An hour or two spent with the bairn would soothe his ruffled feathers and help clear his muddled thoughts, but vengeance called. He pried her arms from around his neck. “’Twill be for the best if ye and Nanny Margaret sup in the chamber this night. The hall will be no fit place for ye.”
Nodding her understanding, Margaret took the child.
Kyla held out her arms, tears welling in green eyes wide with pleading.
“I’ll come to kiss ye goodnight later,” he promised, wishing he could stay.
Jaw clenched, he shut out the sound of her wailing and strode back to the hall, wrestling with the irony that he found more joy in conversations with a bairn who never spoke than with anyone else of his acquaintance.
The Nellis Woman
ISABEL DRIFTED AWAKE in the comfortable chamber she’d always loved, but the colorful tapestries and warm rugs brought no solace. She was vaguely aware Blue had stirred and trotted off to greet someone.
Coira’s round face loomed out of the darkness, illuminated by the flame of the candle she carried. “Yer stepmother told me not to bother ye,” her maid whispered, “but I was thinking ye’d need some help with yon gown.”
“Aye,” Isabel replied wearily, struggling to sit up, “and then ye can burn it.”
Coira used her candle to light the others in the chamber. “’Tis a shame. Ye looked bonnie in it.”
Memories of preening in front of the looking glass before catastrophe struck intensified Isabel’s headache. She stood at the side of the bed while the woman who’d been her late mother’s servant helped her remove the wedding dress. Blue licked his chops, eyes fixed on a tray of food on the bedside table.
“I brought a few chunks o’ cheese and some crusty bread,” Coira explained. “Ye must be famished. Best eat before yon blue devil gets it. I ne’er saw such a color on a dog.”
It was probably the hundredth time her maid had remarked on Blue’s unusual coat, but she was grateful nevertheless for the loyal servant’s thoughtfulness. She reached for a piece of bread and nibbled the end, but had difficulty swallowing. “Perhaps later,” she said, giving the rest of the bread to the patient boarhound who quickly devoured the treat.
The maid shooed her mistress to the boudoir, where she washed her face, scrubbed the brown stains off her hands and combed out her hair.
“I dinna ken why I’m so upset,” Isabel confessed, resenting the insistent compulsion to sob, but relieved to have the tangles out of her hair. “I should be glad I’m nay marrying Darroch MacKeegan.”
“’Tis only natural,” Coira replied sternly. “The mon’s a fool to renege on his promise. And now she’s taking advantage and causing more trouble.”
Isabel didn’t need to ask who she was. The servant had nothing but disdain for the woman who’d married the widowed Rory MacRain. Isabel preferred not to think on the events that had led to their hasty marriage.
“Yer poor mother,” her maid sighed. “Filling her with a bairn at her age. What was the mon thinking?”
Coira had never gotten over Eileen MacRain’s death.
Isabel preferred not to think on those dark days. “In his grief, my father claimed the babe who’d killed his wife couldn’t be his.”
“Rubbish,” her maid retorted. “Yer ma ne’er looked at another mon. She loved the idiot.”
Guilt constricted Isabel’s throat. “Perhaps if I’d been a better sister to my baby brother…”
Coira took her hand. “I’ve told ye many a time, ye were too young, and ye’d just lost yer mam. Then, into the midst of all the misery she arrives from who kens where and insinuates yer da is right. Yer Uncle Boyd did the right thing spiriting wee Ian away to Beaton House. He was suspicious of Ghalla’s motives from the first.”
Isabel recognized the truth of it, and had journeyed to her uncle’s estate to visit her baby brother every year since his birth. It was of some consolation that the toddler was flourishing under Auntie Siobhan’s care, but she always returned home consumed by guilt. She’d abandoned her flesh and blood. However, he was safer with the Beatons than at Dungavin.
Coira never referred to Isabel’s stepmother as Lady Ghalla, or the chief’s wife. The interloper was always she, or yer stepmother, or the Nellis woman, or the brat’s mother. She made no effort to conceal her hatred of the pock-faced Tremaine Nellis and Isabel suspected the youth bullied servants at every opportunity.
She was exhausted, but acknowledged the importance of keeping abreast of whatever discussions were going on, since they would inevitably affect her. And Coira could be relied upon to convey with unerring accuracy what she’d overheard.
Clad in a clean linen nightgown and tucked up in bed with Blue sprawled next to her, Isabel felt a little better. The dog’s nose twitched when she reached for a piece of cheese. “Tell me.”
Coira took a deep breath. Evidently, the tale would be a long one.
“Yer father and yer uncle are locked in a bitter argument.”
Once firm friends, her late mother’s brother and her father had been at odds since Ghalla’s arrival. Another wedge driven into the heart of the family. “That’s nothing new,” she replied, feeding Blue a bit of cheese.
“Aye, but now the Nellis woman is pushing for ye to wed the brat. She has yer father nigh on convinced nobody else’ll have ye after the jilting. Yer uncle’s furious. Says yer poor mother must be turning in her grave.”
A snake writhed in Isabel’s belly. Furious didn’t begin to describe her feelings about marrying Tremaine Nellis. “He’s a child,” she retorted, her blood running cold at the memory of Ghalla’s then fourteen-year-old son pulling the wings off butterflies and gleefully hurling a newborn kitten down the well the day he arrived.
“Weel,” Coira continued, hands on broad hips, “’tis clear to me why she wants her son to marry the chief’s daughter.”
It was a suspicion that had lurked in the back of Isabel’s mind for four years. “She schemes to make him laird.”
Dread replaced fury. Her father’s life was at risk and Ian would be deprived of his birthright if Ghalla’s plans succeeded. In the long run, Clan MacRain would falter under a cruel and incompetent leader. “’Tis enough to make a lass wish Darroch MacKeegan had shown up.”
*
CONVERSATION AMONG THE auld men gathered around the table ceased the moment Darroch walked into the council room at Dun Scaith. It reminded him of the day seven years before when Kyla came into the world kicking and screaming and her mother slipped away in eerie silence. Nobody had known what to say to him.
Then he’d been torn apart by grief and joy, and his clansmen had rallied to support him. Now he was a man humiliated by a woman and they avoided his eye. He was no longer one of them. Isabel MacRain had made a fool of him and isolated him from his clan.
“Sit ye down,” his grey-haired father commanded. “We’ve a plan.”
He should have known better than to expect commiseration from Stewart MacKeegan. His father had never been an affectionate man; age and widowerhood had rendered him sullen and bitter.
“I’ll stand,” he retorted, folding his arms across his chest.
“As ye wish. We’re of a mind that the insult to the clan must be avenged.”
Do ye even care about yer granddaughter’s disappointment or my own humiliation?
He bit back the bitter words, resolved to focus his fury on the MacRains as his father droned on. “We might curse the day King James sought to rule the Isles by dividing the clans. So impressed he was with the boasting o’ Chief Alasdair MacRain he decided to grant that ungodly clan land that had been ours for generations.”
“Aye,” several muttered in agreement.
The chief raised a clenched fist. “He even had the gall to name the hills MacRain’s Tables and loves to flaunt his wealth. Without land, a clan canna raise cattle and sow crops. A clan that has nay land has nay wealth.”
Darroch had heard this same diatribe many times since boyhood. “King James is long since d
ead. What’s the plan now?” he asked gruffly.
“We discussed raiding Dungavin.”
Darroch snorted. “’Tisna the first time such a daft proposal has been contemplated.”
Silence greeted his pronouncement, so he carried on. “MacKeegans have thirsted for years to snatch the MacRain stronghold, but such a siege would require months of preparation. Dungavin sits on a promontory which is nigh on impregnable and many lives would be sacrificed in a losing battle to take it. It commands a view of the water that leaves no possibility of an attack from the sea.
“Not to mention the Cuillin Hills represent a formidable barrier between us in the south and MacRains in the north.”
His father spat on the floor. “If ye’d come sooner instead o’ moping in yer chamber, ye’d have heard those self-same arguments already expressed.”
Darroch leaned forward, knuckles pressed into the rough wood of the table, and glared at his father. “I apologize for my tardy arrival, but I needed to speak to a more important person than ye.”
His meaning wasn’t lost on the elders who all seemed intent on studying the rafters, but his scowling father’s steely gaze didn’t falter. The man had never acknowledged Kyla’s existence, except to call her the mute bastard.
“We’ve settled on Harris,” one of the councilors finally declared.
Darroch had to concede that laying waste to holdings on the MacRains’ ancestral island of Harris would be a blow to their pride. The settlements were sparse, and not heavily defended; livestock was plentiful, well fed on the western plain. The MacRains boasted of the wealth and status their cattle and sheep afforded them—always food aplenty for every clan member. They wouldn’t take kindly to having livestock stolen and crops trodden underfoot.
They could use MacKeegan lands on the neighboring island of Ywst as a base. The tactic would necessitate a voyage in often treacherous seas. The blood of Darroch’s Viking ancestors surged in his veins. “I concur,” he declared, bringing the first hint of a smile to his father’s wizened face.
Tit for Tat
ISABEL SPENT THE next two days pacing in her chamber, trying unsuccessfully to calm the turmoil in her belly. She had little appetite for the food Coira brought. Stung by her father’s failure to provide any comfort, she itched to confront him and loudly refuse to marry Tremaine. However, she’d always been an obedient daughter; though Rory MacRain had changed, the notion of challenging him was daunting.
Her maid reported that talk of the marriage seemed to have ceased. There was no point poking at an empty hornet’s nest. Perhaps the entire affair would blow over and she could resume her life, though what fate held in store now…
Still, pride and indecision kept her chained to her chamber. If she ventured to the hall, castle folk would turn away, not knowing what to say. She was probably already the butt of many a jest.
Uncle Boyd was her only visitor. He briefly assured her all would be well. He was a man of few words, but they’d always been close and she had no doubt he loved her. Younger than her late mother, he had the same dark hair and similar features. He’d taken his sister’s death hard and been outraged at Rory’s repudiation of Ian.
She found comfort in his embrace, but was disheartened by news from Coira that he had apparently left the castle for parts unknown shortly after his visit, leaving her without her strongest ally.
Her world, full of love and laughter when her mother was alive, now consisted of a loyal maidservant and a blue dog. An uncertain future loomed if she stayed at Dungavin. “I suppose we could go to Beaton House,” she whispered to Blue.
On the morning of the third day of her self-imposed exile, Coira appeared without the usual tray and fell to her knees at Isabel’s feet. “Forgive me, my lady. The Nellis woman has forbidden me to bring ye food,” she said tearfully. “Threatened to beat me if I defied her.”
Anger surged. MacRains didn’t beat loyal servants. “Evidently the tactic is to starve me,” she replied.
“Nay,” Coira sniffled. “Yer father commands ye break yer fast in the hall, but he insists ye attend him in his solar first.”
Isabel had accepted this day would inevitably dawn. She couldn’t stay hidden in her chamber forever. Better to face the future head-on. She reminded herself she was the daughter of a chief and a high-born noblewoman. Rory MacRain might have lost his way, but she would forge her own path. She wouldn’t allow Darroch MacKeegan’s betrayal to destroy her. Indeed, hatred of him would strengthen her, just as fire tempered steel.
She offered a hand to her sobbing maid. “I dinna blame ye. Come. We canna keep the Nellis woman waiting.”
Granted permission to enter the laird’s solar a few minutes later, she faltered, at first not recognizing the man with droopy eyelids and disheveled grey hair slouched in an upholstered chair. Her father looked like he hadn’t slept for days. The tall, broad-shouldered warrior of her childhood seemed to have shrunk.
Ghalla sat beside him, back ramrod straight, hands clasped in her lap, not a hair out of place. There was no sign of Tremaine, thanks be to God.
Isabel bobbed a curtsey. “Ye sent for me, Dadaidh?”
He frowned as if not sure who she was, then seemed to collect his wits. “Terrible predicament ye’ve put me in, Daughter.”
“Aye,” his wife muttered.
Isabel reminded herself she’d expected this, but it pierced her heart just the same. The loving father she’d grown up with had changed. He saw only what Ghalla wanted him to see.
She flinched when he hauled himself to his feet.
“I’ve organized a raiding party to the MacKeegan crofts in the Trotternish,” he declared, holding on to the arm of the chair. “We leave within the hour.”
She wasn’t surprised. The tit-for-tat round of cattle rustling, murder and mayhem that had gone on for generations would continue now that the alliance had failed. It seemed to her that two clans living on the same island would benefit from cooperation, but she was a mere lass.
MacKeegan crofters who scratched out a meager existence on the rugged Trotternish Peninsula to the east of MacRain territory would suffer. The destruction would anger the MacKeegans in their main stronghold to the south, and prompt reprisals. The end result would be more men from both clans killed and Darroch still sitting pretty in Dun Scaith.
For all his faults, she wished her father wouldn’t lead the raid. It was obvious he was ailing. Concern for him emboldened her. “Can ye nay send Tremaine to attack the Trotternish?”
Ghalla shifted her weight in the chair and tightened her forced smile. A thrill of satisfaction crept up Isabel’s spine. Tremaine was a coward, and his mother knew it. She would never allow him to be exposed to danger. It was perhaps for the best. Tremaine’s leadership and fighting skills were nonexistent. He was afraid of horses and terrified of cattle. It wouldn’t bode well for the clansmen who went with him.
Her father risked a sheepish glance at his wife. “He’s too young,” he replied. “But when I return, we’ll speak of yer betrothal.”
She seethed with a compulsion to point out that a man too young to fight for the clan was surely not a suitable bridegroom for the chief’s daughter. The slur would simply serve to further alienate Ghalla.
Instead, she gritted her teeth and calmly explained the only rebuttal she’d been able to think of in two exhausting days of pacing. “I canna be betrothed to two men,” she said with as much confidence as she could muster.
The fleeting twitch of surprise on Ghalla’s face spurred her on. “We havena ascertained why Darroch MacKeegan didna arrive. Mayhap the mon fully intended to come but lies dead or injured somewhere. Have ye sent emissaries to inquire?”
Rory MacRain turned puzzled eyes to his wife, but she too seemed to have no reply to offer. “Weel,” her father said, “I’ll see to that right after the raid.”
It was a struggle not to voice her contempt. If men had their way, there’d be no living thing left on the Isle of Skye, but she couldn’t jeopardize
the small victory she’d gained. As well, the notion of MacKeegan lying gravely injured or, better still dead, had been sinfully pleasing.
Forcing her knees into a full curtsey she begged leave to break her fast in the hall.
“Aye,” Rory mumbled, sinking back into the chair.
She withdrew, saddened that her father might not return from the Trotternish. Ghalla had so thoroughly divided them, Isabel hadn’t even wished him fare-thee-well.
*
DARROCH SPENT TWO hectic days preparing ships, men, and armaments for the voyage to the western isles. By evening, he was weary of the back and forth ’twixt castle and docks, but still looked forward to a visit to Kyla’s chamber to kiss her goodnight and tell her a bedtime story.
Adamant Kyla wasn’t his blood kin, his father had at first refused to allow the whore’s spawn to live in the castle. The mop of curls as red as his own and the green eyes were enough to convince Darroch. In defiance of his father’s wishes, he’d provided the child with her own wee chamber, though it wasn’t much more than a cubbyhole. He’d recruited a wet-nurse and installed the grieving grandmother as her nanny.
However, as far as Stewart MacKeegan was concerned, Kyla didn’t exist.
Darroch’s daughter was an innocent victim of her illegitimacy. In a year or two, he planned to find a tutor. She made sounds when she laughed and cried, but refused to speak. He hoped whatever demons held her tongue would one day be banished.
She loved the old tales he recounted of Dun Scaith’s history. Every night, he teased her by pretending to embark on a different story. “Shall I tell ye the saga of the mighty King Malcolm Canmore?” he asked, tucking in the linens.
Eyes twinkling, she gave a hearty shake of red curls.
“Perhaps the history of how Clan Robertson pursued and captured the assassins of King James?”
She sighed with exasperation and rolled her eyes, enjoying the game as much as he.
“Weel then, I suppose ’tis the tale of Cú Chulainn.”
She beamed the smile that never failed to melt his heart. This beautiful child was the result of his youthful wild oats, sown like a rutting boar, without regard for the consequences. He’d barely known her mother, a sweet village lass much too delicate to bring a bairn into the world.
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