“You go,” Malcolm said. “I’ve some thinking to do.”
“As ye will, Laird,” Fergus said, and walked back along the beach to the others.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
Malcolm must have fallen asleep right there on the rocky shore, his clothes sodden, his body battered by the storm, his belly empty. It was dark when he woke again, and he looked up to see a clear sky and stars above him. He lay still and stared at them. He’d sailed and swum, and then he’d fallen fast asleep on a barren shore with his father’s sword still belted to his hip, like a Highlander. It felt . . . right. Better than right.
He sat up, rubbed his face, felt the unshaven bristles, the crust of salt on his skin. His clothes were rumpled and stiff—a kilt and a homespun shirt, not breeches. He wore no wig, no frock coat, not even a neck cloth, and he was about to call on the father of the woman he loved, the Fearsome MacLeod, murderous barbarian, Highland laird, and his enemy by virtue of birth and the plaid they each wore.
He grinned and imagined what Major Martin would say if Malcolm arrived to court Nancy in such a state. And Nancy herself would wrinkle her nose, pinch her lips disapprovingly, and flee in horror. He remembered the look in Marcail’s eyes when she saw him in his plaid for the first time. These clothes had felt right from that very moment. His.
He was as far removed from Edinburgh as it was possible to be. He was a Highlander, and the old Malcolm—lawyer, Lowlander—was gone. There was only one thing more that he needed to make his life here perfect—if she’d forgive him and agree to share this life with him as his wife.
The storm had passed, and Malcolm drew in a deep breath of air scented with pine, salt, and wet earth. The moon slipped in and out from behind the departing clouds. He got to his feet and went back along the beach. The campfire still smoldered and the handful of MacDonalds of Dunscaith and Dunbronach lay wrapped in their plaids, fast asleep. Tomorrow, they’d face the MacLeods. If there was violence, how many of these men would die? Fergus? Iain? Adam? Hugh? William? They’d fight—that was a Highland tradition as well.
If he went alone, unarmed, he could meet the MacLeod laird-to-laird, make his request and his proposal. Marriage and peace . . .
When the moon came out again, he unbuckled Archie’s sword and laid it beside Fergus.
Then he climbed the path that his destiny had led him to, the one that would take him to Glen Iolair and the woman he loved.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Marcail wondered if she’d lost the path. There seemed to be two or three paths before her bleary eyes. She was tired. She needed sleep and a place to get warm. Glen Iolair—home—was a handful of miles away, but it might as well have been a hundred miles, or a thousand. The trees loomed and shifted, and the sky swirled overhead as the last of the storm clouds scurried away. She was shivering so hard that she could hardly walk. Her body was on fire, and her head ached, but she forced herself to go on.
A MacLeod never gave up, or gave in.
Still, when she stumbled and fell, she landed in a muddy hollow lined with moss and leaves, and it seemed the easiest thing was to stay there and close her eyes.
She dreamed, saw things she wasn’t sure were there. Malcolm was walking toward her, coming along the path, dressed in his plaid. Her heart leaped to see him, and she held out her arms to him. Oh, how she loved him! She frowned and pulled her arms tight around her body and curled into a ball among the leaves. No, he betrayed her, lied to her. She hated him. She heard him calling her name from very far away, but she couldn’t answer. She forced her eyes open, but the lids wouldn’t stay up. She was thirsty . . .
He bent over her, and she flinched when he touched her fevered skin. He wasn’t real, wasn’t really here, but the water in the flask he held to her lips seemed real enough and sweet as nectar. She heard his voice as a distant buzz, far away. The words made no sense at all, but they sounded sweet, gentle, like the endearments he’d whispered in her ear as he made love to her. Was she still in his bed? She felt the warm folds of his plaid envelop her, and the familiar scent of his skin surrounded her. But she tried to cast it off again. She had to hide it, bury it, for if her father found the plaid, or caught sight of Malcolm, his enemy, a hated MacDonald . . . He was holding her. She felt his lips on her forehead, cool and soft. She frowned. What had she been thinking a moment ago? She couldn’t remember. She laid her head on his chest. It really was a very good dream, and she wished desperately that it were real. She curled into him, cold now, needing the heat of him, felt his arms around her. Her body melted into his, an extension of her own. He was part of her, like her own heart, half of her soul. She didn’t know where he ended and she began. Bliss lifted her. Then fear cast her down, made her whimper . . . There was danger and secrets and terrible lies. Still, she had to tell him, say the words, tell him she loved him before it was too late. Or was it already too late? Her mind whirled inside the dream, and her tongue felt too big for her mouth, her lips as dry and rough as the bark of a tree. And her eyes were weighted with stones. She’d rest for a moment, and then she’d tell him . . . She burrowed into the plaid, safe in his arms—his imagined arms, of course, since none of this was real. She had to find him, tell him . . .
But sleep claimed her first.
Malcolm found Marcail curled on the ground next to the path. Her gown was muddy and torn, and she was dangerously ill, burning with fever, her whole body shaking with it.
He picked her up, held her in his arms, looked down at her glittering, unfocused eyes. She was murmuring, her lips moving. He heard his name. She clung to him, yet flinched at his touch. He looked at the dark forest that surrounded them. He had no idea how far Glen Iolair was, or where to find help. He had to get her to safety. He wrapped her in his plaid and began walking. A dozen times he stopped to hold his flask to her parched lips and wipe her hot face, over and over again. She clung to him one moment and pushed him away the next. He curled her body against his when she shivered and let the night air cool her hot skin when she burned. She muttered his name, smiled in her delirium, and cried out in fear, her voice hoarse and rough.
“I won’t let you die,” he promised, kissing her hot forehead. “I love you, lass. I came to ask your father for you, and we’ll make peace between our clans, you and I. I can’t do that if you—” He couldn’t say the word. She was his whole world. “I need you to live, Marcail MacLeod, my Ronat.”
He walked on through the remains of the night, following the path through the thick forest for hours, but there was no castle, no village, not even a shieling or a hunter’s cott.
CHAPTER SIXTY
Fergus woke as the first rays of dawn pierced his eyelids. He was cold, bruised, and far too old for adventures such as this. His bones ached from sleeping on the hard ground. He looked around at the others, still snoring by the dead fire. He counted them, then counted again.
Malcolm was missing. He’d left him down the beach last night, thinking. He’d never known a man to think so much or so often as Malcolm Ban. Still, he’d been brave, and Fergus admired that, knew he’d misjudged him. Perhaps he’d make a good laird after all . . . He rolled over, and something pinched his hip, and he drew a sharp breath and turned to look at the offending stone or bit of driftwood. Instead he saw Archie’s sword—Malcolm’s sword.
He knew exactly what it meant. “The damned fool has gone off alone and unarmed!” he bellowed, and got to his feet. He looked down the beach and up the path that led into the woods. The younger men were on their feet in an instant, their swords drawn. It took William a moment longer, but he stood among the others, blinking sleep from his eyes and looking around, his sword in his hand. Only Maccus didn’t move.
“Where’s the laird?” William asked.
“Gone off on his own,” Fergus said, and kicked the remains of the dead fire.
“Why would he do that?” Iain asked, scanning the trees for enemies.
Fergus scowled at him. “I know why he did it—to keep the rest of us safe. That’s
why he left the laird’s sword. He means to go to the MacLeod unarmed. It was stupid of him.”
“But brave,” William said, admiration clear in his eyes. “Come on, no time for breakfast, even if we had any—we’d better go after him.” He picked up the laird’s sword and handed it to Fergus. “Put it on,” he said.
“Me?” Fergus said. “I haven’t worn a sword in forty years!”
“Until we find Malcolm, you’ll do the talking,” William insisted. He looked at Maccus’s prone form. “If Malcolm Ban doesna . . .” He swallowed. “You’ll be the laird. Not Maccus.” He jerked his head at Maccus’s men. “Get him up. We’d best take him with us.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
“We’ve got to go back to Iolair. We can’t delay it any longer,” Colin MacLeod said, ragged and tired after so many long weeks of looking for Marcail.
“She’s surely drowned, or someone would have heard news of her,” Alex said.
“We’ll have to face the laird, tell him,” Ewan added.
All three of them sighed.
“What do ye suppose our punishment will be?” Alex asked.
“Death, disgrace, dismemberment,” Colin said. “Maybe all three.”
The other two blanched. “Between avoiding the MacDonalds and dodging the MacKays who want us for stealing this boat, I’m almost looking forward to it,” Alex said.
“Restful,” Ewan sighed. He pointed to the coastline, barely visible in the cold light of dawn. “We’ll be home by mid-morning.”
“The storm barely delayed us at all,” Colin said with regret.
“How should we tell the laird?” Alex asked. “Should we say it straight out, or break it more gently?”
Ewan winced. “Does it matter? The news is the same either way.”
“But if we tell him how hard we’ve searched, that we even visited clans we haven’t seen in years . . .”
“The Macintoshes certainly offer a fine welcome to their guests. I, for one, would have stayed longer if it was possible,” Alex said wistfully, looking at the familiar coastline. “In fact, I wish I was back there right now.”
“It’s not too late. We could turn around,” Ewan said.
Colin shook his head. “Nay. We’re MacLeods. Whatever the consequences, we must face our laird. If he banishes us, then perhaps . . .”
“That would be kind of him,” Alex said hopefully.
“But Donal MacLeod is more likely to hang us and go to war with the MacKays,” Colin finished.
“This is your fault—we wouldn’t be in this mess if you’d married Marcail when ye had the chance,” Alex said to Colin.
Colin rubbed his neck. “You wouldn’t, but it would have made no difference for me. The laird would have hanged me for even askin’. Ye know the rules about staying away from his daughters.”
Ewan frowned. “Aye. No man dallies with one of the laird’s daughters and lives. If he didn’t kill the bastard, her sisters would do the job. Those lasses are as fierce as their da.”
Barely an hour later, Alex pointed to the shoreline. “There’s the whale rock. We’re home.”
They stood side by side and watched mournfully as the morning sun kissed the great boulder and lit the cliff path behind it. They sailed unerringly through the jagged rocks that guarded their territory and reached the shallows.
“In case the laird runs us through with his great claymore on sight, I’ll say it now—it’s been fine knowing ye both,” Ewan said and jumped into the shallows to haul the boat to shore. He turned when Alex shouted and pointed to something on the shore.
“Someone’s been here,” Alex said, crouching beside the remains of a campfire, noting the depressions made by bodies in the ground. “Six men. Gone but an hour or two past.”
“A patrol, perhaps, our own men,” Colin said, looking around. “’Twould be good luck indeed if we met a few friends before we had to face Donal.”
“They could tell us how things are at home,” Ewan said. “Perhaps the laird already knows Marcail is dead, and we won’t have to tell him.” He looked around the wee campsite.
“Wait now—what’s this?” he said, crouching at the base of the whale rock. He scraped away the pebbles and pulled out a plaid. He held it up and brushed the sand away.
“That’s a MacDonald plaid!” Colin said.
The others gasped.
“How did that come to be here?” Alex asked.
Colin looked from the plaid to the campsite and back again.
His mouth tightened as he drew his sword. “Invasion,” he said, and began to run up the path.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
William, Fergus, and Iain took turns carrying Maccus along the path, his half-conscious body a deadweight.
“He’s slowing us down, and as far as I can tell, we’re lost. We’ll have to leave him here if we want to catch up to the laird,” Iain suggested. “We could tuck him under a bush to sleep off the drink and pick him up on our way back.”
“What way back? Our boat is gone, remember?” William said. “How we’ll get out of this and back to Dunbronach, I haven’t a clue. Besides, if the MacLeods find him, they’ll assume the worst.”
“Perhaps the laird will have one of his grand ideas,” Fergus said. “Something book learned and clever.” The others stared at him in surprise. “What? He’s a smart lad. Perhaps we could all learn something from Malcolm Ban. Perhaps it’s time to find new ways to do things.”
“’Tis magic,” William murmured. “Malcolm Ban has bewitched Fergus!” He let Maccus slide to the mossy ground and eased his aching shoulders.
“He looks almost peaceful lying in the moss like that, as if he were at home, in his own bed. Still, I suppose it wouldn’t be honorable to leave him,” Iain said. “What if a wolf or a bear found him, or a MacLeod?”
“He wouldn’t trouble anyone any further,” Hugh said.
William poked Maccus, who gave only a ragged snore in response. “Too bad there aren’t any wolves hereabouts anymore. There’s nothing more dangerous in these woods than a—”
“Stay where you are!” a female voice commanded. They froze.
William looked at the vision that stepped out onto the path a dozen yards ahead of them. The young woman was blond and pretty, her skirts kilted in her belt, her feet bare.
And in her hand she held a knife at the ready. The men gaped at her in surprise.
Her blue eyes widened. “You’re MacDonalds!”
“Now lass—” Fergus began, but she held the knife higher, her brows lowering over her eyes. The bushes rustled and three more lasses stepped out onto the path behind the first, and each one held a knife. They spread out until they each had a different man in their sights, like warriors.
William wondered for a moment if they were real, or some tribe of Amazons. Each one was lovely. Their kilted skirts revealed strong and shapely white calves, and their hair lay upon their shoulders in long braids, red, blond, light brown, and dark. Every one of them regarded Adam, Iain, and Hugh with a deadly light in their eyes.
“Madainn mhath,” William said politely. “We mean ye no harm. We’re here for peaceful reasons.”
The blond tossed her chin, but her knife didn’t waver an inch. “Impossible. You’re MacDonalds. Bloodthirsty, cruel barbarians . . .”
“We’re not at all! ’Tis the MacLeods ye should be afraid of,” Fergus said.
There was a pause. “We are MacLeods,” the redhead said, tossing her long russet braid over her shoulder.
Fergus stepped forward. “We’ve come to see the MacLeod of Glen Iolair. Do ye know him?”
Delicate brows rose, and the lasses slid a wary look between them. “Aye, we know him—what business do ye have with him?” the blond demanded.
“We’re looking for our laird—and a lass. A MacLeod lass,” William said.
Their expressions turned as sharp as their dirks. “I suppose you’ve heard the MacLeod has a dozen daughters and he’s seeking husbands for them, have you?” the lass
with the darkest hair snapped. “Those lasses make their own choices, and not one of them would wed a MacDonald, I promise you that.” William noted the way their eyes roamed over Iain, Hugh, and Adam just the same.
William cleared his throat. “Tis just as well. I’m afraid these lads are spoken for. Fergus and myself are the only bachelors here.”
“What about him?” the redhead asked, waving her knife at Maccus, who still lay on the ground, insensible.
“Aye, Maccus is single, and he’s likely to remain so. I wouldn’t offer him to my worst enemy,” he said.
Her chin rose. “Even a MacLeod?”
“I didna mean that,” William said. “’Tis Maccus who’s lacking, not you.” He watched as the brown-haired lass shifted her feet, widened her stance. She held her dirk easily in her hand, as if she was more than familiar with using it. It tugged at his memory. “Ronat!” he cried. He looked at Fergus. “She taught the lasses at Dunbronach that same stance, had the same way of holding a blade! Do ye know her?”
“Her true name is Marcail,” Fergus said. “We called her Ronat because—”
“Marcail?” The blond’s cheeks paled. The others lost their sharp looks, and sorrow filled their eyes. Still their blades didn’t waver.
The red-haired lass’s eyes filled with tears. “Marcail is dead. What do you know about her?”
Fergus dragged his bonnet off his head. “Dead?” he croaked. “Dead?”
William felt his own heart sink. The other MacDonalds lowered their heads sadly.
“You couldn’t possibly know about Marcail unless you killed her!” the blond said. She frowned. “But that’s impossible . . .”
He wasn’t ready when the redhead rushed at him, screaming a battle cry. It wasn’t her dirk that hit him, but her small, hard fist, square in the jaw. The dark-haired lass had Iain, while the blond pummeled Adam. The brown-haired lass held Hugh at bay with her dirk against his throat. They were screaming like banshees, accusing them of heinous crimes against Marcail. The men refrained from fighting back, since their opponents were delicate, bonny, wee lassies. One by one, the men fell to their knees, beaten. Only William remained standing. He tried to protest, to tell them again that he meant no harm, but the redhead grabbed his nose and twisted it until he, too, fell to his knees. She bound his hands, quick as a snake, with her stockings, which she fished out of her pocket. The brown-haired lass used her hair ribbons to bind Adam, and Iain’s arms were strapped tight with a belt trimmed with pretty blue beads. Fergus raised his hands in surrender, his expression grim.
When a Laird Finds a Lass Page 24