As High as the Heavens (27 page)

Despite all attempts to halt the inevitable, Malcolm
died in the gray hours of early morn. Just as his life had
been lived, his strong body quietly accepted the final defeat, and he softly, gently breathed his last breath. Fiona,
in a state of semi-shock, was at his side, her gnarled,
arthritic fingers clasping her husband's hand.

When the realization that Malcolm was gone finally
struck her, she gave a low cry, lifted his lifeless hand to
her lips for one last, heartfelt kiss, then rose and hobbled
from the room. Heather, who had left Beth to watch
over the sleeping Duncan, looked up at Tavish. The big
Scotsman's eyes were red and tear-filled, mirroring, she
was certain, her own anguish and sense of loss.

Malcolm, in the few short months they had shared,
had, like the rest of his family, become dear. Heather
knew she'd mourn him for a long time to come.

She rose from her chair on the other side of the bed,
bent, and leaned close to his ear. "I love yer son with all
my heart," Heather whispered. "I'll do all I can for him,
in the difficult times ahead as he comes to terms with
the man he truly is. I swear it, Malcolm, on my word as
a Gordon and a Scotswoman."

Puzzlement clouded Tavish's gaze as Heather straightened. "I must go and see if Fiona needs aught," she explained. "Then, when Duncan wakes, if his mither isn't
able to do so, I must tell him about his father."

"It may be a time before Duncan wakens, my lady," the big Scotsman said. "After ye've seen to Fiona, mayhap
it'd be best if ye lay down for a few hours. Ye haven't
slept all night. I can easily waken ye when Duncan calls
for ye."

Heather smiled sadly. "Aye, mayhap I'll take a few
hours' rest. Strange, though, but I don't feel weary. Leastwise not in body, though my heart is sorely weighted
with sorrow." She paused, studying him. "Ye could use
a few hours' rest yerself, my man."

She motioned toward the door. "Go, take to yer pallet."

"And then who will help ye with wrapping the body in
its shroud and laying it out until time for the burial?"

"We'll need yer aid with it all, Tavish," Heather said. "It
can wait a time, though, until Duncan has opportunity
to say his farewells to his father. Until then ..."

"Fine, fine," Tavish muttered. "Just be sure to wake
me when ye've need of me."

"I will, Tavish. Have no fear."

She watched her groomsman stride from the room,
then turned back to Malcolm. As was the custom, Heather
placed coins over his closed lids and set a plate of salt
on his breast to prevent swelling. Finally, after one long,
heartfelt glance at Malcolm Mackenzie, she turned and
left the room.

Duncan slept until early afternoon. Heather, who had
insisted on being at his side when he wakened, had finally
dozed off in a chair she had pulled close to the bed when
he stirred, groaned, and touched her hand.

"Lass?" he ventured, his voice a rough rasp. "Are ye
awake?"

Ever so slowly, Heather opened her eyes. Her head
pounded, her eyes burned, and her throat was raw. She
felt groggy and dizzy, all at the same time.

It was all she could do to muster the strength to nod,
much less reply. "Aye, I'm awake."

In a painful rush of memory, reality returned. With
an effort, she straightened in her chair.

"Duncan ... there's something I must tell ye."

"My father's dead, isn't he?"

For a long moment, Heather stared at him. It was
the moment she had dreaded, but he deserved to know,
deserved to have the opportunity to pay his final respects
before his father's body was prepared for burial. And
there was no one else to tell him.

Fiona had fallen into a catatonic state shortly after
her husband died, taking to her chair, where she clasped
her arms about her and, with head lowered, sat there,
silently grieving. So enmeshed in her own private sorrow, the older woman would've been of no comfort or
assistance to Duncan.

"Aye, he is."

"When?" came the brusque, emotionless query. "When
did he die?"

"Early this morn. He never regained consciousness.

Duncan struggled to shove to a sitting position. For
once, however, his bruised and abused body wouldn't
bend to his indomitable will. With an anguished gasp,
he fell back against the pillows.

"By mountain and sea," he cursed in frustration, "must
I lie here like some puling invalid while my father molders?"

Heather rose. "Pray, grant me a moment to fetch Tavish, and we'll help ye."

She hurried from the room and soon returned with her
groomsman. Duncan was dressed in a clean linen shirt
that came to just above his knees, and his legs were lifted
to the edge of the bed. Then, with Tavish on one side and
Heather on the other, they made their slow, halting way
across the common room and into the other bedchamber.
As tallow candles burned nearby, they helped Duncan to
the bed, pulled up a chair, and assisted him to sit. Tavish
hesitated, then walked silently from the room.

For a long moment, Duncan stared at his father. Leaning over, he next rested his forearms on the edge of the
bed and took up the old man's hand. Cradling the long,
limp fingers in the callused expanse of his own, Duncan
closed his eyes and bent his head.

"Och, Father ... Father ..." he groaned. Tears seeped
from the corners of his eyes. His broad shoulders heaved
with powerful, long-repressed sobs.

This was a private, personal moment, Heather thought.
She shouldn't be witness to his pain, indeed, couldn't
bear to see it.

She touched him gently on the shoulder. "Duncan, I-I'll
be leaving ye now. Call for me when ye need me, but it's
better if ye have some time alone with yer father."

"N-nay." He reached out, clasping her hand in a crushing grip. "I ... I need ye now ... here with me. Stay,
lass. Please!"

He needs me. The words filled Heather with a bittersweet pang. He needed her and, though it was equally
painful to stay, she knew she could no more deny him
than to deny the ardently fierce emotions loving him
stirred within her.

"Aye, Duncan," Heather whispered on a soft rush of
air. "I'll stay with ye for as long as ye wish."

Pulling her hand from beneath his, she walked over,
picked up a small stool, and brought it back to place
beside his chair. Then, taking her place on the stool,
Heather joined Duncan in his vigil.

A long while later, Fiona paused in the doorway. Her
son sat motionless beside the bed she and Malcolm had
shared for nearly forty years, head bent, his father's hand
held tightly to him. And, next to him was Heather, her
arm encircling Duncan's waist, her fair, golden head
resting on his leg.

Two days later Malcolm was buried in a proper Christian ceremony. Afterward the somber group returned to
the cottage. Fiona took to her room, and Duncan immediately limped from the house, leaving Heather, Beth,
and Tavish to stare helplessly at each other.

The silence soon set Heather's nerves on edge. "Tavish," she said, rising at last, "see to the animals and other
chores. After I help Beth get started on the supper meal,
I'll come out and help ye."

"It isn't necessary, m'lady," the big Scotsman protested.
"It'll take me a while, if Duncan doesn't return to help,
but I can do all the work myself. Besides, it isn't fitting that ye soil yer hands with manual labor. If yer father
was ever to hear-"

"Well, I certainly won't tell him if ye don't," she observed wryly. "And, indeed, it'll do me no harm and a
lot of good to keep busy just now. Not to mention," she
added, "it's the least we can do to help Duncan and his
mither at a time like this."

Tavish didn't look at all convinced, but he nodded his
reluctant assent. "As ye wish, m'lady."

Heather watched him leave, then turned to Beth. "A
nice roast hen and a mess of cooked potatoes and carrots
should make for a hearty supper, wouldn't ye say?" Not
awaiting a reply, she walked over to where Fiona always
hung her big white aprons. "If ye'd go out and catch a
fat hen, I can begin peeling the potatoes and-"

"It'd be better if ye let me work on supper while ye
seek out Duncan," her maidservant countered gently.
"I'd wager he needs ye far more than I."

Heather paused, her hand on the peg holding one of
the aprons. Hot tears sprang to her eyes. For a fleeting
instant, she clenched them shut.

"I don't know what to say, how to comfort him," she
whispered at last. "He's so withdrawn, so anguished and
lost right now ..."

"Ye, of all people, should understand what he feels.
Have ye already forgotten how ye suffered when ye lost
yer sister, then mither?"

"Nay." Heather shook her head. "I haven't forgotten."

"And what did ye need most from others at that time?
Was it someone bustling about cooking and cleaning? Or was it an understanding, loving friend to listen, to
just be there with ye?"

Beth spoke true, Heather realized with a twinge of
shame. It was just that she feared the part of Duncan's
grief that encompassed his unresolved feelings about
Malcolm's shocking revelation. To offer Duncan comfort just now, she feared, was to open herself to further
probing on that thorny matter.

It would be far, far too easy to tell him all. It had been
difficult enough, as she came to know and love him, to
keep the truth from Duncan. How much more difficult
would it be now, in his grief and desolation, if she dared
seek him out?

Yet now, in his time of greatest need, purposely to
avoid him was also a cruelty beyond comprehension. A
cruelty that Heather feared she might regret to the end
of her days.

With a bone-deep sigh, Heather released her grip on
the wall peg. "Yer words have merit." She turned to face
her friend. "I'll seek out Duncan and see if I can be of
help. But only if ye're sure ye don't need any help with
supper.

"Get on with ye," Beth said with an encouraging smile.
She made a shooing motion toward the door. "Ye aren't
that adept a cook just yet at any rate. If the truth be
told, I'll have the meal prepared far sooner without ye
than with."

"Och, and aren't ye the tactful one?" Heather shot
back as she walked to the door and took up her cloak.
"Mark my words. I'll be remembering that when next
ye ask me to assist ye with some chore."

"Aye, I'm sure ye will," was Beth's laughing response
as Heather opened and walked out the door. "I'm sure
ye will."

The day was sunny. A cool but flower-scented breeze
blew across the meadow. Heather hesitated on the door
stoop but a moment, attempting to gauge in what direction Duncan had headed. Odds were he had taken
the path leading to the pond and into the forest. Many
times before, when he had needed some private time to
himself, she had seen him stride out in that direction.
Odds were he had gone that way this time, too.

She found him sitting on a fallen tree trunk beside the
pond, gazing dejectedly into the water. Heather hesitated
but an instant, then squared her shoulders and strode
resolutely toward him. Her footsteps were muffled by
the thick, damp padding of fallen leaves. Duncan didn't
seem to hear her until she was but a few feet away.

When he did he leaped to his feet, his hand snaking
to his dirk. Then, recognizing Heather, Duncan sighed
and sank back onto the log.

"Ye shouldn't sneak up on a man like that, lass," he
growled. "Some wouldn't pause in the slitting of yer
throat before stopping to ask questions."

"And did ye think ye'd be in danger so close to yer
house, and in broad daylight, no less?"

He looked up at her, his glance grim. "Don't ever imagine yerself safe anywhere or at any time. The reivers
and outlaws who roam these mountains are not only
desperate but bold. And if they, for even an instant, find
yer guard down or sense a weakness ..."

Exasperation filled her. Must he always be so protective?

"Yer warning has been heeded. Now, since I didn't
come out for the purpose of discussing outlaws and their
ilk, do ye think"-she motioned to the spot beside him
on the tree trunk-"ye could scoot over a mite and let
me share that seat with ye?"