"Aye," replied Diarmot. "I introduced her. She seems at ease with the matter.
Her father wasnae too happy at first, nay until he realized the only legitimate one was wee Alice. Once assured that any son his daughter bears me will be my heir, he calmed down."
"There willnae be what Connor and Gilly have, will there?" Nanty asked, his tone of voice indicating that he already knew the answer to the question.
"Nay," Diarmot replied quietly. "I thought I had found that with Anabelle, but twas naught but a curse. Nay every mon can be blessed with what Connor has, but then no mon deserves it more." Both his brothers grunted in agreement. "I now seek peace, contentment."
He ignored the looks his brothers exchanged which carried a strong hint of pity. Since he was occasionally prone to feeling the pinch of it for himself, he did not really need theirs. It was time, however, to set his life back on course. He had drifted for too long after the debacle of his marriage to Anabelle, descending into debauchery and drunkenness which had left him with a houseful of children, only one of whom was legitimate by law even if he was not certain that little Alice was truly his child. Then, as he had finally begun to come to his senses, he had been attacked and left for dead. The months needed to heal had given him far too much time to think. That had led to the coming marriage to sweet, shy, biddable Margaret Campbell. It was the right step to take, he told himself firmly.
It was late before he got a chance to talk privately with Connor. Diarmot had almost avoided the meeting he had craved earlier, for the looks Connor and Gilly had exchanged while dining with Margaret and her family had not been encouraging. It was possible Connor might try to talk him out of the marriage and Diarmot feared he was too uncertain of himself to resist such persuasion. As they settled in chairs set before the fireplace in his bedchamber, Diarmot eyed his elder brother warily as they sipped their wine.
"Are ye certain about this, Diarmot?" Connor finally asked. "There doesnae seem to be much to the lass."
"Nay, there isnae," Diarmot agreed, "but that is what I want now."
"Are ye being prompted by your injuries, by that loss of memory?"
"My injuries are mostly healed. And, aye, my memories are still sadly rattled with a few unsettling blank spots remaining from just before and just after the attack upon me. But, those things have naught to do with this." He sighed and sipped his wine. "Not every mon has the luck ye have had in finding Gillyanne. I tried and I failed, dramatically and miserably. Now I seek peace, a woman to care for my home, my bairns, and to share my bed when I am in the mood. Nay more."
"Then why did ye wish to speak to me?"
"Weel, I havenae seen ye for months," Diarmot began, then grimaced when Connor just stared at him with wry amusement. "I think, like some foolish boy, I wanted ye to say this is right, to give your approval."
Connor nodded. "But ye arenae a small boy any longer. Ye are the only one who can say if this is right or not."
"Ye arenae going to give me your opinion, are ye."
"I am nay sure ye want to hear it," Connor drawled. "Also nay sure what ye want my opinion on. By all the rules, ye have arranged yourself a good marriage, gaining land, coin, and a sweet, virginal bride. By all the rules, ye should be congratulated by most everyone."
"But not by ye or Gilly."
"I cannae see into your heart, Diarmot. I cannae be sure what ye want, what ye seek. To be blunt, I look at that sweet, shy, biddable bride ye have chosen and wonder how long it will take ere ye have to be reminded that ye e'en have a wife."
Diarmot laughed and groaned. "About a month. I can see the same ye do, but tis what I think I need. Yet, something keeps nagging at me, weakening my resolve. One of those lost memories trying to break through the mists in my mind. The closer the time to say my vows draws near, the sharper the nagging. I have more and more dreams, strange dreams, but I cannae grasp the meaning of them."
"What is in these dreams?"
"Nonsense." Diarmot sighed. "Last night I dreamed of a scarlet elf poking at me, cursing me, and telling me to clear the cursed mist from my puny brain ere I do something stupid. Then there were some angry fiery demons, near a dozen of them, bellowing that I had best step right or they will be. cutting me off at the knees. Then, for a brief moment, all seems weel, until the first blow is struck. Tis the beating, I think, for I wake up all asweat, the fear of death putting a sharp taste in my mouth."
"The last I can understand," Connor said. "Ye were helpless. No mon wants to die, but to be set upon in the dark by men ye cannae recognize, who beat ye near to death for reasons ye dinnae ken, would stir a fear in any mon."
Diarmot nodded. "I can understand that part. I just wish that, upon waking with that fear, I would also hold the memory of the who and the why."