“Maybe your father won’t know. Maybe lying with ye would be reward enough. It would be all pleasure and no risk. Aye, that seems like a better idea to me.”
She reached for her knife again, but it wasn’t there. She was unarmed and afraid. She took a breath, balled her fist, and smashed it into his broken nose. He let her go as blood spurted, and she began to run.
It took him only a moment to catch her. He hauled her down by her skirt, and she fell hard on the pebbled beach, the wind knocked out of her body. “Curse ye, ye MacLeod witch!” He clouted her hard on the side of the head, stunned her.
She was dazed when he picked her up, threw her over his shoulder as if she weighed nothing. He carried her along the shore and dumped her into the bottom of his boat, and she struggled to sit up, to scratch him with her nails.
“Bitch,” he roared as she caught his cheek. Then his fist connected with her jaw, and pain exploded in her head, and she slipped into the dark.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Malcolm strode into the hall. Curious eyes looked up at him. “Did ye find Ronat?” Beitris asked.
“Aye, at Diarmid’s hut.”
“Was she out in that storm?” Dougal asked, his brow furrowing with concern.
Beitris tsk-tsked. “Poor wee lamb. She’ll need a hot bath so she doesn’t take sick. She looked over his shoulder. “Didn’t ye bring her back with ye, Laird?”
“I have something to tell you—all of you,” Malcolm said. He looked around at the simple, honest faces of his clan. They’d been laid low by the Sickness, by Maccus, and by Glenna’s accident. There’d been little enough for them to smile about in the past year, yet they’d welcomed Ronat, taken her into their hearts. He hesitated, wondered if what he was about to tell them would deal another hard blow. They deserved the truth.
“She has recovered her memory,” he began.
Beitris clapped her hands and beamed at him. Dougal’s eyes were keen. Fergus’s dark scowl didn’t budge an inch. “Who is she? What did she say? Who are her folk?” William asked.
“Her name is Marcail.”
“Marcail.” Dougal tried it on his tongue. “’Tis a bonny name.”
“She’s a bonny lass,” Beitris replied.
“Marcail MacLeod.” Malcolm pronounced it clearly, let it ring from the rafters so everyone heard him.
Smiles drooped like melting wax. Silence fell over the room like wet wool. Horror replaced joy in an instant.
“A MacLeod? Did she deceive us?” William demanded.
“Perhaps she isn’t one of the MacLeods of Glen Iolair,” Dougal said.
“The Fearsome MacLeod is her father,” Malcolm said. The gasp of horror was loud.
“She could have murdered us in our beds!” Catriona said, putting a hand to her throat.
“Instead she taught you how to defend yourselves from anyone who’d dare try such a thing,” Malcolm said.
“We couldn’t have known,” Beitris said, frowning. “She didn’t know herself. No one knew.”
“I knew.” Malcolm cut through the buzz of whispers.
They turned to gape at him again. Fergus glared at him. “You knew? From the start?” Fergus asked him.
He held Fergus’s eyes. “She was wrapped in a MacLeod plaid when I found her in the water. I took it from her, hid it.”
Fergus’s gaze hardened; his brows lowered over his eyes. “Ye betrayed us, your own kin, knowing that the MacLeods were our worst enemies?”
There was a murmur of surprise and disapproval. The faces around him hardened to stone, filled with anger.
“What would you have done if you’d known? Would you have thrown her back into the sea, bruised and injured, to die there, or would you have killed her outright, cut her throat while she was still unconscious?”
“Of course we wouldn’t have,” Beitris said. “We’re civilized folk. Och, she was a taking wee thing for a MacLeod. ’Tis true enough she did no one any harm. In fact, she was kind to everyone.”
Fergus rose to his feet and stabbed an accusing finger in Malcolm’s direction. “The point is that he gave us no choice. He stood by and watched us give hospitality and care to our enemy, made a MacLeod welcome in the very bosom of our home—the very enemy he’s supposed to protect us from. What if it had been a man, a MacLeod warrior, who washed up on the shore? Would ye have been so quick to save him?”
Malcolm considered. “Yes,” he said. “Anyone who comes to Dunbronach in need of help should receive it, no matter who they are. Is that not Highland law?”
“It’s more of a custom than a law,” William grumbled.
“She was just a lass . . .” Dougal muttered, shaking his head.
“She is our enemy!” Fergus snapped, turning his back on Malcolm, addressing the clan. “I say we hold a vote, here and now. We’ll make Maccus our laird and send a force to attack the MacLeods, kill them. Better we strike first, show our strength, even if Malcolm hasn’t got the bollocks to—”
“Ye want to attack the MacLeods?” William said, rising to his feet as well. “We haven’t enough men to take him flowers, never mind kill him on his own ground.”
Fergus silenced the warrior with a sharp wave of his hand. “I’ll say my piece, if ye don’t mind. If Archie and Cormag hadn’t died, Malcolm Ban wouldn’t even be here. He doesn’t belong any more than the MacLeod wench. Vote, I say—who’s for Maccus as our laird?”
No one moved.
“I, for one, don’t want Maccus as my laird,” Dougal said. “And Malcolm’s doing a fair job so far, in my opinion. The lass hasn’t done us any harm.”
“And the laird’s right—she did teach us how to defend ourselves,” Catriona reminded them again, showing everyone the knife strapped to her wrist.
“With a knife and a bow,” Annie added. “Maccus is our real enemy, if you ask me. I’m sure Glenna would agree.”
“She helped Glenna snare rabbits for the pot, and she dug enough cockles to feed an army. She contributed as much as she ate,” Beitris added. “And she made a very fine wife to Malcolm Ban, even if it was just pretend.”
“And how will she repay us now that she knows who she really is? She’ll go home, tell her father about us,” Fergus said. He drew his bony forefinger across his throat. “Then the Fearsome MacLeod will descend upon us and kill us all.”
“We’ll have to flee, hide in the hills. The MacLeods will burn our homes, take what little we have left,” Catriona cried, her voice high with fright. She clung to Hugh’s strong arm.
Fergus nodded. “They’ll kill us all—and it will be your fault, Malcolm Ban. All your fault. What do you intend to do?”
“I intend to marry her.”
There was more stunned silence.
“I will take Marcail home to her kin, and I will ask her father for his permission to wed his daughter.”
“The Fearsome MacLeod will kill ye before ye can say a single word,” William predicted, gaping at Malcolm in disbelief.
“Ye can’t marry her. I—we—don’t approve,” Fergus said, his nose in the air.
“It doesn’t matter what you think,” Malcolm said. “I am laird of the MacDonalds of Dunbronach. I will ask your opinion on matters that concern you, but not about who I marry. You suggested I should marry as soon as possible. Well, I’ve chosen a bride.”
Fergus made a low, angry growl. “And we gave ye one rule. No MacLeods. She willna do.”
“I’m changing the rules,” Malcolm said, holding the old man’s glare with his own.
“Have ye asked her?” Beitris asked.
Malcolm shook his head. “Not yet.”
“Ha! She’ll say no. A MacLeod could never be good enough for a MacDonald,” Fergus said. “Even her.”
“I intend to propose an alliance. A truce between the MacDonalds of Dunbronach and the MacLeods of Glen Iolair, sealed with a wedding,” Malcolm said.
“What about love?” Beitris asked. The men turned to frown at her and went back to their conversation.
“Perhaps Fergus is right—she might say no,” William said. “Or her father will. Then he’ll kill ye. He’s not called the Fearsome MacLeod for naught. He’s a murderous barbarian. Aye, he’ll say no, all right, and he’ll say it with the point of his sword as he guts ye from neck to groin. Have ye thought of that? Are ye willing to risk your life and ours for a pretty face?”
“Ah, so ye noticed she was pretty, did ye, old man?” Beitris asked him. “Have ye also seen the way she looks at Malcolm Ban? She lights up like a torch when all he’s done is walk through the door.”
Dougal ignored her and held up a finger. “I believe ye might have the law on your side, Laird. Did ye—well, did ye bed her?”
Everyone turned to look at him. Malcolm felt his face fill with blood. He pictured her face as he loved her, remembered how her skin felt against his own. “That is a private matter.”
The men looked stunned. “Did I hear him aright? He didn’t even bed her? A woman like that?” Fergus asked.
But Beitris made a soft sound, her face wreathed in smiles, as if she knew the truth of it.
“Och, it doesn’t matter,” Dougal said. “Perhaps there’s something in those great books of yours, Laird. I don’t know how ye woo a woman in Edinburgh, but here in the Highlands, if something washes up on our shore, we keep it. With a Highland lass, it’s a wee bit more complicated. If ye’ve bedded her, then ye’ve married her, or made a promise with yer body to do so later. Ye have a year and a day to convince her to stay.”
“Even her da would see the honor in that,” William said.
“Aye. Now did ye speak any words?” Dougal asked.
He couldn’t recall. His body had been on fire, his mind full of how she felt in his arms. She’d said she wanted him, her eyes heavy lidded with desire, her hands on his body, his on hers. There’d not been much talking after that, beyond whispered endearments and things said in the heat of ecstasy, but he could hardly tell the whole clan that. He felt hot blood fill his face. Catriona and Annie shared a giggle.
“Does it matter? The lass loves him, and he loves her. ’Tis clear for all to see,” Beitris said.
“We’re talking about law, woman. Have ye no spinning to do?” Fergus said.
Dougal winced, and Beitris’s smile was replaced by fury. “Och, are we indeed? It’s not law that will win the lass. It’s love.” She turned to Malcolm. “Ye’ve said ye don’t believe in magic. Do ye now, with her? Do ye feel magic when ye look at her, touch her hand?”
Malcolm swallowed. He felt magic, heard bells, felt as if he could fly when she smiled at him . . .
“This is getting us nowhere,” Fergus growled. “He canna marry her, and that’s the end of it. We’ll turn her out, send her away as we should have done in the first place.”
Beitris kept her eyes fixed on Malcolm. “Would ye do that, Laird? Could ye?”
He shook his head. She was his. He looked around the room. “I didn’t come here to ask your permission. I just didn’t want you to be surprised later. I am going to find her now, and I am going to ask her to marry me, properly and legally. I expect all of you to stand beside me when I return, welcome her. You’ve already done that. Is it so hard to continue to do so? Then I will take her home and speak to her father.”
“But if she does the sensible thing and says no—” Fergus began, but Beitris shushed him.
“Ye’ve been a bachelor all your life, Fergus MacDonald. Ye don’t know what it is to be in love.”
The elder’s scowl deepened, and he set his mouth in a mutinous line and crossed his arms over his chest. “So be it. Let him go and make a fool of himself over a MacLeod. The point of the MacLeod’s claymore will make him see sense quick enough.” He turned to glare at Beitris. “And as for love—” His mouth moved, but no words came out. “Pah!”
Beitris grinned at Catriona and Annie. “Go fetch the other lasses. We need to make ready for a wedding, and plan a proper wedding feast.”
Malcolm saw Dougal wipe away a sentimental tear. “I’ll need to write a song after all . . .”
Even William’s eyes were shining. “’Tis a new beginning. A bride is sure to bring us good luck. And I’ll be your tail when ye go to see her father—”
The door burst open, slammed against the wall. Lochie stood in the doorway, his eyes wide as saucers, his face white. “He’s taken her! Maccus has Ronat!”
Malcolm stared at the boy. He had something in his hand, and Malcolm recognized the blue-and-green sett of Marcail’s plaid. Fergus saw it as well, recoiled as if the lad held a snake.
Lochie raced across to Malcolm. “Maccus carried her off in his boat. We’ve got to save her!”
Malcolm’s chest tightened with dread. William strode to the window. “Maccus’s boat is gone, right enough.”
“Did she scream? Ask for help?” Fergus demanded. “Perhaps she went willingly.”
“Nay, she didn’t—he hit her, and she lay still. He threw her into his boat and left,” Lochie said.
Malcolm crossed the room, reached for the great MacDonald sword that hung above the hearth. “I’m going after him.”
“How?” Fergus demanded smugly. “Haven’t ye forgotten something? Ye don’t know how to sail, remember? Ye get sick,” Fergus taunted him.
Malcolm felt the sea rise in his belly just thinking about sailing, felt fear close his throat. But the feeling had been there before Fergus’s comment. It wasn’t fear of sailing—it was fear for Marcail, the woman he loved, the woman who meant more to him than all the fear and seasickness in the world. For her, he’d face the sea or the fires of hell if he had to.
“There’s no other way. I’ll go by boat,” he said firmly, and strode toward the door.
“I’ll go with ye,” William said, and fell into step beside him.
“And we’ll go as well,” Hugh said, rising with Adam and Iain. “Rob will see to things here. Ye need not question our loyalty, Laird. We’ll be there for you, not Maccus. We’re done with Maccus.” His hand tightened on his own sword. “If he’s harmed the lass, I won’t let anyone stop me this time. I’ll kill him.”
“We’ll go as soon as we can set the sails,” Malcolm said.
They reached the shore and William scanned the moody sky. “There’s another storm coming,” he said, and looked at Malcolm, the question clear in his eyes.
Malcolm looked at the great green swells of water as they rolled toward the shore. He swallowed hard, gritted his teeth, and waded out to the boat and climbed in.
“Good lad,” William said, climbing in after him, admiration clear in his eyes.
Lochie ran along the shore, a bow clutched in his fist. “I want to come too,” he said, but Fergus clamped a hand on his shoulder.
“Ye’ll stay here and help Rob MacDonald guard the women.” The old man took the bow into his own hand and began to wade out to the boat. He climbed in and settled himself next to Malcolm. “But I’m coming with ye, if only to watch ye make a fool of yourself, to explain these men had no part in your madness.”
“As you wish,” Malcolm said. He had other, more important things on his mind than the stubborn elder.
Iain and Adam shoved off and jumped in. He raised the sail, and the wind caught it and pulled the boat out into the sea. It skipped over the waves.
“Where would he take her?” Malcolm asked, keeping his eyes on Iain’s face, trying to ignore the drunken roll of the boat.
“Somewhere secluded along the shore,” Iain said grimly. “I doubt he’d risk ransoming her.”
Malcolm shut his eyes. Maccus was a big man, dangerous . . . Seasickness turned to determination. “Then we’d better hurry.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Marcail woke in darkness, couldn’t breathe. She tried to sit up, but her head hurt. She dragged in a breath, but it brought sodden cloth against her mouth and nose, nearly choking her. She coughed and clawed the covering away from her face. The floor under her rocked violently, and rough waves slapped the hull. It wa
sn’t night, but the sky above her was as gray as lead. The wind was driving a new flock of angry, black clouds across the sky and making the sea boil.
“Ye’re awake.” She recognized Maccus’s deep growl, saw him at the tiller, fighting the weather.
“Where are we?” she asked. Her voice came out as a hoarse croak. She forced herself to sit up. Her jaw hurt, along with every muscle in her body. The nearest land was a misty, gray smudge. She felt panic rise in her chest.
“Does it matter?” he asked.
Her gown was soaked, the sleeve torn, exposing her shoulder. She tried to pull the ragged cloth together, but it was impossible. She was cold, so very cold, and her teeth began to chatter. Maccus kicked a bucket toward her.
“Bail,” he commanded. But water was already sloshing around her feet, and every wave brought more. The boat rode low in the water.
“We have to put in to shore, Maccus, or we’ll die here.”
“D’you think I haven’t thought of that?” he snarled. He tipped a flask into his mouth. She was mad with her own thirst, but she knew it wasn’t water. Maccus’s face was red, his punch-swollen eyes glazed with drink. “Bail!” he ordered her again, and raised his fist. She moved out of his reach and picked up the bucket. She filled it with water, poured it back into the sea, and the sea spat it back into the boat. She could feel Maccus’s eyes on her, hard as steel blades. She gritted her teeth to keep them from chattering, since he might mistake it for fear. She was afraid—very afraid—but she was damned if she’d let Maccus see it.
She was exhausted in minutes. Her head ached and her throat burned, and her limbs felt like they were filled with sawdust. The rain began, a sudden, icy, drenching downpour. She licked the water off her lips. Her body shook with chill, making it hard to hold the bucket. The shoreline disappeared behind a veil of water. How long had it been since they left Dunbronach? How far had they come?
The wind and the sea battled Maccus for control of the boat. They seemed to be drifting, spinning, lost. Surely they were being driven into the shore, Marcail thought, trying to see through the storm. It was no use . . .
When a Laird Finds a Lass Page 22