Grig lived on Ywst, which proved to be an asset in persuading his neighbors to sign on.
It was dark by the time he made his way to his cottage. He was bone weary, but Isabel’s smile of welcome restored his spirits. Getting up from the rocking chair, she nodded to the bed, a finger pressed to her lips. “Kyla’s asleep. She fought it as long as she could.”
Hand in hand, they tiptoed to look at his daughter. He pecked a kiss on the tangled curls. “Did she speak to ye?” he whispered.
“Nay, but she allowed Blue to teach me a thing or two about weaving that I wasna doing correctly.”
He chuckled at the sight of the big hound stretched out beside the bed, snoring softly. “He’s worn out with the new responsibilities.”
“Aye. Tilly gave us cold mutton and some bread and cheese,” she explained, leading him to the table.
He sat, though he was almost too tired to eat. “This isna much of a hony moone for my new bride,” he said, reaching for her hand. “Who kens when we’ll have another chance to make love?”
She pursed her lips. “I long to join with ye again, and the time will come. We’ll lie abed all day and ye’ll teach me new ways to pleasure ye.”
He meshed his fingers with hers, unwilling to reveal her words had only heightened his need for her. “That day might be a long way off.”
“There’ll be good times and bad,” she conceded. “Together, we’ll triumph and win back control of Dungavin. Every minute I spend with ye brings me joy.”
They leaned to kiss across the table. The warmth of her moist lips was reassuring. She spoke of winning back Dungavin, but he recognized that her deepest concern was for her father. He was confident she spoke true and they would prevail.
Reconciling with his own sire was another matter entirely.
Uphill Trek
“’Tis nay a good omen,” Grig muttered as Cille Chonain came into view on the cliffs above Trumpan.
His words echoed Isabel’s fears. The muttered agreement of many of the crew confirmed her suspicions. Their minds were on the slaughter that had taken place in the ancient church during the long feud.
Some of the men sailing with her likely had ancestors given a rough and ready burial nearby after the massacre of the Battle of the Spoiled Dyke—just as she had kin who’d been burned alive when MacKeegans torched the thatched roof with innocent folk trapped inside.
“’Tis ironic we’re sailing to the aid o’ the MacRain chief,” Grig said. “Let’s hope he doesna unfurl the Faerie Flag.”
The ensuing laughter had no humor to it, but several continued to express differing opinions about the magical properties of the fabled relic of the Crusades, supposedly hidden away in Dungavin.
The galleys docked and the men gathered on the shore. Darroch addressed his crew. “We’re nay doing this for Rory MacRain. We’re here for the bairns of both clans, especially those who havena been born yet. Isabel and I are husband and wife, a MacKeegan married to a MacRain. Did ye ever think to see the day?”
It was difficult to say if the mumbling that greeted this question was for or against the idea, but she was grateful for his words.
He gestured to Kyla and Isabel standing nearby. “Like every mon I want a good life for my family. Are ye nay tired o’ war?”
“Aye,” came the reluctant grumbling.
“Besides which, I’ve a score to settle. I didna take kindly to being duped by the likes of Ghalla MacRain, not to mention the way she’s treated her own stepdaughter.”
Now he was speaking their language. Vengeance they understood.
Amid the cheers, he hoisted Kyla onto his shoulders, and took Isabel’s hand. “My wife tells me we’ve a ten-mile walk ahead of us, most of it uphill. I expect ye to march like the proud MacKeegans ye are, but we dinna want to alarm any MacRains we meet.”
“Indeed,” Isabel added. “We’ll pass a number of crofts where folk know me. They’ll rally with us if we explain the danger Ghalla poses.”
They set off with enthusiasm, but Isabel worried about her boots. They and the voluminous skirt were made for riding, not trekking for miles over the high moor.
*
Isabel’s prediction proved to be partially true. Hostile at first to the unexpected arrival of a small army of MacKeegans, the MacRain clansmen they encountered eventually revealed they’d heard reports of Ghalla’s suspicious behavior from Isabel’s uncle. They too feared for the wellbeing of their chief, but they weren’t to worry now that Fanny Beaton had arrived.
“Fanny’s here, on Skye?” Darroch asked.
“Arrived yesterday. Her cousin came to meet her.”
Isabel shook her head. “Evidently, she’s taken matters into her own hands again. But I’m relieved we’ll have our own healer. She’ll ken what’s best for Da.”
“I suppose she didna want us to worry about her crossing the Minch,” Darroch replied. “Or she made her mind up after we left.”
All the folk they encountered knew of the jilting, and those who’d met Rory’s wife weren’t surprised she’d had a hand in plotting the mix-up. The few who’d come into contact with Tremaine Nellis decried what Boyd had told them about Ghalla’s intention to marry Isabel off to the nithing.
The more Darroch heard about the lad, the greater his disdain. What kind of a mon feared horses? Even Kyla stuck out her tongue upon hearing that revelation.
Many of the crofters’ wives and daughters were taken with the lass, complimenting Isabel on such a bonnie stepdaughter. The bairn preened under the praise, repeating everything that was said about her to Blue. To Darroch’s relief no one seemed to notice she spoke only to the dog.
Their numbers increased by one or two men at each croft, all brandishing pitchforks, but willing to take up arms nevertheless if necessary.
Darroch began to worry about Isabel. They were less than halfway to Dungavin and, already, she was limping. She’d come close to tripping over the long skirt several times. The garment’s original color was barely discernible for the mud splatters.
He lifted Kyla from his shoulders. “I’ll let ye walk for a wee while,” he explained, hoping she wouldn’t make a fuss. “Isabel is done in. I’m going to carry her.”
The bairn pouted, then studied her new stepmother and evidently decided to agree with her father. She walked away with Blue.
“Dinna wander off,” he chided his daughter, hunkering down beside his wife. “Climb aboard.”
She straightened her bedraggled hat and eyed him with a mixture of relief and disbelief. “Ye canna carry me all the way to Dungavin.”
He winked. “Hopefully, I willna be obliged to. I’m a mon with an injury.”
She smiled and climbed onto his back, clamping her arms around his neck and her legs around his hips.
He curled his arms around her thighs and got to his feet. “Hold tight,” he said as he resumed the uphill trek, thankful the bones of his elbow passed their first test.
“Always,” she murmured into his nape, rendering his elbow the least worrisome part of his body.
*
Relishing her husband’s solid strength as he carried her seemingly without effort, Isabel pondered what might await them at Dungavin. “I hope Fanny hasna got Ghalla all riled up. She can hardly refuse us permission to enter the castle, can she?” she said to Darroch. “I am the chief’s daughter.”
“But ye married a MacKeegan,” he reminded her.
“A marriage she arranged.”
“And made sure ne’er happened.”
She wiggled her sore toes inside the boots that had definitely shrunk. “True. However, she doesna command respect among castle folk, and her son even less so. Surely, my kin will support me.”
“But dinna forget she appears to have powers beyond the ordinary, and we’re assuming yer father is still alive.”
She’d become overheated during the challenging walk in the warm jacket but now a cold chill crept up her spine. “He has to be.”
He stopped abrupt
ly when they heard shouts of warning coming from the men in the vanguard. He let her slip from his back and gestured to the outcropping at the side of the trail. “Go behind the rocks. I’ll send Kyla.”
Teeth chattering, she obeyed as he hurried ahead.
Reunions
Darroch’s heart lurched at the fear on his daughter’s face as she ran toward him, Blue at her side. Someone was approaching, on horseback by the sound of it. “Find Isabel yonder, behind the rocks,” he said sternly.
She nodded, red curls bouncing, and took off, obedient for once.
Drawing his sword, he hurried to the front rank and braced his legs, ready to meet the challenge. The dog followed him and stood to face the foe, tail rigid.
“Half a dozen, I reckon,” Grig muttered.
The newcomers showed no sign of slowing as they approached. The lead rider sat tall in the saddle, a MacRain plaid draped over his shoulder. “A nobleman judging by his bearing,” Darroch replied.
They reined to a halt in a cloud of dust a few yards away, but didn’t draw their weapons.
“Are ye the MacKeegan?” someone shouted.
Darroch wasn’t a chief so couldn’t claim to be The MacKeegan, but—
He was about to acknowledge his identity when Blue broke ranks and bounded towards the riders.
Their leader dismounted immediately and went down on one knee to greet the excited dog. “Blue,” he exclaimed, rubbing the hound’s ears. “Where’s yer mistress?”
Darroch’s apprehension fled. He sheathed his sword and strode forward, hand outstretched. “Isabel’s Uncle Boyd, I presume?”
“Aye, Sir Boyd Beaton, and ye must be the mon who jilted my niece.”
Darroch arched a brow, concerned this encounter might turn into a brawl after all, but Boyd held firm to the handclasp. “Dinna fash,” he said with a sly smile. “Fanny sent word the day ye were wed. She explained the entire plot when she arrived yesterday. Now where’s yer bride?”
*
Isabel crouched behind the rock, cooing reassuring words to the bairn clinging to her like a limpet. She was elated Kyla had decided to trust her, but hoped she’d spoken true and all would be well.
Her breathing steadied when an excited, tail-wagging Blue appeared and she heard familiar voices approaching. Hefting the child onto her hip, she peeked out from hiding, relieved beyond measure to see her Uncle Boyd striding alongside her husband.
“Good news,” Darroch quipped, taking Kyla from her arms. “He’s brought yer horse.”
“Aye,” Boyd rasped as he took her into his embrace. “’Tis good to see ye safe and sound.”
She wept into his plaid, unable to stem the tide of tears, despite the warmth of her husband’s hand on her back. “’Twas Ghalla’s plot right from the start,” she babbled.
“Fanny suspected as much when she first heard about the jilting.”
“Our cousin took good care of me.”
“And me,” Darroch added with a grin.
“Aye, we’ve been in contact. Who could have predicted ye’d end up on Harris at the same time as Isabel?”
“We might ne’er have discovered the truth,” Isabel said, chilled by the stark realization their fate could have turned out differently.
“And I wouldna have met the woman destined to be my bride,” Darroch observed, righting Isabel’s hat, his green eyes full of love that chased away the chill.
“And I wouldna have met ye, Boo,” Kyla told the dog.
Boyd chuckled. “Who is this bonnie lass?”
The bairn sucked on a fist and buried her face in her father’s neck.
“She’s pretending to be shy. This is my daughter, Kyla.”
Boyd eyed Isabel, a question in his gaze. She nodded her reassurance.
Her uncle executed a courtly bow. “Pleased to meet ye.”
Isabel preferred not to enter into an explanation of Kyla’s unwillingness to reply. “Tell me of my father,” she blurted out.
“According to Ghalla, he’s failing, but she willna let anyone into his chamber, so I havena seen him since his return from the Trotternish. The wound was to his forearm. Fanny and I deemed it preferable she enter Dungavin with ye. She’s waiting at the closest croft to the castle.”
Despite her relief Fanny hadn’t muddied the waters, anger surged up her throat. “She’ll nay stop me from seeing him.”
“The sooner we get there, the better,” Boyd agreed. “I sense a powerful force was at work to bring the two o’ ye together in Harris. But Ghalla is wily and I wouldna trust Tremaine as far as I could throw him.”
Blue growled his agreement.
Something Darroch had said earlier suddenly settled in her brain. “Ye brought Storm?”
Boyd smiled. “And a mount for yer husband.”
Her spirits lifted. She would ride proudly into Dungavin on her beloved horse with the man she loved at her side.
“That’s a relief,” Darroch teased with a wink.
*
Darroch’s relief was genuine, not because it meant he no longer had to carry his wife, but entering Dungavin on horseback would provide an important advantage. Isabel had the right to return home with dignity, and he resolved to do his utmost to wreak revenge on those who had sought to rob her of that dignity.
He would feel more like a chief’s son on horseback.
Isabel pressed her forehead to Storm’s face and patted his neck. The gelding nuzzled her shoulder. Darroch swallowed the lump in his throat, looking forward to the day he would be reunited with Barra.
“My lady,” he said, going down on one knee and meshing his fingers together.
Smiling, she allowed him to boost her into the saddle and he wasn’t surprised when she sat astride the horse. “Good thing ye wore the boots after all,” he teased.
She frowned. “What is it with ye and these boots?”
He laughed. “I’ll tell ye later.”
“I’ll leave some of my men to accompany yer foot soldiers,” Boyd told Darroch. “And I recommend they camp outside the castle proper.”
“I agree,” he replied, lifting Kyla onto his lap as he mounted. “No use raising suspicions as to why we’ve come.”
“Aye,” Isabel agreed. “Let Ghalla think we dinna suspect her schemes. I’m simply coming home to see my father with my new husband, my daughter and my cousin.”
“She forgot ye, Boo,” Kyla added, slapping her thigh.
Dungavin
Isabel dismounted and embraced Fanny when she emerged from the croft, looking sheepish. “Why did ye nay tell me?” she asked.
“Weel, child, ’tis nigh on fifty years since I left Harris. I surmised ye’d need someone who kent a thing or two about healing, but I had to pluck up courage to defy the storm kelpies and cross the water.”
Isabel hugged her again, deciding to ignore the reference to the old wives’ tale of mythical sea creatures intent on drowning the unwary. “And here ye are.”
“Yer father isna one o’ my favorite people, but if he died and I’d done naught to stop that evil woman…”
“He’s nay going to die,” Darroch assured her.
Fanny’s smile turned to a squeal when he put his big hands on her waist, lifted her and twirled around in circles.
Kyla laughed.
“Stop that, ye big oaf,” Fanny cried breathlessly. “Ye’ll kill me before I’ve a chance to thumb my nose at the Nellis woman.”
She clung to him a little too long when he set her down, reminding Isabel of certain remarks about never being too old.
“Dinna fash,” her cousin said with a sly laugh. “I ken he belongs to ye.”
Isabel wondered if she’d ever get used to Fanny’s insights into her thoughts.
Kyla lifted her arms to her father, obviously wanting to be twirled the same way.
Laughing, Darroch immediately obliged, leaving Isabel to ponder the notion of giving in too easily. If the bairn had to speak to get what she wanted…
Still, there’d be t
ime enough to sort out such things later.
Boyd appeared from behind the cottage, a small cart pulled by a dray horse following in his wake. “This good fellow will convey Fanny to the castle,” he explained, pointing to the crofter.
“One last thing,” Darroch said.
Fanny sighed. “I ken. I’ll nay do or say anything to cause Ghalla to suspect we’re wise to her schemes. Though I’ll be hard pressed to be pleasant.”
Isabel chuckled. “That surely would rouse her suspicions.”
*
They deliberately approached Dungavin at a leisurely pace and reined to a halt within sight of the gate. Blue waited with uncharacteristic patience for permission to proceed. Darroch sensed Isabel’s mixed feelings as she stared at the castle where she’d lived most of her life. “I’m here with ye,” he reassured her.
She shifted her weight in the saddle. “The thing that bothers me the most is that I’m bringing my new husband home to an uncertain welcome. Dungavin was always a place of love and laughter when my mother was alive, now…”
“And it will be again,” he promised, determined to help her right the wrongs, but aware similar things could be said of Dun Scaith.
A group of MacRain clansmen gathered at the gate, but they seemed more curious than hostile. One or two even waved.
Kyla was the only one who returned the gesture, though Blue’s tail thumped the ground.
Isabel smiled. “I suppose we should take our cue from the bairn. Behave as if there’s naught amiss.”
She led the way. The crowd parted as they rode through the gates.
“Welcome home, Lady Isabel,” some said.
“Is yon mon wearing a MacKeegan plaid?” others muttered.
“And who’s the auld woman?”
“Did ye ever see such red curls on a wee lass?”
Isabel smiled, acknowledging those who welcomed her, giving no hint of the turmoil roiling within. It filled his heart with pride.
The hound trotted into the courtyard with head held high and tail wagging, accepting as his due that folk fussed over him as much as his mistress.
Kilted at the Altar (Clash of the Tartans Book 2) Page 13
