by Carmen Caine
The plaid.
The man with blue eyes wore the muted green and orange of the MacKinnon plaid. The man in her vision belonged to Ronan’s clan. Perhaps he was even a close friend or relation. Guilt swept through her, twisting her stomach into tight knots. She now regretted having eaten so quickly. She could not tell Ronan that his clansmen lie beaten and likely dying on the moors. He would ask how she came by the information, and what explanation could she give? I can see beyond what my eyes allow, but I am not a witch. His prejudice would blind him, and he would hate her. The idea of Ronan hating her unsettled her stomach even further. She had to act fast or lose her supper.
She had only one option—to lie. But she was barely staying afloat in the sea of fabrications she spewed earlier. This new deception demanded simplicity, or else it would lead to questions that might pull her under.
A harmless lie came to her, and although weak, it seemed uncontrived. Shoney’s hand flew to her neck.
“My pendant is gone.” She scurried off her pallet and lifted it to look beneath.
“Please, Ronan, ‘tis dear to me. Help me look,” she implored as she sifted through their wet clothes, shaking them as if hoping to uncover her treasure.
“Bridget, I do not remember ever seeing a token around your neck.”
Damn him.
“I believe ‘tis something I would have noticed,” he said.
Mother of all, rot the black-haired man, but there was no turning back now.
“My father and mother fashioned a pendant for me from small white shells. ‘Tis all I have by which to remember them. I cannot go on without it.” She pinched herself to produce a few tears for good measure.
He grasped her shoulders. “Hush, Bridget. You must calm down. Your necklace is not here, of this I am certain. Nor did you have it at the pool when you ran from me. Together we will search for it in the morning.”
“No, it cannot wait until morning,” she cried. “Someone might find it first. The moon will be at its fullest tonight to light our way. It must be tonight.”
“This is madness, Bridget.”
“I will go without you, even if I risk death sliding down the rope.” She grabbed his hands. “I beseech you.”
Ronan stared at her. She could not guess at his thoughts. Then he released a slow breath and agreed to her request.
“I will go, but I do so alone, Bridget.”
She brought his hands to her lips and kissed his rough skin. “Thank you, Ronan. What you do now is truly life or death. Last night I slept beneath a standing stone not more than a league from the pool.”
“I know the place. We call it the Cillchriosd Stone,”
“Then go and be swift.”
He donned his sword and made for the entrance. “I still say this is madness, Bridget, but I know what it is to lose family. In honor of your parents and my brother, I do this.”
Then he grabbed hold of the rope and disappeared over the edge. Shoney peered down and held her breath as she watched him descend into the shadows and waves. She longed to call after him, already regretting his absence, but instead she prayed to the Mother of all that he find his kinsman before it was too late.
CHapter 4
The pale face inside the full moon looked down on Ronan with what he saw as a mocking grin. It was nightfall and he rode over the purple moors on a baffling errand for an equally baffling lass. He had never felt absurd before, but it appeared as though there was a first for everything. He should be at home with a full belly and a warm fire, yet he still could not turn from his quest. Instead, he urged his mount to ride even faster toward the Cillchriosd Stone. He did not understand what had come over him. He was not given to romantic whimsies like Aidan, and he usually did not have patience for the fairer sex. Nevertheless, shirking all responsibility and no doubt causing his father boundless vexation, he wanted nothing more than to be the man to make Bridget smile—so here he was.
He imagined her wrapped in the MacKinnon colors, likely asleep on his pallet with her long black lashes fanned out against her fair skin. Her golden hair lit by the flames of the fire he built for her, and her full lips slightly parted, waiting to be consumed by his kiss.
Damn her pendant. He wanted nothing more than to turn his horse around, ride back to the cliffs, and have his fill of her. He groaned aloud as he recalled their meeting that morning in the pool. He could still feel her slick, wet body pressed against his own. He longed to savor every curve. He wondered if he could ignite her passion as easily as he did her anger. Sweet Jesus, he had never wanted another woman as he did Bridget, Bridget MacLean. He groaned aloud as he again remembered her surname, a fact that continued to conveniently slip his mind.
His father would be furious if he knew Ronan gave shelter to a MacLean runaway. Worse yet, if he learned of Ronan’s burgeoning desire, his father’s rage would be heard all the way to Skye and rightly so. Surely, the consequence of his affection might be war, especially if she was betrothed to another. Beyond the odd cattle raid or small feud, it had been some years since the two clans had fought on the battlefield, and given the pending war with the Norse, how could he further add to the insecurities facing his clan by picking a fight with their adversaries to the south.
Violet swells of moonlit earth stretched out before him like ocean waves at twilight frozen in time. The moon was large and hung low in the sky, and as Bridget predicted, it shone brightly, illuminating his path. He could even make out the standing stone in the distance. He spurred his horse forward. He felt consumed by the urgency to find Bridget’s treasure. He wanted to make her happy. He wanted to make her his.
Jesus above, what was wrong with him?
He was acting like a love-sick maid, and it had to stop. His behavior over the past weeks had been disgraceful. He neglected his duties, consequently disrespecting his family, his position, and his clan. He could not ignore reality or pretend as though things were different—she was a MacLean, comely perhaps, but still a MacLean.
With gritted teeth, he resolved to honor his duty. He would find her pendant but would not return it to her tonight. Ronan knew that were he to enter the cave again before dawn, he would not be able to deny the heat of his desire. Images of her long, flowing hair cascading down her slender back and resting against the swell of her buttocks came unbidden to his mind. He shook the image from his head. He could never see her again. It was that simple. In the morning, he would send two of his trusted warriors to retrieve her and bring her to the outskirts of MacLean territory. It was a solution that prioritized his family and his responsibilities. And yet, regret and longing gnawed at his belly, spreading throughout his body like bracken over the hills.
He would never see Bridget again. He closed his eyes and conjured her face so that he might savor her loveliness one last time. But his musings were interrupted as his horse brayed loudly and ground its hooves deep into the earth, coming to an immediate halt. Ronan fell forward and off to the side, the muscles in his legs strained to keep him atop his mount. He leapt to the ground, grabbed the horse’s bit and stared the beast in the eye.
“What the hell happened?” he snarled.
The horse whinnied and tossed its head. Ronan released its bit and rubbed a soothing hand through its mane.
“Hush, boy. What’s the matter with you? You nearly launched me to my death.” Ronan looked around and saw that the Cillchriosd Stone was just up ahead. Then his gaze was pulled toward a dark heap on the ground not twenty strides away. Ronan narrowed his eyes and saw the MacKinnon plaid and telling black curls.
“Aidan,” Ronan cried as he hurried to kneel at his friend’s side. Aidan lay on his stomach with one knee bent as if trying to crawl forward.
“Aidan,” Ronan rolled his friend’s limp body over and saw that he was breathing.
“Thank you Jesus and Mary, you’re alive.”
No thanks to him.
If his horse had not stopped, then Aidan would have been crushed beneath the animal’s stride. Bridget ha
d preoccupied his thoughts, proving once again the destructive nature his desire. Daydreaming was not a privilege afforded the future laird of the MacKinnon.
“Aidan can you hear me?”
When Aidan did not respond, Ronan began to check the extent of his wounds. He had not suffered any fatal blows. There were no punctures from blades, but he had been thrashed nigh to death. One eye was swollen shut. His face was smeared with blood and dirt, and bruises were forming from his skull to his legs.
“Who did this Aidan? Wake up so I can find the bastards and beat the life out of them.” Ronan gently shook his friend. “Aidan, wake up. You must wake up.” Aidan stirred and slowly opened his one eye. He lifted his head but winced and fell back.
“Don’t worry, Aidan. You’ve been flattened alright, but you will live.”
“I thought I was in heaven,” Aidan whispered through cracked, dry lips. “There was an angel with golden hair and dark eyes smiling at me.”
“You aren’t in Heaven, Aidan. You are right here on Mull,” Ronan said.
“I know I can’t be in Heaven. You would never get past the gate,” Aidan chuckled. “Oh damn that hurt. No more jokes—that felt like a hot poker jabbing my side.”
“You have some broken ribs,” Ronan said.
“Those bastards were certainly thorough.”
“Who did this, Aidan?”
Aidan tried again to raise his head but fell back. “To hell with sitting up. Just leave me, Ronan. Let me stay here and wait for the angel to come back. She was sweet to look upon. I’m sorry friend, but I would rather die in her arms than yours.”
“You aren’t going to die,” Ronan said dryly.
“If it meant seeing her face again, then I would wish to die.” His voice trailed off into a whisper Ronan strained to hear. “I’d wrap myself in her long golden hair and drown in her stormy eyes. Eyes like gray stone, but they were warm, and they beckoned me.”
Aidan’s whispers describing his angel trailed off as he fell asleep. Golden hair and gray eyes made Ronan once again think of Bridget. If one could imagine immaculate beauty sent from Heaven, who else might this beauty look like but Bridget. Again he pictured her safe and warm in his cave. Ronan shook his head. He had to put her out of his thoughts for good. Right now he had only two concerns, getting Aidan home and punishing those who hurt him. But Aidan never confirmed who was to blame. He knew it was likely the MacLeans. Still, with tinkers about, he had to be sure.
“Aidan,” Ronan said as he gently shook his friend. “Aidan, who did this to you?”
“MacLeans,” Aidan whispered, “five of them.”
CHapter 5
Ronan lifted Aidan astride his horse. His friend fumbled with the horse’s mane in an attempt to secure his seat. Observing his struggle, Ronan wrapped the extra folds of Aidan’s plaid around the horse’s neck to anchor him down.
His friend’s safety assured, Ronan mounted behind him and turned his horse toward Gribun. Aidan’s broken ribs set the pace, but he longed to race home. A creeping sense of foreboding washed over him. The source likely caused by Aidan’s injuries weighing on his mind, but with every gait that brought him closer to the village, the gnawing suspicion of greater woe intensified. He suspected Aidan was not the only MacKinnon to suffer misfortune that night.
The luminous moon shone a glow over the outskirts of the village. At first glance, all seemed normal, but then he caught the scent of scorched hay and timber on the breeze, and as he drew closer, he could hear the faint din of upheaval.
“Sorry, Aidan.”
Ronan tightened his hold on his friend and drove his heels into the horse’s flanks. The beast spurred forward, charging toward the village at a faster pace than Ronan demanded as if he too felt the prick of something ominous in the air.
He flew by barren hut and pathway. Not a soul did he pass. The village, which was usually bustling with life, was silent and cast in darkness. He searched for even one hearth fire, but only the stars and moon lit his way. The turmoil was coming from the courtyard of Dun Ara Castle beyond the cluster of usually welcoming homes. He hastened through the open gates of the courtyard and slid from his horse with Aidan in his arms. Silence fell on the crowd when they saw their fallen brother.
Ronan’s father hurried to his side. “Does he live?” the MacKinnon asked.
“Aye, father, he lives, but not because they didn’t try their worst.”
The MacKinnon inspected Aidan’s wounds. “No doubt he’ll live,” and in a louder voice he continued, “and still be the prettiest maid in the village.”
“At death’s door and you take a swipe at my pretty face. You’re jealous, the lot of you.” Aidan smiled but winced from the effort.
“Did the last stretch of the ride rouse you from your beauty sleep?” Ronan asked.
“What were you trying to do? Finish the job?” Aidan groaned.
The MacKinnon motioned to a woman looking on with wide, worried eyes, “Morna, come now and nurse your son.” Then he turned to a large warrior, “Guthrie, help him and make sure Morna has everything she needs.” Aidan winced as he stood with Guthrie’s aid, and as they slowly progressed toward Aidan’s hut, the MacKinnon’s attention turned back to Ronan.
“’Tis safe to assume the bastard MacLean is responsible?”
“Aye, Father. It was a small band of five warriors. Aidan patrolled the eastern fields tonight. They must have attacked during his watch, because I found him near the Cillchriosd Stone.”
“Twice as many attacked the cottars from the same direction. So the bastards did away with the watch. Then they took their fill.” The MacKinnon raked his hand through his hair showing his agitation.
“What damage, father?” Ronan asked.
“No soul was harmed, except Aidan of course, but they torched several fields and emptied one store.”
“’Tis, folly,” Ronan exclaimed. “The MacLean knows we’ve twice the warriors and stores. Why such a brazen raid?”
“Aye,” the MacKinnon replied, “The attack demands a response. We cannot turn a blind eye as we do with their usual tinkering. The MacLean must realize this.”
“Unless he is betting we won’t retaliate because of the battle that awaits us with the Norse,” Ronan said.
Warriors and council members alike began to gather around their laird. Dugald, the largest of the warriors, spoke up.
“Did you see what they did to fair Aidan?” He withdrew his sword. “At your word, MacKinnon, I will go and teach the MacLean a lesson and be back and ready to fight the Norse by dawn.”
Eager to avenge their brother, the warriors withdrew their swords and called out in support of Dugald’s proposal, creating a din loud enough to be heard on the open moors.
“Hold, lads. Hold.”
Ronan turned to look at the owner of the soft voice, trying to penetrate the rambunctious calls of the men. His faced was creased with age and his plaid hung loosely over frail shoulders.
Ronan raised his hands and shouted, “Silence. Argyle wishes to speak.” A hush fell over the men as they turned expectant eyes toward the old man.
“We are on the brink of war with the Norse not only as men of the MacKinnon but of the Hebrides and as Scotsmen. Our good laird promised King Alexander our swords in battle.” Ronan watched as his clansmen nodded their heads in agreement.
“We must stay our course, Lads.” Argyle finished.
“Argyle is right,” The MacKinnon said. “We cannot allow the shite to the south to distract us from our responsibility. A responsibility, so tells the most recent messenger from the king, the coward MacLean refuses to accept. We will not waste time and resources against their cowardice.”
Dugald raised his sword to speak once more. “We understand the wisdom of the Mackinnon’s words, but, good Laird, we must do something. The MacLean cannot duck blame after such a blatant attack.”
“Aye, Dugald, you are right, and we shall retaliate, but in a manner the MacLean will not expect,” the MacKinnon re
plied.
“They’re all as dense as fence posts. They haven’t the wits to expect the morning sun to rise,” Guthrie said as he joined the group, and like the rest of the clansmen, Ronan enjoyed a good laugh as the MacLean’s expense.
“Ronan, my lad.”
“Aye, father.”
“What say you in all this?”
“I propose a mission of stealth,” he replied.
“Aye, my thinking as well.” The MacKinnon faced Ronan and rested his hand on his son’s shoulder. “What is your plan?”
Ronan raised his voice so that every council member and warrior could hear. “We will track the thieves at a distance, allowing them to gain some ground. They will think they’ve won an easy victory and conceit will guide their actions, ensuring imprudence.”
“And by imprudence you mean pissed drunk don’t you,” shouted Dugald. When the laughter died down Ronan continued.
“’Tis likely they woke up pissed, Dugald. What else would have made them act so foolhardy? Once they make camp, we move in. We silence the watch and take back our stores. They wake up empty-handed and disgraced.”
***
A short while later, Ronan raced once again across the moors, only this time on the trail of the MacLeans. He was joined by Dugald and Guthrie. He chose Dugald for his large, intimidating frame and his ability to close in on the enemy undetected. Guthrie wielded the swiftest blade among the warriors, faster even than Ronan. Both were essential in any situation where the numbers favored the enemy.
The band of raiders cut a careless trail over the moors, carved by the pounding of their horse’s hooves. On a cloudy night, a child could have followed the MacLean’s tracks. With the bright moon at its fullest, it was effortless.
“The tracks are growing fresher,” Dugald said. “We are gaining ground fast.”
Ronan nodded and slowed his pace, signally for the other men to do the same. “Let’s make sure we give them plenty of time to break into the whiskey they lifted from our stores.”
Dugald rode beside him, and they discussed the plan of attack in more detail. When the matters of timing and whether to kill or maim were settled, Dugald shifted the conversation to Aidan. “An angel must have guided you.”
