Jacques (The Sword and the Spirit Book 3) Read online

  He gazed up at a dawn sky, its colour reminiscent of the heather that grew so abundantly in this part of the world. The sheer beauty of the morning only heightened his strained emotions. What to say? He hesitated slightly. And where to say it?

  “The cliffs,” Morag said, as if reading his mind. “We’ll be private there.”

  Jacques looked at her, silently begging forgiveness as he unfurled his still-clenched fist and reached for her hand. It would be the first time he’d ever touched her intentionally. He wondered if it would be the last.

  She inhaled a soft breath and tightened her fingers around his as if she never intended to let go. Jacques drew a steadying breath of his own, the forbidden contact turning his blood to fire.

  Morag lifted the latch on the hefty postern gate and pulled it open.

  “Dinnae close it,” she said, stepping out onto the cliff top. “What I have to say willnae take very long.”

  Jacques blinked. “What you have to say?”

  “Aye.” Still holding tightly to his hand, she gazed out across the waves to where the departing edge of night rested on the horizon in a dramatic clash of light against dark. “Will you look at that,” she said. “I’ll take it as a sign that good will triumph over evil. That you’ll come back to me.”

  “Morag, I—”

  “Please, Jacques.” She turned to him. “You dinnae have to explain anything. I know you care for me, but I also understand what you are and where your true allegiance lies. And I respect it completely, which is why I’ve never tried to seduce you away from it.” A shimmer of tears arose in her eyes. “Your departure is no surprise to me. I’ve always known you were destined to leave Scotland. In fact, when you went to England looking for Gabriel, I wondered then if you’d ever come back.” She drew breath and shook her head. “When the missive came from France…well, I knew that was it. I knew you’d be leaving.”

  “Care for you?’ Jacques gave a soft, bitter laugh. “There’s a little more to it than that, Morag McKellar. Believe me, leaving Scotland… leaving you is not something I—”

  “Nay, please. I understand. Truly, I do.” She let go of his hand, opened a small leather purse that hung on her girdle, and drew something from it. “I would ask only one thing of you as you go on your way. ’Tis an indulgence of sorts, but I pray you’ll allow it.”

  Jacques frowned. “What is it?”

  “This.” She took his hand and placed a folded swatch of linen in his palm. “I ken you’re no’ supposed to carry personal items or anything of sentimental value, but I hope you might make an allowance, since it’s a natural thing made by God’s hand.”

  Jacques unfolded the linen and regarded the small sprig of delicate white flowers tied with a narrow strip of equally white silk. “The white heather,” he murmured.

  She nodded. “I’m sure I dinnae need to explain its significance. Will you take it with you, or do I ask too much?”

  “I will treasure it,” he replied, his chest tightening as he met her gaze. Till that moment, his most poignant memory of Morag MacKellar had been the one of her standing at the castle gates on that first night. Now, undoubtedly, it would be this one. With her standing beneath a violet sky, her love for him so evident in her eyes. The thought of never seeing her again bore down on him, crushing his resolve. Maybe he should stay, surrender the mantle, and ask Ruaidri for Morag’s hand.

  But would I ever be at peace knowing I’d ignored a cry of help from an old friend? Could I give myself to this woman, wholly and without regret under those circumstances?

  The answer came instantly and painfully. God help him, he had to go. To stay would be akin to leaving a wound untreated. Maybe, then, he should simply tell her what she hoped to hear. Leave her with a handful of promises he might not be able to keep.

  “Morag, I—”

  She placed a gentle hand over his lips. “I love you, Jacques Aznar,” she said. “You can take that with you, as well. May God keep you.”

  Then she slipped back through the doorway like a shadow and disappeared. For a moment, Jacques considered going after her, taking her at last in his arms, and insisting she listen to what he had to say. But it would serve little purpose. Better to say nothing than to give her false hope.

  He regarded the sprig of white heather once more, aware of its significance and why she’d given it to him. Many years before, a similar sprig had been given to Calum MacKellar, Morag’s grandfather, who’d taken it to the Holy Land with him. Despite being thought lost in battle, Calum had eventually returned to those he loved; to a wife who had never given up hope and a baby son he’d never met. The miracle of his return had been attributed, not only to God’s mercy, but to the legend of the white heather.

  As for Jacques…

  Will I ever return? Maybe, one day. God willing.

  He gazed out across the waves as the last pinpricks of stars faded from sight. The night had retreated. And it was time for him, also, to depart.

  “Keep her safe,” he murmured, lifting his eyes to the heavens. “Please, keep all of them safe.”

  Chapter Two

  At the grand age of two weeks, Kennet Ewan MacKellar had achieved the ennobled status of a child pampered and beloved by all. The wee lad’s early arrival seemed to have done him no harm. Though tiny, he’d thrived from the start, with an appetite that refused to be sated. And, since he possessed a wail loud enough to raise a church roof, his constant demands for food were met without delay.

  The midday meal was almost at an end. Ruaidri, seated at the head table with Ewan and Gabriel, had spent much of the past hour surreptitiously watching his sister. Morag sat at the end of the same table with Breanna and Cristie, the three of them fussing and cooing over wee Kennet, much as women were wont to do with babies. The boy had been a precious distraction for her since Jacques left. But the smile she wore didn’t quite compensate for the sadness that lingered in her eyes. Her spirit had lost some of its zeal too, as if a weight dragged at her heels.

  For Ruaidri, little Kennet was not only a cherished godson, but also a welcome continuation of the MacKellar name and the preservation of the male bloodline.

  The male bloodline.

  Ruaidri’s avenue of thought stopped there, before the coil of hate in his gut had a chance to unfurl. Ashamed, he rebuked himself.

  My Godson is a MacKellar. The fact that his mother is a MacAulay has nae bearing on my responsibility toward him. Toward them.

  He meant it, too. They were Ewan’s family and, consequently, his family as well. Cristie could hardly be blamed for her half-brother’s depravity. But the MacAulay name, whether spoken in the mind or on the tongue, always clawed at Ruaidri’s invisible wounds. He’d never truly known hate till Alastair MacAulay had introduced him to it. It lingered still, despite the belief that the man was long dead, lost somewhere in the mountains. While Ruaidri hoped that to be the case, he had never been fully convinced of it.

  Odd, he mused, how utterly unpredictable life could be. How good could come from evil. If not for Alastair’s treachery, Cristie would likely never have married Ewan, and little Kennet would not have been born. Indeed, if all had gone as originally presumed, Ruaidri would be the one married to a MacAulay lass.

  He frowned into his wine goblet as the image of Elspeth MacAulay wandered into his mind. It had been almost a year since he’d seen her, but the memory remained quite clear. A bonny lass, with curly chestnut hair, bright intelligent eyes, and a sprinkling of freckles on her nose. Personable, too. He had oft wondered what kind of a wife she might have been, setting all political considerations aside. And therein lay Alastair’s deception. The marriage agreement had been nothing more than a sham. A betrayal of horrific proportions that had almost cost Ruaidri his life.

  He took a gulp of wine. To be fair, Elspeth had been totally unaware of Alastair’s evil plan, and had even played a part in saving Ruaidri’s life. That being so, it would be unreasonable to hold a grudge against the lass. And indeed, he didn’t. Not real
ly. But the notion of being wed to her, to get his heirs on her, was difficult for him to contemplate. Unreasonable or not, the hate he harboured for Alastair MacAulay served as a barrier he could not quite overcome.

  “Anyone I know?” Ewan asked, startling him.

  Ruaidri gave his brother a blank look. “What?”

  “You were away with the fae folk, Ruaidri. It’s either because of a lass or someone you’re wanting to kill. And since I cannae think of anyone who’s offended us of late, I can only assume it’s a lass.”

  “Morag, if you must know,” Ruaidri said, which wasn’t exactly a lie. “I’m no’ quite convinced by that smile on her face.”

  Ewan glanced over to where she sat. “Neither is anyone else. She’s well occupied though. Cristie and Breanna are making sure of that. The wee lad helps, too. She’s besotted with him. But I reckon she’ll no’ be truly happy till Jacques gets his arse back here.”

  “Aye, and that’s what worries me.” Ruaidri regarded Morag once more. “What if he never returns?”

  “He will, if he’s able,” Gabriel said. “He just needs permission to do so.”

  Ewan snorted. “Permission from whom?”

  “Himself.” Gabriel shrugged. “Jacques is quiet about his vows, but his allegiance to the Order is iron-clad. I believe he’s gone to France in search of absolution. A final quest that will allow him to surrender that part of his life and return freely to the one he loves.”

  “As long as he doesnae go and get himself killed,” Ewan said. “And to add more joy to your day, dear brother, it appears we have visitors.”

  Ruaidri lifted his gaze and almost laughed at the sight of who’d just been ushered into the hall. He met Elspeth MacAulay’s gaze across the expanse, and silently cursed the treasonous little flutter in his belly. She wasn’t alone, either. Brochan, her twin brother, stood with her.

  Their arrival, in truth, was hardly unexpected. As kin, they merited and had been sent notification of Kennet’s birth, along with an open offer to visit. Cristie had also named Elspeth as a Godparent. Still, seeing them standing in Castle Cathan’s great hall stirred up a plethora of feelings for Ruaidri, none of them particularly pleasant.

  “Bollocks,” he muttered.

  Ewan stood, chuckling as he did so. “I think ‘welcome’ might be more appropriate. And they’re no’ here to see you. They’re here to see Cristie and wee Kennet.”

  “They are my guests, nonetheless.” Ruaidri also stood, pasted a smile on his face, and summoned them forward with a hand gesture. “They’ll be staying the night, no doubt.”

  “At least, aye,” Ewan replied. “I’ll see to the arrangements. Dinnae fash.”

  Ruaidri nodded his thanks, tugged down on his tunic, and watched as the MacAulays approached. He glanced over at the women, who’d also noticed the arrival. Morag remained seated. Perhaps sensing Ruaidri’s scrutiny, she looked over. He gave her a warning look, imploring her to be agreeable. She wrinkled her nose and rose to her feet.

  “Laird MacKellar.” Brochan MacAulay stretched out a hand as he approached. “’Tis good to see you again, and this time under pleasant circumstances.”

  “Laird MacAulay, welcome.” Ruaidri shook the proffered hand—impressed by the man’s strong grip and confident voice. It appeared responsibility had been the making of Brochan, who’d previously seemed overshadowed by his domineering older brother.

  The man smiled. “My thanks, though I confess I’m still no’ quite used to that title. Call me Brochan, please.”

  “In that case, the informality will be mutual,” Ruaidri replied.

  Brochan then addressed Ewan, congratulating him on the birth of his son. Ruaidri, meanwhile, turned his attention to Elspeth, who was clutching a package to her chest while staring at him as if she’d never seen him before.

  “Welcome, my lady.” Ruaidri inclined his head, amused by her stunned expression. “’Tis a pleasure to see you again.”

  She blinked. “Laird MacKellar. I… I’m glad to see you looking so well.”

  “Better than the last time you saw me, you mean?” He looked down at himself and patted his firm stomach. “Aye, I’ve gained a few pounds since then.”

  “Och, nay, I didnae mean that at all, Laird. I just meant —” She obviously noticed the twitch of Ruaidri’s mouth, for her own suddenly curved into a smile. “Well, perhaps a few pounds, aye,” she said, a blush arising in her cheeks. “And it suits you.”

  By mid-afternoon, visitors and hosts had achieved a rapport of reasonable comfort. Elspeth’s package had contained a warm shawl for the child and an engraved silver spoon. Conversation had flowed well enough, but had skirted around anything to do with Alastair or the events of the previous year. Morag, for the most part, watched and listened, aware that the fussing over wee Kennet had already become stretched.

  “He has his father’s stubborn chin.” Cristie gave Ewan an adoring look. “He’s more MacKellar than MacAulay, I think.”

  “Och, I’m no’ certain I agree,” Ewan countered, an expression of utter pride on his face as he regarded his son, who rested in Elspeth’s arms. “’Tis his mother’s dark hair sitting atop his head. You’re right about the chin, though.”

  “He resembles both of you,” Elspeth said, rocking the child gently. “He’s a fine wee boy.”

  Kennet responded with an impressive yawn, hiccupped and then blew a bubble.

  Morag’s resulting smile was genuine. A rare thing these days. She felt Ruaidri’s gaze on her and met it. He winked; a little display of brotherly affection and understanding that brought those damn tears to her eyes again.

  Since Jacques’ departure, Morag’s emotions had been as capricious as the sea; calm one moment, turbulent the next. Though, unlike the sea, she could at least appear calm on the surface even when her insides were churning.

  The arrival of her little nephew had been a welcome distraction, but only during daylight hours. At night, alone, she couldn’t prevent her mind from venturing into unwanted places and creating unthinkable scenarios. She kept telling herself she would know, instinctively, if anything tragic happened to Jacques. That she would feel it. So far, she’d felt nothing but a strange, sad emptiness. As if a part of her was missing. She found some solace in prayer, and allowed herself to believe that the sprig of white heather would protect Jacques as it had protected her grandsire. That it would bring him back one day.

  “Where’s the third Templar?” she heard Brochan ask, drawing her attention. “There were three of you originally, aye? Did he find himself a wife as well?”

  “Nay,” Ewan replied, and cleared his throat. “Jacques has gone back to France.”

  Brochan’s eyes widened. “What, in God’s name, would possess him to do that? I’ve heard they’re kil—”

  “He had some unfinished business to take care of.” Ruaidri leaned back in his chair. “So, Brochan, how does it feel to be laird? You seem to have taken to it very well. Any problems of note? We’ve lost a few sheep to wolf attacks recently.”

  There followed a brief moment of weighted silence, broken only by a snuffle from Kennet.

  “Ah… aye, it’s…it’s been fine,” Brochan said, looking somewhat perplexed at the sudden change of conversation. “I cannae say I’ve had to deal with any major problems. Some thieving from the kirk a wee while back; several candles and a cask of communion wine. Some pewter, too, I think. But apart from that, nothing of note.”

  “I suspect Father James drank the wine,” Elspeth said, in an obvious attempt at levity. “He’s known to overindulge a wee bit.”

  Brochan regarded her with a frown and then cast his gaze over the group at the table. “I get the impression I spoke out of turn just now,” he said. “Truth is, I’ve been—nay we’ve been trying to avoid doing that since we arrived, but I’m no’ sure where the boundaries are and, frankly, that doesnae sit well with me. I ken the issue is my brother. What he did doesnae bear thinking about. But he’s dead and gone, and whether you like it
or not,” he gestured to the child, “our families are now connected by blood. So, can we no’ put Alastair’s wrong-doings to rest finally, and leave the past behind us?”

  Morag released a breath that had been locked in her lungs since Jacques’ absence had been mentioned. All eyes turned to Ruaidri. He sat forward again, linking his fingers atop the table. “You’re right,” he said. “The issue is Alastair. There. I’ve said the bastard’s name. It still tastes bitter on my tongue and I suspect it always will. But you’re no’ to blame for his depravity, right enough. Neither is Elspeth or Cristie, or that wee lad. I hold no grudges, Brochan. You and yours will always be welcome here.” His eyes flicked, momentarily, to Elspeth. “But I cannae forget what Alastair did. I’ll never forget it. I’m afraid that’s the best I can do for now.”

  Brochan gave a grim smile, nodding as he did so. “I appreciate your honesty, Ruaidri. And I curse Alastair’s bones for the damage he’s done. Perhaps you’ll feel differently as time moves on.”

  Morag doubted it. She felt a twinge of sympathy for Elspeth, who’d been surreptitiously glancing at Ruaidri the entire afternoon. But nothing could come of it, even if Ruaidri harboured a liking for the lass. The scars went too deep for any kind of union. Alastair MacAulay had made sure of that.

  Chapter Three

  Province of Languedoc

  Southern France

  The month of September, 1308 AD

  The faint glow of firelight shone through the trees, a beacon for Jacques as he picked his way through the black, moonless night. A chorus of night creatures sang out around and above him, helping, he hoped, to mask the sound of his approach. Damp ground underfoot, the aftermath of an earlier downpour, further aided his effort. He wanted to secure an element of surprise, for no other reason than to test himself. A challenging objective, since the man seated by the fire had senses as sharp as any blade.

  ’Twas said God had blessed Pierre Sabatier with the eyesight of a hawk, the hearing of an owl, and winged feet that allowed him to come and go as he pleased without leaving any trace. Exaggerations, of course, though not without some foundation. A reformed mercenary knight who had taken the cloth, the man knew well the attributes of both good and evil, and believed one could not exist without the other. He’d had many contacts, inside and outside of the Order. Useful connections for someone of his ilk, whose robes had given him access to places others might not go. Piety and subterfuge often travelled hand-in-hand with Pierre Sabatier.