She added shades of magic to the secrets she sensed, imagining a wizard taking his ease on the carved wood and leather chair to one side of the table.
Was this where Gordon had met up with Flora during the day? Nay, that could not be, for hadn’t Fiona seen him upstairs? Had the push been accidental or deliberate? Noticing a map on the same wall as the open door, she stepped in front to examine the outline of Inverbrevie. The drawings appeared as ancient as the carved shelves; the waves drawn beyond the coastline had faded to a washed-out blue, and amongst the waves rode whales and more—a woman holding up her arms. She did not have gold hair as one might expect in a mermaid, but long black hair, exactly like Celestina’s own. Mayhap the magic she had sensed was not far wrong. Inverbrevie had come to Niall as part of Flora’s dowry, yet the tales Aileen spun might have come straight off the engraving.
Frightened to touch a map that appeared to predict her arrival, she traced the outline of the coast with her gaze, recognising the bay where Niall had found her. She was astounded that she hadn’t landed farther up the coast, since the arm of the bay to the north did not stretch as far into the Atlantic Ocean as she had thought. A notation on the map had her standing on tiptoe to read, but the language was not one she recognised. She must ask Niall to translate when he returned.
The Keep sat in the map’s centre, its importance to the painter obvious by the way it towered higher on map’s landscape than was real. Inland, behind the Keep, was the loch, larger than expected but with the Pict house drawn beside it.
Celestina smiled, turning away, her head full of memories: Niall carrying her back to the Keep, his kisses. Aye, their marriage was an occasion to be longed for with all her heart.
Hearing voices at the other end of the passage, she closed the door. If Niall needed her, he knew where he had asked her to wait.
The open door had hidden a plain wall agleam with dangerous decorations: armaments, such as the large axe lying across pegs at the highest level, easily accessible but dangerous if it fell—not that she had the strength to jar the wall. Swords, short swords, daggers like the one Niall carried tucked in his socks—all of them revealed Niall as the warrior, a man who had made a career of war. The last did not adorn the wall, though she could see pegs where it usually hung.
Giving into temptation, she picked the sword up and, surprised by its lightness, carried it to the window, the better to examine the engraving. The gold pattern on the blade must have been inset by a craftsman, an expert in metals practising his art in the hot fires of a forge. She could picture a dark, low-ceilinged place, bellows reddening the coals, the smoke and the steam, the anvil … she had to admit this had come from the hands of a master—a Spanish master of exquisite Toledo steel. Her hands began to shake as she recognised her family ensign—and her brother’s initials, M d V.—Miguel del Vargas—etched in the blade.
Careless, she let the sword fall, slicing into the mound of her thumb. Spilling the sword and her blood onto the floor, Celestina let out a cry of dismay—a cry from the heart. Niall had killed her brother. Miguel’s death had brought her here to this wild coast; and now this terrifying discovery, not to mention its heartbreak.
Celestina’s hand bled—hurt—but she could ignore that pain. The ache in her heart was worse. That she had found love only to lose it again was like a dagger in her heart.
She felt betrayed—a nonsense since Miguel had died months before her father made up his mind to take her with him when he joined the Armada. Spain, her home, was at war with so many countries: England, France, the Netherlands. Nobody could have predicted that the man she would come to love and the man who had fought with and killed her brother would be one and the same.
She needed a plan. Needed to get away.
Her hand bled everywhere, staining her skirts, and the flow should be stemmed before the weakness making her head buzz ended in a swoon. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath then swallowed it down along with her fears.
The sensible notion would be to search the room for some sort of cloth she could use to bind the wound. In the end, the only alternative seemed to be the petticoat that gave her skirt its fullness. Grabbing one of Niall’s Skean dhu off the wall, she lifted her skirt above the knees and made an attempt to rip the hem off her petticoat, staining the knife red in her struggles to cut through the hem. ‘Hmmph.’ If the frayed cloth binding her hand appeared ugly, she had an excuse. She challenged anyone to tie a knot using one hand, while holding the other end of the strip with the teeth, the way she had.
That done, Celestina took a moment to consider, she needed a plan and decided that it might behove her to keep hold of the dagger.
Why?
Because though she doubted her ability to make good on any threat she might have to make, she hoped that the anger bubbling inside her against Niall would aid her to frighten anyone intent on doing her harm.
Better that she had drowned than discover that she had been betrayed by the man she loved. She ran from the room with nae notion of where to go.
She had taken her destiny into her own hands once before by leaping from the San Miguel into the Atlantic. Who knew what dangers lay ahead now she must travel alone.
All that remained was to screw up her courage and persuade—or threaten—Jean into revealing the whereabouts of the lad that Fiona had seen the maid walking out with. Celestina had her own suspicions. Anyone careless enough to lose two gold doubloons had to be hiding more than a hole in his pocket.
Her father had been a careful man. That’s why Celestina was one of only two who were aware of the cache of doubloons aboard the San Miguel that he had stowed under the crib his daughter slept in aboard the caravel. Aye, she had known and, obviously, her father had been the other. So where was the San Miguel now?
Chapter 20
Niall
‘Curse Jack Grant.’
His compatriot in arms had left him to clean up the mess he had made by running off with Isabeau.
It didnae matter that his father had met and approved of Sellie; now the McDonall was moaning and calling Niall stupid and ungrateful for letting Jack steal a march on him by running off with the heiress—never mind that Niall was unavailable to her. Snelling of course was stirring the pot and kept it churning, saying pitifully, ‘The Grants, oh dear, the Grants,’ as if the clan had a bad reputation or had had other plans for Jack.
But nae, more than likely it was because the clan’s status was beyond reproach and a voice that carried some heft at court. There was more to Snelling’s wish to marry Isabeau off to a hardly recognised laird from the back of beyond.
Little did he ken, the Grants probably couldn’t care less, though Jack’s father might give his brother, clan chieftain, a put-that-in-yer-bonnet smile if the wedding of Jack and Isabeau ever came to pass.
Niall waved them on their way with his father’s coterie of clansmen there to watch his father’s back should any outlaws dare to attack their reduced column, for the chaperon had been left behind. Typical of the McDonall, letting the blame fall on Niall. That his son’s Sept was left with another mouth to feed his father wouldn’t give a jot.
On his way back inside the Keep, he gave over a few minutes to considering what to do with the woman. It wasnae as if she was young; chaperons seldom were. Sellie had nae need of one, not now, though mayhap as a maid to help her learn the ways of a Scots wife wouldnae go amiss. Would she consider that beneath her? And then there was the question of Sellie actually being a Selkie. Would the woman run off screaming? He laughed at the thought.
He was still laughing to himself when he reached the muniment room and discovered the door standing wide. ‘Sellie,’ he called then turned on his heel to bound up the stairs. He didnae blame her for not waiting. Getting rid of his father and Snelling had taken longer than he had expected. ‘Sellie,’ he called her name again as he swung open the door to the chamber they shared.
‘Where are ye lass? If yer hiding, I would advise ye to come out as my patience
has been well tried today.’ He dived into the dressing room then the one that contained the bathing tub, singing out, ‘Wait till ye hear what I have to tell ye for ye will never guess, not in a hundred years.’
Deciding she must be in the nursery, keeping the lasses amused, Niall pounded up the stairs to have his daughters inundate him with questions.
‘Has Grandpa gone?’
‘Can we play with Sellie, now that yer back?’
‘Aye, does she still have to bide in the muniment room, waiting for ye?’
Stunned was simply a word, a daft observation compared to how he felt, which was nauseous and like to give into it any moment. He ran back down stairs trying to make sense of what was happening.
He strode to the bed, as if she might suddenly appear and prove his suspicions wrong. Nae one expected mercenaries to experience the emotions rushing through him, filling his head, his heart. She had lain here this morning, smiling at him. Grabbing her pillow he buried his face in it, sucked in a deep breath and smelled Sellie. His head spun and he dropped to his knees, arms crushing the pillow to him.
Sellie might have said she loved him, but obviously she loved the sea more.
How long he knelt beside their bed he didnae ken. It was the sound of his daughters giggling as they came down the stairs from the nursery that roused him. What was he thinking of? She might still be here in the Keep. How did he dare give up on Sellie so quickly?
‘Who’s making all the noise?’ he yelled, getting to his feet.
Somehow he drew himself together and forced a grin as his lasses came through the door. ‘How would ye like to play a game?’ The chorus of ‘ayes’ was what he had expected.
He looked at their bonnie faces, his lasses—bairns. He hated to raise their hopes, raise his own hopes. ‘Sellie’s hiding from us. Do ye want to help me look for her? I’m sure the three of ye ken all the wee nooks and crannies about the Keep. Come and show me.’
They looked the rest of the morning and still they didnae find her.
His Sellie had truly gone.
Celestina
Fortune smiled on her as she saw Jean slip out of the kitchen, a basket over her arm as she walked out into the Bailey. The maid acted almost as guardedly as did Celestina, both of them circling the Bailey close to the wall in the direction of the stables. She felt safe, knowing where Niall was, having caught the sound of voices outside the gatehouse as he said farewell to his father—a welcome distraction, allowing Celestina time to sneak out unseen.
Following Jean was simple, both of them acting with extreme caution and Celestina the more successful of the two, as Jean did not take the precaution of looking behind her. The stables were unusually empty now; most of the horses were leaving Inverbrevie with the McDonall. Even Jack’s mount had gone. The Keep would soon be quiet again, locked in the silence that distance lent Inverbrevie. Celestina’s musing petered off as she remembered that she too would soon be gone. The thought hit her in the throat, cutting off her breath.
She had to leave Niall.
Unlike at home in Spain, here she had grown used to the smells and dust of the stables, as the lasses loved to visit the horses and feed them treats. She would miss that. Miss them. That’s how she knew of the stall at the far end. No longer used for horses, it was piled high with stable detritus—old saddles and reins in need of mending, bags of oats stacked in easy-to-reach piles in the opening. She watched as Jean slipped in there betwixt the stacks.
Of course it was obvious now that Jean was feeding the lad, which confirmed that he was not local with a family to feed him.
In the few moments it took Celestina to walk to the stall, Jean was in the man’s arms. Celestina recognised him the moment he lifted his head, looking at her over Jean’s shoulder.
The midshipman let out a horrified sound, half scream, half gurgle as he in turn recognised her. He pulled Jean behind him and pointed, yelling, ‘Basta! She is a ghost.’
Jean squeaked, ‘Nae, dinnae be daft. It’s only Sellie.’
Niall
Where could Celestina have gone? Betwixt him and the lasses, they had searched the whole house. He returned to the muniment room, seeking a quiet place to process his thoughts. What had he done that was so bad she wanted to leave him?
Niall closed the door, shut his household out and himself in with his reflections. Deeply engrossed with his memories—from the day he found Sellie to their incredible loving of the night before—he wondered if he had missed some sort of indications that she was unhappy with their life together. He didnae notice the blood until he sat behind the table and saw he had left red footprints on the floor. Shoving up from the table, he realised his Toledo steel sword lay on the floor below the window. The blood smeared across the blade appeared almost dry.
His stomach sank as if he had swallowed a huge boulder.
Did she hate being on land so much that she would rather die than stay with him? If the blood had dried, how long since she cut herself?
Questions … he had naught but questions when he needed answers.
Niall squared his shoulders. Very well, if Sellie wanted to leave him, he wouldn’t stand in her way. Neither would he let her kill herself doing it. He had to retrieve her Selkie skin from Aileen and set her free to return to the ocean.
Celestina
‘Where is the San Miguel?’ she had demanded in Spanish of the midshipman who still acted uncertain, as if he were obeying the commands of a ghost. Jean had looked on with her mouth open. It would not have surprised Celestina if the maid thought they were speaking Selkie, but she had little time for explanations. ‘Take me there.’
‘It makes no difference,’ she assured him, ‘You either do as I say or die.’ Sellie was not above taking advantage of his fear. ‘Mayhap I’ll have to drown ye the way mi padre died. Or the way Rosalina did, while ye scrabbled on the deck in an attempt to steal the jewels falling from my skirts. Then again I might stab ye in the back like the man found just north of here. I have little doubt that he was one of the crew. Who killed him … huh? Did he demand a share of the spoils, the doubloons ye have been scattering in yer wake?’
He crossed himself then pressed his palms together as if in prayer. ‘It was el Teniente who did it. I, Luis, assure ye that one sailor was already half-drowned and collapsed. As for the other, el Teniente ran after him and stabbed him with his short sword. I was the only one to escape.’
The mound of her thumb ached where she held Niall’s Skean dhu, fearing to put the dagger down and lose her hold over Luis. She felt certain Jean had filled his head with tales of Selkies and their magic, and he had come to the conclusion that it was not worth the risk of dying the way el Teniente had killed the sailor.
Celestina could tell by the height of the sun that the two of them had walked for half the afternoon when he turned to warn her, not against himself but el Teniente. ‘Ye must look out from here on. This is where he is hiding.’ He gave a wave, indicating a thick grove of trees on their right where the land dipped away from the cliff top into a hollow. ‘Sometimes he goes down to the San Miguel.’
She looked over the cliff top to the north but could see naught. ‘‘Where is my ship?’
‘It’s not far. The truth is that the storm blew us into a huge sea cave, and when the tide went out, she settled down into the sand. Then the tide came in and we tried to re-float her, but the only mast that had not already broken was caught on the roof of the cave on the rising tide.’
Then Luis suggested, ‘If ye get down on yer knees, keeping low, when ye look over the cliff ye should be able to see the windows at the stern still slightly outside the cave’s edge.’
Pointing with the Skean dhu, Celestina said, ‘I can do that, but not until after ye get down on yer knees.’
He might believe she did not trust him, and of course he was correct. After the discovery of Miguel’s sword in Niall’s muniment room, trust had become something Celestina was determined not to grant easily.
From the edg
e of the cliff she saw the midshipman was correct. Compared to the fighting ships of the Armada, the San Miguel had neither the length nor the height of the galleons. Instead of cannons in the hold, she had luxury goods: fine china, silver and rich hangings meant to make the Spanish Dons feel at home. The caravel appeared to have been driven into the cave by the wind and waves, and now sat at a skewed angle, leaving only a small corner visible. Surprisingly, very few of the widows had lost their glass to the fury of the storm, which was a welcome relief.
She tugged on Luis’s sleeve. ‘We have to go before we’re discovered.’
Lying flat at the edge of the cliff, he turned his head to ask, ‘We?’
‘I refuse to leave here without ye.’ She wriggled backward and sat up to warn him. ‘I refuse to give ye an opportunity to tell el Teniente he has been discovered. Mi padre is dead, which means that the ship and everything on it belongs to me, and el Teniente was in charge when the ship ran aground. What he has done amounts to piracy, and Niall McDonall has just hanged a man for less.’
‘Si, Jean spoke of that. McDonall hanged his steward, but she was not certain why. He’s a hard man.’ Luis crawled back to join her and sat up, his brow creased in a frown. ‘We must leave before it gets dark. I will guide ye.’
‘Then hurry. Help me and ye will be able to come out of hiding, mayhap make a home here with Jean, if ye really like her and are not just using the lass.’
His face lightened. ‘She is a woman a man could make a home with, if the Laird permits.’
‘He will if I put a good word in for ye. He loves me,’ she told him, the words coming easily as Celestina realised it was true. She had condemned him without question, yet she was the one who felt betrayed. What would he think of his Selkie being in truth a Spanish señorita?
Suddenly, Celestina knew she wanted him still to be happy that he had found her.
If only her deceit did not kill his love stone dead.
As they turned home to Inverbrevie, her heart sat like a stone in her breast, splitting wider with every beat.
Bride From the Sea Page 16