“How long do we have to hide here?” Glenna asked, her mouth full. “We should have just shot an arrow into him.”
“Don’t be silly, Glenna. He may be horrible, but we can’t shoot him,” Annie said.
“What if he tortures Diarmid, makes him tell where we’ve gone?” Glenna asked.
“Diarmid would never tell,” Peggy said. “Even if Maccus cut out his tongue, he’d never tell.”
“Well, he couldn’t with his tongue cut out, now could he?” Catriona said.
“But if Diarmid did tell him where we were hiding, then we’d have cause to shoot Maccus, wouldn’t we?” Glenna persisted.
“He’s the chief’s son,” Beitris said. “And a guest. We still couldn’t harm him. Best to just stay out of his way.”
“Of all people to say such a thing, Beitris MacDonald, I wouldn’t have thought it would be you. We all know the tales of what happened last time Maccus came,” Peggy said. “We were only bairns ourselves then, but everyone knows that he—”
“Whisht!” Beitris shushed her with a wave of her hand. “’Tis best forgotten.”
“What’s best forgotten?” Glenna asked.
“The past child, the past,” Beitris said. “Now eat and sit still until Lochie gives us another signal.”
When Maccus MacDonald arrived in the meadow with Adam and Iain behind him, he saw three things—six skinny, undernourished cows, and Diarmid MacDonald, the clan’s blind healer, sitting on a rock and staring into the air.
He also saw a bow in the grass beside the old man, and a quiver of arrows. There were several more arrows sticking out of a target pinned to a stake halfway across the meadow. He stared at Diarmid’s milky eyes. “Did you shoot those arrows, old man?”
Diarmid smiled blandly. Then he took a whetstone from the pouch on his belt and began to sharpen his knife with long careful strokes. “Would ye care to see my skills with a dirk?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The hall was quiet despite the number of folk gathered at the long table for supper. Everyone was silent, on their guard, watching Maccus, wishing he—and they—were anywhere else but here.
“More ale?” Ronat asked, and filled Maccus’s cup herself. It marked the second refill—of the pitcher. His eyes were beginning to shine as he looked at Ronat, and his ugly grin was becoming wide and lusty.
Malcolm sat by her side, alternately glowering at his cousin and scanning the room as if he expected trouble. His knuckles were white on his eating knife.
Ronat knew she had to do something to make the meal bearable. She was pretending to be the lady of Dunbronach, and any lady worth the title would make certain the guests at her table enjoyed both their meal and the company. She looked entreatingly at Dougal.
“Dougal, I understand there’s a legend about a sea maiden and a wish. Will you tell that story?”
The seanchaidh was on his feet in an instant. “’Twould be a pleasure,” he said. “Though it’s no legend—it’s a true tale.” He picked up his harp and settled himself by the hearth with a flourish of his plaid and began to speak.
“The Dunbronach MacDonalds have lived on this isle, and in this castle, for nearly three hundred years. This is the story of how Malcolm the Bold, our first laird, the son of Archibald, descended from Donald, son of Reginald, son of Somerled, earned these lands by kind deeds and wit. To this day, those qualities are the mark of any MacDonald of Dunbronach.” He nodded at Malcolm and frowned at Maccus.
“Aye, it’s our motto,” Fergus said. “We all know that.”
Dougal frowned at him too.
“As a young lad, Malcolm the Bold was no stranger to misfortune. He was his father’s tenth son, and his brothers inherited everything until there was nothing left for Malcolm. He was called Malcolm Ban, same as our own laird, for his shining golden curls. He had a strong sword arm when he was called to fight, and a kind word and helping hand for those in need, but he earned his bread as a simple fisherman.
“One night, he was sailing homeward to his father’s lands with a boatload of herring when a fierce storm came up and cracked his boat in half and cast him into the sea. He was sure he’d drown, but Malcolm called upon the wind and the waves to spare him. In an instant, he felt arms about him. But the owner of those arms had not come to save him, but to be saved herself, for it was a maiden who had come out of the dark sea from nowhere at all. Soon Malcolm was so busy rescuing her that he had no time at all to think of his own drowning. He swam with the lass on his back and carried her to a wee island.”
“The one in the bay with the standing stone?” Lochie asked.
“Aye, that’s the very one,” Dougal said. “But it didn’t have a standing stone then—that came later.”
Dougal raised his hands, made them claws, and screwed his eyes shut. “The waves tried to tear him free, but Malcolm clung to the rocks. Hand over hand, inch by inch, he climbed out of the sea with the maiden and laid her down, safe, but half-dead.
“Malcolm found a fishing spear embedded in her side—not his own, of course—and he drew it out, taking care not to hurt her. He tore his shirt to bandage her—”
“With herbs to help heal the wound,” Diarmid put in.
“Now where would he find herbs in the sea?” Fergus demanded. “’Twas magic, not herbs.”
“He’d have been able to gather seaweed and wrap that around the poor maiden’s wound,” Diarmid argued.
“Anyhow,” Dougal interrupted loudly. “Malcolm made a fire to keep her warm and watched over her through the long, dark night, though he was exhausted himself. He fed the fire and sang to her, and stroked her long, soft hair.”
“What color was her hair?” Glenna asked.
“What difference does that make?” Lochie demanded.
“Red,” Dougal said, then glanced at Ronat. “Nay, as I recall, it was dark as a starless night. ’Twas Malcolm’s hair that was red, same as most MacDonalds.”
“I thought he was fair,” Beitris said.
Dougal frowned. “As I said, he looked like our own Malcolm Ban, with his curls red and yellow both, like fine gold.
“The maiden woke with the dawn when the storm had worn itself to nothing and the sea was as flat as a millpond and said she must go. Now Malcolm thought that a strange thing indeed, since they were on a wee island with no boat and nothing but the sea around them.
“He begged her to stay until her wound was healed and he could think what to do, but she refused his plea. ‘My father and my sisters are waiting for me,’ she said.”
Ronat felt a twinge in her breast. The mist in her brain shifted, swirled on an invisible breeze, and gathered again. She reached for Malcolm’s hand, held it tight, like a lifeline between her forgotten world and Dunbronach. His fingers gripped hers, strong and reassuring.
“I know what comes next,” Lochie sighed. “There’s kissing.”
“What’s wrong with kissing?” Glenna demanded.
Fergus shushed them both. “Let the seanchaidh tell the tale.”
Dougal nodded his thanks. “’Tis true that the lass kissed Malcolm upon the lips and thanked him for his kindness and care. ‘I will grant you three wishes. I shall come to this island every year on this same day and wait for you. Come and whisper your wishes to me, and they shall all come true.’
“Then, to Malcolm’s surprise, the lass slipped into the sea and disappeared beneath the foam with a flick of her silver tail.” Dougal paused and sipped his ale.
“What happened next?” Lochie said eagerly.
Dougal chuckled. “Ach, ye know the tale as well as I do, lad.” But he continued nonetheless.
“Malcolm saw that while the wee scrap of an island would not make him a home, he was near another shore. He could see fine hills, a long stretch of beach, and a burn flowing down over the rocks to the sea. He decided he would make his home there and wait and see if the lass would return. All through the summer and the autumn and the long, cold winter he paced the shore, pining, for he’d fa
llen in love with her. But as spring started to melt the snow, he began to wonder if the sea maiden was real after all. As men do, he met another lass, and he took her to wife. But a year to the day after he met the maiden, he heard the sea calling to him and recognized her sweet voice. He swam out to the island, and there she was, waiting for him. She was so bright and bonny she took Malcolm’s breath away. ‘My father has given me permission to wed you,’ she said. ‘You shall make your home with me in the depths of the sea and live forever. Now what is your first wish?’ she asked.
“Malcolm was filled with sorrow, for he knew that he could not leave his human wife, not even for the sea maiden and all the wishes in the world. She saw the regret in his eyes and knew he would not be hers. She waved her hand, made the sea boil and bubble, and the wind blew so hard it nearly carried Malcolm away. He clung to the rocks, and one of them rose, straight up, to protect him. Then the maiden’s father appeared, the king o’ the sea himself, coming up from the foam to see what had irked his favorite daughter.
“‘A kindness is a kindness, and a promise is a promise,’ he told her when she’d told her side of the tale. ‘You have sworn to give this good man three wishes, and ye must do it.’
“She cried so many tears there was a great flood, but in the end, the maiden agreed. ‘I will give you one wish, Malcolm MacDonald, but the other two will not be yours to make. Your descendants may claim them, if they are kind, brave, and true, once every three generations, every one hundred years, until our bargain is done.’
“The sea king nodded his agreement, and Malcolm considered.
“‘Very well. I wish for a son, for my wife longs for a bairn to rock, and a homeland for me and mine.’
“The maiden waved her webbed fingers at the shore, and a fine castle appeared—this very place,” Dougal said, indicating the hall with a wave of his own hand. “The sea king himself filled our forests with game, gave us boats to sail the sea. He made Malcolm’s wife fruitful—or so the legend says, but perhaps that was Malcolm himself, for he was strong and manly, and he had many children.”
“How many?” Glenna asked.
“I’ve heard it was a hundred,” Lochie said.
Beitris sniffed. “Impossible. It was six strong sons and six bonny daughters, wasn’t it, Dougal?”
He smiled at her. “Exactly so, mo rùin. Now, every year at Beltane, Malcolm would collect shells and stones and flowers. He would gather his folk on the wee isle and tell the story of the sea maiden so they wouldn’t forget. And so they didn’t. The second wish was spoken by Malcolm’s great-grandson—though exactly what he wished has been forgotten, health and happiness continued for all at Dunbronach.”
Dougal looked at Malcolm. Everyone did. Ronat felt his fingers tighten around hers. “And now it comes to our own laird, the direct descendant of the first Malcolm, and all the MacDonalds back to Somerled himself, to swim out to the wee island to make the last wish on Beltane.”
Malcolm’s hand grew icy and slack in Ronat’s. She looked at him quickly and saw the muscles in his jaw tighten. He was pale, and beads of sweat had appeared on his forehead.
“And what will ye wish for, Malcolm Ban?” Maccus slurred. “Ye’ve got a castle and a bonny wife in yer bed. What’s left to wish for? Gold? Jewels? A kingdom?”
“Can we wish our kin back alive again?” Lochie asked.
Dougal’s expression turned sad. “It’s what we’d all like, lad, but ye canna wish for that. We must look to the future and try to bear the sorrows of the past.”
“Then we should wish for gold,” another voice suggested. “That would solve everything.”
“Without men to defend it, or folk to spend it?” William asked. “Others would come and take it, kill us, burn our homes—” A cry went up.
“Then we should wish for strong walls!”
“And live in fear?” Dougal asked. He looked at Malcolm. “Nay, it’s up to the laird. He’s the one who must swim to the island and speak the wish. He’ll do what’s best for us all.”
Fergus rose. “Will he? What does he know of what’s best for Dunbronach? He wasn’t raised here.” Folk turned to look at Malcolm. His green eyes clashed with Fergus’s dark ones. Fergus’s gaze slid over Malcolm’s clothing. “Wearing a plaid doesna make ye a Highlander,” he said bitterly. “Perhaps we should ask Maccus to make the wish.” But Maccus had passed out on the table in a puddle of spilled ale. Ronat saw the confusion in Fergus’s eyes and the disbelief in everyone else’s.
Fergus set his mouth into a hard line and glared around the room. “For pity’s sake, Maccus is our chief’s son. He’d make a better laird than Malcolm Ban.” He looked at Malcolm again. “Then ye could do as ye really want, go back where ye belong and marry your Sassenach and never have to come here again.” Malcolm tried to pull his hand free, but Ronat wouldn’t let him.
“Maccus is not a full descendant of the first laird of Dunbronach,” Dougal said. “It wouldn’t work. Malcolm Ban is our only hope.”
Fergus’s lined face flushed scarlet. “Then he will stay until the wish is made, and then I say he must go, let Maccus be our laird.”
No one spoke. The only sound was Maccus’s snores.
Fergus glowered at the Dunscaith men. “For God’s sake, do your duty and see him to bed.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Maccus’s men lifted him and carried him away, and everyone began to drift away to their own beds.
“So what will ye wish, Laird?” Glenna asked Malcolm.
“Don’t be daft, Glenna. It’s just a legend,” he replied sharply.
Her chin came up. “Aye? Well, Malcolm the Bold’s sword is mounted right there above the hearth, and there’s a lass with a fish’s tail on the scabbard.”
“She’s right. It’s more than just a legend. Especially now,” Dougal said. “It’s hope, and we’ve need of that just now.”
Malcolm got to his feet abruptly. “We need practical plans, good sense, and coin, not magic and wishes.”
Dougal shook his head. “When ye’ve lived as long as I have and heard the old tales, ye come to see there’s more than one kind of magic. The important kind isn’t out there on that island.” He tapped his finger on his chest. “It’s in here.”
Malcolm shook his head and strode toward the door that led outside without another word.
Dougal watched him go, his expression grave. “Good night, lass,” he said to Ronat and left the room with a sigh.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The spring night was chilly, the wind off the sea brisk. Ronat wrapped her hands around her arms and scanned the shadows. She found Malcolm standing on the castle wall, staring out at the wee island, a misty black smudge in the dark.
She walked up and stood behind him. “Isn’t it a full moon tonight?”
He didn’t turn. “Aye, but it’s gone behind a cloud.”
Ronat felt the tension in Malcolm’s body. “Is that the sea maiden’s island?”
“Aye, that’s it. Eilean Maighdeann Mhara.”
“Just like the story.”
He glanced at her, his expression dark, angry. “It’s just a myth. It’s not real.”
She shrugged. “Perhaps. But the island is real. And perhaps lasses do appear in the sea, injured, in need of help.”
But he only frowned harder still, his brow furrowing, and didn’t reply.
“Will you do it? Will you swim out to the island on Beltane and make the last wish? Even if you don’t believe, your people do. The wish is all they can speak of. No matter what Fergus says, you are their laird, descended from Malcolm the Bold. For them, you are Malcolm the Bold—”
“They’d rather have Maccus rule over them than me,” he muttered. “Fergus sent for him, promised he’d be laird.”
She touched his shoulder lightly, but he didn’t respond, and she let her hand drop. “Fergus may want him, but no one else does. They have their hearts set on you.”
There was fire in his eyes when he turned to her
. “And what happens once the wish is made, and it doesn’t come true? What then? Fergus expects me to slink back to Edinburgh and never return. Did you know he only came to Edinburgh because my father insisted on his deathbed that he must? I came, sure I could help, make things better, but Fergus won’t listen to sense, nor will the others. I have plans, blueprints, and new ways to do things—better ways—but they would rather believe that magic and outdated rituals and benevolent sea maidens will solve their problems. None of them have any idea there’s a modern world beyond these shores and the crumbling walls of this rotting keep.”
“Then you must convince them.”
“How?”
She tilted her head. “It shouldn’t be so difficult when the alternative to you is Maccus. Begin as you mean to go on, but tread carefully. When a new idea comes into its own and makes things better, it seems like magic.” She cast her eyes over his plaid and the glittering brooch at his shoulder. “Did you see how everyone’s eyes lit up when you appeared in plaid and bonnet instead of your Edinburgh clothes? It was as if you’d been transformed by magic into a Highland laird—their laird, Malcolm. Plan your new improvements. When they go well, the clan will assume it’s good fortune, wishes, and magic. Does it matter how it comes about, so long as their children are fed and there’s seed to plant and cows for milk and meat?”
His brows rose, and she felt his eyes scanning her face like a touch. “How do you know this?”
She felt blood rush into her cheeks, felt hot despite the chill of the night. “Och, it doesn’t matter what I know. It’s what you know that matters.” She stepped closer to him, looked up into his eyes. “Who knows? Perhaps the sea maiden will appear on Beltane . . .” She touched his shoulder and felt a breathless rush of desire shimmer through her. “She will be waiting for you, seated by the standing stone, combing her long hair in the moonlight. She will greet you with a smile so sweet you’ll hear fairy bells chiming.”
When a Laird Finds a Lass Page 14
