The collision knocked her backward into the bottom of the boat. Maccus swore, and she heard wood splitting, and suddenly the water was coming in from all directions. She could see the black, jagged fang of rock poking through the bottom of the boat between her feet. The waves pushed at the crack, widening it.
Maccus kept on screaming, enraged, cursing. She looked at him, saw the sharp splinter of wood sticking out of his leg like an arrow. She scrambled across the broken planks to him, grasped the wood, and pulled it out. The blood came quickly, instantly washed down by the rain and the sea. She tore the rest of her sleeve free, bound it around the gash. “We have to swim,” she said, yelling to be heard above the storm. He was staring at her, his eyes rolling white.
“They said ye were a selkie. Is this a selkie curse? Do ye intend to carry me under, drown me?” He lunged for her, grabbed her throat, and squeezed. “Call off the storm, sea witch—make it stop, or you’ll be the one to die!” He was drunk and mad. Dark spots filled her field of vision as his grip tightened. Her cold, wet fingers scrabbled uselessly at his huge hands. In a minute, she’d be dead . . .
The water was rising around them as the rocks chewed the boat to pieces. Something floated against her, bumped her hip, and she grabbed for it. The bucket. She swung it hard against his head. She heard it connect, felt the shudder run through her arm. He swore, but his grip on her throat didn’t loosen, and she swung the bucket again. This time, his hands went slack, and he fell forward on top of her and didn’t move. She dragged air into her tortured lungs and shoved him aside. He didn’t move. His body floated as the boat dissolved under them. She clung to the wreckage and gingerly put her fingers against his neck, felt a pulse there.
She peered over the ragged edge of the boat, saw the dark blur of land. They were a few dozen yards from the shore. The timbers cracked again, and she screamed as the mast fell into the water inches from her head.
She had to swim to shore, or at least try. She looked at Maccus’s still form, knew he’d drown if she left him. She slipped into the water and pulled Maccus onto a broken bit of the hull, so he floated, and began to swim, towing him behind her.
The waves helped her push Maccus’s vast weight up onto the shore. She put her fingers against his neck again and found his pulse. Could anything kill him? His face was battered, and there was a new bruise on the side of his head where she’d hit him. She wasn’t sorry for it. The strip of cloth she’d tied around his leg was pink with blood, not red. Maccus was lucky. She sank down on the pebbles a safe distance from him and lay still, too tired to move. She could not sleep, didn’t dare. She had to get up, find shelter.
She hauled herself to her feet. Her teeth chattered uncontrollably, and the wet weight of her skirts dragged on her like lead.
Then she saw it. She rubbed the water out of her eyes and blinked, looked again. It couldn’t be . . . There was a massive rock a dozen yards away, the sides rounded smooth by the weather. It looked like a whale. She cried out, hobbled to it, and threw her arms around it like an old friend—indeed it was. The stone whale marked the edge of her father’s land. Sobs racked her body, and she let hot tears flow over the cold stone flanks. She was home—well, nearly. Glen Iolair was less than a dozen miles away. Closer, if you knew the shortcuts. In a little while, she’d be with her father and her sisters, safe and warm.
She leaned on the rock and looked back out at the sea. The waves still crashed, and night was coming on. She wondered if Malcolm knew she was gone, if he wished that . . .
She forced herself up and stood on her own feet, scrubbing her wrists across her eyes. It was too late for that. He was her enemy, a secret she’d keep, a moment in time she’d hold among the pieces of her broken heart and never forget. Her body shook with chill, burned, too, as she went back to Maccus’s prone figure. He hadn’t moved, and she couldn’t carry him.
The best she could do was to go and get help. But he was a MacDonald, and he was armed. If her clan found him, even unconscious, they’d kill him. She unbuckled his sword with cold, clumsy fingers. She struggled to unwind his plaid. She buried them both in the pebbles behind the whale. She looked back at where he lay. He wore only his long shirt and his boots. He’d wake with a headache from the blows she’d dealt him and from the drink.
The world swirled and wavered around her as she forced herself back to her feet. She put a hand to her head, found it hot. She felt pain everywhere, and she was thirsty again. She wrapped her arms around her body and turned toward the path behind the whale’s flank. It led up the cliff between the trees, to home.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
They sailed close to the coastline, watching for Maccus’s boat, but they’d found nothing. The storm fell on them like a pack of wolves, dashing icy water into their faces to blind them, doing its best to sink them. The wind keened in the sails like a wild creature.
Malcolm fought the queasiness, his fingers gripping the gunwales so hard he left marks on the wood with his nails. He stared through the storm at the shore, looking for Maccus’s boat. He looked at the storm-battered faces of the men with him, saw that all of them were as worried as he was, as determined to rescue Marcail MacLeod, their bitterest enemy.
Malcolm wondered if Highland justice gave him the right to kill his cousin if he’d harmed her. She and her clan were still his enemy . . . The law walked a fine line here, clashed with morals and emotion. His guts curled at the idea of Marcail at Maccus’s mercy. He was five times her size . . . His hand gripped the wet hilt of his father’s sword. Raw, merciless Highland justice would suit him just fine, he decided.
Fergus saw the gesture and leaned forward. “Had enough of this fool’s errand? Ye’re as green as new grass, Malcolm Ban. In a moment ye’ll be hanging over the side, puking into the sea. Ye’ll be of no use to her, or to anyone else. If the storm gets much worse, we’ll drown. Put in to shore and wait out the gale.”
“We can’t land here,” Iain said. He pointed to the rocks sticking out of the water, sharp and black. William was at the tiller, fighting the wind.
Iain grabbed the old warrior’s arm. “Go carefully—there are sharp rocks here.”
William grinned at him. “I’ve been sailing since before your father ever even looked at your mother, lad. I know what to do.”
There was a crash, and the boat juddered against a rock hiding under the surface. It pierced the hull like a great black tooth, and Malcolm watched in horror as the sea rushed through the gaping hole.
“There’s water coming in. We’ll have to swim,” William said unnecessarily.
Malcolm felt his belly tighten. The rocky shore looked miles away, unreachable through sharp rocks and the rough waves. It wasn’t so far. It was fear that expanded the distance, widened the treacherous stretch of water between himself and dry land. He blinked, dashed the water out of his eyes, fixed his gaze on the shore. Just a few dozen yards, no more that that.
One by one, the men slipped over the side and struck out for shore. They didn’t know he couldn’t swim. He’d kept that a secret too. At last, only he and Fergus were left on the sinking boat. Fergus smirked at him. “Ye can’t swim,” he said. “What will ye do now?”
He looked at the old man. “I can swim. She taught me. Marcail MacLeod. I intend to swim to shore, find her, and marry her. Then I will swim to the sea maiden’s island on Beltane, and I will make a wish.” He began to lower himself over the side, his heart pounding, but Fergus caught his arm.
“Don’t leave me here!” The smirk was gone, and Fergus looked old and tired and afraid. “I can’t swim either.”
Malcolm looked at the terror in the old man’s eyes and felt his own abate. “You can float. We’ll do this together. Get on my back and keep your head above the water. I won’t let you sink.” He turned to look at the shore. The first man—Hugh—was already hauling himself out onto the beach. It was a small distance, a few dozen yards or so. “Come on,” he said to Fergus, and watched as the old man’s face blanched, but he did
as he was told. He clung to Malcolm’s shoulders, and Malcolm kicked hard, the way Marcail had taught him.
The waves caught hold of him, fought to drag him under, and Fergus wailed. Malcolm felt fear grip him, make his limbs flail uselessly. He felt the old, familiar terror rise . . .
“Ronat,” he whispered. She was still Ronat to him, the name he had murmured as he made love to her, cried out as he drove himself into her body. He’d woken with that name in his mind, on his lips, for weeks.
“I will do this for Ronat,” he roared now, not caring what Fergus thought, and kicked hard against the sea.
He felt something bump against his shin. “What was that?” Fergus cried, his fingers tensing on Malcolm’s neck. It brushed past again, shoving Malcolm forward with a hard butt, pushing him through the water, toward land. He saw a sleek head appear in the waves, a few yards ahead.
“Ho!” he shouted, thinking Iain or Hugh had come back to help him. He swam toward, the dark head, but it dove and disappeared, only to bob up a few seconds later, closer to the shore.
“It’s a seal!” Fergus cried. “Or a selkie. Is it her?” There was so much water stinging his eyes that Malcolm couldn’t tell what he was seeing.
He swam on, following the dark head until it disappeared one last time. He felt the bottom against his boots, fought his way the last few yards, until he could claw his way up the beach. He felt the scrape of pebbles under his cheek, along his knees and shins. Fergus fell onto the shore with a sob. Malcolm turned to see the dark head bobbing out in the waves, but it disappeared and did not surface again.
Fergus was on his knees, vomiting seawater. When he was done, he rolled onto his back and looked at Malcolm. “Thank ye.”
Malcolm got to his feet, feeling bruised and unsteady. He held out his hand.
Fergus grabbed hold and struggled up, stooped and wet, looking even older than he was. Malcolm put an arm around the elder and helped him limp along the beach.
The four other MacDonalds stood in a circle around something lying on the beach. Malcolm’s guts clenched, and dread filled him as he approached. If it was Marcail . . . He swallowed hard.
“It’s Maccus,” William said. “He’s alive, but he’s half-naked. Where’s his plaid?”
“The bastard—” Hugh began, then looked around frantically, searching under bushes. There was no sign of Marcail. “Where’s the lass?”
Malcolm dropped to his knee beside his cousin, examined the bruise on his forehead, saw the sleeve tied around his shin. “It’s from the gown she was wearing,” he said.
“But who tied it there, Maccus or the lass?” Hugh asked.
Fergus snorted. “He didn’t hit himself in the head. Look at that bruise. He’s lying on a broken bit of his own boat, and he’s drunk. He couldn’t have gotten himself to shore and certainly couldn’t have managed to ra—” He glanced at Malcolm and stopped.
Malcolm felt rage pour through his veins. He grabbed hold of the laces on Maccus’s shirt, hauled him up, and shook him. “Wake up, Maccus,” he commanded. “Where is she? Where’s Marcail?” Maccus roused enough to grip his wrists feebly, groaning. “Where is she?” Malcolm demanded again.
Iain knelt next to him and slid his knife under Maccus’s chin. “Answer him, Maccus, or I’ll stab ye, one cut for every single one of the lasses you’ve harmed.”
“For Glenna,” William said, drawing his knife.
“For Glenna’s mother,” Fergus added.
“For my sister,” Hugh said.
“It’s a very long list,” Iain warned Maccus.
Maccus’s eyes widened as he looked at the weapons pointed at him. He scrabbled at Malcolm’s hands again. “I didn’t harm her. The storm . . . then the boat . . . I swear I was in no condition to hurt anyone.”
William dimpled Maccus’s nose with his knife. “Then why are ye half-naked?”
Maccus looked at his hairy legs sticking out from under his long shirt. “I dinna know!” he howled. “I swear it!” He looked at Malcolm. “She’s a MacLeod—did ye know that? She told me so, promised if I took her home, her father would pay—if he didn’t kill me, o’course. I was considering it, but the boat hit a rock, foundered.” He rubbed his forehead. He tried to push them away, but the knives didn’t move.
“Don’t ye understand what I said? She’s a MacLeod, our enemy!”
“We already know,” William said in disgust and removed his knife.
Malcolm let him go, shoved him hard, heard him grunt as he fell back on the stones. He was tempted to strangle him. He stepped back before he gave in to the temptation. “I saw her, Malcolm Ban. We were in the water. She brought me to shore. She was alive then, I swear it,” Maccus called after him.
“Then she’s safe enough for now,” Iain said to Malcolm. “We’re on MacLeod territory. I recognize that big rock on the beach. Not that I’ve seen it from shore before now. We usually give this place a wide berth and keep sailing.”
Hugh looked around nervously. “Not a choice now, is it? The boat’s gone, and we’re stuck here, at the mercy of the Fearsome MacLeod.”
They looked gloomy, wet, and afraid, but Malcolm felt hope bloom in his breast, and he forced down a ridiculous urge to laugh. “We’re on MacLeod land?” He’d sailed here, swam in the sea, carried Fergus ashore, and found his cousin. If he wasn’t a logical man, he might almost believe in destiny and magic . . . almost.
When he held her in his arms again, then he’d believe. “Which way do we go?”
William shook his head. “We’re not going anywhere now, Laird. It’s nearly dark, and we’re soaking wet and tired. If the lass is here, she’ll know her way. She’s probably safe and dry among her own folk by now. We’ll light a fire and go in the morning. Get some sleep, Laird. I’ll take first watch.”
Malcolm stood and watched as the others gathered driftwood and made a damp, smoky fire against the shelter of the humped rock. It offered very little warmth and only scant light. Malcolm walked a short distance away and sat on the shore, staring out at the sea.
Fergus came and sat down beside him. “I owe ye my thanks and an explanation,” he said stiffly. He glanced over his shoulder at the others and lowered his voice. “I’ve kept this secret all these years, thinking it was better that it died with Archie and Cormag, and me, when my time comes.” He stared at the sea. “Aye, Glenna is Maccus’s child. Her mother—Morag—said as much before she died after bringing Glenna into the world. Beitris and I were with her. She’d refused until then to tell anyone the father’s name, feared what people would say if they knew.” He raised his chin. “I was the one who came up with the idea to tell everyone that Cormag had fathered Morag’s child.”
“Why?” Malcolm asked.
Fergus shut his eyes. “As I’ve said, I loved Cormag like my own son. But he preferred the company of other men. We thought he was just a braw lad who liked to hunt and fight in the company of other lads, but there was more to it. Archie knew, and I knew. When Archie went to Edinburgh to see you and yer mother, Cormag and I went with him. I found Cormag in an alley with another man, doing what a man does with a lass. I pulled him off, made him swear he’d never do such a thing again, but Archie saw. He knew. He never said a word, but he barely spoke to Cormag after that.” He raised his chin. “I loved yer brother like my own son. I taught him to read, to figure, and I tried my best to raise him to be the next laird. I encouraged him to wed, put the past behind him, breed sons. He couldna. So when Morag begged us with her dying breath not to tell that Glenna was Maccus’s, I decided to lie. I told everyone that Morag had confessed that Cormag fathered the child. I swore Beitris to secrecy, made her promise never to tell. Morag was her sister’s child, ye see. She had no wish to see her shamed.”
The old man wiped away a tear. “Archie was pleased, thought his son was—well, he was happy until Cormag denied it, the fool. Cormag must have guessed it was Maccus. He found Maccus and beat him bloody, told him to go and never come back. He sent him away, not Archie.
” He looked at Malcolm. “Do ye see? I did it for Archie and for Cormag and for Glenna. Then on his deathbed, Archie asked for ye, a stranger, an outsider. He never even asked if Cormag was sick, or still lived. Archie’s last words were your name and your mam’s, the woman and the son who had abandoned him. I hated ye for that, Malcolm Ban.”
Fergus sighed and raised his chin. “I was wrong. That’s what I came to tell ye. I shouldn’t have sent for Maccus. I thought—” He paused and swallowed.
“You thought he’d make a better laird,” Malcolm said. “Not because he’s smarter than me, but because he’s not. You’d still be in charge, the way you were when my father was alive.”
Fergus looked ashamed. “Aye, that’s close enough to it. Did ye know Archie and I were half-brothers, like you and Cormag? My mother was yer grandfather’s leman. He never called me son, and Archie never called me brother, for all he leaned on me, used my brain and my skills. He was useless after your mother left. He pined for her every day, a woman who didn’t want him, who stole his son away from him. He spent his time on the headland, watching for her return. He loved ye, even if he didn’t understand ye. I didn’t either, but I believe I know ye better now.”
“There are a great many things I don’t know about being laird,” Malcolm said. “I don’t know the old Highland customs, and I haven’t any magic—”
Fergus put his hand on Malcolm’s shoulder. “Och, ye have magic, lad. We all do. It was why ye rescued the MacLeod lass.”
“Will you accept her as lady of Dunbronach?” Malcolm asked.
Fergus sighed again. “Aye, I will. In truth, I’ve never known a finer lass. I was . . . disappointed to discover she was a MacLeod, but no one’s perfect. Her father could still kill ye on sight. Are ye sure of her?”
Malcolm scanned the sea again. “I’ve never been surer of anything.”
Fergus nodded. “Then if we’ve settled things between us, I’m going to get warm by the fire. Will ye come?”
When a Laird Finds a Lass Page 23
