by Amanda Scott
“This thing is my plaid,” he said, hefting it slightly off his otherwise bare and exceedingly muscular but badly scraped shoulder. “I hear water gurgling, though, so there must be a burn nearby where I can rinse the brine out of it.”
“It will have to be stretched to dry if it is to cover you afterward,” she said. “How did it get so wet?”
“I had it on over my sark when I dove into the loch last night from your friend Pharlain’s galley,” he said.
“He is not my friend, and you cannot have swum with a plaid wrapped round you. However, if you swam ashore below our cliffs, I can understand why you look so battered and why that sark is in tatters. Some of those scrapes are bleeding and need attention, especially the one from your left shoulder down your arm.”
“The sark was ragged before I dove in, but I’ll admit it is more so now.”
“I wish you’d tell me who you are and how and why you came here.”
“Since we are apparently going to be married…”
When he paused pointedly and with another twinkle, she gave him the look that could usually silence even her sister Muriella. But he met it without a blink. Except for his persistent, rather annoying tendency to let his amusement show, the man’s thoughts failed to reveal themselves in either his voice or expression.
“ ’Tis good that the thought of marrying me amuses you,” she said. “I could enjoy it more, though, if I thought such amusement might last beyond your discovery that I am right about my father. Are you going to tell me who you are?”
“My family and close friends call me Mag,” he said. “Pharlain and most others call me Magnus Mòr.”
“Meaning ‘Big Magnus’ or ‘Magnus the Mountain,’ I expect, rather than that you have a son, a nephew, or a younger cousin who shares your name.”
“ ’Tis the first one,” he said. “I have nae bairns, and I doubt that any kinsman also bears my name. But how did you guess that?”
“From the way you said it. Also, you are gey big. The top of my head barely reaches your armpit. Forbye, had you been father or uncle to a Magnus named for you, you’d have said Magnus Mòr MacFarlan. But you are not a MacFarlan, are you?”
“Do you know every MacFarlan?”
“I do not, but I do know that you are not one of ours. And since you were a galley slave of Parlan’s… How did you come to be his prisoner?”
“By being in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he said.
“Aye, sure, that explains it,” she said dryly.
His words were true enough, Mag thought, but he did not want to explain himself further… not yet. “How far is it from here to your tower?” he asked.
“How do you know it is a tower?”
“You said the word twice whilst you were speaking to those louts.”
“Twice? Faith, do you count such things? Nay, do not answer that. Instead, tell me where you were that you could so easily hear all I said.”
“I was above your head in the beech tree,” he said. “With your cat.”
“That cat is my sister Lachina’s, not mine,” she said. “Since I am sure you did not carry him up there with you, he must have followed you.”
“Aye, and stretched himself across my shoulders, purring, to watch you with the louts,” he said, taking advantage of the widening path to walk beside her.
Her expression lightened in response to the comment. But he had hoped to see her smile, and she did not.
Instead, she said, “ ’Tis unusual behavior for him, especially with a stranger. And you still have not told me much about yourself.”
“Nay, I have not,” he agreed. “Nor have you told me your name.”
She cocked her head, eyeing him rather than watching where she walked, which was a daft thing to do, he thought. She seemed to be assessing him, so he prepared himself to catch her if she tripped and waited for it to happen. But she walked as confidently as if her feet knew every pebble and declivity along the way.
“I am Andrena MacFarlan,” she said. “Andrew Dubh MacFarlan is my father. You know who he is, do you not?”
“I thought you must be kin to Andrew Dubh. I ken fine that Pharlain believes him to be his archenemy. In troth, though, I’ve heard nowt of Andrew’s making mischief against Pharlain.”
“Nay, ’tis Parlan who makes mischief against us. He killed my brothers and stole my father’s land years ago. Then he declared himself chief of all MacFarlans. Before, he was just my father’s cousin Parlan MacFarlan. Afterwards, he declared himself a direct descendant of the original Pharlain and entitled to call himself so.”
“Not MacPharlain, though, as would be proper for such a descendant?”
“Nay, and Parlan’s is not the true male line. He is my father’s cousin, no more. Our mutual ancestor, the original Pharlain, was a grandson of the third Earl of Lennox and his countess, who is also an ancestor of ours. Their son and heir signed a charter as MacFarlan, and so our name has remained. The rest is Cousin Parlan’s way of making himself more important. It also justifies, in his own mind, his usurpation of my father’s lands and chiefdom by base treachery and murder.”
“I believe you,” he said.
“Do you truly believe me, or do you say so just because you dislike Parlan?”
Andrena glanced up at him as she asked the question and eyed him more narrowly when he did not answer her. He continued to look straight ahead but said after a time, “I meant what I said, my lady. I will admit, though, that my dislike of Pharlain may have encouraged my belief in all that you say.”
“That is honest, at all events.”
“Aye, and I should also tell you that I do know more about this place and its people than I’ve led you to believe.”
“Then you were gey brave to enter these woods and come so far,” she said. “But why did you lead me to believe otherwise?”
“Sithee, I wanted to hear what you would say about your father and Pharlain. I’ve heard several versions of what took place at Arrochar two decades ago, but each new version seemed more mythical than the previous one.”
“Why ‘mythical’?”
“You do know the meaning of the word, do you not?”
“Aye, sure; it implies either a fanciful account of the facts or a purely imaginary tale,” she said. It occurred to her that she might normally take offense at such a question. That she had not done so was doubtless a result of his nearly stoical nature. She believed he had asked the question only because he wanted to be sure that she’d understood him. Other men she knew would have asked it in a tone indicating certainty that she did not know.
He continued to walk silently beside her. But she was curious to know more about him and what he was thinking. Trying to keep her voice as neutral as his had been, she said, “Did you think that we were figures of myth?”
“You will admit, I think, that Tùr Meiloach has a mythlike reputation. Its very name means a small tower guarded by giants. Forbye, ’tis said to be dangerous, even deadly, to trespass here. Men swear that birds and other beasts of the forest are wilder and more vicious here than elsewhere and that your bogs reach out to grab unwary strangers and drag them under. They say that your terrain is replete with rivers too wild to ford—a fact that, like your birds, I saw for myself. But they also speak of deep chasms with walls that crumble at a man’s touch and bury him. I’ve even heard that whole armies have vanished here.”
“Then why did you come?”
“It was not by intent,” he admitted. “I thought the galley was still far enough south of here for me to make landfall in Colquhoun territory. But the storm had carried us farther north than I knew. In the pitch darkness, with waves battering me as I swam, it was hard to tell where I was.”
“Are you a Colquhoun, then?” She knew any number of Colquhouns, who were their nearest neighbors to the south.
“Nay, I’m not.” His gaze met hers.
“Is your home near them?”
“Aye, in places, and near MacFarlans, too. I’m a Ga
lbraith. But let us stop now before we ford yon burn. I want to rinse out my plaid and tend my scrapes.”
She watched him stride to the gurgling burn and drop to a knee beside it. She knew who the Galbraiths were. But, despite their being neighbors of a sort, she had never met one before. Their lands lay over the mountains, along Loch Lomond and south of the MacFarlan land there. The Galbraiths also owned an island castle in the loch, near the ancient sanctuary of Luss, where many MacFarlans lay buried.
“I have heard my father speak of Arthur, Laird of Galbraith.”
“He is my father,” Mag said, glancing back over his shoulder as he pressed his plaid into the stream with one hand.
“Then your family lives on Inch Galbraith and in Glen Fruin,” she said.
“We have a tower on the inch, the land on west Lomondside, and more on east Lomondside in Strathendrick,” he replied as he switched the plaid to his left hand so he could splash water on his injured shoulder with his right. Still trailing the garment in the water, he knelt to duck his head in the icy stream. Then, shaking the water from hair and beard, he slicked his hair down and combed it with his fingers.
“That’s got most of the salt out, I think,” he said.
She could tell nothing from his voice or what little expression his beard let her see, so she said, “I thought the Laird of Galbraith was one of Parlan’s allies.”
“My lord father would say he is not. He would insist that he just follows the dictates of our liege lord, the Earl of Lennox.”
“Aye, sure, for that is what Parlan says, too, and other Loch Lomond lairds, according to my father. And, although the King ordered Lennox’s arrest two months ago, Lennox is still allied with his good-son, Murdoch Stewart, and Murdoch’s two scurrilous elder sons. But if Parlan took you prisoner, you must have been in some sort of fray against him. Did you fight against your father, too?”
“We are not going to discuss politics or my activities of nearly two years ago,” he said, taking his plaid from the burn as he stood and shaking it out.
“Do you want help wringing that dry?” she asked.
He smiled again. Truly, he had a charming smile. One wanted to smile back at him, even if one had no idea what he might be thinking.
“ ’Tis a kind offer,” he said. “But I am accustomed to doing it myself.”
As he spoke, he held the plaid high, letting its rectangular length drape nearly to the ground. Gathering the fullness of it into his right hand below where he held it at the top in his left, he pulled his right fist slowly but steadily downward, forcing water from the length of wool in a veritable cascade.
With an envious sigh, Andrena said, “I wish I could strip water from a sheet or a garment as easily as that.”
“Aye, well, I’ve had much practice.”
“If you rowed a galley up the loch in last night’s storm, you must have had to row against the wind,” she said. “And if you swam ashore and climbed one of our cliffs, you must have been exhausted afterward.”
“I was, and battered, too, as you see. Your coast is as unfriendly as men claim it is. I did sleep, though, after I reached the top.”
“Good sakes, how could you sleep out in that storm as you were?”
“I wrapped myself in my plaid and slept under a rocky outcropping with thick shrubbery betwixt me and the worst of the storm.”
“In a wet plaid?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Lass, men sleep out in wet plaids all the time. On cold nights especially. Wet wool retains a body’s warmth better than dry wool does.”
She was skeptical about that. But something else concerned her more. “Your pursuers got here the same way you did, did they not? What if they’d found you?”
“They swam ashore but not until after dawn. And they landed on Colquhoun’s side of yon great waterfall. Doubtless they’d expected me to make for home.”
“Then how did they cross to this side?”
“I saw them swing across it on a rope from a tree limb. Sithee, I’d had to wait until dawn myself to see well enough to travel. I do respect the tales I’ve heard, mythical or not—and even more so now that I’ve seen those birds of yours.”
“They swung across it on a rope?”
“Aye, and perforce left it attached to its tree. So they cannot get back without following the river to its headwaters, unless there is another way across.”
There was, of course, but she was not about to reveal it to him. Nor would the Colquhouns tell Parlan’s men about it. In fact, if the Colquhouns caught Parlan’s men, those men would sorely regret trespassing on Colquhoun land.
“How much farther is it now?” Magnus Mòr asked.
“Not far. As for those men, they will have to climb down one of the cliffs.”
“I don’t envy them that endeavor. Climbing down a cliff is much harder than climbing up one, even by daylight.”
“Parlan’s galley will not wait long for them either,” she said. “The Colquhouns take strong exception to unwelcome boats lingering in their waters.”
“They are friendly enough to Pharlain, lass—or Parlan, as you call him. I have seen that for myself.”
“Aye, sure, when Parlan is not threatening them. But to send men ashore on Colquhoun land without permission and wait offshore to pick them up again? With or without a prisoner, that would not sit well with the Laird of Colquhoun. And, unlike most other lairds hereabouts, he has never answered to the Earl of Lennox.”
“Perhaps not, but he does not go out of his way to annoy Lennox, either.”
She did not reply, for she was crossing the burn. Moreover, she knew that what he said about Colquhoun was true.
Mag watched her lift her kilted-up skirts higher to cross the burn, stepping from rock to rock with the same easy confidence that she had shown all along. She had lovely feet, trim ankles, and shapely calves.
She still wore the silly cream-colored cap, and he wished she would take it off. He wanted to know if her hair matched her eyebrows or was lighter. He wondered, too, about her willingness to discuss matters concerning men whom he doubted she had ever met. Most women had no interest in such matters, nor—in his opinion—should they have. But she was unlike any woman he had ever known.
His sisters were not at all like her. Of course, all three were married by now unless Lizzie, the youngest, had turned up her nose at the man their father had chosen for her. She was a contrary lass but a charming one, and she usually got away with her contrariness.
“You can see our tower now,” the lass said.
He had been enjoying the way her backside twitched from side to side as she strode ahead of him. Looking up now, he saw the brownish-gray stone tower ahead, framed in an opening between trees. A deep clearing separated the tower’s barmkin wall from the woods. He saw, too, that men on the wall walk had seen them. They held bows at the ready, arrows nocked to drawn bowstrings.
“Tell them to stand down,” he said just loudly enough for her to hear him. “I come in peace and bear no weapons, as you have seen.”
“I do not control those men any more than I controlled the birds,” she said. “My father is too canny to allow his guards to lay down their arms merely because someone outside the wall bids them do so. Even if it is one of his daughters,” she added. “Someone inside will tell them that no danger threatens.”
He opened his mouth to ask how anyone inside could know such a thing. As he did, the narrow gate opened and a maiden with long, flaxen plaits and eyes that he could see were light blue, even at that distance, hurried out, crying, “Dree, you’ve been gone for an age. We’ve been watching the birds and decided to go and find you. But who is this? Faith, he looks like one of the giants that guard Tùr Meiloach.”
“He is called Magnus Mòr,” Andrena said. “This is my sister Muriella, sir.”
“But you are injured!” the lady Muriella exclaimed. “How came that about, sir? Did the birds attack you? Prithee, tell me what happened!”
“Murie, dearling, do l
et Andrena and her companion enter.”
He had been staring at the flaxen-haired lass, only faintly aware that another young woman had followed her through the gateway. The new one’s voice was lower, more dignified, and her gray tunic and skirt suited her calm demeanor. Her eyes were an intriguing bluish-gray hazel. Looking from one to another and then to the lady Andrena, he could see the strong family resemblance. Andrena was the tallest, the lady Muriella the shortest of the three.
“Lina, this is Magnus Mòr Galbraith,” Andrena said. “This is my sister Lachina, sir.” To the others, she added, “Parlan has been holding Magnus Mòr prisoner as a galley slave. He escaped last night during the storm.”
“But surely, one man seeking sanctuary did not distress those birds,” Muriella said. “We saw them, Dree, and we both felt—” Glancing at Mag, she broke off and looked sheepishly at Andrena. “As I said, we decided to meet you.”
“Aye, but do let us go inside, Murie. As you have noted, our guest is not at his best and will doubtless be grateful for food and drink. Go and ask Malcolm to arrange it, will you? And tell him, too, that three of Parlan’s men were after him. I must find something to make him more presentable before Father sees him.”
“Very well,” Muriella said. “But do not talk about anything important until I return. I want to hear everything that happened.”
“Indeed, my lady,” Mag said, “there is no reason to fuss, because—”
“If you mean to suggest that you should try to make your way home without sustenance or weapons,” Andrena interjected, “pray put that notion out of your head. My father does not let strangers roam our land at will. You must ask his permission if you want to cross it safely.”
“Then take me to him, if you please,” he said, following her through the gateway. The men on the wall had returned to their duties, evidently having decided to accept the lasses’ approval of him without question.