Their chieftain had waited to tell Connor until they were boarding the boat for France. Connor refused to believe his father until he confronted Duncan, and Duncan admitted it was true. That was the only time Connor had ever struck Duncan in anger. Even as a young lad, Connor always had a cool head.
When Connor knocked him to the bottom of the boat and started punching him, Duncan did not defend himself. He knew he deserved it. Eventually, Alex and Ian managed to drag Connor off him.
“Use your head,” Alex had shouted in Connor’s face as he flung his arm out to point at Duncan. “Who do ye think did the seducing? Our man, death-before-dishonor Duncan? Or Princess Moira, who expects the world to bend to her will? Ach, I tell ye, Duncan didn’t have a chance.”
“Do ye love her?” Connor asked him.
“Aye,” Duncan answered.
And that was the end of it. As close as he and Connor were, they never spoke about Duncan’s relationship with Moira again.
Months later, though, Connor shared the battered letter from his father with the news of Moira’s marriage. The letter had taken far longer to reach them than the mere fortnight it had taken for Moira to say wedding vows to another man after professing her love to Duncan. Connor had put his hand on Duncan’s shoulder as he read the letter. But he said nothing, because there was nothing to say.
“I am grateful to ye for going to Ireland,” Connor said. “When you see my sister, you’ll know if something is wrong.”
Just because they never spoke of Duncan’s feelings for Moira, did not mean that Connor did not know them.
“I’ll take the galley we stole from Shaggy Maclean,” Duncan said. “It’s small, but it’s fast and glides through the water like a sea otter.”
“Ye can’t take many men on it,” Connor said.
“That’s an advantage,” Duncan said. “Since ye can’t spare enough men for me to do battle with the Irish, ’tis better to have too few to put them on their guard.”
“How many men do ye want?” Connor asked.
“I could use a second pair of hands on the boat,” Duncan said. “That’s all.”
“Ye know I can’t spare Ian or Alex.” Connor narrowed his eyes as he stared into the fire. “Take Ian’s brother Niall.”
Duncan suppressed a groan. Ian’s seventeen-year-old brother was becoming a fine warrior, and he had plenty of courage, but he was so damned earnest.
“Niall is not much younger than we were when we left for France,” Connor said. “He fought at Flodden.”
“Aye, but…”
“I know, he’s so naïve as to be painful.” Connor took a drink from his cup. “’Tis hard to believe we were that young not long ago.”
Duncan had never been naïve, and he took nothing at face value. Unlike Niall and Ian, who had grown up in a loving home with parents who protected them, Duncan had to learn to watch out for himself at an early age. He did not regret it; the hard lessons had made him strong.
“People trust Niall,” Connor said. “They’ll tell him anything, and that could be useful.”
Duncan leaned forward and rubbed his head. “He’s a good lad, I suppose. Niall will do.”
“Your first task is to find out if the MacQuillans and the other Irish will fight for or against us when we take on the MacLeods,” Connor said. “I don’t want to risk our alliance with them over a wee spat Moira is having with her husband.”
“And if it’s more than a wee spat?” Duncan asked.
“We have too many enemies already,” Connor said. “Do whatever ye can to get her home without starting a clan war. I don’t care if ye have to lie, cheat, or charm them to do it.”
“Hmmph. Lie, cheat, or charm? You should send one of the others,” Duncan said. “I’m a fighting man.”
“You’re that and more,” Connor said, squeezing his shoulder. “Be careful. I can’t afford to lose ye.”
* * *
“Mìle fàilte oirbh.” A thousand welcomes. Moira bit out the traditional greeting to the MacLeod chieftain. She was furious that Sean had invited her clan’s worst enemy to their home. This was one more affront, and hopefully the last.
She brushed her fingers over the skirt of her wine-red gown to remind herself that she was leaving tonight. Twice before, she had worn it. Both times she had had to call off her plan when Sean came upstairs instead of falling asleep drunk in the hall as he usually did. Tonight she was determined to succeed. She caught Colla’s eye and gave him a slight nod.
“Beannachd air an taigh.” A blessing on this house. Alastair Crotach MacLeod spoke in a deep, raspy voice while he appraised her with his cold eyes. He did not appear to be any more pleased by the prospect of sharing a meal with a MacDonald than she was at sharing it with him.
The MacLeod chieftain carried a constant, and likely painful, reminder of his hate for her clan. He was called Alastair Crotach, Alastair the Humpback, because a terrible axe wound he had received as a young man, from a MacDonald, had left his shoulder deformed.
Alastair MacLeod had been chieftain of his clan for nearly forty years, and he wore his power like a second skin. He was sixty-odd years but looked far younger. Paradoxically, his deformed shoulder made him seem more formidable and added to his mystique.
“Ye look like your mother,” the MacLeod said.
“Ye knew her?” Moira had not intended to converse with the man, but his remark startled her into blurting out the question.
“She was the youngest and prettiest of the three beautiful Clanranald sisters,” he said. “I saw her but once, but she was not a woman a man forgets.”
Moira had no memory at all of her mother.
“Shame she left a good man for the likes of your father,” the MacLeod said, “and then died trying to leave him.”
How dare he speak ill of my family to my face? Only the dead knew the truth of what happened between her father and mother at the end.
“And they say ’tis women who spread rumors and gossip,” Moira said, giving the MacLeod chieftain a falsely sweet smile.
“Moira!” Sean squeezed her arm painfully and marched her out of the hall. “I expect ye to be courteous to my guests.”
Moira bit her tongue to keep from saying that his guest was rude first.
“I will deal with ye later, woman.” When Sean had her through the door to the stairs, he gave her a shove. “Go upstairs. I have important business to discuss with the MacLeod, and I can’t have ye causing trouble.”
She would never have guessed that she would be grateful for the MacLeod’s visit or his rudeness. But thanks to him, she would have more time to make her escape. The two chieftains were likely to talk and drink far into the night, and Sean would not discover she was gone until morning.
Ragnall was asleep on the pallet on the floor next to the bed.
“Wake up,” she whispered and shook his shoulder. When he opened his eyes, she said, “We’re leaving, mo chroí.”
She gathered the last of their things, shoved them into her cloth bag, and flung it over her shoulder. After taking her son’s hand, she put her ear to the door. She heard no one in the stone stairwell, so she eased the door open.
With her hand on the latch, she paused to glance back at the bedchamber that had been the source of such misery to her.
Good riddance, Sean MacQuillan. May ye burn in hell for all eternity.
Chapter 6
You’re packing?” Rhona asked.
“Mmph.” Duncan grunted in the affirmative, though it was obvious what he was doing.
“How long will ye be gone this time?” she asked.
“I don’t know.” He took an axe down from the wall and tested the sharpness of the blade before setting it on the table with the other weapons and supplies he was taking.
“Where can ye be going in the midst of the winter storms?” Rhona asked.
He shot her a glance. Asking so many questions was contrary to the understanding between them. He never told her the chieftain’s business. In fact
, he never discussed it with anyone, except for Ian and Alex. And he wouldn’t even tell them if Connor asked him not to.
“Perhaps I won’t be here when ye return,” Rhona said, folding her arms.
“Do as ye wish.” They got along well enough, but if she wanted to go, she could.
“Is that all ye have to say to me?” she said and grabbed his arm. “I’ve been sharing your bed for two years.”
Duncan had thought their arrangement suited her. He should have listened when Alex warned him that Rhona might think there was more to it than there was. Alex understood women. Duncan sighed. It was not Rhona’s fault that there was only one woman he would ever want for more than a bedmate.
And that one woman had forgotten him in a fortnight.
“You’d be sorry to find me gone when ye return,” Rhona said.
Duncan strapped his sword on his back, picked up his bag, and turned to face her. It was ironic that he had been sleeping with Moira’s former maid. Of course, it was Moira who had developed the plan that Rhona pretend she was the one slipping out of the castle and carrying on with him. Rhona had none of Moira’s vibrant beauty, but she was a curvy lass with dark hair and blue eyes. It was because of Rhona’s superficial resemblance to Moira that they had been able to carry on as long as they had without discovery.
It was also the reason he had let Rhona into his house when she kept coming around after he returned from France. Ach, he was a sorry man. At least he never pretended that she was Moira in the dark anymore.
Well, almost never.
* * *
Moira hugged herself more against the chill growing inside her than the bitter wind coming off the sea as she watched for Colla’s boat. Seven years she had waited. Surely, God should not ask one more day of her.
For the first hour she and Ragnall waited, Moira had to force herself not to think about the price she would have to pay with her body for this boat ride home to Skye. Colla was not a bad sort, but she did not want him touching her. Perhaps she could persuade him that a good deed was its own reward. Ha.
They had waited so long now that she feared Colla was not coming.
“Where is the boat?” Ragnall asked in a sleepy voice. He sat on the ground leaning against the wolfhound, who had joined them shortly after they entered the ruins of the old fort.
Moira dug her fingernails into her palms to keep from crying in front of her son.
“We’ll wait a wee bit longer,” she said. “If he doesn’t come, we’ll find another way.”
Clump, clump, clump.
Moira jumped at the sound of footsteps on the stone slabs that had once been the floor of the old fortress. Finally, Colla had come. She wanted to believe it, but with every echoing footstep, she felt disaster coming closer.
Clump, clump, clump. Mary, Mother of God, please let it be Colla.
Out of the shadows the figure of a man emerged. It was not Colla.
She heard Ragnall whisper “Go!” and the wolfhound disappeared into the darkness.
Despite the numbing cold, Moira’s palms were clammy, and sweat prickled under her arms. Her mind worked feverishly to find an explanation she could give Sean for their being at the old fort in the night. But there was none.
“Expecting someone else?” Sean’s voice came out of the blackness.
The calmness of Sean’s voice frightened her more than if he had shouted. She did not want her son here.
“Go ahead, look for Colla’s boat,” Sean said, swinging his arm out toward the sea.
How had he discovered that it was Colla who was taking her away?
“Ye won’t be seeing him again.” Sean paused. “No one will. Colla’s feeding the fish.”
Moira sucked in her breath. “No! Ye wouldn’t. Not to your own brother.”
But she knew in her heart that Sean spoke the truth. Dear God, she had not meant to cause Colla’s death.
She told herself to brazen it out, to pretend that she did not know why Sean had murdered Colla, but she could not. Instead, she sank down on her knees on the cold, hard ground and bent over, trying to get her breath back. Ragnall ran to her and threw his arms around her.
Although Moira had no real memories of her mother, she had been plagued as a child by dreams of her mother’s body floating facedown in the sea with her long dark hair swirling about her. Those images of her drowned mother came back to her now, but with Colla’s body floating beside her.
Mary, Mother of God, please help me. Would she ever have the chance to attempt an escape again? Sean would watch her even more vigilantly than before. All was lost.
She was too drained to fear Sean’s temper. Surely, there was nothing worse he could do to her than keep her trapped with him in his castle.
Chapter 7
Moira heard the clink-clink of the key turning in the lock and pushed Ragnall behind her.
When Sean stepped inside, his large frame seemed to take up all the empty space in the bedchamber. He had left her all night to wait and wonder what her punishment would be for attempting to leave him. In the gray morning light coming through the narrow window, Sean’s expression still appeared unnaturally calm. It did not bode well. Whatever evil he had set his mind to, it pleased him.
“I’ve decided to foster our son,” Sean said.
It was a common practice for highborn families to foster their children with other clans as a way of strengthening their alliances. Months ago, Moira had suggested that Sean foster Ragnall with her own clan. Though she knew better, hope rose in her chest against all odds, like a blade of grass that grows out of rock.
“My brother would teach Ragnall to be a strong warrior,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady.
“I wouldn’t send a son of mine to your clan,” Sean said. “The MacDonalds of Sleat are weak and doomed.”
She wanted to argue, but that would work against her. “Where then?”
Ragnall was all she had to live for, and she would miss him with all her heart. Still, she wanted him away from Sean, anywhere he would be safe.
“The MacLeod chieftain has agreed to foster Ragnall.”
“Ye can’t send him to the MacLeods,” she blurted out. “They are my clan’s worst enemies!”
“They aren’t my enemy,” Sean said, with a self-satisfied smile. “The MacLeods will be a useful ally to us MacQuillans.”
“What of the alliance your father made with mine? You’ve no cause to break it.” Despite the danger, Moira was raised a chieftain’s daughter, and it was her duty to speak for her clan. “Ye can’t send Ragnall to the MacLeods—he’s my brother’s heir.” At least, she had not heard that Connor had a son of his own.
“Ragnall is my son and my heir.” Sean leaned forward, his pretense of good humor cracking. “I can send him to the MacLeods or to the devil himself if I choose.”
Ragnall was clinging to her waist and weeping. Moira held him against her, trying to comfort him, as her mind whirled. It struck her that Sean was not doing this to threaten her brother and her clan, but her.
“You’d best learn to treat me with the respect I deserve,” Sean said between tight lips. “If ye ever attempt to leave me again, I’ll make certain ye will never see our son again.”
“Punishing me is more important than protecting our son?” Even as she asked the question, she knew the answer. Sean had found the one punishment that would make her suffer every hour of every day, and he meant to use it.
“Ragnall, say good-bye to your mother,” Sean said. “And stop weeping like a damned lass.”
“Don’t do this. Please,” she begged Sean as she held her son against her side. “Ye can’t trust the MacLeods with my precious boy.”
“The MacLeods are ready to set sail,” Sean said. “Ragnall, gather your things and get down to the beach, or your mother will pay for your disobedience.”
Sean slammed the door behind him, leaving them alone to say good-bye. For a long moment, she and Ragnall wept and clung to each other. Then Moira wiped her no
se and eyes on her sleeve and took her son’s face between her hands. She knew that what she said to him now was important. It would have to sustain them both until they could be reunited.
“Never forget that ye are a MacDonald of Sleat and that ye come from a long line of famed warriors, including Somerled and the Lords of the Isles,” she said. “Learn all ye can from the MacLeods, for it could prove useful one day, but don’t trust anyone except a MacDonald.”
Ragnall wiped his eyes and nodded, but his bottom lip was quivering. “I don’t want to go.”
“I don’t know how long you’ll have to stay with the MacLeods.” She brushed his hair back and looked into his eyes. “But I promise, I will come for ye or send someone to bring ye to me as soon as I can.”
Ragnall nodded again. Ach, he was such a brave little boy. She pulled him close and kissed his hair.
“Don’t forget me,” she whispered, though it was too much to ask. He was only six.
“I won’t,” he said. “I love ye, Mother.”
“You are the pulse of my heart, a chuisle mo chroí,” she said and embraced her son for the last time.
Chapter 8
Another wave crashed over the bow, drenching Niall from head to toe.
“This storm will pass soon,” Duncan called out over the wind whipping against his face. “The sky is clear up ahead.”
“I don’t mind a wee bit of weather,” Niall shouted back with a grin.
Niall was a good lad, though a mite too cheerful. Duncan did not mind the foul weather, either. Navigating through rough seas diverted his thoughts. Once they passed through the squall and the sailing became easy, he could not keep himself from thinking about seeing Moira for the first time after all these years of longing.
If God had any mercy, she would have grown plump and lost her looks.
Yet it would make no difference. Moira was imprinted on his soul, and there would never be another woman he wanted in the way he wanted her.
That did not mean he would let her make a fool of him again. Not that she would bother trying. Despite the old seer’s vision, Duncan expected to find Moira living happily in her fine castle with her chieftain husband.
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