by Amy Jarecki
Merrin ensured her scarf was secure around her neck, then fastened her cloak. “Are we ready?”
Ian gave her a firm nod and Niall looked like he could kill a bull. A spike of fear shot up Merrin’s spine. She was about to leave Fladda, something she’d never done—not even once. She was fleeing with an old man, and another so weak, yesterday after he’d found her crying, he had barely made it back to the cottage without collapsing. Now they were running from the most notorious chieftain in the Hebrides and his feared henchman, Rewan MacLeod.
***
Ian had experienced Rewan’s ruthlessness firsthand. He’d worked for the taskmaster—sparred with him every morning from the time he was ten and four. Rewan had taken every opportunity to show him his birth as a second son meant nothing. Ian needed to prove himself or live in a cesspool of shame—a lesson ingrained by his uncle.
True, when he did as told and kept his mouth shut, Ian had little issue with the henchman. But it was Rewan’s job to protect and carry out old Ruairi’s orders, and Rewan took his role of henchman seriously. Rewan’s viewpoint? Nothing his laird demanded was outrageous. Nothing. Unconditional loyalty and ruthlessness kept him by Ruairi’s side for the past thirty-odd years.
Heading to the skiff, Ian strapped the claymore to his back, right shoulder to left hip, to avoid contact with his wound. “Have ye got a bow and arrows?”
Niall turned toward the cottage. “I’ve a bow. Not sure about the arrows.”
“It’ll be handy if we need to fell a deer.”
“You go ahead. I’ll fetch it.”
Bile burned Ian’s gullet as they hastened to the skiff with Friar Pat mumbling prayers behind them.
Merrin pointed to the boat and clapped her hands. “Gar, jump in.”
Ian stopped on the shore. “Ye do no’ mean to bring the dog?”
“And leave him here to fend for himself?” Merrin climbed in and threw her arms around the deerhound’s neck. “I’m no’ leaving without him.”
Niall caught up, bow in hand—only one arrow. “Your damned dog could give us away.”
She clamped her grip on Gar tighter. “He’s coming or I’ll stay here and face Rewan alone.”
Ian nudged Niall’s shoulder. “There’s nay time to argue. Climb in the skiff.”
Pat lumbered up, leaning on his walking stick. “Where will ye go?”
Ian grasped the oars and glanced back at Niall. “Skye?”
The old man spread his palms. “Do ye think the MacKenzie will take us in?”
Ian frowned. “’Tis the first place Rewan will look.”
Niall pointed across the sound. “There’s a place we can hide the skiff in Bearreraig Bay. ’Tis about the only close cove we can row ashore that’s not a sheer cliff.”
Merrin pulled her cloak taut around her neck. “Are there many people there?”
“Not near Bearreraig Bay, but if we go north, we’ll meet the MacQueens and south the MacKinnons.”
Ian nodded. “Not to mention the cutthroat MacDonalds and the Nicolsons in the middle.”
Friar Pat pointed southwest. “If ye can make it to the western part of the island, Alexander is friendly with the Dunvegan MacLeods.”
Ian splashed the oars in the water. “Ruairi is friendly with them as well—they’re kin. ’Tis best we find an inconspicuous place to hide.”
Merrin clutched the satchel on her lap with one hand and held on to Gar with the other. “Aye, lest they see me.”
Sitting beside her, Niall clutched her elbow. “Keep your mark covered at all times, lass. Ye never ken when someone will happen upon us.” The old man’s ill temper was cooling down. If they didn’t work together, they could all end up dead. The man had protected his daughter for years. His survivor instinct must be strong.
Friar Pat leaned into the hull and pushed the skiff into the surf. Ian ground his teeth and worked the oars. He didn’t have to reach his hand back to see if he was bleeding. Warm blood pooled in the waistband of his kilt. Pain didn’t matter. He’d gotten Merrin and Niall into this mess, and by God, he’d ensure they didn’t lose more than they already had.
“Once Rewan finds Fladda abandoned, he’ll move on toward MacKenzie land for certain.” Ian tried to sound reassuring. After all, that was where the two had last met. Fleeing to Skye on the other side of the sound was a much better option—one that Rewan wouldn’t expect.
“Ye reckon?” Niall asked.
“Aye. Then I’ll take ye back to Fladda and be on me way. Ye shouldn’t need to be gone from your home long.”
Niall glanced over his shoulder at the tiny isle as they rowed away. “Providing there’s a home to return to, God willing.”
Merrin got Gar to lie at her feet. “Ian, ye look like Ye’re about to fall from your perch. We’ll stay beside ye until Ye’re strong enough to go off on your own.”
Was his weakness that obvious? He must show her differently. He was deep in this, but Merrin and Niall were innocent. He could not see them ruined. “Rowing helps build me strength. I can feel it coming back.” Aside from a wave of queasiness, the pain Ian’s back had numbed a bit with exertion.
Niall studied him with knit brows. “Your color’s gone pale. Let me take the oars.”
Ian glanced over his shoulder. They’d crossed about a quarter of the way, but he couldn’t abide having an old man take over his responsibility. “I’ll keep on. If I cannot make it, I’ll have ye give me a spell.”
Merrin shook her head. “Ye’re a stubborn man.”
“I’m a MacLeod. ’Tis in me breeding.”
But Ian knew his body had limits. His strength sapped, he prayed he could at least make it across the sound. Blast it all, he should have taken the skiff and set out on his own yesterday. He could have lain in the hull and drifted until he hit a shore. Any shore would do, as long as no one recognized him. He’d be able to hide his injury now the lead ball had been removed.
He hated bringing Merrin and her father into his problems. He regretted the day he met Janet MacKenzie. But he’d never apologize for helping the lass. No woman deserved abuse. Not even one who would use him for her own gain.
Ian’s mother, Lady Anne, had been put on a pedestal by his father—where she ought to be. He wished he could see her now, carrying her head high, teaching him about everything, from etiquette to languages to falconing. Ian never did like etiquette, but as a man, he realized it had its place. His shoulders tensed. Etiquette was something old Ruairi never learned in all his years.
***
Once behind closed doors in the laird’s solar, Rewan accepted a cup of whisky from Alexander’s hand. Though broad in the shoulders, the laird was shorter than his father had been.
Alexander poured for himself, but did not lift his cup. His fiery eyebrows drew together. “What’s this you say about Ian absconding with Janet MacKenzie?”
Rewan swirled the amber liquid thoughtfully. He’d never been fond of the way Ruairi treated his young bride, but it wasn’t Rewan’s place to question the chieftain of his clan. That aside, his brother Ian had broken the Highland code of trust and clan loyalty when he spirited Janet away in a galley. The pair could have even been lovers. Bloody oath, that’s certainly the way it appeared.
Alexander cleared his throat. “Ye’re awful quiet for a man who wanted a private audience.”
Rewan snapped his gaze up. The intensity of Alexander’s blue eyes charged the air with unspoken challenge and made Rewan’s fingers ache to touch the hilt of his dirk, but that would be a mistake. “Gathering me thoughts, m’laird.” Rewan shifted in his seat. “We tracked Ian to MacKenzie land. He delivered Janet into the hands of her kin, then gave us chase.”
Alexander sat at the head of the table. “It doesn’t surprise me that me brother would be mixed up with a lass as bonny as Lady Janet, but I’ve difficulty understanding why he would forsake his oath of fealty to our uncle.”
Rewan knew this question was coming. He’d like to know the answer himself. “I dunna ken, but he did.”
It was a limp reply, but one that might purchase some time and enable him to dig deeper.
“So why are ye here?”
Rewan tossed back his whisky and wiped his mouth with his hand. “Have ye seen him?”
Alexander fingered his silver brooch, which sported a chunk of amber in the center. “Nay, he’s not here. Have ye tried the MacKenzie? Mayhap he doubled back.”
Rewan set his cup on the table. “He’s no’ with them.” The laird had responded without hesitation. He truly must have no idea where his brother is—unless he’s a talented player. Rewan sat forward. “Last I saw him, he was rowing a skiff across the Inner Sound. Across to Raasay.”
Alexander’s eyes narrowed. “Ian is here?”
“He did not wash up on your shore?”
“Wash up?” Alexander pounded his fist on the table. “Are ye telling me he’s dead?”
Rewan held both palms up. “Or injured.”
Alexander passed his hands over his face and squinted sideways. “Exactly why would me brother be dead or injured?”
Rewan’s pulse hammered beneath his skin. His fingers twitched close to his dirk—he didn’t want a fight with kin, but if Alexander was anything like Ruairi, he’d be quick to anger. “He could have been hit by a musket ball.”
Alexander stood and moved to the window. The door opened and Sir Bran stepped inside. The laird turned. “Sir Bran, have ye heard anything about a man with a musket shot in his back?”
Rewan’s gut clenched. He’d not said anything about where he’d shot the bastard.
Bran scratched his dark beard, keeping his gaze lowered. “Och. No blighter with a musket wound around these parts.” He pointed to the flagon. “Do ye mind if I pour meself a tot and join ye?”
Alexander rolled his hand. “Please do.”
The two men locked eyes—only for a heartbeat, but Rewan caught it. Something was afoot and he would dig to the bottom of it.
Bran sat in the chair beside him. “Are ye planning to stay the night, old friend? I put in an order with the kitchen for ye and your men.”
Rewan cracked his knuckles. He liked Sir Bran, but he didn’t care to be hoodwinked and deceived. His teeth clenched so tight, they hurt. “I did not say where Ian was shot.”
Bran and Alexander again exchanged unreadable looks, but Rewan knew their meeting of the eyes communicated more than a hundred words.
Rewan pulled on his thumbs, the room echoing with popping sounds. “Neither did I like the way your shifty friar welcomed me on the beach.”
Bran’s hand slipped beneath the table. “Do no’ be backbiting the friar.”
“He kens were Ian is—be it dead or alive.” Rewan slid his fingers over the leather-sheathed handle of his dirk. “I think ye do too.”
Alexander held up both hands—void of weapons. “Calm yourself, Rewan. This is the first we’ve heard of me brother possibly washing ashore.” His fists clenched and lowered. “And Uncle Ruairi did no’ see fit to send me a missive about me own brother?”
Rewan panned his eyes across Bran’s shoulders. The man’s shirt nearly split at the seams, and Rewan was well aware only solid muscle lay beneath the linen. He’d sparred with Bran before, and though Rewan might be able to best him, he’d be in a world of hurt if he failed. No. Ian MacLeod was alive and nearby. Rewan would discover where before the sun set. No need to cause a stir here—at least not yet.
Rewan stood and bowed. “Thank ye for the offer of hospitality, m’laird, but I must be on me way.”
Bran offered his hand, but Rewan brushed past it and hurried down the tower stairs.
His men were scattered across the great hall, tankards of ale in their hands. Rewan eyed Alick and slid onto the bench beside him. He pressed his lips to Alick’s ear. “Have ye seen that meddling friar?”
“He headed north in a skiff right after ye took your leave with the laird.”
“Assemble the men in the galley at once. Me guess is we’ll find that backstabbing Ian MacLeod a wee jaunt up the coast.”
Chapter Ten
Friar Pat watched Ian row the skiff into the sound, staring at the backs of his dear friend Niall and his precious daughter. “Dear Lord Jesus, bless those poor souls and keep them safe from harm’s door.”
Pat wasted no time launching his own skiff. Rewan’s leering gaze emblazoned an ugly image on his mind. As soon as the henchman discovered an injured man had been cared for on Fladda, he’d put the pieces together. Back on Brochel Beach, Pat’s gasp had all but given Ian away. Heaven help him, if only he’d realized who Ian was when he’d first laid eyes on the lad, he would have stifled his reaction.
He hoped to heaven Bran was successful at keeping Rewan overnight. But Pat wasn’t taking any chances. He’d already made one major mistake. He couldn’t make another.
The fastest route back to Brochel was to row around the north tip of Raasay. He’d take an alternate route this day. If Bran failed and Rewan did set sail for Fladda, he’d use the north route for certain. Friar Pat rowed his skiff south. It didn’t take long to paddle into Loch Arnish where the curve of the bay would hide him from being spotted by Rewan’s galley.
Pat steered the boat to the far end of the loch and pulled the skiff into the brush. Working quickly, he broke branches of heather and spread them over the hull to ensure the little boat could not be detected from the sea. He wheezed heavily and hurried up the hill. The journey back to the castle wasn’t but a couple of miles. Nonetheless, he’d be battling steep and treacherous terrain—not so easy for a fat old friar with rheumatism.
He needed to haste back to the castle quickly before anyone noticed him missing. Sir Bran would only be able to cover so long, and the less the others knew of Ian’s plight, the better. All keeps had their spies, and if anyone discovered the friar knew the whereabouts of Ian MacLeod, Ruairi would be notified in less than a day.
When the friar finally huffed over the ridge where he could peer down to Brochel Bay, his stomach sank to his toes. Rewan’s galley had sailed.
Heal quickly, my son, for hell has just made chase.
***
Merrin watched a bead of sweat trickle from Ian’s brow. He was hurting. She had no idea why he wouldn’t let Niall row the skiff. Niall might be older, but a musket ball hadn’t been carved from his back three days past.
The fact that Ian managed to stay upright was nothing short of a miracle. She prayed they’d be able to find a quiet place to hide on Skye, somewhere they wouldn’t be seen. She’d spent many a day gazing across the sound at the big island. At least from what she could see from Fladda, Skye had no permanent residents—no cottages or fences of any sort. If Rewan sailed the opposite direction to the mainland, they’d be hidden for certain and it would give Ian time to heal.
Ian’s rowing clapped the waves in a steady rhythm. The steep cliffs of Skye loomed nearer.
Niall pointed to the northwest. “Steer the boat into the cove. We’re nearly there.”
Ian glanced over his shoulder. His cheeks puffed with air, which he released slowly. Thank heavens. They’d nearly crossed the sound. Ian truly must be made of iron.
Gar splashed over the side as they tugged the boat onto the stony beach. Niall and Ian maneuvered the heavy wooden hull behind a pile of boulders to hide it from view by sea.
Then Da pointed to the smooth, wide line the skiff made in the stones and sand. “Cover our tracks.”
Merrin picked up a stick of driftwood and raked it over their trail.
Ian pointed to a grove of trees on the cliff above. “Is there a quick way up there? The wood can give us cover, and we’ll have a clear view of any seafaring vessels.”
“Aye.” Niall headed up an overgrown path and beckoned them. “Come.”
Gar bounded ahead, but stopped and turned when the path seemed to end. Niall pushed aside the brush. “’Tis only an old game trail.”
“That’s even better.” Ian picked up a sturdy stick and leaned on it. “A concealed path will make it harder for a
nyone to track us.” He turned back to Merrin. “When we can, we’ll use a branch to scratch out our tracks.”
Merrin scanned the waters. “Do ye think they’ll come this way?”
“If not now, eventually. Ruairi needs proof of me death. Rewan cannot go back to Stornoway without it.”
“Ye mean he’ll never stop?”
“Not till I’m dead.”
“Then why are we running? Ye should have let me take the blade to your neck and had it done with,” Niall barked over his shoulder.
Merrin had never seen her father in such a mood. Sure, he often groused, but what else were they to do?
Ian grumbled something imperceptible and marched ahead.
Merrin caught sight of his back and gasped. “Ye’re bleeding.”
Ian batted the air with his hand and kept on. “It’ll stop soon enough.”
“Nay, Ian, Ye’re bleeding a lot. We need to rest. Ye should have let Da row the skiff.”
Ian stopped, his eyes fierce. “Aye, I’m bleeding, but we’ll no’ stop. We’ll keep going until ’tis safe for ye to return to Fladda and your lives.”
Merrin clamped her mouth shut. Together, the two men would have been welcome in a camp of ogres. Let Ian walk on until he dropped if that was what he wanted. Of course then she’d be forced to tend his wounds. She and Niall would have to drag him someplace safe. Mayhap they’d find a hole in the ground so they could hide like rabbits.
“Gar, come behind.” At least Merrin could tell the dog what to do. Gar dipped his head and gave her a reluctant look. She clenched her fists. “Ye do what I say, or…or else.” There. Now all three mongrels had their hackles up.
***
Pat found Alexander and Sir Bran in the laird’s solar.
Bran stood. “I’d begun to fear you’d had a run-in with Rewan. I was just about to launch a search party.”
“Had to cross overland.” The friar took a deep breath and eyed the flagon on the table. “I’ve a thirst like a mad cow.”
Alexander gestured toward a tankard. “Help yourself.”
“Thank ye.” Pat poured the ale and caught his breath. “Ian set sail in a skiff with Niall and his daughter. They’re heading toward Skye.”
