Angel of Skye

by May McGoldrick

  “Do you think he will come tomorrow?” Malcolm pressed. “He promised me that if you agree to it, he will take me hawking. My own hawk, Fiona! Can you imagine? With the hawk on my arm and all, do you think I will look like him?”

  Do I look like him? Do I look like him? Somehow these words sounded familiar to Fiona. She grew pale.

  “Fiona, are you well?” Malcolm’s hand rested on her arm. His anxious brown eyes looked with concern into her pale, tired face.

  “Aye, lad,” she answered, mustering a weak smile. “Shaking off the past is a tiring task.”

  Fiona shifted the heavy satchel to her other shoulder and looked wearily at the threatening gray sky. She was getting close, for she had been skirting the edge of the wood for nearly a quarter of an hour, and she thought it would be good to have a roof over her head before the rain began in earnest. Though it was only mid-afternoon, the sky had taken on a dusky look. Only an occasional bird flitted from the treetops to the meadow that stretched out to her left. In a few moments the hermit’s cottage came into sight, and Fiona directed her steps to it as the first drops of the summer shower fell.

  Hurrying around the corner of the building as she peered into the small window on the side, the young woman ran headlong into a tall, cloaked figure leading a charger.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, stumbling to the side as a hand reached out to stop her from falling.

  “Steady, there,” the man responded, a hint of warning in his voice.

  Fiona looked up into blue eyes that were surveying her closely. She pulled her arm away and stepped back.

  “Excuse me, m’lord.” She looked up into the man’s hard face. Sand colored hair was plastered to his head. Suddenly her eyes fixed on his features. There was something familiar about him, but his unshaven face did not quite match the image that was floating somewhere in the recesses of her memory. She could not quite remember. As much as she wanted to, she simply could not.

  “Do I know you?” Neil MacLeod asked shortly, looking carefully at the woman before him. A frown clouded the man’s eyes.

  Fiona took another step back. Whoever he was, there was something about this man that sent a chill through her body. The rain was coming harder now.

  “No,” she stammered. He was a MacLeod man; she knew from the tartan he wore. A warrior. But that was no help. She had spent her entire life avoiding his kind. Still, there was something in that face. She felt her tongue swell in her mouth. Fear seeped into her bones and spread through her body until it dominated her senses. Fiona stepped back. She wanted nothing to do with him.

  “You are from around here, are you not?” he pressed. “Who are you? Speak up, lass.”

  Fiona stood, momentarily frozen by a snatch of memory. She glanced down at the man’s hand, hanging limply at his side. Somewhere in her head she could hear a woman’s cry—the same cry that continued to haunt her dreams. Her glance darted again to his face, gleaming in the falling rain. His look was piercing, as if he, too, were trying to remember something.

  “Well?” Alec’s voice growled as he suddenly appeared beside Fiona. His face a mask of steel, he turned toward the MacLeod warrior. “Well? I thought you were in a hurry to get back.”

  Neil MacLeod shifted his glance under the other’s withering stare.

  “Aye. That I am.”

  Alec glanced over at the young woman beside him. She certainly did not look well to him. He had caught a glimpse of her as she passed the cottage window. Looking at her now, standing beside him in the falling rain, he thought she looked pale and tired and frightened. He grasped her arm, and as he did he felt her pull his hand tightly to her side.

  With the pressure of Fiona’s arm, a sense of possessiveness swept through Alec. For the first time, he had a sense that she was communicating a need to him—and he instinctively responded. Pulling her toward him, the warlord leaned forward, partially shielding Fiona from Neil MacLeod with his body.

  When Alec’s eyes snapped back to the warrior, MacLeod was gazing curiously at the laird’s protective grip on the young woman’s arm. Hastily averting his eyes, he reached back for the bridle of his charger.

  “I was just taking my leave,” he said, nodding to Fiona with a last look as he led his gray horse past the two.

  Fiona turned and watched him mount up and ride slowly away in the pouring rain. As MacLeod disappeared into murky distance, relief washed over Fiona. Now she could feel the laird’s closeness beside her, the muscular grip of his hand. And for the first time all day, she felt buoyant, almost exuberant.

  With a sigh she turned back to Alec, but her look was greeted with an angry glare.

  “Could you tell me what in God’s name you are doing here?” Alec turned and faced her fully as he asked the question. He was furious with her. But even through the haze of his temper, he was stunned once again by the effect she had on him. He stood, momentarily transfixed by the drops of rain beating against her ivory skin. Her dark cloak fell far short of hiding the brilliant locks of hair that were now dripping with water. In spite of her weary look, her large hazel eyes were sparkling with happiness, and his question did nothing to alter her look.

  She simply smiled back at him. He was here. That was all she could think of. Once again he had been here...for her.

  “I saved your hide not saying anything to the prioress the other day, and here you are again, out alone, vulnerable to anyone or anything. Have you no sense at all?”

  “Some, m’lord,” she said vaguely, looking into the deep blue of his eyes.

  “Do you know what being defenseless means?”

  Fiona nodded.

  “Why do you not have someone accompany you? Never mind the two-legged animals wandering around this island. What about the four-legged ones?. What would you do if you stumbled on a boar or a wolf? There are still wolves on this island, you know.”

  “So I have heard, m’lord.”

  “Heard? You are not hearing one word. You are not frightened in the least, are you?”

  Fiona shook her head slowly from side to side.

  Alec’s eyes surveyed her from top to bottom. She had discarded the ragged cloak and wooden clapper that had helped disguise her the other day. From her shoulder, beneath her dark cloak, the same bag she had carried before hung heavily at her side.

  He wanted to strangle her for being so careless. But at the same time he wanted to hold her tightly to him, to kiss her.

  “What have you in that satchel?” he continued gruffly, trying to hide the powerful impulses that were rushing through him. “Nothing you could use to save that pretty little neck of yours, I would wager.”

  “My satchel?”

  “Fiona...”

  Alec was very close to her, and he could see the beads of rain on the bridge of her nose, on her cheekbone, her lips. Without thinking, he reached out and brushed the droplets from her cheek. The side of her face rested against his gentle touch.

  His hand paused at the shock of contact with her skin, and their eyes locked for the longest while. They stood, caught in the eternity of a moment. Fiona felt her breath catch in her chest. She was frozen, immobile, panic-stricken with the thought that the slightest movement would break the spell.

  Alec’s gaze fell to her lips and lingered there. He found himself wanting to lift her mouth to his. He wanted to taste the sweetness of the summer rain that wet those ruby lips. He wanted to kiss her. Abruptly, he shook his head to clear it and moved his fingers from her face. Dropping his hand to her shoulder, he took hold of the light wool of her cloak. He took a deep breath before speaking, and when he did, his tone was softer.

  “You are soaking wet, and you are as pale as a ghost. Why, you’ve probably caught a chill already. Do you have nothing to say?”

  Fiona stood looking up at him with the same dreamy expression and shook her head vaguely.

  “Nothing, m’lord.”

  “Fiona, you look like hell,” he lied.

  Her smile widened, and her eyes cleared. �
��Thank you, m’lord. I am very glad to see you, too.”

  Turning softly toward the cottage, Fiona glanced back once more before leaving the laird gazing after her in the rain.

  Chapter 7

  Her sweet bearing and fresh beauty

  Have wounded without sword or lance...

  —William Dunbar “Beauty and the Prisoner”

  “I know her!”

  Ambrose held Alec’s arm and whispered as the warlord ducked into the low doorway. The younger brother never took his eyes off Fiona as she hovered over the injured leper lying on the straw mattress in the corner.

  The priest had introduced her to Ambrose briefly and unceremoniously, and Fiona had barely paused to nod at the warrior before going to the side of her ailing friend. She had been too concerned about Walter’s condition to even remove her rain-drenched cloak.

  “That seems to be everyone’s first impression,” Alec said, responding to his brother’s comment. “But you knowing her would be wishful thinking on your part, I’d say.”

  “Please do not tell me this is your nun,” he muttered under his breath.

  “As I told you before, Ambrose, she is not a nun,” Alec growled with satisfaction, walking past him to the rough table where Father Jack sat talking with Fiona across the small space of the cottage’s single room. Alec sat on the wooden block and watched her as she straightened to remove her wet cloak and hang it from the peg on the wall. The modest cut of her dark blue dress did little to hide the sensuous curves of her body, and the effect of her physical presence was hardly lost on Alec. She was wearing no veil, and the single braid hung down her back to her waist. With the back of her hand, Fiona pushed the loose, wet ringlets from her face, but they sprang back rebelliously. Alec had a sudden desire to smooth them back himself. But then she turned slightly, crouching over the open satchel by the smoldering turf fire and emptying the bag of its contents. Quickly, she poured a jug of liquid into the cooking pot that hung over the fire.

  “He has been sleeping nearly the entire day, Fiona,” Father Jack said. Turning to Alec, he noted before continuing how the young warlord’s attentions were fixed on the movements of the young woman.

  Fiona had been right. Though the priest had not had the clearest of views, he knew that this young warrior was not the rider who had trampled Walter. The short time they had spent together had already given Father Jack a very favorable impression of these Macpherson lads. Although the MacLeod man who had brought them had balked at entering the hermit’s cottage upon hearing of the presence of an injured leper, Alec Macpherson and his brother had entered without the slightest hesitation. Father Jack did not know many noblemen who were enlightened enough to harbor no fear of a leper who was far beyond the point of contagion.

  “Angel,” Walter whispered weakly. “Are you here, my angel?”

  “Aye, Walter,” she answered brightly, caressing his distorted, mask-like face. “Can I get you anything?”

  “Water, lass.”

  Fiona moved quickly to the table where a rude wooden jug sat by Alec’s elbow. The blond warrior picked it up and poured its contents into the cup she held. Their eyes met for only a moment before she blushed and looked down.

  The warlord’s attention was drawn to the simple wooden cross hanging from a leather thong around her neck. As she straightened up with the full cup, the cross fell lightly back against the soft wool that covered her breast, and Alec thought he had never seen a religious symbol so perfectly enshrined. He took a deep breath and tried to clear such a sacrilegious thought from his mind. Something about her was driving his thoughts, though, and his senses were aflame in pursuit.

  “You were starting to tell us how this man Walter was hurt,” Ambrose said quietly from the doorway. He had been watching the young woman as well, and he was impressed by her gentle ministration of the wounded man. But he had also been watching his brother. Alec appeared bewitched. Not that Ambrose could blame him. The woman had beauty; that was undeniable. But she also exuded goodness. The younger Macpherson thought that this was certainly a departure from the kind of women he had seen Alec with in the past. He liked the change.

  “He was ridden down like a dog,” the priest growled. He had sent a message to the laird earlier today requesting a hearing. If this man was all that everyone believed him to be, then it was time for him to know that someone was trying to discredit him.

  “Tell me who did this,” Alec demanded angrily. “I will not stand for this kind of barbarity.”

  “Then you had best look to your people,” Father Jack said, looking steadily at the laird. “The man who rode him down was wearing—”

  “Was disguised,” Fiona broke in with a hard look at the hermit. “Whoever it was, he was wearing the Macpherson tartan, was riding a black charger, and had a falcon on his arm.”

  “What?” Alec glanced from one face to the other. His look hardened, though, in spite of their non-accusing expressions. “You asked me to come here, Father. How do you know it wasn’t I who rode him down?”

  “Because of Fiona,” Father Jack answered matter-of-factly, glancing in the direction of the young woman. “She was certain from the first, and Walter’s grandson, Adrian, who saw the whole thing, also saw you with her at the Priory. We know it was someone else, but we don’t know who.”

  “Could Walter’s grandson identify the man?” Ambrose asked. He could see Alec’s anger-clouded face and knew his brother would need a moment to check his temper.

  “I don’t know, Sir Ambrose,” the hermit responded. “Perhaps he could. I was there as well, and though the lad’s eyes are better than mine, the whole thing happened very quickly.”

  “Might it have been an accident?” Ambrose suggested, doubting it even as the words left his mouth.

  The priest snorted, and Alec banged his hand on the table.

  “How many of our men do you know, Ambrose, that go riding through the countryside at that hour with a hawk? None!”

  “‘Tis true. It was no accident,” a weak voice replied from the straw.

  Alec stood and went to the injured man. Fiona was kneeling on the straw, holding Walter’s hand, and the warlord crouched beside her.

  “Whoever did this,” Alec said quietly, “will face the king’s justice.”

  The old leper looked at the young laird, and a tear sprang from the corner of his bloodshot eye, leaving a fiery trail across the red leather of his destroyed skin.

  “The king’s justice has never before done much for the likes of me,” the man said, his voice breaking. “You, m’lord, are the first of your class who has even looked upon me as a human being in the last twenty-five years.”

  Alec placed his hand on the man’s arm.

  “There is no excuse for the ignorance of man, Walter, highborn or low. And I will not make any attempt to find one.” Alec looked steadily into the injured man’s eyes. “But right now, I would like you to tell me anything you can about the rider. Why did you say it was no accident?”

  “He was waiting for us, m’lord,” Walter responded, his breathing becoming more labored. “We had just come from the woods. I saw him. Hiding in the brush. He was just standing there. And then he spotted us. When he did, he came at us.”

  “Why would someone want to harm you?” Ambrose asked.

  “I was not the one he was after,” the leper replied, turning his eyes toward the young warrior.

  “Not you?” Fiona asked, surprised by her friend’s words.

  “Nay, lass. He was after Father Jack.”

  “I?” the priest exploded in disbelief. “You didn’t stumble into the path of the charger, did you? You stepped in front of the blackguard for me!”

  “He never took his eyes off of the priest,” Walter said, looking back at Alec.

  “Could you identify the man?” Alec asked.

  “I do not think so,” he said. “But even if I could, what would my word be against the word of a—”

  “It would be good enough for me,” the warl
ord declared.

  “You are a good man, m’lord,” the leper said, shifting uncomfortably where he lay and wincing as he did. “Clearly, everything the crofters are saying about you is true.”

  “This broth is ready for you,” Fiona said, dipping the wooden cup into the simmering pot. “You need to drink all of this, Walter. Then you need to rest.”

  She reached over and gently propped Walter into a half sitting position. Without pausing, she spread the dressings to change his wounds beside her. Alec watched in admiration at her quiet efficiency. He couldn’t tear his eyes from her. And his attention did not go unnoticed by anyone in the room.

  “Now you see why she is called the Angel of Skye,” the leper said, looking at Alec.

  “Is she?” Alec asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “Hush, Walter,” Fiona scolded gently.

  “Aye,” he continued. “This is the land of angels and fairies, you know.”

  The warlord smiled. “I’m becoming more convinced of it every day.”

  “Tell me, m’lord, have you heard tell of our ‘Fairy Flag’?” Walter whispered.

  “Fairy flag?” Alec repeated, pausing to think. “Aye, now that you mention it, I do recall hearing as a child some story—what was it—aye, about a saint’s robe or something, that the MacLeods used for a banner. But it was lost, was it not?”

  “The folk here believe that it is no saint’s robe, Lord Alec,” Father Jack corrected as the warlord stood and returned to his place at the table. “There are a few stories about it, but most believe that the banner was given to an ancient MacLeod chief by his wife...a fairy.”

  “A fairy, Father?” Ambrose repeated.

  “Aye, lad,” the hermit continued. “The story goes that a long time ago, a fairy maid fell in love with the leader of the MacLeod clan. The King of the Fairies would not allow the fairy to live out her life in the world of men, but she could marry the chief only on the condition that she return to Fairyland after twenty years. They agreed and were married.