Ilsa tried to talk them out of their plans, but failed. The moment her brothers left, Ilsa buried her face in her hands and fought the urge to weep.
She had done enough of that. A soft touch upon her shoulder drew her out of her despondency and she looked at Gay, her companion and the wet nurse who helped her sate the greed of her sons. Brutally raped, cast off by her family, and then suffering the loss of her child had left young Gay terrified of men, a near-silent ghost of a girl who still feared far too many things and grieved for all her losses. Gay always hid away when Ilsa's brothers stomped in for a visit.
"Ye must go," Gay said in her whispery voice.
"I ken it," Ilsa replied. "Yet, when he didnae return for me, didnae e'en send a letter or gift, I realized I had been played for a fool and did my grieving then. I buried all of that verra deep inside of me. I dinnae want it all dug up again."
Gay picked up a fretting Finlay, handed him to Ilsa, then collected Cearnach.
For a few moments, Ilsa savored the gentle peace as she and Gay fed the babies.
Looking at her sons, however, at their big, beautiful blue eyes, she was sharply reminded of the man whose seed had created them. The pain was still there, deep, and, she suspected, incurable.
For a few brief, heady weeks she had felt loved, desired, even beautiful. At twenty years of age, an age when most considered her a spinster, she had finally caught the eye of a man. And such a handsome one, she mused, and sighed. That should have warned her. Handsome men did not pursue women like her. In truth, no man had ever pursued her. She had let loneliness, passion, and a craving for love steal away all of her wits. Going to the man as her brothers wished her to would only remind her too sharply of her own idiocy. Not that she ever completely forgot it, she muttered to herself.
"It must be done for the laddies," Gay said as she rested Cearnach against her thin shoulder and rubbed his back.
"I ken that, too," Ilsa said as she did the same to Finlay. "Tis their birthright and I cannae allow it to be stolen from them. Weel, if there even is a birthright and we dinnae discover that the mon told us naught but lies. Ye will have to come with us."
Gay nodded. "I will be fine. I hide from your brothers because they are so big, nay because I fear them. They fill the room and I find that hard to bear. I will find other places to slip away to when we get where we are going." She frowned. "I just cannae abide being inside a place when so many men are about. I ken your brothers willnae hurt me, but that knowledge isnae yet enough to banish all my blind fears."
"Quite understandable."
"Do ye still love this mon?"
"I think I might, which would be a great folly. But, tis time to stop hiding for fear I will be hurt. I must needs seek out this bastard for the sake of the laddies, but I begin to think I need to do it for myself, too. I need to look the devil in the eye, find out just how big a fool I was, and deal with it all.
Of course, if he is there, was just hoping I would fade away into the mists, tis best to confront him with his responsibilities. And then I can do my best to make him utterly miserable."
When Gay laughed briefly and softly, Ilsa felt her spirits rise. Gay was healing. It was slow and there would always be scars, but soon Gay would recover from the hurts done to her. It made Ilsa a little ashamed of her own cowardice.
If, after all she had suffered, little Gay could heal, then so could she. And, if she did meet her lover again, she would be a lot wiser and a lot stronger.
She would not fall victim to any more foolish dreams.
"My children need a mother."
"Och, he is back to talking to himself again."
Sir Diarmot MacEnroy smiled at his brother Angus who sat on his right. On his left was his brother Antony, or Nanty as he was often called. They had come to attend his wedding and he was heartily glad of their company. The brother he really wished to talk to was his eldest brother Connor, however, but that man had only just arrived with his pregnant wife Gillyanne. Ignoring Gilly's protests, Connor had immediately insisted that she rest for a while and had dragged her up to the bedchamber they would share. It would be a long while before he saw either of them again. Diarmot just hoped there would be some time before his wedding in which he could speak privately with the man.
"Just uneasy about the wedding," Diarmot said.
"Thought ye wanted to marry this lass."
"I do. I just need to remind myself of why now and again."
"She is a pretty wee lass," said Nanty. "Quiet."
"Verra quiet," agreed Diarmot. "Sweet. Biddable. Chaste."
"Completely different from your first wife," murmured Angus.
"Just as I wanted her to be. Anabelle was a blight. Margaret will be a blessing." A boring one, he mused, and probably cold as well, then hastily shook aside those thoughts. "Good dowry and a fine piece of land."
"Does she ken about the children?" Angus asked.