And who the fyke was Margaret?
*
Isabel wished there was room to pace in the privy. She was gnawing the very knuckles Darroch had just kissed, as if some solution lay embedded in her skin from his lips. Caught up in the humiliating aftermath of the jilting, she’d never clearly seen what he had immediately recognized. If Ghalla intended her to marry Tremaine, why had she put so much effort into the betrothal arrangements with an enemy clan?
Something stank to high heaven.
She chuckled. The privy was the perfect place for such an epiphany. The resentments weighing her down should be heaped on her stepmother, not Darroch.
Uncle Boyd would help ferret out the truth. Perhaps he had already embarked on an investigation, but she had no notion where he might be.
It wouldn’t take much to convince Fanny of Ghalla’s possible treachery, but what could an auld woman do?
Hammond and the other men who dwelt in this isolated corner of Harris were simple crofters with no influence.
Her father was probably still in the Trotternish and, in any case, would never believe a word uttered against his wife. Tears welled as she pondered again what power allowed Ghalla to hold Rory MacRain completely in her thrall. The man was besotted.
Just as she herself was with Darroch MacKeegan, no matter that she should hate him. Or was he the one person who could help her get to the bottom of why he’d jilted her?
Perhaps it was time to jog his memory.
She hurried out of the privy and down the hill, frustrated when she discovered Darroch was no longer sitting on the bench. She stormed into the croft and glared at Fanny. “Where is he?”
Stretched out under the loom, Blue opened one eye.
Her cousin kept the spinning wheel going and didn’t even glance her way. “I dinna ken. He left with ye.”
“’Tis time to confront him,” Isabel shouted over the irritating whirr of the wheel.
“If ye think so,” came the reply.
Blue went back to dozing.
“Aye,” Isabel insisted, though Fanny had sown a seed of doubt.
“Will ye give him a chance to explain?”
“Explain what? He jilted me. That’s all there is to it.”
“If ye’re certain, then, go ahead.”
Isabel didn’t want to argue with her protector, but what was the woman trying to say? “Ye believe a mon might have a good reason for humiliating a woman?”
Fanny stopped spinning and looked her in the eye. “In my experience, lassie, there’s often two sides to any story. Have ye stopped to wonder why MacKeegan came raiding MacRain lands?”
Isabel clenched her fists, too distraught to think. Instead she spluttered, “Aaargh.”
Blue was quickly on his feet, howling.
Desperate to be back in the fresh air where she might be better able to think, Isabel nigh on flew up the steps and out the door. Her dog followed, but she didn’t want any distractions when she found Darroch. “Keep him here,” she shouted over her shoulder, relieved to see Fanny had also come outside.
She followed her cousin’s gaze up the hill. Darroch stood near the top looking down. It was now or never.
*
More confused than ever by Isabel’s flight, Darroch made his way to the back door where he greeted the faithful Cù and let the sheep out into the dog’s care. He noticed one or two ewes with swollen udders—not long to lambing time. Evidently that was something else he was familiar with.
He climbed the hill behind the croft, irritated that a thin strip of linen tied around his neck and wrist still kept one arm immobile. “Some chieftain,” he muttered, wiggling his fingers to ward off the tingling numbness.
Sweating despite the early morning chill, he sat down on a rock. He resisted the urge to call out to Isabel when she exited the privy a few minutes later and hurried down to the croft, Blue not far behind.
The woman was a mystery, and he sorrowed for the predicament her stepmother had brought about. Battling a pigheaded father was something he could understand.
The world seemed to tilt and he was glad he was sitting down. Was he at odds with his father?
Inhaling deeply, he looked left to the squat tower of Tur Chliamainn then south to the island Fanny said was called Ywst. The narrow strip of water between the islands shimmered like liquid gold as the sun rose higher in the sky. The auld woman was right—he’d been there—but it wasn’t the island that pulled him. Someone he cared about was on Ywst, calling him.
He closed his eyes, desperately seeking the answer. Was it Margaret?
He gritted his teeth. The name still meant nothing.
Surely if he was married to a lass on Ywst she would fill his thoughts, as Isabel did. But apparently, his home was on Skye. Was that where his father lived?
He needed answers. Resolved to confront the women in the croft below, he clenched his jaw and got to his feet, just as Isabel came round the corner of the cottage, Fanny and Blue in pursuit. Judging by the scowls on both women’s faces, they’d been arguing, but Isabel seemed determined to outpace her relative.
The auld woman looked up and stopped abruptly when she saw him. Shaking her head, she retreated to the croft, pulling a whining Blue with her. A pulse thudded in his ears as Isabel continued to climb towards him. Clearly, he was the subject of the argument and Isabel too had reached a decision.
Hobby Horse
Intent on her mission, it took Isabel a few moments to hear agitated shouts. Short of breath, she paused and looked down the valley. Two men she didn’t recognize were hurrying towards Fanny’s croft.
Her cousin evidently heard the noise and came out. Barking loudly, Blue bolted to confront the strangers.
Isabel turned back to call off her hound. Fanny obviously knew the newcomers and didn’t perceive them as a threat.
Darroch had also become aware of the commotion and set off down the hill. They reached the croft at the same time as the islanders. One drew a dagger and brandished it at Darroch. “’Tis yer fault, stinking MacKeegan.”
Isabel’s heart raced when Darroch braced his legs but didn’t flinch. One-handed and unarmed, he stood little chance against the blade, yet he faced the threat like a brave warrior, not a coward. But jilting a woman at the altar was a cowardly act, wasn’t it?
The assailant’s companion took hold of his wrist. “There’ll be time enough for revenge when Fanny’s tended yer bairn.”
“Put up yer weapon, Dougal,” Fanny demanded. “Ye’ll nay kill an unarmed mon with only the one hand to defend himself. What’s amiss?”
“My wee lass,” Dougal explained hoarsely. “She ventured into our burned-out croft and crawled ’neath the broken loom. One of the last beams fell and her leg’s bleeding, but she’s trapped under the wreckage and we canna…” He swallowed hard, scarcely able to speak. “There’s too much blood, and she’s screaming…”
“Isabel, come,” Fanny ordered, already heading inside. “Help me find what we need.”
Isabel dithered when Darroch suddenly set off at a run down the valley; Dougal took off in pursuit.
“Dinna worry,” Fanny admonished. “He can take care of himself.”
Guilt tightened Isabel’s throat. Her first concern had been for Darroch, when it should have been for the clansman who’d lost his home and whose bairn had been seriously injured.
Confused by conflicting emotions, she entered the croft. The second islander followed.
“What possessed the lass to enter the ruin, Andrew?” Fanny asked, as she gathered salves and jars and linens and thrust them into the arms of her helpers.
“She’s a mind of her own, that one,” Andrew replied.
“Ah, ye’re speaking of Rowena,” Fanny said.
Andrew nodded. “Her father warned her to stay away, but she kept mithering about finding her hobby horse.”
Surprised that a little girl would be brave enough to venture into a burned-out cottage, Isabel stuffed the ointments and supplies into a wic
ker basket Fanny gave her. “She wanted to retrieve a toy?”
“Like I said, she’s a stubborn lass,” he replied, taking the basket. “I’ll carry it. We must hurry.”
*
Darroch managed to stay on his feet on the gravel path, though running with one hand tied to his neck wasn’t easy. He tried to keep his injured elbow tucked against his body, but it was often necessary to use the arm for balance. The notion of a bairn lying gravely hurt and in pain bothered him intensely. If he was responsible in some way…
Dougal kept to the wet grass and soon outpaced him, seemingly willing to defer his promised retribution. He ran into the doorway of the burned-out dwelling and disappeared inside.
The extent of the devastation took Darroch aback. The walls still stood, but the roof was gone. It was difficult to comprehend why he—or anyone—would want to wreak such destruction on a crofter’s family.
A crowd had gathered outside to console a woman who was on her knees, keening loudly. He assumed this was the bairn’s mother, and supposed he shouldn’t be surprised when she scrambled to her feet, gesturing wildly. “Get away,” she shrieked, “ye’ve kilt my Rowena.”
Darroch didn’t remember who he was, but the accusation he was a killer of wee bairns didn’t sit well in his gut. He strode past the scowling women and peered in the doorway. Dougal and two other men were straining to lift the fallen beam off the wrecked loom. He’d expected screams, but the lass had fallen strangely silent.
Her face was too pale.
Blood oozed through cloth wadded around her wounded leg, barely visible in the tangle of wood.
If they didn’t get her out soon…
He strode into the ruin and hunkered down to curl his good arm around the end of the beam. From somewhere he found the strength to straighten his legs and lift—he couldn’t let the child die. To his relief, the beam shifted as his shoulder took the weight.
“Pull her out,” somebody yelled.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dougal stride out of the croft with his daughter cradled in his arms. Darroch and the others hefted the beam and jumped aside. Clouds of choking grey dust filled the air. Coughing, his eyes watering, Darroch staggered about, disoriented. He tripped over something, chuckling when he realized a hobby horse with a broken handle had almost caused him to fall. He levered it out of the ashes, thinking it might console the bairn. Gulping fresh air when he finally located the door, he was mightily relieved to see Isabel kneeling on the ground by the bairn, helping Fanny staunch the bleeding.
He didn’t understand why, but the notion of a wee lass dying was like a dagger to the heart.
*
Isabel entered a silent world where all that existed was Fanny’s softly spoken words of reassurance to Rowena’s parents and to the bairn herself, interspersed with whispered instructions to Isabel regarding the tourniquet. “Be ready to twist the stick when the ‘wee dagger’ comes out.”
She prayed for the strength not to faint dead away when blood gushed from the wound after the long wooden splinter was pulled out. She held fast to the stick attached to the rags tied around the leg and twisted to keep the tourniquet tight.
The bairn’s pitiful cry of pain came as a relief to her sobbing mother, who stroked her daughter’s hair and cooed endearments when she opened her eyes.
“The color’s back in her cheeks,” Fanny observed with satisfaction as she poked about for slivers that might have remained stuck in the wound. “I dinna think the leg is broken.”
Gripping the stick, Isabel paid scant attention to what Fanny did after that. Amid the voices raised in relief she became aware of only one man. Smeared with soot from head to toe and holding a broken hobby horse, Darroch’s gaze was pinned on the bairn. His broad smile when it seemed she would recover touched Isabel’s heart. He looked vulnerable.
Was he simply relieved Dougal might not now seek revenge, or was it something else—some emotion she would never have attributed to the varlet who’d jilted her? He cared about a bairn he didn’t even know.
Suddenly, Dougal got to his feet and eased the toy from Darroch’s grip. “I thank ye,” he muttered. “’Twas yer strength made the difference. I’ll mend it. Did ye ken ’tis the reason she went in there?”
Who is Kyla?
Satisfied the bairn would survive, Darroch felt an urgent need to be gone from the scene of the devastation. Dougal might be grateful now, but the general mood of the folk around him wasn’t welcoming.
Brushing soot from his clothing as best he could, he climbed the steep path to Fanny’s croft slowly, trying to come to grips with the emotions that had compelled him to help lift the beam. Perhaps it was simply guilt that had prompted his actions, though he still couldn’t comprehend why he’d set fire to a dwelling and risked lives. However, genuine relief had swept over him when it seemed the bairn would live.
Did he have sons and daughters of his own? That would also mean he had a wife, yet, try as he might, he failed to conjure any memory of such a woman.
He climbed to the top of the hill behind the privy and looked out at Ywst, more convinced than ever that the answers lay there. There was no choice but to hatch a plan of escape.
*
Isabel kept her gaze fixed on the well-worn track as she climbed to the knoll where Darroch stood. If she looked up at him she’d lose her nerve. Her legs were on fire, her lungs bursting, but it was vital to be rid of the lead weight pressing on her heart.
Despite her determination to believe him an uncaring brute, he kept proving those assumptions wrong.
He had to explain why he’d jilted her, but how could he if he didn’t know who he was? She began to feel lightheaded…it was all too complicated.
She didn’t realize he had started towards her until he grasped her hand.
“Steady,” he said.
Steady…yes! Steady her nerves. Gulping air, she clung to his hand with both of hers lest she tumble back down the hill. Then she made the mistake of looking into his emerald eyes, and every coherent thought fled.
She wanted to scream, to sob, to hurl accusations, to beg for an explanation as she brushed soot from his face. Her trembling knees threatened to buckle. Her belly was in knots.
“Ye’re upset,” he said hoarsely, putting his good arm around her shoulders and gathering her to his solid body.
Trust a mon to state the obvious.
She leaned into him and summoned the strength to spew out her anger, her resentment, her confusion. But in the end, it was jealousy that loosened her tongue. “Who is Kyla?” she wailed.
*
Though there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, Darroch was struck by lightning. Pain lanced into his head, blinding him with its intensity. He clung to Isabel like a drowning man, endangering them both, yet unable to let go.
He heard her cry of panic, but couldn’t stop the tremor racking his body. His knees gave way and he fell to the ground, bringing Isabel with him. Words spun in his head, but they refused to emerge from his mouth. He babbled, tossing his head like a demented lunatic in the throes of a fit.
Then he became aware of a lifeline. Isabel had clasped his hand to her breast and was stroking his forehead, murmuring something he couldn’t quite understand.
Slowly the pain receded, his breathing steadied. His jumbled thoughts cleared. He sat up and looked across at Ywst. “I am Darroch, son of Stewart MacKeegan, chief o’ the clan.”
He inhaled deeply as a beloved face appeared clearly in his memory. “Kyla is my wee lass. She’s waiting for me on Ywst.”
As clouds rolled in off the Little Minch, he turned his gaze on the pale-faced woman who still held his hand to her heaving breast. He knew now why he’d come to Harris. The humiliating memory washed over him, choking any feelings he might have had for her. “And ye are Isabel MacRain, the feckless bitch who abandoned me at the altar and broke my daughter’s heart.”
A Grave Misunderstanding
Bruised and shivering as a chilly wind swept over
the moor, Isabel watched Darroch hurry away to the croft.
His daughter?
He had a child?
So much for worrying that Kyla was his wife!
Wait!
What pernicious lie had he uttered just before he left?
Perhaps she was the one who’d lost her memory. He’d accused her of…
No no no no no!
As the first drops of rain fell, she scrambled to her feet. “Ye put on a good show of suddenly regaining yer memory,” she shouted into the wind, “but I’m wise to yer ploy.”
The drizzle became a downpour. She slipped and slid on the wet grass, grazing her hands on rocky outcroppings as she made her way down the incline. Fury stiffened her backbone, helping her stay upright.
Breathless, she burst through the door of the croft and flew down the steps, rain dripping from her nose and hair.
Blue barked and ran to greet her.
Darroch was washing his face at the pump, his back to the door, but he turned and scowled. How dare he look at her as if she was the guilty one? Blinking away raindrops from her eyelashes, she thrust out her chin, yanked the hatpin from his plaid and poked him in the chest. “Ye think to lay the blame at my door, when ’twas ye jilted me?” she yelled.
Evidently sensing Isabel’s agitation, Blue bared his teeth at Darroch.
The arrogant man smirked, rolled his infuriating eyes and shoved aside her hand. “That would be why I waited for hours at the church door in Sleat then had to walk the gauntlet of snickering clansmen and ride home to break the news to my daughter that the mother I’d promised wasna coming.”
Blue looked up at her.
“Hah,” she retorted, hands on hips. “Ye think that compares to the humiliation of my stepmother’s gloating glee when ye didna turn up in Dungavin as agreed?”
Blue looked back at Darroch as he gestured wildly with his free hand, his face reddening. “And do ye suppose my cursed father cared a whit about my predicament?”
She dug a finger into her own chest. “Weel, my father thought he was the one who’d been insulted.”
Kilted at the Altar (Clash of the Tartans Book 2) Page 9
