He took his chair at the high table beside Uncle Bhatar.
No one sat on his other side and he was glad for it. He hated nothing more than idle, meaningless conversation. But then, that was part of the problem, wasn't it? 'Twas why there was a distance between him and the clan. He wanted to close that gap but did not yet ken how.
He and Uncle Bhatar ate in companionable silence, for which Neacal was grateful, but at the same time, he realized how alone he was, despite being surrounded by dozens of people. No one truly knew him anymore. No one kenned of the nightmares or how difficult it was to fall asleep at night. How mortified he would be if they saw how he kept his hearth fire burning bright to chase away the demons that lurked in the darkness. No one heard how he whispered to the spirit of his father in the night, asking for his forgiveness and his guidance.
Midway through supper, the minstrels started playing their instruments. He did not pay much attention until a high, clear voice rose above all the earthly music. Neacal's gaze sought out the lass who sang the haunting ballad,Griogal Cridhe. Beloved MacGregor.
'Twas the same every time she sang—a hush fell over the great hall and Neacal's breath halted. Anna's voice could be called nothing short of divine. It cut through his soul with such aching beauty, all the darkness inside him threatened to come pouring out at once.
He could not believe it when he glimpsed tears glistening upon Anna's face. But, of course, the song was exceedingly melancholy, for it was written by the grieving widow of the MacGregor clan chief who had been executed by her father, the Campbell laird, after a long and bloody feud. 'Twas obvious Anna put her heart and soul into the song… so much emotion that it scraped along his nerve endings. His muscles ached to hold her and comfort her… dry her tears. But it was something more which sent a spear though his soul.
He could not understand it, nor could he abide it in the midst of dozens of people. Shoving his chair back, he arose from the table and strode from the room, up the steps.
His heart thundered within his chest. Alone on the dark stair, he paused, his head pressed against the cool stone. He could not escape her voice. Nay, he wished to, but it lured him, dared him to keep listening. A battle raged within him. The demons of anger and fear fought against some unnamed force of good which slid through him with her voice.
Clawing his way up the stairs to the laird's lug, the tiny chamber over the great hall designed for chiefs to eavesdrop on the happenings below, he tried to maintain control. Inside the room, her voice echoed just as loudly as it had in the great hall. He closed the small door and slumped against it. His eyes burning, he ground his teeth. 'Twas not sadness. He didn't ken what it was. As her voice rose and circled him, it lifted his soul toward the heavens. Was he dying? Nay, during the time he thought he would die from the torture, he had never felt like this.
Good God, what was happening to him? Was he truly losing his sanity altogether?
Applause roared, filtering up through the gaps between the stones from the great hall, and then the angel started singing again.
Sitting on the stone floor of the tiny dark room, he absorbed the sound of her voice and all within him calmed. He breathed slowly, steadily. Her voice was like a celestial light shining brightly through him.
The sound of scratching and whining brought him back to himself. Dunn? He opened the door. The wolfhound entered the room, then licked his face. Neacal wrapped his arm around the massive dog.
Dunn lay down while Neacal stroked his rough fur. In the great hall below them, a lovely violin tune filtered up to him. After that, Anna sang again. He had not even introduced himself or talked to her specifically, although he had talked to their leader. What would he say to her? Could he tell her the truth, that her voice bewitched him? Surely, she already thought him mad and wished him to keep a good distance from her.
He knew not who she truly was or where she came from, but he wished he could do naught but listen to her singing all night and all day. How daft was that? He was a warrior and chief, for God's sake; he should not be enthralled by some woman's voice.
But he was.
As he continued to listen, relaxation overcame his body and his mind… and he drifted to a peaceful place he could not remember visiting before.
The next thing he knew, pounding awakened him. Opening his eyes, he saw that he lay before the door in the laird's lug, his head on Dunn.
"Are you in there, chief?" a male voice yelled outside the door.
His joints stiff and aching from lying on the cold, stone floor, he arose and opened the door to peer out. "What is it?"
"We searched for you all over, m'laird." Leith appeared distraught.
"Aye, well, I am here. Is there a problem?"
"You were gone most of the night. 'Tis just before dawn. We thought you'd left the castle again."
"Ah, I see," Neacal said. "I must have fallen asleep." After coming out, he closed the door and proceeded to his bedchamber, Dunn following. Sitting on the bed, he ruffled the fur on the dog's head. "What the devil happened, Dunn?" he whispered. "Did the lass's song lull me to sleep?"
Neacal lay back on the bed and Dunn leapt up to join him. Strange, Neacal now experienced more peace than he'd ever felt in this room. 'Twas his father's chamber and he did not deem himself worthy of occupying it.
When next he opened his eyes, morning sunlight streamed through the window. He sat bolt upright. Was his mind playing tricks on him, or had he actually gotten a good night's sleep for the first time in months? Normally, he could only sleep when he'd exhausted himself physically.
Anna's song echoing in his head, he washed his face and hair in the cold water of the basin. He needed a good swim in the loch. When he'd been living in the crofter's hut on the island, he'd made a practice of going for a swim in the bay every morn when it wasn't below freezing.
After cleaning up a bit more, he put on clean clothes.
When he opened the door to exit, Eonan, stood there. "I was going to help you with your clothes, m'laird."
"'Tis fine. I'm covered decently enough." On the island, he had no one to help him dress. He could accomplish it himself.
