Now he could see them, a bunch of men defending William of Orange. There were fewer attackers surrounding him now. Darach wished for a weapon, but there were none.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement. A man slammed into him, sending him to the ground. He screamed in pain as his shoulder hit the floor. His muscles quivered, the pain blinded him, and he gritted his teeth. Darach took a long breath, and then he was pulled to his feet, his eyes meeting the mockery on the face of the king as he sat astride a horse.
“And now we meet, Laird Robertson. ‘Tis unfortunate I have tae depart so soon.”
Darach couldn't speak. The pain was excruciating, so he spat, blood and all, straight at him. It landed on his face and dribbled down his chin.
“Kill him!” he commanded and immediately charged his horse, galloping away from the cemetery.
And then a blade stabbed into Darach's side, and he fell down against the stone with the force of the blow. He couldn’t move, couldn’t feel anything below his rib cage—there was no pain. A face came into his view, and shock paralyzed him when he stared into the eyes of the man who had stabbed him. The eyes fixed on him, with mocking lights in their green depth.
“Kenn,” Darach gasped to him. “It can't be true.”
He said no word, just gazed with a mocking grin on his face. Pain surged in his body, the anguish rising uncontrollably. He blinked, and the face above him changed. Now it was Maira, his wife. Her black eyes fixed on his, wide and black. She was sobbing silently.
“I'm sorry,” her image mouthed.
Darach closed his eyes as the pain rose again.
“Darach.”
He heard a sweet, coaxing voice above him. When he opened his eyes, it was no longer Maira's dark eyes staring back at him. This time, hazel eyes gleamed at him from a face framed by golden locks so lovely he thought it was an angel.
“I'm here. Ye can be at peace with me.”
The pain disappeared, and suddenly, Darach could hear rain again, gently flattering against the broad green leaves of the plants in the cemetery. The sweet scent of wet earth rose all around him, wrapping him in a soft fog from where he no longer felt pain.
He wanted to talk, wanted to tell her he knew her and thank her for the relief, but he was slowly pulled out from the pain and the dream.
Darach awoke.
He yanked up the furs off himself and stood to his feet, his lips parting as he gasped.
“What was that dream?”
The sensation of it all lingered in his mind, particularly the one he'd had just before regaining consciousness. He missed the peace he'd felt in the dream's final moments. That peace was deep and complete, something he had never felt before.
The realization brought on a strange tinge of disappointment at having to leave the dream so soon. It was even stranger because this was not his usual type of dream. He'd spent night after night in the misery dreamland after Maira's death, relishing the agony of her death over and over.
Since he returned Jane, the dreams had all stopped. His heartache had also subsided. The agony he carried was no longer the same. It appeared to be... dwindling.
Darach knew he should be glad. So where was his hot satisfaction of conquest, the rush of triumph? Where was… everything?
He knew where it was, but it scared him to admit it. In the darkness of the room, he realized all the things that had made his life for too many years to count now lay at the bottom of a cold pit in his heart. The intrigues, battle, courtly maneuvers, at the moment, it was all naught.
A face burned brightly in his mind with the promise of one thing he'd never had:peace.
First, he was pining with lust after her, now dreaming of her giving him peace.
“‘Tis madness!” Darach exclaimed to himself in the darkness of the chamber. “It would be a wee bit daft tae tie myself tae the daughter of the man who probably hates me the most in the kingdom.”
He'd never been one to believe in omens or portents. The impossible things that happened in the dream demonstrated the dream's folly. He was wise to push itaside and work to get the lady back to her father as soon as possible—she was a danger.
She made him feel things he hadn't felt in years, some he'd never felt before, things that were difficult to articulate as they boiled hot in his chest. He desired her, but it would be a foolish move. He'd decided not to marry and instead let Lorna's chosen husband inherit the clan so that his father's curse could be lifted.
Darach rose out of his bed, ignoring the trembling in his body. He turned and stalked toward the window. He stared out the window at the sky—the Robertson sky. His duty was to his clan and his family. He would do his best in an effort to halt hostilities and not allow his and MacThomas’ to become feuding clans after his men were returned. The focus was William, and after he was dethroned, Darach knew he would effectively feel accomplished. Then Lorna could marry whoever she wanted to further the lairdship of the clan. It would all end with him.
Any want he had for a lady would bring him problems, and he should be glad that the scouts had departed to see her father and should even now be riding beyond the border. That way, he would know what terms her father wanted to get back his daughter.