He indicated a seat by the hearth, and when Malcolm MacDonald sat, Donal took a chair across from him. “Now, ye’d best start at the beginning . . .”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
A dozen days later . . .
Malcolm stood on the headland at Dunbronach and stared out at Eilean Maighdeann Mhara, the sea maiden’s isle. Dawn lit the standing stone, turning the granite pink. Tonight was Beltane, and he’d swim out to the island, stand beside that stone, and make a wish.
He wondered how Marcail was, if she’d recovered, or forgiven him. He wondered even more what her father was thinking. So far, there’d been no word from Glen Iolair.
Donal MacLeod had listened to Malcolm’s explanation. He’d left nothing out, including his own betrayal. He recounted the facts as he knew them, as he would if he were giving testimony in court, under oath. He told the Fearsome MacLeod how his daughter had arrived at Dunbronach while his clan still mourned their dead. She’d changed their lives with her gentle kindness. She’d changed his life. He even told the MacLeod that half his clan believed her to be a selkie. Donal’s eyes had turned soft at that part of the tale. “Her mother called Marcail her wee selkie, because she loved to swim so much.”
Malcolm proposed peace between the two clans, since no one remembered what the original slight had been, or who was to blame for it. His marriage to Marcail would be the sealing of the peace—if she agreed—a bond between the MacLeods of Glen Iolair and the MacDonalds of Dunbronach.
But Donal’s eyes had hardened, and he’d pinned Malcolm with a steely glare. “Do ye love her?”
“With all my heart.”
Donal MacLeod had risen to his feet with a sigh. “I’ve thinking to do. I’ll give ye a boat. Take yer men and go home, Malcolm Ban MacDonald. I’ll send word when I’ve made a decision. I’ll be keeping the man who kidnapped my daughter, though. Will ye agree to that?”
“No,” Malcolm said. “He’s part of my clan—my cousin, and my chief’s son. I’ll not leave him behind. We can punish our own.”
Donal frowned. “But will he be punished?”
Malcolm had nodded. “You have my word on that.”
They’d let him see her before he left. She lay insensible, her face pale, the bruises on her skin livid. He’d kissed her forehead and left.
Now, he came here to the headland every day to scan the horizon for a MacLeod ship, but the sea lay empty and calm. Fergus had told Malcolm how his father had come here to wait for his mother, had loved her, loved him. While he waited, Archie had carved their names on a pair of stones. One was etched with “Lizzie,” though Malcolm couldn’t recall anyone ever calling Elizabeth MacDonald “Lizzie.” The other stone bore his own name, Malcolm Ban. They looked like headstones in a graveyard, marking them both as lost. He wondered if Archie knew his youngest son was home again at last, and laird.
He turned to look at his home. He saw the shadows of the clouds on the green hillsides, the gray bulk of the castle, and the burn and the rolling waves of the sea. In the past weeks, he’d rebuilt walls, cut peat, and learned to forge iron nails. It felt good to work with his hands. The clan no longer looked at him with doubt in their eyes. They smiled when they saw him, laughed with each other.
He caught sight of Dougal and William walking along the beach, shovels in hand, still looking for Archie’s cache of coin. There were holes everywhere and nothing to show for them. Still, they kept looking, ever hopeful, just like Archie.
Just like Archie. Malcolm looked at the carved stones again. He pulled the dirk from his belt and began to dig between them. He hit something solid and used his hands to unearth a heavy wooden box. The copper lock was green with salt and damp. He held it for a long moment, his heart pounding. Then he pried open the lid.
There was a bag inside, heavy with tarnished silver coins.
He closed his eyes, hardly daring to believe it. He looked again at the sea maiden’s isle. The sun was glinting off the stone, made it shimmer, look like a woman rising from the sea. It looked . . . magical.
Malcolm blinked. Then he laughed. He fell on his backside and laughed until his sides ached.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
“I believe I owe ye an apology.”
Marcail looked up at her father in surprise. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his expression grim.
“Might I say ye look much better?” he said.
She managed a wan smile. “I am much better, Papa.” She swallowed. “I’m glad to be home.” Her sisters—and Ada—still treated her like an invalid, though she felt perfectly fine, even if her heart was broken. She’d thought of nothing else but Malcolm since she’d woken. He’d been here, but Papa had sent him away . . .
Her father paced. “Do ye know why I sent him away?”
“Because he’s our enemy, Papa,” she murmured dutifully.
Donal pursed his lips. “I’m not sure he is. Sometimes enemies can be friends, and friends enemies. Do ye ken what I mean?” She shook her head. “I mean I should never have sent ye off with John MacKay. I thought he was a good man, and he’d make ye happy. Colin told me what happened, and I have seen to the matter. I spoke with Lord MacKay, his father. He’s sending John to Barbados, to oversee a sugar plantation the MacKay owns there. He’ll be hot and miserable. It was as close to hell as we could agree on.”
Marcail felt tears stinging behind her eyes. “It was my own fault, Papa. I wanted a man who would love me, and only me. I wanted—” Her throat closed.
“Did you find him? At Dunbronach?”
“Yes, Papa, I think I did.” She let the tears fall.
He wiped them away with the pad of his thumb. “Then why the tears? Malcolm MacDonald said he loves ye. Do ye love him?”
She sobbed all the harder. “Yes, Papa, I love him. I will never, ever love anyone else. But he’s our—your—enemy. Not mine, Papa. He’s not my enemy.”
“No, he’s not. Not anymore. I’ve decided to make peace with the MacDonalds of Dunbronach.”
She looked up at him through her tears. “Truly? There is much we could do to help the MacDonalds. So many died of the Sickness, and they—”
He held up a finger to shush her. “I have one condition.”
She was silent, her heart in her throat.
“I insist that the peace between our clans must be sealed with a wedding. Your wedding, to Malcolm Ban MacDonald. Does that suit you? I want you to think on it hard this time and not say yes the way ye did with MacKay, is that clear?”
She smiled and threw herself into her father’s arms. “Yes, Papa. Yes, I want him. I don’t have to think. This time I know.”
“Well, then. Beltane is two days off. He said something about it being a magical time for his clan—” She let him go, rushed toward the door. “Where are ye going, lass? I haven’t finished!”
She smiled from the doorway. “To pack, Papa, and to tell my sisters I’m going to be a bride. Can we get there in time? By Beltane night?”
He let out a sigh. “We can—if ye don’t spend a month packing.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
Beltane
“Beltane marks the end of the dark half of the year and the start of summer, a time of birth, renewal, and growth,” Dougal said to the clan as they gathered around the twin bonfires on Beltane night. “We drive our cattle between the fires to bless them before they go into the hills to grow fat on summer grass. The lads leap the flames for luck, and the lasses press ivy close to their hearts in hopes of finding their true love.” He grinned at Catriona and Hugh, at Peggy and Rob, and Iain and Annie. “I don’t think there’s much need of ivy this year.”
He turned to look at Malcolm, standing in the light of the fire, his red-gold curls gleaming. “And it’s a night for magic and wishes.” He raised a cup of Beitris’s summer ale, brewed with special herbs, sipped and passed it around, and the party quickly grew merry.
Malcolm forced himself to smile and to congratulate Iain, Hugh, and Rob, who’d asked his
permission to wed their lasses and make their homes at Dunbronach. They’d taken Maccus back to Dunscaith in chains. While the chief was deciding what to do with him, Maccus had found his way into the wrong bed—and this time, he was so drunk that it was Ramsey Dubh himself, and not his pretty wife, that Maccus had tried to have his way with. Ramsey had run him through for the insult, and Maccus was buried, unmourned. His tail had requested the chief’s permission to return to Dunbronach. Some of their kin—weavers and farmers and shepherds—had promised to come too. The clan was thriving.
Glenna sat by the fire among the clan, back to normal. Fergus had told her the truth. The child had cried, refused to believe it, until Fergus pointed out that they were all related to Maccus to some degree. He told her she was just like her mother: brave, clever, and a rare beauty. From that day on, she combed her hair and wore red ribbons in her braid.
There’d been no news from the MacLeod. Perhaps a reply would come tomorrow, or the day after that, if he survived the swim tonight. Malcolm was nervous. He looked around at the faces of his clan, saw happiness and hope. For them, he’d swim the whole ocean . . .
“It’s time, Laird,” Dougal said at last. “Do ye know what ye’ll wish for?”
“Aye,” he said, and felt anticipation fill his breast as he took off his boots and unbuckled his plaid. He’d swim in just his long shirt.
The whole clan followed him to the water’s edge. William clapped him on the shoulder as he went to the edge of the sea, and Hugh and Lochie played the pipes. Fergus nodded and smiled.
Malcolm walked into the sea, felt the cold water instantly chill his flesh.
He waded until he reached his chin, then he swam the way she’d taught him, one long stroke after the other, kicking hard.
The sea was calm, gentle, as if it wanted him to reach the wee island, make his wish. He was nearly there. His heart pounded against his ribs, his limbs ached, but he kept moving through the water, covering the distance.
Finally, he felt the island’s rocky ledge under his hand, and he hauled himself out on the shore and waited to catch his breath. He could see the fires on the mainland, orange smudges against the indigo sky and black bulk of the land. Dunbronach Castle stood like a sentinel, beloved and familiar, his home.
There was only one thing missing.
He rose to his feet slowly, felt the breeze chill him. There was no one here. He leaned against the standing stone and wondered what he should do, how this was meant to work. Should he call to the sea maiden, or simply face the sea and speak his wish aloud and let the wind and the tide carry it where it was meant to go? There’d been no instructions, not even any guidelines.
Did magic even come with guidelines?
He slicked the water out of his hair. Was it selfish to wish for Marcail? He loved her, longed for her. She was his first thought in the morning, his last one at night. He dreamed about her. He would never love any other woman the way he loved her. She was the other half of his soul. How long did he have to speak the wish?
He closed his eyes. “Marcail,” he whispered. She was what he wanted, as his wife, his lover, his friend.
That was what he wished for.
CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
Marcail was standing barefoot on the rail of the ship, leaning out over the waves like a seagull. She was scanning the darkness for a familiar coastline. Well, familiar to her, Donal MacLeod thought, watching her. He’d never been there. He expected a mixed welcome when he arrived at Dunbronach, since he was the first MacLeod to set foot there in four generations or more. Besides Marcail, of course. She’d already conquered Dunbronach and its laird.
Donal wasn’t afraid. He trusted Malcolm Ban MacDonald, found him a man of honesty and honor. He wasn’t anyone’s enemy.
It was already dark, and Donal had wanted to put in to shore for the night, but Marcail had begged him to sail on, to get to Dunbronach.
They were late because Marcail’s sisters had been loath to let her go so soon after she’d come home. There’d been tears, pleas, and endless hugs from his other lasses.
There’d been no tears from Marcail. He’d never seen a lass so full of joy and hope.
“There!” Marcail cried, standing on her toes and pointing. Donal winced and wished she wouldn’t stand on the rail that way, given her tendency to slip off . . .
“I’m going to swim to that wee island, Papa. That’s where he’ll be.”
He frowned at her. “Don’t be foolish. You’ll land with me as is proper and let me escort ye ashore. Ye don’t want to arrive bedraggled and wet, do ye? Not if you’re to be the lady of Dunbronach.”
She climbed down to kiss his cheek. “No, Papa. Malcolm will be on that island. I need to see him. I have to tell him I love him.”
He scanned her face in the moonlight, so alight with joy. He sighed. “Ye’ve always been able to swim like a seal, haven’t ye?” he said softly. “Go on, then. Go to him.”
She dove into the sea, with barely a splash to mark her passing.
Malcolm woke. He’d fallen asleep. The moon had risen, and it shone over the waves. He was still on the island and still very much alone. He scowled at the sea.
Something splashed in the water, and he saw a dark head. Just a seal, he thought miserably, but a long arm arced gracefully above the surface, and Malcolm blinked. Then it was gone. He rubbed his eyes, willed it to reappear, to be . . .
Marcail.
He was on his feet in an instant, watching her swim toward him. Suddenly he believed in magic and miracles and selkies. With his whole heart. He reached for her as she touched the shore, and she took his hand and let him draw her out of the water until she was standing before him, breathless and sleek and wet.
“Hello, Malcolm Ban.”
He swallowed, but his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. He stared at her. The moonlight shone through her wet gown, illuminated the shape of her body, her long legs.
“Have you made your wish?” she asked.
“I have.”
“And did it come true?” she asked, her voice soft, shy.
He let his eyes move over her and return to find hers. “Aye.” His voice was husky, thick.
She touched his cheek, her fingers cold as the sea and wet. “That’s because you were born to be the laird of Dunbronach. It’s in your blood. You are Dunbronach, Malcolm—the brains, muscle, and soul of this place, the magic, and the future.”
He kissed her gently. “Then you are the heart of this place, my—our—good fortune.”
She slid her arms around his neck and kissed him, and he kissed her back with all the passion in his heart.
She broke the kiss. “Papa came with me, and he says—” He put a finger to her lips.
“It can wait until morning. I have my wish, Marcail, and the rest of this night is ours.”
He kissed her again, and neither of them spoke again for a very long time.
Out in the sea, a dark head surfaced near the wee island. For a moment she floated in the sea’s silky caress and waited, taking in the scents on the night air. They made her quiver. Her dark eyes took in the distant silhouette of the castle and the fires burning on the shore, illuminating smiling human faces. She felt something tug in her breast, an old longing, half-forgotten. She saw the moonlight glint on the stone that rose upon the island, and she saw a golden head and a dark one and the shimmer of smooth, white limbs as they moved together, loved and were loved.
Then a school of silver fish shot by her, and she felt a rush of wild excitement fill her breast. She tipped her tail and dove back into the depths of the sea, free.
About the Author
Olivia Cotton Cornwall
Lecia Cornwall lives and writes in Calgary, Canada, amid the beautiful foothills of the Canadian Rockies, with four cats, two university students, a crazy chocolate Lab, and one very patient husband. She is hard at work on her next book. Come visit Lecia at www.leciacornwall.com.
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
When a Laird Finds a Lass Page 26