Alex turned to Duncan, who was on the oar opposite his. “You and I are like innocent babes next to my conniving cousins.”
“All great chieftains are conniving,” Ian said with a grin. “’Tis a required trait.”
“Connor will need to be conniving just to stay alive,” Duncan said without a trace of humor. “Hugh has been pirating in the Western Isles for years without being caught. That means he’s clever and ruthless—and lucky as well.”
They were quiet again for a time. Connor may not be ready to admit it aloud yet, but Ian agreed with Duncan—Connor’s life was in danger on Skye.
“If you’re going to the castle, I’m going with ye,” Ian said. “Ye don’t know what awaits ye there.”
“Ye don’t know what awaits you either,” Connor said. “Ye must go home and see how your family fares.”
Ian sent up a prayer that his own father had survived the battle. He regretted that their parting had been angry—and regretted still more that he had ignored his father’s letters ordering him home. He should have fought alongside his father and clansmen at Flodden. He would carry the guilt of not being there to his grave.
“And ye need to settle matters with the lass,” Connor added. “Five years is long enough to keep her waiting.”
Ian had managed to forget about the problem of Sìleas while they talked of Connor and the chieftainship—and he didn’t want to think about it now. He took another swig from the whiskey jug at his feet while they rested their oars and glided to shore. As soon as the boat scraped bottom, he and the others dropped over the side into the icy water and hauled the boat up onto the shore of Skye.
After five years gone, he was home.
“I’ll wait to go to Dunscaith Castle until I know which way the wind blows,” Connor said, as they dragged the boat above the tide line. “Duncan and I will take Shaggy’s boat to the other side of Sleat and find out the sentiment there.”
“I still think I should go with ye,” Ian said.
Connor shook his head. “We’ll send word or come find ye in two or three days. In the meantime, talk to your father. He’ll know what the men are thinking on this part of the island.”
“I know ye can’t mean to leave your best fighting man out of this,” Alex said. “Should I come with ye or go north to hear what the folks there are saying?”
“Stay with Ian,” Connor said, the white of his teeth bright in the growing darkness. “He faces the greatest danger.”
“Verra funny.” At the thought of Sìleas, he took another swig from the jug—and choked when Alex elbowed him hard in the ribs.
“You’d best give Ian a full week,” Alex said. “Ye don’t want him leaving his poor wife wanting after such a long wait.”
The others laughed for the first time since they had heard the news about Connor’s father.
Ian, however, was not amused.
“I have no wife,” he repeated.
“Sìleas’s lands are important to the clan, especially Knock Castle,” Connor said, draping an arm across Ian’s shoulders. “It protects our lands on the eastern shore. We can’t have it falling into the hands of the MacKinnons.”
“What are ye saying?” Ian asked between clenched teeth.
“Ye know verra well my father did not force ye to wed Sìleas out of concern for the girl’s virtue. He wanted Knock Castle in the hands of his nephew.”
“Ye can’t be trying to tell me to accept Sìleas as my wife.”
Connor squeezed Ian’s shoulder. “All I’m asking is that you consider the needs of the clan.”
Ian shrugged Connor’s hand off him. “I’m telling ye now, I’ll no keep this marriage.”
“Well, if ye don’t,” Connor said, “then ye must find a man we can trust to take your place.”
“Perhaps ye should wait until you’re chieftain before ye start giving orders,” Ian snapped.
ON THE SLEAT PENINSULA OF THE ISLE OF SKYE
The wind whipped at Sìleas’s cloak as she stood with their nearest neighbor, Gòrdan Graumach MacDonald, on a rocky outcrop overlooking the sea. The mountains of the mainland were black against the darkening sky. Despite the damp cold that penetrated her bones and the need to get home to help with supper, something held her.
“How much longer will ye give Ian?” Gòrdan asked.
Sìleas watched a boat crossing the strait, its outline barely visible in the fading light, as she considered his question.
When she didn’t answer, Gòrdan said, “’Tis past time you gave up on him.”
Give up on Ian? Could she do that? It was the question she asked herself every day now.
She had loved Ian for as long as she could remember. Almost from the time she could walk, she had planned to marry him. She smiled to herself, remembering how kind he had been to her, despite the teasing he got from the men and other lads for letting a wee lass half his size follow him like a lost puppy.
“Five years he’s kept ye waiting,” Gòrdan pressed. “That’s more time than any man deserves.”
“That’s true enough.” Sìleas brushed back the hair whipping across her face.
Her wedding was the worst memory of her life—and she was a woman with plenty of bad memories to choose from. There had been no time for the usual traditions that made a wedding a celebration and brought luck to a new marriage. No gifts and well-wishes from the neighbors. No washing of the bride’s feet. No ring. No carrying the bride over the threshold.
And certainly no sprinkling of the bed with holy water—not with Ian threatening to toss the priest down the stairs when he attempted to go with them up to the bedchamber.
None of the traditions for luck were kept, save for the one. Ian’s mother insisted Sìleas wear a new gown, though Sìleas didn’t see how a bit more bad luck on top of what she already had could make a difference. Regardless, Ian’s mother wouldn’t hear of her wearing the filthy gown she had arrived in. Unfortunately, the only new gown to be had upon an hour’s notice was one Ian’s mother had made for herself.
Sìleas rushed through her bath, barely washing, so she would be out and dressed before Ian’s mother returned to help her. Quickly, she dabbed at the long gashes across her back so she would leave no telltale blood on the borrowed gown.
When she slipped the gown over her head, it floated about her like a sack. She looked down at where the bodice sagged, exaggerating her lack. If that were not bad enough, she wanted to weep at the color. Such a violent shade of red would look lovely on Ian’s dark-haired mother, but it made Sìleas’s hair look orange and her skin blotchy.
When Ian’s mother burst in the room, her startled expression before she smoothed it confirmed Sìleas’s worst fears.
“’Tis a shame we can’t alter it,” his mother said, clucking her tongue. “But ye know that brings a bride bad luck.”
Sìleas was sure the gown’s color canceled out any good luck its unaltered state was likely to bring her. A bride was supposed to wear blue.
Then came the worst part of all. As she descended the stairs, with his mother’s hand at her back pushing her forward, she heard Ian shouting at his father. His words were the last blow that nearly felled her.
Have ye taken a good look at her, da? I tell ye, I will not have her. I’ll no say my vows.
But with his father, his chieftain, and a dozen armed clansmen surrounding him, Ian did say them.
Sìleas blinked when Gòrdan stepped in front of her and took hold of her shoulders, bringing her sharply back to the present.
“Don’t try to kiss me again,” she said, turning her head. “Ye know it’s not right.”
“What I know is that ye deserve a husband who will love and honor ye,” Gòrdan said. “I want to be that man.”
“You’re a good man, and I like ye.” Gòrdan was fine looking as well, with rich brown hair and warm hazel eyes. “But I keep thinking that once Ian returns, he’ll…”
He’ll what? Fall on his knees and beg my forgiveness? Tell me he regretted eve
ry single day he was away?
Truth be told, she wasn’t ready to be married when they wed. She had needed another year or two before becoming a true wife. But five years! Each day Ian didn’t return deepened the wound. By now, she should have a babe in her arms and another grabbing at their skirts, like most women her age. She wanted children. And a husband.
Sìleas drew in a deep breath of the sharp, salty air. It was one humiliation after another. Ian could pretend they were not wed, because he was living among a thousand French folk who did not know it. But she lived with his family on this island in the midst of their clan.
Where every last person knows Ian has left me here waiting.
“If you cannot ask for an annulment…” Gòrdan let the question hang unfinished.
Though she could ask for an annulment, she could not tell even Gòrdan that—at least, not yet. She had been lectured on that point quite severely by both Ian’s father and the chieftain. If her MacKinnon relatives heard that her marriage was never consummated, they would attempt to steal her away, declare the marriage invalid, and force her to wed one of their own.
Yet her marriage to Ian was not a trial marriage, as most were. Through some miracle, the chieftain had found a priest. The chieftain had wanted them bound—and her castle firmly in the hands of the MacDonalds of Sleat.
For the same reason, it would have been useless to ask her chieftain to support a petition to annul her marriage. A bishop wouldn’t send a petition to Rome on her request alone. Consequently, she had written a letter to King James seeking his help. For six months, the letter lay hidden away in her chest, awaiting her decision to send it.
But now, both King James and her chieftain were dead.
“If you can’t ask for an annulment,” Gòrdan said, “then simply divorce Ian and marry me.”
“Your mother would no be pleased with that,” she said with a dry laugh. “I don’t know if she would faint dead away or take a dirk to ye.”
Although it was common in the Highlands to wed and divorce without the church’s blessing, Gòrdan’s mother had notions about the sort of woman her precious only son should wed. A “used” woman was unlikely to satisfy her.
“’Tis no my mother’s decision,” Gòrdan said. “I love ye, Sìleas, and I’m set on having ye for my wife.”
Sìleas sighed. It was a precious gift to have a good man tell her he loved her, even if he was the wrong man. “Ye know I can’t think of leaving Ian’s family now.”
“Then promise ye will give me an answer as soon as ye are able,” Gòrdan said. “There are many men who would want ye, but I’ll be good to ye. I’m a steadfast man. I’d never leave ye as Ian did.”
Though he meant to reassure her, his words pierced her heart.
“’Tis time we returned to the house.” She turned and started toward the path. “I’ve been gone too long.”
“Ach, no one will begrudge ye a wee time away after you’ve been working so hard,” Gòrdan said, taking her arm. “And if ye marry me, they’ll have to learn to do without ye.”
As they walked up the path, Sìleas looked over her shoulder at the dark water. Where was Ian now? Even after all this time, she missed the boy who had been her friend and protector. But she didn’t think she still wanted the angry young man who had left her—even if he deigned to return to claim her after all this time.
Five years she had waited for Ian. It was long enough. Tomorrow, she would rewrite her letter and send it to the dead king’s widow.
“Perhaps ye should ease up on the whiskey,” Alex said.
“Ye can’t expect me to face this sober,” Ian said.
Ian tipped the jug back one more time to be sure it was empty then tossed it aside. When they rounded the next bend, he saw the smoke from the chimneys of his family home curling against the darkened sky and felt a piercing longing for his family. It would be good to be home… if not for having to face the problem of Sìleas.
“Most women don’t appreciate a man who is slobbering drunk, cousin,” Alex said. “I hope ye haven’t had so much you’ll have trouble doing your husbandly duty.”
“Will ye no leave it alone?”
“Ach,” Alex said, rubbing his arm where Ian had punched him, “I only meant to cheer ye up with a wee bit a teasing.”
“’Tis good you’re coming home with me,” Ian said. “Since Sìleas will be needing another husband in the clan, it may as well be you.”
“And I thought ye were fond of the lass,” Alex said.
In truth, Ian was fond of Sìleas. He wanted a good husband for her.
He just didn’t want it to be him.
For five years, he had this false marriage hanging over him. Not that he’d let it constrain him, but it was always there in the back of his mind like a sore that wouldn’t heal. Now that he had come home to Skye, it was time to take his place in his clan. He supposed he would have to take a wife—which meant he had to deal with the problem of Sìleas first. He still got angry every time he thought of how he’d been forced to wed her. And whether she’d done it on purpose or not, it was her fault.
Once he was out from under the marriage, he could forgive her.
A dog barked somewhere in the darkness to herald his homecoming. The smell of cows and horses filled his nose as they passed between the familiar black shapes of the byre and the old cottage where his parents had first lived. Just ahead, lamplight filtered through the shutters of the two-story house his father had built before Ian was born.
Swaying just a wee bit, Ian found the latch and lifted it. The earthy smell of the peat fire enveloped him as he eased inside the door.
Ignoring Alex’s nudge from behind, he paused in the dark foyer to survey the people gathered around the hearth. His mother sat on the far side. Her face was still beautiful, but she was too thin, and her thick, black braid had streaks of white.
Across from her, a couple sat on a bench with their backs to the door. Neighbors, most likely. Between them and his mother, a young man with his brother’s chestnut hair was sprawled on the floor, as if he lived here. Could this long-limbed fellow, talking in a deep voice, be his “little” brother Niall?
There was no sign of his father or Sìleas, so he would have the easy greetings first.
“Hello Mam!” he called, as he stepped into the hall.
His mother shrieked his name and ran across the room to leap into his arms. He twirled her around before setting her back down.
“Mam, mam, don’t weep.” Her bones felt sharp under his hands as he patted her back to soothe her. “Ye can see I am well.”
“Ye are a wretched son to stay away so long.” She slapped his arm, but she was smiling at him through her tears.
“Auntie Beitris, I know ye missed me, too,” Alex said, as he held his arms out to Ian’s mother.
“And who is this braw man?” Ian said, turning to his brother.
Their mother had lost three babes, all of them girls, before Niall was born, so there was a nine-year gap between Ian and his brother. When Ian left for France, his brother had barely reached his shoulder. Now, at fifteen, Niall stood eye to eye with him.
“Surely, this cannot be my baby brother.” Ian locked his arm around Niall’s neck and rubbed his head with his knuckles, then passed him to Alex, who did the same.
“Look at ye,” Alex said. “I’d wager all the lasses on the island have been after ye, since I wasn’t here to divert them.”
Niall and Alex exchanged a couple of good-natured punches, then Niall caught Ian’s eye and cocked his head. Ian had forgotten all about the couple on the bench, but at his brother’s signal, he turned around to greet them.
The room fell away as Ian stared at the young woman who now stood in the glow of the firelight with her eyes fixed on the floor and her hands clenched before her. Her hair was the most beautiful shade of red he had ever seen. It fell in gleaming waves over her shoulders and breasts and framed a face so lovely it squeezed his heart to look at her.
W
hen she lifted her gaze and met his, the air went out of him. Her eyes were a bright emerald, and they seemed to be asking a question as if her very life depended upon it.
Whatever this lass’s question was, his answer was aye.
Also by Margaret Mallory
All the King’s Men
Knight of Desire
Knight of Pleasure
Knight of Passion
The Return of the Highlanders
The Guardian
The Sinner
The Warrior
Praise for the novels of
Margaret Mallory
The Warrior
“4 ½ stars! Top Pick! Mallory’s Return of the Highlanders series continues in this riveting story with great depth and sensuality. Her vibrant characters are so real readers will feel they are experiencing everything with them… Readers will be completely caught up in the beautifully crafted and compassionate love story.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Margaret Mallory creates magic with her words, and draws the reader into her story from page one.”
—TheReadingReviewer.com
“Margaret Mallory’s Return of the Highlanders series is pure satisfaction guaranteed for Highlander lovers… The Warrior is dark and dangerous with its impassioned couple and remarkable story… [It] is as mighty as it is fierce. This romance is a stand-out, and I’m Joyfully Recommending it!”
—JoyfullyReviewed.com
“An entertaining second chance at love tale… Fans will appreciate this engaging sixteenth century Scottish romance as love heals the mind and soul.”
—GenreGoRoundReviews.blogspot.com
The Sinner
“Sizzling and captivating… Mallory weaves a fine yarn with plenty of spice and thrills.”
The Chieftain Page 31
