ALL THE BIRDS OF THE FOREST
by Janeen Kelley Grohsmeyer
at darkpanther@erols.com
copyright May 1998
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SYNOPSIS: In 1618 Duncan leaves Glenfinnan for a time and meets newly-widowed Ellen.
RATING: Adult (F/M consensual sex)
CHARACTERS: Duncan MacLeod, Mary and Ian MacLeod, Debra Campbell, Robert MacLeod, Ellen MacTavish, Malcolm and Aileen MacLeod.
DISCLAIMERS: The Highlander Universe and the characters of Duncan MacLeod, Mary and Ian MacLeod, Robert MacLeod, Debra Campbell are not my creations. They are the property of Rysher, Gaumont, and Davis/Panzer. Some of the dialog is directly from the fourth season episode "Homeland." These characters and the dialog are used without permission, but no copyright infringement is intended, and this story was not written for profit.
The characters of Aileen MacLeod and Ellen MacTavish are mine. The name of Malcolm MacLeod was first mentioned in Debi Mosely's story "Winter Solstice." She has graciously allowed me to use it.
The title "All the Birds of the Forest" comes from the song "Bonny Portmore." The smooring prayer comes from the book "Serving Fire" by Anne Scott.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:
- to Mary Parsons, my co-Leader and a true-blue friend. Thanks for editing this story and for sharing my obsession and making tape after tape for me.
- to Vi Moreau, Bridget Mintz Testa, Monica Jordan, and Cathy Butterfield for proof-reading the story and offering some very good suggestions.
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Feedback is very much appreciated and can be sent to darkpanther@erols.com.
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ALL THE BIRDS OF THE FOREST
All the birds of the forest, they bitterly weep,
Saying "Where will we shelter or where will we sleep?"
For the oak and the ash, they are all cutten down,
And the walls of Bonny Portmore are all down to the ground.
- Bonny Portmore
~
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The 20th day of October, 1618
Glenfinnan, Scotland
_
It was the silences that finally drove him away. The whispers were bad enough, the hushed voices and the sidelong looks, the sudden changes in conversation whenever he approached. But the silences were more than Duncan could bear.
His Aunt Aileen did not speak to him. Not a word of reproach, not a word of anger or grief. Not a word.
She did not speak to Duncan's mother Mary either. The two women had been foster sisters from childhood. They had married brothers and had nursed each other's children. They had cooked food and carded wool together, sewn each other's clothes and brushed each other's hair, laughed together and wept together for over thirty-five years. They still lived next door to each other, but they were strangers now.
His parents spoke to each other, but they did not talk. Duncan could feel the tension between them. His father was convinced of the rightness of what he had done, of what he had made Duncan do. Honor had been satisfied, "no matter the cost." While his mother saw the need of it, she thought the cost had been much too high.
Duncan and his father did not talk either, beyond the gruff remark and the occasional word. There was anger and resentment between them, and respect and uncertainty and love and hate and pride. They had not the words for all of it, so they did not speak of it at all.
His Uncle Malcolm and his father had not spoken, not since that first terrible day. That day when Malcolm and Aileen had returned home from visiting their daughter Mary and her newly wedded husband Aidan Campbell. That day when their eldest son Robert lay dead on the ground, a sword wound in his belly and his blood on Duncan's hands.
Malcolm and Aileen did not speak when their foster-daughter Debra had moved out of their house that afternoon, taking her belongings to another cot. They did not speak at Robert's funeral-mass two days later, where Duncan and Debra stood stiff-faced on opposite sides of the kirk, not daring to look at each other. They did not speak as Malcolm and Ian and Duncan helped to carry Robert's body to the kirkyard. They did not speak as Robert was laid in a grave in the shadow of the wall, next to young Malcolm and wee Margerie, his younger brother and sister who had died years before.
And after Debra was gone too, Aileen still said nothing, though something flared deep within her eyes. Satisfaction? Revenge? Grief at the loss of one she had raised as daughter and future daughter-in-law? Perhaps all three. Still she had no word, and her eyes stared through him with a terrible wandering gaze that denied his very existence.
The harvest was due, and Duncan welcomed the eighteen-hour days of hard labor in the fields. He worked until he dropped at night onto his pallet exhausted, worked until he could not see Robert's unseeing eyes upon him, nor feel the touch of Debra's hand in his, nor hear the quiet voices that spoke of him, of Robert, of Debra.
After the harvest was brought in, Duncan could no longer escape into work and sleep. The silence in his home grew and swelled till his ears rang with the quietness of it, the cold angry silence of proud stubborn people.
There was silence too in his heart, where the love of his life lay cold within. There was no bright smile on her face, or song from her lips, or touch of her hand to warm him.
"I must go," he said to his mother as she sat spinning at her wheel.
She nodded slowly, sadly. "Aye, you must." Her faded blue eyes were tired and red-rimmed, and the lines were worn deeper in her face. She stopped the wheel, and set down the combed fleece.
He had not expected agreement. "You wish me to go?" he asked in surprise.
"There'll be no peace between our families with you here, reminding them every day of what they've lost, and how they've lost it."
Duncan stood still, clenching the pain deep within him. "What they have lost?" he said quietly.
"Ah, Duncan," his mother said, blinking back tears. "I know well that they are not the only ones who suffer." She looked up at him, wondering when he had grown so tall. She remembered clearly the days when he had toddled about, holding tight to her skirt, the days when she could hold him in her arms and make his world all right again. "I have seen you these past weeks, and heard you in the dark of the night."
Duncan looked away, his jaw clenched, envying his mother her tears. He turned back to her and jerked his head toward Aileen's and Malcolm's cot. "They have lost a son." His brown eyes stared deep into his mother's blue ones. "Would you lose yours as well?" he whispered.
"No, Duncan, no!" she cried, and she stood and hugged him to her. "Never think that," she whispered. "You are my son; nothing you can do will ever change that." She smoothed his hair back from his face as she had done countless times before. "But they need time, your father and your uncle. And so do you."
"Time away, away from my family and my home." His voice was dead, his look defeated and lost. He had suggested leaving, but he was not sure he wished to go.
"Aye," she agreed. "Time away -- from prying eyes and whispering tongues, and memories. You could visit my family, your cousins. I'll tell your father where you've gone." She touched his cheek gently. "Go, Duncan; you need the time away."
He caught her hand and held it there, tight within his grasp.
She smiled through her tears. "But come back, Duncan." Her smile disappeared, and she said fiercely, "You will come back home."
"Aye," he nodded slowly, "I'll come back."
~
He went into the forest, spending an occasional night at a lonely croft, but for the most part sleeping with the wide-spreading branches or the starry sky for his roof. The silence there was peaceful, just the rustle of the leaves in the wind and the songs of the birds, and there was no one to see or comment on his tears.
He had been in the forest for nearly a fortnight. The air was chill and damp with recent rain, and the leaves had turned the colors of autumn. Duncan stopped to drink from a rivulet that made its way over a bed of fallen leaves. The crystal cold water made his teeth ache, and he shuddered as he splashed more water on his face. Geese flew high overhead, showing dark against the cloudy sky between the branches. Their wild lonesome calls echoed off rocky crags, and they were gone.
He smelled it before he saw it, the rank musky smell of wild boar, sharp and tangy above the dampness of leaves and mold. He moved slowly, turning his head slightly to see the beast downstream. It was a young one, not yet full grown, but still formidable, with tusks that were capable of disemboweling a man or laying his leg open to the bone. It moved slowly and painfully, for there was a long festering wound on its side. The wound had been made perhaps by a spear, or from a fight with another boar.
Duncan gripped his spear more tightly. It had not the reach of a boar spear, being somewhat shorter than himself. He had no wish to kill the boar, but knew that the boar might well try to kill him. He moved slowly and quietly into a crouch, readying himself, bracing the end of the spear against a tree trunk.
The boar heard the noise and raised its head, snuffling the air. Its small eyes gleamed with a rim of red in the dim forest light, but it could not see Duncan so far away. The ears pricked forward as Duncan shifted his weight. A large raven landed on the branch above Duncan with a raucous call. Maddened with pain and irritated by the noise, the boar decided to attack rather than wait. He lowered his head and charged.
Duncan had no time to gasp or to swear as the boar came at him. He pointed the spear as best he could and impaled the boar in the chest. The boar kept charging, and the end of the spear splintered as it crashed into the tree trunk. The boar squealed and thrashed its head wildly back and forth in its death throes. Before Duncan could drop the spear and retreat, one tusk raked down Duncan's forearm, and the other laid a gash open along his ribs. Duncan hissed in pain and backed away, his arm already going numb.
The boar took a few stumbling steps, still squealing, then fell to the ground, its short front legs buckling underneath it. Its small feet beat a soundless tattoo on the rain-softened leaves, until at last it was still.
Duncan held his knife awkwardly in his left hand and cut a strip off the edge of his breacan. The skin of his right forearm gaped wide, a twisting cut that curved from elbow to wrist and showed a layer of fat over red muscle. He grimaced and wrapped the strip of cloth over and around the cut. The cloth was quickly soaked through with blood, and the brown sodden leaves below were spattered with red. He ignored the pain in his side; there was only a slow oozing of blood there.
He walked over and looked at the boar. Blood and foam showed between its teeth. With his arm wounded, he knew he couldn't carry the beast, but he needed his spear. Bracing one foot on the boar's chest, he grasped the spear with his left hand and pulled and twisted with all his might. His hand was slippery with blood and sweat, and he wiped it dry and tried again. After a long moment the spear came loose with a crackling sucking sound. Duncan leaned against a tree, bathed in sweat and feeling nauseated from the pain.
Still, there was a duty to be done. He knelt beside the boar, leaning on the spear for support. He dipped his left hand in the blood running down his side and touched his fingers to the boar's head, and then anointed himself in a like manner with the blood of the boar. He bowed his head and crossed himself as best he could with his wounded arm, and whispered the prayer his father had taught him.
He sat down suddenly, exhausted. There was blood on the ground and blood on his hands, and a terrible aching emptiness within. Again.
_
The 17th day of July, 1618
Glenfinnan, Scotland
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Aileen came running, holding her skirt high with both hands and slipping on the churned ground. She cradled her son's head on her lap, oblivious to Duncan crouching beside her. She called to her son over and over in a whispered broken voice, "Robert, my bonny lad, Robert! Robert, come back, Robert..." His eyes were wide-open, his face to the sky, but he did not see the clouds above or hear his mother's voice.
Robert's father Malcolm stood next to them, his face stark with grief, taking in the scene: his dead son in his wife's arms, his nephew Duncan bloody and disheveled nearby, the circle of grim and silent clansfolk. Slowly he lifted his head to stare at Ian, his brother.
Ian stood, his hands still clenched on the handle of the clan sword where he had driven its point into the ground, and met his gaze evenly.
"What happened here?" asked Malcolm, his voice oddly calm and detached. His brown hair was streaked with gray, and his face was lined, but there was still strength in the breadth of his arms, and his light blue eyes were intense.
"He challenged him." Ian's own voice was equally calm. He was the chieftain of the clan; his was the right of rule, and the responsibility. He wore the clan colors on his breacan, the long length of wool which clansmen wrapped around them to serve as both tunic and cloak. His blue eyes, so like his brother's, showed no hint of sorrow, only watchfulness and resignation. A wolf-skin covered one shoulder, and between his hands he held the clan sword, the symbol and the enforcer of clan justice.
"Who?" demanded Malcolm. "Who issued the challenge?"
"Robert."
"Robert?" He was incredulous. "Robert challenged Duncan?" He turned to look at Duncan, still crouching in the dirt. His gaze took in the cut on Duncan's arm, the dirt and sheep manure on his breacan and sark, the smears of blood across his hands and his lap where he had held Robert in his arms, begging him not to die. He saw too Duncan's stricken face, the terrible grief and pain in his eyes that were mirrored in his own.
"Why?" he whispered to Duncan.
Duncan swallowed and tried to answer, but the words would not come.
Malcolm turned to Ian. "Why?" he demanded, and now his voice was like a whip.
"Debra." Ian answered with one word, and it lay quiet and deadly between them.
"Debra," Malcolm breathed out the name slowly, but he nodded. A movement caught his eye, and he looked toward the door of the cot. Debra stood in the doorway, framed against the darkness of the interior. Mary was behind her, pulling on her arm.
Malcolm crossed the yard in six quick steps. "Whore," he said in a venomous quiet voice, and slapped her hard across the face.
Debra swayed with the force of it, but did not cry out. The red mark of his palm showed plainly in the dead-white of her face, and matched the blaze of her hair.
He raised his hand to hit her again, but found his wrist gripped tightly.
Duncan stood next to him, the grief in his eyes replaced by anger, his arm trembling with the effort to hold back his uncle's hand. His words were short and measured. "She's not a whore." His grip tightened at that word, and Malcolm's nostrils flared in pain. "And by God," continued Duncan, "you'll not hit her again."
"If she's not a whore," Malcolm asked between clenched teeth, "then why did Robert challenge you?"
"She loves me, and I love her." His eyes flickered to Debra's for an instant, and he swallowed hard. "Robert could not bear that." He added earnestly, "You know how Robert is," then paled as he realized his mistake. "How Robert was," he whispered and let go of his uncle's wrist. "I swear to you, Uncle," he said in a firmer voice, "I swear in Christ's name, we have not dishonored her betrothal to Robert."
Malcolm stared at his nephew for a moment, then lowered his hand and looked at Debra. "Will you swear to this also?"
She stared into his eyes, unafraid. "Aye, I will swear, on Christ's name." Her voice was soft but sure.
Malcolm dropped his gaze and nodded shortly, then went back to his wife and son.
Aileen was still rocking back and forth, keening softly, a low wailing ululation that raised the hairs on the back of the neck.
Malcolm knelt in front of her and put his hands on her shoulders. "Come now, wife." He held her still, and his arms went around her as he whispered against her hair, "We will take him home."
Aileen slowly stopped her rocking and her keening, and Malcolm lifted the body of their son from her arms. Robert's blood-stained breacan trailed in the mud, and Aileen bent hurriedly to snatch it up and tuck it gently around him. She reached over and closed his eyes, and kissed him tenderly on the forehead, as though bidding him good-night.
Duncan and all the folk of the clan watched as the family made its slow and silent way home.
_
All Soul's Day, 1618
The Highlands of Scotland
_

Duncan opened his eyes with effort. The air was colder now, raw with a dampness that settled in his bones and made him shake. He must find shelter soon. He stood slowly, leaning on his spear, and left the boar where it lay.
He was not sure how far he wandered in the fog, searching for the small cot he had seen earlier that afternoon, deep in a narrow glen. The cot had been close by, had it not? The rain started, and the darkness fell. Duncan shivered with cold and then with heat. The rain felt very cold indeed, and the ground was slippery underfoot. He fell heavily and smashed his injured side into a rock. Duncan grunted with the impact and breathed rapidly, clenching his teeth to keep from crying out.
He knew he should get up and build a fire, but there was no wood. There was only mud, mud and rocks. He scrabbled at the ground, tearing his fingernails and gouging his palms on the rough stones, desperately trying to dig. The mud slipped through his nerveless fingers, and he felt his cheek against the ground. He must dig, and dig quickly, but he could not move. His fingers moved feebly, then stopped. It was too late. He knew he was too late. "I'm sorry," he whispered, as warm tears rolled down his cheek and the salty tang mingled with the gritty taste of earth on his tongue. "O Debra, I'm sorry."
A warm hand touched his brow, and he groaned and turned toward it. Torch-light flickered on blue eyes and touched on red-gold hair. "Debra?" he whispered in disbelief and hope, and knew no more.
~
There was heat and cold and an endless thirst in the darkness. Voices jabbering close to his ear and then far away. A cool hand on his brow and water to his lips, then darkness once again.
He moved slowly through layers of consciousness. He was warm, not burning with fever or shaking with cold, and he was dry. The feel of a rough blanket was against his skin. Smells came next, wood smoke and porridge cooking and the rank and familiar smell of wet wool, both sheared and alive. A sound came to him, a soft voice humming. His mother sang that song. Was he home? He lay quiet, not wishing to open his eyes, and slipped back into his dream of Debra laughing, the sunshine bright on her bright hair.
~
He woke again to the sound of rain, and slowly opened his eyes. He was lying on his side, a small window directly in front of him. The rain-washed air smelled cool and fresh. Though the wooden shutters were pulled tight, he could see green grass under gray mist through a small crack between the shutter and the rough stone wall. He was very thirsty.
He shifted his weight, and the pallet of dried grasses crinkled under him. Under his cheek he felt the greasy wool of sheepskins. He turned his head partway and saw close above him the rough ceiling of wood beams and thatch. He started to turn over onto his back, then froze as the pain came over him in an icy wave.
He cautiously and very slowly pushed with his left elbow and managed to roll over onto his back, as clumsy as a turtle righting itself. He reached over and pulled back the rough blanket with his left arm. Even that movement was painful; he was stiff all over, and a dull ache throbbed in his side with every heartbeat. He looked at his right arm, swathed in strips of blue-gray cloth from fingertips to elbow. Holding his breath, he asked each finger to move. It hurt, but each fingertip wiggled. He tried to curl them into a fist, and went white at the effort of it, but they all moved. He released the breath he had been holding in a hiss. He lay back, breathing a quiet prayer of thanksgiving. He was not a cripple.
He ran his left hand gently over his ribs. Under the fabric of his sark, the long tunic worn underneath the breacan, he could feel more strips of cloth going completely around his chest. A quick peek under the blanket confirmed that he was clad only in his sark and the bandages.
He moved his head cautiously to the right; that only hurt a little. He looked about the small cot, which was perhaps five paces on a side. It served as both house and shed, for a ewe stood tethered in the opposite corner and regarded him with unblinking yellow eyes. There was a rough table and two stools in front of him, directly next to the circular hearth in the center of the room. A small spinning wheel stood beyond them, and against the far wall was a bed identical to the one he lay in. It was a slab of wood perhaps waist high, atop two stone supports. The space underneath was used for storage. Baskets of various sizes hung from the rafters, and a neatly stacked pile of wood and cut peat was near the door. Dim light came from two small holes cut in the wall on either side of the door.
Duncan closed his eyes and tried to remember. There had been a boar in the forest and a long cold walk in the rain, then the feel of mud beneath his hands as he stumbled and fell. And then she had come.
The ewe bleated in greeting, and Duncan's eyes flew open. A figure stood silhouetted in the doorway. She ducked slightly to come under the stone lintel, then set down two buckets near the door. With a movement that was heart-breakingly familiar, she pushed the rain-spangled dark blue shawl from her head and tucked it around her shoulders, then shook out her hair. Duncan swallowed in a dry throat and felt a sudden hammering within his chest. But it was not Debra. Of course it was not. He would never see Debra again.
As he looked more closely he saw that she was taller and more slender than Debra. She came into the room, and Duncan could see that her hair was darker and smoother, a rich auburn that fell in waves instead of Debra's bright copper curls.
She patted the ewe who bleated once more. "In a moment now, Doreen," she said, then turned to look at Duncan. "Ah, you're awake," she said and came over to him.
Duncan stared back as she looked him up and down, her dark blue eyes calmly assessing him. Faint reddish brows like the wings of gull in flight arched over her wide-set eyes. The curve of her brows gave her face a questioning look, like someone always surprised by life; the cool gaze and the unsmiling mouth said that the surprises had not all been pleasant ones.
"How do you feel?" she asked
Duncan swallowed again and then managed to produce a sound between a croak and a cough.
The woman went to the bucket near the door and brought back a wooden bowl full of water. "Here," she offered, "sip it slowly."
Duncan tried to sit up, then fell back with a smothered grunt of pain and settled for lifting his head.
She waited silently as he reached over slowly with his left arm to hold the bowl. She helped him steady it as he brought it to his lips. The water was cool and tasted slightly musty.
Duncan managed only a swallow or two before she pulled the bowl away.
"You can have more in a bit," she said briskly and set the bowl on the narrow ledge built into the wall at the head of the bed. She tilted her head to one side. "How do you feel?" she repeated.
Duncan lay back and ran his tongue lightly over his lips. He tried again. "Hungry."
Her lips tightened briefly at that, but she nodded. "Aye, I suppose. You've had naught but a wee bowl of gruel these last two days."
Duncan blinked, trying to remember.
"You had a fever." She studied him for a moment. "It broke last night, and you've slept since then." She motioned toward his arm. "Quite a cut there. A boar, was it?" Duncan gave a nod, and she continued. "I sprinkled it with dried yarrow and holy water. It seems to be healing." She did not seem altogether pleased. "Can you move your fingers?"
"Aye, a little," Duncan replied, somewhat puzzled at her attitude.
"You are lucky." She looked at him, and her eyes and the lines about her mouth were bitter. "Not everyone survives such an encounter." She blinked, and the bitterness was gone, replaced by cool detachment once again. "More water?" At Duncan's nod, she held the bowl to his lips. She allowed him four swallows this time, then said, "I'll bring you some food, after I tend to the ewe and change your bandage."
She busied herself at the hearth, and Duncan closed his eyes, listening to the gentle murmur of the rain and the swish of her skirt as she moved about. The sheep bleated again, and Duncan watched as she fed and watered the sheep. When it was contentedly munching out of a bucket of oats, she came over to Duncan with a bowl of warm water and some strips of cloth. "It might be easier if you did not watch," she suggested.
She was probably right, but he was not willing to admit it. "Get on wi' it," he said gruffly and held out his arm.
She unwrapped the long strips from his arm, dripping warm water over the inner layers to loosen the crusted blood. The edges of the wound still gaped open a bit, but the tight wrapping helped keep the skin together. The skin, though puffy, was pink and healthy, with no dangerous streaks of red.
Duncan swallowed and breathed rapidly through his nose as she poured more warm water over the wound and then bound it tightly with clean cloths.
"The ribs will be fine till tomorrow," she said calmly. "The cut there was none so bad; 'twas the bruising that hurts."
"I thank you, mistress," Duncan said. "If you had not found me..."
She did not wait for him to finish, but turned away and went to the hearth. She dropped the bloody bandages into the bowl of water and then rinsed off her hands. The kettle over the fire was kept full of water which was used for both washing and cooking. A tall narrow cooking pot was immersed in the hot water and the food allowed to simmer. There was porridge in the cooking pot now, and she dished some out into his drinking bowl. She came to the bedside and stood next to him with a spoon in one hand and the bowl in the other. She offered him a spoonful of the gruel.
Duncan peered over the side of the bed at the unappetizing mixture in the spoon she held out to him. Small globules of cooked oats floated in luke-warm cloudy water. He curled his lip and looked at her dubiously. "I said I was hungry."
"Aye, you did." She glanced pointedly toward his chest. "You may have cracked some ribs there." Her eyebrows rose even higher as she challenged him. "Do you want to be puking your guts out?"
Remembering the pain of merely trying to roll over, Duncan sighed and reached carefully for the spoon with his left hand. He managed three spoonfuls of the brew before spilling some on his chest.
She said nothing, but handed him a rag. After he mopped up the dampness, she fed him the rest.
He watched her, but she would not meet his eyes. After he swallowed the last of the gruel he said, trying to make her look at him, "Yon sheep probably eats better than this." The ewe had finished her oats and had started in on the hay.
Her head snapped up, and she looked at him right enough, but her glare was ice-cold and the generous curve of her lips was thinned to a straight line.
"Aye, she does. She's of more use to me than you are." With that she rose and left the cot.
Duncan was left alone with the sheep, who eyed him cautiously as she chewed her cud, a long stem of hay sticking out of her mouth.
~
When Duncan awoke the rain had stopped. The sheep was asleep, and there was no sign of the woman. The shadows told him that it was well past mid-day. His bladder told him that it was well past the time he had eaten that watery bowl of gruel.
Taking a deep breath and holding it, Duncan pulled himself to a sitting position with his left arm. He eased out the air in his lungs, then holding his right arm stiffly against his side, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Sweat broke out on his face, and he waited another moment before cautiously letting his bare feet down to the packed earth floor. The door seemed very far away.
The sheep awoke, and she watched him as he made his way shakily to the door. He leaned against the wall, then continued outside. The air was fresh and pale yellow sunshine gleamed through the clouds. The cold mud outside the door oozed between his toes, and he made his way toward the corner of the cot.
The woman appeared in front of him just as he reached the corner, carrying a basket of sodden clothing. Her apron was splashed with water and the hem of her dark green gown was damp. Her hands were reddened from the cold water.
"What are you doing out of bed?," she demanded. Duncan's level stare was answer enough. "Ah," she said as understanding dawned. She paused and then asked, "Do you need help?"
If her look in the cot had been ice-cold, Duncan's look was glacial. "I can manage," he gritted out. To be spoon-fed had been bad enough, but he'd be damned before he'd take her help in this. When she did not move, he added pointedly, "Thank you," and turned his back on her.
When she was inside the cot, Duncan fumbled under his sark. It was an awkward business, leaning against the wall and left-handed, but at least he managed to avoid getting his feet or his clothing wet. He waited a few more minutes before going back inside, resting and enjoying the clean scent of growing things after a rain.
He looked about him approvingly. The crofting was in a fine location. The cot was placed near the head of a narrow glen, and sheer rock walls rose on either side. Water danced its way down the cliffs and gathered into a small stream which flowed in front of the cot. The stream ran down the glen to the loch far below. A split log bridge lay over the stream and led to a cleared field beyond. Tall trees grew thick in the rest of the glen, and the grass was still green even this late in the season. Duncan took a deep breath of the cool moist air and summoned his strength to go back in the cot.
At the doorway he stood still for a moment and watched. She was standing by the fire, using a long stick to reach into the steaming kettle and pull out a large blue cloth. The fire hissed as she twisted the cloth and water dripped from it. She hung it to dry on a frame next to some bandages, and Duncan recognized his own blue breacan. He started across the floor.
She did not turn to watch his painful progress across the room but continued with her chore until he sat down on a stool. "Hungry again?" she asked without looking up.
Duncan merely stared at her under dark brows until she stopped what she was doing and turned to him. "Not for gruel," he answered shortly.
She dried her hands on her apron. "If you're up and about, perhaps you are ready for something else to eat. I'll bring you some food later."
"After you've tended to the sheep?" Duncan asked sarcastically.
"No," she answered with a lift to her chin. "After I've tended to the chickens." And she was gone again, moving with a quickness and an ease that Duncan could not match.
"Damn the woman," he swore and slammed his good hand on the table, then winced in pain as his ribs protested the sudden movement. He did not want to go back to the bed, but was too tired to do much of anything. He sat and watched the fire and listened to the occasional drips from the clothing as it dried. She was not like Debra at all.
She was back soon enough and went straight to the fire. She lifted the lid from the kettle and stirred the contents in a cooking pot. The warm rich smell of rabbit stew came forth, and Duncan's mouth watered.
She gathered two wooden cups from a ledge built into the stone wall and set them on the table. As she went to the pile of fuel near the door, Duncan made a move to get up, but she shook her head at him. "Sit you down. I'd rather do this myself now than have you wearing yourself out, and then have you flat on your back again and me having to tend to you." She put some wood on the fire and went to get the water bucket.
Duncan flushed and remained where he was.
She poured water into the wooden cups then picked up the two bowls and filled them with stew. She set the bowls on the table and sat down on the other stool.
Duncan inhaled appreciatively and then looked in the bowl. "Mushrooms?" he asked incredulously.
"Aye," she answered with that same challenging lift to her chin. "My mother always cooked with them. They're very tasty."
He nodded. "I know. It's just been a long time since I had them."
She crossed herself and said the blessing while Duncan bowed his head. She picked up her spoon and scooped up some stew, then blew on it to cool it. Her spoon was halfway to her mouth when she noticed that Duncan had not moved. He was staring at her, his brown eyes cool and steady above cheekbones accentuated by a heavy growth of beard. "What is it?" she asked. "You said that you liked mushrooms."
"Aye," he agreed. "But I do not like to eat with people whose names I do not know." He was rather pleased to see that he had discomforted her.
She flushed slightly, the color high in her cheeks, and set her spoon back in her bowl. She stared at the table for a moment, then met his gaze. "Ellen MacTavish," she stated shortly. Her brows lifted, and her dark blue eyes challenged him as she waited for him to speak.
He inclined his head a trifle and said with exquisite politeness, "I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, and I am pleased to meet you."
Her jaw tightened at his fine show of manners. She gave him a very short nod and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, then starting eating.
They ate in silence for a few minutes, but Duncan felt a strong urge to bedevil her. "'Tis a fine cot you have here," he said in his cheeriest voice.
She said nothing, intent on her food.
"And a fine ewe." He started to reach for his spoon with his right hand, then grimaced and used his left. He used his spoon to point to the sheep asleep on the floor. "Did I hear you call her by name?"
"Aye."
She would not spare him a glance, but she would answer a direct question. Duncan seized on that. "What is the sheep's name?"
She took a sip of water and said, "Doreen."
"A goodly name for a sheep." Duncan nodded approvingly. "And have you lived here long?"
"A year since last summer."
"'Tis a fair ways out," he observed. "Is there a village nearby?"
"Near enough."
She was almost done with her stew, Duncan knew he would have to be quick with his next question. "All alone?" Duncan inquired and took up a spoonful of stew.
Her fingers tightened on her cup, but Duncan was intent on blowing on his stew and did not notice. "Yes," she snapped.
"Except of course for the chickens." Duncan took a bite and added through a mouthful of food, "And Doreen."
She set her cup down, and Duncan saw that her hand was trembling. He looked up and noticed with surprise that there were tears on her lower lashes, and she had the tight jaw and inward stare of someone determined not to cry.
When she realized he was looking at her, her nostrils flared and her eyes narrowed into a look of withering contempt and hatred. She rose abruptly from the table and walked out of the cot.
He was alone with Doreen once again. Duncan flushed and stared at his bowl, chewing slowly. The food was suddenly tasteless in his mouth. "You're a damn fool, Duncan MacLeod," he said to himself. "The woman's taken you into her home, cared for you, washed your clothes, and fed you. And then you make her cry," he said in disgust. He did not finish the last few bites of stew.
Normally it would not have occurred to him to wash the dishes, but he wished to do what he could to make amends. He rose slowly and carefully and went over to the fire. There was warm water in the kettle. He knelt and scooped some out and rinsed out the two bowls and the cups as best he could. To reach up and put them back on the ledge was not something he wanted to try with his ribs aching as they did, so he placed the bowls and cups back on the table. He sat down on the stool again and waited, watching the fire.
It was past dark, and the rain was starting again. Duncan was considering going to look for her when she returned.
She paused when she saw him sitting by the fire, but shook out her shawl again and came forward to warm herself. She knelt by the hearth and held her long slim hands out toward the fire. Her slender figure was outlined in the firelight, the reddish glints in her hair reflecting the flames.
Duncan spoke first, his voice low and hesitant. "I'm sorry," he said. "I did not mean to..." He stopped, unsure of exactly what he had done, then repeated simply, "I'm sorry."
She did not answer at first, but settled back on her heels and bowed her head. The lines of her body appeared relaxed, but her hands twisting slowly together in her lap revealed her tension. She drew in a breath and let it out slowly.
"I'm sorry too," she said quietly. "I have been -- less than gracious," she admitted.
Duncan snorted agreement at that, but tried to turn it quickly into a strangled cough instead. She turned toward him, and he saw no marks of tears on her face, though her eyes looked tired.
"You are a guest in my home, Duncan MacLeod," she said formally. "I bid you welcome."
Duncan inclined his head. "Thank you," he said cautiously. "Is this your home then?" he asked, trying to steer the conversation to safe ground.
It was the wrong direction, for she flinched visibly. "Yes, it's mine. For now."
Duncan decided to be direct. She didn't seem to answer questions well, and he hated having to be careful about everything he said. "What do you mean, 'For now'?" he asked.
She sighed and turned back to the fire. "This land was given to my husband by the laird. He wants to settle his people on some of his more remote lands to keep the other clans from encroaching." She shot Duncan a wry look. "We came here the summer before last. We cleared the field, carried out the stones and used them to build this cot. William's cousin is to come this next summer and join us, along with others from his family." She shrugged. "When the laird finds out that I'm here alone, he'll not let me keep it in my name. It will go to someone else."
"And your husband?" Duncan asked after a moment.
She folded her knees to her chest and hugged her arms about them. "William died nine days ago," she said simply.
Duncan rocked back on his stool. If he had been disgusted with himself before, he was deeply ashamed now. "Ah, lass, I'm sorry," he said gently.
She nodded once in acknowledgment, then she continued in a high light voice. "It was a boar, you see, perhaps the same one you met. It had been at our crops, and William swore he would find it. As soon as the harvest was gathered in he went hunting. He was gone for two days. On the third day I found him, just beyond the field, near where I found you. It was morning." She stopped for a moment and swallowed hard. "He'd crawled the last part of the way home; I saw his trail in the grass. He had a wound, a slicing one like yours, in his leg, and another in his belly, but I didn't find him in time. He bled to death within sight of our door."
"It was too late," Duncan said, and his voice was as full of pain as her own.
"I was too late," she corrected him.
Duncan could see her clear profile in the firelight, the straight high brow above the gentle slope of her nose. The curve of her cheek was deepened by the shadows, and her mouth trembled. The soft lines of her throat moved as she swallowed, then the light high voice went on.
"I buried him a little ways up the glen. There was a rock we liked to go and sit on, and watch the sunset."
She stopped, and Duncan moved as best he could to kneel beside her, and he reached out and laid his large hand atop of her slender one.
She started in surprise, then gripped it fiercely. She did not look at him. "I buried him that afternoon, just when the sun was setting." The tears were flowing freely now, but she did not seem to notice.
Duncan eased himself into a sitting position, then pulled her to him. She held back at first, but he persisted. Finally she uncoiled herself, laid her head against his shoulder, and wept.
The fire had burned down before she lifted her head and wiped her face with the hem of her gown. "I'm sorry," she said and moved away from him. "I didn't mean to trouble you."
"Nay, lass," said Duncan. "I've been more trouble to you than you have to me." He smiled at her, the corners of his eyes crinkling a little.
She sniffled, and the barest hint of a smile crossed her face and disappeared. A huge yawn came over her, and then Duncan yawned as well.
This time she did smile a little. "It's late," she said, "I'm to bed." She rose to her feet in one fluid motion and looked down at him. "Do you need help standing up?"
Duncan hated to admit it, but his legs had stiffened as he sat there holding her.
She noticed his hesitation and added, "'Tis no trouble." He smiled and nodded at that, and she held out a hand, pulling him up. She walked over to his bed and pulled out a small bowl underneath it. "It's cold outside tonight. You can use this if you need to."
She retreated to the other side of the cot and took off her apron and shoes. Then she climbed into her own bed and crawled under the covers. "Good night," she said and turned to face the wall.
Duncan was glad of the privacy. He used the chamber pot and then ran the fingers of his left hand through his hair. He rubbed his teeth clean with his finger and scratched at his face. Perhaps he could shave soon. He carefully crawled into his own bed and pulled the blanket up close. After a few moments he heard her get out of bed to take care of her own needs. He turned his face to the wall to give her the same measure of privacy she had given him.
He turned over when he heard her talking to the sheep. He watched as she patted Doreen affectionately, then carried three new pieces of peat over to the hearth. She knelt down and smoored the fire, carefully raking the glowing embers into a circle and dividing them into three equal sections, leaving a mound in the center. She laid a piece of peat in each section, then covered them all with ashes. The fire would burn slowly throughout the night. She knelt back on her heels.
Duncan closed his eyes as she spoke, taking comfort as she spoke the familiar prayer.
A chumhnadh, a chomhnadh, a chomraig,
An tula, an taighe, an taghlaich,
An oidhche, an nochd, O! An oidhche,
An nochd, agus gach oidche, gach aon oidche.
To save, to shield, to surround,
The hearth, the house, the household,
This eve, this night, Oh! this eve,
This night, and every night, every single night.
As the prayer came to a close, Duncan whispered the final word with her. "Amen."
She crossed herself and knelt by the banked fire a few moments more, then went to bed. Before he went to sleep that night, he saw the gleam of her eyes staring at him through the darkness. He knew that she saw the gleam of his as well.
~
Duncan dreamed of Debra that night. She was in a field of summer flowers. Her arms were filled with the blossoms, and she wore a crown of flowers in her hair. Butterflies rose around her and covered her in white and gold. He walked toward her swiftly, and the butterflies lifted in a great swirling cloud. And there was no one there.
~
Getting out of bed was only a little easier the next morning, but he managed it and made his way over to the window. It was foggy now, but the day promised to be bright and clear, a welcome occurrence this time of year. Doreen was outside, tethered near the window and she gave a mournful "Baaa" when she saw him. Duncan had no wish to talk to the sheep. He went and sat down on a stool next to the fire.
Ellen came in a little later and nodded to him. Her gown was dew-splashed, and her cheeks were bright from the fresh air. In the basket over her arm were two small eggs. She placed them on the ledge in one of the bowls.
She did not bother to ask, but dished out a generous bowl of porridge and sweetened it with honey from a pot, then set it before him. She sat down on the other stool and carded wool while he ate.
The thick porridge was much better than watery gruel. Duncan ate hungrily and quickly. He had just shoveled in a spoonful when he happened to glance up and see her watching him quizzically. Duncan stopped chewing and stared back, then spoke around his mouthful of food. "What?" he asked, finding her stare unnerving.
"I was wondering what brings you here, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."
He swallowed and ran his tongue over his teeth and shrugged. "I was hunting."
"You are far from MacLeod lands here. 'Tis a long way to go hunting." She laid the fluffy cloud of wool in the basket and picked up another clump of wool and started carding it. "And from the look of you, you have been -- hunting -- for several weeks."
Duncan did not answer, but spooned up some more porridge.
She stopped carding and looked at him, her face serious. "I must know. Are you hunting? Or are you hunted?"
Duncan paused with the spoon in mid-air, then set it down. It was a fair question and deserved a fair answer. A woman alone had no need to invite a blood feud into her home. "I've broken no law." He took a sip of water. "And there's no man who hunts me."
She regarded him closely. His warm brown eyes looked into hers candidly, and she remembered his kindness of the night before. She nodded, satisfied, and went back to her carding.
Duncan finished his meal and wiped his fingers on his sark, then pushed the bowl back with a sigh. He watched her busy fingers for a few moments and said, "Is there ought I can do? I do not want to just laze about."
She tilted her head to one side and considered him thoughtfully. "Aye, well, with your ribs as they are, you can not do much lifting or carrying yet. And with your arm sliced up you'll be one-handed for a bit. Still," she eyed him speculatively, "perhaps you can wind the yarn into skeins after your bandages are changed."
"Wind yarn?" Duncan exclaimed. "'Tis women's work!"
"Oh, aye," she said sarcastically. "I suppose you'd rather chop wood or cut turf or go hunting or do some other manly thing."
Duncan flushed. He could do none of those things. He could barely manage to piss standing up, and they both knew it.
She stood and picked up his bowl. "You said you wanted to be of use," she reminded him.
Duncan glared but nodded. She nodded back once and took his bowl away to wash.
And so Duncan found himself busy that morning. He wound yarn into skeins, separated marigold seeds for drying, chopped onions, and stirred the stew. It was slow work one-handed, and he stopped frequently to rest, but it was good to be up and about. When the sun melted away the fog, he took his work outside.
On such a fine day Ellen kept busy with outside chores, gathering wood and digging the last of the onions out of the ground.
Duncan watched her as she moved lightly about her tasks, her stride graceful but purposeful. She was slender and fine-boned in the way of many red-heads, the curves gone to slimness. Her skin was the color of milk, white and with a bluish cast under the skin, save where a sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks lent color.
They ate their midday meal outside, for the sun was warm against the wall of the cot. They did not speak, but there was quietness between, not silence.
After they finished, Duncan rinsed out the bowls while Ellen pulled out the sleeping pallets to let them air in the sunshine. There were more clothes to be washed. She rinsed them in the stream and carried them to the kettle over the fire, and Duncan fished them out and hung them to dry.
He finished laying the clothes out over a tree branch, and after resting a bit, he walked over to the stream. Ellen was kneeling beside it, rinsing out another batch of clothes.
"Are they ready for the kettle?" Duncan asked as he came closer.
"Nay," came the short reply. Her slim back was to him, and she did not turn round.
Duncan saw with surprise that the water of the stream was flowing red. He knew he had already hung out the bandages from his arm. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine." She wiped the back of her hand across her face and continued rinsing. The trickle of dark red blood widened and spread until it disappeared into a pale pink cloud, swirling in the water, washed away down stream.
"Have you cut yourself? The blood..."
"I'm fine," she repeated. Two droplets fell from her eyes into the stream, their widening circles quickly erased by the motion of the water and her hands. "I can manage," she gritted out, in exactly the same tone he had used the day before.
Duncan started to speak, then abruptly shut his mouth and walked away, color flooding his face as he realized what she was washing. He was not comfortable with either women's work or women's business.
She did not come back to the cot for several hours, and finally Duncan picked up his still-damp breacan. His right arm still pained him, and he could not quite manage wrapping it around himself. He finally flung it over his shoulders as a cape and went looking for her. It took him some time as he was still slow on his feet, but he found her farther up the glen, sitting atop a large gray rock with her arms wrapped around her knees. She stared out at the rectangular pile of smaller stones that marked the cairn nearby.
Duncan could not climb up the rock to sit with her, but he stood close by. The sun was grazing the top of the crag off to the right. They watched as it dipped lower and lower, seeming not to sink behind the crag, but to disappear inside it. The gray of the rock walls glowed the dull red of embers, then faded once again to the gray and black of ashes as the sun vanished.
Ellen spoke. "William and I would talk of watching our children climb on this rock. How I would help them up, and they would jump off into their father's arms, and he would catch them. I had hoped..." Her voice trailed off, and she shivered.
Duncan said nothing, merely waited. Finally she climbed off the rock, ignoring the hand he held out to her. She bent over and picked up a small stone. It showed dark against her palm till her fingers closed over it, and she held it tight within her hand. She walked over to the cairn, and Duncan followed. She placed the stone on the cairn and whispered, "I wanted so to have his child."
Duncan bent stiffly and found a small stone. He placed it next to hers.
She lifted her eyes to the rising moon, one tip of the white crescent showing above the crag on the other side of the glen. Her voice was low. "When I leave this place, I will have nothing left of our life together. Not even his grave."
"You'll have the memories," Duncan offered, feeling the ache of his own.
"Aye, but to have his bairn growing up under my hand, to see his face in the face of our child and know that there was something left of him in this world..." She shook her head and touched one of the stones on the cairn, then hugged her arms about herself.
"Come," Duncan said. "It grows cold."
"Is he cold, do you think? Under the stones?" She wiped the back of her hand across her eyes and shivered. "I stayed with him the first night so he would not be alone."
Duncan took off his breacan and wrapped the length of wool around her. She stood passively, not moving as he stood behind her and laid his left hand gently on her shoulder. He could feel the fragile bones beneath his hand, the tenseness there. "He's not there, lass. That's not him. Not the part that matters, the part that you loved." Duncan spoke slowly, convincing himself as much as her. "That part stays with us, always, next to our heart, no matter where we go." His hand tightened on her shoulder as he spoke low and fierce. "And we'll never forget."
She stood quietly, accepting and welcoming the discomfort of his grip, the intensity of it. He was right; she would carry William home with her on this night, and on all nights. She moved a little under Duncan's hand, turning.
Duncan released her and stepped back, his eyes hidden in dark pools of shadows. The rising moon gave little light, and the wind chased leaves from the trees as they found their way home.
~
Duncan woke in the darkness, hot and shivering and very thirsty. He managed to sit upright, but the blanket seemed determined to wrap itself around his feet. He finally freed himself from the clinging monster and lurched out of bed and across the room to the water bucket. The long-handled dipper shook in his hand, and he dropped it in favor of scooping out water in his palm. He crouched by the bucket, dipping his hand in and sucking the water off until at last the raging thirst was gone. It was too much trouble to stand up; he started crawling back to his bed. It seemed a long way away.
Ellen found him the next morning in the dimness of the autumn dawn, curled by the hearth on the floor, his skin hot and dry. "Fool," she said softly, but there was no anger in the word. Yesterday's work and the night out in the chill air had been too much for him. She built up the fire and placed a blanket over him where he lay, then went about her morning chores, being careful not to step on him.
For the next two days she tended to him, bathing his face in cool water when he was hot, pulling up the blankets when he was cold, changing the bandages. Though the bruise on his side was fading, the wound on his arm was red and puffy. She washed it well with hot water and yarrow and said a Hail Mary over it, just as her mother had taught her. She left him where he lay, close to the fire.
Finally, on the eve of the second day, his fever broke. Ellen changed the bandages again and this time said a whole decade of the Rosary. She put on her cloak and drew it close around her, for the rain was cold that day, then went to tend to the chickens. When she came back he was sound asleep, his dusky skin gleaming slightly with sweat. She shook the wet off her cloak and sat down wearily at the table, then forced herself to eat. She hoped he would sleep soundly tonight; she was looking forward to a good night's sleep herself.
But more than sleep, she wanted to wash. Between tending to Duncan and the animals, cooking the food, storing the last of the harvest, and keeping the fire going, she'd had barely enough time over the last few days to twist her hair out of the way. She went over and called to him. "Duncan?" There was no response; he was deeply asleep.
She went to the fire and dipped out hot water into a large bowl, then stood close by the flames. The air was chill; there would probably be snow on the ground tomorrow, and she had no wish to shiver while she washed. She slid off her plaid and folded it neatly on the stool, then took off her blouse. She dipped the washing cloth in the warm water and started to rinse the grime and the stickiness of three days of hard work from her arms and shoulders and breasts.
~
It was the trickle of water that woke Duncan. He had thought he heard someone calling him, but it seemed very far away, so he did not answer. But the sound of water woke him. He was thirsty again, and the sound came to him through layers of sleep, with the rush and the gurgle of a mountain stream. When he opened his eyes he saw only flames at first, close before him. Then he saw the shadows beyond. His throat felt very dry indeed.
Her back was to him, and he could see the slim strength of her shoulders tapering to a narrow supple waist. He watched as she lifted her arm high above her head and rubbed it clean with the cloth, allowing the warm water to run down her side. She turned toward him to reach for the soap, and Duncan caught his breath as a rivulet of water followed the curve of her breast and then dripped leisurely from the tip.
Duncan closed his eyes hastily and tried not to imagine the water flowing off her body as he listened to the soft splashes above the crackle of the flames. The sounds of the water stopped for a time, and Duncan thought she had finished. He opened his eyes, then froze. He knew he should close his eyes, but he did not. She stood on the other side of the fire from him, the curves and lines of her body outlined and shadowed by firelight, its mysteries both hidden and revealed to him. Her pale skin glowed softly, and her hair flowed down her back almost to her hips. He watched as she lifted her leg and drew the cloth along the slim length. He closed his eyes then. Even with his eyes closed he could still see her, still imagine her. At a sudden rush of water he opened his eyes just a crack and saw her washing her feet.
When her hand went softly and hesitantly to the barely perceptible roundness of her lower abdomen, feeling there the absence of life, Duncan closed his eyes, and this time he kept them closed. He knew he had intruded on something unbearably private.
A little later that night, when Ellen was dressed once again and was picking up three pieces of peat to bank the fire for the night, Duncan reached out a shaky hand and drank from the bowl she had placed near him. As she came to the hearth, he closed his eyes again. He did not want to face her. He listened once again to the familiar smooring prayer, and while she spoke he saw behind closed eyelids the dancing of the shadows from the fire. Her voice ceased, but Duncan could still see her image in the darkness, shimmering wet and naked beyond the flames.
~
Duncan slept late that next day, but woke slowly to the sound of the humming of the spinning wheel.
Ellen saw him wake and came over to him. She lay her hand on his brow, noting the alertness in his eyes. "Good, then," she said briskly. "The fever's truly gone. Thirsty?"
Duncan nodded; he felt as though he had a ball of wool clinging to the roof of his mouth. She came over to him with a bowl and helped him sip some water. When he could talk he said, "I think we've done this before."
"Aye, we have," she agreed, "and I hope it's the last time." Her smile took the sting out of the words. She went about her daily chores, and Duncan dozed on and off throughout the day.
The next day he felt well enough to move about, and he joined her at the table for their mid-day meal. While they ate he scratched irritably at his face; his beard had grown quite a bit, and he could not shave with his right arm still stiff.
After she cleared away the dishes, Ellen came over to him with two bowls and a cloth.
Duncan looked up, surprised. She had changed the bandages on his arm just that morning. The wound was healing cleanly now, and the bruise on his side no longer pained him. "What's this?" he asked.
"I thought you might like a shave," she said. She had seen how often he rubbed at his beard. "I used to shave William," she said, "and I promise I'll not cut you." She considered the heavy growth for a moment and said with a slight frown, "Well, not too badly anyway." Her eyebrows lifted higher. "Shall I?"
Duncan hesitated, then nodded. He did not like wearing a beard. He settled himself comfortably on the stool and held quite still while Ellen sat in front of him and used the sharp shearing knife to cut away most of the hair.
She fetched warm water from the pot over the fire and used the soft grayish soap to wash and soften his beard. Ellen stood behind him then, and she tilted his head back slightly. She realized with a pang that he was almost the same height as William had been, or perhaps a finger-width taller, for his head came to just beneath her breasts. She drew the sharp knife carefully just beneath his cheekbone, then rinsed the hair and soap off in the smaller bowl. She made another pass under the first, revealing pale skin. When she was finished with one cheek, she shaved the other, then very delicately shaved his mustache with short deft strokes.
She wiped his cheeks clean with the cloth, then examined her handiwork. A little more there, under the right ear, and another small patch on the left side as well. Now for the neck and the chin. The soap and water on his neck and chin had dried, and she wet the cloth again, then lathered the bristles there. She had to lean over now to see what she was doing, and she drew her lower lip between her teeth, anxious that she not cut him.
Duncan closed his eyes as he felt the warmth of her breasts close to his head. Her hands were cool and gentle on his face as they moved his head from side to side, and he could feel the soft movement of air from her breath. He caught the faint scent of herbs from her, the clean tang of soap from her bath last night. He breathed out slowly through his nose and carefully arranged his hands over his lap, glad he was wearing his many-pleated breacan.
Ellen drew the knife upward from the base of his throat in short swift strokes, working her way from one side to the other, moving higher until she reached his chin. That was always the tricky part. She lathered him once more, then finished shaving him, nicking him only once. She dipped the cloth in the clean water of the larger bowl and wiped his face clean, scrubbing gently at the dried soap and loose hairs.
She looked at him carefully. His skin was pale where the beard had been. His eyes were closed, the lashes lying dark and long against his cheeks. The light that came in through the small window was dim enough that she used her fingertips to feel for any stray hairs. His skin was softer than she had expected. She traced the outline of his cheekbones, then trailed down to his jaw and followed the line of his throat, feeling there the pulsing of his blood. Very smooth. Very warm. Her thumbs started to move slowly along the line of his jaw. Ellen swallowed suddenly and snatched her hands away.
She straightened up quickly. "There you are then," she said briskly as she handed the cloth to Duncan and rinsed her hands off in the larger bowl.
Duncan nodded, and disappeared behind the cloth as he wiped his face.
Ellen poured the water from the smaller bowl into the larger and carried the bowl outside. The rain had stopped for now, and the cold air felt good. She poured the water onto the ground and took several deep breaths before she went back inside. She avoided looking at him until he spoke.
"My thanks, Ellen." His voice was warm and gentle.
She did not think he had called her by name before. His brown eyes were direct and steady on her, and she blinked at the intensity of his gaze. She stared back at him, taking in his altered appearance. With the beard gone, she could see the strong lines from cheek to jawbone, the lines she had just touched. His lower lip was fuller than she had thought it would be, his mouth curved in a smile. The pale skin where his beard had been was accentuated by the darkness of his hair, two narrow braids framing his face and tendrils curling on his brow. The hair on his eyebrows was slightly crooked, and she felt a sudden overwhelming urge to run her finger along the softness there and smooth them.
She nodded in response to his thanks, and then said swiftly, "I must tend to the chickens," and she disappeared out the door.
Duncan stared after her for a moment, then favored Doreen with a spiteful glare. "'Tis likely she'll be tending to you next." Though she had tended to him first for a change. He smiled a little at the thought.
~~~
Ellen remained outside as much as she could that day, though it was very cold, and the air smelled of snow to come. As the early twilight came, she returned to the hut, but kept busy with chores, speaking little.
Duncan was quiet too, for he found himself staring at Ellen's hands as she went about her tasks, remembering her touch and the coolness of her fingertips.
At the evening meal, Ellen watched Duncan. She had been curious to see what he looked like under the beard. He was fine indeed, her mother would have said. Very fine. William had been of a slighter frame; Duncan was very broad through the shoulders. He was a little taller than William too, though not unlike him in coloring. William's eyes had been a little darker, more black than brown, but both had dark hair. They were quiet men, though she suspected that Duncan would talk easily enough after a time. There was a deep sadness in him now, and she wondered what he sounded like when he laughed. She decided that she wanted to know.
As darkness fell, Duncan was at the table winding wool while Ellen sat spinning by the fire. "Who is Debra?" she asked into the quiet between them.
Duncan froze, and his hands clenched tight on the wool he was winding. "What?" he rasped.
"You call out her name. When you're fevered, or sleeping." She shrugged one shoulder slightly, a small deprecating gesture. "I'm sorry. 'Tis not my place to ask." She bent her head and went back to spinning.
Duncan was silent for a time, listening to the humming of the wheel. The ball of wool was soft under his hands. It was not Ellen's place to ask, but it was his place to tell. If he chose. He knew that Ellen would listen, and he was tired of the silence, tired of the loneliness of carrying his pain within him. "Debra --" he began, and could not speak for the thickness in his throat. He swallowed and tried again. "Debra was -- She --"
He had not realized that Ellen had moved from her wheel until he felt her hand on his arm. She knelt by his side and looked up at him, her eyes wide and steadfast, the color of the autumn sky. "Is she dead?" she asked quietly.
Duncan could only nod, for the pain and the guilt welled up within and choked him.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, and her hand now lay on his.
Slowly he let go of the wool and turned his hand over, taking some comfort in the resilient warmth and strength of hers.
"Duncan," she began hesitantly, then continued in a firmer tone, "it helps to talk. Else it stays and festers within you. Had you not come..." She bowed her head and bit her lip, then looked up at him again. "I do not know what I would have..." She shrugged. "Well."
Duncan glanced at her and then away.
She watched him for a moment. His eyes were dark pits, a deep inward stare, and she decided he was not likely to speak on his own. "What was she like?" Still no answer. She prodded, "Was she dark like you?"
"Nay," he murmured. "She was fair, and her eyes were blue. Her hair was like new copper, and so curly it would twine round your finger like ivy." He glanced involuntarily at Ellen's smooth auburn waves. "She hated it when she was younger; it drove her mad to have it brushed." The ghost of a smile crossed his face. "Robert and I used to call her a little woolly lamb, and she would chase us halfway up the glen."
"You grew up together then?"

"Aye, she was fostered with my Aunt Aileen and Uncle Malcolm. She lived in the cot next to ours, with my cousin Robert." He fell silent at the name, and she waited. His brow furrowed, and he shook his head slightly. "They were pledged to each other, you see. And Robert's sister Mary was pledged to Debra's brother. We knew that, when we were bairns, when it did not matter. I suppose we forgot." He hunched his shoulders. "And then, when it did matter, it was too late. We could not help our hearts." He fell silent then, remembering.
_
The 17th day of July, 1618
Glenfinnan
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Robert had been gone for almost a year, traveling with his father to visit several different clans and families of distant cousins. Duncan and Debra continued to spend time together and spoke often of their friend, their childhood playmate. They did not know for sure when they stopped missing him, when they turned to each other, when they began wishing he would not return. When Robert did come home, he found that the childhood trio had turned into a couple, and he was left alone.
Friendship turned to rage, love to possessiveness. His best friend, his cousin, had stolen the love of his betrothed. He could not help but see the way she looked at Duncan, and he at her, and it twisted in his gut and enraged him, fueled by feelings of betrayal and jealousy. "Damn you, Duncan!" he cried. "You've turned her heart against me."
Duncan tried to walk away, but Robert would not let it go. "Coward," he spat, and Duncan was trapped, encircled by grim and silent clansfolk, who watched and judged him, waiting for him to defend his honor.
_
St. Martin's Eve, 1618
The MacTavish Croft
_
"Robert died in my arms," Duncan said to Ellen. He let go of her hand and turned his own palms up, then clenched them suddenly, welcoming the lingering pain in his right hand. "His blood was on my hands."
"You had no choice, Duncan," she said softly. "He forced you to it."
"He, and my father," said Duncan bitterly.
She shook her head. "There was no choice for him either. You know that."
He sighed. "Aye, I know," he admitted. "And in time I could have lived with Robert's death. But it did not end there."
_
Lammas, 1618
Glenfinnan, Scotland
_
Debra and Duncan had not spoken since Robert had died. She had kept to the cot most of the time, avoiding him and everyone else. Duncan avoided others too, walking in the forest for long hours. He came upon her suddenly, sitting on a log that lay across a narrow burn, a log the three of them had played on when they were children. He would have left quietly, but she looked up and saw him, standing on the hillside and watching her. They had no words at first, but clung tightly to each other.
It was Duncan who pulled away first. "Debra, I must go."
She stared at him, bewildered. "Go? Go where?"
"It does not matter," he said, turning away from her, "just -- away from here."
She realized that he meant to leave her. "You don't mean this. You can't!" She shook her head in confusion, then cried out with the selfish rage of a hurt child, "I thought you loved me!"
He looked at her again, and said softly as he took her hands between his own, "Aye, you're my life. But I've slain a kinsman, a friend. To wed you now...can you not understand?"
She could not. She knew the cost of this honor, and it was not worth a fraction of their love. "I understand that I love you, and that I cannot live without you!" She wrenched the bracelet he had given her from her wrist and threw it at him, then ran blindly through the forest.
Duncan picked up the bracelet and ran after her. He caught up to her at the edge of the cliff, a steep drop where the forest fell away, plunging straight down to the river far below.
She stood there, staring out at the distant sea, perilously close to the edge. She said dreamily, "I came here as a child. This was my secret place."
"I know," said Duncan. He had sat on the cliff edge with her once or twice, looking down at the stream far below, but he knew that she often came here by herself as well. "Come back," he asked softly and held out a hand to her.
She did not seem to hear him. "I used to dream of having you. And then...I never dreamed this."
"Please, Debra, you still have a life to live."
She whirled on him fiercely. "I have nothing!" Her father refused to speak to her; her foster parents had cast her out. None of the villagers would look her way, and now Duncan was leaving. She took another step toward the cliff edge.
"No!"
She stopped, waiting.
Duncan dropped his hand and closed his eyes briefly in resignation. "I swear I'll marry you," he said, "and I'll love you till the end of my days." It was an admission to himself as much as a pledge to her.
"Do you mean it?" she asked, not quite believing him. "With Robert's death on your hands?"
Duncan blinked several times. "I can live with his ghost, but I can not live with yours."
She smiled through her tears and reached out to him, but the ground trembled beneath her feet, and the cliff-side crumbled and gave way. Her smile became a look of horror and a plea for help.
"NO!" Duncan lunged for her, and the bracelet fell to the ground. "Debra!" It was too late. He was too late. "DEBRA!" But she was gone.
No one spoke to him when he returned to the village late that afternoon, the broken bloody body of Debra in his arms, though all stopped to stare and whisper. Duncan had dug her out of the pile of earth, tearing at the rocks and the mud with his bare hands. He carried her back to the village, stumbling through the rain and his tears.
There was no funeral mass for Debra. When Duncan told how Debra had come to be on the cliff-edge, old Father Andrew said it was suicide and refused her Christian burial.
So Duncan washed the body of his beloved in the cold trickling stream and brushed her flaming curls alone, though his mother offered to help. Alone he dressed her in her finest gown. He used his breacan for her shroud, giving her in death what he could not give her in life, the colors of his clan and his name.
Alone he carried her from the village, out to the side of the hill where she and Robert and he had played as children. It was on that hill where they had shared their first sweet forbidden kiss, when Robert was gone traveling with his father Malcolm, and he and Debra had been alone together.
Together there, and yet alone, he dug her grave and laid her in the ground on a bed of crushed heather and grasses. He placed the bracelet between her two clasped hands and whispered, "All my love," and kissed her one last time. He pulled the corner of his breacan over her face and climbed out of the grave. He scattered flowers atop her, the flowers she had loved. Alone he covered her with her final blanket, the clods of earth landing with dull muffled thuds, like the beat of his heart. Alone he said the final prayer over her, sanctifying the unconsecrated ground with his love and with his tears.
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