As for the wee lad on the shore…
“Oh, my!” Her eyes flew wide, her heart almost stopping. She blinked, sure she wasn’t seeing him.
But she was.
Mist rolled along the landing beach, thick and almost impenetrable—save one small area near the base of the cliffs. That spot glowed with a shimmering blue light and a wee lad in a ragged plaid stood there pointing at the sea with a tiny blue-glowing dirk.
“Skog! It’s him, the laddie ghost!” She glanced at her dog, but when she looked up again, the wee bogle was gone. Only a faint tinge of fast-fading blue luminescence remained where he’d stood, the landing beach once again completely cloaked in mist.
“He knew.” She dropped to her knees beside Skog. “He knew all along that the danger would be here and not far out to sea where Roag’s men went sailing each day.”
Those men were returning now, the hissing of water on hulls and the splashing of oars striking the waves revealing their fast approach. The Valkyrie and the two other ships were almost back at the landing beach.
She didn’t care what Roag had said—she wasn’t going to wait for him in this room.
Neither was her dog.
Trembling all over, from relief and love, she dressed as quickly as she could and then threw back the door’s drawbar. She flung the door wide and then took a great breath, willing herself to have the strength she needed to heave Skog unto her shoulders.
She managed with surprising ease, settling his bony frame against her as securely as she could.
“Come on, laddie,” she soothed him, lowering her head to drop a kiss onto his straggly coat. “We’re away belowstairs to greet our men. They’ll have much to tell us!”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I knew fine something was amiss with the she-witch!”
Mungo MacGuire thumped Roag’s high table with his fist as he scowled round at anyone who’d listen. His eyes blazed and his red-bearded face glowed as bright as his fiery hair. It was hours since the sea battle that had ended the life of his nefarious young wife and her lover, not an Englishman at all, nor a MacDonald, but a Sassenach sympathizer, just as Lady Lorna had been.
“Why do ye think”—Mungo half rose from his chair, lifting his voice as well—“my lads and I made haste back from our supply trip to Islay? No’ because the MacDonalds were all fashed that someone had cut the prow off one o’ their most-prized dragon ships, even stealing the sail, the thievin’ dastards! Och, nay, that wasnae the reason we sped away, soon as our hold was loaded.”
He dropped back into his chair, gripping the armrests in an angry white-knuckled hold. “ ’Twas because of her! My own lady wife! I kent she was consorting with the devil English—or leastways a fiend Scotsman who fancied he’d have a better living south of our borders.”
Beside him, Roag placed his hand over Gillian’s, squeezing lightly. “I would ne’er have suspected her, lord,” he said, speaking true. “Nor have I even heard of Cormac MacCraig. A shame the man will pass eternity feeding crabs rather than spending your treasure in London or where’er he and the lady thought to flee.”
Along the table and amongst the men gathered near, growls of annoyance could be heard as they all shook their heads, wondering over a Scotsman who could commit such treachery as attacking the King’s own ships and stealing a clan’s hoard of treasure with the intent of presenting it to the English king.
“Lass,” Mungo leaned around Roag to peer at his daughter. “You should have told me straightaway you’d seen her setting signal lamps in my own bedchamber window.”
“I did not want to see you hurt,” Gillian said, speaking true. “I did guess she was alerting a man that you and my brothers were away on Sea Dancer. But I’d never have believed that, along with betraying you, she was giving him our clan treasure.”
“Aye, and it’s at the bottom of the sea now.” Her eldest brother, Gowan, spoke from the next table, his deep voice more amused than sorrowful. “The ancients might say nae one was e’er supposed to remove that hoard from its hiding place.” He lifted his ale cup, draining it. “No good comes of taking what isn’t one’s own.”
“Humph!” Mungo scowled at him. “If the old ones weren’t pleased we had that silver, they’d have snatched it back long ago,” he declared, tossing down his own ale, but drinking from a horn. “Be that as it may, my true treasure is in this hall.” He waved his ale horn to take in Gillian and his sons, half of them at the high table, the other four at a nearby dais table. “I’m grateful for that, I am! There be nae greater wealth than family.”
“Hear, hear!” Everyone who heard agreed, raising their cups or thumping the tables with the blunt ends of their eating knives, or their elbows.
Even Skog joined in, his old dog barks a bit thin, but no less enthusiastic.
“I am glad for my friends!” Roag glanced toward the other end of the table.
It was there that his two fellow court bastards from Stirling Castle—Caelan the Fox and Andrew the Adder, his Fenris brothers—sat with William Wyldes, proprietor of the Red Lion Inn in Stirling. William was a big man with unruly auburn hair that he wore tied back at his nape. His beard was just as bushy and wild, and he had light blue eyes that always smiled.
Roag raised his cup in his friends’ direction, silently thanking the gods that they’d happened to pass the Isle of Sway just as Mungo’s Sea Dancer shot out of the island’s little bay, giving chase to Cormac MacCraig’s ship. According to Caelan, Andrew, and Wyldes, they’d first suspected MacCraig of kidnapping Mungo’s young wife, Lady Lorna. She was seen at the prow of the enemy ship as it’d sped from Sway just as Mungo and his sons beat home two full days early from their supply journey to the neighboring Isle of Islay.
Mungo, with his poor eyes, had only been able to tell that his wife was onboard the fleeing ship.
His sons had seen more.
They’d spotted her first—glimpsing her in a heated embrace with the ship’s captain, MacCraig. A man who, they soon learned, had been sneaking in to Sway whenever Mungo and his men were away. Once there, he hadn’t just partaken of the charms of the lady of the keep. He’d also carried away the clan’s treasure, taking it bit by bit so Mungo wasn’t likely to notice.
Wyldes leaned forward then, twisting round to look at the MacGuire men at the next table. “Did MacCraig truly think the English King would grant him lands and a title for sinking our ships and plying him with centuries-old Viking treasure?
“I cannae believe any Scot would be so foolhardy.” Wyldes glanced at Roag. “We have seen much in our day. But ne’er such a fiend as this.”
“Hate and greed will spur a man to much, my friend.” Roag knew it well. “Women likewise, leastways some of them.”
“Lady Lorna’s face always changed when she spoke of King Robert.” Gillian set down the bit of roasted gannet she’d been about to eat. The seabird was tasty, but thinking of her stepmother didn’t aid her appetite. “It was clear that she did not like him.”
Her brothers nodded agreement.
Gillian glanced at Roag. “Her family had been staunch Balliol supporters in the Bruce’s day. Once he took the Scottish crown, many families who’d given their loyalty to Balliol and the English lost their lands and wealth.
“Lady Lorna hails from such a clan, with strong ties to the MacDougalls.” She paused, shaking her head. “Apparently, she resented King Robert more than she let on.”
“So she sought to repay him by helping an equally grieved soul with aspirations of grandness.” Blackie, Gillian’s middle brother and the only one with dark hair and eyes, finished for her. Also her most dashing brother, he wasn’t looking happy now. “I do feel bad for killing her,” he said, his face still ashen as it’d been since the sea battle. “Who can stomach spearing a woman?”
“Aye, well!” Roddy and Rory, the MacGuire twins, spoke in unison. “Did you have a choice?”
Rory leaned toward Blackie, reaching out to clap his brother on the shoulder. “You were clos
est to her. If you hadn’t stopped her, she’d have run Da through.”
“Indeed!” Mungo pushed to his feet again, set his hands on his hips. “Would you rather it was me feeding fish in the sea, laddie?” He fixed Blackie with a stare, his beetling red brows drawn low. “Your da, or the she-witch who’d been ready to skewer him?”
Blackie didn’t answer, only emptied his ale cup and then dragged his sleeve over his mouth.
“Aye, well.” He glanced round. “There wasn’t much else I could do, right enough.”
“Taking a life is nae pretty, lad.” Roag sympathized, weary himself of all the battles he’d fought. “You do get used to it, if you’re a warrior. But few men e’er come to enjoy it, that I say you.”
“And what do you say to my gel?” Mungo snapped his gaze toward Roag and Gillian. “Far as I can tell, you’re enjoying your handfast, but I’m no’ sure what to think of your name!”
“Father!” Gillian sent him a frantic look, shaking her head. “We told you why Roag said he was Donell. No man in this hall can condemn him for aught. Far from it, if it weren’t for his friends’ coming here this morn, you and my brothers might have been dead.
“You’re no’ fighters,” she added, sending an apologetic look at her brothers. “You’re fishermen. Lady Lorna’s lover and his men have attacked the King’s best ships, sinking every one they chased after.”
“We had a fair chance to beat them.” The twins Roddy and Rory spoke together again, swelling their chests as they did so.
“ ’Tis true,” Logie, another brother, joined in, tossing a grin at William Wyldes, Caelan, and Andrew. “Roag’s friends’ ship was so weighed down by cargo she moved like a slug in the water. She only caught up to us after pitching much of her freight into the sea.”
Roag frowned, hearing this for the first time. He’d assumed the louts had been passing through the Hebrides on a different Fenris mission, or perhaps on Alex’s command to patrol the seas off Laddie’s Isle. They could’ve been ordered to stay out of sight, unless needed. He’d meant to question them later, away from non-Fenris ears.
Now…
He could only puzzle. Any Fenris duty that involved a ship wouldn’t call for a vessel so weighed down that she couldn’t sail at speed.
“What cargo?” He turned to his friends, not liking the sheepish looks on their faces.
Caelan and Andrew exchanged guilty glances.
William, as always, met his gaze full-on and grinned. “Foodstuff from Alex,” he said, his deep voice amused. “Your friend the Wolf worried you’d starve out here in the wilds of the Hebridean Sea. He put together enough viands and ale to fill your kitchens for a year, he did. Good Wolf that he is, he sent me along to cook for you. Yet”—William spread his hands—“there isn’t much need of me, eh?”
“Our work is done, it is true,” Roag agreed, the admission causing a sharp pain in his chest. “You’ll be wanting to return to the Red Lion, I ken fine.”
“That is so!” William grinned. “The Wolf did send a lad down to Stirling to run the inn for me. But you ken”—he leaned back in his chair and patted his substantial girth—“no one within twenty heather miles of Stirling stirs a cook pot better than I do.
“I’ll no’ be wanting to lose trade because I’m no’ there.” He straightened and grabbed his eating knife to spear a gannet breast, popping a large piece of the roasted seabird into his mouth as if all had been said and there was no need to discuss more.
But Caelan and Andrew and, surprisingly, Mungo MacGuire kept sliding glances at each other. Roag was becoming weary of what looked like scheming.
He already knew Mungo was capable of trickery.
Caelan and Andrew…
They believed a shared childhood in Stirling Castle’s kitchens and years of joint Fenris missions gave them leave to meddle in his affairs.
“What is it?” He narrowed his eyes at them, his suspicions growing.
“Aye, well…” Caelan hedged, lifting his ale cup and studying it as if it were the most interesting thing under the heavens. “It could be that when we were hurrying to catch up with the Sea Dancer, we didn’t toss all the Wolf’s goods into the sea.”
“For sure, we didn’t,” Andrew agreed, his quirking lips worrying Roag even more.
“They kept the best, they did!” Mungo slapped the table, his red-bearded face splitting in a grin. “A bed, see you?” He stood, swelling his great barrel chest. “The King’s own brother has sent a wedding bed to my gel,” he boasted, his voice ringing with pride as if he—and not Roag and his friends—was a much-loved favorite of Alex Stewart, Lord of Badenoch and Earl of Buchan.
“Ne’er will you see a finer bed!” Mungo roared, his excitement spreading to everyone in the hall. “He sent you a laird’s chair.” He beamed at Roag, clearly pleased to make the announcement. “ ’Tis a glorious piece, richly carved, and surely straight from the Wolf’s own Highland lair.
“Your friends”—he looked their way—“did toss it into the water, but my lads and I fished it out as it bobbed past us!”
“Indeed?” Roag didn’t know what else to say.
His temples were beginning to throb, his head aching at the evidence of his world crashing down around him. The reminder—in the shape of a bed, no less—of what could have been and yet would never be. He sat back, drew a long, tight breath, half certain he was suffocating.
He wasn’t surprised the Wolf had learned of his handfast with Gillian.
Alex Stewart knew everything.
But whatever goodness of heart caused him to send food supplies and lairdly trappings to this wee bleak isle, there was no need for them now.
And that gutted Roag more than it should.
“Where is this bed? The carved laird’s chair?” The words slipped from his lips before he could catch them. “I havenae seen—”
“Have you noticed that a few of my lads are missing?” Mungo raised his ale horn, saluting Roag. “That’s the good thing about having many sons, see you? You can have them everywhere at once and no one is the wiser. A few of them were down at the ships as we’ve supped. They carted the bed up to your chamber without any of us even seeing them marching through the hall, so busy were we all railing about the evil deeds of my late wife and her pestiferous lover!”
A strange tightness began to spread through Roag’s chest. “Where is the laird’s chair?”
“Och, it’s oe’r by the fire on the far side of your hall!” Mungo thrust out an arm, pointing at a massive, elaborately carved chair of gleaming black oak.
Beautiful enough to grace Stirling’s finest chambers, the chiefly chair was nothing less than a throne, and surely did hail from the Wolf’s own castle.
Roag couldn’t imagine Alex sending anything so priceless on such a journey, for naught.
Turning to Gillian, he leaned in, speaking low so that only she would hear. “There is more to this than meets the eye. Alex wouldnae risk such goods if—”
“If he didn’t think you would be staying on here?” She smiled, her eyes shining in the torchlight.
Roag’s heart kicked hard against his ribs. He couldn’t think of anything he’d want more. Indeed, he’d been planning to sail to Stirling and petition the King for just that. He’d cite the isle’s strategic location as a boon for the crown, emphasize the advantage of having a trusted man to watch the traffic on the seas.
“If that were so, lass, would you remain as my lady in truth? My own bride and wife, and no’ as Donell’s?”
“I was never Donell’s.” She leaned in and kissed his cheek, then looked past him to her sire. “Did you hear, Father?” She smiled at him, too. “I am Roag’s handfasted wife and, aye, we are enjoying ourselves—as well you knew we would, I’m thinking!”
“So I am, lass,” her father agreed. “So I am.”
“Then you’ll no’ have any objections if we hold a more formal nuptial ceremony?” Roag met Mungo’s cheeky gaze, not believing he was making such a declaration. Or
the happiness that it gave him. “Perhaps toward summer’s end after all this excitement has passed?”
“I’ve only been waiting to hear you say that, laddie!” Mungo could hardly finish before everyone in the hall stood, knocking their ale cups together, stamping feet, and cheering.
Only Roag’s smile was a bit forced. Happy as he was to have a secure hold on Gillian’s hand, he hoped upon hope that he’d not lose Laddie’s Isle.
Taking her back to Stirling with him wouldn’t be the end of the world, but it would be a world she’d never truly fit into with the whole of her heart.
And—the realization stunned him—it was now a place that no longer felt like home to him.
Laddie’s Isle did.
Even though he’d come to feel as if he belonged here, he didn’t really. But he was a man who’d fallen fiercely and fully in love with a wonderful woman he knew he couldn’t bear to live without, no matter where their path might take them.
That was a blessing.
A great joy he’d never expected.
It would have to be enough, and was.
Chapter Thirty
A sennight later, seven full days and equally splendiferous nights, Roag toed open the door to the tower bedchamber that he shared with his lovely lady wife and did his best to sneak into the room without disturbing her. She slept soundly, for it was an ungodly hour, and she hadn’t heard Skog scratching at the door.
As usual, Roag had noticed. He’d climbed from the massive and magnificent four-poster bed they now called their own and had carried Skog down the stair and out onto the grassy moorland behind the tower so that the old dog could take his late-night comfort.
Roag didn’t mind.
In truth, he secretly suspected Skog had come to prefer him to Gillian.
It was a notion he wouldn’t dare voice to her.
He did take a moment to stand admiring her. Chiefly daughter that she was, and already more beautiful to him than any woman he’d ever seen or could imagine, she looked even more lovely in the new bed.
To Desire a Highlander Page 28
