Highland Sword. Ruth Langan
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At the dining table she sank onto a chair. Folding her arms on the tabletop, she rested her chin there, taking comfort in the sound of the lad’s first halting words.
“You’re…home…Father.”
“Aye, Hamish.”
“For how long? Just until the next battle?”
“I can’t say, lad. We’ll not speak of such things. For now, I’m home with you. And you’re back with me.” Merrick framed the boy’s face and stared at him with naked hunger. “I feared I’d lost you, lad. Mistress MacDonald told me you fell from a tree.”
“Did I?” The boy thought about it a moment before shaking his head. “I don’t recall.”
“It doesn’t matter.” His father wrapped him in his arms and let out a long, deep sigh. “Nothing matters now that you’re back with me, Hamish.”
The two remained that way for the longest time, with Merrick rocking his son and crooning to him, and the boy holding on to him, taking comfort in his father’s strength.
They looked up as the housekeeper came bustling into the room, followed by several servants. When she caught sight of father and son embracing, she let out a shout of joy.
“Praise heaven, m’lord. Is it truly our young Hamish, awake and smiling?”
“It is indeed, Mistress MacDonald.”
Merrick beamed as the old woman touched the lad’s face, as if to assure herself. Then she promptly burst into tears and had to lift her apron to dab at her eyes.
The servants gathered around, laughing and clapping the lad on the back. Soon, as the word spread, the entire household began spilling into the boy’s chambers, eager to share in the good news.
Mordred and Desmond paused in the doorway.
“It’s true, then.” Mordred’s booming voice had everyone glancing up as he strode forward to lean over the bed and clasp his cousin’s hand. “The lad is back in the land of the living. Isn’t he a welcome sight, Desmond?”
“Aye.” Desmond squeezed the lad’s shoulder.
Hamish pulled away and looked questioningly at his father, who merely gathered him close and rocked him in his big arms.
As more of the household gathered around, Merrick became puzzled by his son’s reaction. Hamish had always been too bold for his own good, climbing without fear, leaping as though he could fly, without regard to the peril. He’d always refused to heed his parents’ cautions, choosing instead to rush headlong through life.
Now he seemed overly shy. As timid as a cornered mouse.
Though the lad seemed pleased to see everyone, he also seemed wary, grasping his father’s hand often. At times, when too many loomed over his pallet at once, he shrank back in fear.
It was, Merrick decided, merely the result of the injury. Soon enough it would pass and the lad would be as before.
He could see the excitement beginning to take its toll. When Hamish stifled a yawn and his lids began to droop, Merrick gave the word to his housekeeper to order the others to leave. At once the old woman shooed them away, though she couldn’t bring herself to do the same. She lingered, brushing back the lad’s hair from his forehead, patting his hand, repeating all the things she’d whispered to him during his long sleep.
“Ye’re back with us now, lad. Truly back with those of us who love ye.” More tears fell from her eyes. But these were happy tears, and her joy was so great she no longer bothered to wipe them away.
Merrick sat beside his son, basking in the glow of sheer relief. He turned to Mordred and Desmond, who had remained. “It’s as if the weight of the world has been lifted from my shoulders.”
“Aye.” Mordred nodded. “You risked everything, and won the grandest prize of all. Neither the threat of monsters nor the fear of the unknown could keep you from finding the witch and bringing her here to weave her magic.”
The witch.
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