Megan Denby

by A Thistle in the Mist

  So long ago.

  Tears warmed his hollow cheeks and dripped from his nose. Dark splotches of his sorrow seeped into the porous wood of the wheel.

  Why? Why had he left her? If he had stayed she would be alive. His child would be alive. Why hadn’t he moved her to Dunvegan where she would surely have been safe? Blessed Lord, why?

  “Why?” A groan of desolate heartache ripped from his chest. Night creatures startled, scurrying through the trees, kicking up leaves and pine needles. Duncan clenched his fist and pummelled the rotten wood over and over. Finally his fists slowed and he fell forward, rested heavily against the wheel. Drops of blood dripped from his torn knuckles, melded with the tears that stained the wood.

  Raising his head, he stared at the ripe moon. His hair fell back from his face as a whispered plea escaped his lips. “Please, Lord, please help me,” he begged.

  He closed his eyes and rested his head against the cool wood until his breathing slowed. He felt the steady beat of his heart as it pumped life through his body. He was still alive for one reason and that reason was Hannah.

  Unsteadily he rose to his feet, his full bladder pressing at his abdomen and reminding him of his purpose. He stepped away from the wheel and relieved himself.

  Then he looked back over his shoulder at the ruined wheel, gleaming in the moonlight.

  Turning away, he rubbed his eyes on his sleeve and proceeded down the path.

  ******

  Deirdre hummed lightly, her son’s dark head nestled in the crook of her shoulder. He sighed and his warm, sweet breath skimmed her ear.

  Carefully, so as not to disturb his slumber, she crept from the rocking chair and moved to his cradle. Very gently she lay Heath on his side and drew the blanket close about his shoulders.

  She stood silent, stared down at her child.

  Her perfect, perfect child.

  The dark curls had grown longer over the past four months, framing the angelic face. His lips moved in his sleep as he dreamed of his next meal and Deirdre smiled softly, proudly. He had grown fat from Janet’s good milk. Deirdre had refused when Janet had offered to nurse him along with her own wean. Her son would not lie in anyone’s arms but hers! Instead Janet expressed her milk, filling several bottles per day, attempting to appease Heath’s voracious appetite.

  Deirdre reached out and smoothed a wayward curl. Heath sighed and his lips curved up. The beginning of a dimple played for a moment across his cheek before his lips relaxed once more in blissful slumber.

  Patting the blanket into place, Deirdre backed away from the cradle, her eyes caressing the sleeping infant. As she moved away, her hip hit the rocking chair and it groaned. Deirdre started forward again, cursing silently, as Heath’s hands flailed and his eyes flew open.

  She halted and stood frozen to the spot as she stared down into Heath’s eyes.

  Green eyes – eyes the colour of moss that festooned the woodland floor – her eyes.

  Her heart beat angrily in her ears and her fingers twitched at her side as she stared at the child.

  Slowly his lids lowered, concealed the brilliant colour and he drifted back to sleep.

  Her eyes. Hers. No. No mine. My child! My perfect child!

  Deirdre’s chest rose and fell, heaving with each breath she pulled into her nose. Long fingers drummed at her side and a tremor passed through her eyelid. On shaking legs she moved to the cradle. Her fingers trembled as she adjusted the blanket. This time she did not caress the dark hair.

  The moment was ruined. Ruined by her.

  Deirdre backed away from the cradle, careful not to hit the chair.

  Moonbeams played across the floor of the tower room as Deirdre moved to the window. After disposing of Meara, she had chosen to move into the tower room herself, away from the prying, accusatory stares of the servants, away from the pathetic annoyance of her brother. She’d had the smashed window replaced and now she left the tower room only when her son napped. She would have preferred to spend all of her time with the child but her worthless staff still needed direction.

  The blur of her agitated fingers gradually slowed until finally she just picked at the fabric of her gown, her eye trained on the graveyard.

  The cross that marked Jessie’s grave glowed with an incandescent aura beneath the harvest moon.

  Deirdre squinted and leaned forward to peer out the window. She had done the right thing, pushing that perfect little creature down the stairs that day. There was no way she could compete with Jessie’s beauty and she had wanted Robert so badly herself! But she had not counted on Meara seeing her. Nor had she counted on Robert being such a weak, pathetic man. She had thought that with Jessie out of the way he would turn to her but with Meara’s constant meddling he had instead retreated from everyone. Even when she had given him the laudanum every day so she could control him, he had turned from her. The litany her mother had repeated often when Deirdre had been a girl came back to her. Men are weak and useless. Well, no matter, the pitiful Robert MacDonald was dead now anyway, reduced to ashes along with her insane mother.

  Deirdre stiffened as she thought of her mother. She had loved her once, when she had been small, before her mother had murdered her father, before her mother had asked that she and Sloan help bury their father out on the moor. Yes, she remembered. Perhaps in time she would have forgotten and loved her mother again. But her mother’s bitter words and obsession for revenge had sucked the care from Deirdre’s heart. The last shred of devotion had been driven from Deirdre’s breast the night her baby had died.

  Deirdre’s breath quickened as a vision of a beautiful bairn with a deformed body leapt from her memory. Viciously, she shoved the thought back into the murky shadows.

  No, her baby had not died! Her baby was right here! She looked over the side of the cradle.

  Yes, he was right here by her side. And she would never let him go.

  She let out a sigh of relief and her thin lips pulled at a smile as the moon once again beckoned her.

  Deliberately she avoided the graveyard and instead scanned the courtyard. Soon, winter would be upon them. She could feel the chill in the air and pulled her plaid close about her shoulders. At a slight movement in the trees, she leaned forward.

  Her long fingers stilled at her throat, frozen in a skeletal pose of disbelief.

  She pressed her nose to the window, her breath coming quick again, fogging the glass.

  A lone figure emerged from the shelter of the trees. Orange moonbeams allowed Deirdre a clear image of the man who strode with purpose toward her home.

  He was tall and his clothes hung from his gaunt frame like discarded rags. Long, dark hair fanned out around his face as he limped forward quickly.

  Duncan? Bloody Christ! Duncan McLeod. He was supposed to be dead. But here he was – alive – and he was coming for Heath! The thought eclipsed all other. Heath! She knew it. He was coming for her son. A whining sound filled her head and she clapped her hand over her ears.

  Her ragged breath scratched at her throat as Deirdre watched Duncan’s approach.

  No! He couldn’t know Heath was alive. He couldn’t! Her letter had taken care of that! Her eyes moved wildly over the approaching figure, the whining in her head getting louder. But maybe he hadn’t got the letter. Mother of God, what was she going to do?

  Abruptly Duncan stopped. Time seemed to slow as he tipped his head back and stared up at the tower room.

  Deirdre pulled back from the window, but not before she had seen his crazed eyes, orange by the light of the ripe moon. The fierce hatred in his eyes made her blood run cold.

  She raced silently across the room and closed the massive door behind her. Scrabbling in her pocket she found the key and with shaking fingers, managed to pull the chains together and insert the key into the lock. Her fingers trembled violently but she finally turned the key then shoved it into her pocket. She carefully turned on the dark landing then grasped the railing and felt her way down the narrow stone steps.

&
nbsp; Emerging from the cloak of shadows, she quickly shut the door behind her and sped along the corridor to the landing. She had to make it to the door before any servants were roused. She paused for a moment at the top of the stairs and drew several deep breaths into her lungs. Her hands fluttered up and smoothed at her hair and back down to straighten her skirts.

  Then squaring her shoulders and holding her head high, she swept down the stairs, just as the knocker thundered against the door.

  She faltered slightly, her toe catching in the hem of her skirt. Her heart drummed a beat of doom in her ears and she shook her head distractedly.

  The knocker crashed three more times again in furious succession. The noise reverberated through Deirdre’s head and she gasped at the ferocity of the sound. Her eyes darted to the painting that hung on the wall by her shoulder, the beautiful portrait of herself and Heath. Her fingers jerked out toward the painting, but quickly pulled away as her glance fell upon Heath’s eyes.

  Green eyes. Meara’s green eyes.

  A shuffling sound drew her darting eyes and Angus emerged from the corridor, a lamp held above his white head. The sight of the old man dragged Deirdre back to her senses.

  “Go back to bed, old man!” Her voice sliced through the foyer and Angus halted in surprise.

  The door shuddered as the knocker bashed mercilessly against its surface.

  “I’ll just see who’s...”

  “I said go back to bed!” Deirdre advanced on the frail man, her voice no more than a whisper, each clipped word dripping venom.

  Angus’ rheumy eyes moved to the door suspiciously then back to Deirdre. “Verra well, milady.”

  The aged servant shuffled back down the hall and Deirdre waited until the glow of his lamp had disappeared. Then she hitched up her skirts and dashed across the foyer, just as the door burst inward.

  Duncan stood before her, his gaunt shoulders heaving with exertion. A desperate light leapt from his hooded eyes and his hands hung trembling at his sides.

  “Well, Duncan! I canna believe my eyes, lad. We thought as ye were dead.” Her voice sounded thin and hollow to her own ears. She bit down on her bottom lip to stop the quivering and clasped her shaking hands behind her back.

  Duncan did not answer her. The desperation in his eyes retreated and instead he impaled her with a terrifying stare. She could not tear her eyes away and as she watched his eyes began to glow – glow with hatred.

  She darted a look fearfully over her shoulder. Where the hell was Sloan? Probably passed out in the study, the good-for-nothing bampot!

  She looked back at Duncan, but avoided his eyes and forced her thin lips into a smile, forcing a sympathetic tone to her voice, “Duncan, ye did receive my letter, didn’t ye? That Meara and...”

  Words ripped from his throat, harsh and gravelly, as he cut her off. “I got it.” His voice broke and his throat moved up and down convulsively as he swallowed. Then in a rasp he continued, “I’ve come for Hannah.” He swallowed again and this time when he spoke his voice rang with ragged conviction. “I’ve come for Hannah and I willna leave without her.”

  Deirdre stared at Duncan, confusion clouding her dark eyes. “I didna ken that ye fancied her.”

  Duncan cut her off again, his full lips curled with disgust. “I promised Meara I would take care of her wee sister when I returned.”

  Deirdre reached out and her fingers touched Duncan’s arm. He flinched and pulled his arm away, muscles bunched in his jaw. Deirdre’s hand fell to her side and she felt an overwhelming urge to laugh. She felt a cackle working its way up her throat.

  He hadn’t come for Heath!

  “I’m... I’m sorry, Duncan. There’s no easy way to tell ye this but yer too late. Hannah is dead. She took her own life, threw herself into the ocean after Meara left and the babe died.” Deirdre’s voice shook with fear, as she met Duncan’s eyes. “It was just too much for the poor lass, losing her mother, then her sister.” Her voice trailed away.

  Duncan slumped against the door, the fight gone from his body. His eyelids fluttered slightly as he tipped his head back and crossed himself.

  “I’m sorry, Duncan.” Her nasal voice bit at his ears like a swarm of mosquitoes and his eyes slid back to hers.

  “May ye burn in hell for what ye’ve done!” he hissed, his voice so filled with hatred that Deirdre felt as though he had physically struck her.

  Then he turned, pulled open the door and lurched out into the night.

  Deirdre crept to the door and watched his staggering progress as he stumbled back down the cobbled walk. When he reached the road, he turned south and limped away into the trees.

  Deirdre carefully closed the door and leaned back, her hands splayed upon the door as she released a long shuddering breath. Then she turned and slowly crossed the foyer and mounted the stairs. A high whining started in her head again, accompanied by a feverish whispering. She gripped the railing and paused. Reaching up, she clawed at the gilt frame and removed the portrait from the wall. Tucking it beneath her arm, she moved quickly up to the landing.

  The clock at the top of the stairs startled her as it whirred to life. She paused and listened as the pendulum swung back and forth, loudly delivering twelve bongs.

  Midnight.

  Duncan’s visit had shocked her. But she listened to the frenzied whispers in her head and a new plan emerged. There was much to be done and very little time left. She pulled open the door to the tower room. She had to ready her boy for a lovely journey.

  The door clicked closed behind her as she crossed the room to the cradle.

  ******

  As the chime of the clock faded away, Angus stepped from the shadows. He peered up at the bare spot where the painting had hung.

  Then he turned and hobbled as fast as he could back down the hall.

  By the looks of things, he didn’t have much time.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  September 15 1809

  And the Truth Shall Be Told

  Blast this auld body! Move faster man, faster! Angus silently berated himself, as he hobbled down the path to the stable,

  After seeing Deirdre take the portrait, he knew he had to move quickly. He didn’t know for certain that the cailleach intended to leave but he was not taking any chances. The truth was, he knew Deirdre was not right in the head. After she had taken wee Flossie from her bed, while Janet slept not ten feet away, and held a blade to the child’s throat, he feared she was capable of anything.

  Flossie, thankfully, remembered nothing of that night. Deirdre had passed his great granddaughter into his arms after he had written the wretched letter and he’d returned the lass to her bed without waking her tired mother. He decided not to tell Janet or Mary. His granddaughter did not need the added worry. But he had instructed both Mary and Janet to lock their chamber doors when they retired each evening. His excuse was that he’d heard Sloan on the prowl for the past few nights and he had needed say no more to convince them.

  Thank goodness for the moon, for he needed all the help he could get, and he dared not light a lamp. He leaned on his cane with one hand and pulled the door open with the other. The stable smelled of sweet hay and ripe manure. Angus stood for a moment, letting his old eyes adjust to the sudden dark.

  He spied Jamie asleep on his cot in the corner. He sprawled on his back, arms flung wide, chin on his chest and mouth slack. Empty bottles of ale littered the floor by the lad’s head. Sloan had hired this new stable lad shortly after Rabbie and Meara had disappeared. He was a lazy, pimple-faced lout of eighteen who spent much of his time lounging in the stable and drinking with Sloan.

  Though the lad seemed a little on the slow side and mostly harmless, Angus still did not trust him and was relieved to hear the young man’s snores. He crossed the stable to Maggie’s stall and unhooked the door. She whickered a gentle welcome.

  “Come, wee Maggie. We’ve a job to do,” Angus whispered to the mare. She nuzzled his shoulder as if she understood and Angus led her out of
the stall. As he neared the door, he lost his footing and held fast to the bridle with all his weight to keep from falling. Startled, Maggie jerked her head back with a sharp whinny.

  Jamie halted mid-snore and sat straight up. He stared directly at Angus and the servant’s heart dropped. Swinging his fist in the general direction of Angus, he hollered, “Nay, she’s mine, ye manky bastard. Mine.” The slurred words trailed away and Jamie fell back onto his grubby pillow, mumbling incoherently. No doubt he dreamed of some tart from one of the pubs he frequented in Uig. Gradually his face relaxed, his mouth hung slack and the loud snoring resumed. A long burst of gas rumbled from his lower extremities. With a groan, he rolled over onto his side, facing away from Angus.

  Angus breathed deep of the warm, stable-scented air then picked his way the remaining few steps to the door. Maggie followed, docile once more.

  The night air cooled the beads of sweat from Angus’ forehead. “Och, Maggie, we’re fortunate young Jamie’s been in his cups agin.” Maggie nickered in agreement. “Soon we’ll ha’ young Rabbie back to care for ye,” he murmured.

  Taking the cart would waste precious time but it had been many a year since Angus had sat astride a horse and he wouldn’t be much help to wee Heath if he was tossed onto his back out on the moor. His twisted fingers were slow to cooperate and he fumbled for several minutes with the straps before finally securing Maggie.

  Hauling himself up onto the seat, he grasped the reins and clicked his tongue. The cart creaked as Maggie started forward and Angus held his breath as they left the yard and headed for the rutted road to Dunvegan.

  He dared not look back at the tower room for he could almost feel Deirdre’s eyes burning into his back. He hunched his shoulders and prayed she was too busy with her preparations to notice an old man, a horse and a cart. The trees closed in around them. Only then did the tension leave his shoulders. With an urgent click of his tongue he urged Maggie into a gallop.

  He figured he had wasted almost an hour getting dressed and retrieving the wagon. Time was of the essence. He did not know if Duncan had ridden or if he was on foot but he did know that he had to tell the young man the entire truth immediately.