She fumbled for something to fill the silence. “I suppose you're used to sleeping on the ground.” And then she realized how true that was. Though her memories of him were so vivid, and their friendship had been so close, those first ten years had been the barest fraction of his experience. After that, Cormac had become a soldier, something that'd marked over half his lifetime.
“Aye,” he replied simply.
She studied his scars, the faint spidery lattice of tissue on his brow, the slight crook to his nose. The loss of his brother might be a scar on his heart, but he bore the marks of battle on his body.
Cormac had been a warrior, a hero. He'd endured unfathomable things, things she couldn't begin to contemplate.
And it was clear that it had altered him, transformed him irrevocably. There was a darkness in his gaze deeper and more poisonous than the loss of his brother as a child. She was desperate to know how it was that he'd grown from an anguished boy into the dark, forbidding man before her.
“How… “ she began quietly. What feats had he performed? What bravery? At what reckless disregard to his life?
She stepped closer, gingerly stretching her hand toward his face. “How did this happen? Your nose. Was it in battle?”
His laugh startled her. “Such sweet torture on your face, lass. All this and you ask about my nose?”
“I thought it the best place to start.”
Shaking his head, he plopped on the edge of the bed. “Ree, you're too much. I'd thought you were going to ask…
well… “ He sighed, giving another wistful shake to his head.
She sat stiffly beside him. She felt abashed, and then she simply felt put out because he even had the power to make her feel thus.
“'Tis a remarkable tale indeed,” he began. “You guessed correctly. My nose was broken in a serious battle.” Leaning his elbows on his knees, he struck a relaxed pose.
She couldn't relax, though. The cursed man had her thoughts running every which way.
She tried to gather herself. He was going to tell her about his battles. She'd longed to hear about them. The notion that he'd share such a personal thing, that she was about to get a glimpse into his shadowed past, made her restless, excited. She folded her hands in her lap, schooling her face to emotionless quiet.
“The day began like any other. There was naught but dried oats to break our fast. 'Twas hardtack to eat in the morning and, with naught but a bit of bread and cheese to hand, iron rations when the sun grew high. Bellies were gnawing and moods were frayed by the time the enemy approached.”
“When did the battle begin?” she asked gravely.
“Just after midday, and och, Ree,” he said somberly, “it was a terrible sight. They came with a mad glint in their eyes and a wild howl on their lips.”
Marjorie scooted closer, mesmerized. He must've been terrified. She couldn't imagine the horrors he'd faced in his years away.
“And this enemy,” he said, “you'll not credit your ears when you hear their name.”
“Was it the Campbells?” she asked, spellbound. Finally, she'd learn some of the secrets of his past. “Argyll himself?”
“No. Worse than the Campbell. 'Twas a demon, shooting straight for me as though fleeing the mouth of hell.
Indeed, folk have been known to call this enemy a devil. But I tell you, it was even more frightening that that.
Even more terrible.”
“Why?”
“This enemy… “ His voice grew to a whisper. “My dreaded foe, and the author of this broken face of mine… “
“Who? Tell it, Cormac, what was this enemy's name?”
“My enemy's name was Bridget. Bridget MacAlpin.”
Marjorie's mind went utterly blank for a moment, and then she swatted Cormac as hard as she could. His sister.
This was a story about his sister.
“You see!” Grabbing her hand, he broke into loud laughter. “You are proof of it yourself. The female of the species is the most dreaded enemy of all.”
“Be serious, Cormac.” Though her tone was stern, she bit her cheek not to smile. She hadn't heard him laugh since they were children.
“Oh, I am as serious as the grave. You'd be serious, too, had you seen my sister. Wee, wild Bridget, coming at me with a wooden sword. A man tries for a mid-afternoon nap in the stables, and next thing he knows, a berserker in an arisaid sets upon him, flailing a boy's weapon as though it were on fire and she alone could wave it out.” Marjorie could no longer help herself; she had to laugh. “Bridget attacked you?”
“Indeed.” He rubbed his nose. “She had it in her head that she could learn to fight as well as any lad. She went at me with her… her cudgel, and I wasn't about to strike my very own sister. Next I knew, the lass cracked the thing over my face. And damned if my cursed nose didn't bleed like a stuck hog for hours.” Marjorie didn't know if she wanted to swat him again or laugh even louder than he had. All she knew was, sitting there with her hand in his, she felt warmed to her very soul.
The moment was broken by a knock at the door.
Telling his story, he'd momentarily forgotten his miseries, but the intrusion brought him back to himself.
Cormac caught her gaze, and she could almost see the joy bleed from his face, see the shadows seep back into his eyes.
“That'd be our meal.” He rose from the bed to swing open the door, and by the time he spoke again, his voice had grown rough. “What?”
“Your supper, milord.” A serving girl stood there, and the smell of ale and roast meat wafted into the room. The girl didn't raise her eyes.
“Aye.” He took the tray from her hands. “That'll do.”
“That smells lovely,” Marjorie said, wondering which demons she'd lost him to, and why. She'd do anything in her power to eradicate them and resurrect the old Cormac for good. For now, that meant continuing her bright chatter.
“I do believe I'm quite hungry.”
“Aye. Beef stew.”
She watched him survey the small room. Without a stool, the only places for them to sit would be on the floor or on the edge of the bed. Cormac's eyes went to her on the bed, and he stiffened.
He set the tray on the floor.
“Oh, this is lovely,” she said, determined to normalize the situation. She wouldn't let him descend back into his darkness. Hearing his laughter had been too much of a revelation. She moved to sit beside him on the floor, imagining they were on a picnic. Taking a delicate bite of the stew, she hummed her content. “Ohh, I'm a woman starved.”
He looked away.
Damn him.
But she refused to give up, and so asked the first question that popped into her head. “How's the rest of your family?”
“You saw for yourself, aye? When you showed up at Dunnottar.” He'd chewed, swallowed, spoken, then resumed chewing.
Difficult man. “Yes. But I didn't see your older sister. How is Anya?” He shrugged. “She spends her days tending her husband.”
Silence again.
Would he help her even a little bit? Why did the laughter of just a moment before disappear? “What happened to her husband?”
“He lost a leg. At Carbisdale.” Fork halting in midair, he asked pointedly, “Did you ever meet Donald?” She hadn't, though she knew it'd been far from a love match. Anya's heart had always belonged to another. “No.
But he was from a wealthy family, right? In Argyll?”
“Aye, he's got land and money to spare. A good thing, that. The man is good to no one, particularly my sister.”
“Cormac! That's a horrible thing to say.”
“Nay, not horrible, simply the truth. Man's lucky to be alive, though he doesn't see it so.” He took another bite, chewing thoughtfully. “And now Donald rules the household — and my sister — from his bed. Or so Bridget tells it.”
“Bridget?”
“She's never much liked our brother-in-law. Girl's got some fool romantic notions about love and marriage.” He shook his head. “She's young yet. She'll see.”
“So Bridget is interested in marriage. And a love match,” she mused, surprised. “Well, I think it's a lovely thought. Fool notion, indeed. Truly, Cormac, you can be so gloomy.” He shrugged a shoulder. But Marjorie had spied a smirk, too, and took it as an opportunity.
“That's you. A real wretched beast.” She blithely rattled off a litany of complaints, feigning distracted intent on her stew all the while. “Rich folk are
suspect. Love is for fools. Your sisters are doomed to lives of disappointment, misery, and dashed hopes. Oh, and please to be leaving your legless men on the battlefield. Did I miss anything?”
He exploded into laughter.
Stilling, she looked up and was greeted by a wicked gleam in his eye. The man perplexed her utterly.
He nodded at her food. “Your mum used to scold you for that.”
Marjorie looked to her hand, still poised in her bowl, where she was swabbing up the remains of her stew with a hunk of bread. She finished mopping the bowl and took a bite. “She did at that. But soaking your bread with the sauce is the best part.”
“I'm not disagreeing,” he assured her. “She was merciless, as I recall it.”
“My mother?” Marjorie gave a rueful laugh. “Aye, the woman prized her manners.” There was a moment's companionable silence, and then he asked, “How did she die?” She sighed. “A fever. When I was sixteen. It happened quickly.”
“I don't imagine it was easy for a young girl to weather such a loss. You'd have been just beginning to think about a husband.”
She merely shrugged. It had been hard — incredibly so. But life in the Highlands was. As for the other, she'd made the decision never to marry long before her mother died. She had been ten, in fact, and her best friend Cormac had just turned his back on her.
