The Sinner

by Margaret Mallory

  When Alex had carried her to the shore from the burning ship, they had met Connor running hell-bent toward the loch. They learned later that Connor had been fighting one-on-one with Hugh, when Hugh told him that Glynis was on the flaming ship.

  “Ach, ye didn’t need my help,” Connor said.

  “But ye thought I did,” Alex said. “Ye left Hugh to help me save my wife.”

  “You’d do the same for me.” Connor paused and then gave him a crooked smile. “If I had a wife.”

  “It’s time ye did,” Alex said. “Shall I make ye a list?”

  The other men laughed so hard that Glynis suspected she was missing part of the joke.

  “No need for that yet,” Ian said, and elbowed Duncan hard in the ribs. “We have it all planned out, and Duncan’s next.”

  “Don’t believe it,” Duncan said in Glynis’s ear when he leaned down to kiss her cheek good-bye.

  “All the same,” she whispered back, “I’d advise ye not to wager that galley ye stole from Shaggy.”

  * * *

  Alex was relieved to have his wife home. He hoped she would stay.

  Although Glynis had told him she would never leave him, she’d been a breath away from being burned alive the moment before. As a warrior, he’d often heard men make pledges when they looked death in the eye that were soon forgotten once the danger was passed.

  He wanted to hear Glynis say it again.

  On the ship, they’d had no opportunity to speak alone. As soon as Connor and the others set sail, Alex turned, intending to lift Glynis in his arms and carry her to the castle. But he froze in place when he saw Ùna running straight toward him down the beach. Ach, Glynis was sure to think the worst. But when Ùna reached them, she took Glynis’s hands.

  Alex’s heart started to beat once more. Apparently, the two had met and talked in his absence.

  “I’m so glad you’re safe,” Ùna said to Glynis.

  “Do ye see Peiter there?” Glynis said, nodding in the direction of the young fisherman, who, as usual, was looking at Ùna with calf eyes.

  “Aye,” Ùna said, her cheeks going pink.

  “I know you’re not ready. But when ye are, Peiter is a good man ye can trust.” Glynis put her arm through Alex’s and leaned into him. “Like my husband.”

  Alex’s chest swelled, even as he was amused that his wife was setting the household to rights before they had even left the beach.

  “She needs her rest,” Alex said, waving off the other well-wishers.

  “I’m well,” Glynis said, as carried her to the castle.

  “I want ye alone,” Alex said, giving her a wink. “I have something to give ye.”

  “Is this the sort of gift that usually involves taking our clothes off?” she asked, waggling her eyebrows at him.

  He laughed. “I do believe ye are feeling better, wife.”

  Once he had her upstairs in their chamber, he set her on the bed and tucked pillows behind her back and another under her injured leg.

  “I spoke with your father when we stopped on Barra looking for Hugh and the others,” Alex said, as he sat on the edge of the bed to have a look at her leg. The burn was healing well, praise God. “I believe I’ve convinced him to make his peace with Colin Campbell and submit to the Crown.”

  “Oh, that is a good present,” Glynis said, leaning forward to touch her fingers to his cheek.

  “That’s not your present,” he said, as he reached into his leather pouch. “We wed so quickly that I didn’t have time to find a ring, so I asked Ilysa to help me. She found someone to make what I wanted, and Duncan brought it with him.”

  Alex took her hand and slipped the silver ring on her finger.

  “Oh, Alex, it’s lovely!” she said. “Are those two herons carved on it?”

  “Aye,” he said. “Herons mate for life, and that’s what I want.”

  She looked up at him with wet eyes. “I’m sorry I didn’t trust ye. I’ll never make that mistake again.”

  “Don’t ever leave me,” he said, gathering her in his arms, “because I love ye go síoraí.” Forever. It was still hard for him to say it, though it had been true for a long time.

  When he released her, she held out her hand and smiled as she examined the ring again.

  “I suspect Ilysa and Teàrlag put all sorts of magical charms on it,” he said.

  “Ye don’t need magic charms to keep me.” Glynis took his hands and looked straight at him with her dead-serious gray eyes. “Ye know how stubborn I am. Ye couldn’t be rid of me now if ye tried.”

  Alex felt himself relax. Glynis was the most determined woman he’d ever known, and she’d decided to keep him.

  Her expression softened, and she said, “We’ll make a home for our children that’s filled with love, mo shíorghrá.” My eternal love.

  Alex took his wife’s face in his hands and kissed her long and slow.

  EPILOGUE

  Saint Brigid’s Day (Là Fhèill Brìghde)

  February 1, 1516

  I missed ye,” Alex said, kissing his wife’s cheek again as she walked up with him from the beach. He had just returned from a meeting with Connor and the others at Dunscaith.

  “Ye shouldn’t have sailed across the Minch to Skye this time of year,” she scolded.

  “I have Saint Michael to protect me,” he said, placing his hand on his chest where the medallion rested. “Besides, it’s been a mild winter.”

  He wrapped his plaid more tightly around Glynis’s shoulders. Judging from the sharp wind coming off the water, they were in for a change in weather.

  “There’s a wee bit of commotion in the hall,” Glynis warned him. “So tell me the news now, before we go in.”

  “Angus and Torquil are dead,” Alex said. “The Clanranald chieftain had Angus tied in a sack and dropped at sea, straight off, since he was the one who offended their clanswoman.”

  “What about Torquil?”

  “He was kept prisoner for a time, but then he bragged about how fast he could run. When they let him run on the beach to prove it, he tried to flee. He was shot in the leg with an arrow.”

  “He died from that?”

  “Well…,” Alex said, “they decided the wound was incurable and put him to death.”

  “Hmmph. And how is Connor?”

  “Hugh has vowed to take bloody vengeance for his brothers’ deaths,” Alex said. “And if that is no enough, there’s a rumor floating about that the MacLeods and the Macleans have secretly advised the Crown that they are willing to switch sides in the rebellion—for a price.”

  “For a price?”

  “Aye, and the price is usually someone else’s lands,” Alex said. “And then, Connor’s heard that his sister Moira is being treated poorly by her husband.”

  “Ach, that’s terrible,” Glynis said. “What will he do?”

  “He’s sent Duncan to Ireland to find out if it’s true,” Alex said, giving her a sideways glance.

  “That’s a lot to ask of Duncan,” Glynis said.

  “I haven’t told ye the most startling news,” Alex said, still not believing it himself. “My parents are living together—and they’re acting like a pair of lovebirds.”

  Glynis laughed and squeezed his arm as they climbed the steps to the keep.

  “They still think of no one but themselves, but they’re more pleasant to be around.”

  “I’m glad ye made it home in time to celebrate Saint Brigid’s Day,” Glynis said, as he opened the door for her.

  Alex had no idea it was Saint Brigid’s Day.

  When they entered the hall, he saw Sorcha with the group of women and children at the long table. They had made the traditional figurine of the saint from sheaves of grain and were in the midst of decorating it with ribbons and shells.

  “Da!” Sorcha ran to greet him and tugged at his hand. “Come see Saint Bridget.”

  Alex dutifully admired the doll in all her finery.

  “Come, children,” his wife said, “a
nd I’ll tell ye about Saint Bridget’s Day.”

  As the children gathered around her by the glowing hearth, Glynis rested her hand on her swollen belly and smiled at him. They were both so happy about this baby.

  “Saint Bridget’s Day comes at a time when the sheep get their milk in preparation for the birthing of new lambs,” she told the children. “Although winter is not over, we see the first glimmer of spring. We celebrate new life, the reawakening of the land, and our hope for good fishing after the stormy season. No spinning or other work involving a wheel is permitted because the wheel of time is turning between the seasons.”

  Alex chuckled to himself. Like most Highland feast days, this was a pagan celebration wrapped in the guise of a Christian saint.

  “The fishermen gathered seaweed for fertilizing, while we women spent the day cleaning,” Glynis continued. “And then we placed live limpets outside the four corners of our clean houses to foster good fishing.”

  Glynis met his eyes over the children’s heads and gave him another warm smile. “Saint Bridget’s Day is the day we celebrate home, hearth, and family.”

  This was the kind of home that Alex had dreamed of when he was a child. He sighed with contentment as he glanced at the faces of the folk who had gathered in the old keep that Glynis had made into a home. He nodded at Tormond, who—if he wasn’t mistaken—had his hand on Bessie’s leg beneath the table.

  Glynis sent Sorcha to the door to call out, “Brigid, come in.”

  “Welcome, Brigid,” the other women chanted. “Your bed is ready.”

  Glynis took the doll from the table, and everyone gathered around as she laid it in a bed of rushes by the hearth.

  “This is called Brigid’s wand,” she explained, as she tucked a smooth, straight birch stick in with the doll. “The saint uses the wand to bring earth back to life.”

  “I think I know what the stick is supposed to represent,” Alex whispered in her ear.

  She gave him a mock-severe look and then handed Ùna a bowl of water and a bowl of salt. “Set them outside for the saint to bless. We’ll use them all year in medicines, for Saint Brigid’s Day is also a time of healing.”

  Alex knew she chose Ùna for the task because the lass had a special need for healing.

  “These will bring healing and protection to each of us in the months ahead,” Glynis said, as she cut a strip of cloth for every member of the household to leave outside the door for Saint Brigid to bless.

  Alex took his to please her, though Glynis had already healed his wounds.

  The last ritual of the night, after the feast, was for the head of the household to smother the fire and rake the ashes smooth. In the morning, they would look for signs of the saint’s visit in the ashes. Alex made quick work of the task, for it was the last thing between him and taking his wife upstairs to bed.

  Later that night as he lay with her in his arms, Alex thought of his blessings and the many changes wrought in his life over the past months. As Teàrlag predicted, Glynis had fulfilled his deepest desires.

  “Ye gave me everything I longed for but didn’t believe I deserved,” he told her. “And ye made me a far better man than I thought I could be.”

  “I look forward to every day with ye,” she said, as she rested her palm over his heart. “Ye make me so happy.”

  He did make her happy. But then, Glynis had surprised him from the start.

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  One of the joys of doing research for a historical novel is discovering real-life characters and events that no one would believe if you made them up. Happily, sixteenth-century Scotland is a treasure trove of such finds, and I included a number of them in this book. After five hundred years, many details are unavailable or disputed, and the line between historical fact and legend blurs. This, of course, gives a fiction writer room for imagination.

  Shaggy Maclean and Catherine Campbell did marry. The incident with the tidal rock, including Shaggy’s subsequent visit to the Campbells, is a well-known tale, though these events occurred a few years later than I make them. In 1523, Shaggy was murdered in Edinburgh, probably dirked in bed. It was generally believed that John Campbell, Thane of Cawdor, was responsible.

  John Campbell’s wife, Muriel, is also a real historical figure. According to the stories, Muriel was stolen by the Campbells from outside Cawdor Castle when she was very young, was raised in the Campbell chieftain’s household, was married to John at twelve, and had a happy marriage. I was lucky enough to visit Cawdor Castle and see a carved mantel commemorating their marriage.

  James IV’s death in the Battle of Flodden led to a long minority rule by his son, which fostered factional fights for power. Under the dead king’s will, Margaret Tudor, who was his widow and also Henry VIII’s sister, initially served as regent. The Douglas chieftain, who makes an appearance in The Guardian and is mentioned in this book, became her lover in a bid to control the Crown. Douglas overplayed his hand, however, when he married her. As a result, Margaret Tudor lost the regency. While Margaret took refuge in England, Douglas helped himself to her funds and took up with another woman. His marriage never recovered, but for three years, he held his teenage stepson, James V, as a virtual prisoner and ruled on his behalf.

  Antoine D’Arcy, a French nobleman known as the White Knight, was a real person who came to Scotland to assist the next regent, the Duke of Albany. Apparently, D’Arcy had visited Scotland earlier to participate in jousting tournaments. As with the other historical figures, I filled in his personality to suit my story.

  My character Connor’s half uncles are loosely based on the real sons of Hugh, the first MacDonald of Sleat chieftain. Because Hugh named two of his sons Donald and two Angus, I changed most of their names to reduce confusion. My version of how two of these men were captured is wholly fictional, but the manner of their deaths is consistent with stories told about them.

  I based Magnus Clanranald on a Clanranald chieftain named Dougal. The real Clanranald chieftain was actually assassinated by members of his own clan, and his sons were excluded from the succession to the chieftainship.

  I adjusted travel times as well as the dates of some events to suit my story. Except for Dunfaileag, all of the castles mentioned in this book existed, though some are in ruins now. There is a Loch Eynort on South Uist, but I have no idea if it has secret bays and inlets. I hope I can visit it one day and find out.

  Look for the third book in

  this sizzling series featuring

  fearless Highlanders!

  *

  Please turn this page

  for a preview of

  The Warrior

  Available in November 2012

  CHAPTER 1

  ISLE OF SKYE, SCOTLAND

  1508

  Duncan MacDonald could defeat any warrior in the castle—and yet, he was powerless against his chieftain’s seventeen-year-old daughter.

  “As soon as my father leaves the hall,” Moira whispered, leaning close enough to make him light-headed, “I’ll meet ye outside by the ash tree.”

  Duncan should refuse her, but he may as well try to stop his heart from beating.

  “I’ve told ye not to speak to me here,” he said, glancing about the long room filled with their clansmen and the chieftain’s guests from Ireland. “Someone might notice.”

  When Moira turned to look straight at him with her midnight-blue eyes, Duncan felt as if a fist slammed into his chest. That had happened the first time she looked at him—really looked at him—and every time since.

  “Why would anyone take notice if I speak with my brother Connor’s best friend?” she asked.

  Perhaps because she had ignored him the first seventeen years of her life? It was still a mystery to him how that had changed.

  “Go now—Ragnall is watching us,” he said when he felt her older brother’s eyes on him. Unlike Moira and Connor, Ragnall took after his father—he was short-tempered, fair-haired, and built like a bull. He was also the only warrior in t
he clan Duncan was not certain he could defeat at arms.

  “I won’t go until ye say you’ll meet me later.” Moira folded her arms, but amusement quirked up the corners of her full lips, reminding Duncan that this was a game to her.

  But if her father learned that Duncan was sneaking off with his only daughter, he’d murder him on the spot. Duncan turned and left the hall without bothering to answer—Moira knew he’d be there.

  As he waited for her in the dark, he listened to the soft lap of the sea on the shore. There was no mist on the Misty Isle of Skye tonight, and Dunscaith Castle was beautiful, ablaze with torchlight against the clear night sky. He had grown up in the castle and seen this sight a thousand times—but Duncan took nothing for granted.

  His mother had served as nursemaid to the chieftain’s children, and he and Connor had been best friends since the cradle. From the time they could lift wooden swords, the two of them and Connor’s cousins, Alex and Ian, were trained in the art of war. When they weren’t practicing with their weapons, they were off looking for adventure—or trouble—and they usually found it.

  Moira had always been apart, a coddled princess dressed in finery. Duncan had little to do with the lovely, wee creature whose laughter often filled the castle.

  Duncan heard the rustle of silk skirts and saw Moira running toward him. Even in the dark and covered head to toe in a cloak, he could pick her out of a thousand women. Though she couldn’t possibly see what was in her path, Moira ran headlong, expecting no impediment. No stone tripped her, for even the fairies favored this lass.

  When Moira threw her arms around his neck, Duncan closed his eyes and lost himself in her womanly softness. He breathed in the scent of her hair, and it was like lying in a field of wildflowers.

  “It’s been two whole days,” she said. “I missed ye so much.”

  Duncan was amazed at how unguarded Moira was. The lass said whatever came into her head, with no caution, no fear of rejection. But then, who would refuse her?