by Cathy MacRae
Someone has entered the cave. Patrick? Ormarr sent his gaze skimming over both land and water, finding neither blood nor body to indicate Patrick’s demise. He peered at Laila, warmth stealing over his heart. She shuddered, water lapping about her ankles. Harald fingered a long dagger, its blade winking wickedly. Harald slowly pivoted until he stared at Laila.
“Do ye believe the lad will return to ye?” Harald’s mocking voice trailed upward to Ormarr’s sensitive ears. “He doesnae care for ye. Not like I could.” He edged closer. “I can make this all go away, Laila. I can protect ye from the charges of witchcraft. Only a nod from ye, and we can enjoy ourselves whilst we wait.”
“Never,” she spat.
Harald’s face hardened. “Never is a long time.” He pointed his dagger menacingly at her throat.
Shaking his pinions loose with a dry rustle of sound, Ormarr dropped from the ledge.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Only a few feet inside the cave, the sunlight became no brighter than moonglow. Patrick halted. Harald’s men formed stark shadows against the cavern’s doorway. The smoky scent of Laila’s doused torch met his nose.
“We can go nae further without light,” he said. A curious mixture of relief, fear and determination stole over him, kicking his heartbeat to a faster pace.
One of the shadows broke from the group, pacing menacingly forward. “Light the torch, dragon-slayer.” The man’s voice taunted, commanded.
Patrick trembled slightly. “Nae. ’Tis wet and willnae light.” The apology slipped out before he could stop it. Irritated, he shoved the man aside. “Find yer own light. I willnae be part of this.”
A scream thudded dully past the rocks. Patrick jerked to attention. “Laila?” He sidestepped the three men who closed against him. A rush of wind roared past the doorway. Patrick pulled up short, one stride beyond the entrance. The sail of an enormous ship snapped in the air—
Ship? Patrick raised his arm, protecting his face. The sail flapped past, then whooshed skyward. Not a sail—a dragon’s wing. Shouts of fear echoed in the cave behind him. Patrick ignored them, sending his gaze to the boat where Laila had sat—she was gone.
* * *
Laila’s skirt caught on a large splinter in the rim of the boat as she leapt over the side. Her legs tangled in the heavy fabric, she fell face-down in the cold, briny water. With a sputter, she sat, bottom on the rocks beneath the waves, chest-deep in the water. Shaking her head to clear her sight, she saw Ormarr, splendid in his dragon form, swoop down from the sky, great claws extended. Harald stood, shocked, in his path.
“Nae!” She scrambled to her feet, slipping again as her shoes lost traction against the wet stones. Lunging forward, she shoved Harald out of harm’s way. Ormarr roared his displeasure, soaring upward against the sun. Laila faced him, hands fisted on her hips.
“I only wish to leave here, Ormarr,” she called. “I dinnae wish Harald’s blood on my hands.” She lifted her chin, ignoring the water weighting her dress, plastering the fabric to her with icy flattery. “He isnae worth it.”
Ormarr wheeled, dropping close to the waves, tracking for the beach.
Harald’s face darkened, an angry red flush staining his cheeks. “Beast!” he shouted. “I will kill ye this time!” Casting his dagger to the ground, he sprinted to meet the dragon, his sword rasping along its thick leather sheath as he drew it forth. He held it high above his head, both hands fisted on the hilt. Sunlight slid along the blade. Blinding. Deadly.
Laila stood transfixed. Too far away to interfere with Ormarr’s fate.
A sharp crack ripped through the air. Laila ducked, spinning as she searched for the source of the noise. Patrick, framed in the cavern’s entrance, stared at Harald, a thin stream of smoke spiraling upward from his hands. Ormarr veered away, wobbling in the air, reminding Laila of his injury, and was quickly lost to sight.
Harald’s sword pitched from his hands as his body fell, landing face-down on the beach. A wave raced ashore, lapping at his face for an instant before retreating into the sea.
Patrick stumbled forward, unsteady legs betraying him, catching himself mid-stride as he ran to Harald’s side, smoking pistol dangling from one hand.
Blood seeped across the ground from a wound in Harald’s shoulder. Patrick grasped the man by his uninjured side and rolled him over.
“Harald?”
The man’s eyes rolled back in his head and he did not answer.
* * *
Patrick’s hands trembled as he probed the man’s neck, seeking reassurance of life. Fleeting, with the frantic flutter of a moth trapped inside cupped hands, Harald’s blood pulsed against Patrick’s fingers.
Laila knelt beside him in a muted rustle of wet fabric. “What happened?”
Patrick’s gaze dropped to his side, his pistol warm in his hand. “I shot him.”
“Shot?” Laila’s gaze followed his. “With yer pistol?” Her brow arched, skeptical. “I thought ye said ye werenae a good shot.”
“I was aiming for his sword,” Patrick admitted. “I dinnae want him to hurt Ormarr.”
“Och, ye did make him drop his sword,” she admitted, giving Harald her attention as she ripped a length of cloth from his shirt. Folding it several times, she pressed it against his wound then wrapped the remaining length about his shoulder, tying it in place.
Patrick jammed his hands in his pockets. “The ball is still in there.”
“Ball?” Laila asked. “What do ye mean?”
“I shot him with a ball from my pistol. It is still in his shoulder and must be removed.”
“Where are his men?” Laila and Patrick looked to the cavern’s opening, but the three henchmen were nowhere to be seen. “Harald needs attention!” she shouted. Her words hung in the air, unchallenged. “Ye must take him ashore and see he gets help.”
Harald moaned softly.
“I cannae help him here,” Laila murmured. “Ye are certain it must come out?”
“Aye.”
Silence. Lost opportunity. Certainty of their next action. Uncertain of the outcome.
“Can ye do this?” Laila asked. “I have never removed a ball before.”
Patrick shrugged. “I am nae surgeon, but I have a fair hand at stitchery. I can assist ye.”
On an impulse Patrick didn’t anticipate, Laila planted a soft kiss on his cheek. He touched his fingertips to the warm spot her lips left behind, eyes wide, questioning.
“Ye are kind,” Laila said, her eyes shining. “And brave. Ye know helping Harald willnae save us. And he isnae a good man. Yet ye dinnae shirk his need.”
“My fear is for ye, Laila, not me. I am a ghost and willnae last beyond tomorrow. There isnae much they can do to me, nor can they change my fate.” Sorrow bit deep into Patrick’s heart. “Let me take him to the village alone. Ye can still escape.”
She placed her fingers over Patrick’s, caressing his cheek. “My fate is here, as well. And I have never had a ghostly assistant before.”
“It willnae make the villagers like ye more,” Patrick muttered. With a shake of his head for what was likely the seal on their fates, Patrick hefted Harald to his shoulder and carried him to the boat. Resisting the urge to toss the man into the ocean, he laid him across one of the bench seats. He took Laila’s hand, balancing her as she stepped into the boat.
They rowed across the sound in silence, the slap of water against the wooden hull as rhythmic as a heartbeat. The gentle splash of the oars sped them on their way. They quickly reached the shore, greeted by a muttering crowd that had apparently not expected Harald to return in such a manner.
Angry murmurs rose, mimicking a disturbed bee hive, as Patrick lugged Harald from the boat. Furtive stares glanced off both him and Laila as they travelled the path to her home, uncertainty, fear and distrust trailing their steps.
Laila held the door open for Patrick, motioning him to a cot in the corner of the room, where he deposited Harald, face down.
“At least Eirik isnae
home, and mayhap the others will leave us alone long enough to help Harald.” She sighed, fingers busy as she sorted through her healer’s tools. Setting the instruments on a clean strip of cloth, she placed them on a low table near the bed. “There should be hot water in the pot. Build up the fire and heat the water to boiling.”
Grateful to have something helpful to do, Patrick grabbed a few sturdy sticks from the stack beside the hearth and fed the banked fire.
Laila stepped to the other side of the hearth to rummage in a small chest. Pulling a gown from within, she turned her back to Patrick and lifted it over her head. Dropping her sodden dress from beneath as quickly as the dry one settled on her shoulders, she gave Patrick no time to be embarrassed.
With a sigh of contentment at exchanging cold, wet clothes for dry, Laila rolled her shoulders, pulling the laces of her gown tight with practiced ease. “Is the water ready?”
* * *
She hid her smile at Patrick’s startled look. I would have never done that before another. I couldnae endure the leers, the posturing, the knowledge of my simple, expedient act being gossiped about to others. Men!
She seated herself next to Harald and sliced his shirt away with a slim knife, exposing a neat round hole in his back. But Patrick is gentle, unassuming, kind. She tilted her head thoughtfully. Yet he stood up to three men, denied their demand to assist plundering Ormarr’s lair. Her heart twisted to remember the dragon’s awkward flight from the island. And Patrick protected me.
“Bring me a small bowl of water,” she directed. Using a clean piece of cloth, she wiped the blood away from the wound.
“It looks like this,” Patrick murmured, showing her a lead ball he drew from his sporran.
With a nod, Laila dragged her attention from the man beside her to the one sprawled on the cot. Harald’s skin was pale, but not alarmingly so, and his breathing was shallow but regular. Taking a slender rod, she probed the wound. Harald stirred. The sensation of touching soft flesh changed to that of tapping metal, and Laila’s eyebrows rose. Focusing on the job at hand, she carefully pushed, poked and prodded until the metal ball rose to the surface. She held it triumphantly aloft.
“Nicely done.” Patrick grinned at her, approval in his eyes. Laila’s heart fluttered.
“Ye should smile more often,” she said before she realized she spoke aloud.
Patrick’s cheeks flushed. “Shall I stitch him up?” he asked, eyes on Harald’s shoulder.
Laila rose from her seat, offering it to Patrick. “Ye should blush more, too,” she teased. Patrick’s dimples deepened as he deftly threaded the needle she handed him.
“What will happen when ye have ended yer time here?” she asked, her voice low, as if she scarcely wanted an answer.
Patrick’s fingers paused. “Could ye pour a wee bit of whisky in this before I finish?”
Laila pulled a flask from a cabinet and doused the wound.
“’Twill help keep infection away,” he said.
“Infection? What is this?” Laila wondered.
Patrick sought the right word. “Inflammation? So it willnae become putrid.”
At Laila’s nod, he finished setting the stitches in the wound and returned to her earlier question. “If I accomplish my task, I will have a chance to say my piece to Prince Charlie.”
“Who is this prince?” Laila wanted to know.
Patrick’s tone deepened—forbidding, sad. “Teàrlach is the man we rallied to, wishing our own king on Scotland’s throne. He failed us.”
“And then?”
Patrick gently tapped the heavy black thread in Harald’s skin with the pad of his forefinger, then set his needle aside. “And then I shall rest in peace,” he replied, a forlorn downward tug to the corner of his mouth. “A likelier truth is that I’ll spend the rest of my days missing ye.”
Her heart lurched. “Why must I believe in ghosts?” she whispered. A sad laugh rumbled in her throat. “Ye are the peace and kindness I have waited for. And ye will be gone soon.”
Patrick rose to his feet. He slowly gathered Laila in his arms and pulled her against his chest. His heartbeat thrummed steady beneath her ear. As unswerving as his loyalty. As strong as his honor. Its cadence an echo of her own.
“I cannae change who I am, mo chroí,” he murmured against her hair. “But I have time to change yer fate. Let me help ye escape.”
Laila glanced at Harald’s still form, the black stitches neat and stark against his pale skin, his breathing regular and steady. “Aye. I can leave now.”
Patrick stepped back, leaving her bereft as his arms fell away. “Take what ye need, quickly,” he urged her.
She picked a fabric bag from a peg on the wall, opening its drawstring neck and shoving clean clothes inside. She reached for a half-eaten loaf of bread as the door to the house slammed open, shuddering as it made contact with the wall.
“There is the witch! Seize her!”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Men piled into the room as if shoved by an unseen hand. Weapons rattled in the air, their shadows leaping on the walls like an army of darkness. Two men grabbed Laila’s arms, their eyes flashing with determination—and fear.
“Stop!” Patrick commanded, but his words fell unheeded. He recognized Eirik, standing in the doorway, his cloak billowing about his legs. A man, spear in one hand, snatched at Patrick’s arm, but he shrugged away.
As quickly as they’d entered, the men stormed through the doorway, dragging Laila with them. She sent him a lingering, agonized look, then glanced away, her head high. Patrick shoved through the door, past the rear of the guard now flanking Laila, but they crowded about her too tightly for him to fight his way through.
He leapt about, pushing aside one man, only to find him replaced by another, larger, more determined. Unable to break through to Laila’s side, he paced alongside the group, arriving at the coarsely hewn tree stump where Ormarr had rescued her the night before. They shoved her to the top where she stood alone, wind whipping her skirt and hair about her in a frenzied dance.
A man Patrick did not recognize stepped next to Laila. He grabbed a fistful of her unbound hair, jerking her head back. “She has been accused of witchcraft and escaped on the back of a dragon she summoned before us all from the pit of hell! What will the clan do with her?”
“Burn her!” The cries filled the air. Patrick clenched his fists. Shouldering his way through the crowd, he bounded to the top of the dais and placed himself in front of Laila, shielding her from the angry stares.
“Dinnae do this, Patrick,” Laila gritted from between clenched teeth. Patrick ignored her.
“This woman is no danger to ye!” he shouted over the noise of the crowd. Hands fisted on his hips, feet spaced a solid distance apart, he stared down the glares and hostile gestures. At last, the clamor fell to a low murmur.
“Laila has lived among ye since she was born.” He sent his gaze over the crowd, their faces becoming distinct, human, evolving from an angry mob. “She has been yer healer—who amongst ye has she failed to care for? Has she offered any of ye less than kindness and concern?”
Gazes met his, fell away amid a spatter of murmurs. “Ye fear her because she is different,” he continued. “She befriended a dragon.” Lord forgive me for omitting that Ormarr is her da. But he could not offer such an intimate detail to the crowd.
“Thou shall not suffer a witch among ye!” someone bellowed.
“She isnae a witch!” Patrick countered. “She doesnae create spells, nor does she conjure.”
“She summoned a dragon!” Affirmative murmurs rose.
“She called his name.” Patrick stepped to the edge of the stump. “If she called yer name whilst afraid, would ye help her?” He jerked his gaze from face to face. “Would ye?” He stepped back, disgust evident in the deep slant of his brows. “I dinnae think so. The dragon has more honor than ye do.” He snorted. “And more guts.”
The murmurs fell. Feet shuffled, rustling on the grass.
&
nbsp; “He speaks truth.” Harald limped forward, gripping the arm of a man at his side. A blanket draped over his shoulder, edges flipping gently in the breeze. Heads swiveled in his direction and whispers slid across the air.
Harald stood before the makeshift dais, leaning heavily against his aide. “Though she knew she risked her life, she—and Patrick—brought me here for help when my own men were immobilized by fear of the beast.”
He paused, breathing deeply, his pain evident. “They could have left me to die on the forbidden isle. But they dinnae.” One leg buckled beneath him, but he caught himself and struggled upright. “Let them go.” Without waiting to see if any wished to speak against him, he drew away.
Eirik shrieked from the back of the crowd, his words unintelligible, his intent clear. Gazes flew from the crazed man to Harald. Harald halted his slow walk through the crowd.
“Shut him up.”
Hands grabbed at Eirik, pulling him away. Laila’s captor released her arm. “Ye are free to go.” His glare icy, he leapt to the ground.
Taken aback by Harald’s support, Patrick lost his voice. Laila pressed against him. “We should go whilst they obey Harald.”
In eager agreement, Patrick grabbed Laila’s hand and dragged her to the boat, her feet flying as she sought to keep pace.
The setting sun melted into the sea in a puddle of vibrant orange fading to pale ochre. A thread of lilac underscored the line between evening and night. The little boat tossed on the waves, riding the crest of deep purple and brown.
“’Twill be dark soon,” Laila said, anxious eyes searching Patrick’s. “What will ye do?”
“Lass, dinnae fash over me,” he chided. “I will be leaving shortly. It would please me to see ye on yer way before I go. Mayhap put my back to the oars for a distance.”
