by Beth Trissel
Her smooth cheek, damp with the wet, nuzzled his and she circled her arms around his neck. Was it four hundred years ago or mere days since he’d last kissed his betrothed on this sacred soil? One kiss they’d shared in the past, of that he was certain. Any more than this eluded him. The thread of his memory disappeared in the haze.
When Neil considered all those lovers through the ages cruelly denied their time together, he wondered that he and Mora had been given a second chance, however slim, to reclaim theirs. All he knew was he loved the woman he held now more than his life. And he would give it for her.
Then it occurred to him that he might have to do just that.
Chapter Twenty
Chest fluttering, near giddy with excitement, Mora journeyed at Neil’s side through the hazy darkness illuminated only by that peculiar torch. Their kiss! No turning away from her this time. He’d claimed her as a devoted lover and soon to be wedded husband.
She still could hardly believe the dizzying wonder of his lips covering hers. What heights she’d soared to those brief moments in his arms. The blessed saints be praised, his heart was entwined with hers, and the memory of the past returning to him, at least in part.
The Hielan night no longer seemed quite so to-the-bone bitter, nor the task before them so forbidding, like scaling a mountain of sheer rock. Not if they undertook this quest together step by step. He’d promised to go with her, hadn’t he? First, they must find shelter. Was it not marvelous Neil had some notion where to seek?
Grasses hoary with frost glinted in the light. Dry leaves whipped past her skirts and flew up into the foggy night. Trees bent by endless wind loomed in the whiteness hugging their boughs as they made their way over the track. The green glow illuminating their path reminded Mora of Banshee eyes. At least, from the tales she’d heard of the hideous creatures.
Where on earth did Fergus come by his magical accoutrements? She’d never seen the like, but had to admit his odd paraphernalia was most welcome.
Without Fergus, Neil might still be struggling to escape the pit.
Terrible image—mayhap falling back down into its rocky depths. Wise Mrs. Fergus had known they would have need of her son, strange though he might be. From the depths of her heart, she thanked that most kind and gracious woman.
Would she ever see Mrs. Fergus again? Mora felt a pang of sadness. In a short time she’d grown attached to the compassionate seer. The dear soul.
Could that lady still help them from such a vast distance? Mora envisioned her peering through one of her multifaceted crystals and following their progress, then shuddered at the accusations of witchcraft that would surely follow.
She hadn’t the least idea if this were possible, or how they would reach the crypt in so few days, let alone join both the new and old Neil together. But at least now she possessed some glimmer of hope. The key hung in the crucifix at her neck, and Neil had the sacred vial in his possession, all-important for the task ahead. They’d not lose these treasured relics. That she vowed, if it took every measure of courage and will she possessed.
They would also require supplies from the castle and a guide. Unless, with the greatest blessing of Providence, Neil recalled the way to the MacDonald land, preferably without chancing upon Red MacDonald, or being overtaken by him. The man was as stealthy as a malignant spirit, the fiend.
At that ominous thought, she pressed tightly to Neil. “No sight or sound of anyone yet,” he said, as if sensing her uneasiness. “Only the wind blowing in our ears, though it could conceal a footfall.”
As she well knew.
The limp in his injured leg grew more pronounced with each step. “Lean on me.” Praying Fergus carried healing unguent in his many pockets, she slid an arm around Neil to lend support.
If he went lame what would they do? He’d need all his strength to meet what lay ahead.
At last, a stone croft, blanketed in mist came into view. The blessed Virgin be praised! She stiffened. Did she smell turf smoke, hear the soft whinny of a horse?
Her heart plummeted. Someone must be there before them. Friend or foe?
Pray God it wasn’t the Red MacDonald!
****
Now what? Neil wondered. More to the point, who?
Perhaps the individual in the croft was simply a weary traveler or hunter seeking refuge for the night, and wouldn’t begrudge them admittance. God help them if that blasted MacDonald lurked within. His head throbbed, and his knee snarled at him. They were all badly in need of rest and a place of refuge to regroup and form their plans before going on to the castle. The last thing he wanted to tackle right now was hand-to-hand combat with a superior swordsman.
Outside of a miracle, he’d lose, particularly as he didn’t even possess a sword. And losing to Red MacDonald meant certain death. But he summoned his fortitude and drew his knife. At least with every moment he spent here, more of the old Niall was returning, including his knowledge of battle skills. But this Neil needed more time.
There might be none.
“Stay behind me,” he whispered in Mora’s ear. A finger at his lips, he motioned to Fergus. Lord only knew what his unique friend might produce from his pockets to serve as a weapon.
Guided by the garish glow, Neil limped silently ahead until Fergus drew up beside him. With a mixture of disbelief and bemusement, he saw Fergus grasped a spork, his favorite spoon fork combination. “You’re kidding, right? Not seriously gonna stab him with that?” His question a mere whisper of sound.
“Think I dropped the pepper spray somewhere in the grass,” Fergus hissed. “And I can’t find that screwdriver set.”
“You’re lethal, you are,” Neil grunted. Clearly, Fergus would be of little use and Mora was unarmed. Even so, she’d likely be of more support than Fergus if the worse came.
“I know karate,” Fergus reminded him.
“From watching Jackie Chan movies. Even the paracord is better than a spork. If you get it around his neck.”
“Fine.” Fergus restored the eating implement and withdrew the orange cord. “Wish I had that Indiana Jones whip.”
“Don’t we all,” Neil said.
Mora fished in the brush and pulled out a stout stick. She could wield it like a rod, Neil supposed, if it came to that. He prayed it didn’t.
Thus armed, Neil out in front, they crept toward the stone walls of the tiny cottage. “The Three Musketeers,” he whispered over his shoulder.
“We still need D’Artagnan,” Fergus pointed out.
“We may need a lot more than that.” Still, Neil wouldn’t say no to assistance from the famed Musketeer if he should happen by. But all they had were themselves.
“If we come under attack, we’ll have to improvise. Fast. Fergus try to trip him up with the paracord. Mora strike whatever you can reach, while I go for the throat.” Admittedly, there was satisfaction in the thought of cutting the throat of the man who’d murdered Mrs. Dannon this way, though success was remote at best.
With Mora and Fergus behind him, Neil looked through the small window encased in a thick wooden sill. The wavy glass was dirty, and he barely made out the solitary figure seated by the hearth. The orange flames played over the slight form draped in an arisaid, a length of it wrapping her head.
“A woman?” he said under his breath—then almost sprang up onto the thatch roof when she turned toward him and beckoned with a pale hand.
“Damn. She knows we’re here.” Not only that, but this was the very woman who’d appeared in his mind at Mrs. Dannon’s viewing. Eerie to say the least.
“She’s not likely to attack us.” His voice was gruff with fatigue and the sudden shock. “You can disarm now.”
He sheathed his knife. Mora laid aside her stick. Fergus stuffed his paracord back in a pocket amongst the jumble.
Still leading the way, Neil limped around to the front of the croft, the cold air laden with the tang of smoke from the chimney. Before he even knocked, the door opened.
The wrapped figure
appeared in the entryway, her arms upraised in welcome. “Niall, ye’ve come to us at last. ‘Tis overjoyed I am to see ye.”
His breath caught in his throat. She sounded like Mrs. Dannon, only with a heavier brogue.
“Mora, lass. Ye must be perishing with the cold. The men are searching high and low for ye,” the woman continued. “Who is yer companion?”
Neil and his companion stood as if rooted to the spot, staring at her shadowed face. Neil couldn’t speak and Fergus had apparently gone mute.
“A dear friend, Fergus,” Mora answered for the trio.
“Then he is most welcome.”
Mora darted forward. “Praise be! Margaret Mackenzie!”
“None other.”
Good heavens. His aunt from 1602. The woman Mrs. Fergus had said would help them. Neil stepped toward her and knew without even seeing her face exactly whom she would resemble.
Mora flung her arms around the neck of this unlikely hostess who heartily embraced her in turn. Then the woman called Margaret MacKenzie turned to Neil and clasped him around the chest. He folded his arms around her in stupefaction. She smelled of turf smoke and the Highlands, of comfort and home.
She beckoned to Fergus standing dumbly behind them. “Get ye inside, the three of ye, and warm yerselves by the hearth.” She gestured them into the snug room.
It was both heartening and surreal to think, in a way, Neil had Mrs. Dannon back. But what would it mean, and how had Margaret MacKenzie known they would be there?
Another psychic?
****
The saying, “in a lifetime there are many lifetimes,” took on a whole new meaning for Neil. Though not one he fully understood, no matter how much he pondered it. This mystery would have stumped Einstein. Even Fergus wasn’t up to speed.
Leaving such mystification to the Divine, Neil concentrated on the practical matter at hand, warding off infection and regaining the full use of his leg. Imperative. He’d not get far without it.
He sat before the hearth and tended to his wound. The scent of a turf fire blended with the pungency of whatever simmered in the black kettle that hung over the blaze. Pants leg rolled up, he cleaned his gashed knee with the alcohol prep pad secreted in Fergus’s sardine can.
“Yeowww,” he winced, eyes watering from the sting.
Fanning his knee, he slid his gaze over the small room. To his modern eye the croft was primitive, what some might call quaint, even charming, though they’d object to the lack of indoor plumbing. To the deeper part of his psyche, its gray stone walls, thick wooden sills and doorway, hand-hewn stools and narrow table, beds built against the wall, bits of crockery in the small press, and animal skins on the hard packed dirt floor seemed comfortably familiar.
Instinctively, he liked this place.
Hadn’t he stayed here many times with his faithful dog, Kiln, even had a hand in keeping the tiny croft in some semblance of readiness for his visits and those of other passersby? Being something of a loner, this remote spot had suited him well. It seemed to him that he’d even preferred the hut over the grand castle, that is, until he’d met Mora.
He shifted his focus to where she sat before the blaze on an equally rustic stool. His heart quickened at finding her gaze turned toward him. The fiery spirit that kindled such admiration, and at times, equal annoyance in him, shone in her eyes.
No other woman he’d looked upon had ever evoked such a rush of emotion, a river coursing to the sea, to her. And no other woman ever would fill him with this enormous surge. For some men, there could only be one. She was all to him.
Despite the seemingly insurmountable odds against them, Neil couldn’t resist a smile and wink at Mora. The answering curve of her lips triggered a heated flood through him. Dear Lord, how he wanted her. But this wasn’t the time or place to act on that seething tide of desire.
Damn. Was it actually hot in here?
The icy draft leaking through chinks in the walls and whistling down the chimney no longer chilled him. Mora still wore her coat. They all retained their outer wraps, but Neil hadn’t any need for his. Only for her.
Tearing his eyes away from Mora, he squirted antibiotic ointment on the deep cut. He’d often done this before, only not to himself. He closed the raw edges of the wound together with a butterfly bandage then covered that with a larger one. “There. That should hold it.”
Aunt Margaret observed the proceedings over his shoulder. “Ye know what yer about, I see. No stitches wanted with that wee dressing. There’s naught like a healing salve fer wounds. The ground berries of hemlock, yarrow root, and opium seeds mixed with lard make a fine unguent. Yet yers will serve, I doubt not.”
Pride in her shining eyes, Mora said, “Neil has much knowledge of healing.”
He basked in her praise but suspected Margaret MacKenzie knew a great deal herself.
“Aye. He does that. And he’ll have need of it.”
With that grim reminder, his aunt ladled the steaming contents of the kettle into a brown stoneware bowl and held it out to Mora.
She took it with evident appreciation, as if greeting an old friend. “I thank ye fer the broth. ’Tis most welcome on such a chill night.” She sipped the hot liquid.
Aunt Margaret nodded. She dished Neil and Fergus a bowl filled to the brim. From his low perch, Fergus took a tentative sip. His eyes widened and this connoisseur of coffee just concealed a grimace, but managed to swallow.
Neil caught the look Fergus gave him.
Their attentive hostess didn’t sit, but hovered by the fire ready to ladle yet more of her brew. Sharp eyes on them, she urged, “Drink up. ’Twill gie ye strength for what lies ahead.”
Neil needed all the strength he could get. He obediently sipped the broth laden with leeks, potent herbs, and Lord only knew what else. His eyes watered, and the pungency assailed his sinuses. It would either empower or fell him.
Hoping for the former effect, he looked up into Aunt Margaret’s kind gaze, so like Mrs. Dannon’s, but with a keen alertness. “Now, tell us how you came to be here. It seems as though we’re expected.”
“Aye.” Still wrapped in her green and blue arisaid, only her expressive face and gesturing hands were visible as she spoke. “M’ sister, Mary, Lord rest her sainted soul, came to me in a dream, jist as real as ye sit before me now.” She shifted her pensive gaze to Mora. “Do ye remember Mary?”
“Nae, but I’m told she was a goodly woman.”
“And a wise one. She spoke of yer coming.”
Mora bent forward. “Did she, now?”
“In m’ dream. And with her foretelling, she uttered the warning that Neil and Mora were in grave danger and to tell no one yet, but journey to this wee croft alone. So convinced was m’ spirit, I stole away on the gray mare this very afternoon to ready fer ye.”
Neil exchanged glances with Mora and Fergus as they absorbed these remarkable tidings. “We are relentlessly pursued by the Red MacDonald.”
Again the sage head nodded, as if she knew this to be true. Nor had she questioned Neil about his altered appearance or American accent. Either she understood him to be a different Neil, or she’d accepted him and Fergus based on her dream. Unless he was mistaken, they had another seer in their midst, guided by yet another such soul from beyond.
Was it possible that her departed sister Mary was somehow linked to Betty Fergus? Mrs. Fergus had said to expect assistance from this quarter. How had she known about Margaret MacKenzie?
Come to think of it, Mrs. Dannon’s first name was Margaret. Only, he never called her that.
No. It was too much.
Neil had no notion how such perception transcended the vastness of four centuries any more than he grasped quantum physics, but made up his mind then and there to put his trust in Aunt Margaret. She had that quality about her which inspired confidence.
He gestured to her. “Please sit with us. We seek your counsel in laying our plans.” He nodded at the door. “We must remain on our guard for any who might co
me tonight.”
Aunt Margaret lowered herself onto a stool. “My mare will alert us if our ears do not. But I think none will molest us.”
The wariness in Fergus and Mora’s eyes reflected Neil’s own caution. “That demon has a way of springing up as if from the very earth.”
Their hostess gazed into the flames with the air of one seeing far beyond their light. “The Red MacDonald is delayed. He lies bound.”
“Where?” Neil asked, voicing his question in unison with the others.
“In a darkened passage.”
Neil jerked on his stool. “Donhowel?”
“Nae. A foreign place I know not.”
“How in the world?” Neil swiveled his gaze at Fergus’s wide-eyed stare. “Did your mom tie up that madman and leave him in the hall?”
He raised and lowered his shoulders. She might have taken a taxi to your house and arrived soon after we left. Knowing Mom, she could have subdued him with mace, or a whack over the head with whatever came to hand. She carries an arsenal in that purse. He might be tied up with a hand painted silk scarf and macramé, or Wrenie’s beadwork.”
Neil shook his head in bemusement. “And she seems so gentle.”
Fergus smiled. “A mother tiger defending her young. But she wouldn’t kill him outright.”
“God’s blood! I would!” Mora erupted.
Neil would have been strongly tempted.
Mora flashed violet eyes at Margaret MacKenzie. “Will he be freed again?”
She nodded. “I fear so.”
How long had Mrs. Fergus, if this was her doing, bought them? Neil wondered. The MacDonald would escape his bonds sooner or later, and he must still face the menace. But not yet.
A growing awareness of what he’d once been and might be again, coupled with the man he was, stirred inside Neil—a glimmer of hope shining in the darkness. They had a chance, however slim. And he was determined to seize it.
“We must journey to MacDonald land before Red MacDonald intercepts us. Reaching the chapel at Domhnall castle is crucial.”
Wise eyes considered him, and his aunt inclined her head. “Yet sae weary ye are. Take yer rest this night. Tomorrow we arise early and go to Donhowel. All ye need fer the trek to the MacDonalds awaits ye there.”
