The yew stood dark against the gathering clouds and wind, the chill of coming rain whistled through its gnarled, down-spreading branches.
Gavin appeared almost at once, stepping from the shadows of a semi-ruinous chapel near the yew. The chapel was fairly large, if in decay, yet its crumbling walls were nearly hidden by the yew’s girth.
Nella came with Gavin, an anxious look on her brow. But MacFie seemed untroubled and strode forward, slapping Iain on the thigh, in greeting.
He grinned. “I have seen that look on a MacLean before.”
“A good e’en to you, too,” Iain tossed back, dismounting. “And, aye, I suppose you have seen such a look often enough living with us as you do.”
“Where are the others?” Iain didn’t give him a chance to blurt the words he could almost see dancing on the lout’s tongue.
“You’ve been stricken with the MacLean Bane,” Gavin said anyway. “I can spot the symptoms miles away.”
“You’re a long-nosed loon, is why.” Iain lifted Madeline to the ground. “Beardie? Douglas?” he asked, changing the subject. “They are here, too?”
“They are ‘round the other side of the old chapel, tending the horses.” Gavin jerked his head toward the ruined stone wall behind the yew’s red-gleaming trunk. “MacNab sent along mounts for the ladies. Two fine garrons. I promised we’d return them on our journey back to Doon.”
On your journey back to Doon.
“MacNab is a good man,” Iain said aloud. “Did he also provide the clothes I requested?”
Gavin nodded. “Aye, he did, and a-plenty.”
“He is a true friend.” Iain glanced at Madeline. “He shall be well repaid for his generosity, especially if he can raise men to help us retake this lady’s home.”
“What?” Gavin’s jaw dropped.
Nella’s gaze flew to Madeline. “You told him?”
“Aye, she did,” Iain answered for her. “I know who she is and why the two of you have been traipsing across the heather.”
“So we are heading to Abercairn rather than St. Fillan’s healing pond and Duncairn?” Gavin blurted, coloring as soon as the blunder left his lips.
Iain’s gaze snapped back to Gavin. “I am done with bathing in sacred pools, and Duncairn can wait for its relic and gifts.” He studied the MacFie’s reddening face. “Madeline’s father may yet be alive. If he is, time is crucial.
“But how do you know she hails from Abercairn?” Iain frowned.
Beside him, Madeline fretted. “Nella, how could you?”
“Your pardon, lady, but I had to tell him.” She turned to Madeline, the worried look in her eyes more pronounced than ever. “You know I never cared for-”
“It is good she told me,” Gavin said, and slid a look at Nella. “We must speak of Abercairn.”
“And of MacNab,” Iain added, lifting a hand in greeting to Beardie and Douglas. The oarsmen were just coming from behind the chapel ruin, questions on their faces.
“The MacNab is a longtime friend and ally,” Iain began, all eyes on him. He turned to Gavin. “He has enough men to provide a formidable host of warriors. Do you think he will lend us their strength?”
Gavin scratched his beard. “I would hope so, but who can say for sure? Times are rough these days.”
“So they are.” Iain glanced at the oarsmen. “And you? What say you?”
They looked from one to the other, uncertain. But after a few moments of feet shuffling, Beardie cracked his knuckles, and declared, “I vow he will. The MacNabs relish a good fight. As do I.”
Douglas’s eyes lit. “I’m in as well, lord.”
“Then it’s settled.” Iain nodded, pleased. “Here’s what I need. The two of you ride back to MacNab and ask his help. Tell him we’ll launch a two-pronged attack combined with a ruse,” he explained. “A small number of men will create a disturbance at the castle’s rear wall to distract the garrison. At the same time, a larger host will gain entry through the main gates.”
He reached for Madeline’s hand, squeezing it as he met her worried gaze. “MacNab willnae fail us. All will be well,” he assured her.
To the oarsmen, he added, “Off with you now, and tell MacNab his men should arrive at Abercairn’s main gatehouse, and with all haste.”
“We’re away,” they both called, already running for their horses.
They’d no sooner galloped off, riding south across the rolling terrain of wooded hills and broken pastureland, than Gavin clapped a hand on Iain’s shoulder.
“MacNab has fierce warriors,” he said, his gaze on the oarsmen as they disappeared into a shadowed wood. “They will fight with blood in their eyes. The only question is if they arrive on time.”
“They must.” Iain wouldn’t consider otherwise. “If we must wait and Logie gains time, he could send out a rider to fetch an army.”
“He would, aye.” Madeline looked stricken. “He hasn’t just occupied Abercairn. He wishes to make it his home. He won’t surrender.”
“He has a home.” Nella’s voice hardened. “He craves Abercairn’s riches. That will be his reason for seizing the castle. Not because he likes the birdsong in the surrounding woods or even because its location and strength would benefit the Disinheriteds.
“He is driven by greed.” She kicked a pebble. “That is all.”
“A plague that will bring his downfall.” Iain glanced at Madeline and his gut twisted to see how tightly she clasped her hands – so fiercely her knuckles shone white.
“Madeline told me he values gold above all else.” Iain frowned. “And that he will stop at nothing to see his will done.”
“It is true,” Madeline spoke up, her face pale in the soft, gloaming light. Her eyes were likewise troubled, now a mossy green, their gold flecks so dark they were hardly visible. “He is a cruel and vile man, a terrible enemy.”
“He will soon meet one he hasnae yet faced.” Iain glanced at the mist-hung hills, made the sign against evil. “MacLean steel, and the might of our friends, will put an end to his villainy.”
“He will fight hard.” Madeline went to the yew, tracing the fluted patterns of its red bark as she spoke. “Abercairn has riches beyond gold,” she began, her voice strong despite the sorrow in her eyes. “There is a secret cache of jewels hidden in my father’s bedchamber. They are sealed deep within the posts of his bed.”
She paused, looked again to Iain. “His father collected them from the gem-studded armor and weapons of the fallen English knights after the Battle of Bannockburn. He gathered them on the encouragement of Robert Bruce himself, as war booty – the King’s appreciation for Drummond sword arms in the battle.”
“So-o-o!” Iain looked up at the darkening sky and blew out a long breath. His heart dipped at the trust she’d shown by naming the location of such a treasure.
“That explains why Silver Leg sent his henchmen after you,” he said, the men’s faces flashing across his mind. Chilling his blood. “The bastard will suspect you know the whereabouts of any hiding places.”
“And I do.” She leaned back against the yew’s massive trunk, adjusted her borrowed shawl to shield her from the wind. “I would have mentioned the jewels when you asked me for reasons Logie would seek me, but I’d forgotten about them.”
Iain’s brow lifted. “How can such wealth slip your mind?”
“You must know my da to understand.” She looked off to the side, across the heather-covered ridges. “See you, he is… was softhearted. A great romantic and a very sentimental man. He claimed Abercairn had enough riches already, and considered the Bannockburn jewels a treasure beyond material worth.
“Like his father before him – my grandfather was a fierce warrior chieftain – he loved the Bruce and valued the jewels in his honor. He felt we must safekeep them for the Bruce’s memory.” She swiped a tear from her cheek. “Da claimed that long past our own lifetimes, our heirs could reveal the jewels’ existence. He was sure the Scottish people would then honor them as national treas
ures. So he hid them and we simply do… er… did as though they are not there.”
She looked at him, her eyes glistening. “I share my father’s views. That is why I didn’t speak of the jewels. I’d truly forgotten we have them.”
“I agree.” Iain swallowed against the tightness in his throat. “Your father is a wise man and a good one,” he said, his voice rough.
He also hoped he’d used the correct tense.
“If Logie has men searching for her, her father is either dead or refusing to disclose the hiding place,” Gavin ventured, scratching his beard.
“The more reason no’ to delay.” Iain stifled the urge to throttle Gavin for his bluntness. “Let us trust it is the latter.”
Gavin surprised him by cracking a broad smile. “Och, all will be well. We will arrive timely and with men enough. I’ve nae doubt.”
“Say you?”
“I am certain. Dinnae forget, we have more help with us than the promise of MacNab’s warriors.” Gavin patted the satchel strapped to the back of his saddle. “The reliquary casket and its precious relic shed blessings on those who safeguard it, my friend.”
Iain arched a brow. “You think one bejeweled chest and a wee sliver from the True Cross will guard us against a garrison of sword-wielding men-at-arms?”
Gavin folded his arms. “Och, aye, I believe,” he said, and flashed a smile at the lasses.
“You need more faith,” MacFie added. “We have seen the relic perform scores of miracles. That, you cannae deny.”
And Iain couldn’t. So he pressed his lips into a tight, hard line and held his peace. He wouldn’t tell the loon that while he respected the relic, if any miracles happened, he’d also credit the ancients. The old ones were never far in the Highlands of Scotland and only a fool would forget that.
He’d been one long enough, having only recently vowed to no longer discount legends and magic. But he drew the line at MacFie’s boastful claims of descending from a selkie woman.
Everything had its limits.
So he stood a bit straighter, brushed at his plaid. “You, my friend, are too much of a believer,” he allowed, doubly annoyed when the barb failed to rattle the lout. “But I admit the reliquary is powerful,” he conceded, if a bit grudgingly.
The loon was right anyway.
The MacLeans’ prized reliquary was capable of working miracles, uncomfortable as they made him.
He’d witnessed his share over the years.
Time and time again.
Secretly, he wondered if the relic had lessened his temper, for its fire certainly bit into his veins with less frequency of late. Though he suspected Madeline had more to do with that than a wee silver-and-gold enameled reliquary chest and its sacred contents.
Madeline ignited a blaze of an entirely different sort in him.
He felt the kindling of such a fire now, just watching the rise and fall of her breasts as she leaned against the yew.
Biting back a curse, he rubbed the knot at the back of his neck and glanced out across the miles of heather-studded hills stretching toward the horizon.
The road they’d taken from the south had vanished beneath ever-lowering clouds and misty rain shrouded the higher ridges.
“Lest we wish a drenching, we should be on our way,” he said, signaling to Madeline. “Can we make your cousin’s keep before yon rain reaches us?”
“Hmmm…” Gavin considered, hoisting Nella onto the back of her mare. He narrowed his eyes at the distant storm. “Cormac’s holding lies halfway between here and Strathfillan.”
Swinging into his own saddle, he added, “If we hurry, we’ll miss the worst of it, but no’ all.”
“Then let us be gone.” Iain turned to help Madeline onto her mare, only to see she’d already clambered onto the beast.
She held her back straight, but a nervous pulse beat at the base of her throat. Iain’s heart twisted at how fiercely she clutched the reins, at the trace of white edging her clenched lips.
Worst of all was the shimmer of tears in her eyes.
He knew she hated to cry.
So he pretended not to see as he mounted his own horse. He also prayed to all the gods who’d listen that he wouldn’t let her down. Not wanting his scowl to fash her, he let her ride alone from the yew and its ancient chapel ruin.
Then, eager for the comforts of a peat fire and a dry, warm place to rest his head, he urged his horse into a canter and hastened to join the others.
They’d already covered a good distance.
But Madeline slowed. She glanced over her shoulder, looking back to him, waiting.
Iain smiled, and its warmth reached to his toes. Truth was he’d smiled more since having her at his side than he supposed he had in the whole of his life. And now…
He would not fail her.
Couldn’t bear seeing her lose heart.
But his smile faded as he closed the distance between them, his hopes dimmed by concerns he couldn’t outrun.
What if Abercairn truly was lost? Her father indeed dead, as she believed? What if his rashness brought her even more sorrow? Would she be able to forgive him?
And if things did go horribly wrong, could he forgive himself?
Chapter Twenty-One
True to Gavin’s word, they reached Cormac MacFie’s modest tower-house with only a light damping, having kept just ahead of the front edges of the pursuing rain clouds.
Apparently, they’d been seen because the keep’s door stood wide in welcome. Sure enough, as they dismounted, a great bear of a man opened the iron-grilled gate and came long-strided toward them, a smile to rival Gavin’s own spreading across his equally red-bearded face.
“Friends, Cousin, I greet you!” he boomed, making for Iain. He thrust out a hand. “You are welcome to my hearth, MacLean,” he declared, and nearly crunched Iain’s fingers.
“I have heard much of you,” he added, pumping Iain’s hand as he grinned at Gavin. “My cousin honors my house by bringing you here.”
“It is good of you to have us.” Iain smiled. “I have looked forward to meeting you.”
Iain glanced about, grateful indeed.
The smell of peat smoke, roasted meats, and fresh-laid floor rushes wafted out from the tower house’s opened entry. The most appetizing smell, fresh-baked bread, made Iain’s stomach growl and his mouth water. And more than made up for his host’s crushing grip.
“Your hospitality is much appreciated,” Iain said once the giant released his hand.
Gavin’s cousin more times over than Gavin himself could recall, Cormac MacFie turned to welcome the others. Gavin in particular received an enthusiastic hug, and Iain would’ve sworn he heard Gavin’s ribs cracking.
“I didnae ken you’d taken a wife,” he said to Gavin, releasing him at last and waving them all into the ground floor of his keep, a low-vaulted storage area piled high with ale casks, sacks of grain, and a jumbled assortment of rusty-looking weapons.
Iain noted the weapons, but Cormac bustled them so quickly through the dimly lit undercroft, there was no time for a closer inspection.
At the arched entrance to a narrow-winding stair, Cormac snatched a hand torch from its iron bracket on the wall and led the way up the steps toward the beckoning food smells and where they’d all find a dry and warm place to rest their bones for the night.
Likely not the sumptuous bed Iain had shared with Madeline the previous night – a chaste sleep of deepest exhaustion, even if they had slept hip to hip.
But he knew Cormac’s guests would sleep on comfortable and clean pallets or beds.
And he ached for his with a vengeance.
Perhaps even more than he craved the savory-smelling meats and sauces provided by their host.
Sleep called him, as did an insistent voice at his ear.
An urgent tugging on his sleeve.
“Psst, sir… I must speak with you.”
Nella clutched a handful of his plaid and held fast. “Please.” She pulled him away from
the stair, leading him deeper into the gloom of the undercroft. She paused near a sputtering wall torch.
The torch’s flickering light played across her face, revealing the same anxious look he’d noted back at Fortingall beneath the ancient yew.
“See here, lass…” He cast a longing glance at the now-empty stairwell, his stomach clenching at the tantalizing food smells drifting down the stair’s curving length.
“I am tired and hungry,” he said, turning back to her. “Can we no’ speak abovestairs? In the comfort of the hall? We can share a cup of ale before the hearth if that would suit you?”
“My pardon, sir, but nae.” She shook her head. “I would not risk having anyone hear what I must tell you.”
Iain frowned.
Something in her tone sent shivers through him. Equally unsettling, her gaze kept flitting about, almost as if she feared someone – or something? – would leap out of the shadows and lunge for her.
“You are troubled.?” Iain peered at her. “What is it?”
She stepped closer, gripped his arm. “Do you believe in ghosts?”
“Ghosts?” he echoed, incredulous. “As in spirits of the dead?”
She nodded. “I do, you see-” she broke off and glanced aside. After a long moment, she looked back at him and drew a great, quivering breath.
“I live alone in a wee cottage. Little more than a cot-house really, but, sir, I am well content there and enjoy my solitude,” she said, speaking quickly. “Because I have often been harassed by those who do not understand me, I put about a bit of prattle that I receive visitations from the dead.”
At Iain’s silence, she tightened her grip on his arm. “Please do not condemn me. I did what I must to ensure my peace and for no other reason. I harmed no one and never would. I have not communed with ghosts and ne’er hoped to do so.”
Releasing his arm, she began wringing her hands. “It was just a defense. A ruse for my protection,” she explained. “Such rumors keep folk from one’s door.”
“That I believe.” Iain slid another glance at the stairwell. Sakes, but it called to him.
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