by Karen Ranney
“There are numerous occasions in which I’ve been afraid, Iseabal. More than I wish to recall.”
“Yet I’ve never seen you doubt yourself, Alisdair, or seem unsure.”
“Do you wish to see me weakened, Iseabal?” Her tears could accomplish that, he thought.
“You want my thoughts, Alisdair? They are terrible things sometimes, requiring a courage I don’t know that I have.”
“You are as brave as any of the men of the Fortitude, Iseabal,” he assured her gently. “But instead of knowing that, you are acting like a freed bird who still sees the bars of her cage.”
“Then here is the truth, Alisdair. I hate Magnus Drummond. I hate him for making me feel afraid, and I hate myself for being a coward. But I hate him even more for trying to kill you.”
He said nothing as he followed the sound of her voice.
“I can bear the disdain of others, Alisdair; but I don’t want to see you look at me as if you hate me.”
“I wish that I could say I’ve always treated you well, Iseabal,” he said, uncomfortable with that particular truth. “But my anger was never because of your birth.”
“Why did you wish to stay married to me?” she asked, voicing a question he wished she had not posed.
“I could tell you it was your beauty,” he said slowly. “Or,” he continued, laying his palm against the warmth of her cheek, “I could say it was because this marriage was no fault of yours, and I could not punish you for it.” He moved his hand to the back of her neck, fingers burying themselves in the hair at her nape. “Or even that it was the proper thing to do.”
“Was it that?” she asked dispassionately.
“All of that, Iseabal,” he said, suddenly wondering at the true meaning of courage. The words he wished to say were trapped behind a restraint as formidable as Iseabal’s.
Her hands gripped his sleeves as she rested her cheek against his chest. Raising her arms, she linked her hands around his neck, held onto him in a way she’d never done before.
“We are man and wife, Iseabal,” he said. “Partners in life. We must trust one another with our fears and our hopes and our wishes.”
“Do you trust me?” she asked a moment later.
“With my life,” he said easily. “But I want all of you, Iseabal. Your fears, your hurts, your uncertainties. I want your opinions, even your anger. Not coldness.”
Standing on tiptoe, she gave him a quick, lighthearted kiss. But he caught her and held her close, deepening the kiss.
Steadying her chin, he widened his mouth, encompassing hers, touching the edge of her lip with his fingertip.
Her fingers felt for the opening of his shirt, but his hand halted them, raising each one to his mouth to stroke his lips across each knuckle.
Hands smoothed over her back, pressed against her waist, measured the curve of her breasts, as if he’d never before touched her body. The hunger he’d felt for her earlier had been interrupted by his brothers’ arrival. Now it roared to life again in the darkness and privacy of this cave.
He kissed her once more, capturing her breath on a sigh and transmuting it to another sound, one of almost pained need. He wanted this, as his body craved air and food and water. He felt as if he were too slow in his ministrations, too delicate in his touch.
He gripped her suddenly, pulling her up until she could wind her legs around his waist. Slowly, he pressed her to the wall, reaching out with one hand to raise her skirts while bracing the other on the wall beside her.
An object fell to the floor with a heavy metal clang. Another sound immediately followed the first, this a soft, muffled groan of air so plaintive that it seemed like a woman’s wail.
“What was that?” she asked as Alisdair gently lowered her to the floor. Iseabal fluffed her skirts before touching Alisdair’s sleeve.
“I don’t know,” he said, moving to the side. He stretched his arms outward, then down, feeling the way in the blackness of the cave.
His earlier thoughts came to mind as he bent and fumbled on the floor for the object. His fingers traced the filigree design while he smelled the sour odor of pitted silver.
“It’s the MacRae treasure,” he said as his hands felt the lip of a stone shelf. In the Stygian darkness he encountered a variety of objects, their purpose and their design easily determined.
“A treasure?” she asked, her voice sounding amazed.
“A silver tray,” he said, handing the fallen object to her. “Bagpipes,” he added, his fingers moving across the sticky bag of a long-unused set of pipes. “A metal cup with an elaborately carved handle and an initial etched in the pewter.”
Carrying the tankard to the cave’s entrance, he held it out in the faint light.
“R?” Iseabal asked, coming to his side.
“I think it belonged to my great-grandfather,” he said. “Ranulf MacRae.”
“I found a necklace of blue rocks in the ruins one day, but I thought it was the only thing left of Gilmuir.”
He linked his hand with hers and walked back to the shelf. The slate floor beneath his feet was pocked and worn, leaving Alisdair to wonder how many centuries his clan had hidden their wealth here.
What he had originally thought to be dozens of items turned out to be hundreds. Goblets and bowls, dusty fabric, the tight woolen weave beneath his fingers hinting at a tartan pattern. A wooden platter, bowls carved from MacRae trees. All items salvaged from a life lived at Gilmuir.
“Why did they leave all these things behind?” Iseabal asked.
“When they left Scotland with the Raven, they could only take one pack,” he explained.
“So they left the rest here for safekeeping?” she asked wonderingly.
“Yes,” he said, “and here they’ve stayed all this time.”
The day, bright with sun and summer, lured him forward. Gritting his teeth, Fergus obeyed the summons.
His stump was inflamed, the pain constant and irritating. With small steps he’d made the journey, telling himself that Gilmuir was just over the next rise. In such a way he’d come this far, and he wasn’t about to stop now.
He was a MacRae and not a man easily vanquished.
Only a little hill, Fergus. Don’t look at the top, but at your foot and the crutch. Better yet, count the damn sheep. Where once the glens had been green and thick, now there was only a continuous flock of dingy sheep, moving from one hill to another like a great glutted worm.
Counting a beat in his mind, like the swing of his hammer against an anvil, Fergus measured his steps. A hundred and he was nearly halfway to the top. Another hundred or so more and he was there.
The sunlight glittering on the waters of Loch Euliss was a magical sight. So, too, the moment he turned to his right, shielding his eyes.
Gilmuir. He blinked several times, realizing that he was acting the fool. But, idiot or not, he felt his eyes mist over and a yearning fill him.
Where was the English fort? The last time he’d seen his home, the structure had sat so close to the old fortress that it looked to be nudging it over the cliffs. This wasn’t the place of his dreams, Fergus realized. Still a ruin, but teeming with people and activity.
A movement to his left caused him to turn his head. Streaking across the glen was a mirage, a vision given to his willing mind in payment for his efforts. Leah, as she had been so long ago, racing to meet him in their secret spot. Her hair flew out behind her, her body bent over her horse as if she and the animal were one at this moment, flying over the ground with more joy than sense.
Watching her, he was taken back to another time, when he’d waited anxiously for her to join him. Secret lovers and public friends. He’d felt the same back then as he did at this moment, captivated and eager, love lodged so deep in his heart that it would never shake free.
Not a mirage, his mind told him, even as his heart warily acknowledged the truth. Not a vision from his past, but a woman, after all, her destination obviously Gilmuir.
Behind her, just
emerging from the curve of land, was a troop of mounted men. But the twenty or so riders didn’t concern him as much as those who followed on foot, their ranks uneven but their numbers impressive. They, too, were headed for the promontory.
Several questions needed to be answered, Fergus thought, beginning his descent to the glen. The first of them was why Gilmuir was being besieged. The second was the identity of the woman.
Measuring the distance, Fergus ignored his throbbing leg. Instead, he began planning a shorter route, if a more difficult one. As a boy, he’d been familiar with the forests surrounding his home. Now he’d discover how much he remembered.
“The least he could have done was leave our boat,” Brendan complained, sluicing the water from his face. “It was a damn cold swim.”
“I doubt he was thinking of us,” James replied, his attention fixed on the cave paintings around him.
“Ionis’s lady?” Hamish asked, moving to his side. James nodded. “The image of Iseabal.” A tie to Gilmuir more fixed and real than their presence.
“Are you going up, then?” a man asked, threading three strands of rope through his hands. Behind him, a barrel was being fitted with two thick lengths of rope.
“We are,” James said, leading the way up the staircase. The journey was made in silence as they navigated the ropes, pulling themselves up into the priory.
“I’d envisioned it differently,” Brendan remarked, walking across the slate floor and peering through one of the fallen arches into the water below. “Less ruin and more building.”
“I’d be careful if I were you, Brendan,” Hamish cautioned. “You’re standing where the major fell.”
Brendan’s face blanched and he stepped back carefully.
“She’ll be sad to hear of its destruction,” James said, his two brothers turning to look at him as if they’d shared that common thought.
“It’s true,” Hamish agreed. “Our mother does have a fondness for Gilmuir.”
“I’ll not tell her,” Brendan said.
“And I’ll not lie to her, Brendan,” James countered. “Especially since Alisdair has plans to rebuild the old place.”
“Do you think he can?” Hamish asked, looking around him at the ruins of the once great castle.
James began to smile, knowing his brother’s obstinacy. “I do,” he said, striding through the priory and out onto the rocky ground.
There, ahead of her, was the fortress of the MacRaes.
At first Leah thought that her eyes were playing tricks, but then she realized that it was no illusion after all. There weren’t ghosts milling about in Gilmuir’s courtyard, but people. A white canvas shelter stood just beyond the bridge of land linking the promontory to the glen, and still farther, it appeared as if some men were in the process of putting a thatch roof on a long, rectangular building. This was not a scene of despair or mourning, a fact which gave her some measure of hope.
At the land bridge, she slowed and dismounted, walking her horse across to the courtyard.
“Can I be of some assistance, mistress?”
Turning her head, Leah saw a young man with earnest hazel eyes standing in front of her. “The afternoon meal is being served now,” he said, his arm sweeping out to indicate an encampment obviously dedicated to feeding all these people.
“I’ve not come for your food,” she said brusquely, “but to find my daughter.”
“Who might she be?” he asked kindly.
“Iseabal MacRae.”
His face changed in that instant, becoming fixed, his lips narrow and straight. Even his eyes seemed to ice over.
“Drummond’s daughter. And you’re Drummond’s wife?” he asked curtly.
She nodded, familiar enough with expressions of contempt. Drummond’s power came with an unsavory reputation.
“I’m here to deliver a warning,” she said. “My husband is on his way to Gilmuir with a force of men.”
Turning, he signaled to a group and in moments, it seemed, she was being surrounded.
“Why would Drummond be coming here?” a tall young man said, stepping forward. His eyes were the same shade as Alisdair’s, a feature that she hoped marked him as a relative.
“You’re a MacRae?” Leah asked, feeling the tightness in her chest ease when he nodded.
“One reason only,” she said bluntly. “To kill Alisdair.”
“Why should we believe you?” another, shorter man demanded.
“Because of that,” Leah said, half turning in her saddle. Slowly she raised her arm, pointing toward Fernleigh. One by one, they all followed her gaze, contempt and doubt vanishing as they stared.
There, on the horizon, was Drummond, his troop of mounted men and hired soldiers behind him.
Chapter 33
T he inventory of the cave yielded several surprising finds, among them a store of silver objects and a set of porcelain delicately etched with celtic symbols.
“What will you do with all this?” Iseabal asked. She sat beside Alisdair, handing him object after object. Their inspection would have been much better performed in the light of a lantern, but this solemn darkness felt oddly right for this moment. Alisdair could almost feel the members of the MacRae clan march into the opening one by one, as if their shades appeared to claim ownership of their once beloved treasures.
“Send everything back to Nova Scotia with James,” he said. “These items belong to the people who settled there.”
“I wonder what they’ll think, to get their treasures back.”
“I don’t know,” he said, imagining the response. “It will probably make some sad, perhaps bring back memories they don’t want.”
“Or give them happiness,” she suggested, leaning her head against his shoulder.
“Yes,” he agreed, “or give them happiness.”
Iseabal seemed to know how he felt, because she gripped his hand tightly in a silent gesture of comfort. She did that often, speaking words that could not be spoken, transforming them into gestures instead. But this time she spoke, mirroring his thoughts so exactly that he was startled by her prescience.
“I wonder if they will think it a discovery or a burden,” she mused quietly. “Will these treasures bring good memories or sad ones?”
“I cannot choose for them,” he said, entwining his fingers with hers. “All I can do is ensure that all these items return to their owners.”
“I would make the choice to be happy,” she said. “This would be a link to the past,” she continued, releasing her grip to place the tankard in his hand. “It’s how I feel about the window at Fernleigh.”
“The one with the knight,” he said, remembering the one item of beauty in the great hall.
“Yes,” she replied softly. “I could choose to bemoan the fact that our family is not what our ancestor might have wished it to be. Or I can simply take pleasure in the notion that, at one time, the Drummonds were loyal and brave men.”
“Do not judge yourself by your father, Iseabal,” he chided gently. “A man or a woman has no power over his heritage.”
Pressing her hand on his arm, she leaned forward, brushed his cheek with a soft kiss. “Spoken by a man who has nothing but greatness as his legacy,” she teased.
“If I did not?” he asked, suddenly and unwisely curious. “If I had no ties to Gilmuir, or was not a MacRae?”
Instead of answering him, she spoke, her words startling him. “Do you know why I want to carve your face? I want the image of you to always be seen, like Moira’s portrait and Gerald’s miniature. People may not know your name, but they will wonder at your nature, and know somehow that you were a great man, a man of purpose and dreams.”
“You embarrass me with your praise, Iseabal. No man could live up to your expectations.”
“You already have.”
“It’s a tender scene, I’m thinking, but I cannot understand why you choose the darkness for your courting.”
Alisdair turned his head to find a giant in the cave’s entran
ce, his height and breadth nearly obscuring the faint, greenish light. One leg of his breeches was pinned back to the thigh, his leg missing from the knee down. Although he stood balancing on a crutch, there was no doubt of his strength, or his potential danger to both of them. Getting to his feet, Alisdair extended his hand down to Iseabal, helping her to rise.
“Who are you?” he asked, discomfited by being caught off guard.
“It’s a hidden place you’ve found, it’s true, but even a whisper would sound loud to a passerby,” the man said.
As Alisdair reached the opening, the other man flinched, drawing back quickly.
“Who is your mother?” the giant asked unexpectedly.
“Why would you be asking that?” Alisdair replied impatiently.
“Because I’ve a notion we’re no strangers. Would she be Leitis MacRae?”
Alisdair said nothing, only stared at other man.
Iseabal came to his side, placing her hand on his sleeve as she studied the giant in the faint light.
“Very well,” he said, when neither spoke, “I’ll be the first to introduce myself. I’m Fergus MacRae and I’m thinking you’re my nephew.”
“You’re dead,” Iseabal blurted, her words the same Alisdair had been about to use.
“As you can see, I’m not,” Fergus said. “But there was a time when I wished it to be true enough.”
“What color are my mother’s eyes?” Alisdair asked.
“The same blue of your own,” Fergus answered, his smile broadening.
“And her talent?” he asked, wondering if the man was indeed his uncle.
If so, he was as his mother had described him, tall, broad-shouldered, and sporting a head of hair as red as the setting sun. His beard was of the same color, although liberally spiced with gray hairs.
The other man’s smile faded. “I can see why you’d be wanting to know for sure who I am,” he said. “The years have not been trusting ones. Your mother loved her loom. And spent all her time upon it when she could.”
Alisdair nodded.
“And your father? Who might he be?”
“Ian MacRae.”
