by Cathy MacRae
But it was not his concern, and he had other matters to consider.
“Mairead and I will leave on the morrow. The storm should be past by then. I believe we are no longer welcome here.”
Gilda lifted her gaze to his, bleakness darkening her eyes. “Nor am I.”
* * *
Lissa sobbed as Gilda mounted her mare for the ride home. “I cannae stay here, dearling,” she told the girl. “I need to be with my family now.”
“But am I not yer family, too?” Lissa queried, her voice thick with tears.
Gilda leaned forward and cupped the lass’ cheek in her palm. “Of course ye are. And welcome at Scaurness any time. And I will visit ye sometime.” She darted a look at the laird, daring him to gainsay her. In her father’s presence, however, Laird Macraig said nothing.
Her da spoke. “Let us be away, Gilda. Yer ma is expecting us.”
Tears prickled Gilda’s eyes at her da’s soft words, but she refused to shed them. For just a little longer she would be strong, give Lissa the smile of encouragement she so desperately needed, hide the brittleness deep inside.
“Let the wench go, Lissa,” Laird Macraig grumbled. “Her home is with her people.”
Lissa whirled on him. “Da! She was Ryan’s wife! How can ye turn her away?”
His face darkened. “So she says. No priest married them.”
“He loved her.” Lissa’s voice broke. “I love her.”
Beside her, Ranald stiffened and Gilda quickly reined her mare away. “Da, let us go. Ma is waiting on us.”
The group of Macrory soldiers surrounded Gilda and her da, riding through the castle gate as Conn and Mairead and their men had only an hour earlier. The path leading from Ard Castle was churned to mud by the passage of many horses and Mairead’s wagon, but the Macrorys soon veered south to the forest that divided the Macrory and Macraig lands.
Huddled deep in her arisaid, Gilda took little notice of her surroundings, trusting her da to get her home. As they entered the forest, the trees formed a barrier against the worst of the wind, though she could still hear it swaying through the tallest branches.
Ryan. Ryan. The wind sighed his name. Gilda flinched and urged Fia faster. After a moment the mare broke into a trot and without comment, the rest of the Macrorys kept pace.
A single rider reined his horse next to her da and leaned close. “There is a wolf on the trail following us.”
Ranald shrugged. “There are too many of us for him to be a threat. Make sure none lag behind.”
The soldier pulled his horse back and regained his position at the rear of the column. Gilda swiveled around in her saddle.
“Da? ’Tis my wolf.”
“Yer wolf?”
“Aye. I freed him from a trap a few weeks ago and he attacked and killed the pirate when I was threatened. But he was injured. I want to help him. Please, Da. He needs my help.”
Her da stared at her. At best he would think her daft. At worst?
Gilda wasn’t sure it could get much worse.
Chapter 21
Gilda woke to the scent of berries. Something tickled her nose and she blearily opened her eyes. Sticky jam plastered the tousled blond locks of the small head next to her. For a moment, she stared at the strange sight, then memory dawned. Finn and Jamie curled against her, one on either side despite their ma’s dire warnings should they bother Gilda during the night.
They had clung to her when she entered Scaurness the night before. They had bracketed her like bookends, their fiercely protective glares keeping all but her ma and Tavia at bay. For which she had been grateful. Exhausted and brokenhearted, she’d not wanted to hear the condolences and sad welcomes home. Ever the bolder of the pair, Finn had announced he and Jamie would be spending the night in her room and she had been touched, though a little leery of their loyalty. After only one instance of boyish bickering as she nodded off to sleep, Gilda was surprised to find she’d slept rather well after all.
She eyed the broken lines of sunlight spilling through the thick panes of glass in the window. From where the yellow rays pooled on the floor, she guessed it late morning. Spying the partially eaten platter of food on the small table against the wall, she decided the twins had helped themselves to her meal before settling back in for a nap. Well, it was too soon to think of the lads as perfect.
“She is awake,” Finn hissed loudly.
Gilda ruffled his hair, the side without the smeared jam. “And ye have been into my repast, ye imp.”
He sat with a jolt and drew himself up indignantly. “I dinnae! Ma would skelp my hide if I ate yer food.”
On the other side, Jamie leaned across Gilda and pounded his brother’s shoulder. “Ye have jam in yer hair, ye bampot.”
“Dinnae call me an idiot, ye clype!”
“I dinnae tattle! She already knew!”
Rolling her eyes in exasperation, Gilda shoved both boys toward the edge of the bed. “Away with ye both, ye wee louns. I dinnae want to listen to ye haver while I dress.”
The twins scurried off the bed and across the floor, filching toast from the tray as they passed.
“Have Cook send up a fresh meal!” she called after them. “And then wash yer hair!”
The door slammed behind the boys and Gilda sighed. She was home.
* * *
“Did the wolf really eat the bad pirate?” Jamie’s eyes grew round. Both boys crept closer and Gilda felt a small hand snuggle inside one of hers. With a smile, she gently squeezed the chubby fingers and Finn scooted against her hip. Those seated closest to her at the table feigned disinterest, but the story was too fresh, too tempting to be ignored.
“Wheesht, ye bloodthirsty lad,” Gilda chided. “The wolf dinnae eat the pirate. Though he did attack him.”
“What happened to the wolf?” Finn asked.
“The pirate stabbed him.”
“But ye found him and fixed him, aye?” Jamie chimed in, not to be outdone. They’d heard the story enough times by now to know its entirety, but they eagerly awaited every word.
Gilda obliged them with the tale. “He followed me on my way here. The wound the pirate gave him was deep and he needed my help.”
“Where had the pirate stabbed him?” Both boys’ eyes grew round with anticipation.
“The knife bit deep in his chest. I bound it as best I could and brought him home with me.”
“The horses dinnae like that!” Finn snorted and reared back, waving his hands in the air, mimicking pawing hooves.
Gilda ruffled his hair with one hand. “Nae. They werenae pleased at all. But he followed me quietly as I led him the rest of the way home. He was verra ill for several days before he was strong enough to leave the little shed in the bailey. But he is likely hunting rabbits in the woods again, doing things wolves do in the forest.”
“Ye had helped him afore, aye?”
Gilda cupped Finn’s cheek fondly. Amazing how much the twins had changed in the past few weeks. “Aye. Once before, I had saved him from being caught in a trap.”
“He remembered!” Jamie crowed.
“He saved her life!” Finn announced.
“After she saved his!”
Gilda took a deep breath. A tussle was brewing. As she’d thought before, perhaps it was a bit early to claim the two had changed much.
“Finn! Jamie!”
Ma’s voice settled the lads. “Away with ye, now. Let yer sister finish her meal.” She surveyed Finn’s hair. “And give yer hair a wash. Ye have jam in it.”
“Again?” With a huff of martyrdom, Finn slid from his chair. “I washed it yesterday.”
“That was several days ago and ye had jam in it then, too.” Ma gave him a stern look. “Dinnae come back to the table with sticky hair.”
The boys slunk from the room, Jamie keeping to the far side of his brother and out of Ma’s direct view.
Riona slipped into the chair beside Gilda. “Ye are sweet to entertain them, but ye need to eat.”
G
ilda eyed her plate, the cheese an unappetizing lump atop the bread rapidly going stale. Her mug of hot tea had long since grown cold. “I cannae even try it this morning, Ma.”
Riona touched the back of her hand to Gilda’s forehead. “Ye dinnae have a fever,” she murmured. “Is it yer stomach, then?”
Gilda nodded. “Aye. I cannae seem to abide food so early in the day.” She offered a bright smile. “I will be fine by midday. I am not sick.”
With a frown, her ma rose. “’Tis why ye havenae broken yer fast in the past week and why ye settle in for a nap in the afternoon. Come with me. I will have Tavia fix ye something to settle yer stomach. This has gone on long enough.”
* * *
Ranald was glad he was sitting down. He wasn’t sure he could have handled the news standing up. As it was, his knees felt rubbery and his legs quivered. He eyed his wife with concern. “Are ye sure?”
Riona sank into a chair with a whoosh of skirts. Apparently her legs weren’t up to the job, either.
She traced the design on the fabric adorning the arm of the chair with a fingertip before answering, “Aye. Gilda is with child. The bairn should be here mid-summer.”
Ranald leaned back and rubbed his jaw. “How is she?”
His wife’s grey eyes were dark, her expression worried. “I cannae say. Right now I believe she is shocked.”
“I believe I am a wee bit fashed myself.” He grimaced. “Married just over a fortnight, her husband dead these past weeks, and the lass is expecting. Sweet Jesu, but this is unexpected.”
“She asked me to break the news. Ye dinnae have to pretend ye dinnae know.”
Ranald shook his head. “I willnae treat the lass any different. She is my little Gilda, even if now a woman grown and about to make me a grandda.”
Riona leaned forward and eyed him intently. “Then what worries ye so?”
“If she births a lad, he will be the Macraig heir. That changes everything.”
* * *
“I dinnae like being mid-bearne, Tavia.” Gilda stripped the gown over her head and tossed it across a chair. “None of my gowns fit.”
“Wheesht, lass. ’Twill be only a wee bit longer. The lad is growing every day.”
“How do ye know ’tis a lad? I would like a lass just as well.” Gilda’s voice muffled through layers of cloth as she pulled on another gown.
Tavia settled the fabric around Gilda’s belly. “This high-waisted gown fits ye best right now.” She pointed to the bulge. “See how low the babe rides? If the babe were a lass, it would sit much higher, and ye would havenae been able to wear yer old gowns so long. And ye tend to sleep on yer left side. That always means ye are having a lad.”
“If I slept on my right side would the babe be a lass?”
“Six months gone is a wee bit late to change the sex of the babe. Ye were queasy at first, but not truly sick. That means a lad as well.”
Gilda sighed. “That is why Laird Macraig is here today, isn’t it?”
* * *
Lissa flung herself into Gilda’s arms with a shriek of happiness. She bounced against Gilda’s belly and backed up a pace, eyes wide with surprise.
Gilda laughed. “Do ye not know where bairns come from, then?”
Lissa’s cheeks colored. “Of course I do. Ye look different, ’tis all.”
“Different? Fat?”
“Och, no, Gilda! Ye look wonderful!”
“Wonderful, is it? With my belly popped out?”
Laird Macraig cleared his throat and the girls stopped their banter. Gilda recalled her manners and motioned to a chair.
“Please make yerself comfortable, Laird. I will have refreshments brought.”
Laird Macraig shifted his feet and looked decidedly uncomfortable. “My daughter wished to see ye.”
“And bring her home, too!” Lissa reminded him with a pointed look.
“Pardon? What do ye mean, ‘bring her home?’” Gilda felt the blood rush from her head. A faint dizziness swept over her.
Laird Macraig’s face darkened and he waved his hand in the air impatiently. “Surely ye understand. Ye cannae stay here. Ard Castle is yer home.”
Gilda raised an eyebrow, her ire rising. “Since when?”
From the corner of her eye, she saw her da move toward them. “Ye cannae force the lass to return with ye.”
Gilda blessed his timely intervention.
Laird Macraig folded his arms across his chest, a belligerent stamp on his face. “She carries the Macraig heir. She belongs at Ard.”
“We dinnae know if the babe is a lad or lass. We will let ye know when it arrives.”
“She can deliver the babe at Ard.” The laird flicked his gaze back to Gilda. “Where she belongs.”
“I willnae go anywhere with ye, ye old goat!” The words were out of Gilda’s mouth before she could stop them. She slapped a hand across her mouth, eyes wide.
Her ma grasped her other arm. “Wheesht, Gilda. We will settle things with the laird with kinder words, aye?” Ma’s voice floated soft enough so only Gilda could hear.
Gilda inclined her head, returning the faint whisper. “Ma, he hates me. I am the reason his son is dead.”
“Men die in battle, Gilda. ’Twas not yer fault. There are long-standing reasons he doesnae like the Macrory clan. Let yer da handle this. Dinnae fash.”
Ranald was firm. “My daughter makes her own decisions, Macraig. We willnae force her.”
Stubbornness carved deep lines in the Macraig’s face. “She married my son.”
“Ye never acknowledged it before.” Gilda was just as stubborn.
“The bairn is my heir.”
“If it is a lad.”
“Oh, Gilda, do ye not see?” Lissa clutched Gilda’s free hand, her eyes brimming with tears. “This babe is our very last link to Ryan. Ye couldnae be so cruel as to keep him from us.”
Chapter 22
Chains clanked as the man braced himself against the storm. Being a prisoner and not trusted to have the ship and its crew’s best interests at heart, he had been shackled and shoved below decks as the waves flung themselves at the cog ship. All hands stayed busy topside keeping the ungainly thing afloat. It was a common enough occurrence. Winter and spring were harsh months to be at sea. But during calmer weather, they worked him mercilessly and he welcomed the respite even in this tiny, dark, airless room.
The boat pitched unexpectedly and he struck the back of his head against the rough hull of the ship.
“Shite!” The shackles kept him from protecting himself against every roll of the vessel. From past experience, he knew his wrists would be scuffed and sore from his instinctive reactions to save himself a few bumps and bruises.
A very human moan slid through the creak of twisting wood and the buffeting sounds of the sea. Startled, he cast his gaze about the room, the darkness defeating his search for the source of the noise. The sound did not repeat itself, and he waited, alert and patient, for another clue.
The ship’s roll eventually slowed to the rhythmic sway of open ocean and calmer seas. Daylight seeped through tiny cracks between the planks around him. Soon, enough light leaked into the room for him to discern the lower portion of a leg protruding from behind a wooden cask. Tattered cloth drooped from the bony appendage, the booted foot twisted to one side.
Poor beggar. So that’s what happened to him. He recalled the man the ship’s crew had pulled from the sea the day before. Ragged and thin to the point of emaciation, the man had regaled them of the storm that had destroyed his small boat’s single sail several days earlier, and left him the sole survivor. With barely enough water to keep him alive and unable to direct his course, he had drifted aimlessly across the water in the remains of his vessel, praying for rescue.
The poor bastard should have prayed for death. He would get no sympathy from these pirates.
The moan sounded again. May as well see to him. ’Twill be a small mercy to sit with him if he is dying, and a bit of diversion if he live
s.
Another hand on this ship of death wouldn’t come amiss, though he might not survive long in his condition.
The man stood, knees slightly bent to absorb the gentle roll of the ship as she tacked through the waves. The storm over, it was only a matter of time before the crew, likely exhausted from their labors, remembered him and demanded he take his place amid the rigging. Moving quickly, he rounded the edge of the barrel, careful not to bark his bare toes against the wooden staves. He stared for a moment at the ragged castaway, then sank to the floor beside him.
“How fare ye?” he asked.
For several moments he received no answer, then a rattling sigh drifted from the prone man’s chest.
“Water?”
“I am sorry, but I have none to give ye.” He waved his hands in the direction of the barrel. “Likely this cask contains a bit of sherry from whatever port we sailed into a week ago, but I have no way of tapping it.”
“The pirates…” The castaway’s voice faded away.
“Dinnae care if ye live or die. Ye can recover despite their lack of care, work hard, maybe earn a bit of bread and water, or ye can cock yer toes up and take yer last rest on the waves. Doesnae matter to them.”
With an effort, the battered man roused to his elbows. “Ye are a prisoner, too?”
“Aye. These past six months.”
“What is yer name?”
“That is an interesting question. Ye see, I dinnae know my true name. The pirates dragged me aboard, so they say, with a wound that nearly cleaved my head in two. I wasnae a pretty sight for a long time, and still have this scar to remind me.” He tilted his head to the side and ran a finger down the length of the knotted skin.
“’Tis a miracle ye lived.”
“The pirates thought so, too. ’Tis why they call me Ferlie.” He rattled the chains on his wrists. “’Tis my thought they are a wee bit afraid to chuck me overboard. Being a superstitious lot, they dinnae know what to do with a man who is so lucky to be alive.” He grimaced. “I worry one day my luck will run out.”
* * *
The pirates did not question Ferlie as he went about his work mending the storm-torn rigging. Nor did they interfere as he nursed the castaway back to health. Within a week, the man, Greum, tottered onto the deck.
