Angel of Skye

by May McGoldrick

  As Fiona doubled over in another coughing fit, she saw the two who had emerged from behind the rock back up a step. The leader straightened up, peering at her suspiciously.

  “You won’t be fooling us that way,” Crossbrand finally said with a sneer, though his tone was less certain than before.

  “It is true,” she insisted, her voice raw. Her throat was now really hurting from the forced coughing. “I am going to the Priory for medicines for my sores. They are oozing a black pus. You can see for yourself. And this morning my coughing was black with blood.”

  She pointed to the patches of darkened mud that spotted her skirt from her earlier fall, and then doubled over.

  As she began to cough again, one of the two followers spoke up.

  “She’s got the plague,” he muttered, moving toward Crossbrand’s other follower. “I seen it last summer in Edinburgh. It’s the damned plague.”

  “She ain’t got no plague, you fools!” Crossbrand shouted. “She’s the lass they call the angel from the convent. The one some say is a fairy. By the devil, I tell you she’s the same one we been seeing these past two days.”

  Fiona emitted a weak laugh that gave way to another hacking spell. She managed to spit up a sizable amount of phlegm...in the leader’s direction. Now Crossbrand himself backed away.

  “I wish I was, but I ain’t!” Fiona gasped, wiping the spit from her chin with the back of her hand and stepping toward the leader, who was now between her and the woods. “I know who you mean, though. The one who comes to the leper village. But they say the prioress won’t let her come no more, on account of the...begging your pardon...outlaws and all.”

  Crossbrand pointed his drawn sword in reaction to her movement. Taking a step to the side, he waved at his companions to move in. Their response was an immediate retreat.

  “I ain’t going to touch no damn plaguey leper,” one of them yelled in disgust, as the other nodded.

  “Don’t go away,” Fiona pleaded, continuing to move toward Crossbrand, causing him to move farther around her in the direction of the others. “If you ain’t afraid, I’ll bring food back when I come. I got nobody for a friend, you know, and I’m sure they’ll give me enough to bring. I’m still plenty strong enough for–”

  She stopped midsentence as once again a coughing fit erupted from her hooded frame. Peeking at the open field as she gasped for breath, Fiona considered her chances. If she turned and ran now, she might make the woods, but she shuddered to think what would happen if she didn’t.

  “And if you promise to keep me with you, I won’t touch it,” she continued, looking at the three. “I swear. I’ll bring bread... and mutton. I’ll bring–”

  “You hear?” one of the followers said. “She’ll bring bread.”

  “Bread!” the other shrieked. “Just let her go. I don’t want nothing to do with her.”

  “And let her bring the law down on us!” Crossbrand spat coldly at the two. “I say, leper or angel, we put her out of her misery!”

  “But Gavin,” the other said heavily, pulling Crossbrand around to face him. “She’s too stupid to know it, but she’s as good as dead already and getting close–”

  “I say we kill her now,” the leader shouted.

  Fiona did not wait for the response. Turning, she pulled her skirt and cloak up and fled for the woods. It was only a moment before she heard the shouts from behind her. Knowing her life depended on her speed, Fiona flew across the uneven ground of the meadow. She cursed as she nearly tumbled to the ground, tripping on the edge of her long cloak. The sound of her pursuers growing nearer was nearly drowned out by the pounding of her own heart.

  After her stumble, the men were nearly upon her. The sound of their footsteps in the grass right behind her shook what confidence remained. Panic crept into her bones, and she felt her strength suddenly draining from her. She could almost feel the heat of their breaths on her back. Realizing that she was still carrying the satchel, Fiona shrugged the bag from her shoulder.

  As the bag fell from her arm, Fiona hit the ground with a thud that knocked the wind right out of her. Her foot had found a rabbit hole, and her body pitched forward to the earth. In a split second, she knew she was finished. In a moment these animals would be upon her.

  Then all Fiona could see were the shining black hooves that pounded to a pawing, prancing halt beside her head.

  Chapter 2

  Death takes the champion in the fight,

  The captain in the tower at night,

  The lady in the bower of beauty,

  Timor mortis conturbat me.

  –William Dunbar

  “Timor Mortis [Fear of Death]”

  The cough had the ring of death to it.

  Alec reined in Ebon at the sound that echoed from just beyond the trees. Trailing the woman had not been tremendously difficult, and now he knew he was right behind her.

  At the thought of this being the same woman, Alec’s desire to help her grew even more when he heard her wretched coughing. Although he was angry at first, there had been no hunting after the mishap on the path. Then, as he followed her, a strange urgency had overtaken him, had driven him forward.

  He had to find her. The prayer beads in his hand did little to relieve the unsettling effect of the mysterious encounter. He needed to know that she was not hurt.

  Alec could not blame her for running off. These short months at Skye had made him better understand the reasons for the way these people behaved. Under the rule of Torquil MacLeod the peasants’ survival had depended on their ability to become invisible. The rough hand of MacLeod and his men weighed heavily on those who dared—or were unlucky enough—to cross his path.

  Nudging Ebon forward through the thinning wood, Alec followed the sound of the ailing woman. The falcon rested easily on his wrist, and Alec ducked under the low overhang of branches and vines.

  The gloom of the wood soon gave way to the brightening of a clearing just ahead. As horse and rider stepped out into the sunshine, Alec reined Ebon to a halt and his eyes took in the scene before him.

  She was not alone. Again she coughed, doubling up with obvious pain from the fit. Before her, three men stood watching—one with a sword drawn menacingly. Alec’s jaw clenched at the sight. They were not there to help her. For years this had been a common occurrence here. Another victim.

  At first, Alec could not hear the exchanges between the woman and her assailants, but suddenly the one with the drawn sword could be heard clearly. Those words sent her running across the field and ignited Alec into action.

  Fiona never thought of angels as having hooves, but she was surely glad that this one did. Turning her head slightly, she could see the three shocked faces of the would-be attackers staring at her rescuer. The horse’s hooves stamped and pawed at the ground beside her. She did not need to look up to know who the rider was, but a glance told her that Lord Macpherson’s sword was still in its sheath.

  Though obviously forgotten, Fiona leaped to her feet and stepped back toward the horse’s midnight-hued flank.

  The giant astride the charger glared at the three outlaws. With an economy of motion, he whipped the hood from the white falcon’s head and launched her into the sky. The flurry of the bird taking flight was enough to startle two of the attackers, enough to take the breath away from Fiona. The two jumped back a pace. Crossbrand stood his ground, sword in hand...but only for a moment.

  Lord Macpherson is magnificent, Fiona thought. His eyes flashed in anger at the adversary before him, and his look was piercing. When the warrior’s hand went to the hilt of the weapon at his side, Fiona watched the outlaw leader drop his own sword and spring backward toward his cowering cronies.

  The silence in the meadow was awe-inspiring. The towering figure continued to stare as the falcon circled ever upward. Fiona’s eyes were drawn to the bird spiraling in free flight. In her mind the peregrine’s graceful soaring etched the word freedom on the blue canopy of sky above. When Crossbrand finally spoke, h
is tone was deferential. They know who he is, Fiona thought, and they know they are no match for him.

  “M’lord,” the outlaw began humbly. “She’s got the plague. She’s a leper, m’lord. We were just–”

  “That is no crime,” the warlord interrupted in a tone that washed all color from the men’s faces. Only the leader’s brand retained its bright red hue. “Sickness is no longer a crime on the Isle of Skye.”

  Alec had learned soon after his arrival about the appalling MacLeod policy of paying bounties for the lives of lepers. Alec had spread the news far and wide that such brutality would no longer be tolerated.

  “M’lord,” Crossbrand pleaded in faltering terms, his eyes searching the ground as if he might find the right words there. “M’lord, we...please, m’lord...she...well...the plague, she–”

  “Enough.” Alec cut him off, his voice conveying the steely edge of his anger. “I have made it very clear what the punishment would be for those hunting the innocent.”

  “But, m’lord, we didn’t know,” the outlaw cried, his lying words seconded by the mumbling noises of the two standing behind him. Fiona wished his false tongue would swell in his throat and choke him, God forgive him. “We were away...in the service of the King James, m’lord...at Flodden...for three years, m’lord....But it’s her, m’lord...she spreads the Death, m’lord. We being healthy...we thought...m’lord...maybe as service–”

  “I have heard enough,” Alec said. These lowlifes would say anything to save their miserable hides. “There is no longer any room on Skye for the likes of you three.”

  The three took another step back.

  “But m’lord,” Crossbrand begged, “we’ve done service for the king. We were just doing what was–”

  “You should go down on your knees and thank God that I do not give you exactly the punishment you deserve,” Alec growled.

  “But m’lord–”

  “Leave this island!” the warrior commanded, his voice low and steely. “I tell you this: If, after sundown tonight, you are seen on Skye, your punishment will be death. Go.”

  “But m’lord–” the outlaw whined.

  “Now!” Alec nudged his charger forward a pace.

  The three turned and ran across the field, but not before Fiona saw the look of hatred that Crossbrand shot in her direction. She uttered a silent prayer that their paths would never cross again.

  Fiona cast a glance at Lord Macpherson and then at the woods behind her. She was grateful, but hesitant.

  Years of the prioress’s warning words crashed down upon her. She was to stay away from nobles, warriors, lairds. She was to hide away from Torquil MacLeod and all of his men. But this was different—this was Lord Macpherson, the man she had watched for months. The man who had stormed past her in the mist of many dawns. The man who was bringing prosperity at last to the people of Skye.

  The one who had crept into her dreams for more nights than she cared to admit.

  She had to leave.

  Fiona knew that she was crossing forbidden boundaries in tarrying with this man. It was one thing to dream, but this was far too real. And she could not risk any further involvement with the laird looming above her. She had to get back to the Priory. There was enough explaining to do as it was. Fiona took a step back with the idea of running for the wood.

  “Stand where you are,” the warlord ordered, watching the three disappear into the trees. He had found her at last. He wasn’t about to let her evaporate into thin air again.

  Fiona stopped short at his words. She pulled her hood farther forward over her face as the warrior climbed down from his steed. The young woman realized that the laird had never even glanced toward her.

  This was the closest Fiona had ever come to Lord Macpherson. As he strode confidently over to the sword lying in the grass, she knew that she had never seen a man quite like this one. Something stirred within her as she watched his every move. He stood for a moment, studying the blade as if trying to identify its origin. He was tall and powerful. His blond hair was tied at the nape of his neck, though golden strands that had escaped their bonds framed his ruggedly handsome features. She had not been able to pick up the color of his eyes or look into them, but somehow she knew that they, too. would be beautiful. He turned toward her, and she lowered her face, blushing at her own forward thoughts. Her heart pounded and something melted within her.

  Run, she told herself. Run while you can.

  Alec eyed the cloaked figure standing like a statue before him. The hood covered any possibility of seeing her face, and her hands were hidden in the folds of her garment. The clapper hanging from her rope belt signaled her illness, and the cough had been wrenching to hear—but he had seen her run. She had the speed of a doe, and she had not coughed once since he’d entered the clearing. And then there was her stance, her straight-backed, fearless stance. There is more here than meets the eye, he thought.

  “There is no need for you to run away,” he began, noting her discomfort as she edged away from him. “If you had let me help you before, this would never have–”

  “There was no need for your help, m’lord,” she interrupted in a husky whisper.

  If there was any doubt in his mind that this was the same woman, now it washed away. It was the voice...the same voice.

  “You’re wrong about needing my help. But come, I’ll take you to your destination,” he replied, looking up and waving his fist in a circle at the falcon that was gliding on the air currents far overhead.

  “I stand corrected, m’lord,” she conceded. “There is no further need of your assistance. I travel this way often.”

  “And I suppose you run into these types often?” he snapped, gesturing toward the woods where the three outlaws had disappeared. Could this woman be so dense?

  Fiona could not answer him immediately. His directness, his nearness was disarming, and her inability to respond to him was disconcerting for the young woman. She simply shrugged her shoulders in silence.

  Alec looked away from the woman and held his hand aloft. When he whistled shrilly, Fiona looked up and watched the powerful bird change direction immediately and dive with incredible speed. Just above them, the falcon pulled up suddenly, settling gracefully on the man’s leather-covered wrist. With a twinge of sadness, she watched the snowy peregrine surrender her freedom. But when the bird alighted, Fiona realized that the warrior’s eyes were not on the hawk. They were on her face. Flustered, she looked down immediately.

  “Those three louts could be waiting for you just inside these woods,” Alec said, trying to smooth the irritation out of his voice. He did not want to dwell on the situation that had just occurred. But in truth, he was angry with himself for just letting them go. “It is not safe for you–“

  “You let them go,” she interrupted, adding belatedly, “m’lord.”

  The warrior raised an eyebrow, considering the small cloaked figure standing so assertively in the shadow of the huge horse. What was she, his conscience? She wore a crofter’s garment, but she hadn’t the tongue of a peasant. She certainly shows no fear of me, Alec thought with curiosity. Indeed, he had caught a glimpse of the lower portion of her face within the hood, and what he had seen had surprised him. She had the most sensuous mouth and the smoothest skin of any leper he had ever run across.

  “Aye,” he said with a note of weariness, feeding Swift a tidbit of meat from the pouch at his waist. “I did let them go. But then again, if I killed every outlaw on this island, there would be no one left.”

  Anger flashed through Fiona at his words. He had been here long enough to know that the people of Skye were not outlaws. She successfully checked her temper but could not hold back from responding somehow.

  “Why limit yourself just to Skye, m’lord? Why not depopulate the entire Highlands?”

  “Your idea has merit, lass,” he responded. “But don’t you think the clan chiefs would object?”

  “How could they object, m’lord?” she said mildly. “They wou
ld be the first to go.”

  “Are you suggesting that every laird in the Highlands is an outlaw?”

  “More likely that than every peasant on Skye.”

  “That’s difficult to believe,” Alec responded, enjoying her challenging wit. “Especially considering I have yet to come across a law-abiding peasant since arriving.”

  “Clearly, you are meeting the wrong sort of people...m’lord.”

  “Am I meeting the right sort now?” he asked with a smile.

  “That is for you to decide,” she answered seriously. “But I will tell you one thing, I’m no outlaw.”

  “If that’s so, then why did you run from me this morning? Who are you, lass?”

  “You can see what I am, an innocent islander...unlike those you let go.”

  “Perhaps. But it’s thanks to me that you–as a leper–are not an outlaw as well,” Alec said defensively, stung by her accusation.

  Fiona’s temper flared at his words.

  “An outlaw commits harmful acts,” she responded. “And with or without your interference ...m’lord...I have never been an outlaw!”

  Alec took in, with some amusement, the change in the woman standing before him. Her posture was no longer that of the sickly creature who had faced the three brutes. Her voice was clear and strong, her attitude challenging. If she tosses her head one more time, he thought, that hood might fall right to her shoulders. He restrained an urge to step up and push back the hood. He wanted to see the expression he imagined on her face. And what kind of face is it? he wondered. She was a bit of a puzzle that needed solving.

  “Even if I accept that you’re no outlaw, you still have much to thank me for,” he answered, absently stroking the downy feathers of the bird on his arm.

  Fiona watched his long, strong fingers on the odd, white plumage of the falcon. She noted the man’s gentleness.

  “Aye, m’lord,” she said after a pause, trying her best to inject her voice with irony. “I have so much to be thankful for. Why, for the second time today, you have nearly killed me with your kindness.”