6

Ultimatums & Arrivals

Rab woke up early the next morning, since he was not plagued by a sore head like many of his clansmen, including his father. He had just broken his fast with a Spartan diet of a soft-boiled egg, cheese, and porridge with honey, apples, and cinnamon in it, along with a cup of strong tea, when a knock came at his chamber door, making Winter wake up and give a token whuff, and thus wake Neal also. "Dr. Rab?" called Duncan, one of his father's gillies. "Be ye awake yet, sir? Yer da's a'callin' for ye."

"Come," Rab called.

The tall Highlander entered the room and stood there looking rather uncomfortable, his hands twisting the folds of his plaid like a nervous maiden smoothing her skirts out. "I dinna mean t' wake ye, sir, but . . .yer da ordered me t' fetch ye as soon as I could."

Rab looked up from drinking a swallow of his tea. "Let me guess, Duncan. He wants one o' my cures for a sore head an' belly, aye?"

The gillie nodded. "Aye, that be the way o' it, sir."

"Humph!" Rab snorted. "I'll be along as soon as I've eaten." He deliberately picked up his spoon and ate some of his remaining oatmeal. "Ye tell him t' drink water an' no small beer or mead if he's been sick, ye ken?"

"Aye, but he isna gonna like that," muttered Duncan.

"I dinna care what he likes," Rab said bluntly. "I'm the doctor, no' him. An' if he gives ye a hard time, I'll deal wi' it." Familiar with how surly—and whiney—his father could be after an evening spent drinking himself senseless, Rab was not minded to be sympathetic this morning after last night's debacle.

Duncan bowed and retreated. As he shut the door, Neal sat up, yawning. "Are ye gonna gi' him sommat, Rab?"

"I willna. What I am gonna do is have a wee talk wi' him instead," Rab replied, his voice just shy of angry. "Since no one else will tell him what he's done last night, I will."

Neal's eyes widened. "Be ye not afraid o' what he'll do?"

Rab barked a laugh. "Nay. I'm no' a child, t' be intimidated by his bellowing an' his hand any longer. This time, I'm no' gonna let his stupidity go like I did at home. Since Mama passed, he's gotten worse n' worse wi' his drinking an' so forth. And this time, it's enough." He resumed eating, finishing his breakfast some five minutes later. "Get dressed, dearie. If I can, I'm gonna have all those griping clansmen o' ours ready t'go by Tierce or a half an hour later. E'en if I hae tae dump freezing water o'er the lot o 'em!"

With that, Rab rose and went out of his chamber and down the hall to the one assigned to his parent.

His stomach roiled unpleasantly with nerves, for he disliked intense confrontations of this nature, though what he had said was true. He was not intimidated or frightened of his father. He knew quite well Malcolm was dependant on him to ease his suffering and he intended to use that as bargaining chip in their discussion, as well as few other things.

He knew they should have had a talk like this years ago, but somehow, he had always put it off, hoping things might change, but it was not to be. God knew Rab had done his best to be a good son and honor his father like the Good Book said. But Malcolm had made that task well nigh impossible with his behavior, and now something must be done about it. He just wished his mother were here, but then he suspected if she were, his papa would not be as he was now.

Blast it, Papa! Ye were never like this when she was alive! An' we all miss her, no' just ye!

His jaw firming, he opened the door to his father's guest chamber.

Malcolm was sprawled in a chair beside the window, a wooden cup with what Rab hoped was water beside his hand. The Carlyle chieftain looked slightly green, his eyes bloodshot, nose red and puffy, his hair sticking up. He was wearing the same clothing he had been in last night.

Rab wrinkled his nose slightly at the stale smell that greeted his nostrils, most of it coming from the chamber pot under the table.

"Rab! Ye took yer sweet time coomin', laddie!" Malcolm groused. "I be dyin' an' ye dinna hurry yer arse t'see what's the matter?"

Rab gave him an icy glance of disapproval. "Ye're no' dyin', Papa, an' we both ken it. 'Tis the same sickness everyone gets after a night o' indulging in too much whiskey an' stupidity," he said bluntly.

Malcolm winced and held his aching head, which felt like pickaxes were stabbing him. "Dinna shout, laddie. Me head's about tae fall off as it is."

Rab moderated his tone slightly. "I doubt that. Though ye wish it would."

"Ye're a hardhearted pain in the arse, Raibeart Carlyle!" moaned the ill chieftain. "I be sufferin' wi' some dreadful malady an' ask ye fer somethin' tae soothe ma griping belly an' ye come here empty handed— is this the regard ye show yer laird, laddie?"

Rab gritted his teeth and shut the door. "Aye, sir, especially when yer dreaded malady is from yer own doin'. An' when ye broke yer promise wi' me last night, among other things. Or d'ye no' recall what went on last night, Papa? Has the drink still pickled yer wits?"

"Dinna ye take that tone wi' me, lad!" Malcolm interjected. "I'm still yer papa!"

"Aye, more's the pity!" Rab snapped.

Malcolm gaped at him. "Ye dinna mean that, Rab! How could ye say—"

"How could I say that?" his son demanded, stalking over to the bed and sitting on it. "I'm sayin' it because somebody has to! An' Mama's no' here t' tell ye what an arse ye been makin' o' yerself, so I hae to!"

"Now ye listen here, ye wretched impudent—" began his father angrily.

Rab slammed his hand down on the table. "Nay! Ye quit yer bletherin' an' listen tae me for once!" His eyes blazed with frustrated fury. "D'ye think I want t' do this? T' ride herd on ye like some sheepdog wi' a black sheep? Well, I dinna, Papa! I hae better things t' do, like assist my wife wi' her packing an' all."

"Then why do ye no' do that an' leave me in peace?" Malcolm griped.

"Because I hae been doin' it, an' it hae no' done a damned thing except make things worse!" Rab cried, running his fingers through his hair. "Do ye no' ken what happened last night?"

"I . . .I . . . err . . ." Malcolm stammered, trying to recall what his son was talking about. " . . . there was a game . . ."

"Aye, and ye were wagerin' an' drinkin' yerself into oblivion as usual. Only this time b'fore ye passed out, ye insulted a lady, Papa! Ye treated Lady Margaret's own cousin like a common tavern wench!" Rab declared angrily, and told his father exactly what had gone on. "Ye could've started the whole bloody feud up again . . .an' all because ye cannae control yer mouth when yer drunk! Have ye any idea how that looks, Papa? Mama's probably turnin' in her grave! Or gettin' ready to haunt ye!"

Malcolm had the grace to look ashamed and alarmed. Then he whined, "Rab, ye dinna ken that I canna help myself when I start wagerin', 'tis only natural for a fella t' hae a drink when he plays—"

"Aye, I ken it," Rab interrupted before his father could start his self-pitying mode. "'Tis what ye've done ever since Mama died."

His father scowled at Rab's semi-judgmental tone. "But ye dinna ken how the drink helps me."

"Helps ye tae do what?" his son demanded exasperatedly. "Embarrass yerself an' yer family? Forget what an arse ye act like? Treat yer son like a set o' pells?"

"I never—"

"Aye ye have, an' more n' once!" Rab snarled, his fists clenched. "An' ye dinna even remember doin' half o' it. Why, Papa? Explain it tae me. Because I dinna ken why a damned bottle o' whiskey is more important to ye than yer clan an' family. It never was before Mama passed on."

Malcolm heaved a sigh and said softly, "No, ye wouldna, since yer mama was there tae fill the emptiness in my heart. Before yer mama came into my life, I was beset with . . .expectations from my papa, yer grandfather, Alexander, whom ye were named after. An' . . .I hae never been good wi' expectations, Rabbie. I ken that. I fret an' get in a pother an' then I need t' blow off some steam by doin' somethin' silly—like takin' wagers or drinkin' or fightin' when I was younger. Yer grandfather was none too pleased wi' me, I fear. It seemed I couldna do anything right."

Rab felt a stab of irony upon hearing that. He almost said aloud, That sounds familiar, Papa, since it's how ye always made me feel since Jamie was killed. Only I never did anything to disgrace myself or my family like ye did. Unless ye count not being a warrior and becoming a healer a disgrace. Or not being like my sainted brother Jamie. Rab had never known his grandsire since Alexander had died before he was born. But he kept silent, not wishing to interrupt his father's narrative. Malcolm was notoriously reluctant to discuss his childhood or shortcoming with his son, in fact Rab couldn't recall when he had ever done so, therefore this was a very rare opportunity.

"But when I was introduced tae yer mama, who was at a midsummer festival, she was the daughter of a Campbell constable, and a suitable match for me, I fell in love with her after we hae met several times, and found that she was willing to see past my flaws and to love me also. She agreed to marry me and I made a vow to be a good husband to her an' I never broke that vow. I never looked at another woman till she was gone . . .and then I only did so because . . .I thought it would help me forget her loss. Only I hae never found any woman who did."

"I dinna think ye e'er will," Rab sighed, feeling sudden compassion for he too had loved Ceri Carlyle. "She was one o' a kind, Papa." He paused before he commented, "Is that also why ye gamble an' drink so much?"

"Mostly, aye. I gave most o' that up when yer mama was alive. I . . .I didn't need tae do such with yer mama around. She provided all I needed to hae fun and relax. I sometimes indulged myself, but . . ." He shrugged. He spread his hands. "I ken I'm no' a man like my father . . .dedicated and able to find his pleasure in books and such things. I've always liked my pleasures o' the flesh. Ye are more like yer grandfather than ye know, Rab. An' yer mama. Ye got his sense o' duty and stubbornness an' her brains and compassion. I fear the only things ye got from me were yer looks and temper."

"And my quick tongue," Rab added, then said, "Was that why ye preferred Jamie over me?"

"I . . .suppose it would seem that way to ye . . . but yer brother was much like I was . . .and when I lost him an' then yer mama . . .something died in me, Rab. Like a snuffed candle, I couldna bring myself tae care about anything—not my clan, not my duty, nor even my sons. There was this . . . hole where they used tae be . . .a hole I thought the drink and gaming would fill . . ." he trailed off, looking suddenly weighted down with loss.

Rab paused before answering, for this was not a side of his papa he had ever known existed. For long moments he was at a loss for words.

Finally he replied. "So . . .then ye really dinna wish it were me gone instead o' Jamie?" For he had always felt that way since his brother's death, that he were competing with a ghost and he would never measure up in Malcolm's eyes.

The older man looked somewhat shocked. "Is that what ye think? I . . . wish that yer brother dinna die, aye, I will always wish that . . .but I wouldna wish ye dead, Rab, in his place. 'Tis a terrible thing for a man to bury his child before him. Any o' his children. Why would ye think so?"

"Because ye, like yer father, have always made me feel like I was nae good enough," his son cried, anguished. "Me or Neal."

"I . . .dinna think . . ." Then Malcolm shook his head. "Yer mama always did say I tended to favor Jamie o'er ye . . .but I never kenned . . .or mayhap I never wanted to think I was . . .more like my papa than I thought," the other admitted reluctantly. "I . . . hae done ye a disservice laddie . . .an' for that I am sorry . . ." One thing he dared not admit to his son was that Rab's keen mind had always intimidated him, for he felt his son were much brighter than he was, with all his learning and degrees as a lawyer and a doctor.

Rab was astonished, for he had never expected his papa to ever admit he was right. "Then I forgive ye. But . . .Papa, ye must do something about yer drinking. 'Tis no' healthy for ye . . .for yer mind or yer body. Or yer spirit. An' surely ye can see that it doesna fill that space in yer heart. In fact, I think it makes it worse."

"Well, I dinna think so!" Malcolm argued. "Dinna ye ken it helps me forget?"

"Papa, I dinna think ye need to forget, I think ye need to remember," Rab argued. "Remember what ye were before Mama died. Because the drink turns ye into someone I do no' ken . . .or want to. Ye never would ha behaved so when Mama was alive last night. Nor would ye treat Neal as ye hae been doing."

"What's Neal hae to do wi' this?"

"Everything," Rab cried. "Or do y no' recall ye hit him hard enough t' leave a bruise on his cheek—for nothin' more than suggesting ye go back to yer game an' leave the lady be?"

"He was being impudent!" Malcolm protested, for his recollection was hazy.

"Nay, he was tryin' to save ye from making a verra bad mistake," Rab refuted. "An' ye hurt him for it. Just as ye hae other times—by ignoring him or scolding him or whipping him o'er things ye never would hae when Jamie an' I were lads."

"I . . .I punished ye both," his father began.

"Aye, but no' the way ye do Neal," objected the doctor. "An' Jamie an' I were worse scamps than Neal ever was an' ye hardly ever cuffed us or took us across yer knee. Or do ye no' recall the time Jamie nearly got killed playin' matador wi' a red plaid wi' our bull . . .nearly drownin' tryin' t' catch that salmon . . .gettin' lost in the woods tryin' t' find the ghost boar . . .an' me followin' him like some tagalong," Rab admitted, for when he was a lad he had worshipped his older brother.

"He were a braw scamp, yer brother was," Malcolm admitted, his eyes shining.

"Aye, but Papa, my point is we did things far more reckless an' foolish an' ye never were as hard on us as ye are on Neal," Rab continued. "An' most times when ye do punish him, ye're drunk . . .an' the drink brings out the worst in ye . . .ye quarrel o'er everything an' ye have the temper o' a wildcat wi' a thorn in it's paw an' ye take it out on anyone around ye."

"Surely ye are stretchin' the truth a wee bit, Rabbie . . ."

"Nay, Papa! Ye dinna even recall what ye did, an' ye canna keep pretending what ye do when ye're in yer cups is right, because it's no'. I've seen it . . .an' so hae others, but no one save me is willin' to tell ye the truth." He gazed earnestly at his father. "An' the truth is ye act like a tyrant when ye're drunk an' ye've punished Neal unfairly an' the lad kens it. Ye've hurt him more n' once an' he doesna trust ye, Papa. When we were lads, ye used to do things wi' Jamie an' me-fishing, hunting, riding, playing draughts. Ye do none o' that wi' Neal. All he sees is a father who drinks, games, an' wenches, an' doesna care about him unless it's t' scold him for somethin'. An' if ye keep on like ye are, ye're gonna make him hate ye. Is that what ye want?"

Malcolm flinched at the harsh words. He didn't want to hear them, didn't want to admit that he couldn't remember half the time what he had done when he was drunk, or that his actions were worse than he recalled. But he remembered how Neal always seemed wary around him, never staying long in his presence. The boy barely spoke to him, and unlike Jamie, he couldn't recall the last time he had spent time with him, mussed his hair or teased him. It was then that he realized he barely knew his youngest son.

He could almost hear his wife's voice saying, "Malcolm, dearie, ye're a prize idiot sometimes, but I still love ye . . .now figure out a way t'fix the mistakes ye made now that ye ken what they are. Because it's never too late t' say I'm sorry an' t' begin again."

He had loved his wife dearly, she had been the rudder that had anchored him and steered his course. Without her, he had drifted and gone astray. And Rab was right, much as he hated to admit it. Ceri would have torn strips from him if she could see how he had been acting since she was gone. In fact, he wasn't so sure she couldn't see, even from on high, and he crossed himself and thought, May God forgive me, an' ye too, my bonny Ceri. But I dinna ken how t'fix this.

"What . . .what can I do, Rab, t' fix this?" he asked, for oddly enough he found he trusted his son to give him sound advice, for Rab was very like his mother in that regard.

"Ye must do a few things, an' none o' them will be easy," Rab informed him. "First, ye must apologize t' Lady Beatrice for yer poor conduct last eve. An' to Neal also. Then ye must set yer mind to stop turnin' t' the bottle for help. An' . . .mayhap try and find a woman ye'd be willing t' marry instead o' chasin' everything in skirts. Or if ye dinna want to do that . . .be more discreet wi' yer affairs. That'll do for a start."

"I can do the first one . . . an' the third even because truth is, none o' those lasses really made me happy . . .but I dinna know about the second one . . ." Malcolm began hesitantly.

"Papa, I ken ye dinna think much o' me because I'm no' the warrior that Jamie was, but I need ye to trust me when I say ye can learn to do wi'out the whiskey. It'll no' be easy, ye're gonna need help, but I can help ye—if ye're willing to let me."

"How? Do ye hae' some potion t' stop me from drinkin'?"

"Nay. Only ye can do that. But I can help ye in other ways. Because as a doctor I will tell ye if ye don't quit abusin' yer body, it's gonna kill ye, as sure as the plague or the black wound rot. So . . .if ye wish to be around to play wi' yer grandchildren, dearie, ye'll heed what I tell ye." He prayed that final bit of advice would tip the scales.

"Oh, come now, lad, yer not serious! Everyone drinks a pint now an' again, even ye!" Malcolm scoffed.

"Aye, but not like ye do, Papa. Ye drink more than that . . .and anything ye do t' excess does more harm than good. Trust me. I dinna go to university for nothing." Rab persuaded. His papa was stubborn as ten mules, but Rab had his gift for persuasion. He just hoped it worked on his father.

Malcolm heaved a sigh, for he was sure he wouldn't like what his son was about to tell him. "Verra well then. What d'ye suggest?"

Rab thought about it for a moment. He wasn't entirely sure what he proposed would work, but for the moment he had no better ideas. His mentor, Dr. Azhir had dealt with few cases of addiction to poppy and some other strange drugs in his homeland, though not alcohol, for his religion prohibited it. Still from what his mentor had described of the treatment to wean one off opiates, Rab assumed a similar process would work for whiskey. "I propose ye cut yerself off completely from whiskey, Papa, as soon as ye make up yer mind t' do so. I mean no more of it . . . or any type of alcohol."

Malcolm's eyes bugged out. "Aww, lad, ye cannae mean everything. No ale?"

Rab shook his head.

"How about mead?"

"Nay."

"Wine?"

"Nay t' that also."

"Brandy? Rum? Cider?" Malcolm pressed, desperate.

"Nay. Ye must no' let a drop o' alcohol past yer lips if ye are to gain control over yer drinkin'," the doctor replied.

"But-but Rabbie!" the laird sputtered. "What in the hell am I gonna drink? Milk?"

His son chuckled. "Nay, I willna make ye suffer that. But ye can drink cold water . . . infused wi' fruit juice . . .mayhap from oranges an' lemons, if I can get 'em, or strawberries. Apple cider—wi'out liquor. Tea an' a new drink I hear the Spanish invented called chocolate."

Malcolm was horrified. "But what about feast days? Am I no' to hae' me tot o' rum? Or a wee dram o' whiskey?"

"Nay. Ye drink one dram, Papa, an' all yer har work is for naught."

"But how does a man live wi' out whiskey?" the chieftain cried, cringing. "'Tis impossible!"

"Nay, 'tis no'," argued his son. "The Saracens do it all their lives. 'Tis part o' their religion."

"They're heathens!" Malcolm objected.

"Aye, but no' drunkards. They drink many other concoctions—like pear cider an' something they call kaffee." Rab informed him. He would have to write to his old mentor and ask him about alternatives to alcohol.

Malcolm threw up his hands. "First ye want me t' swear off lasses an' now ye make me into a heathen Saracen! What's next?"

"Papa! I never said ye couldn't . . .that ye had t' be like a priest," objected Rab. "Jus' that ye shouldna parade yer women like some prizes in the hall in front o' everyone—like Neal. As for the other . . .ye must find other things than the whiskey t' occupy yer mind an' body."

"Like what?"

"Well, ye used t' enjoy fishing an' hunting. Even riding an' hawking. Ye can do those things again. Archery, some weapons practice. How about chess an' something like that? Ye can still play cards, though I wouldna do so where others drink at first, since ye willna be able to resist the temptation. I think . . .I think it might be best if ye . . .went on a retreat . . .sort of like the monks do."

"W-What?"

His father's eyes were round as pearls.

"Aye," Rab continued, actually enjoying himself, since he rarely got the chance to give his papa orders and know the orders would be obeyed. Or so he hoped. "I think for a month or two ye need to seclude yerself, wi' Father Bryce. An' meditate an' sweat the spirits out o' ye. By plain livin' and exercise."

"Ye canna be serious, Rab!"

"Aye, I am, Papa. 'Tis the only way ye can get better. But," he leveled a finger at his father. "Ye hae' to intend to really do this. Ye hae' to feel it here—" he put a hand over his heart. The he put his other hand on his head. "An' want it here. In yer heart an' in yer mind. Otherwise, it willna work."

Malcolm was silent for a long while, mulling it over. "Rab . . .I dinna know if this will work . . .if I can make it work . . .I hae never been a strong man . . . yer mother was my strength an' now she's gone . . ."

Rab went and offered his hand. "I'll make a deal wi' ye, Papa. Ye try this method for a month, an' see if by the end o' it ye dinna feel better. Stronger, faster, more capable, full o' energy. Yer able to be happy an' no' angry any more. That ye like to do more things besides game, an' wench, an' drink. That ye feel good. An' I'll help ye as much as I can. Ye willna be alone. I'll be there an' so will Father Bryce. And if ye dinna feel better, then ye can go back to drinkin'. But I think after two weeks ye'll start to feel better an' ye won't need what's at the bottom of a cask. Well? Hae we got a deal?"

Malcolm hesitated, then he clasped it. "Aye, we do. An' ye run Carlyle in my stead while I do this—retreat. I'll speak wi' Father Bryce when we get home."

Rab nodded, a profound sense of relief sweeping through him. He felt at long last that he had finally done something worthwhile regarding his father, and most of the frustration he had felt last night vanished. "Now that's settled, I believe ye owe Neal an' Lady Beatrice an apology."

"Aye. Send Neal in here t' me, will ye?"

"I will." Rab agreed, then he went to fetch his brother.

Neal was woken both to his brother shaking his shoulder and Winter licking his face. Groaning, he opened his eyes and shoved the collie's inquisitive nose aside. "Away wi' ye, ye annoying beastie!" he growled at his pet. He eyed Rab with dislike too. "Why's morning hae' tae come so early?"

Undaunted, Winter tugged the blankets off his master while Rab laughed.

"Hey! Ye wretched animal!" Neal yelped and tried to snatch the covers back from the canny dog.

But the dog danced backwards and Neal sat up, his hair falling in his eyes. "I'm sorry I ever taught ye that trick," he muttered, shaking a finger at the unrepentant dog.

Rab grinned. "C'mon, slugabed. Ye need to get up, Papa wants t' see ye before breakfast."

"Why?" Neal asked with growing dread. He wondered if Malcolm was still angry with him from last night.

"Because he has something he wishes t' say to ye," Rab said obliquely.

"But what about Winter? I need to walk him." The boy objected, trying to put off the summons as long as possible.

Rab understood, but he also knew that Malcolm's resolve might not last all that long, so he said, "Dinna fash yerself, I'll walk him an' wake the men below. Now go t' him, I've already been to speak wi' him, an' he's no gonna hurt ye."

At his brother's urging, Neal went, and Rab took the leash from the wall and clipped it on the dog's collar, then took the dog with him down to the hall to rouse his men.

By the time he had completed both tasks and was back upstairs, Theo and Brodie had begun packing their belongings. Rab lingered outside Malcolm's door, praying that his father would finally admit to his shortcomings and find some common ground with the boy.

The door opened and Neal emerged, looking somewhat dazed. "Rab, he—he told me he was sorry for hitting me," he gasped. "He's never . . .done that before. Then he—he wanted me t' go fishing wi' him. He hae never done that either."

"That's a good thing, Neal. Perhaps he's finally realizin' what he's been missing all these years," Rab acknowledged, smiling. "Ye know, I used tae go fishin' wi' him a lot when I was a lad. Me an' Jamie."

"Aye, an' I ken about the time ye an' Jamie tipped the boat over in the loch fightin' over whose fish was bigger!" Neal chortled. He gave Rab a sassy smirk before he headed downstairs to breakfast.

Rab breathed a sigh of heartfelt thanks to the Lord for answering his prayers. His mouth twitched in an involuntary grin as he recalled the incident Neal had spoken of, when Jamie had been twelve and he nine. Back when he had hero worshipped his golden elder brother and Malcolm had not been bitter, drunk, and filled with despair and anger. Back when they had been a regular family, when Ceri was alive and they were full of love, laughter, and mischief. How times had changed, he mourned sadly. But perhaps, just perhaps, he could return to those days, in a fashion, now that Belle was mistress of Carlyle. The keep had lacked a woman's touch, and gentleness, but no longer. God willing, the Carlyle servants would take to their new mistress and make the keep a happy home once more.

Page~*~*~*~Break

Belle was assisted in getting dressed by Alanna and Margery that morning, and Missus Potts went to fetch her breakfast, and also some leftover chicken for Rumple. The crumple-eared kitten kept getting underfoot as the maids packed, scampering back and forth from beneath the bed to under a chair and the table and seizing the lasses ankles and play biting them till they scolded and shooed him away.

The kitten was in full play crazy mode this morn, racing about the room like a herd full of stampeding cattle, his little back arched and tail curved, hopping onto Belle's slippers and biting them, and then springing up and running under the bed to ambush the bed hangings.

Belle dangled her hair ribbon for him to bat and attack, trying to keep the mischievous feline out of the maids' way, giggling when he snatched the mint green and red plaid ribbon and bit and growled at it. "Aye, ye'll be a fine mouser someday, ye wee imp," she crooned and shook the ribbon, making Rumple leap into the air to grab it again.

"Scamp!" Missus Potts laughed as the kitten made a mad dash for the trailing strings of her apron.

But Rumple quit capering like a mad dervish when she set the bowl containing the chicken and another of water down, and then served her mistress her own breakfast of hot porridge with cream, walnuts, dried fruit and a bit of sugar, as well as tea and some bacon. "Eat, milady," the elderly servant ordered. "Ye'll need sommat hot in ye afore ye go in the cart t' yer new home."

Of her personal maids, only Missus Potts was coming with her to Carlyle, Belle determining that out of them all, she had the most experience and would not be a target for any man's hands and amorous intentions, given how some of the Carlyle clansmen behaved—like her father-in-law.

She had some misgivings about leaving her home, but there was naught to be done about it. A wife's place was with her husband in his home, and she would not disgrace her family or herself by being some shrinking violet who had the vapors whenever something became difficult. She would show these Carlyles she had steel in her spine, despite her reputation as an animal healer. She ate along with her kitten, then smiled as the intrepid beast jumped on her lap and kneaded her thigh while Missus Potts combed out her hair and plaited it.

Belle wore a green plaid kirtle and an Argyll sock on one foot as well as her sturdy shoe, a cashmere shawl with her clan brooch on it about her shoulders. Rab had not come by yet this morning to inquire about how she was doing, but Missus Potts informed her he was busy seeing to the men of his clan and making sure all was ready for their departure.

She finished her porridge, then drank the medicinal tea Rab had instructed she take after eating, to dull the throbbing in her broken ankle so she could travel easier.

There came a tap at the door, and then Neal poked his head in saying, "Is it all right for me to come in, Lady Belle? I . . .umm . . .I brought ye something t' help ye walk easier."

"Of course, Neal." She said, smiling gently at him. On her lap, Rumple opened one eye lazily, then went back to purring and napping, not bothered by Neal, since he knew the boy well.

The boy came in carrying what looked like two sticks, then she saw that they were crutches, only much better made ones than the stick she had been using. These were forked at the top and had a shorter length lashed across the top and it was padded with sheepskin. There was even a small grip for her hands, also padded with some blue plaid cloth wrapped about more wool batting. The bottom of the crutches was "shod" with leather so they gripped surfaces better.

Belle stared in amazement, then cried, "Why Neal! Those are verra fine! Where did ye find them?"

The boy ducked his head, looking embarrassed. "Err . . .I dinna find them . . . I made them. Wi' a wee bit o' help from Martin Fletcher, who makes arrows for all the warriors at Carlyle. He helped me with the leather and the top, making it fast. I . . .figgered ye could use something more comfortable to walk wi around the keep when ye get there. See, I padded the top so it willna poke yer arms an' make 'em sore, an' likewise wi' the grips for your hands . . ."

"They're wonderful, Neal!" Belle told him seriously. "I've never seen crutches so fine before! Yer verra talented, lad."

Neal turned the color of a raspberry. "Umm . . . thank ye, milady."

"Belle, please. After all, I'm yer sister now, an' I dinna use titles wi' my family," she corrected gently, then she took the crutches and set them beside her. "I'll use these soon enough t' go downstairs." She frowned at the sleeping Rumple. "Now I need to put my wee kitty in his cat cage. An' I fear isna gonna like it."

"I'll do it," Neal offered, and went and found the little wicker carrier Belle pointed to, and picked up Rumple and put him inside, after laying a small scrap of plaid inside first. The kitten mewed angrily, but couldn't get free, sticking his small paws through the wicker slats.

"Oh dearie dear!" Missus Potts sighed. "We're gonna be hearin' the poor beastie all the way t' Carlyle, I fear!"

Neal sighed and said, "We're sorry, Rumple, but ye hae' t stay in there while we go back home, since ye're bigger an' canna be trusted to keep still in my pocket like ye did when I first brought ye here."

The kitten meowed irritably.

"What's all the argle-bargle about in here?" asked Rab, finally managing to come upstairs to see his wife.

"Och, Rab, 'tis just Rumple, makin' a fuss because he's in the wicker carrier," Belle said.

"Poor wee mite!" Rab clucked sympathetically. "I dinna like to be shut up either." He went to examine his patient, asking in his cheery fashion, "An' how does yer leg today, dearie? A wee bit better? Or is it botherin' ye?"

Belle told him truthfully it was much better, as she had taken the tea, and then showed him the crutches Neal had made. "Aren't they brilliant, Rab?"

"Aye, they are verra fine," he agreed."Neal, mayhap ye ought to go into business designing crutches for people."

"Aww, Rab! 'Tis no big deal," Neal blushed again.

"Actually, it is," disagreed his brother. "Yer design is verra clever." He ruffled the boy's hair. "If ye're done eating, Belle, I think we need to go downstairs. My papa's ready t' leave soon."

Belle wiped her face with her napkin and then stood, picking up the crutches. She soon found it was much easier to get around using the new crutches Neal had made, which were just the right height and didn't hurt her arms and hands.

With Neal and Rab escorting her, with Neal carrying the disgruntled Rumple, Belle made her way down the stairs to the great hall.

Malcolm watched as the couple descended the stairs, noting that despite her infirmity, the new Lady Carlyle was a rare beauty, with her heart shaped face, chestnut hair, petite yet curved in all the right places, with indigo eyes the color of a loch at sunset. She exuded warmth and light, reminding the elder Carlyle of his late wife. His eyes shifted to his son, who while not conventionally handsome, drew the eye. Rab's slight stature oft made people overlook him, especially in a crowd of brawny Highlanders, but he had a quiet intensity about him that made one notice him when he spoke, and his bright cognac colored eyes conveyed a myriad of emotions with a single glance. It was a different type of regard than the one Jamie had possessed, the laird mused. Jamie had been like a fire in dry grass, setting everyone alight with his joy of life and his charm. People either loved him or hated him, but even his detractors had been hard pressed not to follow him. Malcolm felt a pang of sorrow when he thought of his son, cut down in that border raid that had also taken the life of the Fraser heir. Much had been lost that day. Rab gestured, emphasizing something to his new bride, and Malcolm thought that, though quieter, Rab's strength was no less compelling. His was the strength of the earth, patient and inexorable, that endured despite all, and Belle complimented this with her quicksilver smile, like water flowing over rock, nourishing and bringing life to all. Perhaps this match would not be the disaster he had feared initially after all.

Then his eyes were drawn away from the couple and to another lady, the tall one with the spun gold hair that had, according to his son, been insulted by him last night and was also the cousin of Lady Margaret. She reminded him of a spirited filly he had once owned, all grace and long legs, and he could see why he had been attracted to her initially. But though she was pretty woman, seeing her now without the haze of alcohol cluttering his senses, Malcolm couldn't help but compare her to Ceri—and found that she came up wanting. Then again, it was that way with every woman. In all of the years since her death, he had never found another to fill the empty space in his heart. Now he doubted if he ever would.

Sighing, he walked over to the young woman, knowing he owed her an apology for his rude uncouth behavior, and knowing better than to break a deal with his son. He might wriggle out of deals with others on occasion, but Rab, like Ceri, demanded forthrightness and honesty, and Malcolm found he didn't want to lose his son's trust.

It seemed all of the Fraser retainers in the keep as well as her immediate family were there to see her off. She hugged and kissed her old servants goodbye and Missus Potts went to stow her small bag in the little trap, which was filled with fragrant hay sprinkled with lavender and covered with a soft green blanket and some pillows. It was drawn by a small chestnut pony, one of the strong small Irish breed, a mare called Sassafras, or Sassy for short.

Rab hung back after bidding his hosts goodbye and receiving wishes of "Godspeed" and a "Safe journey" even though they were merely an hour and a half away. He noted his father speaking with Lady Beatrice, and saw him giving her a look of charming regret and then bowing over her hand and released the breath he'd been holding. Even after their talk upstairs, Rab had been uncertain whether Malcolm would actually follow through on his promise. But this was a promising start. Lady Beatrice looked mollified, and not likely to cause trouble, then again Malcolm, like his eldest son, could charm birds out of trees when he chose. A trait which had gotten him out of hot water more than once, and Rab could recall Jamie as well when he had gotten into scrapes as a boy and adolescent. When faced with parental or adult wrath, Jamie would flatter and cajole his way out of punishment, unlike Rab, who would admit to whatever wrongdoing he'd been caught in and take the consequences without complaint. The doctor smiled ruefully, thinking that as much as he had loved his older brother, he had not been blind to his flaws, and had taken more than his share of blame and punishment as a lad.

He saw his papa signaling the rest of his men to mount up and told Neal to bring their horses around. Neal gave the wicker cat carrier to Missus Potts and dashed off.

All too soon, Belle found herself being escorted to the small wain, and then helped inside by two of her father's big servants, with Rumple meowing piteously in the carrier beside her. Missus Potts rode with her, making sure she did not jar her leg too badly, and one of the Carlyle gillies, Theo, drove the cart.

Rab rode alongside her, giving Belle time to admire his graceful mare with her sleek lines and pretty dished face and huge liquid eyes. Auriel looked like she could race the wind and win. Then her eyes shifted to the man atop the mare and she couldn't help admiring his seat on the horse, and thinking that not all men rode as well as he did, as if he were part of the mare, and her mouth went dry as she recalled her mother's advice to her about the wedding night and how her husband would ride his horse into her stable. Oddly enough, what had terrified her before now only filled her with an unnamed longing and a bit of nervousness, and she wondered curiously if she would enjoy Rab making love to her. She supposed she might, though with her ankle broken that would have to wait.

Just then an irritated frightened meow broke into her reverie, and she turned to soothe her kitten as best she could, counting it lucky the drive was not a long one, for even thought Theo was careful and the cart cushioned, the rattling sometimes jarred her bad leg and made her wince.

By the time the little cart was turning down the road to the keep and clattering across the drawbridge, Belle felt as if her leg had been pounded by sledgehammers and had gone deaf from Rumple's angry litany of complaints, as he had not ceased meowing since being put in the carrier, and only Rab and Neal were brave enough to ride near the wagon and endure the kitten's soulful wailing.

Belle's first glimpse of Carlyle keep, which was on a hill, and partially wreathed in mist, tendrils obscuring the mossy gray stone from view on one side and the turrets and battlements vanishing with the shifting fog, made it seem almost unreal, as if it were half in this world and half in the world of the fae. It made her recall the tales of her childhood about the Seelie Sidhe and Endless Mist and gave her an almost surreal feeling.

But it was beautiful too, surrounded as it was by meadows dotted with heather and other wildflowers, in the distance she could see the whitewash and thatch of several cottages clustered together and a herd of sheep behind a low stone wall.

As they crossed into the bailey, several people came out to meet them and assist with leading the horses into the stable. Neal hopped down from his gelding and gave Dancer's reins to one of the grooms. Then he approached the cart and said to Belle, "Let me take the wee kitty for now, Belle. I'll put him in the barn wi' his mama an' brothers an' sisters so he can play for a bit while ye rest."

"Thank ye, Neal," she said, relieved, for she didn't want Rumple to be unhappy and he was quite annoyed right then. "I need to rest an' once ye let him out he's gonna be off like the wind." She handed the carrier to Neal, who made shushing noises as he carried it into the barn.

"That's a good lad," Missus Potts said, approvingly, then climbed down so she could see where they were bringing her mistress's trunks. "I'll see tae yer quarters, milady."

As Missus Potts bustled off, Belle remained where she was in the cart, her crutches beside her, leg throbbing, which was making her nauseous. She leaned her head back against the pillows, willing the sickness to pass.

Rab, who normally would have seen to Auriel himself, as was his preference, handed her off to his head groom, Tobias, and came over to see how Belle was doing. He was aware that despite the precautions, the ride had not been the greatest and was concerned that it might have jarred her leg roughly. He came around the cart and the pallor of her features disturbed him greatly. "Belle, is yer leg paining ye, dearie?" he queried.

"Aye. Rab . . ." she whimpered. "I dinna feel well . . ."

He touched a hand to her forehead, but it was blessedly cool. He saw that she was breathing shallowly, and asked, "Do ye feel like ye're gonna heave?"

She nodded mutely, her indigo eyes begging him to help her, for the last thing she wanted was to puke all over in front of everyone.

Rab suspected that most of that was from anxiety and pain, not any kind of true stomach ailment. He turned and called out to Theo, "Theo, go and fill this cup wi' water from the pump. Haste ye back."

His gillie took the wooden cup he withdrew from his satchel and raced off with it, just as Giles and Morgan, two burly men appeared and asked, "Be ye needin' help wi' the lady, sir?"

"Aye, but bide a wee bit, lads," he ordered. "Right now the lady needs a wee rest, she's feeling a bit poorly." Then he turned back to Belle and said, "I need ye to take a deep breath, dearie. Ye're making yerself lightheaded breathin' that way, like a rabbit in a snare. Breathe, Belle."

"I . . .Rab . . ." she whimpered, feeling the nausea increase.

He gently cupped her chin in his hand. "Belle—breathe, and focus on me. On me, dearie. Good. Now, breathe in, I know it hurts, but ye need to take a breath. Now another, an' another. That's it." His other hand tilted her slightly, and rubbed her back. "Again, dearie. One . . .two . . .three . . ."

"Dr. Rab, I got the water for ye," Theo said, and held out the cup.

"Set it here," Rab indicated a space beside him on the cart tail.

Belle soon found that the repetitive deep breaths calmed her churning stomach somewhat and also made her slight dizziness go away. Her ankle still hurt like hell, but now it seemed more bearable.

"How d' ye feel now?" Rab inquiried, fetching a certain powder from his satchel and mixing it in the water then stirring it with his wooden stirrer.

"A little better. I'm sorry I'm such a burden," she fretted. What must his people think of her?

Rab snorted. "I've had worse patients than ye. Here. I want ye to sip this slowly. Tis something t'calm that achin' belly o' yers."

"What is it?"

"Powdered chamomile an' ginger root," he replied. "Slowly, mind, or else it'll come back up."

She obeyed, slowly sipping the concoction, which tasted pretty good, and seemed to ease her fussy stomach even further. At his urging she took more cleansing breaths, then drank some more, then more breaths, until she had finished the cup. By then her stomach was no longer threatening to crawl out of her throat. She gasped with relief.

"Better?" he asked softly.

"Aye," she handed the cup back to him, her eyes reflecting her gratitude.

"Good." He put the cup back in his satchel. "I'm gonna make ye up a warm posset o' milk an' poppy when ye get to yer room, so ye can rest. Can ye stand? Or shall I have Giles or Morgan carry ye?"

Belle considered. She felt wrung out and weary, but she didn't want to make a bad impression on the Carlyle servants, so she said, "If ye can get me down, Rab, I can walk." Or die trying, she thought determinedly.

"All right." He motioned for the two men to lift her down and held her crutches for her.

As soon as she was upright, she felt worlds better, and Rab gently eased a crutch under her right arm. "There, can ye hold it? An' how about yer other arm?" He had wrapped that one firmly, but didn't know if she should stress the wrist yet.

Belle took the crutches, took two steps before her wrist gave out and she almost fell.

"That's no' gonna work, dearie," Rab shook his head. He removed the crutch, handed it to Theo and put his arm about his wife, supporting her as she walked using one crutch slowly across the bailey and into the hall.

His people were clustered in the hall, and they all cheered, bowed, and curtseyed as they entered.

"To my son, Rab an' his bonny new bride, Mirabelle!" Malcolm cried, raising a goblet. "A toast!"

"To Rab an' Mirabelle!" the servants repeated and clapped, also drinking from their own flasks or cups.

Rab recognized mulled wine, gave Malcolm a warning glare, then said to his hulking shadows. "Will one o' ye help carry Lady Carlyle to our room?"

"Aye, sir," replied the one called Morgan, a beefy fellow with a thatch of dak hair. He picked Belle up effortlessly.

"I'll be along in a few, dearie," Rab called to her, then he turned to the curious onlookers and announced, "My bride broke her ankle recently an' she need to rest, so ye can all meet her after supper."

There were good natured murmurs of assent and several of the men clapped him on the back in congratulations and then Annie, one of the upstairs chambermaids, said, "Is there aught I can do fer Lady Mirabelle, doctor?"

"Aye. Ye can fetch me a goblet o' warmed milk wi' some cinnamon and honey in it an' bring it to our chamber," Rab instructed. He knew he would have to speak with Father Bryce, but right then the chaplain was not visible. Besides, his first concern at the moment was his wife.

When Rab made his way upstairs several minutes later, he found Belle lying on the big feather tester with the curtains drawn back, her foot propped up a bunch of pillows, relaxing with a blanket over her while Missus Potts and Moira directed the younger maids where to put things.

"Yer color looks better, dearie," he said tenderly as he approached her.

"I feel better now," she admitted honestly.

Annie came with the milk and Rab went and mixed a draught of poppy for her and she drank it down.

Rab sat with her and held her hand, saying, "When ye have taken a nap, Belle, then we can introduce ye to the castle staff, but for now, ye need sleep more."

Belle felt a kind of lassitude sweep through her and as the pain in her ankle lessened, she drifted off.

Rab made sure she was sleeping soundly before he went and examined her ankle, thinking it was still slightly swollen, but in a day or two he would be able to make bandages with the special plaster like Azhir had shown him and cast the ankle.

"How did she break her ankle, sir? A fall?" asked Moira, his head housekeeper.

"Nay, a cow kicked her while she was helping it deliver twins," Rab replied. At Moira's startled look he added, "Belle heals animals like I do people, ye ken."

"Aye, how remarkable," was all the housekeeper said, then she bobbed a brief curtsey and left the room.

"She'll sleep for several hours yet," Rab told Missus Potts. "If she wakes an' seems worse or wants me, send someone to find me."

Missu Potts nodded. "Will do, Dr. Carlyle." Then she went to hang another of Belle's dresses in the armoire.

When Rab glanced back at his sleeping wife, just before he headed back downstairs, he saw a furry gold and white dervish dart out from beneath the bed hangings, jump up on the bed, and curl against Belle's arm, rubbing his wee head with the crumpled ears against her and purring.

Rab chuckled at Rumple. "Sleep well, dearies." Then he was gone down the corridor, and so missed the wink Rumple gave before curling into a ball and closing his brilliant green eyes.