by Amanda Scott
Surprised that he had not commanded one of his men to do the rowing, she watched him, noting that he managed easily and with skill.
“I can sail, too,” he said. “I am no carpet knight.”
She smiled, seeing no reason to tell him that she had never taken him for one. Instead, she watched to see what she could learn from him and to enjoy the play of his muscles as he rowed. When their eyes chanced to meet, she blinked and forced herself to concentrate on studying his technique with the oars. She could row a little, too, but one was wise to seek always to improve one’s skills.
The journey to the Dornie shore was brief, and in what seemed to be no time at all, they walked to the place where Kintail kept his horses. To Molly’s astonishment, the horse that the gilly led out for her was her own bay gelding from Dunakin. Happily, she stroked the soft, white blaze on the horse’s face.
“Mackinnon thought you might be happy to see this fellow,” Kintail said, patting the bay on the neck and holding out a lump of sugar for it on his palm.
“Mackinnon brought him over?”
“Aye?”
“Four days ago!”
“Aye.” He said nothing more, watching her.
“Why did you not tell me?”
“The opportunity did not arise,” he said glibly, but she knew it was more than that. He had meant to punish her.
“Are we going to ride?” she asked, to break the sudden tension.
“Aye.”
Without further ado, he gripped her firmly round the waist and lifted her to the saddle.
As she arranged her skirts, she said, “I am glad to see him, sir. Thank you.”
“You need not thank me,” he said, adding with a straight look, “I am pleased to find that you are capable of gratitude, however.”
She bit her lip, knowing that she deserved the censure but disliking it nonetheless. He moved without further comment to the big gray he would ride.
When he had mounted, she noted that four of his men had mounted horses, too. Since they were armed, and since Kintail did not seem the sort of man who would insist upon always having his proper chieftain’s tail in attendance, she concluded that he had not exaggerated their danger, even now.
Once they rode out of the yard, however, she forgot everything except the agreeable caress of the breeze on her face and the familiar smells and sounds of riding in the open air. She was content to let Kintail take the lead and set the pace, happy to be doing what she loved. A niggling little voice at the back of her mind suggested that she was also happy to be riding with Kintail, but she ignored it, and when the same niggling voice suggested that marriage to him might provide many such pleasant moments, she ignored that, too.
He led the way through Dornie village, pausing every few feet to speak to a villager and to introduce her, and Molly’s impatience soon stirred. She wanted to ride. They left the village at last, and she was glad when he let the horses stretch their legs. However, it was not long before he drew rein again in a cottage yard.
Before she could protest at yet more delay, the cottager emerged with a pair of barking dogs and a wobbly toddler, so she found herself smiling instead, acknowledging Kintail’s introduction and the cottager’s polite welcome. Soon the man’s wife and other children joined them to receive their share of attention.
After this scene had repeated itself several times, Molly rebelled, saying, “Do you mean to introduce the whole of Kintail to me in one day, sir?”
“If necessary,” he said. “Mauri packed a dinner for us if we get hungry.”
“But why should it be necessary? Surely I need not meet everyone at once.”
“I thought you should meet the people who will find themselves in Sleat’s path when he comes to collect you,” he said, giving her a direct look.
She glared at him, trying to repress the gory picture his words flashed before her mind’s eye. “That sounds as if you want me to marry you, Kintail, and I know that cannot be the case.”
“I have a duty to protect you,” he retorted. “Moreover, I have a duty to marry suitably and produce an heir, for the sake of my tenants, and Mackinnon makes a persuasive argument for our marriage when he says that Sleat will likely lose interest when he learns that he cannot control you or your fortune.”
“Persuasive only because it points out that you will then control my fortune,” she snapped back, anger making her speak louder than she had intended.
He glanced over his shoulder, then signed to his men riding behind them to fall back a little. When he turned back to her, the look on his face sent a thrill of fear through her and reminded her that she was with Wild Fin.
“Now, you listen to me,” he said grimly. “You may cut up at me all you like in private, but you will keep your voice down when others are about, or I promise, you will not like the consequences.”
“Nor will I like them if you force me to marry you,” she said, trying to sound undaunted but fearing that she sounded only peevish and regretting it if she did.
He took a deep breath. Then, more evenly, he said, “Whilst you remain unwed, your fortune is a prize Sleat can use to bargain, but to do so he must hold you. I’d think you’d want to do all you can to avoid being used that way.”
“But you want the same thing he wants,” she retorted stubbornly.
“That’s not so.”
“It is,” she insisted. “It was Donald’s duty to protect me before it became yours. How do you know he does not believe he will be rescuing me from you?”
His eyes crinkled at the corners, and she saw his lips twitch. He did not share whatever it was that amused him, but she welcomed the near smile.
To her surprise, he said, “What do you want?”
She stared at him in astonishment, for no one had ever asked her that before. Opening her mouth to speak the first words that came to her mind, she shut it again.
“Tell me,” he urged, his voice unusually gentle. “I shan’t eat you simply for answering a question that I asked, even if I don’t like the answer.”
“I did not think that you would,” she replied. “I’m just afraid that you will not understand.”
“Try me.”
“Very well,” she said, adding bluntly, “I want a home.”
He shrugged. “That you will have, regardless of the choice you make. You have a home at Eilean Donan for as long as you like, and another with Mackinnon at Dunakin, should circumstances ever require it. And, whoever you wed—”
“Home is not merely where one keeps one’s clothing,” she said, cutting in before he could continue his useless argument. “I thought Dunsithe was my home when I was small, but in the space of a few midnight minutes, that changed. I do not remember Tantallon, where my uncle kept me for several months after his men snatched me from my bed and carried me away. Nor do I recall much about my time at Dunsgaith before Donald passed me to Mackinnon. The plain fact is that I have not had a home since my father died.”
“Mackinnon gave you a home for nearly a dozen years.”
“But I always knew my stay was temporary, just as I know that Eilean Donan is temporary until you or the King decide I can be more useful elsewhere. Don’t you see?” she pleaded, willing him to understand. Seeing no sign that he did, she added with a sigh, “At least you asked, sir. No one else has done that.”
“I’ll go further yet, mistress. If you want me to send you to Donald, you need only say so. Similarly, if you prefer to marry someone else, I will try to arrange that, if you can persuade me that he will protect you as well as I can.”
“There is no one else!” she snapped, instantly if inexplicably infuriated by what even she recognized as an eminently reasonable suggestion. She did not want him to be reasonable.
“Then there is no impediment,” he replied on a note of satisfaction. “You need simply choose between returning to Sleat or marrying me, and only one of those choices provides what you desire. Eilean Donan will remain your home.”
He made it sound l
ike a matter of practicality, as if nothing else mattered. Perhaps if he were more interested in her than in her fortune, she would feel differently. She pushed that disturbing thought away, however, for such thoughts were a waste of energy. If anything other than her fortune came into it, it was that controlling her when Donald wanted her gave him some sort of satisfaction.
That he could be so casual, so smug and self-satisfied, made her want to hit him with her riding whip, but his men were watching, and she did not want to give them more grist for rumor. Moreover, she knew she could not trust Kintail to react to such a gesture in a gentlemanly fashion, even before such an audience. Thus balked, she did not deign to reply at all.
Fin did not press her, knowing she did not want to return to Sleat’s guardianship. When she did not answer, he was content to ride in silence, indulging himself again in the thought that had nearly made him chuckle earlier, of Sleat rescuing her from him. Had someone told him a week before that he would now be considering marriage of any sort, let alone marriage to the unpredictable Maid of Dunsithe, he would have thought he was the one needing rescue, and the thought that he could possibly need rescuing from any female struck him as funny. Not so funny, however, that he would share the thought with Patrick.
In childhood, his favorite tales had been those about his Viking forebears, men who sailed the wild northern seas in search of booty, adventure, and women. Sitting by the hall fire on cold winter nights, he had listened to his father’s men tell the same tales over and over again. But although he had easily imagined himself such a warrior, carrying off willing ladies by the score, he had never understood the Vikings’ apparent lust for taking the unwilling ones. If in those days, childish pride had made it impossible to imagine any lady unwilling to go with him, his present situation made it plain that such women did exist. Why, then, did he apparently welcome the challenge to make her change her mind?
The errant thought of rescuing Mistress Gordon from Sleat had stirred the old fancies, but the reality spun all such images into absurdity. Despite himself and despite her continued defiance, he knew that he was increasingly attracted to the lass and had grown to like her. Nonetheless, his duty to her remained clear.
She could not protect herself against the likes of Sleat, and unless he could manage somehow to make her understand that she must not defy him, he could not protect her either. Perhaps he had made a small start by letting her know that she might have ridden earlier had she behaved, but he could not be sure she understood that. He could not tell what she was thinking—not now, not ever.
The more he considered his choices, the more he believed that Mackinnon was right. The only sure way to protect her was by marrying her, but that would work only if Sleat reacted as Mackinnon had predicted, and Sleat was an unknown quantity, never predictable.
Fin had spoken with Dougal Maclennan, the priest of Kintail, and Dougal had declared, as expected, that faced with a royal writ of marriage, he had no objection to performing the ceremony, with or without the bride’s consent. Fin remained reluctant, however. The notion of marrying Molly was daily becoming more appealing, but although he had every legal right to command her, he had a strong notion that if he did his life thereafter would be a living hell.
Deciding that it would be best to speak plainly now, he ended the long silence, saying, “I hope you will think carefully on this matter of marriage, mistress, before rejecting it. I have no wish to force you into a union for which you have no taste, but neither will I shirk my duty to protect you.”
“You don’t care about protecting me,” she muttered. “You’d not think twice about that if you could control my fortune without controlling me.”
“I won’t deny that I could use it,” he replied honestly. “But as I’m no more likely to lay hands on it than anyone else, it need not concern either of us now.”
“You will have my land, in any case,” she reminded him. “Aye, and a sore trial that is, whether I control it as guardian or husband, since it lies hundreds of miles from here and is unlikely to move,” he retorted.
Again, she fell silent, and again he let the silence lengthen before he said quietly, “All I ask, Molly, is that you do not dismiss the notion of marriage out of hand but consider carefully the most likely ramifications if you refuse.”
She nodded, and he had to be satisfied with that. By late afternoon, when they returned to Eilean Donan, the clouds had darkened and Fin feared that the gathering storm might prove to be an omen. They had exchanged no more conversation about marriage, so although he had enjoyed the outing more than he had expected to, he could not flatter himself that his arguments had been persuasive.
Molly did think about what he had said, but his introduction to his people made a stronger argument than his words had. At the baron’s court, seeing the sundry persons gathered in the great hall had given her but a small sense of their personalities—save for the man who claimed the fairies made him shoot his neighbor’s cow. But seeing Kintail’s people as she had today, standing in their own yards, surrounded by their wives, their children, and their aged parents, had cast them all in a more personal light. The thought that her presence in their midst could endanger them disturbed her deeply.
Alone after supper in her darkening bedchamber, she told herself that marrying Kintail could make no difference to his people’s safety. Although her presence might endanger them, it was not all that did.
“Donald is determined to reclaim the Lordship of the Isles, and Kintail will do all he can to stop him,” she muttered to the ambient air. “That’s the danger.”
“Aye, it is,” replied the now familiar voice. “But ’tis gey possible that Kintail’s people will fight harder tae defend his lady than they would if they were only tryin’ tae stop Donald from claiming some ancient title for himself.”
Startled, Molly looked around the chamber. “Maggie, where are you?”
“Here, in the corner. If ye’d light a candle and stir them embers into a decent fire, ye might see me. Night be fallin’, and it be brewin’ up tae storm outside.”
In no mood to cater to the little woman’s brusque temperament, Molly said, “The embers’ glow provides light enough for my mood at present. Can you not make yourself visible in the dark?”
“I can, but the effort be greater, and I canna stay visible as long.”
Molly could see her dimly. Stepping nearer, she said, “What should I do?”
“I canna tell ye that,” Maggie said. “Ye must decide for yourself, ye and Kintail, betwixt the pair o’ ye.”
“He does not want to hear what I say,” Molly said with a sigh. “He always thinks he knows what is best.”
“Then make him heed ye,” Maggie said, rather spoiling the effect of her decree by adding, “if ye can.”
Puffing on her pipe, she sent up a cloud of smoke, then kept on puffing gently while Molly tried to think how she could force Kintail to do anything.
“It still seems odd to see smoke billowing from your mouth,” she said at last, “especially when I can barely see you.”
“Aye, but I like it. Now then, did ye speak aloud before only tae hear yourself speak, or did ye ha’ summat ye wished o’ me?”
“Can you grant wishes?”
“I expect I could if I saw good reason and if ye wished for summat that lies within me powers tae grant ye.”
“Then tell me where I can find my fortune,” Molly said. “I canna do that,” Maggie said, smiling ruefully. “I can tell ye, though, that when the right time comes, ye’ll find it.”
“When will be the right time?”
“Ye’ll ken that when ye should.”
“The treasure lies at Dunsithe, does it not?”
“Perhaps.”
“But Dunsithe lies far from here. Will Kintail have any part in finding it?”
“He might,” Maggie said. “He has the gift if he would acknowledge it, and meantime, he has the power tae keep ye safe.”
“What gift does he have?”
Frustrated, feeling as if her head had begun to spin but curious to learn as much as she could about Kintail, she said, “What has his education to do with it?”
“Only that men who leave the land tae live in cities and towns, even for a short time, be apt tae take pride in being free from what they call superstition and tae smile pityingly at them who believe in fairies and their ilk.”
“Kintail does not believe in fairies,” Molly said, remembering his court.
“Aye, men like him develop an unnatural insulation from nature,” Maggie said with a sniff. “A laird wi’ a grand education can make himself believe that he hasna seen what he has seen. Peasants, no being informed that they should ken better, believe what they do see.”
“But I am educated,” Molly reminded her. “Perhaps not so educated as Kintail but more so than most women.”
“Aye, but one doesna ha’ tae be uneducated tae see the good people,” Maggie said. “One need only admit that one sees what one sees.”
“Then I must have the sight, too, for I can see you.”
“Nay, lass,” Maggie said, shaking her head. “Had ye the gift, ye could see me wi’out me having tae expend so much effort. And ye could see the others, too, when they’re about. Kintail, now, he could an he would, but he will not.”
“By heaven, I swear I do not understand you. How could that be?”
But evidently, Maggie’s energy had expired, for she had vanished.
Molly stared at the empty space in the shadows, then walked over and waved her hand around in the dark corner. Only air remained where a moment before Maggie Malloch had sat smoking her pipe.
Outside, a rumble of thunder announced the onset of the storm that had threatened all afternoon, and soon winds howled and rain lashed the castle walls. Molly quickly closed the shutters on the bedchamber window, stirred up the fire, and lit several candles. Then she sat down in front of the cheerful fire to think.
