Highlander's Trials of Fire

“I dinnae understand,” Tormod said, though he did, and he didn’t know how he was supposed to comprehend it.

The messenger gave him a sad smile and a bow. “Ye’re the Laird now.”

These words spun around and around Tormod’s head, and he wondered as he traveled the rest of the way home in an exhausted blur if they’d ever leave again.

There was a state funeral and a small private one, and Tormod had not been able to cry at either. Tormod’s stepmother, Mairead, was inconsolable. As the oldest son, and most importantly, as the Laird, his job was to remain stalwart in the face of his pain. His stepmother and his younger half-brother, Doran, did not need to deal with politics on top of their grief.

After the funerals, the chain of visitors started. Unsurprisingly, many of the Lairds and lesser nobles brought with them their single daughters, ready to capture the unwed new Laird of Seaghagh in an inescapable alliance.

Had Tormod been another man, this latest Laird’s daughter would have been more than enough temptation to break through his grief and abandon all thoughts of Anabella. Siona MacTiridh was two-and-twenty, an accomplished woman with skill at the harp and at song. She was quietly respectful while her father paid his well wishes to the new Laird, and tolerably well-spoken when Tormod engaged her in conversation.

And she was beautiful, he had to admit that. Tall, blonde, blue-eyed, and well proportioned. She did not walk with the air of someone aware of her graces; instead, she was timid and sweet.

“She’d make a good wife,” Mairead told him after the second night of the MacTiridhs’ visit. “She’s a kind lass. And she kens the business of Lairdship. Will ye nae consider askin’ for her hand? I ken her Faither is more than eager.”

Tormod sighed. “It’s nae that simple, Mairead,” he replied. “There’s…a lass. A lass I’ve been waitin’ for since before the war. Since before that, even. I love her, and I promised…I promised her I’d–”

“Ye love her?” Mairead echoed. There was a soft sadness in her eyes. “Aye, I ken what it is to love. I loved yer Faither, more than me own heart, me own breath. If ye’re sure about this lass, then I’ll put MacTiridh off, dinnae ye worry.”

So the days passed, and the MacTiridhs left. The next visitor came, then another, and then finally, a month after the funeral, the Laird of Galloway arrived along with his wife. With them, they brought their daughter and their younger son.

Calum MacAlpien, the heir to Galloway, was ten-and-four-years old, and he and Tormod’s three-and-ten year old half-brother Doran bonded immediately. His mother, Ceit, was pleasant to Mairead, and of course, Tormod knew the Laird from the battlefield. All in all, it was a pleasant visit.

Apart from the fact that I cannae seem to get Anabella alone.

In fact, if he didn’t know better, he would think she was avoiding him. But Roibert had assured him that his mysterious words before the war had been naught but encouragement. After all, everyone was acting a little strangely in reaction to Tormod’s father’s death.

I’ve just got to try harder.

He did, and it paid off on the last night before the MacAlpiens were due to leave. He found Anabella walking out in the gardens by the grand fountain his stepmother loved so much, and he called out her name.

“Anabella! Wait!” he called.

She looked around, wide eyed and surprised, then sank into a curtsy. “Seaghagh,” she said, straightening up. “I was nae expectin’ ye out here. I hope I’m nae trespassin’?”

Why was there a stutter in her voice? “Tresspassin’? Nay. I dinnae ken if ye remember, Anabella, but before the war started, I told ye I had a question for ye,” he told her.

Ye sound like a ramblin’ fool. Why did Roibert get all the smoothness of speech?

She swallowed, and he noticed an odd flicker to her eyes as she said, “I remember. What…what I mean to say is, did ye intend to…ask me now?”

He hadn’t, actually. He had planned it to be in a much more romantic setting, with much more preparation. But here, in the dark and next to the fountain, might be the only chance he would get. He coughed nervously. “Aye. I wondered if ye might…now that I’m Laird, I need a wife, and…I’ve admired ye for a long time–”

He trailed off, watching her expression. Though she was attempting to keep her smile, there was something like…was that fear in her eyes? Indeed, when he glanced at her hand, it was shaking.

What’s happenin’? Have I gotten it all wrong?

She bowed her head. “I’m flattered, Laird. Truly. But I dinnae…I think ye may find a better wife elsewhere.”

Her tone was too polite, and the intimidation too obvious, and it hit Tormod like a ton of bricks.

She doesnae love me. She’s never loved me. It was wishful thinkin’ and fancy. And now I’ve asked me question, and she’s told me for sure. She doesnae want me.

“Oh,” he said soberly. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didnae mean to make ye feel discomfort.”

He couldn’t see well in the dark, but he was sure she was blushing. “Dinnae…dinnae worry yerself, Laird,” she said, her voice still shaking. “I, er–”

“Go,” he said softly, and with a grateful look, she ran off, leaving him alone.