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The Capture of Finnan

MacLeod

E. Elizabeth Watson

Merry Mayhem: A Collection of Yuletide Rogues and

Outlaws

E. Elizabeth Watson

The Capture of Finnan MacLeod

COPYRIGHT

The Capture of Finnan MacLeod © Copyright E.

Elizabeth Watson 2020

All rights reserved.

E. Elizabeth Watson

The Capture of Finnan MacLeod

Chapter 1

1st of December, 1198, Feast of St. Andrew, Scottish Highlands

Katherine giggled. Finnan MacLeod grinned and littered kisses upon
her collarbone, proud to have gotten such a reaction. His beard
tickled her skin. His body was warm and relaxed as he floated back
down to earth. Hidden in the tiny shieling intended for MacLeod
shepherds manning the flocks, he sucked in a deep lungful to master
his breathing, his fingers woven with hers, pinning them above her
head as he lay atop her. Sakes, could a man get luckier than to have
this sweet, clever beauty as his own? Now, years after she’d stolen
his heart, she finally had his body, too, as he had hers.

He swallowed and rolled aside, sliding free of their union.

Enveloped in furs, he drew her to his chest to feel her smooth skin
against his body thick with muscle and adorned with tribal designs.

“Did I please ye, lass?” he asked, his voice the rumble of a satisfied
man as he dusted a kiss across her knuckles. “As ye sated me?
Because I’m indeed a pleased man.”

Katherine nodded, breathing rapidly, then she dragged his arm

around her stomach to embrace her, squirming as his beard raked
across her sensitive flesh.

“Finnan MacLeod, I dare say, ye’ve made a dishonest woman of me.”

He grinned in that way Katie always called “cheeky,” a frequent

occurrence when he was in her company, and continued his lazy
feast, pecking up her arm, to her shoulder, then back to her
collarbone to give the tantalizing bit of anatomy more attention. The
fire in their cozy hideout crackled. In the darkness, the flames
wavered like the dancers at the feast that eve, casting shadows
upon her cheeks and lips

Katherine bolted upright, the furs dropping to reveal her bare chest.
She snatched his nearby yellow tartan and dragged it to her throat
to retain an inkling of modesty. He pulled the tartan down on a
frown and tossed it aside. The famed Highland Ox, trainer of the
MacLeod guard and now the laird in the wake of his brother’s recent
death, had no use for formalities such as modesty when he wanted
to look upon his beautiful lass and bask in the prize of her affection.

“I’ve debauched ye, woman, and I want to look at my reward.”

She swatted at his hand, feigning shock. A lazy chuckle rumbled in
the back of his throat.

“Honestly, Fin… reward? Ye’ve always been rough around the

edges.”

He shrugged noncommittally. Why act ashamed when he didn’t feel

it?

“What if a babe comes of this?” she continued. “Ye ken as well as I

do, that a woman of my position cannae be caught dead so
compromised.” A saucy grin toyed with her lips despite her
admonishment, showing just how little shame she felt, too, and her
gaze sliced down to him, lingering on the scarified designs
decorating his chest, each one the mark of an achievement. “Ye
make me lose my head, urchin, and now I fear my maidenhead has
gone by the wayside, too. What if my parents discover the truth?”

He chuckled further at the moniker. When she had been introduced

as a lady, albeit still too young to take to the altar, and him, a young
fighter not yet respectable enough in age to claim a wife, he’d
tucked sprigs of blue bells in her hair, or annoyed her with his
teasing on her visits to Braehope Hall for clan gatherings. He’d
relished the moniker and her attempts to swat his arm, dodging her
easily, amusement and irritation always blooming pink on her cheeks
while she shook her head at his pathetic flirting.

“Does yer faither ken what an urchin ye are for playing at such sport
with the lasses?”

He’d watched her sweet lips smirking at him as if he were a pitiful

pup, for he was indeed a broad man as tall as the Cuillins. Sakes,
he’d never acted so foolish around a woman in his life. Except with
her.

“Nay with the lasses, Katiebell. Only with ye…”

And when he’d finally worked up the nerve to ask for marriage four
years ago? He’d been that pitiful pup and more.

True. He could swing a sword with no mercy, drill Braehope Hall’s

men to the brink of exhaustion, but when it had come to matters of
the heart, the Highland Ox had been a terrified wee… urchin,
trembling in his boots before her sire in his finest kilt and sparkling
MacLeod brooch pinned at his shoulder, a letter of desire in hand.
The one time he’d felt true fear, had been when he’d taken that
deep breath to explain that he loved the Earl of Turn’s daughter—a
woman of such high birth who would inherit the title of countess
from her mother someday—and wished to make the lass his own.
Then he’d fretted for two days after, waiting for a blessing or
rejection while her parents deliberated.

Propping himself on his elbow now, he spanned her belly with his
callused palm and held the sensitive place shamelessly, then leaned
in to kiss her navel.

“A babe would be a blessing,” he rumbled.

With his brother, Daniel, now gone and his younger brother Brandon
avoiding the very notion of marriage, sowing the legitimate MacLeod
line of descent rested on Finnan’s shoulders. He swallowed the pain
he still felt from burying Daniel, the man he’d gotten into countless
bouts of mischief with as a lad. A man who’d left his Lady Eleanor
and two sweet daughters on this earth, but no sons to inherit—

Enough of this sentimental shite. He pasted his cheeky grin back

upon his face for Katie’s benefit, for he was determined to make
tonight special for her.

“And if I’ve done my job well—which based on ye crying my name I

think I have—ye’ll carry.”

“Ach! So bold!” she admonished, emerald eyes sparkling and mouth

grinning.
His chuckle transformed into a husky laugh, and he dragged her
back down, nestling against her so that their bodies were once
more, intertwined. “Ye’ve always liked my boldness.”

“And ye’re arrogant, too, I see. All yer fine tutelage whilst traveling
abroad, whilst I languished here, pining, has made ye overconfident.
And insufferable.”

He grinned at her teasing. “Do nay forget incorrigible. The knight

who fostered me once called me such when I was earning my spurs.
Stubborn, said Daniel.”

“And what does Brandon say?”

He continued chuckling. “He calls me a bastard, but that’s because

he’s the wee one and canna’ think of a cleverer insult.”

She shook her head and lifted her eyes heavenward, then swallowed
more seriously. “I’m so glad ye’re returned, even if it was Daniel’s
passing that sadly brought ye home. I wish I could have been of
more comfort to ye.”

He inhaled hard. Nuzzled her shoulder at her show of concern. His

smile receded. Thinking about the loss hurt. And talking about it?
Impossible. He’d kneeled tight-lipped through his brother’s entire
vigil, for fear that words would induce unmanly tears, and he’d never
spoken of the scars it had left on his heart.

“I would have been back by now anyway, for our wedding,” he

deflected.

She sighed. “I would have given my right arm to move about the
continent, seeing the great places in Iberia and on the Rhine, like ye
did. I’ve only ever traveled to Burgundy, and that was when I was a
child. And I care nay to think of the women ye met along the way—”
“Wheesht. None of that,” he scolded, his sharp growl reserved for
training men pushing through the lazy fog of their loving. He rested
a finger across her lips, but he sensed where

this was going, and desperately wanted to avoid it. “There’s no other
lass for me. Then, or now.”

She shook her head as if she didn’t believe a word of it, and true,
Finnan had been no saint before discovering Katherine. He’d been
green and eager like most teenage lads.

But he’d been a blasted monk since encountering Katherine dancing

at a clan gathering, and had realized the Earl of Turn’s wee daughter
wasn’t so little anymore. He’d kept his promise to her father to
abstain when he’d put quill to parchment at his betrothal. Why
partake of sugar when he anticipated fine honey? His fist had made
a piss poor substitute for the union he’d badly wanted with her.

He brushed his lips upon her, feeling his manhood thickening eagerly
again with lust that could never be sated in just one clandestine
night after years of celibacy.

“Now?” Trepidation filled Katherine’s eyes, but he silenced her

rebuttal with a kiss, petting back her hair, cupping her cheek,
caressing her breast and navel.

Please do nay mention my sister-in-law. Stay in this moment with

me. He begged further to himself, praying she heard his thoughts.
Please do nay bring up the royal decree that I marry her. “My word
has always been my oath. Ye’d best believe it, woman. Remember
that day? In the meadow?

When I promised to be true to ye if ye did so for me? I’m many

things, but a liar isnae one of them.”

He secured his arm around her and blessedly, she sank back against
him, as they both gazed into the fire. He rested his chin in the crux
of her neck and jaw. This night had been their first. And second. It
was about to be their third, too, judging by his body’s insatiable
craving. And he wanted nothing to dash this perfection—

“Yet yer oath wouldnae have overruled the king. Would ye have truly
married Lady Eleanor?” Katie asked uneasily.

Here it was regardless. Finnan’s brows drew together. Was this why
she hedged to know if he’d met other women on the continent, too?
Had the legalities of Lady Eleanor’s future

following Daniel’s death this summer past shaken Katherine’s

confidence in fidelity?

“True. Eleanor is a cousin to the king and he insisted I take my

brother’s widow to wife, to keep her alliance with the MacLeods
secure. But the king listened to my grievance that I’d long since
been betrothed to ye. And he saw the merit of a MacLeod-MacKenzie
alliance as being just as strong a bond as what Eleanor had with
Daniel.”

“But what if King William had refused yer plea?”

Uncertainty still glistened in her green depths.

Finnan frowned and swirled a thoughtful finger upon her belly. Katie
had good reason to fear. Before Finnan had traveled to Court to
argue his case, the king had refused Finnan’s request to contest
marriage to Eleanor. In truth, he didn’t know what he would have
done. Insult the king by refusing Eleanor and face censure and
penalties for defying the Crown? Or fulfill his duty and protect his
brother’s woman with matrimony, even if it would have ripped his
heart out to give up Katherine?

“No matter now. He listened, lass, and is satisfied that I’ll support
Eleanor for the remainder of her life. I’ll give my nieces strong
marriages to titled men. It’s in the past now, and ye are my future.”
He continued. “When we’re married, I shall take ye to the continent,
since ye wish to go. I shall charter a ballinger and take ye to the
Viking lands where my ancestors were sprung, and from there, we’ll
trek down the Rhine. Mayhap as a honeymoon.”

“Divine,” she exhaled, then rolled onto her side to face him, smiling
more solemnly. “I missed ye, these past years, after ye professed yer
heart to my parents.”

He kissed her nose, then her forehead, holding the connection long
enough to vanquish the uncertainty in her eyes and to inhale her
delicate lavender scent as her fingers skimmed across his pectorals.

“A fortnight more, and ye’ll be mine, Katiebell. How did I get so

lucky as to find a love match with my betrothed?”

Relieved she didn’t mention their past pain again, his pecks roved
over her cheeks as he caressed her wisps of rich dark hair tumbling
like midnight silk around them. She turned her lips toward his to
capture one of those kisses, smiling gently at him as their lips
meshed. Good. He wanted to remain in this moment. He damn well
didn’t want to think about the talons of anger that had sunk into him
when he’d thought he’d have to marry Eleanor, who he loved as a
sister, but would never love as a wife.

“In sooth, my faither liked ye, and when I begged and argued with
him mercilessly as to why I should marry a lad with barely his spurs
and no peerage such as ye, he relented.

Be glad ye’re the son of a powerful Highland laird and at the time of
yer request, preparing to embark on a fine education abroad. Those
are the details that tipped him toward my plight.” She giggled.

She begged for me? “Which is why he made me wait to claim ye

until I returned from my travels, aye?”
She nodded. “A long betrothal was a test to see if ye could become
successful and remain faithful during years of separation. But the
betrothal itself was a gift to me, because he knew I wanted it.”

Such knowledge threatened to inflate his pride. Ah, it made sense,

now. “The earl was never a man to deny his daughter her wishes.”

Her giggle turned into a laugh that lit up her emerald eyes.

“Nay, he was no’ and I fear I took full advantage of his softness for
me.”

“Always the master archer with her arrow aimed true on her mark.”

She grinned at his jest, her cheeks growing pink.

Humorous, that after the carnal ways in which they’d shared each
other’s bodies tonight, that a reference to their first kiss could induce
such a blush.

“Master archer…posh. Ye ken I cannae shoot a quarry to save my

life.”

“Ye shot me.”

She let the lovesick comment linger, fingered the bone beads
adorning his dark braid down the center of his head, shaved on
either side over his ears, once more comfortable against him with
the confidence she’d exuded throughout the course of their loving.
Fine by him. The seductress with the sleek, curving hips and
succulent breasts of a goddess was by far preferable to the
frightened Katherine who moments ago had seized his plaid to cover
herself. They would never have been this relaxed had they waited
until their wedding night, when Katherine’s mother would guard their
marriage bed to see the deed done properly, for the event would be
thoroughly observed to ensure the next line of descent was
conceived properly.
“Ye’ll be an honest woman soon enough,” he added for good
measure, returning to the previous topic.

She nodded. “Aye, any babe that might come of tonight would be
born well within a normal timeframe, and no one would be
suspicious, I suppose.”

“Even if they were, ‘twould nay matter once ye began to show. Ye’d
be mine, our bairn legitimized, and I the happily married man whose
wife answers to no one else’s authority.”

“Silly Fin, thinking I’d answer to his authority.”

“In sooth, I’ll probably traipse after ye, begging to do yer bidding, in
exchange for a kiss or perhaps, a quick excursion to the nearest
pantry for some privacy.” He waggled his brows.

“Honestly,” she jested.

Her laugh became a languid smile and she dragged her fingers once
more across his bare chest, tracing the designs scarified into his
skin, as if still reveling in the discovery of the magic their bodies
could make together. They traveled over his abdomen, over his
navel…

A delightful shiver racked his frame at her roving touch, as

anticipation excited him for another joining. Perhaps tonight

had been a mistake in judgement, but he didn’t regret it. What could
possibly go wrong in fourteen days to prevent them from making it
to the altar?

“More wine, lass?” he asked, nodding toward the provisions he’d

seen delivered to the shieling earlier that eve for their night together.
“Or mayhap some of the cheese?”
She groaned, rolling onto her back, that laugh that mesmerized him
rolling from her lips again, palming her smooth navel as if it
contained a mountain within it. “Sakes, I ate my fill tonight. I’m sure
I cannae manage another bite without rolling out of here—”

The sound of a horse hooves thudding outside cut her off.

“Finnan?” she whispered as her face drained of color and her eyes
widened.

Boots thudded, dismounting. A throat cleared. Quiet tapping rattled

the door.

“My laird?” came a murmur.

My laird. The title was still odd in the ears with regards to him, for
he’d always been the spare, never the heir. Katherine grasped his
arm and bolted upright again. Mortification coated the normally pink
ridges of her cheeks with a sheen of distress.

He placed his finger across his lips as he also pushed up and the fur
dropped away from his muscled body. He wrapped an arm around
her rigid frame to pull her close.

“Aye?” he called.

“’Tis Arbus, sir.”

Relieved, he softened his grip upon Katie, though she clung to him
still. “What has passed, man, that ye’d come for me early? Do the
Earl and Countess of Turn suspect?”

“Nay—”

Katherine exhaled shakily against him at the reply.

“—but yer presence is requested back at the great hall. A messenger

has just arrived from King William’s court.”
His brow knitted. A royal messenger?

“’Tis late, no?”

“Aye, verily. But he rode hard to get here.”

“Put him up in the barracks for the night and offer him a warm meal.
I shall give him audience in the morn.”

He turned back to Katherine, coaxing her back down in a fruitless

bid to recapture the magic, when Arbus knocked once more. Finnan
paused again, raising his eyes heavenward with mounting irritation.

“My laird, he willnae be put off. He bears an urgent royal summons

for ye to travel to Court.”

Finnan took a deep breath, and exhaled just as hard. So far in the
Highlands, where Braehope overlooked the churning waters of the
Sound toward Skye, Edinburgh was too far to visit often. Riding to
contest the debacle with Eleanor was the only reason he’d dared
mingle with the backstabbing, gossip mongering courtiers who
squabbled for King William’s favor, and it had taken more than a few
days to complete the trek one way, another few days to wait for his
audience, and then just as many to return home. With his wedding
in a fortnight, this wasn’t what he needed. But he owed the king his
life in a long-ago skirmish with English troops who still harassed the
border where two of Katherine’s dower properties were located—
lands he was now duty bound to protect. He respected the king, and
the king esteemed his family. A direct summons couldn’t be refused.

Which meant his night with Katherine was at an end.

“Give us a moment, man, and we’ll be ready to ride.”

Katherine pushed back the covers, her long, smooth limbs unfurling
like silk as she hastened for her chemise. He took her hand,
attempting to calm her.
“Arbus willna’ rat on ye,” he whispered. “Have no fear.”

“I’m sorry,” she muttered, reaching up to cup his face.

“Ye’ve made this night far more special than I could have imagined,
and I spoil it with my nervousness.”

Dipping his lips to her hand upon his cheek, he place a kiss upon her
fingertips, feeling a tightness in his chest, too.

“I’m sorry too, lass, I meant for this night to be perfect.”

“Ye have no control over the king. Worry nay.”

Her fingers slipped away, and she dragged her linen garment over
her head, letting it cascade down to her ankles.

He snatched up his wadded kilt which lay in a haphazard pile with

his tunic and belts, when he noticed Katherine frozen, staring at the
linen upon the pallet.

Proof of her innocence, now his boon.

She’d given him this gift of her virginity, and he would treasure it. He
pulled free the linen from the pallet and folded it reverently, petting
back her hair as he rose back to stand, still nude and hanging
heavily between his thighs in a futile state of unquenched desire,
kissing her forehead in place of words that would not form at the
immensity of what the bloodstain meant. She leaned into his touch,
encircling his waist, and he clenched her head as if to anchor her
against him, finally pulling free, brushing his nose across hers,
reluctant to let this moment end.

“What does the king, of all people, want with me?” he finally called
again and he dragged himself away from the sweet embrace to deal
with pleating his hopeless kilt upon the floor.
“He wouldna’ say, or doesna’ ken. He said the king’s intentions are in
the missive. Eh, Lady Katherine’s sire trusts she made it to her
bedchamber safely this eve.”

“She made it to a bedchamber, to be certain,” he teased upon a

whisper then dropped to the floor to lie within the tartan fabric and
roll it around him.

Katherine snorted now, shaking her head, and smiled.

“I’m damned for this,” she mouthed, as she lifted her eyes
heavenward.

“And ye be my Devil to be sure,” he retorted on another whisper,

standing, and dropping a peck to her kissable nape as she pulled up
her sleeves.

Belted and booted, he banked the fire. Blackness descended, and he

cracked the door, scooped up the cheese, and snagged the wine
decanter around its spout. Katherine shivered at the cold that
assaulted them, for the weather had grown bitter and the threat of
snow increased day by day.

“The cloak ye requested, my laird, and yer horse,” Arbus, his trusted
guardsman and captain of his retinue murmured, handing him a
dark woolen garment as they stepped out into the cloudless
nighttime, the sky alight with millions of twinkling gems.

“My thanks.”

Arbus, to his credit, glanced away from the disheveled Lady

Katherine, as Finnan tucked the foodstuffs into his saddle packs,
then draped the cloak around her shoulders and smoothed her
rumpled tresses, which had been delicately styled before he’d pawed
them into disarray like a wanton beast. But these four years of
anticipation had made his lust so insatiable, he’d barely contained
himself as he’d grasped any part of her he could manage to hold
onto for dear life as he’d galloped them both toward the peak of
pleasure.

She pulled up the hood, and he lifted her upon his stallion’s rear, his
hands lingering at her waist. A pity their eve together had drawn to
such a quick close, for he’d hoped to tarry until the wee hours of
morn. Still bracing his shoulders, she, too, held onto him. He took a
deep breath, and dragged his hands away, hoisting himself up into
the saddle in front of her.

“I’ll make it up to ye, love,” he said, his words gruff, and he took up
the reins to tap his mount into a swift trot, feeling her hands slip
around his waist to remain stable. “I fear this ruins the night we’ve
anticipated for so long.”

“I told ye nay to worry. Ye in no way have failed my expectations,

Finnan.” She pressed her cheek against his broad back, warming him
with her affection. “It was as perfect a night as it could be. I canna’
wait to meet ye at the altar. We have a love match, as ye say, and I
shall spend my life proving to ye how grateful I am for that.”

His throat thickened with emotion he dare not allow into his eyes.
The Highland Ox was too fierce a fighter to be emotional. Instead,
his jaw tightened. To hear that devotion from her lips meant the
world.

As they traveled the hills, arriving at Braehope Hall’s gate and the
half-open portcullis that awaited his return, Finnan pulled back the
reins and dismounted, helping his lass down and kissing her lips,
then her hands, each in turn. Still watching her, he spoke to his man.

“See her discreetly to her chamber, Arbus.”

Arbus bowed his head in acknowledgement. “Aye. She’s safe. The

earl and countess took to their bed some time ago.”
“Good.” He cupped her cheeks and dropped his lips to hers one last
time. “See? All is well. Go to bed, woman, and sleep warmly with
thoughts of me pleasing ye, for surely I’ve banished all else from yer
mind with my prowess, eh?”

He grinned his rare grin once more, reserved solely for this lass, as
she lifted her eyes toward the sky in mock exasperation at his
arrogance, then that saucy glint he so adored sparkled in her
emerald depths as she wrinkled her sweet nose at him.

And at this, Arbus groaned. “My lady, ye must ken that my warrior
laird turns into a flowery poet around ye.”

Finnan chuckled at the ribbing, and amusement teased Katherine’s

lips. She leveled a look at him, smirking, then turned away to leave
with Arbus.

“Mayhap it’s ye, Fin, who should rest warmly, with thoughts of me
on yer mind—”

He snagged her hand on a growl, whirling her back to him. If she

wished to escape his presence in one piece, she ought not tempt
him with such teasing. Aye, he’d rest warmly with thoughts of her.
Thoughts of her hips undulating atop his, her body softened and
welcoming to his manhood, thoughts of her silky skin against his as
he rutted his way to heaven, thoughts of her soft, pert breasts
kissed with pink peaks like candied toppings upon a treat thrust
outward for him to grasp,

the sounds of her desperate, pleasured cries in his ears as he

wrapped his fingers in her sable tresses to hold her close and
claimed her fully.

She giggled as he crushed his lips to her and arched over her.

“Ye havenae the faintest idea how potent my memories tonight will
be,” he rumbled.
More giggling, which she tried to stifle for fear of rousing suspicion
upon the wall. Fool lass. These were MacLeod men, not MacKenzie
ones, and they would keep their lips sealed at his demand. She
indulged in one more embrace, clasping him around his waist and
nestling her cheek to his chest.

“God help me, I do nay ken why, but I love ye, Finnan MacLeod.”

His breath caught. They’d shared the sentiment in letters before.

They spoke of this marriage as a love match. But to hear the direct
declaration, after what they’d done tonight, was enough to render a
muscled warrior soft. He swallowed, cleared his throat, and gripped
her in return, burying her in his corded muscle, and whispered the
reply such a declaration deserved.

“I love ye, too, lass.” Taking her hand, he placed her palm upon his
left pectoral. “Ye have my heart.”

“As ye have mine,” she whispered in reply, gazing up at him wearing

a gentle smile that softened further her smooth features.

“One fortnight,” he replied, dusting a kiss upon her forehead, and

her smile grew into an excited grin.

“I cannae wait…” As if coming to her senses, she suddenly pulled

back, glancing at Sir Arbus who cleared his throat uncomfortably at
their displays of affection. “Away, urchin. Let me be, before ye
embarrass me further,” she admonished playfully, then pressed her
fingers to her lips and blew a kiss to him.

He loved how sweet the gesture was, loved how she always did that
whenever they parted.

“Woman, I’m forever yers. Ye’re in my heart. No one could ever drag
me from ye. Nay with a hundred horses, and I care no’ who hears
me say it.”
 ***

The wind howled as morn dawned, having blown away the clear
skies of the night before. The heavy greyness shrouding the earth
promised snow. Finnan, decked in trousers and greaves to protect
from the cold, his bright yellow tartan pinned across his chest, his
claymore strapped to his back, a jerkin, and thick fleece-lined boots
and gloves, departed Braehope’s gates. To one side rode the royal
messenger, to the other, the MacKenzie party he was accompanying.
The highroad split sharply northward toward Turnbury lands near
Ross, and southeastward, toward Edinburgh. He lifted his hand to
wave as Katie and her parents’ guard parted, halting, watching them
ride out of sight from atop a hillock as the wind whipped his braid
against his neck.

“One fortnight,” he mouthed, his lips tipping up in a one-sided smile,

and he nodded to Katherine who gazed back at him from atop her
mount with longing in her eyes. How he wished he could sweep her
into his arms and keep her at his side, but the contents of the royal
messenger’s missive had stirred unease in his gut. Appear
immediately before the king, or risk being deemed an outlaw. Had
he somehow offended the Crown?

His hand dropped. With the MacKenzie party on their way home,
Finnan turned to the royal messenger.

“Let’s be off, man. And pray this untimely summons returns me

quickly, for I’ve a wedding to attend.”

The messenger bowed his head. “Indeed, my laird.”

They steered their reins back onto the highroad, cresting the hill.
This man, bedecked in the blazon of the royal lion rampant was
abrupt. Almost skittish. He spoke few words and his men had
reported that he’d been cold and withdrawn all night in the barracks
instead of mingling with Finnan’s off-duty guardsmen. If the
messenger hadn’t worn the royal livery, Finnan might find his
impersonal nature insulting.

They plowed onward toward a tavern, a half a league farther, as

winter wind swelled over the hills and dusk began to swallow the
dull light, bringing with it a flurry of snowflakes. A blizzard might be
setting in.

“We’d do well to get to shelter, man,” Finnan said.

“Aye, this way, my laird.” The messenger indicated a split in the

road, pointing to the divergent path, dormant and swallowed within
an unruly copse.

Finnan pulled back his reins, an inkling of wariness tingling in his

blood.

“The way to Edinburgh is on that road,” he argued. “Nay this one.”

The messenger bowed his head. “With respect, Laird MacLeod, we

must travel this way. It’s a short cut, and a small tavern is just down
yonder path.”

That wariness burgeoned into suspicion. What did this fool take him
for?

“’Tis no shortcut. I believe ye’re mistaken. I’m from these outland

parts. There’s nothing down that path for leagues, except for a river
and a small cluster of crofters, none of whom could afford to house
us for the night.”

The messenger looked around, as if looking for someone.

Or at someone. Sakes, this copse was a perfect spot for an ambush!

Finnan’s head whipped over his shoulder—
A crack landed hard upon the back of his head. Bursts of light
erupted on his eyes.

He swayed.

Blinked.

Shook his head to clear the stars.

Grappled for the reins to remain aloft.

The impact was so hard it almost didn’t hurt, but the warm trickle
down his nape told him he bled. As his eyes cleared, he saw
silhouettes emerging from the snow flurries. Three horsemen. Sakes,
did these vagabonds mean to rob him?

They’d be sorely disappointed to discover he only carried a small

purse, enough to buy his way to Court and back.

The messenger hurried off path, joining the others.

I’ve been set up. Fury lashed Finnan’s gut, replacing his confusion.
Had the “royal” missive only been a ploy? Only four men total?
Ought to be simple enough for him to defeat them. He’d deal with
his anger and head wound after he squashed this skirmish.

“What be yer business ambushing me?” he called, nonchalant, but

taking stock of each blade on his body for this confrontation. “It’ll
take more than a wee knock on the head to put me on my arse.”

No answer. Instead, one of these men unsheathed his sword.

Finnan dragged his claymore from its leather across his back,
frowning, and rallying his nerves for a fight. None of his adversaries
wore a tartan denoting a particular clan, rather, they donned
homespun of brown wool like that of a peasant.

But these are no peasants if they carry expensive weapons.

Amid the flurries, darkness moved to his right. Another assailant?
Nay, another five—no six more assailants! Blast it, he could dispatch
four easily enough. But ten?

“Who’s yer chief?” he demanded in the face of their silence.

“Canna’ tell ye that,” said the one who’d posed as a messenger. “But
I can say, he means for ye to come with us.”

Curse this harsh weather, for the wind whistled over the land,
obscuring his hearing and vision with swirling white and muffling the
nuances of their sounds.

Finnan harrumphed, snarling.

“Aye, ye smite a man minding his own business. Cowards.

I have no quarrels with anyone. If someone has a quarrel with me,

they oughts come to me to discuss it, like a proud man,

nay a vindictive bairn who lies and sends false royal messages to
lure a warrior out on his own.”

“So ye figured it out, Finnan MacLeod,” said a deep, commanding

voice. “Put down yer weapon.” He recognized the voice, but couldn’t
quite place.

“Call yer men off, first.”

“Canna’ do that, man.”

“Then whatever it is ye want from me, ye must take it by force.”

“I do nay mean to steal yer possessions. I only want ye,”

the voice replied, and the snowy mirage of henchmen inched around
him.
Finnan turned his steed in a circle, his eyes capturing everyone’s
location, feeling his destrier dance upon the bit and grunt, jutting his
snout in increased agitation. His blood pulsed harder, pumping for
the impending fight. Aye, four against one, he’d felt confident, for
he’d been in worse pinches. But he had a sinking feeling now.

The first sword to strike nicked his arm. He whipped his dirk from his
waist with his left hand and parried, spinning the blade away as
another man came on his other side. He jabbed his sword. The man
ducked back. Finnan urged his horse forward, bearing down on the
man’s weakness, who turned his mount and retreated. Uncaring of
the others who’d give chase, Finnan kicked his heels into his mount’s
sides.

The renowned roar of the Highland Ox that had shaken many a

warrior in their boots ripped from his throat. His horse bolted. He
raised his sword and cut the man mercilessly from his horse.

Leaving the man in the snow, Finnan whirled the horse around with
a pinch of his knees, his arm oozing blood, soaking into his tunic and
coat. The others pulled back the reins at Finnan’s confrontation.
Unwilling to be at a disadvantage by letting the opponent chase him
on the defensive, he crossed swords, striking, bearing down with the
heavy steel of his claymore, hard swings that would be slow

for most men to recover. Yet his arms and shoulders, honed from
years of experience, parried. He cut down another man while his
boot kicked out to knock a third off balance and down a steep slope.
Horses grunted, metal clanked upon metal.

Finnan adjusted his reins. He scowled, his claymore sending another

to the ground.

He turned upon the remaining men, fighting, parrying, his gaze

flitting around him to assess their shifting locations, as well as the
messenger who’d done none of the fighting. He spotted him over his
shoulder as his opponent’s knife lashed out and he barely escaped
another nick. His horse snorted, a low whinny of disapproval, and
Finnan lifted his sword to deliver the fatal blow—

Again, a hard thud to the head. Another. This time, the sparks of
light erupting upon his eyes didn’t dissipate. He grew faint. Shook
his head to snap himself back to clarity. A futile effort.

His sword arm sagged. His opponents blurred. He blinked madly so

as not to succumb to the darkness as the man in charge of this
nefarious plot finally became clear, looming in his face…

Laird Baltair Matheson?

He’d wondered if his betrothal to Katherine would rankle the insular

Matheson clan, and perhaps it had, for with Turnbury to the north of
Matheson’s Duncan Tower, and MacLeod land to the south, his
marriage to the MacKenzie family promised to wrap a sphere of
influence around Matheson’s lands, forcing Matheson to negotiate
trade inland for the distinctive whisky they blended.

Again the pummel came and this time, he was falling.

That nick he’d avoided landed hard now upon his shoulder,
incapacitating his sword arm completely. Tipping, tipping, falling…

The impact felt distant, but his body jolted all the same, snow
fluffing around his face on the ground. He lifted his dagger, unwilling
to relent even in the face of obvious defeat.

If he was to die, he’d do so like a warrior with weapon in hand. His

mind betrayed him and began fading toward that blackness many a
warrior had never returned from. His dagger fell away. His arm
slumped. Hands dragged him up, heaving for breath beneath his
bulky size.

His mind kept fading.

Katie-bell. God above. He loved her, and he’d claimed her in the
most primal, most irreversible way, and now he might be leaving the
woman he cared about most in the world to face her future alone…
Christ, help her…

“Katie, is it? So the famed Highland Ox of few words does favor the
maiden as much as he favors her dowry,” said Matheson, his voice
garbled in Finnan’s foggy mind. “Imagine her surprise when she
realizes ye’ve betrayed her.”

What did that mean? What scheme had Matheson concocted?

Unable to remain lucid, Finnan relented to the darkness.

E. Elizabeth Watson

The Capture of Finnan MacLeod

Chapter 2

15th of December, Turnbury Castle, Ross, Scotland

“I admit, I’m too weary to continue this tonight, Sir Dugan.”

Katherine MacKenzie dropped into her seat, eyes still swollen, and
bone-weary, staring into the crackling peat fire with the emptiness
afflicting her. She tossed aside a parchment and rubbed her puffy
eyes. “I suppose ye’re right. I must choose a new husband. I just…
I’d hoped…”

She couldn’t finish the thought, instead, swallowing at the painful

lump that had lodged in her throat. She should have walked down
the aisle yesterday. She should have awakened in Fin’s arms this
morn. In his bed. Memories of her parents’

death whilst they journeyed home from Braehope’s St.

Andrew’s Day feast swirled in her mind. Both of them had clenched
their throats moments after supper in the tavern, as Katherine
screamed at the guards and taverner to help them.

She pinched her eyes closed. Shuddered at the echo of her screams
through her thoughts. The past she’d treasured was no longer her
future. So much joy ripped away and replaced by uncertainty and
unimaginable pain.

How could Finnan do this, too? Sweet, burly Finnan, with his black
tribal hair and bright, sparkling eyes the color of sky on a cloudless
day that glowed in the setting sun. The insult of his absence at her
parents’ vigil and burial had burned, as much as his treacherous
letter from Edinburgh had stabbed her heart, her pride, her core.

“I just, I do nay understand,” she croaked. “Any of it. My parents,

now Finnan… How can they be here one moment, then, simply… not
be?”

Her hand slid over her belly. Over the illness roiling since that
morning. Might she be pregnant? It was too soon to tell, and yet,
the revelation that it was possible had smote her like a punishing
hand. She’d dared not ask her maids, or the

midwife. She had no mother to confide in, no father to rail against

the bastard who’d taken her dignity and run away without a care.

Finnan had abandoned her.

Sir Dugan, her father’s trusted advisor and a man of hale, but aging
years, cleared his throat and spoke.

“We all hoped, my lady, that Finnan MacLeod would honor his
contract—and his responsibility to ye. But it seems, well… Sadly,
there’s no way to usurp this new marriage demanded by the king
and signed in Edinburgh’s own registers. The king clearly wishes he
marry a royal relation, if at first he tried to tether him to Eleanor, and
now this. The monarch has nullified yer betrothal, and it leaves ye in
a precarious place.”
“Did ye send my letter to the king this morning? Asking him to verify
that this is the truth?”

Sir Dugan nodded solemnly. “I did, my lady, but I fear ye’re simply in
denial. Laird MacLeod himself has already written to ye with his
regrets at the betrothal severance, and confirms this.”

Fin had left for Edinburgh the morning after they’d consummated
their love to answer the king’s summons—royal business that King
William wished not to discuss over parchment and quill. And now it
was clear why. If she’d ever doubted whether or not Finnan would
bow to the king’s demands, she knew now how spineless he truly
was. Ach! All his sweet declarations, a hundred horses unable to
keep him away… It was all a load of a hundred horses’ shite.

Meaningless, empty sweet nothings.

He never really answered yer question, Katherine, her conscience

nagged her. Ye asked him if he really would have married Eleanor
out of duty, and he evaded an explanation. It seemed, when duty
required, Finnan would bow to the king and forsake her. What a fool
she’d been, falling for his affection. How could all of Finnan’s
promises be so easily discarded? Finnan hadn’t argued the king’s
command at all?

Or in true stubborn fashion, outright refused? Or worst,

divulged what he’d done to her to force the king into seeing he was
honor bound to another already?

Katherine pushed to standing again and sifted through the stack of

old missives—letters from families with eligible sons that had arrived
over the course of several years. Now the lady of this grand stretch
of land and a newly titled countess still preparing her letters to the
Crown for recognition, she had many responsibilities upon her
trencher. Figuring out her father’s books, her mother’s routines with
the head cook and seneschal, and the legalities of her younger
sister’s guardianship and inheritance, had been chief among them.

Including finding a new suitor. The break in betrothal was still fresh,
but given an ounce of time, the hungry noble vultures would soon
waste no time circling Turnbury for fresh meat.

She’d do well to establish a new betrothal by then to keep them at

bay.

Now, in the event her suspicions rang true and she was carrying a
babe, she needed the claim of marriage to protect her, or her child’s
bastardy would forever be a blight on her future. If she could just
busy herself with this new task at hand, she could stave off the
talons of anguish that afflicted her and threatened to drag her under
with grief.

God I wish nay to marry anyone now!

But if she was pregnant, could she do that to her child?

Write off all men and withstand the gossip and disdain she’d receive,
raising a child out of wedlock? Or ought she marry another and at
least offer the child a measure of protection?

She shuddered. Aye, she needed to marry. Her heart was shattered
and she’d never love or trust again. Life would be about protecting
the life growing within her, and only that.

“The Laird Johnstone, the Earl of Roxbury…”

She thumbed through the parchments again, feeling that familiar

sourness settle in her stomach at their incessant pursuits, men who
wanted to claim the daughter of the influential Earl of Turn, no
matter how old they were and how young she was. Her dower
properties and coffers were enough
to end an ambitious man’s quest for financial security for the
remainder of his days.

None of the letters had impressed her when they’d trickled in, and
they didn’t impress her now.

“Earls, even a duke,” she added with jaded enthusiasm,

“and plenty of social climbing puppets intent on flattering their way

into the king’s good graces fill these pages.”

Dugan held out a hand, beckoning the papers be given to him to

examine. “Some are married now, but many remain eligible.”

She should simply draw a random one, for that was how little she
cared.

“Ach!” In a rash, frustrated move, she instead scooped them up,

carrying them to the hearth, dumping them in like the rubbish they
were. “They’re all abhorrent.”

A spray of sparks fanned outward, dying on the stone floor, and the
ends of the parchments, at first smoldering in the flame, began to
take hold with orange that consumed the ends until they curled
upon themselves and the wax seals dripped through the grate.

Any children I bear deserve a man who would be a faither .

None of these contestants would do that. They want to control my

money and properties. If I birth a lad, they’d no doubt send him
away to obscurity so he’ll be out of the way for their heirs to inherit.
She laughed ruefully. “My wealth isna’ really mine, is it, if the only
way to access it is to marry and then beg my husband to dispense it
to me.”

Disgusted, and more than a little angry at herself for falling for
Finnan’s charm, his promises, the teasing gentleness he’d seemed to
have solely for her, lips that could induce magic within her in a
simple kiss, his muscles that had felt like fire as they lay skin to skin,
his thick and heavy manhood which had sparked such pleasure in
her and taught her not to feel ashamed of the mysterious delight to
be had by loving with a man, his stubborn, quiet spirit… She
swallowed hard.

That fateful night, as they’d basked in the afterglow alone in

that remote shieling, she’d believed his promises. She’d believed his
appreciation for the gift of her purity to him, been honored and
touched by his deference and gentleness when he was normally a
hulking warrior.

Why would she not be so touched? Ever since she’d budded into
womanhood, he’d flirted in his own boyish and teasing way. Urchin.
He’d remained unmarried well past the normal age for a man,
proving his worth to her father as he trained and studied to become
learned so that her sire might be impressed by his accolades, if not
his pedigree. He’d fought hard to become accomplished with a
sword so that his opponents would fear him and command of the
Braehope guard would be bestowed upon him. The MacLeod
lairdship had sadly fallen upon his shoulders, but the title had only
increased his prestige in her sire’s eyes. The banns had been posted,
ceremonies arranged, her dress sewn, priest hired.

Finnan’s kirk, castle, and staff had prepared elaborate pomp for the
anticipated union betwixt their two families, the powerful MacLeods
and the influential MacKenzies. She’d thought she knew him like the
lines on her hand.

Tears pricked her eyes. She longed for her father’s resolute strength,
her mother’s soft embrace, so she didn’t have to face this future
alone. Her lip quivered, but she bit it into submission. “How could he
end everything by the stroke of a pen, nay even to my face, with no
promise of financing any chil—”
She dare not speak of her dishonorable escapade just yet that had
left her so precarious. What a bitter lesson to learn.

“I’m shocked by Laird Finnan’s disregard of ye.” Sir Dugan cleared

his throat, his hands placed at his back as he proceeded cautiously.
“But with yer parents unexpectedly perished, yer title, as well as yer
properties on the Borders will never be secure from competing clans,
royal interference, or marauding English reavers until ye align yer
name with another powerful man. Ye must choose, or risk losing
everything. Most of all, yer clout at Court.”

Katherine, huffed, then swayed like a ghost to the tapestry, rolling it

aside so she might prop open a window shutter.

“What clout at Court? I wield no influence there.”

“Nay yet, my lady, but ye carry with ye the MacKenzie name, yer
mither’s title of countess, and as the heiress, ye’ll turn every head.
The king would pay attention.”

She scoffed. “Aye, I’m important to the king. Just nay important
enough to marry his prized warrior, Finnan.”

She took in a shaky breath of the midwinter air, icy, like her heart.
Frost crusted the outbuilding roofs, like dusting atop sugary sweets,
glistening under the full moon’s light. Well into Advent now, the
castle folk were drinking and merrily hauling evergreen boughs
through the bailey, into the keep to usher in Christmastide, which
would begin in merely ten days. She’d let them celebrate. These
people worked hard, and too much mourning had darkened the
mood of the castle recently. Her parents, too, would be heartened to
know that their death hadn’t tarnished the celebration of
Christmastide for them.

Dugan cleared his throat. “If, eh, I might offer a suggestion?”

She turned over her shoulder to take in the advisor’s warm, paternal
eyes.

“Please, do.”

Dugan bowed his head in acknowledgement and propped a boot on

a stool. “I believe ye ought to consider another prospect.”

“What prospect is this?” She turned all the way around now, bracing
her rear against the window ledge and crossing her arms. “Every
eligible man betwixt the Tweed and Loch Ness has professed their
intentions in that pile of ash.”

Katherine gestured to the hearth.

“Indeed. But have ye yet considered Laird Matheson?”

“Baltair Matheson? Of Duncan Tower?” Her brow knitted. “Why

him?”

“Why no’ him?” Dugan countered.

“Because the laird has shown no interest in a wife.

Goodness, if his reputation precedes him, as it does,” she

emphasized, “then I should nay like to cast my lots forevermore with
someone guilty of the deeds he’s done.”

“True, my lady. But ye ken rumors at Court are like grassland fires.
They smolder, undetected, until they’ve burned their way through
everyone’s ears and tainted them with untruths.” He leveled a deep
look at her. “At which point, they blaze and can never be contained.
I ken the man well. He’s no’

the tyrant many believe him to be.”

“Are ye saying he was unfairly accused of his misdeeds?

My sire believed him to be inhospitable, only willing to form trade
alliances if he gained more than he gave. Am I to disregard the
lessons my faither taught me?”

Dugan bowed his head once more in deference.

“I bid ye just meet him, lady. The two of ye, with vast lands touching
one another’s, could unite these Highlands and consolidate much
influence, much like ye would have done with Laird MacLeod.”

“But Matheson has no interest in a wife,” she remarked.

“Ye do nay ken that.”

She sighed. No, she didn’t, but the idea of such a man made her
shiver. He was hulking. As was Finnan. And uncouth. As was Finnan
—she shushed her inner conscience.

And poorly mannered, and argumentative. And the rumors of his

late wife…well…

“If I may be so bold, Lady Katherine, he indeed needs a woman, but

when his name is constantly raked over the coals, he dare no’ scare
away any female prospects, and so, he’s ceased asking.”

“Are ye implying that the Laird Matheson avoids seeking a wife

because he’s frightened no one would like him?”

Dugan nodded, pushed his boot from the stool, and came forth with
a smile at her understanding and held her upper arms like a
concerned father. “Even a warrior can be frightened. The rumors of
his late wife were false. She died of

natural causes, nay because of his punishment. But it’s easy to

blame an innocent man when he happens to be powerful and
wealthy, for he makes for a good scapegoat for people’s anger and
they enjoy trying to delegitimize him.”
Katherine thought on what Dugan was confiding. In truth, the
entirety of Court had known the fate of his wife. Or perhaps, if
Dugan was correct…so they’d thought? The woman had supposedly
died by the man’s vicious hand.

Katherine shuddered, swallowed, then smoothed her skirts to gain

composure. The chill from the window now too much to bear, she
slipped free of his hold and secured the shutters shut.

She circumvented the advisor and dragged her tartan shawl from the
chair at her desk in her father’s— her—solar, swirling it around her
shoulders and tucking it into her arms.

If she remained unwed, true, she must fight off attacks on her
livestock and lands, and most of all, her character if a babe came,
but at least, her name would be her own, and her money not
controlled by someone she hardly knew, such as a man like Baltair
Matheson.

Finnan never wanted my wealth… But her conscience quickly

corrected her. No. But he wanted my maidenhead.

He’d clearly wanted to exhaust his lust for her. She’d been so
gullible. God above! When would her shame in herself abate? She
swallowed down thoughts of his name lest the girlish sobs that had
afflicted her the day his letter came a sennight ago— one sennight
before their wedding—would once more, gain a foothold. Tears
misted her eyes and she shook her head. Right now, they should be
newly married, in the throes of happiness, her mother cheerily
anticipating how quickly she’d receive grandchildren.

“I cannae consider a man who has yet to pursue me, such as

Matheson. And one whose repute is so questionable.” She sighed.
“The claims against him were more than rumors, for I was at Court
that summer, a mere lassie still, when his wife’s family arrived before
King William to air the grievance of her loss and beg for Matheson’s
punishment. They carried with them a grief so palpable, there was
nary a dry eye in the entire hall.”

“And yet, they were placated when they were given a handsome
recompense, of the money variety,” Dugan remarked, eyeing her,
then huffed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “My dear, I ken ye’ve a
strong head on yer shoulders, but ye’re also young, and still learning
the ways of this world which is why more than ever ye need to heed
yer advisor.”

She smarted. His remark, though uttered in innocence, was a potent

reminder that she was still naïve, and had ruined herself, too. Unless
she married quickly.

“Can ye nay see for yerself?” he continued, dropping her other arm.
“They sought money to ease their sorrow. And used their daughter’s
demise to win sympathy, in the process dragging a laird’s repute into
the gutters with the pig slop.

Matheson has money, strong men, and can help ye protect yer
lands. I ken him, and—”

“If he was so good, why did my faither nay trust him?”

Bolstered by her revelation, she straightened her shoulders and

lifted her chin.

“With all due respect, lady, I never argued with yer sire about him,
for I knew his mind was made up about Matheson long ago. There
was no point in trying to convince him to the contrary. And because
yer faither was always good to me, I decided it wasnae worth
arguing.”

She stared once more at the fire, then moved to her table and
poured herself a goblet of watered wine. Such a fine Advent she was
having, drinking a cup alone, mulling over which greedy soul would
earn the right to lord his command over her for the remainder of her
days.

“I cannae consider such a man. He’s nay even made his intent
known. And if his offer is like all the others, well…”

She gestured to the ashes once more. “Those ones I’ve clearly
declined.”

Sir Dugan, too, gazed at the fire, then brightened with an idea. “If
he should offer, ye would consider it?”

She waved her hand dismissively. “I suppose.” No. I’m nay ready.
But Dugan wasn’t relenting his pressure.

“Would ye mind if I informed him of this situation, and see what he

makes of it for himself?”

“Fine, fine,” she muttered, desperate for him to leave the topic be,
and took another sip. “I’m tired, Sir Dugan. These days have taken
their toll on me. Please go and be merry with the others.”

She summoned a weary smile, though it didn’t seem to convince

him.

“I so hate to see ye like this, dear lady.”

“I shall manage. Please.”

She gestured to the door, and as Sir Dugan bowed his head again
and turned to leave, she gathered the shovel beside the hearth and
scooped a heavy load of dirt onto the flame to bank it. The solar
darkened, and only the tallow candle upon the desk illuminated the
banners along the walls in dark, distorted shadows.

She gathered the candle, her wine, and her shawl, and departed,
stopping outside the door to turn the metal lock with keys at her hip
hanging from her girdle. She moved down the corridor, past the
spiraling stairs leading down to the lively banquet hall, to her
bedchamber. Once inside, she took a cord of wick to the candle and
used it to relight the waning fire that had been set for her that eve,
now a pile of rolling embers and an ashy, half-burned log. Adding
another log, the fire took hold, and she smudged out the wick,
replacing it to the mantle.

Blessed—and cursed—silence. How could silence be so intrusive

when it was usually so peaceful?

She untied her laces as the crackling of wood popped, not having
the heart to summon her maid to assist. Her maid was likely
enjoying the revelry surrounding the evergreen decorating.
Mechanically, she went through the motions.

Removing her girdle, unlacing her trumpeted sleeves and sliding

them free of her arms, turning down the lush velvet gown, catching
it as it slipped down her frame to keep it from tangling on the
flooring, and draping them upon a chair.

Once dressed in her sleeping chemise, with her dark hair long and
loose, she braided the tresses and climbed into her canopied bed.
And as if the heavens had tipped over the proverbial hourglass, her
mind immediately seized on the hollowness she felt. Her parents—
gone. Finnan—gone. Her world was on its head. Mayhap she ought
to consider Sir Dugan’s suggestion. After all, the future looked bleak,
and this world didn’t look kindly upon a woman refusing to marry.

“There’s always the convent,” she muttered, then laughed a wry

laugh, followed by quietude as her eyes began to water.

She rolled onto her side against the lush pillows. “Saints take me
now, but I would make a wretched nun.”

No. For a nun to devote herself to God, she’d need to purge the
heartache, and the traitorous desire for the man that was never to
be hers, from her heart. Her hands, betraying her at thoughts of
Finnan, snaked through the curtain to the rumpled parchment beside
her bed upon her stand.

Do nay do it. Do nay read his regretful words again, only to feel
what’s left of yer heart shatter, to consume ye like the proverbial
grassland fire Dugan described. Finnan’s betrayal of ye cannae be
allowed to burn the threads of yer sanity. He’s taken enough from
ye…

And yet in the dimness beneath her canopy, she swallowed, feeling
the all-too familiar tears pool on her eyelids, her nose growing stuffy,
as she skimmed the damning news once more as if this time, she’d
discover some secret within that she’d overlooked before:

“Lady Katherine MacKenzie of Turnbury, It is with regret that I have

been summoned to King William’s court to fulfill wishes I had no idea
would be required of me. I further regret the heartache ye will feel.
King William demands I take one of his Rhenish cousins to wife, or
be deemed a rebel for refusing, and sends me away on a ship across
the North Sea on the morrow of the day I write this letter. I cannae
defy the king, who I am duty bound to obey, and I fear the stain of
an outlaw on my reputation would do nothing but drag down yer
own repute. I’m distressed by this,

and so, I beg ye nay make it worse by pining for me. I beg ye to try
to understand my position. The affection I hold for ye in my heart
will always be there, but that must be the only consolation.

Finnan MacLeod, Chief of MacLeod, Laird of Braehope.

So formal, abnormal for Finnan, who was raised on outland manners

no matter his expensive tutelage. Wouldn’t he have written
Katiebell? Like he’d called her for so long? He was probably being
formal, because he was no longer hers, and thus, putting a partition
of decorum between them. He’d said there had been no other
women as he’d traveled the continent, but he’d been gone for four
years. Plenty of time to meet someone new—perhaps the royal
cousin from the Rhineland he was now taking to the altar. Why
would he tell her if he’d met someone else? What if he’d bedded
with this royal cousin as he’d bedded with her, and because the
woman was the king’s relation, the king had forced him?

And then, she opened a second letter, one that had arrived just
yesterday, after Katherine had sent Sir Dugan on an errand to
Braehope Hall, to inquire with Brandon, Finnan’s surviving younger
brother. Sir Dugan had reported back that yes, the MacLeods were
shocked, but Brandon, too, understood Finnan’s decision to be the
truth. He’d gone by boat and Brandon was to assume duties of
lairdship in his absence. It would still be a fortnight, most likely,
before word returned from the king regarding her missive to confirm
the truth, though Sir Dugan was probably right. She was only
dragging out the torture, when the obvious answer was, well,
obvious.

She clenched the parchments together, as her other slid over her
belly to palm it. Finnan had said a babe would be a blessing. Aye, a
blessing, but now also a curse. And none of this felt right. All of this
felt dreadfully wrong. Something felt amiss, but Katherine quelled
her suspicious mind as blessedly, sleep began to drag her into
unconsciousness. Of course it all felt wrong, because it wasn’t what
she wanted in her heart to be true. She needed to move on. She
had a future to plan, and plan quickly.

E. Elizabeth Watson

The Capture of Finnan MacLeod

Chapter 3

22nd of December

Katherine stoked her fire to rouse a flame, then dragged aside a

tapestry. She pushed open the window shutter behind it and took a
deep breath of fresh, cold air to revive her humours for a new day.

The hour seemed late as servants labored out of doors and orders
from Sir Caleb, both her huntsman and trainer of her guard, rang
above the steady clanking of men at arms, practicing. Had she
overslept?

“Sakes!”

And she was still in her nightshift!

Baltair Matheson had sent a missive of intent to visit this day.

Katherine had halfway hoped Sir Dugan would forget about the
suggestion, but he hadn’t, and he must have hurried off a missive to
Matheson straight away to come inquire.

Dugan seemed eager to see her form a new alliance. Turning away
the marriage prospect outright would be rude, even if it was the
eventual plan, and so, she ought to be dressed and ready for the
guest. How did a woman broker her own marriage deal? Or more
importantly, gently reject a man that she had no interest in so as not
to injure his pride?

She hastened to her dressing table and poured water from the ewer
into her bowl, swinging her braid over her shoulder and splashing
her face in hopes it would assuage the unease in her stomach, then
patted her cheeks dry. Yet as her heart raced, she grew light-
headed, which blended into dizziness in the piercing light from the
window. She gripped the dressing table, feeling herself sway. Sweat
broke out on her brow. She drank a swallow straight from the ewer.
Was this stress? Or was she ill? She blinked, feeling her mind grow
foggy, exhausted…

I’m so…I’m dizzy…

She swayed again, grappled with the table ledge for support, but her
hands slipped. Her vision faded to black. She grasped at the bowl to
find purchase. She and the bowl clattered upon the floor with bone-
rattling thuds, water splashing outward.

“Mi lady…mi lady…”

Was that someone knocking? Or pounding in her head?

Aye, the door… Her maid was shouting. Moments later, footsteps
were rushing. A fist pounded the door this time like a battering ram.

“Lady Katherine!” boomed a deep, husky voice she didn’t recognize.

Sakes, my head. She braced her forehead to clench at the pounding,

unable to get her lethargic tongue to cooperate and form words. The
door banged open, thudding against the wall.

Boots were stalking to her. Which guardsman was this?

She groaned and opened her eyes as lucidity began to infiltrate the
fog.

“Have ye a healer?” the man asked.

“Indeed,” Sir Dugan replied. “Run for Mistress Maeve,”

he seemed to say to someone else.

Powerful arms scooped Katherine up, and unwilling to flop like a

helpless ragdoll, she forced her eyes open. A man, ginger blond hair,
shaved upon the sides with scars upon his scalp shaped like Norse
designs was carrying her. So he was an outland liegeman, or the son
of one, like Finnan was. The various clasps of his leather jerkin
poked her. He smelled of riding leathers, the faint hint of the
distinctive whisky Clan Matheson produced, and highroad travel.

Sakes, she’d know this man anywhere. She’d seen him appeared
before the king, to answer to accusations that he’d killed his first
wife! Mercy.
She came to alertness like a lightning strike and wriggled to be put
down, gaping wide-eyed up at his firm jaw, pale blue eyes that no
doubt deceived those he met into thinking he had

a gentler side. His arms tightened like a vise until he reached her
bed, settling her upon the covers.

The midwife, Mistress Maeve, shoved her way through the throng of
servants clustered in the doorway.

“The countess fainted… so much distress recently…”

“A wonder she’s managed for so long…”

Murmurs from the staff filled Katherine’s ears. She frowned. Had all
her staff noticed her state of sadness?

“Away, all of ya’s. Off ye go. Back to yer tasks,” Maeve groused,
shooing the maids away. “Out I say. I’ll inform ye about Lady
Katherine’s well-being soon.”

The midwife herded them away as if they were curious cows, then
shut the door upon them, so that it was only her, Sir Dugan, and the
man who must be Baltair Matheson in her chamber, for the tell-tale
red and green kilt gave his lineage away. Her skin felt clammy and
damp. Katherine looked down to see her nightshift drenched, the
soft, thin linen clinging to her from the spilled water like selkie skin,
concealing nearly nothing. Gasping, she wrenched a cover over her
virtues.

Maeve felt her forehead. “Mi lady, what happened?”

“I, eh—” She looked to the strange Matheson man, who eyed her
with intense, unwavering eyes, his arms folded. My, he was massive,
almost as massive as Finnan— Blast it! Stop dwelling on Finnan
MacLeod. “I grew light headed whilst tending my ablutions. I
couldnae remain upright, just, fainted.
But I shall be fine.”

The midwife continued her examination, checking her eyes, her skin,
her seeming lucidity, then turned to the men, speaking sharply.
“Might I do this in privacy?”

“Indeed. Come, my laird, in our haste, we forget ourselves,” Dugan

said, ushering Matheson out, who lingered for a moment, eyeing her,
then lumbered away.

Katherine shivered at his assessment. It wasn’t cold. It wasn’t warm,

either. It was calculating.

Dugan closed the door once more behind them. She exhaled. What
wretched luck to make a first impression this way!

“Is that Laird Baltair Matheson?”

Maeve nodded, though her face pinched at the question and her
tone was curt. “Indeed. Just arrived. Yer sire would rise from the
grave if he knew the man was made welcome here. Called him a
crooked trader.”

The woman pulled the ribbon tying shut her neck opening and
slackened the nightshift off her shoulders to examine her breasts, as
if this were the mundane task of making bread.

“Aye, but I cannae very well reject his suit until I ken what he’s
offering.”

“A lifetime of misery, is what he offers. A short life of misery, mind,

as his first wife would tell ye.”

Katherine sat still for the examination while the woman poked and
prodded.
“Indeed. I’m nay inclined to accept his proposal, for my heart is too
wounded still. But ’twould be rude to refuse hospitality all the
same… Mistress Maeve, I fear all this fuss is unwarranted.” She sat
up straighter. “I’m simply tired. Coping with the earl and countess’s
funerals has been trying, and I fear in my distress, I’ve eaten poorly
and slept even worse.”

“All the same, mi lady. Allow me to do a full examination.”

God save her. Maeve was an expert. She’d delivered hundreds of

babes, and very few of them—or their mothers—

had died in birth. If Katherine was carrying, the woman would know
it.

“Truly, I’m as well as can be expected. I’m simply tired.”

“Tired folk choose to lie down. Poorly folk swoon, as ye did,” the
woman said knowingly.

Katherine acceded to the woman’s commands. Maeve had a pure

and good heart, and did this job for the love of others, even if she
was hardened around the edges. If there was one

person in this whole world who wouldn’t judge her for her carnal
mistake, it was Maeve, and as a lifelong, devoted servant to the
MacKenzies, neither would Maeve divulge news of a pregnancy.

The woman then helped her lie down. She prodded Katherine’s belly.
After her silent assessment, she took her hand and gripped her arm
beneath the shoulder, helping her rise.

“All right, mi lady. I need the truth so I ken how best to serve ye.
Have ye bedded with a man?”

“Of course nay!” Katherine swallowed at the bluntness.

But her defiant chin wilted, and tell-tale blush burned her cheeks.
There was no lying to Maeve. She closed her eyes and whispered,
“Aye.”

“Laird Finnan MacLeod, mayhap?” Maeve pressed. “For all the castle
kens ye’re smitten with the man, and ye were just celebrating with
him at Braehope nay long ago.”

She conceded a nod, then her gaze shifted to her hearth.

“I know I ought to be ashamed. But we were promised and only

days away from our wedding. It was foolish, aye, and naïve of me to
believe his promises, but I truly thought nothing would go wrong.”

“Nay naïve, mi lady. Trusting.” The woman’s hard edge softened, and
she placed her palm atop Katherine’s hand. “He gave ye no
indication he was a snake in the weeds who would shift his loyalty
on a whim. Everyone believed his request for yer hand was genuine,
and that he was a good soul despite his outland upbringing. He was
wild, to be certain, but what powerful Highland warrior isnae? The
MacLeods are respected from coast to coast and their family has
been aligned with yers for more than a generation. It was a good
match, and that ye both seemed to have found a love match among
the alliance contracts was a special boon no’ many can claim.”

“There was no love match. Only the illusion of one,”

Katherine replied, more coldly than she’d spoken of Finnan before.

“For him to agree with the king so swiftly after what

happened with Lady Eleanor, he couldnae possibly have loved me.”

Maeve softened further in a rare moment of sympathy and squeezed

Katherine’s hand, stilling it, for it had begun working the fabric of her
blanket mindlessly, loosening threads.

“Mi lady—”
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 Fagerlundska oli äyskisellä ja trumantilla tuulella. Hänen surunsa
ja häpeänsä oli kovettunut vähitellen kuukauden kuluessa
»sturskiudeksi». Hän komenteli apureitaan kädet puuskassa niinkuin
suuren laivan kapteeni, ja auringonkukan siementen kuoret
pursusivat hänen suustaan niinkuin akanat viskuukoneesta hänen
antaessaan määräyksiään.

»Luuta-Jusu» hääräsi ylinnä; hänestä tuntui, niinkuin hän olisi ollut

järjestämässä joitakin suuria pitoja taikka maahanpaniaisia, ja
hautajaisethan nämä tavallaan olivatkin…

Nelipyöräisille »mööpelivaunuille» lastattiin jos jonkinlaista kojusta

otettua tavaraa. Siinä oli lavitsat ja jakkarat, priimuskyökit ja pannut;
varsinkin suurinokkainen »sumppipannu» vaikutti aika mahtavalta
vaunujen etupuolella.

Jätkät raahasivat muutamia suuria ja painavia pakkalaatikoita,

joissa oli laseja, posliinimukeja, pulloja, teevateja, lasipurkkeja,
tupakoita, tulitikkuja, kaikenlaisia täysinäisiä paperipusseja, risaisia
kirjoja, vanhoja sanomalehtiä, likaisia korttipakkoja, kynttilänpätkiä,
leipää, teepaketteja, öljylamppuja, »tiskipalju» ynnä muita tähän
talouteen kuuluvia tarvekaluja.

Fagerlundska tiuski ja komenteli ja antoi määräyksiään

olantakaisesti niinkuin vallassa oleva keisarinna. Siitä huolimatta oli
muuttajien mieliala mitä parhain, ja monta sukkeluuttakin siinä
lasketeltiin, mutta Fagerlundska pysyi ylhäisen käskevänä ja
kylmänä. Nauru ei koristanut hänen vakavia, lihavia kasvojaan.

Kun kaikki putkan tavarat oli saatu lastatuksi huonekaluvaunuille,

alkoivat miehet nostaa kojua särkyneistä tiilikivistä tehdyltä
kivijalustalta. He olivat hankkineet neljä pientä pyörää, jotka kahden
pitkän rauta-akselin avulla kiinnitettiin putkan alle. Sitten siihen lyötiin
parista rivasta tilapäiset aisat, joilla tämä »omnipussi», kuten jätkät
sitä nimittivät, kiinnitettiin muuttovaunujen perään.

Kun koju nostettiin paikoiltaan, juoksi sen alta muutamia rottia,

jotka olivat tehneet sinne pesänsä. Syntyi hirvittävän raju ja äänekäs
rottajahti kesken kaiken. Tiilikiviä heiteltiin niiden päälle, huudettiin ja
meluttiin. Taistelutantereelle jäi kaksi ruumista, toiset pääsivät
pakoon erään lähellä olevan talon kellariin.

Nyt oli Fagerlundska valmis lähtöön. Hän istuutui muuttovaunujen

etupuolella olevalle pakkalaatikolle ja piteli sylissään pientä,
harvalehtistä fiikusta, joka kojun hämärässä oli käynyt
kitukasvuiseksi. Muuttojoukko lähti liikkeelle, »mööpelivaunut» edellä
ja koju epävarmoilla pyörillään huojuen ja keikkuen perässä pitäen
pahaa räminää.

Märkää lumiräntää satoi Fagerlundskan silmille, kun hän istui siinä

tavaroittensa keskellä. Hänen keinotekoinen jäykkyytensä alkoi
sulaa, niinkuin alastuleva lumi, ja hänen mielensä herkistyi niin
surullisen haikeaksi.

Ajettiin pikkuhiljaa läpi kaupungin, Söörnäisiin vievä Viertotie

päämääränä, ja jota pitemmälle matka kului, sitä raskaammaksi kävi
Fagerlundskan sydän, kun hän tässä tärkeässä elämänsä
käännekohdassa ajatteli menneitä vuosia…

Nuorena, ihan liiankin nuorena, hän oli joutunut naimisiin parturi

Oscar Fagerlundin kanssa, mutta liian lyhyitä olivat onnen kuukaudet
olleet. Fagerlund oli tienannut paljon, mutta vielä enemmän hän oli
hävittänyt juopotteluun ja kortinpeluuseen. Vuodesta toiseen oli
sentään rähjätty, ja kokonaista seitsemän lasta hänellä oli ollut. Nyt
niistä enää oli elossa vain nuorin poika, muut olivat lapsena kuolleet,
ja Alvar-raasukin istui nyt Hakolassa varkaudesta…

Siihen aikaan kun heillä oli ollut oma parturinliike, olivat asiat olleet
hiukan paremmin, mutta Fagerlundin hulttiomaisuuden takia oli liike
lopuksi mennyt »nuijan alle», ja siitä se kurjuus sitten oli oikein
alkanut… Fagerlundskaa itketti, kun hän ajatteli kaikkia
kärsimyksiensä vuosia. Hän pyyhki vyöliinallaan räntää kasvoiltansa,
mutta taisi siinä samassa joku kyynelkin kuivua…

Vaunu huojui edelleen, ja Fagerlundska jatkoi ajatuksiaan »Luuta-

Jusun» juostessa siinä sivulla koetellen aina vähän väliä saada
keskustelua käymään.

… Kun Fagerlund vihdoin oli kuollut nautittuansa liian paljon

»hiuskonjakkia», oli hän leskenä alkanut elättää itseänsä ja ainutta
lastansa kahviputkan pidolla. Ja hyvin asiat olivatkin käyneet, Alvar
vain vuosi vuodelta oli käynyt pahantapaisemmaksi, ja vihdoin se
raukka oli tehnyt sellaisia kolttosia, että oli joutunut linnaan…
Fagerlundska niisti tässä nenäänsä vyöliinaansa oikein
perinpohjaisesti.

Kulkue oli jo saapunut Viertotielle, ja Fagerlundskan mielenkiinto

heräsi, kun hän näki ensimmäisen tien varrella olevan kahviputkan.
— Siinä se »Ruiku-Leenankin» putka vaan näkyy kököttävän.
Mahtaakohan sen koju-rähjä kannattaa? — ajatteli hän verraten
katseillaan »Ruiku-Leenan» ja oman kojunsa ulkomuotoa. Mutta
kohdalle tullen hän jäykisti kasvonsa, kohensi ryhtiään eikä katsonut
sinnepäinkään.

Verkalleen jolui muuttojono kaupungin tullia kohti, ja Fagerlundska

itki ääneen peittäen pöhöttyneitä kasvojaan esiliinaansa…
VANHA SAUNA

Oli ankara helmikuun pakkas-ilta. Lääketieteen ylioppilas Niilo Ottelin

oli istunut useampia tunteja yhteen rupeamaan lueskellen
luonnontieteellistä kirjaa, joka käsitteli suolenpiin hiussuoniverkkoja.
Aine tuntui hänestä ikävältä ja joutavalta.

Hän veti pitkän haukotuksen ja katsahti taas ulos akkunasta, kuten

hän jo useampaan kertaan oli tehnyt siinä pikkuhiljaa lueskellessaan.
Kadun toisella puolella, aivan hänen akkunaansa vastapäätä, oli
elävienkuvienteatteri, jonka erivärisistä sähkölampuista muodostettu
otsikkokirjoitus »Koko maailma» loisti pimeydessä niinkuin
Belsazarin pitojen tulikirjoitus.

Tämä Söörnäisissä oleva elävienkuvienteatteri oli ainoa, jossa

ylioppilas Ottelin kävi, sillä hän kuului niihin ihmisiin, jotka
löydettyänsä jonkun mieleisensä paikan, oli se sitten teatteri,
ruokala, asunto taikka jokin muu sellainen, eivät sen jälkeen osaa
käyttää toisia.

Ihmisiä meni ja tuli, ja yht'äkkiä ylioppilas Ottelin huomasi, että

huone, jossa hän istui, alkoi taas antaa hänelle iltaisin huomattavaa
päänsärkyä. Hän lopetti lukunsa, paiskasi kirjan kiinni, niin että tomu
pölähti, ja syöksyi kadulle mennäksensä »Koko maailmaan».

Siellä hän katseli ihanaa etelämaalaista rakkausfilmiä, joka

rullaltaan vierien suristen kehräsi hänen silmiensä eteen kauniita
kuvia. — Nuori, häämatkalla oleva pari oli Venetsian Lidolla uimassa.
Aurinko paistoi häikäiseväsi, vesi lainehti ja kimalteli. Niilo Ottelinin
valtasi vastustamaton halu lähteä heti »kuvista» tultuaan saunaan.

»Tohtori» Ottelin oli pienestä maaseutukaupungista kotoisin. Hän

oli kasvanut vaatimattomissa oloissa eikä hän tahtonut millään oppia
elämään niin leveästi kuin useimmat hänen tovereistaan. Mikään
varakas hän ei ollut, mutta ei niin köyhäkään, että hänen olisi ollut
pakko sen tähden asua Söörnäisissä. Häntä miellyttivät pienet
rakennukset ja ahtaat kadut, ja siksi hän oli asettunut asumaan
tähän köyhälistön kaupunginosaan.

Kauan hän oli saanut hakea mieleistänsä saunaa, sillä komeat,

uudenaikaiset saunakasarmit marmorisine pesulavitsoineen,
höyrykaappeineen ja muine mukavuuksineen eivät miellyttäneet
häntä. Ne olivat epäkodikkaita, ja siinä suhteessa hänellä oli suuret
vaatimukset.

Lukemattomat olivat ne pienet saunapahaset, joissa hän oli

kylpenyt, mutta ei yksikään ollut tyydyttänyt hänen vaatimuksiaan.
Missä oli kiuas liian hatara ja löyly sen mukaan hikistä ja laimeata,
missä taasen oli liian kylmä ja vetoinen pukuhuone, jota hän
tulevana hermolääkärinä ei voinut hyväksyä.

Mutta löytyipä vihdoinkin aivan sattumalta, kuten useimmiten

kaikki hyvä, tässä suuressa kaupungissa yksi sauna, joka sai armon
»tohtori» Ottelinin silmissä. Kulkiessaan kaupungilla hän oli nähnyt
eräällä rantakaduille vievällä poikkikadulla ränsistyneen puuportin,
jonka päällystää kaunisti puuleikkauksilla koristettu lehtikiehkura, ja
sen alla oli kömpelösti maalattu kyltti: Sauna. »Tohtori» Ottelin
puikahti heti portista pihalle ja hämmästyi löytöään…

Korkeitten kivimuurien ympäröimässä, harvinaisen suuressa

pihassa oli villiintynyt puisto, jonka keskessä oli pieni, harmaaksi
rapattu, vino rakennus suurien pihlajoiden ympäröimänä. Sauna,
oikein vanhaa, hyvää mallia. Tämän yksikerroksisen rakennuksen
tiilikatto kasvoi sammalta, seinävieret olivat taikinamarjapensaiden
peittämät, ja saunan akkunat olivat pienet ja vinot niinkuin jonkin
maalaistöllin lasit.

»Tohtori» Ottelin astui uteliaana ylös portaita, jotka olivat tehdyt

parista myllynkiven puolikkaasta. Kun hän avasi oven, tulvehti heti
tulijaa vastaan tiivis, kostea lämpö, jossa »tohtori» oli tuntevinaan
koivunlehtien suloista tuoksua. Holvikattoinen käytävä, jonka
kummallakin puolella oli muutamia pieniä, numeroituja ovia,
kaareutui tunnelmallisena niinkuin pienen maalaiskirkon katto.

Pukuhuoneessa kului häneltä paljon aikaa sen tutkimiseen. Sekin

oli holvikattoinen ja matala. Harmahtavaksi maalatuissa seinissä ja
katossa heijasteli kostea kiilto niinkuin itkua teettelevän naisen
silmissä. Vaikka ulkona olikin täysi päivä, paloi katossa pieni
öljylamppu lisäten kodikasta tunnelmaa haalistuneiden
karttuuniuutimien läpi siivilöityvän, niukan päivänvalon kanssa.

Ottelin istuutui leposohvalle, joka muistutti muodoltaan Napoleonin

aikuisia empire-sohvia. Hän kohotti karheata peitelakanaa ja
huomasi, että sohva oli mahonkia ja saattoi polveutua jostain
varakkaasta kodista, vaikka se aikansa palveltuaan vihdoin oli
alennettu tähän ympäristöön.
 Hän riisuutui hitaasti, tarkasteli huoneen muitakin nähtävyyksiä, ja
joka paikasta huokuivat häntä vastaan vanhojen esineiden kuvitellut
tarinat. Hän kotiutui tuossa tuokiossa ympäristöönsä ja oli jo miltei
lopullisesti päättänyt rupeavansa tämän kylpylän vakituiseksi
vieraaksi, kun ovelle koputettiin ja saunoittaja kutsui häntä kylpyyn.

Ensi työkseen hän kysyi saunoittajan nimeä ja saatuaan kuulla,

että se oli Mimmi, hän arvosteli kriitillisenä, sopiko Mimmi tälle
vanhalle, laihahkolle saunoittajalle nimeksi.

— Vai Mimmi, sehän sopii, — sanoi hän ääneen ikäänkuin jatkoksi

omille ajatuksilleen ja astui saunaan.

Se sitten oli kodikas ja mukava »kamurkka», pieni ja sumuinen.

Tummat, miltei lahot puuportaat johtivat lavolle, jonka penkki oli kaita
kuin silityslauta. Hän oikaisi itsensä lauteille ja katseli selällään
maaten holvikatossa liikkuvia vesipisaroita. Niin ne siinä pikkuhiljaa
ikäänkuin laskettelivat mäkeä toinen toistansa takaa-ajaen ja
yhdyttyänsä suureksi vesipisaraksi tippuivat somasti nolpahdellen
alas lauteille ja hänen päällensä.

Seinällä paloi kituvaloinen öljylamppu, jonka liekki aina löylyä

lisättäessä pieneni arveluttavasta mutta toipui kuitenkin taas kotvan
kuluttua. Ammeeseen juokseva vesi pauhasi kuin pieni koski, ja
kiuas, jonka päällä vihta oli räytymässä levittäen suloista
juhannustuoksuaan, kähähti aina löylyä lyötäessä kuin villikissa.

»Tohtorista» tuntui olo oikein mukavalta; suloinen raukeus souti

hänen suonissaan, eikä hän malttanut olla hiukan laulamatta siellä
kelliessään.
 — Eikös herra tiedä, ettei saunassa passaa hoilata, — sanoi
Mimmi nuhdellen.

— Jaa mikä ettei?

— No, kun haltia siitä säikkyy…

— Eikö muuta, sen vanhan jutun minä kyllä tiedän.

— No miksikäs herra sitten hoilaa?

— Minä olen löylynlyömä.

Molemmat purskahtivat nauramaan, ja siitä hetkestä he tulivat

hyviksi ystäviksi. Kun löylyt oli otettu ja tarpeeksi vihdottu, alkoi
peseminen alhaalla olevalla lavitsalla, joka vapisi kuin lankavyyhti
tuulessa. Siinä pestessä kävi juttuaminen. »Tohtori» kyseli, ja Mimmi
selitti minkä kerkesi.

Kolmekymmentä vuotta hän oli tätä ammattia harjoittanut, ja

vaikka se väliin »otti luille», niin että lihat olivat lohjeta, tuntui se
kumminkin koko joukon mukavammalta ja »metkemmalta» kuin
pyykinpesu.

Kahdeksantoistavuotiaana maalaistyttönä hän oli työnhaussa tullut

kaupunkiin ja joutunut heti tälle alalle. Siitä pitäen hän oli sitten
kylvettänyt ihmisiä vuodesta vuoteen yhteen menoon. Täällä
saunassa sitä sitten näki yhtä ja toista, näki ihmiset oikein täydessä
alastomuudessaan sanan joka merkityksessä.

Monet kylpyvieraat, jotka astuivat kadulta pukuhuoneeseen

koreina ja hepeneissään, vasta täällä näyttivät oman hienoutensa
valheen. Auta armias varsinkin niitä naisenpuolisia! Niin nainen kuin
hän olikin, täytyi hänen rehellisenä ihmisenä silti myöntää, että ne ne
sitten vasta saattoivat olla oikeita pintapuolisuuden »mönstereitä».
Niin kauheita alusvaatteita ei olisi luullut niin »fiinillä» ihmisellä
olevankaan, ellei omin silmin olisi niitä saanut katsella, ja sillä
»ootekolonkilla» ne monet koettivat asioitansa »petrata», mutta
auttoikos se…

Ja niitä rasvaisia puheita sitten, joita varsinkin herrat kehtasivat

pitää… Eivät ne liikoja kursailleet tai hävenneet. Saunoittajalle kait
sai syytää suustaan mitä moskaa vaan, sillä olihan sauna yleinen
puhdistuslaitos ja kait siellä täytyi saada likaiset ajatuksensakin
ruumiinsa ohella puhdistaa. Mikäs hänen auttoi, täytyi kuunnella vain
ja aina siihen väliin vielä jotakin tokaistakin, jos tahtoi saada
kunnolliset juomarahat, ja juomarahojenhan varassa täällä elettiin.
Mutta kyllä hän vaan usein ajatteli, että löylynlyömiä nuo
heikkohermoiset ihmiset vissisti olivat, sillä eivät suinkaan ne muuten
olisi arvanneet niin höyniä puhua…

Päätä häneltä sitten kysyttiin, ei siinä löyly saanut liikoja vaikuttaa,

kestä ja kärsi vaan. Tämä oli sitten sitä oikeata helvetin esimakua,
niin että kyllä hän vissisti oli jo täällä maan päällä tottunut
kuumuuteen, jotta kait hän kuoltuaan pääsee vähän vilpoisempaan
paikkaan, vaikk'ei muuta niin vaihteen vuoksi, sillä rehellisesti ja
kunniallisesti hän työnsä oli hoitanut.

Tulla joka jumalan aamu ensin saunaa lämmittämään ja

siivoamaan ja alkaa sitten kello kahdelta tuo jokapäiväinen ihmisten
»tiskaaminen». Kyllä siinä vaan oli touhua ja puuhaa. Ja
kaikensorttisia ihmisiä sitä saikin hangata. Oli lihavia kuin jauhosäkki
ja laihoja kuin luukantele, tavallisia ja epätavallisia, ja olipa hän
pessyt pari neekeriäkin, ihan oli tupannut ylenannattamaan niitä
hangatessa, eikä niistä valkoista saanut millään. Kerran hän oli
pessyt sirkuksen jättiläisen, joka oli suuri kuin kaksi miestä, ja
»tupla» juomarahat se oli kouraan tupannut sanoen nauraen, että
olihan hänessä pesemistäkin kahden edestä.

Muuten kyllä suuret ja lihavat olisivatkin saaneet antaa

juomarahoja vähän enemmän. Ei hän nyt sitä työtänsä niin suureksi
laskenut, mutta kun täytyi itse pitää itsensä saippuassakin, niin niihin
suuriin rohjoihin kului sitäkin lyyristä tavaraa niin loputtomasti…

Äkkiä »tohtori» Ottelin keskeytti Mimmin sanatulvan, sillä hän

huomasi, että pitkin lavolle johtavaa kaidepuuta juoksi jono torakoita.

— Vai on täällä tuotakin lajia, — kysyi hän nauraen.

— No onhan toki, kuinkas muuten, eihän tämä olisikaan mikään

oikea, vanha sauna ilman niitä, — sanoi Mimmi rauhallisena.

— Älkääs huoliko, ensi kerralla minä tuon niille oikein suuren ja

komean kuningattaren, — sanoi Ottelin astuessaan kuhmuiseen
metalliammeeseen.

Kun kylpeminen oli suoritettu, antoi herra Ottelin Mimmille hyvät

juomarahat ja sanoipa vielä nimensäkin ja ammattinsa.

— Kiitoksia, paljon kiitoksia, tohtori tulee nyt vaan pian takaisin, —

sanoi Mimmi hyvillään hyvästellessään.

Seuraavalla kerralla »tohtori» toi lasipurkissa Töölön

sokeritehtaalta saamansa peukalonkokoisen elävän sokeritorakan
jättäen sen saunan hyönteismaailman kuningattareksi ja risti sen
Anna-Liisaksi, sillä häntä huvitti toisinaan tehdä pientä viatonta pilaa.
 — Voi, voi niitä herrain konsteja, — sanoi Mimmi nauraen, sillä
häntäkin huvitti tämä pieni kuje.

— Mimmi muistaa nyt vaan antaa Anna-Liisalle hiukan sokeria,

muuten se kuolee, — varoitteli »tohtori» mennessään.

— Kyllä minä, paljon kiitoksia vaan, hyvästä…

*****

Parin vuoden aikana kävi »tohtori» Ottelin säännöllisesti tässä

vanhassa saunassa ja muisti joka kerta kysyä Anna-Liisan vointia.
Ja hyvin se näkyi viihtyvänkin tässä kuumassa, kosteassa ilmassa.
Kun Mimmi asetti sokeripalan akkunalaudalle, jossa se kosteuden
vaikutuksesta alkoi sulaa, ilmestyi aina jonkun ajan kuluttua siihen
Anna-Liisa syöden rauhallisesti, ellei sitä häiritty.

Kerran se oli pari päivää kadoksissa, ja Mimmi oli oikein levoton

sen kohtalosta, sillä paljon iloa ja hupia oli hänellä ja kylpyvierailla
ollut kuningatar Anna-Liisasta. Mutta sitten se taas ilmaantui ja oli
nälkäinen kuin susi.

Enemmän kuin Anna-Liisaan oli Mimmi kuitenkin kiintynyt vanhaan

saunaansa, jossa hän oli työskennellyt miltei koko kaupungissa
olonsa ajan. Oli hänelle tarjottu paikkaa muissakin saunoissa, mutta
aina hän vain oli kieltäytynyt, sillä hän oli tohtorini kanssa yhtä mieltä
siinä, että tällainen tuli oikean saunan olla ja että eivät ne uudet
saunat hienoudessaan passanneetkaan kaikille ihmisille.

Kolmas sotavuosi oli kulumassa, ja Mimminkin olo ja elämä alkoi

käydä tukalammaksi, kun se saippuakin niin hirvittävästi kallistui.
Mutta siitä kahvisokerista vasta oikea pula nousi. Kaffeeta hän
tarvitsi, vaikka sitten olisi ollut syömättäkin, mutta se sokeri, se
sokeri…

Vähäisestä annoksestaan hän kuitenkin koetti aina antaa silloin

tällöin Anna-Liisallekin pienen murusen, mutta vähitellen sokeri
loppui häneltä aina kesken kuun, ja vihdoin Anna-Liisa kuoli.

Kun »tohtori» Ottelin eräänä iltana saapui saunaan, kysyi hän

tapansa mukaan Anna-Liisaa.

— Vainaja, kun sokeri loppui, — sanoi Mimmi hymähtäen. — Ja

pian kait me kaikki kuolemme nälkään.

— Anna-Liisa taisi olla ensimmäinen suursodan uhri kotoisella

pohjalla, — sanoi »tohtori» nauraen.

— Mutta ei viimeinen. Samaa tietä minäkin tästä kohta menen

perässä.

— Ei suinkaan suru nyt niin kovalle ottane, ja eläähän ihminen

täällä saunassa ilman sokeriakin.

— Mutta kun sauna otetaan pois, — sanoi Mimmi alakuloisena.

— Mitä, poisko? — kysyi »tohtori» levottomana.

— Niin, eräs »kulassi» kuuluu ostaneen koko tontin, eikä suinkaan

se rupea pitämään tällaista saunarähjää…

Syntyi hetken vaitiolo. Ammeeseen valuva vesi kohisi

yksitoikkoisesti, sumupilvet leijailivat katossa, ja seinällä palava
lamppu valaisi huonetta heikosti. Mimmi pesi äänetönnä ja huokaili
tuon tuostakin. Pukuhuoneessa sanoi »tohtori» vihdoin:
 — Sitäköhän sen Anna-Liisan kuolema oli ennustavinaan, että
tämä on sitten niinkuin viimeistä edellinen saunareisu… Vai
gulashi..?

— Niin, vaikkapa olisi ihan viimeinen, — huokasi Mimmi

merkitsevästi.

— Eihän toki, vielä tässä ainakin otetaan yhdet hyvät erolöylyt.

— Jaa, kattotaan nyt sitten…

Mieli masentuneena lähti Ottelin saunasta, nosti päällysnuttunsa

karvakauluksen ja istuutui saunan iljanteisille rappusille. Vanhan
saunan katolla olevat lumet olivat jo sen verran sulaneet saunasta
tulevan lämmön ja maaliskuunauringon vaikutuksesta, että pitkien
jääkynttilöiden rivi koristi räystäitä.

Suloinen raukeus sykki hänen suonissaan, kun hän istui siinä

kuulakkaassa illassa katsellen kahden korkean kivimuurin lomassa
näkyvää auringonlaskua ja hengitti vuoroin saunasta tulevaa
kosteata höyryä ja kevätenteistä raitista ilmaa…

Hän istui siinä kauan ja mietti väsähtäneesti elämän menoa ja

kaiken katoavaisuutta. Vihdoin vilu alkoi puistattaa hänen jäseniään,
hän nousi, sulki päällysnuttunsa huolellisemmin ja lähti kaihoisasti
silmillänsä hyväillen vanhaa saunaa ulos portista…

Kun Ottelin viikon kuluttua saapui vanhalle saunalle ottaakseen

jäähyväislöylyt, jäi hän hämmästyneenä tuijottamaan autiolle
pihamaalle. Saunasta ei ollut muuta jäljellä kuin tulen ja savun
mustuttamat seinät. Katto oli pudonnut sisään, ja lasittomat,
mustapieliset akkunareiät tuijottivat aavemaisesti häneen. Saunan
lähettyvillä olevat pihlajat olivat pahasti palaneet ja mustuneet.

— Siis tulipalo, — ajatteli hän katsellessaan vanhan saunan

hiiltyneitä raunioita. — Olikohan tapahtunut jokin onnettomuus, oliko
vanha kiuas pettänyt?

Yht'äkkiä välähti hänen mieleensä kummallinen ajatus, kun hän

muisti
Mimmin salaperäisen puheen viime käynniltään.

— Olikohan vanha Mimmi kostanut…? Oliko hän ehkä siten

tahtonut pelastaa saunansa polttamalla sen kuin rakkaan vainajan
ruumiin…? Vai olikohan se sittenkin vahinko…?

Näitä aatoksia hautoen katseli Ottelin kotvan palaneen saunan

raunioita ja poistui vihdoin verkalleen, sydänalassa outo tyhjyyden
tunne…
OTTILIA SILFVERBÄCK

Vanha neiti Ottilia Silfverbäck istui kymmenhuoneisen huoneistonsa

kaikkein pienimmässä kamarissa. Päivällisen jälkeen hän oli
vetäytynyt tapansa mukaan tähän vanhojen muistojensa ja jo
ammoin kuolleitten suurtoiveittensa hämärään pyhättöön.

Hän oli sulkenut ovensa lukkoon oikein huolellisesti, ettei vaan

kukaan voisi häntä häiriten yllättää, sillä hän oli tänään tehnyt
tavanmukaisen kuukausilopputilinsä, ja tässä tärkeässä tehtävässä
ei kukaan saanut häntä häiritä.

Hän huokasi syvään, pudisti huolestuneena

kahdeksankymmenenkolmen vuoden ikäistä päätänsä, jonka
harvenneita, harmaita hiuksia peitti päälaella mustista pitseistä tehty
pieni päähine. Sitten hän asetti laihalle, kaarevalle nenällensä
kultasankaisten silmälasiensa lisäksi kultaiset pincenez'nsä sekä
sytytettyään väkevän Bergströmin »Kaukasia» paperossin tarkasteli
vielä kerran huolellisesti suurennuslasin avulla tilikirjojansa…

Huolimatta siitä, että tilikirjat vanhan arvioinnin mukaan osoittivat

hänen omaisuutensa osakkeissa, rahoissa ja kaupungintalossa,
jonka hän sisarustensa kanssa omisti, olevan miljoona
kahdeksansataatuhatta, tuntui hänestä, että hän kuitenkin tulisi
kuolemaan vaivaistalolla, sillä tänään oli hänelle kaupungin puolelta
tapahtunut huutava vääryys, jaa, oikea hävyttömyys. Kaupungin
maistraatti oli näet kehdannut huomauttaa hänelle, että hänen
monien määräysten jälkeen sakon uhalla vihdoinkin täytyi korjauttaa
katuosa, joka oli hänen kulmatalonsa kohdalla, sillä ne väittivät, että
katu tällä kohtaa oli kerrassaan liikenteelle sopimattomassa
kunnossa.

— Kamppailu olemassaolosta käy päivä päivältä vaikeammaksi,

— huokasi hän puoliääneen. — Minun kotini on vielä varmasti oleva
vaivaistalo, sillä ensimmäiset kahdeksankymmentä vuotta kuluivat
jotenkuten, mutta nyt, nyt on elämä vallan mahdotonta. Nuorempana
olin varma siitä, että minä tästä syntymätalostani, autuaasti
nukkuneen Gustaf Vilhelmin talosta, lähtisin viimeiselle matkalleni,
mutta nyt se tuntuu epätietoiselta. Äh, tämä on todella kauheata…

Köyhyyden ja alennuksen kauhea ajatus aivan pöyristytti häntä ja

sai hänen laihat, luisevat olkapäänsä hermostuneesti
nytkähtelemään. Hän laski laihan, kallisarvoisten jalokivisormusten
koristaman ylhäisen kätensä tilikirjalle ja vaipui mietteisiinsä.

Koko ikänsä hän oli asunut tässä vanhassa, yksikerroksisessa

puutalossa, joka nykyjään oli kaupungin keskustassa ja — kuten
nykyajan ihmiset sanoivat — parhaimmalla liikepaikalla. Paitsi lyhyttä
Ruotsinmatkansa aikaa ei hän ollut asunut muualla kuin tässä
talossa. Heidän vanhalla maatilallaan Uudellamaalla ei hän viihtynyt,
sillä maalaiselämä oli hänestä kovin yksitoikkoista ja vaivalloista, ja
siksipä hän olikin viettänyt useimmat vuotensa kesät talvet
kaupungissa.
 Ja nyt, tänä kalliina aikana, vaati kaupungin maistraatti häntä
korjauttamaan talon kohdalla olevaa katua. Jospa talon tontti olisi
edes ollut pienempi, mutta ollen kulmatalo oli sen katuosuus niin
hirvittävän pitkä… Ja mistä hän nyt saisi varoja ja työväkeä sen
korjaamiseen näinä lakkojen ja inhoittavien temmellysten aikoina…

Aivan varmaan hän vielä tuli kuolemaan rutiköyhänä. Hänen

kuolemaansa odottavat lukuisat sukulaiset saisivat varmasti vain
rahanmenoa hänen hautaamisestaan. Toiselta puolen hän nautti
tästä ajatuksesta, sillä se olisi ollut oikein niille ahneille ja
hävyttömille sukulaisille, mutta samalla se olisi ollut hänelle itselleen
niin hirvittävän suuri häpeä, ettei hän oikein kehtaisi kuollakaan…
Niin, varmasti hän kuolee köyhänä, mutta hänen oli koetettava
välttää tätä häpeällistä kohtaloa ja ansaita keinoilla millä hyvänsä…

Ottilia Silfverbäck ajatteli niinkuin yleensä useimmat vanhat, että

elämä maksaa. Sen he ovat oppineet pitkän elämänsä taipaleella.
He luulevat elävänsä loppumattomiin ja he tietävät myöskin mikä
voima rahalla on; siksi heidän köyhyydenpelkonsa ja tuskansa on
niin kammottavan suuri ja tosi, siksi he vanhemmiten muuttuvat niin
itaroiksi.

Ovea jyskytettiin rajusti, Ottilia Silfverbäck hätkähti, heitti pois jo

sammuneen paperossinsa sekä piilotti hätäisesti tilikirjansa pienen,
mahonkisen kirjoituspöytänsä »klaffiin».

— Minä tulen, tulenhan minä, minä avaan, älkää nyt Herran

tähden hakatko hajalle minun omaa, kallista oveani, — puhui hän
hätääntyneestä Sitten hän sytytti uuden paperossin ja väänsi lukon
auki. Huoneeseen syöksähti kaksi lasta.
 — Täti, täti! — huusivat lapset yhteen ääneen. — Onko täti
aatelia?
Tuolla pihalla talonmiehen Helmi sanoi, että täti ei ole aatelia.

Ottilia Silfverbäckin kasvot muuttuivat ylhäisen jäykiksi, kun hän

nuhtelevalla, vihasta värisevällä äänellä sanoi:

— Voi rakkaat lapset, ettekö te tietäneet sanoa, että täti on

enemmän kuin aatelia, täti on vapaaherrallista sukua N:o 157.
Oppikaa nyt Herran nimessä se, te suvuttomat vekarat.

Hän kohotti kuihtunutta, kyyryistä vartaloaan ja loi lapsiin samalla

kertaa sekä säälivän että halveksivan, ylhäisen katseen.

Lapset purskahtivat nauruun ja juoksivat meluten ulos, sillä tämä

oli jo viides kerta tänään, kun he olivat tehneet tädillensä saman
kysymyksen, ja joka kerta oli täti ollut yhtä järkytetty.

Ottilia Silfverbäck tuli huoneestaan kiihtyneessä mielentilassa ja

tapasi sisarensa Auroren ja Augusten heidän suuressa salissansa.
Tämä sali oli aikoinansa ollut kaupungin kauneimpia. Se oli
kulmahuone, ja kaksi sen neljästä akkunasta antoi toiselle ja kaksi
toiselle kadulle. Lattia oli maalattu neliöille jäljitellen tammilattiaa, ja
sen kulunut pinta hohti joka-aamuisesta pyyhkimisestä ja
öljyämisestä niinkuin yön vanha, lumeton jää. Pitkin seiniä oli kolme
mahonkista sohvaa, sellaisia, joita Goethen kodissa Weimarissa
sanottiin olevan, ja sohvien edessä oli kaunisjalkaiset
mahonkipöydät, joiden päällä käsinvirkatut pitsiliinat mutkikkaine
kuvioineen loivat pöydän punaista pintaa vasten kuvan
vastasataneesta lumesta, jolla linnut ovat temmeltäneet jättäen
siihen mitä ihmeellisimpiä jalanjälkiä. Kolme vanhaa, mahtavaa
palmua levitteli suuria kämmeniään punertavilla
mahonkijalustoillaan, akkunoiden välissä kertasivat lattiasta kattoon
ulottuvat suuret peilit salin sisustaa, ja katossa riippui sadoista
kristalleista kimaltava suuri empiretyylinen kruunu palamattomine,
kellastuneine kynttilöineen.

Ottilia astui varovaisesti punavalkoista kesämattoa myöten, ettei

vaan olisi kuluttanut permannon herkkää vahausta. Hän oli ankaran
mielenliikutuksen vallassa, mutta koetti kuitenkin hillitä itseänsä,
niinkuin hänen vapaaherrallinen kasvatuksensa häneltä vaati. Hän
istuutui peremmällä olevaan nojatuoliin, jonka selustaa koristi
virkattu valkoliina, pyyhki kasvojansa näennäisesti rauhallisena
hienoon pitsireunustaiseen silkkinenäliinaansa, jonka kulmassa
hänen nimikirjaimensa upeilivat vapaaherrallisen kruunun alla ja joka
levitti huoneeseen mietoa orvokin, hyljätyn lemmen, kesäistä
tuoksua.

— On kerrassaan sopimatonta, että sinä, Auguste, et ole voinut

antaa niille papinlapsillesi edes sen vertaa kasvatusta, että ne
tietäisivät vastata talonmiehen tytölle tämän kysyessä, että meidän
sukumme on aatelia, jaa, enemmän kuin aatelia, mehän ollaan
vapaaherrallista sukua N:o 157… Vaikka mitäpä ne tietäisivät, nehän
ovat aatelittoman papin lapsia, ja sinun vertasi, Auguste, ei niissä
näy olevan pisaraakaan…

Hän lopetti hetkiseksi sanatulvansa ja sytytti sammuneen,

halpahintaisen paperossinsa, jonka väkevästä tuoksusta sisaret niin
sanomattomasti kärsivät, mutta jota ikävää tapaa he eivät
uskaltaneet häneltä kieltää. Auguste koetti heikosti mutista jotain
väliin selitykseksi, mutta tuntien vanhemman sisarensa sekä tavat
että tahdon hän keskeytti lauseensa jo yritykseen ja vaikeni nöyrästi.
 — Niin, — jatkoi Ottilia kiihtyneemmin, — enkö minä sanonut
sinulle, Aurore, ja autuaasti nukkuneelle sisarellemme Minettelle,
että sinun avioliittosi, Auguste, oli täydellinen mésalliance… Ah,
minä vieläkin punastun häpeästä muistellessani sitä kauheata juttua.
— Hän huokasi syvään, löi käsillänsä kuihtuneita, korkean kureliivin
pönkittämiä rintojansa ja jatkoi:

— Auguste, eikö se ollut kauheata, tunnusta, eikö…? Mehän

olimme kaikki neljä luvanneet autuaasti nukkuneelle isällemme jäädä
neitseiksi, mutta sinä, sinä petit isän ja meidät. Enkö minä silloin
sanonut, kun sinä ilmoitit Aurorelle, Minettelle ja minulle sen
kauhean asian, että sinä olet kihloissa yhden savuttoman papin
kanssa, että, se on skandaali koko meidän suvullemme… Jaa,
kuinka minä sanoinkaan…?

Aurore ehätti innostuneena vanhan muisteloissa väliin.

— Näinhän sinä sanoit, Ottilia, juuri näin… Mene sinä Auguste

vaan pappisi luo, mutta me olemme aatelia, me…

— Niinhän minä sanoin, — keskeytti Ottilia kiihkoisasti, — juuri

niin, ja sen minä sanon vieläkin. Mitä ovat Pärnäset, Pärnäset…?
Onko koskaan kuultu kauheampaa nimeä, rouva Pärnänen…? Enkä
minä silloinkaan erehtynyt, senhän osoittaa ja todistaa nykyisyyskin,
sinun kauheat lapsesi, ne pikku Pärnäset…

— Mutta rakas Ottilia, — keskeytti Auguste.

— Ei mitään mutta, ei, ei, ei… siitä ei kannata puhua, ja olenhan

minä jo antanut sinulle sen anteeksi, mutta kun ne sinun
Pärnäsesi… Ah, se oli niin suuri, niin kauhea skandaali…