Yet her marriage to Ian was not a trial marriage, as most were. Through some miracle, the chieftain had found a priest. The chieftain had wanted them bound—and her castle firmly in the hands of the MacDonalds of Sleat.
For the same reason, it would have been useless to ask her chieftain to support a petition to annul her marriage. A bishop wouldn’t send a petition to Rome on her request alone. Consequently, she had written a letter to King James seeking his help. For six months, the letter lay hidden away in her chest, awaiting her decision to send it.
But now, both King James and her chieftain were dead.
“If you can’t ask for an annulment,” Gordan said, “then simply divorce Ian and marry me.”
“Your mother would no be pleased with that,” she said with a dry laugh. “I don’t know if she would faint dead away or take a dirk to ye.”
Although it was common in the Highlands to wed and divorce without the church’s blessing, Gordan’s mother had notions about the sort of woman her precious only son should wed. A “used” woman was unlikely to satisfy her.
“ ’Tis no my mother’s decision,” Gordan said. “I love ye, Sileas, and I’m set on having ye for my wife.”
Sileas sighed. It was a precious gift to have a good man tell her he loved her, even if he was the wrong man. “Ye know I can’t think of leaving Ian’s family now.”
“Then promise ye will give me an answer as soon as ye are able,” Gordan said. “There are many men who would want ye, but I’ll be good to ye. I’m a steadfast man. I’d never leave ye as Ian did.”
Though he meant to reassure her, his words pierced her heart.
“ ’Tis time we returned to the house.” She turned and started toward the path. “I’ve been gone too long.”
“Ach, no one will begrudge ye a wee time away after you’ve been working so hard,” Gordan said, taking her arm. “And if ye marry me, they’ll have to learn to do without ye.”
As they walked up the path, Sileas looked over her shoulder at the dark water.
Five years she had waited for Ian. It was long enough. Tomorrow, she would rewrite her letter and send it to the dead king’s widow.
• • •
“Perhaps ye should ease up on the whiskey,” Alex said.
“Ye can’t expect me to face this sober,” Ian said.
Ian tipped the jug back one more time to be sure it was empty then tossed it aside. When they rounded the next bend, he saw the smoke from the chimneys of his family home curling against the darkened sky and felt a piercing longing for his family. It would be good to be home… if not for having to face the problem of Sileas.
“Most women don’t appreciate a man who is slobbering drunk, cousin,” Alex said. “I hope ye haven’t had so much you’ll have trouble doing your husbandly duty.”
“Will ye no leave it alone?”
“Ach,” Alex said, rubbing his arm where Ian had punched him, “I only meant to cheer ye up with a wee bit a teasing.”
“ ’Tis good you’re coming home with me,” Ian said. “Since Sileas will be needing another husband in the clan, it may as well be you.”
“And I thought ye were fond of the lass,” Alex said.
In truth, Ian was fond of Sileas. He wanted a good husband for her.
He just didn’t want it to be him.
For five years, he had this false marriage hanging over him. Not that he’d let it constrain him, but it was always there in the back of his mind like a sore that wouldn’t heal. Now that he had come home to Skye, it was time to take his place in his clan. He supposed he would have to take a wife—which meant he had to deal with the problem of Sileas first. He still got angry every time he thought of how he’d been forced to wed her. And whether she’d done it on purpose or not, it was her fault.
Once he was out from under the marriage, he could forgive her.
A dog barked somewhere in the darkness to herald his homecoming. The smell of cows and horses filled his nose as they passed between the familiar black shapes of the byre and the old cottage where his parents had first lived. Just ahead, lamplight filtered through the shutters of the two-story house his father had built before Ian was born.
Swaying just a wee bit, Ian found the latch and lifted it. The earthy smell of the peat fire enveloped him as he eased inside the door.
Ignoring Alex’s nudge from behind, he paused in the dark foyer to survey the people gathered around the hearth. His mother sat on the far side. Her face was still beautiful, but she was too thin, and her thick, black braid had streaks of white.
Across from her, a couple sat on a bench with their backs to the door. Neighbors, most likely. Between them and his mother, a young man with his brother’s chestnut hair was sprawled on the floor, as if he lived here. Could this long-limbed fellow, talking in a deep voice, be his “little” brother Niall?
There was no sign of his father or Sileas, so he would have the easy greetings first.
“Hello Mam!” he called, as he stepped into the hall.
His mother shrieked his name and ran across the room to leap into his arms. He twirled her around before setting her back down.
