Rory MacRain turned puzzled eyes to his wife, but she too seemed to have no reply to offer. “Weel,” her father said, “I’ll see to that right after the raid.”
It was a struggle not to voice her contempt. If men had their way, there’d be no living thing left on the Isle of Skye, but she couldn’t jeopardize the small victory she’d gained. As well, the notion of MacKeegan lying gravely injured or, better still dead, had been sinfully pleasing.
Forcing her knees into a full curtsey she begged leave to break her fast in the hall.
“Aye,” Rory mumbled, sinking back into the chair.
She withdrew, saddened that her father might not return from the Trotternish. Ghalla had so thoroughly divided them, Isabel hadn’t even wished him fare-thee-well.
*
Darroch spent two hectic days preparing ships, men, and armaments for the voyage to the western isles. By evening, he was weary of the back and forth ’twixt castle and docks, but still looked forward to a visit to Kyla’s chamber to kiss her goodnight and tell her a bedtime story.
Adamant Kyla wasn’t his blood kin, his father had at first refused to allow the whore’s spawn to live in the castle. The mop of curls as red as his own and the green eyes were enough to convince Darroch. In defiance of his father’s wishes, he’d provided the child with her own wee chamber, though it wasn’t much more than a cubbyhole. He’d recruited a wet-nurse and installed the grieving grandmother as her nanny.
However, as far as Stewart MacKeegan was concerned, Kyla didn’t exist.
Darroch’s daughter was an innocent victim of her illegitimacy. In a year or two, he planned to find a tutor. She made sounds when she laughed and cried, but refused to speak. He hoped whatever demons held her tongue would one day be banished.
She loved the old tales he recounted of Dun Scaith’s history. Every night, he teased her by pretending to embark on a different story. “Shall I tell ye the saga of the mighty King Malcolm Canmore?” he asked, tucking in the linens.
Eyes twinkling, she gave a hearty shake of red curls.
“Perhaps the history of how Clan Robertson pursued and captured the assassins of King James?”
She sighed with exasperation and rolled her eyes, enjoying the game as much as he.
“Weel then, I suppose ’tis the tale of Cú Chulainn.”
She beamed the smile that never failed to melt his heart. This beautiful child was the result of his youthful wild oats, sown like a rutting boar, without regard for the consequences. He’d barely known her mother, a sweet village lass much too delicate to bring a bairn into the world.
He couldn’t restore Elspeth back to life but had sworn to do his utmost to atone for his selfishness. Since Kyla’s birth he’d lived like a monk. Marrying a MacRain wasn’t the perfect solution but at least the bairn would have had a mother and there’d be an end to his penance.
There was no point dwelling on that lost cause, so he got on with the narrative. “Long ago, the hero Cú Chulainn traveled to Skye from his home across the sea in Ireland.”
Kyla yawned.
“He came to learn the martial arts of war.”
Green eyes drifted closed.
“His teacher was the warrior queen, Sgathaich, who dwelt here in this very castle. She gifted Cú Chulainn with her deadly spear.”
He never included the details of illicit affairs and slain lovers, unsuitable stuff for a wee bairn. Her grandmother had been forbidden to ever recount the part about Cú Chulainn killing his own son by mistake. That was enough to give anybody nightmares.
He paused, thinking she had fallen asleep, but she opened her eyes. He’d left off an important detail and she wasn’t going to let him forget it. “Aye, the faeries built this castle for the warrior queen in one night,” he whispered. “They called it the Fortress of Shadows and protected it with a pit of snakes and beaked toads.”
He wasn’t sure why the notion of beaked toads sent his little lass into a deep sleep every night, but he pecked a kiss on her forehead and whispered, “Sweet dreams, my warrior princess.”
He left to retire to his own chamber, not looking forward to the morrow. He’d have to tell the one person who loved him despite his faults that he was sailing for Ywst.
Unexpected Journeys
Isabel was relieved neither Ghalla nor Tremaine appeared in the hall, but felt conspicuous sitting alone at the head table. However, she’d arrived late for the first meal of the day and the crowd was small. She supposed many of the women were seeing their men off on the raid. They would probably hold her responsible for any mishaps during that escapade to the Trotternish as well.
She slipped off her shoes and rubbed her feet on Blue who waited expectantly under the table. The grunts of satisfaction from her pet helped ease the loneliness and lighten her despair.
The smoked ham Coira brought from the servery tasted peculiar and the crumbly cheese held no appeal. She swallowed a last mouthful and Blue made short work of her leftovers. She had done nothing to be ashamed of and there was no reason to skulk about like a criminal. She stiffened her shoulders and beckoned her maid. “I’m going to ride. Send a message to the stables, then come to the chamber to help me change.”
Striding along the hallway to her apartment, she acknowledged that going for a ride was tantamount to running away. She’d never known Ghalla to venture out of the castle since her arrival, and her son was intimidated by horses, even his own gelding.
She hummed softly, bolstered by the prospect of feeling the wind in her hair, the reins of her beloved Storm in her hands.
“I see ye’ve recovered,” a hated voice snarled.
Blue bared his teeth and growled.
She halted abruptly, seething with renewed discontent at the sight of the pock-faced youth lounging with arms folded, his shoulder leaning against her door. Tremaine’s long, narrow beak prevented him ever being considered handsome. The pox had been the nail in the coffin.
“A MacRain doesna recover from an insult. She makes the best of it and seeks revenge.”
They were brave words, but empty ones. She could do nothing to exact personal revenge on Darroch MacKeegan for the hurt he’d caused. However, she hoped Tremaine heeded the hint of warning.
His beady eyes came to rest on her bosom. “Dinna fash. Ye’ll soon have a real mon as yer husband.”
It was tempting to retort that she would puke if he so much as touched her, but what Tremaine lacked in looks and intelligence, he more than made up for with cruelty. She pasted a fake smile on her face. “As I told yer mother, I canna be pledged to two men. No one has yet proven some dire fate didna befall Darroch MacKeegan en route.”
He narrowed his eyes, evidently confused by the mention of the mother who controlled every move he made, every word he uttered. “And what did she say?” he whined.
Taking advantage of his dithering, she hooked her fingers in Blue’s collar and shoved past him. “Ask her yerself,” she suggested, slamming the door of her chamber in his face.
Heart pounding, she leaned back against the rough wood. The excuse of two betrothals was a flimsy one at best. It wouldn’t stand the test of time, nor Ghalla’s insistent plotting.
The click of Tremaine’s hurried boot heels on stone faded away. Then she heard Coira’s distinctive tap before she entered.
“Ye look like ye’ve seen a ghost,” her maid said, heading for the armoire.
“A harbinger of a dire future, more like.”
Coira retrieved the dove-grey velvet riding habit. Isabel’s spirits rose as the maid helped her don the outfit. The elegant fitted jacket, tailored in a style Ghalla declared much too manly, provided warmth, and the long, copious skirts allowed for riding astride once she was out of sight of the castle. The leather thigh boots, hidden deep in the recesses of the armoire, facilitated this outrageous behavior. The entire ensemble had belonged to her free-spirited mother and she’d made sure it would never fall into Ghalla’s destructive hands. She felt her mother’s presence whenever
she wore it.
Sensing Tremaine might return, she pulled the band of the matching muffin hat down over her forehead while Coira inserted the hatpin, weaving it through the thick braid. “We must hurry.”
They exited the chamber. Her maid acted as lookout all the way to the stables; Blue brought up the rear. Giddy with relief when she found Storm saddled and ready, she boldly mounted astride and rode out with her dog.
She took the slow path through the forest, inhaling the fresh air and enjoying the horse’s snorts of pleasure. “You like being out too, I can tell,” she told him.
Emerging from the trees, she stopped to look across Loch Dungavin at the rocky shoreline of Gairbh Eilein. “Inspiring,” she whispered.
Blue barked his agreement.
Resuming their trek, they climbed the coastal path, passing longhorn cattle grazing on the slopes beneath stubborn windswept trees that clung to the moor, and came eventually to Loch Suardal. She dismounted to throw sticks into the water for Blue, sidestepping when he shook himself vigorously once back on shore. “Ye’re getting my precious outfit wet,” she scolded, knowing the dog was aware her anger was feigned. Storm took a long drink from the burn that fed the loch.
The going got tougher around Loch Corlarach, but her horse was familiar with the path. They’d ridden it together for many a year. He shook his dark head impatiently as they neared the open meadows of Cairlagh and, there, she gave him free rein to gallop to the cliff overlooking the sea. Shaggy-haired cattle lumbered away to avoid them.
Feeling better, she dismounted and let Storm graze while she shaded her eyes against the glare to look across the Little Minch. “There,” she told Blue, pointing to the MacRain holdings of Harris and Lewis on the horizon. “Do ye see Tur Chliamainn? The church was built in the last century near Roghadal as a burial place for MacRain chiefs. I was a wee bairn when Da took me there on a pilgrimage to see the walled tomb of the eighth chief.”
The dog sat on his haunches, listening patiently, but she doubted he understood, so there was no reason to tell him about the tomb’s beautifully carved stonework. “’Tis a treasured memory,” she whispered, stroking Blue’s head, “though he’s likely forgotten it.”
Her gaze drifted further south, to the MacKeegan lands on Ywst, so close to Harris from where she stood it appeared to be one island. Yet it was a world away. They denied it, but ’twas well known the MacKeegans used Loch nam Madadh on Ywst as a base for piracy, raiding ships sailing up and down the Minch, and relieving them of their cargo.
After her experience with the laird’s son, she could believe anything of that cursed clan.
Blue’s howling bark of warning drew her attention to other riders approaching. She looked back to Dungavin, not overly concerned. Tremaine would never venture along the coastal path on horseback. Still, she was relieved to make out her uncle and some of his men galloping towards her.
She hastened to meet him as he dismounted, worried by the grim expression on his face. “I’m pleased to see ye, Uncle.”
He braced himself as her hound landed his front paws on his shoulders. “Aye, weel, ye might change yer mind when I tell ye why I’ve come.”
She gritted her teeth. “What is it?”
He pushed the dog off, rubbing his ears. “I rode with yer father as he set off for the Trotternish. I tried to reason with him concerning Tremaine, but he seems set on wedding ye to the twit.”
She gripped his hand, swaying as hope for the future slipped away. “I dinna have a choice, I suppose.”
He shook his head. “Aye, ye do. I’ll nay see my favorite niece wed to such a poor excuse for a mon. There’s a boat waiting at Trumpan. It’ll carry ye to Harris. I’ve a distant cousin there who’ll shelter ye until yer father comes to his senses.”
Filled with foreboding, she looked again at the Western Isles. “But I have no clothes. Can I nay go to Beaton House?”
“’Tis the first place they’ll look and we must avoid a confrontation.”
She reluctantly accepted he was right. It was of paramount importance Ian be shielded from family strife.
He took her by the elbow. “The tides are with us now and the weather promises a smooth crossing. As ye ken, it can change quickly. Ye have yon dog to protect ye. Come.”
*
Legs braced against the gentle pitch and roll of the ship at dock, Darroch waited impatiently for dawn. A deck beneath his feet was the next best thing to riding Barra. Sleep had proven elusive, but the salt air would soon clear his head.
He’d sailed to Ywst many times, in fair weather and foul. He wished there was more wind on this morning that promised fair. Choppy seas made for a more challenging voyage. It was fanciful but he liked to imagine himself following in the footsteps of his Viking ancestors who’d braved longer and more dangerous journeys than the short haul to Ywst.
Both ships bound for the island were manned by full crews, all heavily armed. Darroch planned to augment his raiding fleet with the vessels docked in Loch nam Madadh’s sheltered bay on Ywst.
A commotion farther up the beach caught his attention just as he was about to give the signal to shove off. Two of his father’s bodyguards were herding Margaret towards the ships. His gut clenched when he saw the woman was struggling to hold on to Kyla’s hand as she stumbled along on the sand.
He jumped off the boat and brandished his sword at the men, who quickly backed off.
“Not our doing, my lord,” one of them shouted as they retreated. “We’re carrying out our chief’s orders.”
He sheathed his weapon and scooped up his daughter, relieved she seemed more angry than weepy. She curled her arms around his neck and jutted out her bottom lip.
His warrior princess.
“What’s going on here?” he asked Margaret.
“The chief insists ye take the bairn with ye,” she replied breathlessly.
“Is he daft? I’m off on a raid.”
“He means for ye to leave her on the island. He threw us out o’ the chamber. Forbade me to return.”
His father’s treachery gripped his gut like an icy fist. Confronting the old man would delay the departure until the morrow’s favorable tide, and there was no guarantee the same thing wouldn’t happen again. He couldn’t protect Kyla when he was away, and his father had banked on it. It became clear why he had refused to lead the raid. “I suppose I’ll have to teck ye with me,” he said, setting his lass down on the shore.
She beamed a smile and marched off toward the boats.
“She’s yer daughter, right enough,” Margaret said. “But ye canna teck a wee lass in a frock on a boat.”
“Some of the crofters on Ywst have little lads,” he replied. “They’ll gladly share clothing. I ken many a crofter’s wife who’ll lavish more care and attention on Kyla than her own grandfather does.”
She sat down wearily on a nearby boulder. “Aye. He’s an angry mon.”
“Stay out of his way. He’ll calm down once we’re gone.”
“I’ll return to the village. When I’ve got my breath back.”
He reached into the pouch fastened to his belt and fished about for coin. “’Tisna much for all ye’ve done.”
She accepted the money and tucked it into her shift. “I willna teck it for lookin’ after my blood kin, but only for food.”
He offered his hand to help her rise. “I thank ye, and I’m sorry for the suffering the MacKeegans have brought to yer door, especially me.”
She depended on his strength as she stood. “Aye, but ye gave me Kyla. I’ll miss her. Ye’d best go. She’s getting impatient.”
They chuckled together at the sight of his daughter standing next to the boat with hands fisted on hips.
“Just like a wee Viking,” he said proudly.
“Aye. Mayhap a voyage to Ywst is what’s needed to loosen her tongue.”
“I pray it might be so.”
The Western Isles
Isabel’s boatman pointed out pilot whales and dolphins en rout
e, but she had to lean close to hear him over the wind. It brought back bittersweet memories of cuddling into her father’s embrace years ago aboard a similar boat as he explained how to identify the different sea creatures. She’d felt safe then. Now, one hand gripped the side of the boat; the other held firmly to Blue’s collar. She avoided looking at the dark, choppy water. Anxiety and fear threatened to choke her.
The hurried ride to Trumpan had disheveled her carefully coiffed hair. The wind and the spray played havoc with it. She peeled waist-length strands from her face, glad of the warmth of the riding habit and boots. She pulled the muffin hat as far down over her ears as possible, but it would have been lost to the wind without the hatpin which clung to the last of the braid. Hopefully, Uncle Boyd was correct that her relatives would provide more suitable clothing on the island.
As the boat neared Harris, Isabel closed her eyes and gave thanks the wee boat hadn’t foundered. She inhaled the salty air, and surrendered to the incessant cries of shorebirds nesting in the dunes. But she didn’t keep them closed long, afraid to miss catching a glimpse of the otters and seals that lived in the coastal waters.
She’d felt elegant setting out earlier for her ride but feared she must look like a bedraggled shipwreck survivor to the grizzled sailor who lifted her off the boat and carried her through the shallows.
Blue launched into the water and loped to the beach where he shook himself vigorously then sniffed the unfamiliar air. She noted the difference too. Dungavin was by the sea, but Harris smelled of peat bogs and standing water.
A small, weathered cart waited on the shore, an ancient dray horse in the traces. She’d been loath to leave Storm behind but Uncle Boyd would make sure he was taken care of. The tall sailor plopped her down roughly on the cart’s wooden seat. “This ’ere’s Lady Isabel,” he shouted over the persistent wind to the hunched figure who held the reins.
Kilted at the Altar Page 3
