They stopped to glare at each other, jaws clenched.
Isabel was determined not to cry, but frustration mounted when Fanny chuckled. “’Tis akin to watching a game o’ tennis. Did either o’ ye hear a word the other said?”
Isabel gritted her teeth, sorely tempted to retort that a crofter who lived on Harris could never have witnessed a game only kings and nobles played, but…
She frowned. Had she heard correctly? “Ye were waiting in Sleat?”
He raked his hand through his hair and let out a slow breath. “Aye. But apparently ye were waiting in Dungavin.”
They stared at each other for what seemed like long minutes, the silence broken only by the sound of rain pelting the thatch. Then a wail Isabel couldn’t control welled up from her throat and the pent-up tears finally flowed.
Darroch shook his head and gathered her to his body. Blue whined and tried to insinuate himself between their legs, evidently happy to be part of the reconciliation.
“I dinna understand how such a grave misunderstanding could come about,” Darroch whispered.
Fanny snorted. “I’ll give ye one guess.”
*
Drowning in a maelstrom of conflicting emotions, Darroch absently sifted his fingers through Isabel’s hair, finding unexpected consolation in her wrenching sobs.
“Ye’re wet,” was all he could manage, though a thousand thoughts struggled to be free.
Had his father been so determined to destroy Kyla’s future that he’d betrayed his only son?
Or, perhaps, he was the one at fault. He hadn’t bothered to read the betrothal documents, relying on the lengthy explanations put forth by the emissaries. He’d only half-listened. It wouldn’t do to show too much enthusiasm for marrying a MacRain. But he was certain it had been agreed the festivities would take place in Dun Scaith.
Isabel hiccupped, choking back her tears. “I didna pay attention to the betrothal papers,” she admitted. “Ghalla said the wedding was to take place at Dungavin and I ne’er thought otherwise. I was too busy complaining I didna want to marry a mon not of my choosing.”
He lifted the wet plaid from her shoulders and drew her to the hearth. “I did hear something o’ the sort,” he teased.
Fanny placed a wooden chair near the stones. He nodded his thanks and drew Isabel onto his lap, grateful when the auld woman produced a pair of shears, cupped his elbow and snipped the linen sling.
Apparently satisfied all was well, Blue crawled beneath the loom.
Darroch flexed his fingers and carefully put the injured arm around Isabel’s waist, relieved it seemed to be functioning properly. “I feel I’ve got my life back, and my arm,” he quipped, feigning hurt where she’d prodded him with the hatpin. “I’ve ached to hold ye like this since the first time I saw ye brandishing the wee sword.”
“I wanted to hate ye,” she sniffled, “but I couldna.”
“Can a mon have hope then?” he asked. “I meant what I said about taking ye to wife.”
He was pleased to see color return to her pale face when she blushed. “But ye have a daughter. What happened to yer first wife?”
His spirits fell. “Kyla is a natural-born bairn. I confess I was a selfish rutting fool in my youth. Her mother died in childbirth.”
His hopes rose again when she took his hand. “But ye didna abandon the lass?”
He shook his head. “My father tried to force me to, but she’s my flesh and blood.”
She meshed her fingers with his. “Ye made the nobler decision. I’m sure yer sire acknowledges that now.”
It was a painful subject, and one he wasn’t ready to broach. “We’ll talk o’ this later, when ye’re out o’ these wet clothes. Perhaps, we’ll see Lady Isabel MacRain’s enticing riding outfit again?”
She smiled and raised his hand to her lips. Rivers of heat spiraled through his body when she kissed his palm and touched her tongue to his skin. She frowned at the curious stain.
“I remember now,” he admitted reluctantly. “I crushed the sprig of juniper I was wearing in yer honor. It marked me. Perhaps it was a sign!”
Her brown eyes twinkled. “I did the same with the heather pinned to my plaid,” she confessed. “Tore it apart.”
They shared a smile, but then he sobered. “Somebody will pay for the pain they’ve caused.”
Fanny threw her hands in the air. “And I hope by now ye twitterin’ lovebirds have deduced who it is.”
*
“Ghalla,” Isabel murmured as she got to her feet, scarcely believing her stepmother could have plotted and carried out such a scheme.
“Believe it,” Fanny said, once again reading her thoughts. “She’ll stop at naught to make sure Tremaine becomes chief o’ the clan. Saints protect us if that ever comes about. I warned Boyd from the start when she threw herself at yer father. Too much of a coincidence. Yer poor mam dead only a fortnight and suddenly there’s Ghalla, all solicitous and making a fuss of a bereaved mon, soothing him with her potions.”
Isabel shivered and clutched the back of the chair. “’Twas my fault. I was so stricken with grief I paid no mind to my father’s sorrow, and couldn’t bring myself to look to the babe who’d stolen my mother. I ne’er even questioned where Ghalla appeared from. I thought for a while she was a distant relative. And my father did seem to recover under her care.”
A dark thought wound its errant way into the back of her mind. Ghalla and her potions…
“She’s a witch if ye ask me,” Fanny declared.
Blue growled in his sleep.
“Ye canna blame yerself,” Darroch said, taking Isabel in his arms once more. “Now change into dry clothes or ye’ll fall sick, and we’ve a revenge to plot.”
Wreaking vengeance on the woman who had taken complete control of Rory MacRain and Dungavin seemed an impossible task, but Darroch’s words gave her strength. “’Twill be hard to convince my father of her guilt.”
“But we will,” he assured her. “I’ll make myself scarce while ye undress.”
Fanny chuckled. “Wait two minutes for the rain to stop.”
“How do ye ken that?” Isabel asked.
Darroch kissed her nose. “She’s an islander. She feels it in her bones.”
Fanny slapped him on the back. “Aye, ye’ll do, laddie, ye’ll do just fine.”
He smiled, started up the steps, and opened the door. “Fair weather isna the only thing on the horizon,” he said with a frown. “There’s a stranger approaching with Hammond and Innes.”
Visitors
Darroch stepped out of the croft, straightened his plaid and folded his arms across his chest as he watched the three visitors approach. Hammond’s bearded face normally betrayed nothing of his emotions, but a frown creased his brow as he eyed his patient. “I thank ye for helping Dougal,” he said gruffly. “I see ye’ve done away with the sling.”
Darroch was certain there was more to the auld man’s agitation, but he’d learn soon enough what it was. He demonstrated he was able to move all his fingers. “Aye. Fanny and I agreed ’twas time. I thank ye for tending my injury.”
“Ye’ll still have to take care,” Hammond mumbled with a sideways glance at the newcomer. “This mon’s a friend of Fanny’s. He’s come from Skye with a message for Isabel.”
“Ye canna enter just yet,” he replied. “My betrothed is changing.”
He’d spent a goodly portion of his life in the Western Isles and knew it was nigh on impossible to provoke any facial reaction from the hardy folk who dwelt there. A piece of dire news might shake them to their bones, but they would never show it.
To his surprise, a slight tic seized Hammond’s right eye, Innes coughed, and the stranger took off his hat and scratched his bald head.
Darroch resisted the temptation to chuckle. “As ye’ve guessed, I’ve regained my memory, and Lady Isabel and I have discovered that our marriage was thwarted by the scheming of Ghalla MacRain.”
“’Tis true,” Fanny hollered from inside
. “Ye can come in now.”
He stepped aside to allow the men to enter. Hammond hung back. “When ye’ve heard the news from Skye,” the bonesetter said hoarsely, “ye might want to come down to the dock and reassure the MacKeegans anchored out in the bay that we’ve nay kilt ye.”
*
The croft was suddenly overcrowded and hot, but Isabel appreciated Darroch’s reassuring smile as he raked his gaze over her riding habit.
The noise and confusion woke Blue who then ambled around sniffing the visitors.
Isabel didn’t at first recognize the sailor who’d brought her to Harris. He’d worn his cap then. “Is there news from Uncle Boyd?” she asked.
He scraped fingernails through his scruffy beard. “Aye.”
Darroch looked to the rafters.
“Get on with it then,” Fanny urged.
The sailor pulled his cap back on. “Yer father was wounded during the raid on the Trotternish.”
The breath whooshed from Isabel’s lungs, her knees trembled.
Darroch folded his arms and glared. “He attacked MacKeegan crofts on the peninsula?”
Hammond snorted. “Whereas yer clan just sat idly lickin’ yer wounds in Sleat, hence yer presence here.”
Impatience and dread tugged at Isabel, though she was afraid to ask as to the nature of her sire’s injury. “Ne’er mind all that now. Was he gravely wounded?”
The sailor shrugged. “He made it back to Dungavin under his own steam, but seems to have worsened since arriving home.”
A minor wound often turned into a death sentence, yet…
“Yer uncle is worried that Ghalla willna allow anyone else to tend him.”
“We must return to Dungavin at once,” she declared.
“We canna,” Darroch said.
*
Confusion, and even anger, flashed in Isabel’s eyes, and Darroch wanted it gone. “I dinna intend to let ye leave here without me,” he explained. “However, there’s a small matter o’ the ransom yer kin demanded which. if I’m nay mistaken, sits aboard my galley in the bay as we speak.”
His betrothed frowned.
“Aye,” Hammond confirmed. “We canna completely rebuild the burned croft without it.”
Darroch had an inkling then what these practical islanders had demanded for his safe return. “I’ll accompany ye to the docks,” he announced.
The others grunted their agreement and filed out, leaving him, the women and the faithful hound. He took hold of Isabel’s hands. “I have a favor to ask o’ ye. Wild horses willna keep me from sailing to Dungavin with ye, but we must go by way of Ywst.”
To his relief, she nodded. “For Kyla.”
He kissed her hands. “I thank ye.”
There was more he wanted to say, but this wasn’t the time or place to explain things about his daughter even he didn’t understand.
Ransom
Darroch strode to the front of the crowd gathered on the shore. Isabel noted he raised only one arm above his head as a signal to the galley out in the calm waters of the bay. The injured elbow was still tightly bandaged and, evidently, he didn’t want to risk further damage. He showed no fear though he stood alone amidst his enemies.
Except he wasn’t alone. They weren’t yet married, but she knew in her heart she would always stand by this strong man, and that he would do the same for her. Ghalla’s treachery had served to unite and strengthen them.
A man on the galley returned the wave and the vessel moved slowly to shore. As it floated closer, Isabel saw lines of concern on the face of the sailor at the prow. Behind him in the belly of the boat, she noticed a few bleating sheep.
“Grig,” Darroch shouted. “Bring her in.”
“Ye’re certain the MacRains will set ye free?” came the reply.
“Aye. They’re men of their word.”
As the galley touched bottom, Isabel moved to stand next to Darroch and laid a hand on his injured arm. She wanted him, and her fellow clan members, to understand she supported him. “They’ve brought sheep,” she said lamely.
His warmth seeped into her as he covered her hand with his. “Aye. Seems yer clan wanted back what we stole. Canny.”
His man jumped down into the shallows and waded towards them, shaking hands with Darroch when he reached the beach. He swallowed hard, obviously stricken with remorse. “Forgive me, my laird. We waited as long as we could, but feared the worst when ye didna come.”
Darroch slapped his clansman on the back. “Dinna fash. ’Tis good to see ye and, truth be told, ’twas the best thing that could have happened. Let me introduce my betrothed, Lady Isabel MacRain.”
“Grig,” she said softly. “Pleased to meet ye.”
The old sailor stared at her, mouth agape, then looked back at Darroch. “But…I thought…”
Darroch smiled. “I’ll explain later. Let’s get yer cargo unloaded then we can be away back to Ywst. I expect Kyla is pining.”
“Aye. The lass misses ye something fierce.”
This was a side of her betrothed Isabel had known nothing about. His obvious love for his bairn, and she for him, only intensified her conviction the future held promise. He would be a good father to their offspring. The prospect of bearing his children brought on a dizzying spell of joy.
He spoke to his captain, his voice penetrating her contentment. “What have ye fetched?”
“What they asked for. The return of their own sheep, firewood, shearing tools, nails, timber, and buckets o’ whitewash—that was a challenge, I’ll tell ye.”
Hammond and a handful of his neighbors came down to the water. “We’ll give yer men a hand to unload everything,” he said, “but ye canna use that arm yet, laddie.”
Darroch shrugged off Grig’s solicitous frown. “’Tis naught. I’m on the mend, thanks to Hammond here, and Fanny’s hearty oatmeal.”
*
Darroch watched the unloading of the ransom supplies. Fanny appeared with Cù and quickly took charge of shepherding the sheep back to their respective owners.
Isabel clung to his arm all the while, the swell of her breast against his bicep filling him with a sense of completion. He was in enemy territory, but it was exactly where he was supposed to be, with the right woman at his side. “I came to this island with vengeance in my heart,” he confessed, gathering her closer against the chill.
“The thirst for revenge consumed me, as weel,” she replied, “along with a dread I’d be forced to wed Tremaine.”
He cupped her face in his hands. “’Twas our destiny that we meet here, Isabel. And this is where we can ensure Tremaine ne’er becomes yer husband.”
She blinked in confusion. “What do ye mean?”
He brushed a kiss on her lips, resisting the urge to coax them open with his tongue. “Wed with me now, before we leave.”
She frowned. “But we’re sailing with the tide.”
The conviction that they were destined to marry on Harris overrode his desire to return immediately to Ywst. “Tur Chliamainn is right here.”
“But there hasna been a priest there for nigh on a hundred years. I doubt there’s a Catholic within a hundred miles.”
He raked a hand through his hair. “Ye must have an elder on the island, a presbyter who can say the words. The banns have already been read and ’tis accepted our fathers approved. We can marry this afternoon and sail for Ywst on the morrow.”
She chewed her bottom lip. “I suppose folk might talk if I sail with ye, except as yer wife.”
His hopes rose. “Aye. And besides, ye’re dressed for it.”
She looked down at her outfit and laughed. “Weel, it’s nay exactly the gown I had in mind to wear to my wedding, and it’s a wee bit the worse for wear, but I burned the first one.”
He laughed with her, then played the card he thought would carry the argument. “Ye said yon outfit belonged to yer mam?”
Instead, tears welled. “I need to tell ye that I have a brother. By rights, he’ll be chief o’ the clan one
day. If God sees fit to give us a healthy son…”
“He’ll be a MacKeegan chief,” he replied. “I admit I didna ken ye have a brother, but I’m relieved Rory has an heir.”
“My father doesna recognize Ian as his son,” she murmured, eyes downcast. “He’s nearly five. My mother died shortly after birthing him. He lives with Uncle Boyd.”
“And I suppose Ghalla helped convince yer da Ian wasna his bairn?”
She nodded. “Which is ridiculous. He looks like a miniature version of my father.”
He smiled, hoping to reassure her. His own father had taught him how tangled emotions could become. “I look forward to meeting him.”
*
By the time Fanny returned to the bay, the goods had been unloaded from the galley and stacked on shore. Innes and Darroch were busy assigning crews from both clans to ferry the building materials to the burned-out croft.
Fanny bent over, hands on hips, trying to catch her breath. “I was afraid ye’d be gone,” she panted.
“I wouldna leave without saying goodbye,” Isabel replied, crossing her fingers in the hopes she’d be able to convince the auld woman. “Besides, Darroch and I have a notion to get wed before we leave.”
Fanny’s eyes widened. “Here? On Harris?”
“Aye. This afternoon. At Tur Chliamainn.”
Fanny chewed a thumbnail. “’Tis a wonderful idea, but I doot Hammond will consent.”
She might have known the bonesetter was also the local lay preacher. “I realize he’ll balk at performing the ceremony in a Catholic church.”
Fanny snorted. “Aye! Calvinist to the bone. Pray he ne’er discovers my still.”
Isabel wondered briefly what witch’s brew her relative concocted in a still, and where such a thing could be hidden. However, determined not to be deterred, she persevered. “Perhaps if we convince him it’s a suitable place because it was built as a mausoleum for the MacRain chiefs, and I’m the daughter o’ the current chief. It’s an historical site rather than a religious one.”
Fanny tapped her chin. “He’d be honoring the memory o’ the chiefs.”
Kilted at the Altar (Clash of the Tartans Book 2) Page 10
