When a Laird Finds a Lass

by Lecia Cornwall

  He fled. He grabbed his boots and hurried up the beach. He didn’t stop until he reached dry ground, panting as if he’d run a hundred miles. He bent forward with his hands on his knees until his stomach settled back where it belonged and his heart stopped hammering on his ribs. He turned and looked at the sea. The waves caressed the shore, chattering and singing like mocking children.

  And far beyond, out where the water turned deep and black, the wee island sat waiting for him, forlorn and dubious.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Colin MacLeod shaded his eyes with his hand and scanned the coast.

  “Do ye see anything?” Ewan asked. On the other side of the boat, Alex MacLeod kept an eye out for the MacKays, who would surely be looking for their stolen ship.

  “Nothing,” Colin said, and spat into the sea.

  “What if we don’t find her?” Ewan asked. “It’s been weeks.”

  Colin shook his head. “I can’t imagine going home and telling the MacLeod that we lost his daughter. It willna matter if he has eleven others—he’ll consider it a failure of our duty.”

  “He’ll hang us,” Alex said mournfully.

  “Or worse.” Colin couldn’t help but think this was all his fault. He knew he had no hope of marrying Marcail MacLeod, even if she was willing to marry him. Her father would want a better husband for his daughter than the mere son of a tacksman. Still, she’d been willing to dally with him—at least up to a point. She was the most beautiful lass he’d ever kissed, but she’d do no more than that. She’d held marriage over his head like a battle-axe until he was half-crazed with lust. And since he couldn’t have Marcail, he’d slaked his raging need with other more willing wenches.

  Until she’d caught him.

  He’d carry four neat, round scars on his backside for the rest of his days. Still, there’d been more anger in her eyes than hurt. It hadn’t been her heart that he’d wounded—just her pride. It was pride that made her accept John MacKay with nary a thought, and her pride had been injured yet again on the ship. He rubbed the puncture scars on his arse. He’d been glad of it then, to see her shamed, but now . . . he knew Marcail was special. She deserved better than John MacKay, or himself. She deserved a man who would love her back with his whole heart, the way she loved.

  Of course, none of this would matter when he stood before the Fearsome MacLeod and told him his daughter was dead.

  “Where are we now?” Alex asked. “Should we land, ask folk if they’ve seen her?”

  Colin scanned the shoreline again. “Not here. That’s Dunbronach. These are MacDonald lands. Marcail wouldn’t be there. And if she was—” He drew his finger across his throat.

  Ewan blanched. “Surely not even a MacDonald would kill a lass.”

  Colin frowned. “These MacDonalds would. They’re bloodthirsty and cruel. Ye’ve heard the tales. We all have. We grew up with them. Weren’t ye listening?”

  Ewan considered. “Would we kill a MacDonald lass?”

  “Of course not,” Colin said. “We’re civilized. Set a course to the north, Alex lad. Perhaps she’s with the MacKenzies.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  “May I have a moment of yer time, Laird?” Malcolm looked up to find Beitris standing in the door of the solar, looking anxious. He was drawing plans for the cistern and listing repairs that needed to be done. There were cotts to repair and a stone wall to be rebuilt.

  He set his quill down at once and rose to his feet. “Is something wrong?” he asked. “Has Maccus—”

  She smiled broadly. “Och, nay. He’s been no problem at all. Not since Ronat showed us—” She peeled back her sleeve to show him the dirk strapped there. “She insisted all the lasses must have a dirk about their persons and know how to use it, just in case. Even me. She’s a good, kind, canny lass.” She tilted her head. “Selkie or no, she’d make a man a fine wife.”

  Of course she would. She might already be some man’s fine wife, a MacLeod’s.

  “What did you wish to ask me?” he said, his tone crisper than he’d intended. Beitris’s smile faded, and her gaze dropped to the floor.

  “Well, it’s about the wish, ye see. I had a thought about it. My brother was named Ualraig. He was a weaver here, before the Sickness. He wove fine plaids and linen so soft the clouds were jealous. He died, of course, and his wife and sons with him, and there are no weavers left at Dunbronach now. He clothed us all, ye see, and what we didn’t need, we’d sell or trade to others, and they were glad to have Dunbronach cloth.”

  Her eyes shone with pride as she met his gaze. “I was thinking that if ye wished for a weaver, it might serve us well. My brother’s cott is just as he left it, neat as a pin, and his loom was a fine one, built by our grandda. It needs a few repairs, but a good man could fix it, make it run again.” She blushed. “I’ve noticed ye’re good with yer hands, Laird.” She ran her fingertips over the woolen shawl she wore. “Ualraig made this for me, and I think of him every time I wear it.” Her piece said, she raised her brows and waited for him to speak.

  There was a hollow feeling in the pit of Malcolm’s belly. There’d be no wish, because he couldn’t swim, and he didn’t know the first thing about fixing a loom. Still, there was such hope in her eyes. “It’s a fine idea, Beitris. But we’ve no sheep to supply the wool, or flax for linen, or coin to buy them with.”

  Her face fell. “Oh, I see. Then ye must wish for that first, of course.” She sighed. “I do miss the clack of the loom and the gossip and the singing of the old waulking songs as the women worked the cloth.”

  She turned to go. “You do as ye see fit, Laird, and I know it will be a grand wish indeed.”

  “Laird, might I have a word with ye?” This time it was William who filled the doorway. He held his bonnet in his hands, and his expression was humble—worried, even. He’d caught Malcolm pacing, glaring at the sea beyond the window, wondering if he could order it to part like Moses and walk to the damned island . . .

  “Come in,” Malcolm said, and waited for the big man to seat himself in the chair before the desk. It creaked under his weight. William screwed his bonnet in his big hands, scarred from years of battle.

  “I was considering what ye might say when ye go to Eilean Maighdeann Mhara to meet the sea maiden,” he said, and paused.

  “Go on,” Malcolm prompted him.

  “Well, having the young MacDonald lads—and Maccus—here has made it very clear to me that we canna do without fighting men. Most of our warriors died during the Sickness. I was Archie’s captain, but—” He raised his chin. “I’m old. My eyes are growing dim, and my bones ache on cold days. We need young blood, fresh legs, strong sword arms.” He clenched his gigantic fist. “If the MacLeod of Iolair was to hear of our weakened state, it would be a disaster.” He shifted in the chair. “So I was thinking that perhaps you might ask the maiden for some fighting men, lads in their prime, to keep us safe in our beds. A dozen or two would do, or a few more if she’s willing.”

  Malcolm’s senses came alert at the mention of the dreaded MacLeods—Ronat’s kin. He pictured boats sailing into Dunbronach Bay with warriors pouring over the sides, armed to the teeth. Ronat would recognize them, run to one man, throw her arms around him, and he’d hold her tight . . .

  “Of course we need men to defend us, William. But they’d be mouths to feed. We haven’t much to offer them to come to Dunbronach. We couldn’t pay them.”

  William’s steel-gray brows drew together over his dark eyes. “Well, what of the Dunscaith lads? We have lasses in need of husbands. They could wed our lasses and stay.”

  “Perhaps they have homes and families at Dunscaith. Perhaps they wouldn’t want to stay—and besides, what would they protect?” Malcolm said, though he was thinking of Ronat, not Maccus’s men. The day would come when she—they—would leave . . . “Surely we need farmers and blacksmiths—and weavers—before fighting men.”

  William looked confused. “But why would a farmer or a weaver come here if we couldn
’t protect him? I suppose a blacksmith could make weapons.”

  If only a wish could bring all the things his clan needed . . .

  “I’ll think on it,” Malcolm said, and William rose to go.

  “Laird, if ye’ve got a wee moment, I’ve an idea I’d like to discuss, for when ye’re chatting with the sea maiden in a few weeks’ time,” Dougal said, catching Malcolm as he strode along the shore, glowering at the water.

  Malcolm stopped walking, and they both turned to look out at the island. Dougal sniffed the wind and smiled, his love for his home clear in his rheumy eyes. “We’ll have rain before nightfall,” he said, though there wasn’t a cloud in the sky that Malcolm could see. “I’ve been giving it a great deal of thought, ye see,” Dougal went on. “What would I wish for if I were laird? I asked myself.”

  “And how did you answer?” Malcolm asked. The waves were gentle today, a sneaking deception by the deadly sea to lull him into thinking he could enter the water, be buoyed up and carried to the island without sinking and drowning.

  “Well, ye’re a lawyer, are ye not?”

  “I am,” Malcolm said.

  “And lawyers are used to getting blood from stones, so to speak, or whatever else they want.”

  Was that supposed to be a compliment?

  “Ye’ve the gift of a glib tongue, much like a seanchaidh. Ye weave a spell with words same as I do, to bewitch, or charm, or convince.” He grinned and nudged Malcolm with his elbow. “I was thinking that ye might convince the sea maiden that ye need more than just one wish. If ye wished for more wishes, perhaps, that would still count as one wish, and yet, it would be more. D’ye ken?”

  Malcolm rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “It’s certainly an idea to consider,” he said.

  “Is that ye, Laird?” Diarmid asked, bursting out of his hut as Malcolm passed by. “I recognized the sound of your step,” he said by way of explanation as he made his way down the beach to Malcolm’s side. “Have ye any whisky?”

  “No,” he said. “Are you going to suggest I wish for that, for more whisky, Diarmid?” he asked.

  Diarmid tilted his head and smiled. “Ach, ’twould be a grand wish indeed, but no. I had quite another idea entirely.”

  Diarmid leaned on his stick as if he had all the time in the world, which Malcolm supposed was true. He put his hand out, palm up, and bounced it up and down a few times as if weighing the air. “There’s rain coming,” he said, and fixed his sightless eyes in Malcolm’s direction. “But the weather’s no matter. It will rain or shine as it pleases. We canna help that. There are other things we can help. Your wish, for one thing.”

  Malcolm folded his arms over his chest and waited.

  “Now, ye see, Laird, I miss my wife very much. She was a bonny creature and kind enough to wed a man already going blind at one and twenty. I loved her, and losing her was like losing my sight all over again . . .” His face crumpled with sorrow.

  “I don’t think I can wish someone back from the dead, Diarmid, or wish for your sight to be restored.” He put a comforting hand on the old man’s shoulder, but Diarmid put his own over Malcolm’s, patted it.

  “Bless ye for thinking it, Laird, but that’s not it. I’ve been blind for many years, and I see what’s important, and that’s enough. Nay, it’s young Peggy I was thinking about. She lost her family in the Sickness, and the man she hoped to wed. She nursed them all until the end; then she helped my wife and so many others. She should have been flattened by grief with all she lost, but she cared for everyone else. She even came and stayed with me, cooked my meals and cleaned my hut until I felt fit enough to do it myself. She led me to my wife’s grave, sat with me there. It meant more than ye can know. Nay, I wouldn’t wish anything for myself—I’d wish that Peggy could know the kind of happiness I knew with my Meg, with a good man of her own, a chance to start again. Wish for that, Laird, for Peggy and for the rest of the young folk—and for yourself as well and Ronat. Wish for our future, Laird.”

  Malcolm’s eyes strayed past the old man to the byre beside his hut where Ronat’s plaid lay hidden under the cow’s manger. He felt the presence of the secret he’d buried there, heavy as a stone in his breast. He had no right to keep the truth from her, no reason except his own desire to keep her here for a little while longer. For her health, he told himself. But it was for his health now, his happiness, for the sudden rush that filled his heart every time he set eyes on her.

  Each member of his clan had a wish—not for themselves, but for others, for the survival and improvement of the clan. In their way, they had thought as deeply and carefully as any lawyer or scientist, but they used their hearts, considered love and compassion. Malcolm felt humbled. The rules were different in the Highlands, but they were still rules and carefully observed. He was beginning to see that things were not so black and white here as they were in his uncle’s dusty law office. Beitris, Dougal, William, and Diarmid believed. It was hope, a need to believe in destiny and goodness that made the harsh realities of life in the Highlands bearable. Malcolm understood that better now.

  So what would he wish for, for Dunbronach, for himself? The problem of that was a raw ache, a question he couldn’t answer.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Ronat found Malcolm by the sea with his shoes off, his bare feet strong and white against the wet sand, his toes clenching every time the waves reached for them. He’d taken his coat off and stood in his white shirt, which billowed around him like the sails of a great ship. He wore his kilt almost every day now, and that billowed too, offering tantalizing glimpses of the strong, lean length of his legs.

  She’d come to dig for cockles, but she set her basket and shovel down and sat among the rocks to watch him, out of sight.

  He took a breath and stepped forward, his eyes on the distant island. A wave washed over his feet, and he jumped back with a startled cry. She couldn’t help it—she giggled. She clamped her hand over her mouth, but he’d heard. He scanned the rocks until he found her.

  “That water’s cold,” he said, stabbing an accusing finger toward the sea. “I was surprised by how cold.”

  She climbed down to him. “Aye, it’s cold all year round.”

  “Is it?” he asked, frowning.

  “Aye, and there’s a current that draws things in to the shore and sweeps them out again. You can see it from the top of those rocks.” She pointed and he shaded his eyes with his hand and looked at the high point.

  “Is it dangerous? The current, I mean.”

  She nodded. “It can be if you don’t know it’s there. It could sweep an unwary soul out to sea, or it could push them where they wanted to go, aid them, and make swimming easier. Are you trying to learn to swim?”

  He was silent for a moment. “Yes,” he said at last. “It isn’t going well.”

  She looked out at the sea, saw the hypnotic beckoning of the waves, felt a deep longing to be bobbing among the swells. But Malcolm’s face was white and tense with terror at the same idea. Still, he was determined to learn, for the good of his clan and for a wish he didn’t believe in. Her heart swelled. He thought of others first, was kind and smart and brave. He was a good laird.

  “This isn’t the right place to learn,” she said. “You need somewhere calm and safe—like the pool below the waterfall.”

  He stared at her. “But this spot is private. There’s no one to see me trying to—” He ran his hand through his hair. “If they find out I cannot swim, then what? The idea that a single wish will save them has made them happy, hopeful. I cannot take that from them. Not for such a daft reason as being afraid of water.”

  “It’s not the water you fear. It’s drowning.”

  “You can’t drown if you stay out of the water.”

  She titled her head and smiled. “You can’t swim unless you’re in the water, and if you can swim, you won’t drown.”

  He considered that for a moment. “That’s logical enough. I mean, I could still drown, or—”


  She stood on her toes and stopped his words with a kiss.

  “What was that for?” he asked.

  Her mouth watered for more. “You have to stop thinking so hard about everything, Malcolm, and just feel things, do them. What were you thinking when I kissed you?”

  His gaze fell to her mouth. “Your lips are soft. But how will kissing help me learn how to swim?”

  The fierce determination had returned to his eyes, the need to help his clan, to lead them forward, all admirable qualities, but of the head, not the heart. Her lips tingled, and she longed to kiss him again until thinking became utterly impossible. But it was safer to change the subject back to the matter at hand.

  “No one has to know you can’t swim, or that you’re trying to learn,” she said. “If we go to the waterfall early in the morning, at dawn, when everyone is still abed or busy with chores, then no one will see you.”

  He met her eyes, scanned her face, the tense expression in his green eyes fading. He nodded slowly.

  “Then we’ll start tomorrow.” She went back to the rocks and picked up the basket she’d been carrying and came back to him. “Beitris sent me to dig cockles for supper. Will you help?” She held out the shovel to him.

  He took it, looked at the implement as if it were entirely foreign to him. “You’ll have to teach me that too.”

  She grinned. “Och, ’tis easy—and digging them yourself makes them taste better,” she said.