Jacques (The Sword and the Spirit Book 3), page 17
With Morag cradled in his arms, Jacques rose to his feet and gave Alastair MacAulay’s remains a final glance.
“Can you find it in your heart to forgive him?” Gabriel asked, “’Tis the Christian thing to do.”
“Aye, it is.” Jacques looked down at Morag’s ashen face. “But I feel no guilt in abstaining. I hope the bastard is burning in Hell.”
With Alastair’s horse in tow, they set off at a faster pace, not stopping till they reached a stream on the edge of the forest. There, with Morag resting against him, Jacques settled on a flat rock at the water’s edge, while Gabriel prepared to treat her infected ankle.
So far, she’d shown no sign of consciousness. But when Gabriel began to wash the dirt and infection from her wounds, she flinched, noticeably. And when he dabbed some ointment on the raw skin, she let out a raspy, heart-wrenching cry that tore into Jacques’ soul. A single tear leached from her eye and trailed down the side of her cheek. He brushed it gently away.
“Forgive me,” Gabriel said, frowning. “The pain will not last long.”
Unable to speak over the tightness in his throat, Jacques merely nodded, and drew Morag closer. He buried his face in her hair and breathed in the faint lingering stench of death, as if Alastair MacAulay still had her in his grasp. As well he might. Who could say what lasting damage had been done to her bright spirit? A groan escaped him as he thought again of all she had suffered, and would yet suffer.
Then he felt her move, and looked down to see her looking back at him, eyes glazed with fever, brow creased.
“Thank the Lord,” he said, his voice breaking. “Do you know me, Morag?”
She searched his face, the crease on her brow deepening. “Is… is this Heaven?”
“Not quite, nire bihotza,” Jacques replied, tears springing to his eyes. “It’s Scotland.”
“Oh.” She blinked and looked away as if trying to fathom what he meant. Then the frown vanished and her eyes drifted closed again.
“Morag?” He slid a finger beneath her chin and tilted her face toward him. “Can you hear me?” But she didn’t respond.
A hand squeezed his shoulder. “She’ll be all right, Brother,” Gabriel said. “I know she will. Let’s go home.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
They journeyed into the night, at last reaching the final stretch of coast road leading to the castle. A fresh wind blew in from the west, feathering the waves and herding a thick mantle of clouds across the sky. Jacques breathed deep, as if to wash any remaining traces of foul air from his lungs. For him, the ride back had been endless. He’d watched Morag constantly, praying she would continue to breathe and willing her eyes to open again, fearful for her survival despite Gabriel’s reassurances.
Now, at last, the torches burning atop Castle Cathan’s gatehouse came into view. A welcome sight. Jacques knew their approach had been seen, for a shout went up as they drew near. He exchanged a knowing glance with Gabriel. Their arrival was bound to cause a stir, no less than the one caused by Ruaidri MacKellar’s miraculous return the previous year. And, when the expected furore eventually died down, questions would be asked and answers demanded. Jacques feared he had no answers to give, for how could he explain the inexplicable?
Moments later, the castle gates swung open and Duncan appeared, a flaming torch grasped in one hand. He wore an expression of mild reproval. “’Tis good to see you both returned.” he said, frowning as he regarded Alastair’s horse. “And with a fine acquisition, I see. A wee bit of consideration wouldnae have gone amiss, however. We didnae ken where you’d gone or why, and your absence has had folks worried, as if we dinnae have enough tae worry—” His mouth gaped and his eyes widened as he regarded the bundle in Jacques’ arms.
“Who…?” He moved closer and touched Morag’s hair with a hesitant hand. “Och, nay. Nay, it cannae be.” His face crumpled like a child’s. “Please, Templar, tell me my damned eyes dinnae deceive me.” Tears tumbled into his braided beard. “Please tell me ’tis our wee lass you have in your arms. And then tell me she’s alive and unharmed.”
“Your eyes do not deceive you, Duncan,” Jacques replied, fighting back tears of his own at the sight of the burly steward’s emotional collapse. “Morag is alive, thank Christ, but not unharmed. She needs care. Have Laird MacKellar and Ewan returned yet?”
Duncan sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve. “Nay, not yet. Do they ken you have her? How did you find—?”
“They know nothing of it.” Gabriel dismounted. “And how we found her is a miraculous tale, but one to be told only after your lady’s needs have been seen to.”
“Aye. Aye, of course.” Still sniffling, the man swiped the tears from his eyes and moved to help Jacques dismount. “Och, but I cannae wait to see the laird’s face when he finds she has been safely returned. Ewan’s too. Did you…? Nay, never mind. Off you go. I’ll see to the horses.”
News of Morag’s rescue created an outpouring of relief and emotion that flooded the entire MacKellar stronghold. Jacques fended off any and all questions as he carried Morag to her chamber, where he placed her in the care of Cristie and Breanna. Both women had first wept, and then rallied fiercely to their sister’s aide, as protectively as a couple of she-wolves. They also demanded answers, but Jacques had gently refused to submit, even to them. Instead, he’d begged patience, pointing out that the details must first be given to Ruaidri and Ewan upon their return—specifically Ruaidri, him being the laird. To do otherwise would be inappropriate. Disrespectful, somehow.
He didn’t mention his other consideration, namely the identity of the man responsible for Morag’s abduction. Not a stranger, but a blood relative to Cristie. The news of Alastair MacAulay’s involvement and death would be better relayed to her by her husband. Even though Cristie might already have her suspicions, it was not Jacques’ place to confirm them.
Since then, he and Gabriel had taken refuge in the chapel, praying and waiting for Ruaidri and Ewan to return. The brothers had undoubtedly waited into the night, absorbing the truth that the ransom would never be collected, and unable to understand the reasons why. Both no doubt believed their sister to be lost, and probably forever. Certainly, Ewan’s brief expression that morning had spoken of his anguish.
Jacques prayed they would return soon, so their pain would end.
Not long after, a clamour drifted in from beyond the door; raised voices and the sound of hurried footsteps, coming closer. Jacques got to his feet just as Ruaidri and Ewan all but fell into the chapel.
Ruaidri, breathing hard, regarded Jacques and uttered one word. “How?”
“With respect, Laird MacKellar,” Gabriel said, before Jacques could answer, “this is not the place.”
Jacques frowned. “Have you seen her?”
“Not yet,” Ewan replied. “Which is why we must hear it from you, since we cannae quite believe it. Is it true?”
Jacques nodded and moved toward them. “Aye, it’s true. We found her.”
Visibly shaken, Ruaidri placed a steadying hand on the door frame. “I need to see her first,” he said, “then I’ll hear how all this came about. Wait for me in my chambers. And thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you.”
A little later, Jacques swept his gaze around the table. A shutter guarded against the bleakness of an autumn night and muffled the perpetual roar of the waves. The only light in the room came from a dwindling log fire and several flickering candles that cast a shimmering light over those gathered there.
His gaze came back to rest on the weary faces of Ruaidri and Ewan, who had just taken their seats. Unshaven faces, slack with cautious relief having seen their sister safe in her bed. Yet it was too soon to rejoice without a care, for the fever still had her in its grasp.
Ruaidri drew breath and folded his hands atop the table. “So, explain it, Jacques. How, in God’s name, did you find her? Who had her? What did we miss? Tell me.”
“You missed nothing, Laird MacKellar.” He paused, wondering how to continue. Where to begin. Time and again, he’d gone over the day’s events in his mind, and he’d yet to make any real sense of it. He dropped his gaze to the tabletop, seeking direction. There was something missing. Something he needed. He unbuckled the pouch at his belt, withdrew the sprig of heather, and placed it before him.
“What is that?” Ewan asked. “A message?”
“Nay.” Jacques unfolded the scrap of linen. “’Tis something Morag gave me the day I left for France.”
“The white heather,” Ruaidri murmured. “Are you saying it had something to do with this?”
“In a way.” Jacques met the man’s gaze. “Truth is, I can’t really explain how I found Morag. All I can do is give you an account of the events that led me to her. And I pray it’ll make sense to you because, I swear by all things holy, it makes no sense to me.” His jaw hardened. “You should also know that some of what I tell you will be… disturbing.”
“I dinnae doubt it,” Ruaidri replied. “Who had her? Did you kill them?”
“I’ll get to that.” Jacques frowned and touched the fragile flowers, much as he had that morning. “But I think it best I start from the beginning.”
Ruaidri and Ewan traded grim glances. “Go on,” Ewan said. “Tell us everything.”
Jacques filled his lungs and began to recount the events of what had been one of the longest days in his life. As he shared his experiences, it felt as though he was describing a dream in perfect detail, every moment, every memory, seared into his brain. And he knew it would always remain that way, clear and concise. Unaffected by time.
“Holger’s Pit,” Ruaidri muttered, as Jacques described their discovery of the stones and their descent into the gully. “’Tis believed to be a place of great evil, feared by most folk. That’s where you found her?”
Jacques inclined his head. “Aye, and I can vouch for the evil. I felt it.”
Gabriel shifted in his seat. “We both felt it.”
Ewan cursed under his breath.
Ruaidri appeared to ponder and then shook his head. “I’ve yet to understand the circumstances,” he said. “Was she alone? Had she been left there to die?”
“Not exactly.” Jacques exchanged a glance with Gabriel. “That’s to say, she wasn’t exactly… alone.”
“Who was with her?” Ewan demanded.
Jacques drew a slow breath. “Alastair MacAulay.”
There followed a moment of absolute silence.
Then, “Seems you were right,” Ewan said, looking at Ruaidri.
Ruaidri leaned forward and speared Jacques with his gaze. “Tell me you killed him.”
Jacques shook his head. “I didn’t have to.”
“What do you mean?”
“The man was already dead, Laird MacKellar. That’s why he never came for the ransom.”
“Dead,” Ruaidri repeated, sitting back. “How did he die?”
“Suddenly, it seems, and not by anyone’s hand. We found him sitting upright against the cave wall, his eyes still open. By my reckoning, he died the night before the ransom was due to be paid, which means he’d been dead three days by the time we got there.” Jacques’ throat tightened. “Hence the injuries to Morag’s ankle. The shackle key was out of her reach, so she obviously tried to—”
“Dear God.” Ruaidri closed his eyes.
Ewan slumped back in his chair. “I cannae even bear to think of it.”
“As I said, disturbing.” Jacques heaved a sigh. “And you of all people, Laird MacKellar, must understand the repercussions of such an ordeal.”
Ruaidri opened his mouth as if to speak and then closed it again. “The most important thing is that she’s home,” he said finally, “and I dinnae really care how that came to be, though I agree your explanation defies understanding. Maybe you really did hear that scream. Maybe Father Sabatier was the one mistaken, thinking it to be the cry of a bird.”
Gabriel shook his head. “The cave must be at least two miles from the clearing. There’s no way such a sound could travel that far. I believe we witnessed a miracle today and no other explanation is warranted. Just gratitude for God’s mercy and prayers of thanks.”
Ruaidri gave a sober smile. “I’ve already uttered a few of those, Gabriel. Our family has been blessed with miracles before. I confess, however, that I’ll always wonder if MacAulay intended to tell us where Morag was, or if he was just going to take the gold and vanish.”
Gabriel gasped, reached into his tabard, and pulled out a roll of parchment. “This might provide the answer,” he said, handing the scroll to Ruaidri. “I forgot I’d kept it. It was in one of Alastair’s saddlebags. It led me to the location of the shackle key.”
Ruaidri’s expression darkened as he read Alastair’s letter. “It pains me to give him the benefit of the doubt, but it appears he intended to follow through.” He touched the charred corner of the parchment. “Though this might indicate he considered changing his mind. Morag will no doubt tell us more, when she’s able.” He handed the parchment to Ewan. “In any case, I’ll have to let Brochan MacAulay know about this. They’re his kin, after all.”
“He’s kin to Cristie as well,” Ewan said, frowning as he read the paper. “Learning that Alastair is the one responsible willnae go easy on her, Ruaidri. She still holds some guilt for what he did to you.”
“Then let me be the one to tell her,” Ruaidri said. “I’ll make sure she understands her guilt is unfounded. My main concern at the moment, however, is Morag’s recovery. I’ll have your thoughts on that, Gabriel.”
“Physically, I believe she’ll recover,” Gabriel replied. “’Tis her mental healing which might be of concern, given what she’s experienced.”
“Aye.” Ruaidri regarded Jacques. “With that in mind, Templar, I would speak with you in private.”
“Whenever you wish, Laird.”
“Now,” he replied. “Ewan, Gabriel, if you’ll excuse us.”
Ruaidri remained silent for several moments after the others left, his head bowed in either prayer or contemplation. He had the look of a man recently freed from anguish, Jacques thought. Relieved, but exhausted.
At last he looked up and scrubbed a hand over his face. “When we left here this morning, I said we’d never give up looking for Morag.” He gave Jacques a solemn smile. “Yet we brought the Templar gold back with us today, and for those few hours as we rode home, I carried the weight of my sister’s death on my conscience. Despite what I said, I knew I’d likely never find her, no matter how long I searched. Ewan knew it too. Neither of us spoke a word the entire way back. There was naught to be said, after all. When we rode through the gates, Duncan took one look at our faces and began blubbering like a wean. I assumed it was because of Morag. Which it was, as it turns out. But it was because she’d been found, not because she’d been lost. And I dinnae…” He drew a ragged breath. “I dinnae have the words to describe how that made me feel, Jacques. Nor do I care to dwell on where we’d be this night had you not returned to Scotland when you did. I’m curious to know what brought you back here, though. I dinnae require you to defend your decision to go to France. I respected it at the time and I respect it now. But did it give you the closure you sought? Are you still a Templar in exile, or has your path changed? I need to know why you’re here. I need to know your intentions.”
“I’m here because of Morag,” Jacques replied, without hesitation, “but my intentions toward her, and consequently my intentions to remain here, depend entirely upon you, Laird MacKellar.”
Ruaidri exhaled and eased back in his chair. “’Tis what I hoped to hear. Nay, in truth, ’tis what I expected to hear. You mentioned repercussions earlier. If, by the grace of God, Morag survives this, there will definitely be repercussions. A soul cannae go through such an ordeal and come out unscathed. I suspect it’ll be easier if she has you beside her.”
“With or without me, she’ll survive,” Jacques replied. “From what I’ve seen, resilience runs through the MacKellar veins as thickly as the blood. She’ll weather the repercussions, just as Ewan did after Tortosa, and as you did after your experience with MacAulay last year. If you’re asking if I’m willing to stand by her no matter what, my answer is aye. Unquestionably.”
“Good.” The same solemn smile appeared. “You have it, by the way.”
Jacques lifted a brow. “Have what?”
“My consent to marry Morag. I give it gladly.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Morag opened her eyes to the warm glow of candlelight and gazed up at a green velvet canopy. Her canopy. The one in her chamber. That couldn’t be right. She wasn’t at home. She was on the threshold of Hell, waiting to die, her mind playing beautiful but cruel tricks. Any moment now, darkness would descend and erase all that her eyes beheld. And he would still be there. Alastair MacAulay. Leering at her in death. She continued to stare at the canopy, willing the image to stay. Dinnae blink. Dinnae close your eyes. It was a wonderful illusion. Even the air smelled sweet, with hints of lavender and rosemary.
“She’s awake!”
A woman’s voice. And, dear God above, it sounded like Breanna, with her distinct Sassenach accent.
“Are you sure?” came the reply, accompanied by a rustle of fabric. Another voice. And, dear God, it sounded like Cristie!
Dinnae blink. Dinnae—
“Aye, look. Her eyes are open.”
Something descended toward her face, causing her to blink involuntarily. Then a cool hand rested upon her brow. “She’s still warm, but not hot, like before,” Breanna said, her tone hopeful. “I believe her fever has broken.”
It all seemed real enough, but Morag didn’t dare believe it. Her mind was obviously wandering, showing her things she longed to see. It wouldn’t last. It couldn’t. Then a soft hand folded around hers, startling her.
“Morag, pet,” Cristie murmured. “Can you hear me? ’Tis all right. You’re safe. You’re home.”
Home? Cruel dream! A whimper scraped over her dry throat as the hand lifted from her brow, making her blink again. And still nothing changed. She blinked again, and again.
