“Maman! Look!”
She had a blurry impression that something or someone was in the water with him, but she didn’t take her eyes off the boy, his short arms lifting in the swim stroke he’d been tutored in since babyhood.
“No!” Morrigan shouted as he continued into deeper water!
Stripping down from her heavy bliaut, underdress and headdress to her shift of lightest lawn, she kicked off her stockings and elkskin boots. Thanking the Celtic gods and goddesses for the Welsh good sense that grounded males and females in all manner of self-preservation, including swimming and the use of weapons, she moved to the edge of the strand. For long moments she eyed the shifting waves, the strong retreat of the water, angst building in her. The tide was strong; the rolling waves could pummel one down in deeper water. Once down, a person could become disoriented, kicking hard to the bottom instead of up to the air. More than one died in the sea from striking a rock on the bottom.
Then she was flinging herself into the chilly water that days of sun hadn’t warmed that much. Her eyes stayed on the boy, who seemed to be getting farther away. The tall waves hid him much of the time, but Morrigan stroked hard, determined she wouldn’t come out of the water unless Rhys was with her. She was strong, used to cold water, unafraid and able. It would serve her well. They’d come out of this, with God’s help and St. Dafydd.
Hugh MacKay was restless. Some unnamed need or want chewed his innards. He wanted to get back to his major holding, to Morrigan with the green gem eyes. It annoyed and titillated him that his new wife could have such a magnetic hold on him. They’d not been together as man and wife because of the poisoning that’d sapped his strength, but he wanted her as though she’d been a part of him for years. And if his people didn’t stop hovering over him like he was a sickening we’en, he’d strangle the lot of them. He wasn’t about to wait any longer. He would claim Morrigan for his wife, and soon!
A full turn of the moon and more they’d been wed, and he’d not touched her. His illness had driven him mad with frustration. It’d taken too long to heal. Then he’d chafed at the akin weakness. He’d wanted her, and not had the ability to take her. Too many others had hovered over him, determined to bring him to full health. He’d wished them all to perdition. All he wanted was his wife.
But the dreams! They made him hard even to say the word in his mind. Why would he dream of a strumpet so like his wife, when he could have his wife? Why didn’t he have his wife? He ground his teeth, muttering epithets. The visions had been so real, he’d wanted to ask his men the name of the beauty. She’d looked like Morrigan, but wasn’t. Damn! How could such a powerful loving be imagination? Impossible! What other explanation could there be? Madness.
“What drives you, Aodh?”
“Hugh, cousin.” Correcting Toric was a ploy. His cousin was more than aware of the necessity of the Anglo usage. They’d embarked on a new life. Though their grip on MacKay holdings was tenuous, to a man they were sworn to keep it. Nay! It was the need to keep his cousin from probing that he’d corrected him. Not even to his closest companion since childhood could he confess the colorful passion that danced in him.
They rode ahead of the men, as they often did, so they could converse. More often than not their discussions would be on the clan, a subject important to both of them. Now he needed to distract Toric from his question, which he didn’t know how to answer, even if he wished to, and he didn’t.
Toric sighed. “Hugh. Do you worry about those who would’ve taken your life?”
Though news of his sickness had gone through the clan, and there were many whispered suspicions, Hugh had not issued dicta on the occurrence. That something had happened on his wedding day, most knew. All the details were only given to certain ones, such as his cousin Toric. Not that he didn’t trust all the MacKays. He did. There were some given to gossiping, to exchanging information with passing drummers and vendors. Hugh thought it best not to broadcast everything until he was sure who was friend or foe. He would’ve sworn on scripture that none of the MacKays had betrayed him. Until he had some knowledge of the perpetrators he thought it best to keep his counsel except with a chosen few.
Hugh had followed a long-held rule with his clan. Only to the unmarried stalwarts would such a threat as his assassination attempt be revealed. Under no circumstances must the married men be involved. There’d be no holding any of his people back if they suspected a threat to his life. He’d not have the clan threatened by the decimation war could bring. They’d had enough of that. If the clan was attacked all would be at the ready and called upon to act.
The clan could be in danger of extinction without the buttressing of family. Endangering family men was folly and counterproductive to the safety and longevity of MacKay. Years of war and fracas had sliced into the huge family, removing some of its greats. The clan needed time to recoup.
Since the moment the word went out that the chief had been taken to his sickbed, the guards had been doubled, certain changes made in the protection of his castle and other holdings. Additions to the holdings were put into place, buildings secured, walls remortared, weapons honed fine. Secret exits and entrances had been searched and either boarded up or guarded. Some had been reinforced with iron webbing that formed a gate. Nothing was left to chance. Lookouts had been doubled and sent on wider perimeters.
“You wander again, Hugh.”
“I will admit to you it sits in my thoughts about the attempt made on my life. What angers me is there seems to be little clue to the culprit. Though I have no doubt I shall find who did it, until then I will take every care to stay alive and protect what’s mine.”
“Could your wife have done the deed, then feared for her life?”
Toric had put words to some of his thinking. “Diuran swears that my lady put every effort into saving me, at great cost to herself.” Hugh took a deep breath, looking over his shoulder at his men. “She knew that Diuran would’ve killed her had I expired.”
“True, as would any MacKay.”
Hugh smiled. “Each has had their feelings toward her undergo a change, so I’m told. Many know what she did to save me, and they’ve sworn unspoken fealty.” His smile crooked. “I wonder if she feels this. I would say my wife’s intuitive.”
“Aye. Dilla swears she can see through the next sennight.”
“Though I don’t subscribe to such, I do find her reasoning to be uncanny. Methinks she’d be a formidable enemy, one not easily stopped. Yet I don’t sense an antipathy toward me. I don’t think it’s there.”
Toric sighed. “I agree. I wish I could factor our enemies. I will continue to search, but I don’t think my hunt will take me toward your wife. Your Morrigan is a beautiful and intelligent woman. Our people speak of it amongst themselves. Even dour Gordon has become her champion. He tells me any clan would be hard put not to be proud of Lady MacKay.”
“True.” Hugh looked around at his men, noting that they, too, scanned the countryside where they rode, that more than one rode point. All around him were outriders. Vigilance had been his byword since he’d been a lad. Anger soured his innards for a moment as he pondered how close he’d been to Heaven or Hell. Had it not been for the wife he knew so little about, he’d have been abiding in one or the other. And if she’d imbibed she would’ve been there with him.
“When I first saw Morrigan I thought her a made-up lady like those that come from Alexandria and beyond,” Toric mused. “Not in all my days had I seen such vivid coloration, such rarefied beauty. I was not the only one whose breath was taken by the sight of her. It was as though she outshone the sun that very day.”
There was vinegar in Hugh’s look. “I would bash men for less, cousin.”
Toric laughed. “I know that.”
Hugh relaxed. “ ’Tis true there are more and more who become devoted to my lady.” He hesitated.
“There’s a question in thy voice,” Toric said in Icelandic, a language usage common in the north. “What think thee?”
“Chancy. We would’ve drawn and quartered her had there been the least suspicion of her, mayhap.”
Hugh smiled. “After telling me, time and again, that you found my beautiful spouse regal and lovely?”
Toric shrugged. “I wouldn’t shirk my duty.”
Hugh was still laughing when he saw the outline of the battlements, his destrier picking its way to the cliff path high above the sea that fronted his favorite holding of the many belonging to Clan MacKay. Around the bend in the way they rode was the main road to the castle and he was anxious to be there. Mayhap he’d tell his spouse that they could become man and wife that very day. He smiled when he envisioned the look she’d give him. Haughty, a bit tremulous, unafraid.
“By God, what’s this I see,” Toric exclaimed, breaking Hugh’s reverie.
His sweet ponderings died a sudden death when he saw two people in the sea. Reining in Orion, he stared, aware that the MacKays behind him were doing the same.
“Can you see who it is, Hugh?”
“Yes.” He’d know that hair anywhere, wet or dry. More times than he could count, he’d opened his eyes when ailing and had felt the satin thickness on his face as his wife had bent over, ministering to him. Now it was streaming out behind her as she struggled to reach the boy in the high sea. It was damn cold in that water despite the balmy day. He also knew she wasn’t bathing and that the boy was out there with her… beyond her, out of reach. Would she get the lad? Could he get to either one?
He nudged his steed into a reckless gallop along the cliff top, then down the face, even as the shouts of alarm went up from his men.
Thundering down the steep incline, he cursed his wife, God, the sea, and the horse beneath him for not flying to the strand. If any harm came to her… he’d damn well follow her into the next world and wrench her back. His need for her was suffocating him, catching him between fury and desperation.
Lathered up and shaking, his horse jumped down the last twenty feet to the rocks edging the water. Shaky and wobbly for a moment, it galvanized itself to speed at Hugh’s hissed urgings. Orion responded, galloping along the strand unmindful of rocks, holes, silt, and the wet sand that sucked at its hooves.
Hugh was maddened with fear. The sea was capricious. He’d swum in it all his life and he knew what danger there was atop and beneath the surface. The pull of the tide in and out was not unknown to him. Getting in its demon grip could squeeze the life from a man, filling him with water and drowning him. “Hang on, Morrigan.” He spat the message through his teeth.
Flinging himself off his horse, Hugh stripped the clothes from his body, throwing the raiment, his sword and knives to the ground. In breeks and nothing else he threw himself into the surf, pounding toward his wife. He knew, without issuing any commands, that there’d be a host of MacKays following him into the wild water.
Morrigan was tiring and that made her fearful. If she was fatigued, how could Rhys cope? He would be flagging. How could she know where he’d be if he went under when one of the waves hid him from her? Time after time she thrust herself upward, struggling to see, to keep him in sight. In one of her many forays upward to spot him, she’d seen the dog who looked more like a long-haired stoat than a canine and she knew why Rhys was in the water. He loved all animals, and was fearful of none. Her arms felt like lead as she pushed harder. She had to get him before he got beyond the natural protection of the rocks jutting into the seas. Beyond them who would know what capricious waters would pull and toss them. He could be crushed upon the rocks before she reached him. Waves splashed over her, filling her eyes and mouth. Desperation had her redoubling her efforts, hands outstretched, and seeking.
As strong as he was, as well trained in water ways by Welshmen as he was, Rhys was a child, a brave and sturdy child, but still that. That fear filled her.
Her grasping hand clutched something. She pulled. “Rhys!” she breathed.
“Maman,” he gasped, coughing. “I… save… the dog.”
She looked over his head. The shaggy beast looked back at her, looking marked up, but not tired. “Let go of the dog, Rhys. I must get you back.”
“Bring the—”
Words were torn from his mouth as strong hands went past her and grabbed him.
Gulping air, Morrigan scrambled to get ahold of Rhys again.
“No! Let go, madame. I have him.” Lifting the child, Hugh thrust him at Toric behind him. “Get him out of here.”
“Dog!” Rhys demanded, swallowing water.
“Eamon has him. Toric has you. No more talking.” Hugh looked at his wife. “And I have you.”
“I… I can make it.” Morrigan wasn’t sure she could. Water filled her mouth; her arms were tired. Even as stripped down as she was, her undergarments had weighed her down and fatigued her.
“I know you’re a battler, milady. Give over this time and let me take you,” Hugh whispered to her.
She nodded, unable to form any more words.
The waves crashed over them time and time again, the strong pull of the water yanking them deeper.
Only Hugh’s strong stroking kept them on course. How he managed to keep her above the water amazed Morrigan. She had to admit that without him she might not have been able to bring Rhys back to shore.
All at once she felt herself lifted from the water.
“Good Christ! You’re bare.” Hugh turned so his body shielded her from the others. Then he bellowed for a tartan.
“I’m not bare, fool. Do stop jerking me around in a circle. Would you have had me wear my heavy bliaut into the sea? If your plan was to have me drown, ’twould be the best way.”
“Even choking on water you’ve too much to say, wife.”
Though his mouth twisted into a smile there was little humor in the words. Nay! They sounded harsh. His eyes hadn’t stopped their perusal of her.
She tried to bring his attention away from her body. “I’m sorry you’re displeased.”
Eamon came down the strand on the run, whispering to Hugh, then handing him the fifteen yards of fabric that made up one of the clan’s plaids.
He grabbed a proffered tartan, spinning it around her, enveloping her from head to toe. “No, you’re not sorry I’m displeased, wife. You never are. Hell! You fight me at every turn.” His eyes narrowed when her face reddened. “How is it my words overset you?”
She’d been thinking of her wedding night and how he’d made love to her. She’d not fought him, then. Nay! She’d cooperated, helped, been brought to dizzying heights she hadn’t imagined in all her days. He’d not recalled. She couldn’t forget, nor could she tell him the truth. Somehow it’d become tangled in all the other deceptions that’d seemed to weave themselves into the fabric of their vows. Once when she’d been a child she’d been playing hide-and-seek with her brothers. They’d been down in the dungeon of her father’s castle. She’d been running and had gone full tilt into a cobweb that had wrapped about her face and neck. She’d felt smothered, afraid, and disoriented. The same sensation took hold of her each time she tried to tell Hugh the truth about her and Rhys. Time had tied her in even tighter knots of dissembling.
“What is it, milady? Are you still in fright?”
“Yes.” She told him the truth.
“Don’t fear. I won’t let you go.” He lifted her in his arms. “If you wish to swim in the sea I’ll go with you. Don’t ever go alone again.”
“Rhys—”
“I know about the boy. Eamon has assured me that he is fine and given me the bare bones of his deed. The lad has too much courage.”
“He has,” Morrigan averred, shivering not from the cold. “I feared I wouldn’t be able to reach him,” she muttered, biting her shaking lips.
“You did.” Hug
h hugged her close. “You’re as intrepid a warrior as I’ve ever seen. How you fought to get to him!” His smile crooked. His hold tightened. “I could’ve lost you, wife. Who then would fight with me?” He grinned when he saw the sparkle of battle in her eyes. It’d been his hope to distract her. It would seem he succeeded.
“Who indeed?”
“Why, wife, one would think you would be angered if aught but you solaced me.”
“Solaced? I thought you said I battled you.”
“There’s the paradox, sweet wife. You do both.”
“How have you managed to survive?” she quizzed in honey tones.
“From what?” But he knew the answer before she phrased it.
“That conceit of yours that blossoms over the land.”
“One wonders.” He grinned down at her, liking her spunk, relieved that she could jest with him.
“Does one?” She pushed at him, but he didn’t release his hold, nor the warming massage he’d been giving her arms. Then she heard a five-year-old laugh. What if she hadn’t reached him? Never more to hear that bell-like sound. All at once she hugged Hugh. Everything he did made her love him more. Love? Mayhap she would have to accept the feeling growing in her for the MacKay. That very day he’d saved her and the child of her heart. If he kept going on in such a manner she’d be swamped with love for him. “Thank you for what you’ve done.”
“He’s mine now, too. What father wouldn’t want his son rescued, as well as his wife?” Hugh asked her.
When she felt his mouth on her wet hair, a shudder went through her. Hugh had tightened his hold even more. Mayhap he thought her chilled. Instead she burned with a wanting of him so great, it shook her frame.
“You could catch the ague from a chill, Hugh MacKay. You’re not that long up from a sickbed.”
The Pledge Page 10
