by Willa Blair
Did she see a blush staining the old man’s cheeks pink, despite his unhealthy pallor?
“Ye set too great a store on an old broken-down warrior. Besides, one of those smaller kegs held the last of the twenty-five-year-old batch yer da laid down, except for the three kegs in the keep’s stores. That’s too valuable a commodity to waste on a bloody MacDuff.”
“So ye think the men who attacked ye were MacDuffs?”
“Aye, who else would be so bold as to attack on the border between our land and theirs?”
Ellie shook her head and sighed. “I dinna ken who else it could be. And the MacDuff is squatting in our hall right now, keeping his eye on us MacKyries.”
“If he canna get us one way, he’ll try another, eh lass?”
Fergus’s sympathetic tone nearly brought tears to her eyes. She kenned what he meant—the MacDuff’s persistent suit for her hand. Now that he’d seen the Lathans here, he’d be even more determined to protect his claim to what he imagined would be his. It was all she could do to stay out of his sight, using back hallways and ducking into empty rooms like a thief avoiding capture. But she could not allow him to corner her. MacDuff would relish having witnesses find her in a compromising situation with him. All that would be left would be the posting of the banns.
“He may try until he’s dead, he’ll no’ have what he seeks here.” Ellie stood and paced to the window. The clouds were starting to lift, but if snow truly blocked the pass and MacDuff didn’t simply use it as a ruse to remain here, then it would take sunshine and warmer winds to make it passable. She must remember to send a rider up to check on it now the clouds were breaking up.
Damn MacDuff for that, too, while she was heaping scorn on his head. If the pass was truly blocked, she had no idea when they’d be able to deliver their whisky. MacKyrie needed the money they’d gain from the sales to buy seed for spring planting and for coos down at Crieff to replace the ones the reivers—or their neighbors—took over the last summer. That twenty-five-year keg alone would have replaced all the cattle they lost, albeit with calves, so it would take a few years more before the herd grew to its old size. For now, she had no idea when they’d be able to deliver or at what price.
More MacDuff mischief?
Or was another clan taking advantage, too?
“Have ye had another dream, lass?” Fergus asked, drawing her away from her dire thoughts and the window.
“No’ yet.”
“Well, have ye decided if one of the Lathans is the one ye Saw?”
“Aye, Fergus. Their arms master, Donal MacNabb. I believe ’twas he. There’s another in their party, Bram, whose looks are similar, but he doesna draw my eye the way Donal does.”
At Fergus’s knowing smile, she patted his arm. “Who better to train our lads than the Lathan arms master, aye? For that reason alone, it must have been a true Sight.”
“Are ye certain that’s the only reason he’s the one?”
“What other reason could there be?”
“Only the small matter of a husband for ye, lass. Now...” Fergus shook a finger at her as she opened her mouth to deny it. “Dinna think to pull yer wool over these auld eyes, lassie. I’ve kenned ye yer whole life.” He tapped his temple. “I can see what yer thinkin’ by the look on yer face. Ye fancy the arms master, do ye?”
Ellie gusted out a sigh, then admitted it. “Aye.”
Fergus gave her a satisfied grin and nodded. “I thought as much. Well, then, what are ye doin’ about it?”
The heat of a blush rose in Ellie’s cheeks. Drat the auld man. Did he have to be so perceptive? Bad enough he was nearly always right.
“I’ve...dropped a few hints.”
“And has the lad picked them up?”
“Um...aye, but only a few and nothing improper. He’s still loyally determined to return to his clan as soon as possible. So far, I havena found sufficient enticement for him to want to stay.”
“Ach, then the man’s blind as well as daft. Look at ye! What more does the fool need?” Fergus winked.
“Indeed,” she answered with a small laugh, cheered beyond measure that he felt well enough to jest with her. Then she sobered. “It has been plaguing my mind for the past several days. The Lathan ambassador seems disposed to agree to my terms, though he wants to notify his laird before he’ll sign.” She shrugged. “That doesna worry me—in fact, it will keep them here all the longer until their runner makes his way to the Lathan stronghold and back. I’ll sign their treaty if they’ll accept.”
“Yer terms?”
“I’ve asked for a year or two of the arms master’s time and expertise. I would agree to less if I must. But thus far, Donal has been able to dissuade him. So, nay, I dinna believe he’ll become my consort, even if he stays a while to help the clan as I saw in my dream.”
Ellie gritted her teeth at the lie. The man to save them had reached for her, stood by her. Surely that meant he would be the one to marry her? Or was she reading more into what she’d Seen than she should?
“No’ yet, anyway. Give the lad time,” Fergus said, startling her.
Ellie sighed, stood, and paced away from the bed again, upset at not being truthful with Fergus. At needing, aye, wanting, the man in her dream to want her as much as he wanted to help her clan. If that man truly was Donal, he wasn’t making it easy for her. She still worried for her clan and for herself should any of her neighbors choose to act with force.
“That’s all I’ve been trying to get from him, dammit. Time. Time for our lads to grow. Time for him to come to see me as a woman, no’ a laird. Time.” She moved back to Fergus’ bedside and sank down onto the edge of the bed. “If I read the MacDuff correctly, I’m near to runnin’ out of time.” She grimaced as Fergus took her hand. “I canna bear the thought of such a fate—wife to the MacDuff. I dinna ken what I’ll do, but I’ll do my best to prevent that. For myself and for my clan.”
“Careful lass. Dinna tempt fate.”
“I dinna need to.” She squeezed his hand and stood to go. “I have ye for that, and the Lathans for protection. At least for now.”
****
Sipping MacKyrie whisky, Lachlan MacDuff stared into the fire in the MacKyrie great hall. His men sat with him, waiting for his orders, or for his leave to find their beds. Midnight approached.
He wearied of waiting for Ellie MacKyrie to bend to his will. His spy in the keep had provided little useful information. His men had been able to report on the movements of the damned Lathans without inside assistance. Though up to now, nothing had helped to change the situation in his favor.
A thorn in his side, these Lathans. Too bad that arrow had missed the one called Jamie. That might have sent them packing or been enough to incite them to rash action. His men could probably defeat them, but it must look as if they started the fight. Instead, they calmly spoke about the weather and invited the MacDuffs to take their leave. He would not tolerate such disrespect. Neither would he act on it until a time of his choosing.
Things were too quiet. Too settled. He didn’t have enough men with him to master the keep, not with the Lathans here. This treaty they were touting would destroy his plans. If MacKyrie allied with other clans in the area, he’d be unable to take over here without risking retaliation from outside. That combination, added to the protests he expected from inside the clan, along with Ellie’s obvious reluctance to accept him, would spell an end to his aspirations.
The Lathan presence looked to be a problem with no easy solution. Ellie kept them here, using them to train her lads, she claimed. More likely to prevent him from accosting her. As long as they stayed, Ellie would feel secure in continuing to refuse him. Waiting for them to leave could become a lengthy proposition, one he didn’t care for.
Nay, he had to do something to force them to leave. And to send the MacKyrie a message. To weaken her position with her clan so that when he made his move, it would be clear that the clan required a man’s leadership, and that the clan would accept him with
out protest. Something the Lathans could not protect against while they remained here in the keep, coddling the bairns and standing guard over Ellie. It must be something that would prove their impotence against trouble, to force Ellie to send them away without signing their damned treaty. He didn’t need a piece of parchment bringing the rest of the neighboring clans down on his head when he became laird here.
He took another sip of the silky MacKyrie whisky.
They daren’t do anything in the keep that would be too easily ascribed to his men. Whatever they did had to look like someone else had done it, or at least that could not be proven to be MacDuff action.
Frustrated, he took another sip. And another. Then it came to him. The whisky. The distillery. Aye, that would be the perfect place to make trouble for his reluctant bride.
He leaned forward and claimed his men’s attention with a gesture.
“Here is what ye’ll do,” he told them.
Chapter 10
After Ellie awoke, a dream stayed with her. She kept her eyes closed and her body still, trying to recapture everything she’d seen as she slept. Tiny drops of liquid had trickled down a hill, merging to form bigger rills. The rills had merged into streams, then mighty rivers that splashed over rocks, tossing up spray that glowed amber in the moonlight. Was it a Seeing or just a dream come from too many demands on her? Did it depict events, starting as small problems, merging together to become a catastrophe capable of destroying everyone and everything she loved? Ellie shuddered. Where had that thought come from?
She opened her eyes, threw aside the covers and sat up. The chill of her chamber raised goose bumps on her skin, but cleared the vestiges of the dream from her mind. All but the sense of urgency. What did it mean?
She glanced toward the hearth. Cold and dark. No wonder she’d had an unsettling dream. She left the bed to stir the ashes, wincing as her bare feet hit the chilly stone floor. There—a tiny ember glowed. She fed dry peat, a bit at a time, until a wee flame leapt up to meet her fingers. Satisfied, she laid in more peat and added twigs to feed the growing fire.
A glance at the window confirmed what she already knew from the stillness of the keep. She’d awakened long before the sun. She stood by the fire, trying again to recall the details of her dream, without success. Her bed looked inviting, piled with blankets and graced by a cat curled up at the foot. She was tempted to climb back under the covers and sleep a while longer, but nay. The sense of disquiet that remained from her dream made her restless. Instead, she dressed quietly, allowing the cat to continue its nap, and slipped out her door.
She shook off the last of her chill in the warm kitchen where the cook fire never went out. A porridge pot bubbled above the low flame but food held no appeal. Beside it, ah, a caudle pot simmered. Ellie dipped out a cupful and took a careful sip. Heat from the thick liquid warmed the chill from her bones. She nodded to Cook and settled on the trestle bench at the kitchen table.
“Ye’re up early,” Cook said as she uncovered a mound of dough that had been left to rise from the night before and began to punch it down. The kitchen staff bustled around her, preparing the day’s bread and meat under her watchful eye.
“Aye. Something woke me up. A dream.”
Cook stopped what she was doing to regard Ellie. “A Seeing?”
“I dinna ken.” Ellie swallowed some more of the warm beverage and shivered. “Perhaps.”
“I’ve seen ye like this before, lass, since ye were barely more than a bairn. Ye had a Seeing. They leave ye...dreamy...like ye are now. No’ quite back with the rest of us.”
Ellie shook her head. “But I couldna be certain of anything. Nothing told me what the streams represented. Just amber liquid running downhill, coming together into streams and rivers, splashing over rocks. What could that mean?”
“Now that I canna help ye with.” Cook punched the dough one more time, folded it, then placed a moist towel over the mound. “This can sit for a bit longer before it goes in the hearth.” Satisfied, she settled on the bench opposite Ellie. “But I’ll tell ye true. It means something. Ye’ll just have to determine what that is.”
“How?”
“Think on it, lass. What could it represent?”
“A river? Water? Anything.”
“What flows like water, then? Amber in color, ye said?” Cook pursed her lips as she turned to gaze into the low flames in the hearth. “So, tree sap?” She started ticking off ideas on her fingers as she said them. “Honey? Whisky? Butter?”
Ellie pictured the amber flow in her dream. Cook’s words finally penetrated the fog of her vision. Her head came up with a start. “What did ye say?”
Cook held up four fingers and waggled them. “Sap. Honey. Whisky. Butter.”
Ellie’s blood sank to her toes, leaving her light-headed. “Dammit. Whisky.” She stood and headed for the door.
“What, lass?” Cook called after her.
“The distillery! Something has happened there, or soon will.”
****
When she topped the rise and looked down upon the stone buildings that made up the distillery, Ellie gasped. Lit here and there by shafts of mid-morning sunlight that pierced the clouds, casks and barrels, some smashed to pieces, some merely broken open, lay scattered around the largest structure. The contents, MacKyrie whisky, spilled across the snow in amber streaks and pools of brown slush. The mess looked to be the entire contents of the aging room. Those casks were valuable enough on their own for their loss to cause Ellie to swoon, but the loss of the whisky struck her like a body blow. She tightened her fingers around the reins and shuddered. Who had done this? And why?
Beside her, Donal growled an oath. Jamie remained silent, but gave her a narrow-eyed shake of his head before urging his mount forward, leading them down the hill. Innis followed.
Ellie clenched her teeth as they approached the devastation of her clan’s future. “Why didn’t they just burn it all down?” she wondered aloud. She shivered from more than the cold. All her hopes, all her dreams, had flowed away down the hill, forming rivulets in the snow, to wash away at the bottom of the ravine in the burn.
“’Tis a warning,” Donal muttered.
Jamie nodded his agreement. “Whoever did this didna want to prevent ye from ever making whisky again. They meant to hurt ye badly enough to need their help.” As if realizing what he’d just implied, Jamie’s eyes widened. “No’ us, I swear it.”
She should be suspicious of all the strangers on MacKyrie land, including the Lathans. But one look at their solemn faces as they surveyed the damage below gave her all the reassurance she needed from them. Innis frowned at the mess. Donal sat white-lipped, a muscle jumping in his jaw. If only she could be sure her feelings for Donal weren’t affecting...but nay, she knew who’d done this. Jamie’s oath confirmed her conviction.
“MacDuff.” Ellie said the word, though it pained her to let it pass her lips.
“He and his men were missing from their usual spot by the hearth in the great hall last night,” Innis announced. “This could be where they went.”
Ellie clenched the reins in her fist. “Then this is my fault for not keeping him occupied.” Her mount shifted under her.
“Nay, lass,” Donal and Jamie interjected at the same time.
Jamie shook his head. “If he’s responsible, he wouldna done this himself.”
“Aye,” Donal agreed. “He’d send his men even if ye stayed by his side every minute.”
“But we canna be certain,” Jamie continued. “It could have been anybody, not only the MacDuff.”
“MacDuff did this.” She had no doubt. She’d told Fergus time was running out. It had. But what genius, to strike here, in this way, rather than at her directly. In one stroke, he’d destroyed a valuable commodity that would take years to replace, and weakened her position as laird. What a demonstration for her people that she was powerless to protect them. That even with the Lathans here, her clan was vulnerable. That they needed a strong man to
lead them and keep them safe. A man like MacDuff, or so he thought.
“Damn him.” Angry tears slipped from Ellie’s welling eyes in icy tracks down her cheeks. Her stomach twisted.
“Ellie,” Donal said. He dismounted and reached up to take one of her hands, unresisting, into his. “Are any of yer people likely to be here? Or to have been here when this happened?”
The question hit her like a slap to the face. Were there? Friar Tam? Some of the lads? Wrenching her hand from his grasp, she slid down her mount’s opposite side and ran through the whisky-laden slush into the open door into the distillery.
There, she smothered a cry in her fist.
Donal and Jamie burst through on her heels, hands on dirks. “Lass, wait,” Donal commanded. “Whoever did this could still be here.”
Nay, whoever did this was long gone. The room looked like a battle had been fought within its walls. The still itself, the metalworks, expensive tubing and tanks, were untouched. The fire had gone out, thankfully, or been put out before the melee started, because the casks the bastards hadn’t bothered to roll outside were here, in pieces, scattered on the whisky-splashed floor. Why hadn’t they burned down the place? They’d certainly spilled enough fuel for a huge, raging inferno. But nay, Jamie was right. They wanted to preserve the ability to make whisky, while dealing her a blow she’d likely not recover from.
She heard Jamie tell Innis to look around outside as she stepped forward, turning to take in the damage, not sure where to start, and fearing what else she might find. Donal shadowed her every step. Jamie stayed by the door.
A clatter in the back alerted her. “Tam? Friar Tam?” Donal cleared her path as she hurried through the obstacle course of splintered wood toward the sound.
“Here....here, my lady.” The deep voice came from within a pile of broken casks. Donal started pulling them aside. They quickly uncovered the portly friar, alert, but reeking of young MacKyrie spirits.