“No-o-o!” She knocked his hands from her shoulders and spun away, pressing her fist against her lips. “I won’t let you do this. I don’t want to be a memory! I want—”
You want something false.
The truth sliced through him again, cutting him off at the knees and—praise God—giving him the strength to do what honor deemed he must.
Somehow he managed to walk past her to the door. “I’ll have Geordie Dhu test the sea and weather. If the signs are propitious, you can be away on the morrow. Conall will escort you. He—”
“No-o-o! Please.…” Her sob slammed into him, breaking him.
“Someday you will thank me, Arabella.” He spoke before the scalding thickness in his throat made speech impossible. “I wouldn’t send you away otherwise.”
The words spoken, he stepped from the room, closing the door behind him. But the look of horror on her face, her misery, followed him as he lurched away, almost stumbling down the stairs.
At the first landing, he paused to slump against the wall. Hot tears blinded him and he pressed a hand to his mouth, stifling an anguished roar.
He should be feeling gladness.
He’d done right by her. Someday she would thank him.
Darroc pulled a hand down over his face, despair crushing him. Who would ever have thought a man’s honor could bring him so low?
He certainly hadn’t, but now he knew.
Saints pity him.
Chapter Nineteen
How can you do this?”
Arabella regretted the words as soon as she spoke them. She’d vowed to leave with grace. But she’d been searching Darroc’s face ever since she’d stepped onto the boat strand. She’d hoped to see some small flicker of emotion, a shred she could cling to in days to come when she’d wonder if he’d ever truly loved her.
Unfortunately, his expression revealed nothing except a cold stoniness that cut her to the quick.
She stared at him, fearing her knees would buckle any moment, but doing her best to stand tall. “I know you love me. Th-this”—her voice broke—“is madness. Please, I beg you to reconsider. One last time, I’m asking you, pleading—”
“Do not make it worse, lass.” He glanced at the cluster of solemn-faced men a bit farther down the strand, the birlinn so close to the water’s edge, poised for launch. When he looked back at her, his eyes were still shuttered, his jaw tighter than ever. “Conall is returning you to Kintail and the life you deserve. Be well and know that—”
Frang whined beside him. The shaggy beast pressed into him, looking morose.
“Know what?” Arabella’s stomach knotted at the dog’s whimpering, the pitiful way he stared at the wicker basket she clutched in her arms. Frang, too, was losing his heart’s joy this day.
As was Mina, who fretted and howled inside her covered basket.
“I won’t leave until you tell me,” Arabella prompted, starting to feel belligerent. The morning’s brittle air and the dark, freezing mist swirling down the hills and along the strand made her stubborn.
The choppy seas, so cold and forbidding, squeezed at her chest, reminding her she wasn’t as courageous as she was so desperately trying to be.
This was no day to begin a sea journey—despite Geordie Dhu’s assurances.
Icy wind blew her hair into her face, but she hardly noticed. What did such a little thing matter when the man she loved so fiercely was turning his back on her? So she shifted Mina’s basket on her hip and lifted her chin. “What should I know?”
Darroc frowned. “That it is best you forget me.”
Arabella blinked, a sick feeling washing over her. He truly was letting her go. Until this moment, she’d hoped he’d relent. That something unexpected would happen and he’d realize what a terrible mistake he was making.
A grave error every taut line of him said he chose to ignore.
Seeing that finality, she summoned the steel she knew flowed in her veins, even now. “Is that what you want?”
“It is.” His voice was hard.
“Then so be it.” She spoke as a MacKenzie, her tone now as emotionless as his.
He nodded. “It is time, lass. Conall will wish to catch the tide.”
Arabella returned his nod, even managing not to cry out when he strode away from her, making for the men gathered near the birlinn.
She did cast a longing glance at Castle Bane, looking so stern on its cliff above the sea. Drifting mist hid the parapet walk from view, but torchlight flickered in some of the narrow slit windows. For one brief, tempting moment, she almost hitched up her skirts to run back up the steep flight of steps in the cliffside to the door she knew waited at the top of that precarious, stony stair.
Instead, she tightened her grip on Mina’s basket and let her gaze take in every black-glistening fissure in the cliff, each ancient rough-hewn step, and every stone in the castle walls and the harsh, yet oh-so-dear keep. She stared long, not even looking away when her vision began to blur and her eyes stung with hot, blinding tears.
Castle Bane and its rugged, windswept isle had become home and the thought of leaving filled her with a wrenching pain she knew would stain her soul forever.
The thought of leaving Darroc…
“Dear God!” The cry escaped her and she pressed a trembling hand to her lips, hoping he hadn’t heard. But a glance showed he couldn’t have. He was at the birlinn, pacing and shouting orders for its imminent launch, his actions proving he’d already dismissed her.
Only Frang lingered. He sat a few paces away, watching her with great, mournful eyes. His tail lay unmoving on the cold, wet sand and his ears drooped so pathetically that Arabella could scarce bear to look at him.
His whines made her heart contract.
“Oh, Frang!” She blinked hard. She would not board the birlinn crying.
She would go with a raised head and no backward glances.
Or memories that would crush her.
Steeling herself, she lifted a hand to her necklace. The carnelian and rock crystal beaded one Jutta Manslayer had given her. The instant her fingers closed on its round rock crystal pendant, a thousand bittersweet images swept across her mind, each one powerful enough to steal her breath and bring her to her knees.
Tears pricked her eyes again. She couldn’t keep the necklace. Doing so would only intensify the sorrow she knew she wouldn’t be able to fully banish.
Jutta Manslayer would understand.
So she set down Mina’s basket and reached to undo the necklace’s clasp. Then she put back her shoulders and walked over to the only other person on the strand whose face wasn’t set in hard, grim lines.
Mad Moraig stood apart from the rest, wringing her hands as she watched the men slide the birlinn into the water.
“Moraig!” Arabella reached her. “I want you to have this,” she said, fastening the necklace around the old woman’s neck. “A token of thanks for all you’ve done for me and to keep in my memory.”
“Eh?” Moraig glanced at her chest, the Thor’s hammer pendant resting there. When she looked up again, it was to thrust her bristly chin. “I’d no’ be needing baubles to remember you by if you’d stay.”
She peered at Arabella, her blue gaze sharp. “’Tis here with us you be belonging now. Everyone knows it!”
“Not everyone.” Arabella glanced at Darroc. The birlinn was already in the water, Conall holding the steering oar and the giant called Hugh at the gong. “Darroc—”
“Is being an arse as all men tend to be at times!” The old woman glared at him.
“He’s doing what he feels he must. He says his honor—”
“Honor a pig’s eye!” Moraig spat on the sand. “Once you’re gone, he’ll soon see how warm honor keeps him of a night. Then”—she lifted a bent finger, her eyes narrowing—“he’ll be wishing you back. Men always realize what they’ve lost when it’s too late.”
Arabella’s heart pounded on the words. “Oh, Moraig, how I wish that were true.”
&n
bsp; “It is. Dinnae you be forgetting it.” Moraig shot another glance down the beach.
Following her gaze, Arabella saw that the day’s mist appeared to be lightening and the choppy, white-capped waters of the bay were settling. The seas were turning glassy and calm, just as Geordie Dhu had prophesied.
Arabella’s heart sank.
She’d so wished for a tempest.
Now…
Even the weather gods were readying the way for her departure.
And Darroc was heading toward her, clearly intent on escorting her to the birlinn. Honorable to the last, he surely meant to carry her through the surf, setting her dry into the vessel that would bear her away, breaking her heart.
Knowing it would undo her if he touched her again, she threw her arms around Moraig, squeezing her in farewell. Then before tears could spill anew, she spun around and ran back to Mina, snatching up her wicker basket.
Quickly, she raced across the sand, sprinting for the birlinn.
“Arabella—wait!” Darroc shouted behind her, his pounding footsteps almost shaking the strand.
“No.” She didn’t care if he heard.
She did yank up her skirts and plunge into the surf, reaching the birlinn in three splashing strides. A score of hands stretched out to help her board, but she only shoved Mina’s basket at them and leaped into the craft on her own, a feat that amazed even herself.
Then, before anyone could stop her, she seized the baton from Hugh’s hand and banged it hard against the gong. “Away!” she cried, raising her arm in the command she knew would see the oarsmen lowering the sweeps into the water.
Conall blinked, but thrust up his own arm—surely thinking the men might not heed her.
But they did, Hugh beating his gong and chanting loudly, the oarsmen pulling so hard that the birlinn shot forward in a cloud of spray.
On the strand, Darroc cursed.
But as the birlinn flew across the water, Arabella kept her gaze on the mouth of the bay and the open seas beyond. Looking back would do her no good.
Truth be told, it would break her.
*
Two days later, just as the birlinn rounded yet another nameless cluster of jagged, protruding rock and skerries, one of the oarsmen leapt to his feet, pointing.
“Three sails on the horizon!” he called, lifting his voice above the beats of Hugh’s gong and the other men’s steady, rhythmic chanting. “War galleys.”
At once, all heads swiveled, everyone seeing the three galleys swinging round in their direction. Three galleys that flashed forward in style, cutting swiftly across the long, westerly swells, each craft with a proudly rearing stag painted on its single, square-cut sail.
Arabella stared, her heart hammering wildly. She clapped a hand to her breast and squinted, straining her eyes to see better.
It couldn’t be, but it was.
Her father.
She sprang to her feet, grabbing Conall’s arm. “It’s my father! Those are Kintail galleys!”
“Aye.” Conall pulled on the steering oar, causing the birlinn to slue around to face the approaching galleys, now almost upon them. “Raise the sweeps, men! Let’s show them we’re friendly.”
Arabella almost choked at his unconcerned tone.
It wasn’t the MacConachers who’d cause havoc.
It was her father.
She’d spotted him even before the galley glided to a slow, rocking halt. He stood at the prow of the middle galley, staring right at her. Wind whipped his plaid and tore at his raven hair. His hands were fisted on the rail and even at this distance, his knuckles gleamed whitely.
Wishing she hadn’t noticed, Arabella swallowed. But he was her father and she loved him so powerfully that seeing him now, even furious as he appeared, brought hot tears to her eyes and made her tremble. A strange mixture of dread, relief, and joy swept her, making her pulse quicken and her blood roar in her ears.
She dashed a hand across her cheek, not taking her gaze off him.
Never had he looked more magnificent or—her mouth went dry—so utterly terrifying.
“He will have heard of the Merry Dancer.” Conall lowered his voice, speaking only for her. “He’ll be coming to fetch you, is all. You’ve no need to fear him. He’ll be hearing naught o’ Darroc. No’ from us.”
“He’ll know.” Arabella could see in his eyes that he did. “And—I mean to tell him anyway as I’ll not be wed to another. Not ever.”
In her basket, Mina barked.
Arabella bent to soothe her and when she straightened, it was to see her mother and Sir Marmaduke join her father at the bow. Her uncle looked as calm and untroubled as ever, a state that clearly irritated her father for his scowl deepened when Sir Marmaduke leaned close to say something in his ear. But her mother beamed and lifted a hand, her bright, red-gold braids streaming in the wind.
Then, with deliberate flourish, her father’s galley sped forward in a burst of spume, the rowers only backwatering and raising the sweeps in the last seconds before the galley bumped alongside the birlinn.
“MacConacher!” Her father glared across the few feet between them. “I’ve come for my girl. Hand her over lest you wish to lose your life! Truth is”—he gripped his sword hilt meaningfully—“I’m of a mind to take it anyway.”
“Good sir—I greet you! I am Conall, cousin to my chief.” Conall’s tone was courteous. “The MacConacher is not with us. But”—he glanced at Arabella—“he charged us with seeing your daughter safely returned to you in Kintail. We were taking her there now.”
Arabella stepped forward, her chin high. “I am well, Father. These men have shown me naught but kindness. If you’ve heard—”
“I know everything!” Her father shot a dark look at her mother. “All of it. We’ll have words later when we’re—”
“The MacLeans sent a courier to us, dear.” Her mother lifted her voice above the wind. “We came as soon as we could and”—she glanced at her husband, sharply—“I believe your father has more to say to Conall.”
Her father apparently disagreed because he clamped his jaw and said nothing.
Sir Marmaduke sidled closer to him and—Arabella was sure—must’ve tramped on her father’s foot because his eyes suddenly flared with annoyance.
“I—” He blew out a gusty breath, shoved a hand through his hair. “I thank you for rescuing my daughter at sea.” He spoke quickly, his gaze fixed on a spot somewhere just to the left of Conall’s head. “We”—he flashed another heated glance at his wife—“are beholden.”
“And do we not have other thanks?” She lifted a delicate brow, prompting.
Duncan scowled at her. “I’ve said my appreciation.”
“Indeed?” Sir Marmaduke braced a hip against the side of the bow platform and crossed his arms. “What of the MacDonalds?”
“I am no lackey to John of Islay!” Duncan turned crimson. “Clan Donald is well able to spread their tidings without my help.”
“Father!” Arabella gripped the rail. “What tidings?”
“None that concern you,” he snapped, his soured expression saying they did.
Linnet slid an arm around him, but kept her gaze on Arabella. “We encountered a MacDonald galley several days ago. They were John of Islay’s men on their way to Darroc MacConacher and a Norseman named Olaf—”
“Big Nose,” Arabella finished for her, flashing a glance at Conall.
But he only shrugged. “We have no strife with the Lords of the Isles, sir.” He addressed her father. “Or can it be the MacDonalds heard—”
“Of you and your Norse friend banishing the Black Vikings?” Sir Marmaduke smiled at him from where he still leaned against the stern platform.
The smile earned him a scowl from Duncan. “Aye, that was their tidings!” Duncan glowered at Arabella as well. “Now that you’ve heard, I’m fetching you onto this galley and—”
“Duncan, you cannot leave it at that.” Linnet’s voice held reproach.
He splutter
ed, turning a deeper shade of red. “What? Would you have me tell her the rest?”
Her silent stare said yes.
Sir Marmaduke rejoined them at the rail, lending her his support.
Duncan frowned at them both. “Young man,” he began, fixing his scowl on Conall, “John of Islay was pleased by this with the sea raiders. We were told”—he paused, his annoyance palpable—“that he’s sent men to the crown bearing recommendation that Clan MacConacher and the Norseman be duly rewarded.”
Cheers rose from the MacConacher rowing benches.
Conall stared. “Rewarded how, sir? Did anyone say?”
“They spoke of pardons for previous… ills against the realm. And coin.” Duncan made each word sound as if it pained him. “For the Norseman, coin as well and a charter for the island he calls his own.”
The oarsmen went wild.
Mina joined in, barking madly.
Arabella’s heart seemed to stop, then thundered against her ribs. Dear saints, this was everything Darroc had dreamed of. The goal he’d worked toward for years. A lifetime. Forgetting herself, Arabella threw her arms around Conall, hugging him tight.
“Did you hear?” she cried, gladness welling inside her.
“I did, but I can scarce reckon it.” He shook his head, his eyes bright. But then he pulled away from her and smoothed his plaid.
Clearing his throat, he called to her father. “Good sir! These are glad tidings. Will you not return with us to Castle Bane and celebrate? You would be”—he glanced at his men—“most welcome!”
Arabella started to decline, but her father’s booming voice spared her the embarrassment. “Nae, we cannot. We’re heading back to Kintail now, this very hour.”
“But we wish you well.” Linnet smiled at Conall. “Please give our felicitations to your chief. Tell him”—she raised her voice over the wind and Mina’s barking—“he is always welcome at our hearth.”
“I shall, my lady.” Conall inclined his head respectfully.
“Are you ready?” Sir Marmaduke spoke at her elbow.
Arabella started. She hadn’t seen him jump across to the birlinn. And, she saw with equal surprise, Mina’s basket had already been reached over to her father’s galley. One of his men was just lowering it carefully to the deck.
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