Night Visitor

by Melanie Jackson

She walked quickly to the priest, keeping her gaze well away from the dead that littered the glen’s floor. Moonlight had drained the scene of much of its horror. The tiny patches of blood from the wounds opened by bullets showed simply as black stains. Almost, she could believe that they were just more night shadows. But her new eyes showed her that some of the stains were still growing and gleamed with the sheen of once warm gore.

  “Aye. Sent from London,” Malcolm lied.

  “Is she the one who got you safe from Duntrune?”

  “Aye,” Malcolm answered after a moment. “Ye’ve heard of her?”

  “And of little else. The tales are outlandish. I thought them mostly lies and faerie tales.” Taffy felt the MacColla’s calculating eyes again resting upon her back as she knelt by the priest.

  Colkitto! she thought, amazed, and then shuddered. The great MacColla of the Irish in the flesh. He wasn’t handsome and daring as she had expected from her reading—he was terrifying.

  Taffy slipped the silver knuckles from her shaking hands and secured them in her pocket. Using great care with Malcolm’s dirk, she began sawing through the cords that fastened Father Feehan to the ground. The rope had bitten deep and his hands had turned from dark red to nearly blue and were greatly swollen.

  Still, that was a minor hurt compared to what they had intended, and she was relieved that no greater aid was required, for she was certain that Malcolm would not linger in this place to nurse the priest—no matter how wounded the man was.

  “Father,” she said gently. “I shall have you free in a moment.”

  “Aye, lassie,” he croaked in a broken voice. He sounded awful, but Taffy was relieved that he was conscious and there was intelligence in his eyes. She feared that perhaps some of the burning peat might have been stuffed into his throat before they arrived, or that he was so deep in shock that he could not speak.

  Taffy listened with half an ear to the conversation being conducted between MacColla’s men and Malcolm. It sounded perfectly cordial, but after so many days on the run, hiding from all people, she found their proximity to this man and his soldiers to be disturbing.

  Smokey presently joined her, standing at guard while she cut the last rope. He, too, seemed less than happy to be among the strangers, but didn’t bark or whine.

  “ ’Tis the black bitch’s tame cleric, Markham, your woman and hound exterminated,” MacColla said. He sounded vaguely pleased. “He escaped his rightful judgement from the sassans, but found it here.”

  “Aye, I see his shauchled thumb,” Malcolm answered. “Damn his black soul.”

  “Do you see it, piper? I didn’t, not until I looked for it. We thought we were chasing a boar who attacked and killed two of my men. Instead, we have discovered Markham and his filthy band. All of them dead.” The voice was neutral. Then: “That is an interesting weapon you have. It came from your Sassenach lady?”

  “Aye.”

  “Is she the one we spoke of before on the ship?”

  “Aye. She is.” Malcolm was equally uninflected in his reply, but this very lack of emotion in his rich voice was disturbing.

  Not knowing why, but very uncomfortable with the turn in the conversation, Taffy decided to intervene before there was any more talk of boars, or her, or the strange weapon she had brought with her to this time. Gone was any desire to spend time with one of Irish history’s great figures. There was something very dangerous shimmering in the air that surrounded the Isleman. She could sense it as plainly as the new storm that was approaching.

  “Gentlemen,” she said, rising. Her tone was as proper as a lady taking tea with the Royals, and as commanding as any who had been born to the purple. It took an effort to meet the MacColla’s eyes with an assumption of ease and calm, but she forced herself to return his gaze unflinching. “I believe that Father Feehan could use some immediate assistance.”

  MacColla stared at her a long moment and then finally nodded. Two of his men stepped over to help the priest to his feet. They handled him gently, but the slight old man still had to bite back the sounds of anguish that came when his swollen ankles first took his body’s weight.

  Taffy, though she wanted to help, remained well back from the Irish soldiers who watched her with curious eyes. She circled the other men who stood waiting and came up on Malcolm’s left side. She longed to reach for him, but didn’t make any move to distract him. His own posture spoke of battle readiness, suggesting that he too felt the tension in the air.

  She did her best to ignore the body lying on the ground behind them, and the MacColla’s hypnotic stare, which was trying to examine her mind and peer into her heart. She had the intuition that he would have been able to see her clearly were it not for the lingering cloak of faerie magic that had been thrown over them.

  “Father?” Malcolm called softly. “Are ye badly hurt?”

  “Malcolm the Pipes? Is that yer voice I hear?” the priest asked, peering into the shadows where they stood. It was one of the pools of blackness that the torchlight did not illumine. Malcolm had chosen it deliberately.

  As the priest approached, Taffy was careful to shake her hair over her ears. Malcolm’s, she noticed, were already concealed.

  “Aye, Father. That it is.”

  “And how are ye, lad?” Father Feehan asked, walking gingerly in their direction. His face was lined with pain, though he made an effort to smile.

  “I am well, Father,” Malcolm replied. “But I am in need o’ yer help.”

  “In that great a hurry, are you, piper?” the MacColla asked softly. His men, well versed in his ways of battle, did not fill the air with idle conversation, so everyone could hear the exchange and wonder at its meaning.

  “Aye. That I am.”

  “What do ye need, lad?” the priest asked, his voice growing stronger.

  “This lady, Taffy MacLeod, and I wish tae be married.”

  “Now.” It was not a question. The priest looked from Malcolm to her and then back again. He nodded his head. “A MacLeod is she? It would be my joy.”

  There was a brief ripple of surprise that passed through MacColla’s men.

  “I am not certain that we have the time, piper. We left the Campbells stirring not an hour past.”

  “There is time,” Malcolm said firmly, daring anyone to doubt him. “An yer concerned, send a scout on ahead tae be sure of the way, but I tell ye that no Campbells are there yet.”

  The two men, towering over the other soldiers, stared at each other in an awful hush, engaged in some contest of will that Taffy did not understand.

  “We will begin at once,” the priest said, breaking the apprehensive silence. “Someone fetch a torch. I cannae see a blessed thing. And drag that body away before he bleeds on the bride. Sorry, lass, that there is no English orange blossom for to bridal yer hair.”

  “That’s all right, Father,” she assured him. She couldn’t imagine any bridal trappings in this horrible place. It would be sacrilegious.

  The soldiers looked to MacColla, and receiving no contradictory order, went to do the priest’s bidding.

  “We’ve no time for a Mass,” Father Feehan told Malcolm, sotto voce.

  “It doesnae matter, Father.”

  “The lass is a Catholic?”

  Malcolm hesitated.

  “No, I am not,” Taffy said quietly, worried, but the priest merely nodded.

  “Dispensation for a mixed marriage can be granted in a grave situation. I believe that this circumstance qualifies. Ye’ll do as your husband bids ye and study his religion later, will ye not?”

  “I shall strive to do whatever Malcolm asks,” was her qualified answer, which brought a slight smile to Malcolm’s lips.

  “Very well. You.” The priest gestured to MacColla and a second soldier. “Stand here. Ye’ll be the witnesses.”

  With that, the priest launched into a hurried Latin prayer. Distracted by the MacColla’s continuing scrutiny, Taffy followed few of the priest’s words, though her Latin was fair enough t
o understand him. She did recognize the admonition to Malcolm that “husbands should love their wives as Christ also loved the church.”

  She repeated the phrase and was dimly surprised to realize that this wasn’t a question she had thought to ask of Malcolm in their time together, so caught had she been in her own turmoiled emotions. But she did wonder about it now. He was fiercely protective of her—and certainly loverlike—but did he actually love her in the way the priest meant? And did it matter if he did not?

  Taffy looked inside with her new sight and found that it did matter, at least a little. However, such thoughts couldn’t be allowed to interfere with what needed to be done.

  She sighed. And why did they talk of obedience for the woman, rather than asking that she promise to love in return? That, she knew, would not be a difficult thing for her to swear, as she surely did love this man.

  As if sensing that her thoughts had wandered someplace unpleasant, Malcolm twitched her cuff with a long finger. She rejoined the priest’s words at the part of the ceremony about “for this cause shall a man leave his father and mother, and shall cleave to his wife, and they shall be two in one flesh.”

  But that made her think of her own parent and his likely reaction if—when—Malcolm was presented to him. Her lover was not at all what her father had in mind for a son-in-law. He expected her to marry a gentleman, which by his definition, was some sort of an indolent, wealthy fop who would squire her to socially approved amusements and occasionally sire heirs upon her.

  Taffy looked at her groom. Malcolm was not at all indolent or foppish in body or in mind. He acted toward her with what her father would feel was an ill-bred familiarity, and a total disregard for what the conventions of her age said was the proper treatment of the weaker sex by the stronger.

  While he was tender with her, he did not behave toward her as if she was of frail health or slight of reason.

  Nor did he make any fuss about the protection he offered her, though she knew that it was a princely gift as he was going against the will of faeries he must have previously seen as friends—even as kin—in order to protect her from them.

  And though they had been thrown together in a situation beyond the social pale, he had never taken unfair advantage of her—Taffy paused at that thought and then smiled slightly. Her father wouldn’t agree with her about that, either. He would not consider that she was able to give informed consent to the intimacies that had passed between them. But she knew otherwise.

  Added together, this catalogue of practical virtues made Malcolm more of a gentleman than many of her contemporaries who put their gentility on and off with the whims of the moment and the social station of those with which they interacted. Malcolm’s beliefs and behavior were not donned only when he put on his plaid or drew a weapon or came to her bed. He was always himself, true in every circumstance.

  But more important than all that, she loved him. It was this circumstance that made him the only husband she would ever have.

  This time it was Father Feehan who cleared his throat and stared at her warningly, perhaps knowing that the bride’s attention had wandered. Malcolm closed one eye in a slow wink and squeezed her hand. Aware of the MacColla’s watchful eye upon them, Taffy shook off her pointless reverie and made an effort to pay greater attention to what was being said.

  There came an awkward moment when Father Feehan asked for a ring, but Taffy reached into her pocket and produced her silver knuckles.

  Both Father Feehan and MacColla stared incredulously at the length of silver, but Malcolm’s smile told her that he was not upset with her unorthodox solution.

  “Well, lass, wi’ four rings, ye’ll be well and truly wed,” the priest said, hastily blessing the weapon that had saved her from Lady Dunstaffnage’s demonic cleric.

  The fit was uncomfortable on her left hand, but Taffy left the mongery in place until the ceremony was over.

  Father Feehan offered hurried congratulations, but MacColla and his men were already on the move and the priest had wisely decided to go with them.

  The great man paused for a moment as his men faded back into the stunted wood. His gaze was thoughtful as it passed over them for a final time.

  “You’ll not come with us? Though you are a piper, a man of war, and we have need of you?”

  “Nay,” Malcolm answered. “I was a piper, but my calling has changed. There are others wi’ greater need than yers. Our path now lies south.”

  MacColla nodded.

  “You still have plans to travel, piper?”

  “They were never my plans,” Malcolm answered. He smiled suddenly. “My wife thinks otherwise. We’ll see shortly who has the greater will. Any road, tell them in Glen Noe that in spite of the stories, Malcolm the Pipes died in Duntrune. Let him rest in peace.”

  MacColla’s eyes flicked over Taffy. She knew that he could not see much in the dark, but she still had the impression that he had catalogued every aspect of her face, bearing, and dress.

  “Your own battle will be an interesting one, piper. Good luck to you both, for you shall need it in the lands you plan to see.”

  Malcolm nodded.

  “And to you, Colkitto,” Taffy said softly. She found herself adding some hurried advice. “Stay away from Lord Inchiquin. In fact, don’t go back to Ireland at all next year.”

  The MacColla’s expression turned quizzical.

  “I think I shall still have plenty of Covenanters to kill for the king in the year to come. They are still all about, as are the Campbells. And, piper, though I do not approve of what you do—or even what I suspect you are—I still thank you for your message. It saved the lives of many of my men.” The Irishman smiled briefly before turning away.

  “He doesn’t believe me,” Taffy said sadly, as the legend’s footsteps retreated into the increasingly restless dark.

  “It’s his destiny, lass. There’s no escapin’ it.”

  “Oh, hogwash!” she said irritatedly. “You Celts are all too damned mystical for your own good.”

  Malcolm laughed softly and pulled her into his arms. His eyes blazed with sudden joy.

  “I do believe that the reason ye were sent tae me is that the burden o’ life was too heavy without some laughter tae lighten the load.”

  “And you find me amusing?” she asked, a little disappointed that he didn’t declare his love for her, and a lot breathless because she was always short of breath when Malcolm was near.

  “Aye. And bonnie.” Malcolm’s warm gaze seemed to cover her like a cloak, warming her clear to the soul. Down came his mouth to cover her lips and a tide of sweet fire swept over her. Leaning into him, she gave herself over to the warming flames, which purged all doubt and fear.

  “Ah, wife!” he said, turning his face into her hair. “Ye tempt me past all reason. But we must away.”

  “Wife,” she repeated, the fact still an alien one. How could one speak of being a wife when there had as yet been no talk of love?

  In the distance, thunder crackled in warning. Taffy groaned and leaned her head against his chest.

  “Again?”

  “One would think the Campbells would have tired o’ chasin’ us through the rain.” He laughed shortly. “But nobody said they were keen o’ wit, just bloody stubborn.”

  Disappointed, Taffy nevertheless accepted that there was no time for sweet words or deeds between them. Indeed, the notion of sharing their love in the defiled glen was repellent.

  “So we go south?” she asked, in a voice made steady by effort. The growing roar of thunder told of the storm marching swiftly overland. Smokey whined once and then barked sharply. “Soon. But first we go west a bittock.” “You don’t trust anyone,” she said, thinking of the lie he had told the MacColla.

  “Untrue, Taffy lass! After all, I trust ye.” The praise was nearly as warming as the most romantic declaration of love. Nearly.

  Chapter Eleven

  Taffy sighed as she spied the now familiar opening in the mountain stones. Th
e mouth in the hill was only a narrow shadow of darker hue cracked a shoulder’s-breadth wide in the black wetness around them. It didn’t look like the entrance of a cave, but she was coming to recognize the faeries’ resting places.

  “Ye should no listen tae yer weariness, lass. It will tell ye tae despair,” Malcolm told her as he set a hand on her shoulder.

  “I am too tired to despair,” she answered, stepping boldly into the cavern, confident from past experience that it would be uninhabited. A small frisson passed over her skin, but after the uncleanliness of the place where they’d intended to maim Father Feehan, the magicked cave seemed to her almost wholesome.

  “Too weary are ye then for being a wife?” he asked, stepping close behind her and putting comforting arms about her waist.

  Taffy leaned back into his heat and sighed with pleasure.

  “I could probably be persuaded to do my duty,” she replied. This time, there was no blush.

  “I’d not have duty doing desire’s work,” he answered, bestowing a kiss on her ear. “For desire should live between man and wife rather than duty.”

  “I agree. I just wish that for once it could pass between sheets on a bed,” she said wistfully. “It would be so novel.”

  He squeezed her quickly, and then with a show of the strength that always left her amazed, he lifted her onto a stony ledge.

  “We’ve a bed. ‘Tis just made of rock instead of hide. I’ll build a fire so our linens may dry.” He picked up her heavy skirts, testing the fabric for dampness. The worst of the rain had passed them by, but she was still more wet than dry. “Ye’ll regret it else, for ye’ll chap yer tender skin on this cloth. ‘Tis tough as sail canvas.”

  “I might regret it anyway. This rock is cold.” But she didn’t believe her words. She might dislike the hard ground, which would leave bruises, but better that than to lament a lost opportunity to be in Malcolm’s arms. It was only there that the horrors of this world were completely cleansed and she forgot that time was closing in upon them.

  Too, she knew from experience that making love would give her the energy—and probably provide ample discomfort—to remain awake while she kept her lonely vigil. It was Malcolm’s turn to rest and she had every intention that he should have some sleep this night.