by Terry Spear
Shamus flung the wet hair from his eyes and yelled his brother's name again. This time when the lightning flashed, all he saw were fragments of their birlinn's broken hull floating out to sea.
"Saints," he hissed. Surely they weren't dead. "Dear God, protect them," he whispered.
Another great wave rose up west of him. He ducked beneath the surface to avoid the worst of the hit. The force of it sent him tumbling deeper. His head and shoulder slammed into a gigantic rock. Pain pounded through him and his head spun. Feeling the boulder anchored in the sea, he climbed up it for a breath of air and held tight. When the next wave struck, he couldn't hold out. The power of it sent him rolling through the waves and all went black.
***
Maili, younger sister of the MacDonald chief, awoke, gasping for breath in the cool darkness of her bedchamber in Bearach Castle.
Cold seawater had enveloped her. So real. She placed her hands over her head. Nay, her hair was dry.
"Just a nightmare," she whispered, then inhaled sharply and tried to calm her racing heartbeat.
Lightning flared outside and thunder boomed. She leapt up and hurried to her chamber's narrow window. All was dark except when lightning illuminated the loch's rugged and deserted shore line.
Fear iced her veins and she shivered. Someone was out there… in the storm… in the turbulent sea beyond the saltwater loch. His head and shoulder had hit a rock and the pain had been blinding. She'd felt it all as if it were happening to her.
Who was he?
Not one of her kinsmen. Nay, she didn't recognize the man. He was a stranger.
She pressed her eyes closed, once again feeling torn about the special ability she'd possessed since birth. Was it a gift or a curse? Her family hated that she had "the sight" and at times feared her. Even her tyrannical older brother, who had taken over as chief last year when their beloved father had passed, often eyed her warily and gave her a wide berth. Did Elrick fear she would put a curse on him if he didn't please her?
She wished she could, but she knew naught of curses, magic or witchcraft.
What of the man in the sea? Squinting against the bursts of lightning, she sensed nothing from him now. Had he drowned? She couldn't go out to find him, for the storm raged on and her brother's guards would never allow her beyond the gates at this hour. Besides, they would all think her mad.
They did anyway.
Maybe the drowning man had only been a bad dream and not something that was actually happening.
"Please, let it be so," she whispered.
"What is it, m'lady?" her young maid, Anora, asked from her pallet before the fireplace where only the embers glowed.
"The storm awoke me," Maili said.
"Aye, 'tis a bad one."
Maili couldn't stop her eyes from searching the shore every time lightning illuminated it. Someone was out there. She felt him again, as if he were clawing his way from the darkness.
"Do you see something?" Anora asked.
"Nay, 'tis only… I felt something… as if a man were drowning… out there."
"Oh," the maid said in a small voice.
Her strange gift frightened the maids, especially Anora.
Maili wished she could scramble down to the shore and see for herself if a man had washed up, but she didn't ken why she should care. What if he were a dangerous outlaw or pirate? He might kidnap her and hold her for ransom.
Men were a mystery to her. Over the past few years, she'd had three offers of marriage and, after the rumors about her had reached the men's ears, three subsequent rejections. They called her the MacDonald Witch, or the Bearach Witch.
She was no witch; she simply knew things she shouldn't… they claimed. To her, 'twas natural to see things in her mind which were happening at a great distance or in the future, things she could not see with her eyes or hear with her ears. When she'd been a small child, she'd assumed everyone had this ability, but when she'd mentioned it to her nursemaid and her mother, they'd eyed her fearfully.
They always whispered behind her back, but she knew what was in their minds.
A sudden chill gripped her. She hurried back to the bed and crawled beneath the warm blankets. She could not sense the man now. All was empty and dark. Though she didn't know him, she felt hollow inside. How could she miss someone she'd never met?
***
Distant shouts awoke Shamus. Where the blazes am I? When he opened his eyes a crack to the bright sunlight, pain ricocheted through his skull and his whole body. He muttered a curse and tried to make sense of the situation. His plaid and shirt were wet and cold. He lay on an unfamiliar, pebble-strewn beach. Waves crashed nearby.
When he squeezed his eyes closed against the blinding sun, images came to him—the lightning and waves of the storm. The fierce wind. The broken shards of the galley smashed against the rocks.
Fraser? Where was he… and Dermott? And the rest of his clansmen? Shamus lifted his head, wondering if they'd issued the shouts he'd heard. He squinted along the shore and spotted three unfamiliar men swathed in plaids scrambling over the massive boulders and rushing toward him, a sword in each of their hands.
"What the hell?" he muttered and shoved to his feet. The pain that latched onto his left shoulder almost sent him crashing to the ground again. Grinding his teeth, he just managed to stay upright. Blackness threatened. His head swam and he staggered, the pain in it throbbing anew. He grabbed for the sword at his side but 'twas gone. Damnation, he must have lost it in the storm.
His dirk. His hand closed around the familiar grip. Thank the saints 'twas still in place. He drew the foot-long weapon from the scabbard. Holding onto a boulder, he tried to take a defensive position against the three warriors advancing on him.
Who the devil were they? And why did they look like they wanted to kill him?
A dirk against three swords?
'Twas useless. He needed to climb up the cliff further along the shore. In a limping run, he charged in that direction. After a moment, he glanced back. 'Slud! They were still gaining on him. His toe caught on a stone and he slammed onto the ground. Growling at the pain lashing through him, he grabbed a fist-sized rock and hurled it at his closest pursuer's head. It struck his shoulder and he shouted. His two cohorts rushed Shamus. One kicked the dirk from his hand.
"Who are you, stranger?" one of the men asked, holding the sword's tip too close to Shamus' neck.
"Shamus of Clan MacKenzie. The chief's brother," he said, clenching his teeth against the agonizing pain. Surely they would treat him well if they knew who his brother was. Cyrus held a great deal of power and territory in the northwest of Scotland and the Western Isles. "Our birlinn wrecked last night during the storm." He glanced at his shoulder and the torn sleeve of his blood-soaked doublet.
"MacKenzie," one of the men growled as if 'twas a foul word.
"Aye, and if he's the chief's brother…," another said.
Grinding his teeth against the pain, Shamus slowly forced himself to his feet and surveyed the calculating looks on the warriors' faces. Each of them held a sword directed at Shamus.
"I ken all about the MacKenzies." The brown-haired, bushy-bearded man narrowed his eyes. "Your clan killed my father and my uncle at Morar."
"Which clan are you?" Shamus asked, fearing he already knew the answer.
"MacDonald of Moidart."
"'Twas a battle," Shamus said. "Not murder." Hell, couldn't he have come to his senses anywhere but on MacDonald soil? The MacKenzies and MacDonalds had engaged in a furious feud almost twenty years ago when Shamus was only a lad. The conflict had been a topic much discussed during his childhood. All had been resolved by the king's hand when he'd granted Shamus' father a charter for the land in dispute, and his father had also paid the MacDonalds a large payment.
"Dead is dead," the bearded man grumbled through clenched teeth.
"Not by my hand," Shamus said in a reasonable tone. "Nor did you three kill any of my kin. We were all lads then."
"Th
e chief will want to speak to you," the tall, lanky MacDonald man said.
"Aye, he'll have a cozy, dark chamber for you below stairs." The third man—the one he'd stoned earlier—smirked.
The dungeon? The bastards were going to imprison him. He grabbed for the nearest man's sword arm and gripped his wrist so he'd be forced to relinquish his blade. But, with his injuries, Shamus found his normal strength flagging. They toppled to the ground, pain shooting through him anew. The other two MacDonald clansmen landed blows against his face and chest. Possessed of a sudden fury and survival instinct, Shamus fought them with all his might. When something struck his head, all went black again.
Chapter 2
Maili's hands shook as she tried to concentrate on embroidering green bracken fronds onto a dress, but a feeling of distress near overwhelmed her.
'Twas the same feeling she'd experienced last night when she dreamed of the drowning man.
Maili glanced up at her cousin Constance who sat across from her, embroidering serenely. Fair-haired and green-eyed, Constance was beautiful and she knew it. Maili didn't wish her cousin to know anything about her thoughts. She looked on Maili's "sight" with scorn.
Unable to tolerate the suspense any longer, Maili tossed down her embroidery, sprang from the chair and strode to the window. Her gaze skimmed over the loch, much calmer now in the sunlight and reflecting the brilliant blue sky. At first, she saw naught, then she noticed a small galley being rowed toward the castle. Her brother's scouts patrolled the loch each day and night, going so far as the sea and then returning. Had they picked up the man she'd had the nightmare about?
Her stomach knotted as they rowed closer. When the men leapt ashore and pulled the galley in, one man remained lying in the boat, unmoving.
"'Tis him," she whispered, touching the wavy glass.
"What?" Constance asked behind her.
"Naught."
One of her brother's guards dipped a bucket of water and splashed it into the stranger's face. When he roused, two men dragged him from the boat. The stranger was dark-haired, tall and lean… and he wore a tartan weave she'd never seen before.
The two scouts dragged him up the shore and around the side of the castle. He jerked against them, trying to fight or escape. Fury, pain and fear radiated from him.
Who was he and what would her brother do to him? She hastened toward the door.
"Where are you going?" Constance asked.
Maili paused. "Some of the men are bringing in a stranger. I but wondered who he is."
"Why does it matter? Probably someone who trespassed onto clan lands."
"Aye. I'll return forthwith." She calmly exited and closed the door. Once out of sight, she trotted down the narrow stone stairwell to the great hall. She flew down the outside steps just as her brother smashed his fist against the stranger's jaw. Nay! One of the other men delivered a fearsome jab to the poor man's stomach. He was already bloody and haggard.
"Stop!" Maili yelled, racing toward them.
Elrick turned a furious glare on her, his tawny hair glinting in the bright sunlight and his eyes the color of blue flame. "What the bloody hell are you doing out here?"
"Who is he?" she asked. The sight of the newcomer's beaten, battered and bloody face made her ache inside. His doublet was drenched in blood. When his dark eyes met hers, 'twas clear he was halfway insensible and near to passing out. Something within her demanded that she protect him.
"He's a damned MacKenzie," her brother said. "Why do you care?"
She'd heard about the past blood feud with the MacKenzies years ago. "He's injured."
"Aye, and he's going to be even more injured before I'm through with him." Elrick gave a malicious grin.
Images of war and carnage flashed through her mind. "Nay, you must not harm him further or you will bring another feud to our clan," she warned.
"Don't think to order me about, sister! Take her inside!"
"What do you intend to do with him?" she asked, trying to keep her voice calm and reasonable.
"Get her out of here. Now!" he ordered.
One of the burly guards picked her up, tossed her over his massive shoulder and carried her up the steps. She pounded her fists against his broad back, fighting to escape, but kept her gaze on the MacKenzie stranger. She had to help him!
But how?
"I cannot wait until she's married and gone from here," her brother grumbled loudly.
Chuckles followed.
"The wee witch is naught but trouble," her brother's sword-bearer and war leader Hamish said.
After the guard carried her into the great hall, the entry door slammed, cutting off the rest of the conversation about her.
"Damn you! Release me!" she told the guard.
He gave a brief laugh and tossed her to her feet. "Do not place a curse on me, witch. I'm only following orders."
"I am not a witch," she said through clenched teeth and tried to dart around him toward the door.
"Nay." He jumped in front of her and blocked the door.
She hastened across the room to the narrow window that looked out over the barmkin.
Her brother slammed his fist into the MacKenzie man's stomach and he doubled over.
"Stop it, Elrick," she grumbled. Shouting at him would do no good. 'Twould only make him angrier. How could he be so vicious? He was nothing like their dear, departed father or her other brother, Neacal.
Elrick stepped back to converse with three of his advisors. Her gaze locked to the dark-haired stranger. He needed the healer and probably some food. But 'twas something beyond his immediate needs that drew her attention. Something that made her want to run to him and protect him against her own clansmen.
She sensed he was a man who would be important to her.
***
As Shamus stood in the walled barmkin, pain lacerated every part of his body. He ground his teeth to keep from groaning and showing weakness before these bastards. He blinked, trying to maintain full awareness.
The chief and his men talked of ransom and how much they could get for him. If that was what they intended, they wouldn't kill him at least. But they wouldn't care how many injuries they gave him on top of the ones he'd endured in the ocean.
His throat dry as sunbaked sand, he swallowed and tried to remain still as he puzzled over why the chief's sister had come to his defense with such vehemence. They'd called her a witch. Could it be true? One thing was certain, her lustrous dark hair and fair face were the only rays of hope and beauty at Bearach Castle.
"Take him to the dungeon," the young MacDonald chief commanded. The whoreson appeared younger than Shamus' own twenty-eight summers.
When he didn't move fast enough, the two clansmen dragged him by the arms. Pain stabbed through his shoulder.
"Bastards," he growled as they pulled him toward a doorway.
In retaliation, they yanked on his injured shoulder extra hard. Once in the dungeon, they tossed him onto the hard-packed dirt floor of the cell and slammed the iron door shut. Pain smashing through several parts of his body, he lay still, his teeth clenched tight, praying the agony would go away.
What the devil had he done to deserve this?
The aches wracking his body eased away bit by bit in the silence after the men left. He inhaled a deep breath of the dank, mildew-scented air and opened his eyes. The only weak light came from a torch in the stone corridor further along.
Where were Fraser and the rest of his clansmen? Had they survived the galley wreck or were they all dead, drowned, and washed upon some other clan's shore? And what of Dermott, his crew and galley?
Shamus' stomach ached with fear for his brothers. The pain in his head throbbed so severely, nausea rose up within him. At the same time, his mouth felt parched and dry as a ten day old bannock.
How long would they leave him here? And how would they get word to Cyrus that he was being held? He hoped they would send a messenger soon.
***
"Tavia, gather your supp
lies," Maili whispered to the clan healer a short time later, then glanced over her shoulder at those in the great hall. Neither her brother nor his closest men were present and it was not yet time for midday meal. "We must see to the stranger's injuries."
"Who is he?" Tavia asked, keeping her voice equally quiet. Though she was more than a decade older than Maili, they had been close since Maili had broken her arm as a wee lass and Tavia had set it.
"The MacKenzie chief's brother. A gentleman of the clan. If Elrick kills him or injures him further, I fear what the MacKenzies will do. Come down on us with fire and sword, without doubt."
Tavia lifted a mischievous brow, her green eyes twinkling. "Are you certain that's the only reason you wish to help him? Or is there something else?"
Maili frowned. "Is that not enough?"
"Of course." Tavia grinned. "But I'm thinking you're drawn to the mysterious stranger."
"Well…" Maili rolled her eyes. "I could not even tell if he was handsome or not, with his face so swollen and bloody," she said, trying to pretend she had no interest in him. "His shoulder was bleeding badly. While you're preparing your herbs and supplies, I'll go fetch him some food from the kitchen."
"Are you sure the chief will allow us into the dungeon to help him?"
"If he does not, I'll appeal to the elders and the council."
A portion of the clan was already dissatisfied with Elrick's leadership skills, or lack of them. He was too hotheaded and impulsive, they said. 'Twas sad her other brother, a year younger than Elrick, had left the clan several months ago. She did not even ken whether Neacal was still alive. Every day, she prayed he was, for she missed him. He had always treated her with kindness. He had a dark and tormented soul and could not abide the castle walls. He'd told her he had to leave to save his own sanity.
After gathering a few bannocks and a jug of ale for the stranger, along with a woolen blanket for warmth, she met Tavia in the great hall and they proceeded out to the sun-warmed bailey where a high, thick stone wall surrounded them. Lifting the hem of her plaid arisaid, she stepped over a puddle of water which remained from last night's storm as they strode toward the entrance to the dungeon.
