“Aye, but the lady o’ the house should stand to greet them when they arrive.” She blinked her mild blue eyes at him. “Iamstill the lady o’ the house.”
“To be sure, ye are,” Deathan reassured her with a clench of the heart.
“But this woman, this princess, will tak’ my place.” Mother’s gaze held Deathan’s persistently. “Once I am gone. Ye must see I ha’ to be there to greet her. To guide her.”
“Mam…” Deathan’s throat closed so he could say no more.
“I want to be there at yer father’s side when she arrives. Help me up.”
Panic joined the grief in Deathan’s heart. “Mam, I do no’ think—” She had not been on her feet for more days than he could count.
“Ye do no’ suppose me strong enough.”
He did not. He kept from saying so. “Mam, I am certain your new daughter, when she arrives, will be more than pleased to come and greet ye here.” If she had half a heart, she would.
“Aye so.” Mother eased back against the bolsters, defeated. “And ye will come and tell me what she looks like, as soon as the party arrives, will ye no’? Every detail.”
“Every detail,” he agreed, and kissed her soft cheek.
He recalled that conversation later in the afternoon when the men on watch from the walls called out that a rider approached. Another messenger, he proved to be.
This one, unlike the previous from the king, proved to be a Caledonian.
He came swiftly, riding as one with his pony, his hair and the animal’s tail both flying. Deathan, on the walls at the time, hurried down and so proved to be the first of the family to make contact.
The man was young, surely near Deathan’s own age, and he was a sight. Long brown hair flowed about him in a cloud, and he stood—by the time Deathan reached him, having dismounted—heavily armed. Armed and covered with tattoos.
Moreover, he had an arrogant tilt to his chin and eyed the guard with what might have been measured hostility.
They eyed him back the same way, even though by then everyone in the clan knew what was to transpire. Caledonians in their midst.
Indeed, the news had spread like wildfire.
“I come from King Caerdoc,” he declared in heavily accented Gaelic, his bright-hazel gaze settling on Deathan. “The wedding party approaches.”
Wedding party.
“Aye so,” Deathan said, his thoughts racing. “We stand ready to receive them.”
The messenger’s gaze flicked over him with some interest, warrior to warrior. In days not so long since, they might have met on the battlefield.
Now they were supposed to be countrymen.
“How far off is the party?”
“They follow me closely and will be here before sundown. Are you MacMurtray?”
“I am one o’ them. Herve MacMurtray’s son.”
The messenger’s eyebrows twitched. “The bridegroom?”
“Nay, I am his brother. Let one o’ us tak’ yer pony and care for him. And pray, let me offer ye our hospitality.”
The man bared his teeth. “No one touches the pony but me. And I will ride back to inform King Caerdoc that you expect him.”
“Very well so.” Deathan shifted as Da came up to join him. “This,” he told the messenger, “is Chief MacMurtray. Da, the party grows near.”
The Caledonian inclined his head to Da in a lordly fashion. “Kind Caerdoc sends his greetings. He escorts his daughter in accordance with the MacAlpin’s decree.”
