by Cathy MacRae
Ranald stepped into the water, paying no heed to the foam leaping around the tops of his boots. The tide was coming in and already the bairn’s feet were wet from the waves surging over the top of her rock. With powerful strides, he approached her, his gaze on hers, willing her to stay put. He held out his hands.
“Wheesht, now, lass. What are ye doing out here all alone?”
The setting sun glinted red-gold fire from her hair as the child dropped her gaze and glanced around her. “I was looking for faerie shells,” she whispered, scarcely loud enough for Ranald to hear her. “They washed away.”
“As will ye, lass, an’ we no’ get ye home.” Ranald beckoned to her with a gentle wave of his hands, urging her to trust him. The child rose slowly to her feet, lifting her sodden gown out of her way.
“I lost my shoes.” She gulped in dismay, pulling her skirt back to reveal her bare feet.
“Ach. Mermaids dinnae need shoes,” Ranald replied with a smile. “Come. Let us get ye home and into some dry clothes. Mayhap we can find ye some wee boots to wear.”
With a solemn nod, the lass lifted her arms to him, and he hoisted her from the rock. Ranald clutched her tight against him, afraid a heavy wave might tear her from his grasp. He felt her shiver, and cold water soaked from her clothes into his. He looked at her and met wide gray eyes staring back. Hoping his own body heat would serve to warm her, he tucked her head beneath his chin and pushed his way through the waves.
Senga and Pol met him at the water’s edge, bouncing happily around him, noses poking against him as he strode back to the horses.
“Get by, ye daft dogs. Ye’ll scare the wee lass.” He glanced down and, to his surprise, the child did not draw back from the huge dogs, but watched them with interest.
Finlay gave a low whistle, his eyebrows raised. “What did ye pull from the sea, Laird?”
“A wee mermaid, I believe.”
Finlay tweaked the child’s bare toes. “I dinnae see her fins.”
The lass grinned, pulling her feet from his grasp as she laid her head against Ranald’s shoulder.
“Does the mermaid have a name?”
“I havenae asked her.” Ranald canted his head at the lass. “What shall we call ye?”
The child twisted a lock of her hair in a grubby fist and glanced from one man to the other. “Me name is Gilda,” she whispered.
“A bonnie name for a bonnie lass,” Ranald told her. “Where does milady Gilda live?”
Gilda cut her gaze to the cottage that butted against the cliffs.
“At the seer’s cottage?”
Gilda gave a slow nod.
Finlay jerked his chin toward the rough-hewn abode. “Is she the auld woman’s daughter?”
Ranald shook his head. “Nae. She’d have to be her granddaughter. I doubt anyone would sire a bairn on the auld hag.” He glanced at Gilda, still clinging tightly to him. “Let’s get ye home.”
He strode across the beach, Finlay, the dogs and horses trailing behind. As they approached the cottage, the door opened and a wizened old woman emerged from within. Torn between anger the child had been left to wander freely about the beach, and a bit of awe of the seer from the well-remembered tongue-lashings of his youth, he stepped before the woman. Sure she’d be happy to see her granddaughter safe, he set Gilda on the ground, a gentle push to her shoulder sending her home.
To his surprise, the child spun around and grasped his leg, clinging with grim tenacity. A hand on the girl’s damp curls, he glanced up at the old woman, even more startled to see the black fury on her weather-beaten face.
“Woe to ye! Long will ye rue the day the auld laird died!”
Chapter 4
The old woman’s shawl flapped wildly about her thin shoulders in the rising wind. Finlay halted next to Ranald.
“I thought ye called her a healer woman, no’ a witch.” His voice was low, his lips barely moving, as though to keep the seer from knowing he spoke.
“She’s harmless.” But Ranald didn’t sound entirely convinced of his own words.
“Hmph. No wonder ye were no’ anxious to return here. I dinnae think she likes ye either.”
Finlay’s words gave Ranald the push he needed. “Dinnae be foolish. She’s only an auld woman.” He took Gilda’s arm and gently pried her from his leg. “Come, lass.”
Gilda turned reluctantly to the old woman. Ranald walked with her to the cottage, bravely facing the defiant glare arcing from the wrinkled, belligerent face.
“Yer lass needs some dry clothes. She got caught on the rocks with the tide coming in.” Ranald frowned, not liking the fact Gilda had been out on the beach alone.
Instantly, the old woman’s countenance softened. “Gilda, a chuisle, hurry inside by the fire, there’s a good lass.” She patted the child’s head as she passed, and Ranald was relieved to see Gilda did not flinch from the woman’s touch. Reaching the door, Gilda flung a last look over her shoulder before she disappeared inside.
“Ye should keep better watch over the wean,” Ranald observed with a frown.
Tavia drew herself up, claiming all five feet of her diminutive height. “Ye will keep yer opinions to yerself, ye wee scunner! Ye ken naught of the people here.”
Ranald sighed with exasperation. “Nae, perhaps no’ yet. But I am laird now, and will see to it all my people are treated well.” He gave her a pointed stare meant to convey his concern over Gilda, the newest and smallest of his responsibilities.
Tavia tossed her head scornfully, her scant gray locks dragging across her shoulders. “Awa’ wi’ ye.”
Ranald turned to leave. He intended to ask Riona about the safety of the lass and her granddam in the ramshackle cottage on the beach, though it had stood for many years, and would, perhaps, last a good many more. He strode back to Finlay and took up his horse’s reins. The auld woman’s last words drifted to him over the sounds of the surf as he and Finlay rode away.
“An’ may ye find cauld comfort if ye dinnae treat Milady right!”
Riona sat at the laird’s table. The hall blazed with the light of hundreds of flickering candles reflecting off the metal shields mounted on the walls. Every seat was filled, the benches groaning with the weight of men awaiting the banquet, the tables piled high with a vast assortment of foods.
Servants filled goblets and mugs, the din mingling with words and laughter rising to the smoke-darkened beams above. Soon, the banquet would begin. But not until the new laird arrived. The chair beside her sat conspicuously empty.
A hush fell over the gathering as Ranald strode through the doors and down the length of the great hall, Finlay a half-step behind. Meeting her gaze evenly, Ranald walked around the table and took the heavily carved chair next to hers. A few minutes late, his dark hair still damp from a recent wash, he appeared very fine in his saffron shirt and kilt. His ornamental sword sparkled with a jeweled hilt, the scabbard glittering with silver-chased runes running its length.
She scarcely heard his words of greeting to the gathered crowd. She wished to be any place but here, listening to any man but him. Absently fingering the scar along her collarbone, she lifted her goblet automatically when the others did, taking a cautious sip until she was certain it had been filled with water, not whisky, as she’d requested.
Her gaze traveled over those gathered, her practiced eye picking out the different tartans scattered around the room. With a start, she recognized the Macraig plaid. How, by Saint Andrew, did the man have the nerve to show up at her father’s funeral banquet? Riona stared at the Macraig laird, scarcely a handful of years older than her, and once her father’s trusted friend.
As though sensing her stare, Laird Macraig glanced up, his curious, golden eyes boring into hers. Riona forced herself to remain calm, though the distance and number of clansmen between them did nothing
to allay the apprehension racing like ice through her veins.
The laird held her gaze for a long minute. Slowly the corners of his lips turned into a tight smile, his eyes narrowed with mockery. He raised his mug a few inches in grim salute and Riona schooled her features into a mask of loathing, seeking desperately to hide the anger clutching within.
It was no use. Her heart raced faster. Even after three years, the sight of the man still disgusted her. Riona set her goblet on the table, her hand trembling so much she nearly knocked it over. With a quick, sidelong glance at Ranald, Riona mumbled unintelligible words in apology and pushed her chair back. She rose to her feet and, turning away, hurried from the room.
When Riona stiffened beside him, Ranald followed her gaze and saw Laird Macraig raise his mug in salute, his gaze pinned to Riona.
Was there history between her and the laird? The thought took him aback, and his eyes followed Riona as she all but overturned her seat in her haste to leave the table. Ranald grabbed her chair before it could crash to the floor and, righting it, shoved it under the table.
“Did something bite the lass?” Finlay asked in an undertone as he leaned close to Ranald, snatching a hunk of bread from a nearby platter.
Ranald considered the question. “Did ye see the Macraig laird looking at her?”
“The pirate?”
“Alleged.”
Finlay shrugged. “Nae. I wasnae looking at him.” He motioned with a vague wave of his hand toward the men sitting to the right of the head table. “I was watching Manus.”
“Manus? What was he doing?”
“Staring at ye like he’d like to stick his dirk in yer back.”
Ranald nodded briefly. “He wishes to be laird.”
“Aye. So does nearly every man here. ‘Tis good ye’ve already announced the king’s position for ye as laird. They will all recognize ye tonight as laird of Scaurness.”
“I hope ye’re right.”
“They wouldnae be here if they weren’t. They’ve all had fair chance to leave.”
With a sigh, Ranald acknowledged Finlay’s words. Unless they plan a mutiny. He surveyed the room, again noting the way the Scott and Macrory soldiers sat in small groups around the room, a buffer between potential rival clansmen. He hoped there would be no need.
He returned his attention to the Macraig laird’s chair. It was empty. He elbowed Finlay, turning the man’s attention from his food to the vacant seat with an abrupt nod. His voice low and urgent, he conveyed his anxiety with just two words, sending Finlay from the room.
“Find Riona.”
Riona’s feet flew down the hall and up the stairway to the parapet. She acknowledged the guard’s questioning look with a brisk nod, and came to a halt against the wall, the cold stone beneath her hands. Staring over the moonlit grass, the night air cooled her heated skin and eased the choking sensation in her chest.
As a child she’d always loved the gathering of clansmen in the great hall. As the laird’s daughter, she’d been allowed at the table during dinner, though the women always took her away before the drinking and storytelling got beyond the proper sensibilities of a young girl.
Five years ago, her father had been approached by one of the men in such a gathering. She had turned fifteen only a few months earlier and Kinnon had left home for glory and the honor of fighting the English in France. She knew her father would someday find someone for her to marry who would strengthen their position at Scaurness. The bloodline to the lairdship had dwindled after her younger brother took her mother with him shortly after his birth.
There was no other close kin, though Ranald and his brother, Laird Scott, were related through her mother’s family. She had begged Kinnon not to leave, but his fate, he told her, was fighting the English.
Riona stared at the pinpricks of reflected stars on the water as it surged against the beach. At fifteen a suitor had asked for her hand, but she had not wanted to wed yet, and there were unsettling rumors about the young man. Her father had refused, and, childishly emboldened by his reaction, Riona had added her own, less than charming rejection. That had been a mistake.
Her eyes drifted to the ramshackle cottage at the base of the cliff, visible only as shadows of irregular shape cast across the moonlit shore. It was late, and none of the inhabitants likely to be awake, but she stared into the darkness, worried about the wee bairn, Gilda, who slept beneath the ancient, worn beams of the seer’s house.
“Milady?”
With a start, Riona turned from the parapet, her hand gripping the stone edge with a panicked hold. Her gaze met Ranald’s captain, Finlay, and while she couldn’t say she was pleased to see him, she was certainly glad he wasn’t Laird Macraig.
“Ye left the room in a hurry. The laird was concerned.” Finlay tilted his head in question. “Are ye well?”
Riona loosened her grip on the wall and turned to face the big man. Concern etched plainly on his face, and she wondered why she’d thought him unsympathetic before. “Aye. ‘Twas a bit close in there, ‘tis all.”
Finlay gave a short nod, indicating the beach below. “We were down there earlier. Is the cottage sound?”
Turning back to the wall, Riona put up a hand to still the wisps of hair drifting about her head in the evening breeze. “The seer’s cottage?”
“Aye. It looks a wee bit worse for wear.”
“It has been standing for many years. ‘Tis tight and warm. She knows to come to the castle if there is a storm.”
“Aye, but . . .”
“Captain!”
Finlay pivoted, hand on the hilt of his dirk. Fergus stopped, well out of range, a cautious eye on the threatening gesture. “Milady, the laird wishes ye both return to the hall. The oath-swearing is about to begin.”
Riona nodded, swearing her own oath beneath her breath and behind gritted teeth.
Ranald caught sight of Riona in the early morning light the next day as she mounted her bay gelding and rode through the castle gate, Fergus at her side like the watchdog he was. They each carried a basket before them, and Ranald imagined them riding into the village to visit pensioners and others who appreciated whatever foodstuffs or other items were contained within. Riona’s arisaid was clasped tight around her, protecting her from the wind.
The morning mists were heavy, the sea chill something he was not accustomed to. Ranald shrugged his shoulders against the raw air and winced. He was not used to this bad of a hangover, either.
The evening had been an ultimate success. Ranald’s lips quirked, the only part of his body this morning that didn’t ache from the lingering effects of too many toasts to the dead laird. There had been a gratifying number of toasts to the new laird, too, though he could argue they were an effort to see him under the table. Defeat without bloodshed, though he’d narrowly escaped that, as well.
Gingerly he made his way to the stables, releasing the hounds for their morning run. Finlay or one of the other men usually took Pol and Senga out before breakfast, but it was unlikely any without duty this morning would be about before the noon meal.
The dogs, happy to be with him in the crisp morning air, bounced about the yard, barking and raising a general ruckus. “Wheesht, ye hairy hounds,” Ranald rasped. “Ye’ll have someone less tolerant than me taking a swipe at ye. Curb yer noise, ye eedjit dogs. And get by! I dinnae want yer muddy feet on my shoulders this morning.”
Abashed at their master’s refusal to join in their play, Pol and Senga ran off to see to their business while Ranald fed Hearn a handful of oats. The stout gelding, his coat burnished copper in the sunlight, snorted gently into Ranald’s palm as he quaffed the last of the grain with a flutter of thick, hairy lips.
Ranald scratched behind the horse’s ears. “Ach, ye know how to treat a poor man who had too much to drink last night, don’t ye,
lad?”
Hearn jerked his head up and down, leaning into the rough caress, and Ranald gave the horse a final pat. “Away with ye, now.” He waved his hand in dismissal. Hearn pretended to shy from the movement before ambling off to graze on the summer grass.
Ranald shifted his attention to the bailey yard where a few men began their morning tasks, their unhurried, careful movements bespeaking of similar excesses. He gave a slow nod to the men he knew, as well as a sharp glance to those he didn’t. It was disconcerting to have so many different clansmen in the castle, but they had offered no real resistance to his position as the new laird, and they would be headed home as soon as they could sit their horses again.
A glance at the parapet reassured him the castle guard was still in place, and, with a whistle to summon the dogs, Ranald retreated into the darkness of the castle to rest his eyes and soothe his head.
Riona rode the narrow track to the seer’s cottage, her horse’s haunches nearly in the dirt as the incline increased. It wasn’t the most comfortable trail to the beach, but it was the fastest, and she had an urgent need to check on the seer and the child. Picking her way across the rocky shore with Fergus close by, Riona’s anticipation grew with every step.
At the turn of the beach, where the tiny house nestled beneath the cliff, she reined to a halt. It was still a short walk down the pebbled path between carefully placed pieces of twisted driftwood. She dropped her basket into a patch of sea grass and slid from her horse, letting Fergus take the reins. A seagull wheeled overhead, a gray silhouette against the pale blue morning sky.
“I’ll bring the baskets,” Fergus assured her. With an absent nod, Riona picked up her skirts and started up the path to the seer’s cottage, ignoring the tiny rocks creeping into her slippers with each step.
A movement at the window, the swish of a parted curtain, caught her attention, and she grinned as a shriek pierced the sound of the lapping water behind her. The door to the cottage burst open and a streak of red-gold hair flashed in the sunlight as Gilda ran from the house, arms flung wide. Her bare feet slapped the ground as she launched herself at Riona.
