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‘Surely father does not think we are enemies, he and Aidan’s father have always gotten along well.’
‘Your father is thinking how to proceed, but you can be sure he will act in the best interests of this clan. And there are many amongst us who feel we cannot trust the Grants.’
Ilene turned away so that her mother would not see the horror cross her face. How could this have happened when all had been going so well, when she had such plans about to come to fruition? Who had been whispering in her father’s ear spreading rumours about the Grants? Could it be Murray? He made no secret of his contempt for Aidan and he was a new voice at Cailleach. Her father treated him as if he had never gone away, her brother’s looked at him with admiration and her mother made excuses for his rudeness.
She felt ashamed at what he had witnessed between Aidan and her, it made her angry with him. Murray was always watching her as if looking for a fault in her. She felt she displeased him in some way, and yet he insisted on seeking her out all the time. Why was that? Was he spying on her? He couldn’t know what she had done, could he?
Her mother interrupted her thoughts. ‘Come girl and make yourself useful. You cannot stay all day in my chamber, moping around like a mooncalf.’
Ilene choked down her worry so that her mother would not see it. Aidan would come back to her. How could he not? They were in love and to be wed, he had said so, hadn’t he? This storm would pass, the Grants would be their friends again and all would be well. And if Murray did know what had passed between her and Aidan, he would have confronted her with it, surely? So her secret was safe and she must just be patient. It was only clan politics keeping them apart, and that was nothing compared to the love they had, so all would be well. She was sure all would be well.
Chapter Eight
Morag watched Ilene from across the hall. Her niece was pale, and she could see that she hadn’t eaten a bite, despite her best efforts to hide the fact by moving her food around her plate now and again.
Ilene had been subdued for weeks now, since the departure of the Grants, and had taken to avoiding company, preferring solitude. Sometimes she stayed in her room all day, and Morag wondered if she was making herself ill with her sadness. Once so vivacious and fun loving, she had slowly become a quiet shell of her former self. Morag had always thought that Ilene had a tendency to feel things too deeply, but this latest shift in her demeanour was like day to night, and it was worrying.
She had obviously had feelings for that fool Aidan Grant, but Morag hoped they would be short-lived. She pitied her niece her broken heart, but that was part of growing up, and Ilene would have to bear the loss of that foolish infatuation. It was rumoured that Lachlan Grant’s allegiance was moving away from Duncan, and given the shift in politics in the Highlands, they could soon be on opposing sides. A match, if ever there had been a chance of one, was now impossible, given the latest rumours swirling around Cailleach. In fact, Morag sorely doubted if the Grants had ever been sincere and steadfast allies to the Campbells, and in her opinion, Aidan Grant was nothing but a preening peacock who did not deserve someone as kind-hearted and lovely as Ilene. Her niece had not seen that for herself, but, given time, she would have.
Besides, no one could ever be good enough for Ilene. Morag had given birth to five hearty sons whom she loved dearly, but who were exhausting in their maleness. On her frequent visits to Cailleach, Ilene had been a respite from all that, and she had showered her with gifts and affection, pretty dresses and jewellery as if she were her own daughter. A better match than Aidan Grant would come along for her lovely niece, she was sure of it.
She looked around the noisy hall, isolated by her widowhood from the gaiety and laughter of its occupants. Time was not healing her wounds, and she could not bear to return to the home they had shared if he was not there. Despite the kindness of her sister these past few weeks, she was still at the mercy of her grief. How could they be so full of life when she felt so wretched? How dare they revel and feast when her dear William was dead in the ground? She felt so alone. There was only one other in that hall, separated, as she was, from its buoyant atmosphere.
Murray stood stony-faced in the shadows cast by the fire, leaning against the wall, with his arms folded and his eyes intently focussed on Ilene, almost mesmerised by her. His gaze was unwavering, and, in Morag’s opinion, impudent. There was something predatory about it. Her eyes were drawn to the scar on his face. It looked raw and angry in the firelight, a little like the man himself. She had always tried to be a kind, god fearing woman, but she had never understood the impulse which had led Duncan and Ailsa to raise him as one of their own, for he had caused them no end of strife. His leaving had been a piece of monumental ingratitude in her opinion. She did not approve of him, and so his regard for her niece irritated her.
One of the ladies standing near her leaned in, following Morag’s gaze to Murray. ‘That’s a whole lot of man right there to be sure. A handsome rogue is he not.’
‘If you say so,’ she replied coldly.
Murray frowned suddenly and Morag followed his gaze to where Ilene was making a hasty exit from the hall. She did not like the look of the girl and so she followed.
Morag got to Ilene’s chamber to see her leaning over a bowl, retching so hard that she thought the poor girl’s insides would spew forth. When she got control over herself, Ilene wiped her mouth and her other hand went to her stomach, rubbing it back and forth. A thought insinuated itself into Morag’s mind. She would never have realised, save for that simple, protective gesture of Ilene’s, and the pieces might never have fallen into place until it was too late.
Ilene looked up and gasped when she saw her aunt standing in the doorway. There was misery and shock on her ashen face, but shame too. Suddenly Morag had a horrified realisation as to the meaning of her sickness.
‘Ilene, are you…could you be…with child?’ she hissed.
Ilene could only look at her, trembling miserably.
‘Oh Ilene, how long has it been since you lay with him?’ The girl just shook her head in denial. Morag rushed towards her. ‘Did you lie with Aidan? Tell me the truth now, there is no point in denying it.’
‘Yes…yes, I did.’
‘Oh, Ilene, how long ago?’
‘I don’t know, six, seven weeks maybe. I can’t be sure.’
‘How could you be so careless with your affections?’
Ilene could not look at her aunt as shame reddened her face. ‘I loved him and he said that if I loved him, I would let him, and he promised to go the very next day to father and ask for my hand. And I so wanted to make him happy. I only let him have his way once. We were as good as betrothed.’
‘Did he make a promise to you before he left? Did he say when he would return?’
‘No. I have heard no word from him for weeks, though I have sent word begging him to come back. I don’t understand why he hasn’t, as there is so much affection between us. We love each other.’
‘Is it certain? You are definitely with child?’
Ilene merely looked confused at this. ‘I have not bled since…since we…and I feel sick and weak.’
