Beauty and the Barbarian

by Amy Jarecki

  Alexander knocked the table with his fist. “Blast it all. We should be going after him.”

  Bran resumed his seat and leaned back. “We’ve gone over it fifty different ways. If we defend Ian, we’ll incite a feud between the clans.”

  Pat swallowed his ale. “’Twould mean the end of us all. The Lewis guard has more than three times our numbers.”

  Bran nodded. “We’d lose our lands for certain. Ian’s a smart lad, far more intelligent than Ruairi’s henchman.”

  Alexander shoved his chair back and paced. “I do no’ like it. Damn Uncle Ruairi to hell. Ian’s me brother. I cannot turn me back on him.”

  Friar Pat clasped his cross. Blessed be Jesus, was the laird honestly willing to sacrifice every soul on Raasay for his brother? “Wait. Afore ye go off half-cocked, think it through.” He eyed the two men. “Niall’s as cunning as a fox. Ian’s become a man—he’s nearly as big as Bran, muscles like a gladiator, too. And, they’re heading for Skye. It’ll take time for Rewan to discover they’re no’ on Raasay or Fladda. He’d be daft to search Skye. It makes far more sense for Ian to flee to the mainland.”

  Bran slapped the table. “Ye’ve got a point. Ian will have a good head start.”

  Alexander stared out the window. “Where do ye think he’ll go once he reaches Skye?”

  Bran pulled on his black beard. “If it were me I’d go down to Portree, find a galley and sail to Ireland for a time.”

  Pat nodded. “It might be best for them all to make a start in a new place.” Mayhap even Merrin could find acceptance…

  Alexander turned. “Agreed. Though it galls me, we cannot risk the clan for one man. If Ian’s chances of success are so great, we’ll drink to him and bid him a safe journey.”

  All three men held up their tankards and guzzled their ale.

  Friar Pat only wished he could ward off the tightness in his chest. All three souls meant a great deal to him, as did the other two hundred in his care on the Isle of Raasay. He’d be on his knees offering prayers of penance for days to come.

  ***

  After they sailed around the tip of Raasay and through the narrows of Rona, a verdant isle caught Rewan’s eye. He nudged Alick with his elbow. “That looks a likely place.”

  Alick shook his head. “I do no’ think we want to go ashore there. ’Tis Eilean Fladda—word has it a witch lives on the south end with an old healer.”

  Rewan gave his superstitious man-at-arms a shove. “A witch, ye say?”

  “Aye, not even the Rona pirates dare set foot there.”

  “I think Ye’re spending too much time in the tavern. That sounds more like an old wives’ tale to me—besides, I’m more interested in the healer part.” He waved to the oarsmen. “Ashore.”

  The galley skimmed onto the soggy grey sand lining the shore below a steep incline of pasture land. Standing on an oarsman’s bench, Rewan made out the top of a thatched roof. He climbed over the side and his boots sank into wet sand. Two of his six men stayed behind to mind the galley. Rewan led Alick and the others up the hill. Sure enough, a lime-washed cottage perched at the top with a quaint thatched roof. He chuckled. Tufts of smoke rose from its chimney.

  The same tingle he got in his gut just before engaging in a battle made Rewan’s chest hairs stand on end. He widened his strides. Even if Raasay had died, he might find proof right here and now. He grasped his hilt and drew his sword from the scabbard on his back. In a few minutes, he’d either be fighting with the only man on Lewis who could best him, or he might be on his way to Stornoway and his woman.

  As they encircled the cottage door, Rewan signaled for his men to ready their weapons. Alick raised his fist to knock and glanced back for a nod. Rewan dipped his chin once. Alick pounded with such force, the deep rattle could most likely be heard across the entire isle. They waited. Nothing.

  Rewan heard not a single footstep. “Kick it in.”

  Alick slid his hand to the latch. It clicked. He glanced back at Rewan and shrugged.

  Rewan raised his sword, making eye contact with the other men. With a quick nod, they bellowed their war cry, charging into the tiny cottage. Rewan spun in a circle. The fire in the hearth crackled. A pallet of straw lay on the floor. It looked like the old healer had a visitor.

  Alick opened a door, revealing an empty bedroom. It took Rewan no time to discover the inhabitants of the cottage were nowhere to be found. He sent two men to scour the isle while he knelt alongside the pallet. He threw back the plaid. Bloodstains pooled on linen sheets, lower right side of the back—exactly where Rewan reckoned he’d shot Ian MacLeod. “Ye’ve eluded me again, have ye now, Raasay?”

  Alick moved in behind him.

  Rewan pointed. “Looks like we’ve just missed him.”

  “By the state of the fire, they haven’t been gone long.” Alick stepped up to the hearth and pulled a red-and-black kilt from a peg. “This looks like Ian’s plaid.”

  Rewan jumped up and examined it. Bloody oath, it was his. “Ballocks. Someone must have warned them.”

  Alick rubbed the wool between his fingers. “That pesky friar.”

  “Aye.” Rewan snatched the plaid and paced around the table. That damned Raasay would never die. He’d soon be chasing the phantom bastard all over the Highlands—and worse, he even liked the wayward barnacle before he’d gone off with Ruairi’s wife. This was a bitter task. One he’d prefer to be free of. But what choice did he have? If he failed to carry out Ruairi’s orders, he’d be cast out of Stornoway. After so many years of loyal service, he’d be handed his bonnet with no place to go. Not many rogue warriors survived without a clan.

  “What next?” Alick’s question snapped Rewan from his thoughts.

  He threw the kilt into the fire. “Burn it.”

  Before the wool could catch fire, Alick snatched the plaid from the flames and shook it. “Ruairi wants evidence, no?”

  Rewan growled. He should have thought of that. “Keep it—but we will track the bastard down. I’ve no doubt Ruairi would enjoy a hanging from the Stornoway gallows.”

  Alick walked around the outside of the cottage with a torch, setting the thatched roof alight. Rewan stood back and watched, his arms folded. No one would harbor a man who crossed his chieftain and not suffer the consequences.

  The two men he’d sent to scour the tiny isle approached. “No sign of a soul,” one said.

  Rewan pointed to the ship. “Go ready the galley.”

  The flames grew and crackled across the timbers. Rewan picked up a burning ember and took it to the lean-to with drying herbs hanging from the eaves.

  He held the burning stick up, but a gentle tinkling of bells stopped him. He turned toward the soft music and stared. Metallic bells flickered, catching the sun in a kaleidoscope of colors. Entranced, he stepped toward them. Tink, tink. The bells were so soft, reminiscent of his mother’s lullabies.

  Alick stepped in beside him. “Everything in the cottage will burn, save the stone walls.” With a gasp, he shuffled backward and pointed. “’Tis bad luck to burn a witch’s lair.”

  Rewan glanced away from the lulling bells. “What the bloody hell are ye talking about?”

  Alick pointed to the mortar and pestle on the table and shook his finger. “She’s probably put a curse on it—we’ll all meet our end if we burn it.”

  Rewan tossed his torch into the grass. Not that he was superstitious. It was just those damned bells. “Sometimes I think Ye’re touched in the head.”

  Alick gaped, his eyes wide. “I ken what I’m saying. Burning the cottage is one thing, but I do no’ think we should test our luck and burn her workshop as well.”

  Rewan headed back to the galley. “Never mind that rickety old shack. The wind will blow it down soon enough.” Alick trotted beside him and Rewan threw one last glance over his shoulder. Tink, tink. Those blasted bells were mighty annoying.

  “Where to next, sir?”

  From the top of the hill, Rewan looked across to the mainland. Ian wouldn
’t flee to the MacKenzie, the first place anyone would look. The Isle of Raasay was far too obvious as well. What would be the most unlikely place he’d run?

  ***

  Climbing the steep slope, Merrin’s worn boots provided little support. Her ankle twisted but she clenched her teeth and didn’t stop. She kept an eye on the wet bloodstain on Ian’s shirt. It seeped the linen through, though it was no use trying to force him to stop to apply fresh bandages. The man would push on until he dropped. A lot of good that would do them—on the run from Chieftain Ruairi’s men, dragging an unconscious Highlander through the wood.

  All her life she’d dreamt of taking a holiday from Fladda. However, never once did she consider she’d be running for her life. With all Niall’s talk about bogles and fairies, any running she thought she’d be doing was from fae folk.

  Once they reached the plateau above the sheer cliffs of Skye, the going was easier, though her ankle popped now and again. Gar dipped his head and maintained an easy amble at her side. With Ian leaning heavily on his walking stick, Niall led them northwards, staying close to the cliff face.

  Merrin glanced at the outline of Fladda before they entered a copse of trees. It looked so small from across the sound, but her heart tugged. They hadn’t been gone a whole afternoon and she missed it. She stopped dead in her tracks. “Da, who will feed the chickens?”

  “I opened the coop when I went to fetch the bow from me workshop. They can live on bugs and grubs until we return.”

  “I hope the sheep will be all right—and Tam.”

  “Do no’ worry your head. They’ve enough grass to eat until the first snow, and the pond is full—they will no’ even miss us.”

  Merrin’s chest tightened. Fladda seemed so close, yet she wondered where she’d sleep this night. Not on her feather bed, that was for certain. She bit her bottom lip. Now that she was away, Fladda didn’t seem such a dreary place.

  As Ian led them farther from the shore, the forest grew thicker. Merrin could no longer hear the roar of the surf. The silence was almost deafening. Having spent her entire life on Fladda, the rumble of the ocean never stopped. Birds called louder. Their footfalls crunched more noisily than ever. She tested her voice and sang a line from a ballad Niall had taught her.

  Ian glanced back and smiled. “Are ye feeling good, Miss Merrin?”

  “Odd, I’d say. I’ve never heard things so quiet before.”

  “Ye have a lovely bell-like tone to your voice.”

  Merrin skipped a step. Niall often asked her to sing, but never said she sounded like a bell.

  They’d been walking for some time when the trees opened to open moorland, spread flat atop the cliff. In the distance, the sun glimmered on the smooth surface of the sound. Merrin patted Gar’s head. “Come, boy, let’s have a look at our island. I’ll bet ’tis even smaller from here.”

  She ran ahead with the dog. The deep blue water of Raasay Sound came into view, as did black smoke billowing into the sky.

  Merrin stopped short. Suddenly, her gut twisted as if she was going to be sick. It had to be Fladda. They hadn’t walked that far. Her eyes darted to the south. She could still see Dùn Caan peeking over the hills on Raasay. Tears sprang to her eyes. The black smoke filling the air billowed from no other place but her home.

  “Nooooooo!”

  Merrin flailed her arms as if she could put out the flames from across the sound. She staggered forward, her insides grating, hollow.

  “Stop!” Ian grasped her arm and yanked her back.

  Merrin whipped around to face him. “Do not touch me.”

  He pointed downward. “Ye were about to plunge to your death, ye daft woman.”

  Merrin looked down and jolted into Ian’s chest. She drew her fists up and pushed him away. “Me home is burning.” She paced in a circle, willing herself look again. “Please, God, no!” She dropped to her knees. “All our things—Ma’s things.” She pounded her fists into the earth. “Stop them!”

  Ian knelt beside her and placed a hand on her back. “I’m sorry, lass.”

  “Sorry? Make them stop.” She couldn’t hit anything hard enough. Why weren’t they heading back? She lumbered to her feet, tripping over her skirts. Ian tried to help, but she slapped his hand away. “Are the pair of ye just going to stand there?”

  Niall’s grim frown spoke a hundred words. He stood motionless.

  Merrin had to do something. Her loom, her rocking chair, the feather bed she’d just made. It couldn’t all be lost. Tears stung her eyes and streamed down her face. She hiked up her skirts and ran back toward the trail they’d climbed. She’d take the skiff herself and confront those evil, mean-hearted men.

  “Merrin!” Niall called after her.

  Ian sprinted to her side. His hand latched on to her shoulder. In two bounds he stopped her, both hands shaking her shoulders. “Ye cannot go back. Not now. They’ll kill ye.”

  Merrin stared at him in disbelief. She opened her mouth to argue. The only thing that came out was a high-pitched wail.

  She pushed away and tried to choke back her tears, but everything she’d ever owned, ever loved, was going up in a whirlwind of blackness.

  Niall caught up and cradled Merrin in his embrace. Desperately, she tried to find her voice. She twisted out of her father’s arms and yanked off her scarf. Thrusting up her finger, she pointed to her neck. “I have no place to go. N-no place is safe for me now.”

  “There, there, lassie.” Niall tugged the scarf from her hands, keeping his voice soothing, like he did when she was a wee bairn. “The roof and the fine things might burn, but they can be replaced. The cottage is made of stone and it will withstand a fire. When this is over we’ll go back and start anew.”

  Merrin tried to blink away her tears—tried to will her inner strength to return. This was no time to lose her head, but she could not allay her ragged breaths. “G-Gar. C-come.” She marched onward, wiping her arm across her face.

  Ian fell in step beside her. He reached for her hand, but she snapped it away. “Merrin. Ye have me word. I will make this right with me own hands.”

  ***

  Ian should have fled the day he gained consciousness. Every moment he’d stayed in the cottage had put them in danger. If they weren’t poor enough already, they’d now lost everything. A rock the size of a leg of lamb took up residence in Ian’s gut. Merrin was emotionally exhausted and Niall couldn’t hide his ashen face when he tried to console her.

  Their home was ruined, up in smoke. Rewan always burned and ransacked until nothing was left. Hopefully the bastard would leave the livestock alone, else there’d be no food for them at all come winter.

  Ian clenched his fists and closed his eyes. He had to make this up to her. But how? Blindly, he’d promised to make it right. He had not much more than a few shillings to his name and a hole in his back. Damn it all. None of his miserable lot in life mattered. Once he healed, he vowed he’d help them rebuild—if Rewan didn’t track them down and kill him first.

  Ian’s entire body tensed. Rewan would have no qualms about killing a healer and his daughter. In no manner could Ian allow that to happen.

  What would Rewan do to them if they parted ways? Would they escape retribution? Could Ian find a sanctuary where Merrin and Niall could stay until this mess was over? There was no MacKenzie clan to protect these poor souls who’d taken him in, shown him selfless kindness. If Ian left them, he’d have no way to ensure their safety. But then he wasn’t exactly ready to face Rewan sword to sword. Not yet.

  Could he create a diversion? Could he lead Rewan and his men away like he had for Janet? The risks would be great.

  Ian opened his eyes. God on the cross, if things didn’t grow worse. His entire body tensed when he caught sight of Rewan’s galley. He’d made a reasonably sound judgment and even that had failed him. “Niall.” He tried not to sound too alarmed. “Is there a place we can hide?”

  The older man followed Ian’s gaze. “God’s teeth. Have they not done enou
gh?”

  “What?” Merrin asked.

  Ian pointed. “Rewan’s galley is sailing directly for Skye.”

  “Tell me it isn’t so.” Merrin stomped toward the water. “I thought you said he’d head for MacKenzie lands?”

  Ian locked eyes with Niall. There was nothing they could do about it now. Soon Rewan would find the skiff down below and sniff out their trail. “We must move fast.”

  Niall’s jaw ticked. “I do no’ like our odds.”

  Ian spread his arms wide, looking west. “Ye ken this land better than anyone. Think.”

  Niall took off his bonnet and scratched his head. “There’s a place, but it would be madness to go there.”

  Ian grasped Niall’s shoulders and gave a firm shake. “We’ve a woman, a wounded warrior, an old man and a dog. We’ve no horse. We’ve no allies. Now pull your worries out of your arse and make haste. There’s no more time for chat.”

  Niall shot an apprehensive grimace toward Merrin and then handed her the scarf. “Come.”

  Merrin hurried beside him, tying the cloth around her neck. “Where are we heading, Da?”

  “The only place I ken where we’ll be assured of sanctuary.” He grasped her hand and pulled her close. “Fairy Glen.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Merrin almost choked. She’d gone completely numb from watching her home go up in smoke, and then her father uttered the forbidden words. Long ago he’d made her vow never to mention Fairy Glen. He’d spent all his life trying to keep the fairies and bogles from stealing her away, and now they were heading straight for the legendary glen. What in heaven’s name is he thinking?

  Gar trotted alongside her, his expression alert, protective, as if the dog knew something was afoot. Merrin reached up and touched her scarf. What would happen now? Surely there would be no sleeping in Fairy Glen. They wouldn’t be able to stay there for long. Merciful Father—what if…what if they tried to claim her? She’d be better off dead.

  Ian’s pained hitch clapped the ground behind her with rapid steps. The man’s ability to endure pain boggled her mind. In addition, never in her life had she seen her father move so fast or with such determination. A sharp ache in her side jabbed with every step. Merrin ground her teeth. She’d not complain. They had no choice but to move quickly.