Tempest in the Highlands (The Scottish Relic Trilogy)

by May McGoldrick

“Where the devil were you?” he asked, turning around.

  He’d definitely not seen her, she decided. “I was cleaning these scratches, as you ordered.”

  “Why didn’t you answer me when I called out?”

  “I didn’t hear you.”

  Hawk reached for his shirt and jerkin. “So much like you. Unruly, stubborn.” He sent her a side-glance. “What was wrong with staying here and letting me check your back?”

  “I took care of it,” she said. Feeling exposed before him, she pulled up the collar of her tunic and glanced toward the edge of the water.

  He pulled his shirt on and donned the jerkin. “Let me see it now.”

  “It’s fine. I swam out a ways and came back. There’s nothing to see.”

  He sat down on a boulder facing her and pulled his boots back on. “Why did you go in fully dressed?”

  She shrugged. “My clothes needed a washing, too.”

  Miranda hoped he’d stop scrutinizing her with that direct stare. She was pinned between the loch and the boulder he sat on. There was nowhere to go. Nothing she could do to divert his attention.

  “You’ll do what I say from here on,” he said curtly. “Without question or delay. I’ll not brook any further insubordination from you.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  “We don’t know what we’ll find on this island,” he lectured. “And you and I may not be strong enough to face the dangers that lie ahead.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  “You need to follow orders and we need to work together if we’re to get off this place. Do you understand?”

  She nodded, sitting on the ground and emptying the water out of her boots. Studying him, Miranda recognized that these were words of concern. She’d spent her life carefully watching her father’s moods; she knew when it was safe to be near him and when it was best to disappear. She already knew that Hawk was commanding, but not cruel. She pulled her boots back on.

  “I want you close to me, within reach, where I can save your sorry arse when the need arises,” he said.

  So far, she’d been the one to do the arse saving, she thought, but this was probably not a good time to mention it.

  Rob pushed to his feet and started around the loch in the direction of the cliffs. She fell in beside him, relieved that he appeared to have forgotten about her shoulder.

  “What’s the plan, Captain?”

  “We walk the perimeter of the island, staying close to the shoreline, and look for other survivors. Perhaps we’ll find the Peregrine anchored offshore.”

  “But we can’t see the base of the cliffs.”

  He looked up at the sky. “I’m hoping the fog will burn off.”

  Hawk gestured toward the point where the craggy mountain ridge jutted out into the sea. “We’ll try to get around that headland and then travel south.”

  South, north, or east—it made no difference to Miranda. So long as Hawk found a way off this island and took her with him.

  As she hurried to keep up, Miranda remembered what he’d said about only believing what he saw with his own eyes. How different they were. She was raised believing in her mother’s visions—and now her own. She trusted those better than what her eyes saw.

  She touched the pouch at her waist. Her mother’s visions had focused on the folk around them. So often they added to the clan’s well-being. Watching Muirne touch a person’s hand and see what potential fate lay in store had been an integral part of Miranda’s upbringing. And she now possessed that ability herself. Anything was possible.

  The cry of birds drew her gaze upward. Geese, flying in a V-formation, passed overhead. Where were they going? It was a mystery.

  Despite her power to read another’s future, Miranda’s own fate remained a mystery to her. She could not see what lay ahead for herself, it seemed; she could only go by what her mother predicted. She stared at Hawk’s fingers as she followed him along a winding path that hugged the coast. She contemplated touching his hand again. They were trapped on this island together; the two of them had to share the same fate.

  But there was no chance for a casual brush of hands. Hawk didn’t provide any help as they maneuvered over and between boulders and patches of heather and wrinkled rose. She was just a crewmember who worked for him, and she realized she was having some difficulty keeping up.

  “With all these clouds, you wouldn’t know there’s even a sea down there,” she called out, hoping he would realize how far behind she was.

  He stopped and turned around, watching her approach. Miranda wanted to keep up, but his silence was unsettling, too. She wondered what he saw—what he thought. It was much easier to impersonate a boy amongst a company of a hundred men. Here, with just the two of them, every minute was a challenge.

  “Who taught you to swim?” Hawk asked as she drew near, finally breaking the silence.

  “No one. Everyone. I was raised by the water.” This was the truth. “At Tarbert, we learned to swim as soon as we learned to walk.”

  He started off again. He’d asked many questions last night about her mother, herself, the MacDonnells. Miranda decided perhaps this was a good time to get some of her own questions answered.

  “Why did you come to Tarbert Castle, Hawk?”

  “I heard about the attack and the fire. We stopped there to be of help.”

  She had been hiding in a deserted cottage outside of the village when the attack at the castle happened, and she was devastated when she heard about the deaths. Miranda had little love for her father. She’d spent most of her life staying clear of him and trying to avoid being the target of his explosive temper. Still, she’d never wished him dead.

  But what pained her even more was that there were so many other members of her clan, innocent folk, who’d died at the hands of this English monster. And she had foreseen none of it. That day, Miranda had questioned whether she really possessed the power of the stone.

  “Why would an English sea captain spend any time or effort helping Scots clean up their wee island town after another Englishman lays waste to it?”

  “My mother was Scottish.”

  She’d heard rumor of that in the village. “But you sail under an English flag.”

  He sent her a hard look. “Are you saying I shouldn’t have helped?”

  “That’s not it. But I’ve grown up knowing about English troops riding roughshod over the Borders folk and raiding villages along the Scottish coasts. Now you show up and lend a hand in a place damaged by your own people. Wouldn’t that seem strange to you?”

  Rob paused atop a boulder he’d just climbed, looking down at her. A moment of silence stretched between them before he spoke. “I don’t care to have those under my command questioning me. Try it with the first mate and you’ll find yourself being used as fish bait on a line off the stern of the Peregrine. Understand me?”

  The man’s fierce frown and threats should have persuaded Miranda to stop, but she had to know the answer.

  “You did a great and honorable thing at Tarbert, helping us when we needed it, Captain,” Miranda persisted in a respectful tone. “I just don’t know why you went there to begin with.”

  “If you were so curious, why didn’t you ask that question of the cook . . . or was it the first mate who brought you on board?”

  “The cook,” she said. “But there was no point in asking him. Why would you be talking to a cook about your plans?”

  “Exactly right, lad. So then, why in the devil’s name should I explain myself to the cook’s helper?”

  Miranda looked up at him, towering over her on the rock. With the sun blazing behind him, the moment resembled one of her visions. She expected him to grow wings, black as a hawk, and soar off into the sky. She only wished he would take her with him.

  “You’ve asked a great many questions since we washed up here, Captain. I asked one in return.”

  “And you think you have the right?”

  “I do.”

  “I’ll be damned if I�
��ve ever met a kitchen hand who talks like you do. You must have taken more than a few beatings in those kitchens growing up.”

  “I’m not just a lowly kitchen hand. I’m a MacDonnell,” she said proudly.

  “Well, Gavin MacDonnell, if you can see fit to humor me right now, we need to find a way off this island.” Hawk’s gaze swept upward over the rocks and shrubs to the top of the ridge.

  She was dismissed. They were finished discussing his motives.

  “You stay here while I work my way down these bluffs and see if—”

  “Shouldn’t we stay together?” she interrupted, alarmed that he could die going down that cliff without her to save him.

  “Bloody hell.” He stared at her. “I need to discuss every move I make with you, is that it?”

  She said nothing, but looked down over the edge. The clouds were thick and the cliff face looked treacherous.

  “Since you need to know . . .” He pointed at the rocky crests that rose high above them. “I’m hoping we can make our way around this headland without climbing over the bloody peak. Second, if these mists are clearer beneath us, I might be able to see some sign of my ship. Is that acceptable to you, Admiral?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer and started in a huff toward the edge.

  “My hand, Hawk. I think the cuts from the oysters might be festering. It feels like I have a thousand blades stabbing me,” she lied, rushing after him, her hand extended. “Will you take a look before you go down?”

  He stopped and took her hand, frowning. As he did, an unexpected image rushed through her head. Startled, Miranda tried to step back, but his viselike grip held her. His head bent over, and he poked at the cuts on her palm.

  The image was so vivid that it seemed to be happening now. The two of them were standing in the half-light of a cave. Miranda was pressed against the cave wall and she could feel the hard rocks against her back. Hawk held her chin; he was scrutinizing her face. He was looking right through her. He knew it was all a lie. He knew that she was a woman.

  Miranda’s heart pounded like the surf upon the shore. She tried to tug her hand free, but he held on tighter.

  “Blast it, lad. I’m not hurting you. Wait a moment.”

  This close, she could smell the clean masculine scent of leather and salt air. She could see the growth of beard on his cheek. His lashes, long and dark, fanned out as they rested on his tanned cheeks. She held her breath, willing her heart to be quiet.

  “You’re fine, but there is something amiss.”

  She tried to pull her hand free, but he continued to hold it. His thumb moved over her palm. A knot in her stomach twisted deliciously and moved low in her belly. She felt her face catch fire.

  “Curious that a working man should have no calluses,” he said under his breath. His eyes stared into hers as he lifted his head.

  “Are you accusing me of shirking my duties in the kitchen?” She forced her hand free and stepped back. “Are you saying I’m lazy? Is that it?”

  His gaze swept over her face. “All I’m saying is—”

  “Is the first man on deck in a storm a lazy shirker?”

  “If he’s trying to get away from work Cook has given him.”

  He was trying to hide his amusement, but she could see the look in his eyes. He was teasing her.

  “And would you call the one who jumps into a stormy sea to save his captain’s life a lazy shirker?”

  “If he was washed overboard himself.”

  They were still standing too close. She couldn’t push down the image of him holding her, pressing against her, looking into her soul. They needed to get off this island soon. Miranda didn’t know how long she could keep up this pretense.

  “Then maybe you should go right down that cliff instead of standing here harassing me. While you do, I’ll just laze about here.”

  He cuffed her lightly on the side of the head. “You are easily the most impudent rascal I’ve ever had serve on my ship. It’s a good thing that storm came up. I’d have given my crew a week before they drowned you.”

  She tossed her head and scoffed, “Good luck to them trying.”

  Hawk shook his head. “Find us something to eat while you wait. But don’t go far.”

  Without another word, he started down the bluffs. Ignoring his order, she climbed on a rock near the edge and sat down to think.

  She didn’t want to think about the possibility that they might not find any other survivors. What if they were stranded here alone on this island? Thinking about his touch, what she’d seen holding his hand, brought on the excitement again.

  What if she were left here for any period of time with Hawk?

  He had only been gone over the edge for a moment when Miranda thought she saw something move out of the corner of her eye. Whirling around, she stared up at the rugged promontory. The cliffs rose in a series of ledges to the top. There appeared to be a number of ridges. If the valleys between them were deep, she wondered, how long would it take to cross to whatever lay beyond?

  A pair of gulls soared high above the rocks. Perhaps that was what had caught her eye, she thought. Or some small rodent scurrying across a rock. Or perhaps it was just the movement of light and shadow playing tricks on her.

  Turning away, she inched over to the edge and looked down. She could see no sign of Hawk through the clouds swirling below. Not far down the cliff, she spied a nest with four large eggs.

  “Supper,” she murmured.

  Miranda determined that it would be a difficult climb to reach the nest. Perhaps, she thought, she could use a branch to scoop out the eggs or to haul up the entire nest.

  As she stood to look for something to use, her eye was drawn again upward. There, high on the ledge, she spotted the head and shoulders of a man. He was watching her from behind a boulder.

  Stunned, she stared for a moment, but quickly recovered her wits.

  Waving her arms, she shouted to him. The head immediately disappeared.

  “Wait!” she yelled. “We need help. Wait!”

  Miranda glanced back down the cliff, but there was still no sign of Hawk. Deciding that she couldn’t let this pass, she ran to the base of the promontory and climbed up the rocks as quickly as she could manage.

  There were people on this island. They were safe.

  Chapter 7

  Isle of Mull

  “I know who your parents are.” The old hermit paused before continuing. “You are not a MacLean. And you have a real name. You’re not Gillie the Faerie-Borne. Not any longer.”

  Stunned, the young man said nothing. He’d always thought of himself as a nameless foundling. The only parents he’d ever known had been Sir Wyntoun MacLean and his wife, Adrianne Percy. They’d tried years ago to learn his identity, and Sir Wyntoun had commissioned the hermit to be alert for news. But there had been nothing until now.

  “I know,” the cleric continued, watching his face. “It’s a great deal to fathom.”

  Gillie stared at the old man, and it felt as if the world had stopped turning. The sound of the waves lapping on the stones as the tide came in mingled with the occasional crackle of the fire.

  “First, your name is Gavin,” said the hermit. “Gavin MacDonnell.”

  “I’m a MacDonnell?” he murmured with surprise. “And my name is Gavin, you say?”

  The hermit nodded.

  Gavin MacDonnell. The young man tried to take it all in. He stood up and went to the cottage’s small window. The shutter was open and he could see the ramparts of Duart Castle in the distance above the low rise beyond the inlet. The castle walls glowed golden brown in the late afternoon sun, and rippling green hills rose up beyond them.

  He had lived most of his life here, devoted to his adopted parents. Known to some as the Blade of Barra, Sir Wyntoun had found him as a bairn and taken him in. Since Sir Wyntoun’s marriage to Adrianne, the two had raised him as their son. Now he was nineteen years of age, a man, and suddenly he had a name to call his own.

&n
bsp; Gillie turned back to the old man, who watched him from the battered chair beside the small fire in the center of the tidy cottage. Wyntoun once told him the hermit had served in the king’s court as a tutor. But that was many years ago, and the cleric was now quite old. Still, the man was spoken of with deep respect. He had a wisdom borne of learning and reflection, years and experience. Even now, visitors traveled from great distances to confer with him and bring him news.

  “What else do you know?” Gillie asked quietly.

  “You come from Kintyre, to the south.”

  “How do you know this? Who brought you this information?”

  “I’ll get to that. But there’s more you need to hear.” The hermit smoothed his beard and leaned forward. “And this is the best of it. You’re the son of Angus MacDonnell, laird of Tarbert Castle. Or I should say, son of the late laird of Tarbert Castle.”

  Gillie shook his head. This was indeed a great deal to take in. A thousand questions exploded in his brain. How could this be true? The son of a laird? What family would abandon the child of a laird in a bank of gillyflowers only days after birth? That’s where the MacLeans had found him.

  He thought of his earliest memories. They were not happy ones. As a child, he’d been afflicted with horrible rashes and sores that made him look like a leper, all caused simply by the touch of wool against his skin. To the islanders he was Gillie the Scar-Face, Gillie the Bringer of Bad Luck. Merely wearing leather had changed all of that.

  But that was nothing compared to the change about to happen now.

  “It can’t be true,” he said.

  “It can . . . and it is true.” The hermit pulled a brooch from inside his tartan and laid it in Gillie’s palm. “You’re now laird of Tarbert Castle, Gavin MacDonnell.”

  Gillie stared at the image of a gauntlet-covered hand clutching a cross in its fist. “How do you know this? How did you come by this?”

  Before the hermit could answer, two men came through the open door. Beyond them, Gillie could see half a dozen armed soldiers outside. The old hermit appeared to be struck speechless, astounded at the sight of the visitors.

  “I brought it for you,” the older of the two men said. He was English. Beneath a leather cloak, he wore a heavily scarred chest plate. A long sword and a brace of daggers hung from a leather belt. “And I’m here to return you to your rightful place.”