Kilted at the Altar (Clash of the Tartans Book 2)

by Anna Markland

  She gripped his broad shoulders as he lifted her. “I felt better the moment I set eyes on ye outside the grotto.”

  Coira rushed out to greet them. “Saints be praised ye’ve returned. The Nellis woman is here,” she shrieked.

  Her words confirmed Isabel’s fears.

  They hurried to the door of the keep, followed closely by Boyd and Kyla who ignored suggestions she remain with Coira, and there was no time to argue. The Great Hall was empty, save for a few servants tidying up who stopped to gawk. “No point asking,” Isabel said, keeping up the pace. “I ken where she’s headed.”

  But they came to an abrupt halt when raised voices caught their attention as they exited the hall.

  “Ye might kill me,” they heard Fanny hiss, “but ye’ll nay murder Rory.”

  “He’s already a dead mon,” the witch replied.

  Darroch put a finger to his lips and motioned them to stay out of sight of the winding stone staircase. He peered around the corner then quickly turned back. “Ghalla has a dagger. She’s forcing Fanny backwards to the top of the steps.”

  Isabel gasped. “We must do something.”

  *

  “Stay here,” Darroch rasped to his wife before stepping out from hiding to walk slowly to the bottom of the stone staircase. He had to make sure Ghalla saw him, but didn’t want to provoke her into doing something rash since he still felt lightheaded.

  He’d only ever seen Rory’s wife with her hair swept up in tight braids. Now, she put him in mind of the fabled Medusa, a nest of black snakes writhing atop her head. Her gown was disheveled, torn and soiled. She’d evidently been living rough, and it hadn’t improved her snarling disposition. But the sallow tinge to the skin of her fat face suggested an acquaintance with opium beyond just dispensing it.

  Fanny gripped the balustrade, her back to Darroch, but he would guess she was refusing to give Ghalla the satisfaction of showing fear, especially since the canny islander was aware of what he had also seen. Rory appeared in the doorway of his chamber behind Ghalla and leaned heavily against the frame.

  “Ye canna escape,” Darroch said softly, one foot on the bottom step, worried that he’d be hard pressed to help Fanny if she fell.

  Ghalla waved the dagger in Fanny’s face but her attention was on Darroch. “Dinna come closer lest I cut off the meddling witch’s nose afore I dispatch her to Hell.”

  “’Tis ye bound for the fiery depths,” Fanny shouted in reply. “Poisoning yer husband.”

  Rory swayed and opened his mouth but, to Darroch’s relief, said nothing.

  “Pah,” Ghalla retorted. “Do ye think he’s the only one? ’Twas easy to persuade poor Eileen to take a potion to ease her pain, and then a simple matter to convince the grieving fool he was too auld to sire a bairn and his dead wife had lain with another.”

  Boot heels clicking on stone behind Darroch indicated Isabel had followed him. “Ye murdered my mother?” she shrieked.

  The color drained from Rory’s face.

  Darroch gently took hold of his wife’s waist as she tried to rush up the steps. “We’re dealing with a madwoman here,” he whispered. “Stay calm.”

  Ghalla pointed her dagger at Isabel. “Eileen’s spawn will ne’er succeed to the chieftaincy o’ this clan.”

  Fanny sidled away from the steps and closer to safety.

  “Ian will be chief o’ the MacRains,” Isabel shouted.

  “Nay,” Ghalla smirked. “Tremaine will be chief. I’ve planned it thus.”

  Darroch took a chance that dire tidings would distract her. “Yer son is dead.”

  Ghalla cackled. “Ye lie.”

  “Thrown from his horse,” Isabel confirmed. “Didna survive.”

  It was Rory who finally broke the long silence that followed as Ghalla’s hooded eyes roved from one accusing face to the other. “Arrest this harridan,” he rasped.

  Ghalla whirled, then waved the blade at Rory. “Ye stupid mon. Tremaine is yer true son.”

  He snorted. “How can that possibly be?”

  “Ye dinna even remember raping me when ye raided Flodigarry,” she shrieked like a demon loosed from purgatory as she rushed at her gaping husband.

  With the agility of a woman half her age, Fanny launched headlong at Ghalla, sending her crashing into the stone wall beside the door.

  Darroch took the steps two at a time, wrenched the weapon from Ghalla’s manic grip, and handed it to Rory. “My laird,” he panted quickly before turning his attention to separating the two women hissing, spitting and clawing at each other on the tiled floor. He was short of breath and still somewhat dizzy, effects of the opium he supposed. At least he’d managed to stay on his feet.

  “Like she-cats,” Boyd remarked dryly as he joined the fray.

  Darroch sensed Isabel intended to take out her fury on Ghalla, but he pulled her away. “Yer uncle and his men have her firmly in hand,” he said. “She’ll receive a just punishment.”

  “Aye,” Rory breathed as Ghalla was dragged off down to the cells, shrieking her demands to see her son’s body before she would believe he was dead.

  *

  Her father’s voice brought Isabel back from the abyss of blinding anger. “Dadaidh,” she whispered, taking his weight as he slumped against the doorframe, dropping the dagger.

  Darroch came to her aid and they helped him back to bed.

  “Forgive me,” he wailed over and over. “My lovely Eileen. I can assure ye I ne’er raped a woman in all my years of raiding, and I ne’er set foot in Flodigarry. There’s easier pickings than going all that way for sheep.”

  Isabel sat beside his bed and laid her head on the mattress, sobbing as her father stroked her hair. She believed him. He had many faults, but he wasn’t a rapist. “I ken.”

  She felt Darroch’s presence behind her and, soon, a small, warm hand took hold of hers. “Dinna cry, Bel,” Kyla whispered.

  She sat up after a few minutes and lifted her stepdaughter onto her lap when Boyd joined them.

  “I failed ye,” Rory told his brother-by-marriage.

  Boyd shook his head. “Ye failed yer family,” he replied. “But that was Ghalla’s plan.”

  “Is the lad weel?” Rory asked, his voice breaking.

  “Aye,” Boyd answered. “He’s weel and the spitting image of his sire.”

  “I dinna have the right to ask…”

  “’Tis his right to live in Dungavin,” Isabel interrupted, torn between elation that her father had come to his senses and anger at his abandonment of her brother. “He’s yer son.”

  “But he must hate me.”

  Boyd shook his head. “I raised him to hate Ghalla, nay ye.”

  Rory nodded to his bandaged stump. “’Twill be a few years before he’s old enough to become chief, and I’m nay much use to the clan now.”

  It was on the tip of Isabel’s tongue to assure him that she was there to help, but her husband was destined to be chief of Clan MacKeegan. His duty lay elsewhere.

  “Ye have me and Dadaidh and Bel to help ye, and Fanny,” Kyla offered.

  “Aye,” Darroch confirmed, his hands on Isabel’s shoulders. “We’ll stay as long as needs be. In any case, we live on the same island. We can visit back and forth. Especially when we’ve babes to show off.”

  Isabel felt the heat rise in her cheeks, but his remark brought a welcome smile to her father’s face and gave her confidence for the future.

  But Fanny snorted. Scratched and disheveled, as though she’d been in a tussle with a determined ram, she said, “Dinna count on me. I canna wait to get back to Harris.”

  “Ever the same, auld woman,” Rory told her, “and thank goodness for that. Ye saved my life.”

  Fanny shrugged. “’Twas for Eileen, nay for ye, though I didna ken the Nellis woman had kilt her, else I’d have crossed the Minch sooner.”

  Judgement

  A sennight after the tumultuous events, Darroch visited Rory, hoping he was fit enough to make a decision regarding Tremain
e and Ghalla.

  He’d asked the jailers to keep him informed rather than bothering his wife with news of the woman. They reported that she never slept and refused to eat. She paced the narrow confines of the cell muttering and mumbling, begging for her potions. “Forgive me, my lord, but ’tis a challenge to keep up with the mess she makes,” one guard told him. “She’s either retching or…”

  Darroch held up a hand. “I understand.”

  Tremaine’s body was reportedly beginning to deteriorate in the ice house.

  “Ye look weel,” Darroch told Rory when he entered the chamber.

  “I must be getting better. Fanny’s given permission for me to sit in a chair for part of the day,” his father-by-marriage replied with a sigh.

  “Have ye decided what to do with Tremaine and Ghalla? I’ll see yer wishes are carried out.”

  Rory eyed him. “I’m glad ye wed Isabel. Ye’re a good mon.”

  “I’m lucky to have her, my laird.”

  “Dinna allow anyone to come betwixt the two o’ ye. That was my mistake.”

  “I’d trust Isabel with my life,” Darroch replied, feeling more at ease with a man he’d dreaded meeting.

  “And yer trust wouldna be misplaced. She’s a good lass. Anyway, let’s see first to burying Tremaine before I decide what to do with Ghalla. The village graveyard should suffice. What’s yer opinion?”

  “I agree. He canna be buried with yer kin.”

  Rory sighed. “All this grief caused by a case of mistaken identity.”

  Darroch decided to say nothing about what he suspected was Ghalla’s descent further into madness. “Will ye allow his mother to attend the burial?”

  Rory stroked his beard. “Aye. I suppose.”

  “I’ll see to it.”

  *

  Isabel and Kyla kept vigil with Rory while Tremaine’s funeral was proceeding. She was grateful Darroch had seen to the preparations, and understood why he felt someone from the family should witness the event. She’d wished Tremaine dead and believed it would be hypocritical to pretend sorrow at his passing.

  Surprisingly, Fanny decided to attend.

  Kyla was recounting the tale of Cú Chulainn and Dun Scaith Castle to Rory after trying unsuccessfully to pry the secret of the Faerie Flag from him.

  “Her grandsire must be proud o’ the bright wee spark,” Isabel’s father remarked when the bairn wandered off to play with Blue. “Beaked toads indeed. She’ll keep at me about the Flag, I’ll warrant.”

  Isabel had told him nothing of the friction between Darroch and his sire, but perhaps this was the opportunity. “Stewart MacKeegan refuses to recognize she exists,” she said softly.

  Her father raised an eyebrow. “Because she’s a bastard?”

  “Perhaps. She wouldna speak for a long time. In fact, ye were one of the first people she ever spoke to when she asked about the Faerie Flag.”

  He chuckled as he watched Kyla chatting with Blue. “Hard to believe now.”

  “I hope when we journey to Dun Scaith, he’ll change his attitude. I plan to challenge him about it.”

  “I ken a thing or two about stubborn auld men,” he warned. “Tread carefully.”

  They were interrupted by the arrival of Darroch and Fanny followed by Coira who carried a tray of tumblers.

  “We need whisky after what we’ve witnessed,” Fanny explained.

  Darroch handed Rory a tumbler. “Ye’ll appreciate it too after we tell ye what transpired.”

  Rory sniffed the amber liquid. “Must be dire if Fanny’s allowing me whisky. Let’s hear it then.”

  Darroch sat and pulled Isabel onto his lap. “I didna recognize Ghalla when they brought her from the cells.”

  “Like a draugr, she was,” Fanny confirmed, sipping her whisky. “No flesh left on her bones.”

  “What’s a draugger?” Kyla asked innocently.

  “Ye should go with Coira and find a nice juicy bone for Blue,” Isabel suggested, not wanting to get into an explanation of the undead.

  “Come on, lass,” Coira said.

  There was no argument and everyone breathed more easily once the bairn was gone.

  “I had instructed the lid be left loose,” Darroch explained. “As I expected, she demanded to see her son’s body.”

  “That’s when the wailing began,” Fanny continued. “She keened like a banshee all through the minister’s brief committal. The clanking of her chains made it seem even eerier.”

  Darroch swigged his whisky. “Eerie doesna come close to describing what happened next.”

  Fanny shivered. “Aye. When they lowered the coffin, Ghalla threw a clod of earth onto it…” She paused and drained the tumbler. “…then leapt into the grave.”

  Isabel feared she’d misheard. “What?”

  Darroch pulled her against his chest. “When the men tried to lift her out, they couldna.”

  “She resisted?” Rory asked.

  Fanny and Darroch stared at each other, both seemingly reluctant to finish the tale.

  “She was stone-cold dead,” Darroch finally said.

  Homecoming

  Darroch had to acknowledge a grudging admiration for his father-by-marriage who insisted on greeting his young son in the windswept bailey dressed in full regalia only a fortnight after Ghalla’s attack. Isabel had draped his plaid in such a way as to conceal the still-bandaged stump. The eagle feathers in his bonnet defied the wind’s attempts to cause even a ripple in their perfection.

  Darroch was proud to offer his arm for the chief to lean on and pleased when his offer was accepted. However, he was relieved Isabel had managed to dissuade her father from sitting atop his horse for the reunion.

  The courtyard was crowded with folk from the village and servants from the castle, all eager to catch a glimpse of the future chief.

  Isabel stood beside Darroch, her arm linked with his, clearly excited and nervous when her uncle rode into the courtyard with her five-year-old brother on his lap. To Darroch’s delight she’d chosen to wear the grey riding habit. Coira had hounded the laundresses until the outfit had come back looking almost brand new. He made a show of looking at her feet. “Ye’re wearing yer special occasion boots, I see,” he teased.

  She blushed beautifully, as he’d hoped, having already confessed that the sight of her wearing only the thigh-high boots on their wedding night had aroused him beyond belief. “Aye,” she whispered in reply.

  Her grip tightened when Boyd dismounted and lifted Ian from the horse. Darroch sensed her desire to run to the little boy wearing the MacRain plaid who stood ramrod straight and seemingly unafraid, but they both knew it was for the chief to speak first.

  Ian nodded to Isabel when he caught sight of her. Then his puzzled gaze settled on Kyla, who was holding Blue’s collar and studying the lad with great interest.

  Rory stiffened, let go of Darroch’s arm and walked to his son.

  Isabel tensed when her father reached for Boyd’s hand and, with his help, went down on one knee in front of the bairn.

  “Leave it,” Darroch whispered as she tried to move forward. “He willna thank ye for interfering.”

  “I am Ruairidh, chief of Clan MacRain,” his father-by-marriage began, “and I welcome ye back, Ian MacRain to Dungavin Castle. In front of my kin and clan, I humbly beg yer forgiveness for my neglect. I’m proud to call ye my son.”

  Ian hesitated only a moment before drawing the dagger sheathed at his waist, which he handed hilt first to his father. “I thank ye for yer welcome, Father,” he said clearly. “’Tis good to be home. But ye shouldna be kneeling.”

  Rory accepted the gesture of fealty.

  Boyd nodded his approval then helped his brother-by-marriage to his feet.

  “Go now,” Darroch urged Isabel, who needed no more prompting to fly to her brother’s side and embrace him as the crowd cheered.

  It seemed natural to take Kyla’s hand, but his joy for Isabel was tempered when his daughter looked up at him and said, “I ’
spect ’twill be a different homecoming in Dun Scaith.”

  *

  “It breaks my heart,” Isabel whispered to her husband as the celebration banquet progressed in the Great Hall. “I am worried my father won’t last much longer before Fanny insists he return to his bed. He is trying so hard to remain dignified but it’s obvious he longs for some sign of Ian’s acceptance and forgiveness. My brother is clearly more at ease with my uncle.”

  “I suppose ’tis to be expected the lad will turn to Boyd first,” Darroch replied. “He’s had no other father.”

  “Aye, ’twill take patience. Ian has exchanged more words with Kyla than with Dadaidh.”

  Darroch chuckled. “Hard to believe I worried she would ne’er speak!”

  “She is a chatterbox, but having a bairn as a friend might help Ian settle here more quickly.”

  “She’s certainly taken him under her wing, and I canna believe she agreed to wear a frock. The lad kens ye love him, though eventually we’ll have to leave and journey to Dun Scaith.”

  She reached for his hand, saddened by the resignation and regret in his voice. “The MacRains are hoping a son will forgive his father and grow to love him, but ye’re praying yer father will accept Kyla.”

  He meshed his fingers with hers. “Ye always ken what’s in my heart, Isabel MacKeegan. Mayhap, he’ll forgive me for whate’er sin he perceives I committed.”

  “Deep down, I’m sure he loves ye,” she whispered, hoping it was true. “Ye’ve the makings of a fine chief. He must ken that.”

  He exhaled slowly. “We’ll see, but I’ll be a better leader with ye at my side.”

  The prospect of assuming the duties of Lady of Clan MacKeegan was daunting, especially if the current chief remained hostile to his son. There would likely be many in that clan who wouldn’t take kindly to a MacRain as their chief’s lady.

  Darroch lifted her hand and brushed a kiss across her knuckles. “My sire might ne’er show any regard for me, or Kyla, but how can he fail to love ye?”

  As Fanny moved across the hall towards her father with a determined look on her face, Isabel prayed silently that would be true.