”

  She looked at him again. She was out of her element. All the training that she had gone through in her life had not even come close to preparing her for this incredibly handsome and persistent laird.

  “Is there something specific you want to talk to me about?” she blurted. She knew it was a last defense, but she was trying to control a sudden panic. She had to focus on the reason behind all this. She could not in her wildest dreams imagine why Lord Macpherson would want to sit in the moonlight with her.

  “Aye, there is.” Alec peered through the darkness at the young woman. He needed to calm her fears, allay the causes of her skittishness. Like the new falcon that bates in panic in her first contact with the falconer, rising from her perch with a wild beating of her wings, Fiona looked ready to vault the stone steps of the dormitory. And yet, something told Alec that she would not. “I want to talk to you about the poisonous gases that lie just beneath the ground in the Spanish New World. And I really need to learn your feelings about the Tudor king’s new warships. And I was wondering if you had heard about Erasmus’s response to Martin Luther. Or about Suleyman the Magnificent’s harem of a thousand wives. A man needs to learn.”

  She laughed. “You just crossed out of my realm of knowledge, m’lord.”

  “Very well,” he said, taking her by the hand. “Then we can explore territory new to both of us.”

  The touch of his fingers sent a shock through Fiona. As he led her toward the garden paths, the sensation traveled like a river of heat. Up her arm and into her chest. It swept through her and spread. Something within her wanted to resist the pull of his hand.

  But something even stronger drew her on, and ahead the moonlight spilled glowing, white, and liquid into the ordered greenery of the open gardens.

  “Tell me, is this place very old? No one at Dunvegan seems to want to tell me anything of the Priory’s history. How did it come to be founded here? What happened to Newabbey?” Alec knew he had to draw her out. He wanted her to feel comfortable, to be as at ease with him here as she had been in her workroom. “For that matter, what happened to the old abbey?”

  And then, gently, Fiona slipped her hand from his grasp and started to talk. They walked past the darkened buildings, past the rear of the church, and as they did, she spoke of it as the place she called home. She told him of the Priory’s sometimes colorful history, of the nearby abbey that had been raided, burned, and abandoned in the times of the Norse invaders hundreds of years before. She spoke of the succession of women who had guided the construction of the various buildings. Women who had seen the need for changes and had made them. She told Alec of the work of the present prioress, of the improvements that were even now happening.

  Alec listened, amazed by the depth of her concerns, and the vast degree of her knowledge. He knew from his discussions with the prioress and with David that Fiona was neglecting to take credit for her own efforts. He looked at her in the glow of the rising summer moon. She was so young, so beautiful, so resourceful, so inventive. And tonight he had discovered something else about Fiona. She was so candid about her emotions and beliefs. She expressed them with no fear or reservation and displayed them with a great degree of animation. Nothing was hidden within her, and no opinion was held back.

  They had been skirting the gardens. Fiona hesitated at the edge of the shadowy grounds which lay ahead. She fell silent, but watched as Alec started to move along the crushed shells of the pathways. She followed.

  As they walked, Fiona became aware of a gentle humming emanating from the golden-haired warrior. She smiled at the ease in which he fell into the tune; she took comfort in the sound of his voice. The rich night scents were rising from the garden beds and mixing with the odor of crushed thyme produced with each step they took across the greensward between the paths.

  Their senses came alive as each found a kind of restless joy in the place and in the magic that was stirring within them. Hardly wanting to end the night, Alec looked about him for a way of prolonging it. Spotting a stone bench, he guided Fiona toward it, stopping at the last moment and cutting off her path.

  “I could use a short rest,” he said, seating himself and not leaving Fiona much choice in the matter. “How about you?”

  “So Malcolm did wear you out,” Fiona said with a laugh as she watched him stretch his long legs out before him. She sat at the end of the bench, a discreet distance between them.

  “Aye, he is quite a lad.”

  “May I ask you something, Lord Macpherson?”

  “Anything.” Alec turned, looking at her profile. She had gathered her hair and tied it at the nape of her slender neck. She was looking straight ahead, avoiding any eye contact. He took in the beautiful features: the fiery hair, the straight back, the modest dark dress, the rise and fall of her bosom with each gentle breath.

  “Why...I was wondering...” she stammered. She could feel the heat of his gaze on her. “Why your attentions to Malcolm? I mean...”

  “The visits here, the trip to Dunvegan, the riding, the hawking?” Alec asked.

  “Aye.” She nodded. “He even calls you by your given name.”

  “You might, as well.”
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  “That is not what I am getting at,” she insisted, the flush rising to her face once again.

  “I know,” he answered. “Well, I like Malcolm.”

  “Malcolm is a wonderful lad,” she pressed. “But surely that is not the only reason. After all, his father was your enemy.”

  She turned and looked directly at him, awaiting his response.

  “My understanding is that his father was not all that popular here, either,” Alec responded quietly, meeting her gaze and indicating the Priory with a sweep of his hand. “If you don’t hold it against the lad, why do you think I would?”

  “Because blood feuds seem to drive the actions of many in your class.”

  The warlord paused for a moment before answering, arrested once again by her frankness and her honesty. And her beauty.

  Gazing into her face, at her finely sculpted features so delicately lit in the glow of the moon, Alec fought hard at the sudden urge to throw caution to the wind, to pull her fiery locks free of their bonds, and to lace his fingers into the silky tresses as he drew her to him. Caught up in the moment’s fantasy, the young warrior was left torn between his desire to communicate with this young woman of wit and intelligence...and his growing need to feel her slender body against his, to mold her soft, full lips to his own.

  “M’lord?”

  “Aye...blood feuds. But do you mean the baker in the village does not occasionally argue with the blacksmith?”

  “Of course they do,” she conceded with a smile. “Though I have only once or twice seen the baker raise an army to settle the dispute.”

  “You see? I am already behind in this area.”

  “I have a hard time believing that, m’lord,” she teased, raising an eyebrow at the long sword tied at his belt.

  “It is true,” Alec protested. “Although I have personally slaughtered thousands upon thousands—this week—I am certain that I have only gathered an army once.”

  “Well, m’lord, you had better hurry. Think of how your reputation will suffer among the other clan chiefs when they find out our baker is ahead of you in raising armies.”