by Cathy MacRae
The boys hurried behind him, the hapless bag thumping across the floor as they dragged it between them.
Gilda turned sympathetic eyes on her ma. “Take care of yerself. They are enough to try the patience of a saint.”
“They will foster soon, and I do believe I shall miss them.”
With a dubious look at her ma, Gilda carried Will from the room.
A small wagon awaited her outside, her mare tethered to the back of it. Six outriders flanked the cart. Finley loaded her chest in the back and took the cloth bag from the twins before they could dash it against the sideboards. Gilda leaned into her ma’s warm hug, then kissed Tavia’s papery cheek, offering hers in return.
“Enjoy yer visit, lass, and dinnae fash yerself.” Finley clapped a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Duncan and Archie will stay at Ard with ye. Should ye need anything, let them know.”
Gilda nodded solemnly. “I thank ye. Will and I will be fine. I dinnae plan to stay longer than a sennight.”
Finley took Will from her, rocking him gently in his arms before he handed the baby to Riona. “Get settled in the wagon. I dinnae want ye traveling in the dark.” He handed her into the seat, then returned Will to her grasp. She arranged his blanket about his face as the wagon rolled forward. Waving goodbye, Finn and Jamie bounced off each other as they leapt excitedly in the air.
“Watch out for wolves, Gilda!”
Gilda grinned as she remembered the playful antics of the young cub she’d seen, and the thrill of knowing the wolf she had rescued was doing so well.
“And pirates!”
Her smile vanished. Darkness crowded her vision as though the sun had suddenly plunged behind a cloud, and a chill shivered down her spine. Suddenly the pungent aroma of fresh blood assaulted her, and Acair the pirate’s dead gaze filled her sight. She gasped to recall the horror, as the slick, sucking sound of Conn’s sword as he pulled it from the pirate’s chest shrieked through her ears. The whine of an injured wolf panted in the background, and she recoiled from the cloying scent of heavy underbrush and rich, moist soil.
Gilda clung tightly to Will and he mewled in protest. Her hands trembled and a sour taste rose in her throat, spilling into her mouth. She gulped, trying to drag air into lungs tight with dread.
“M’lady? Are ye sick?”
Duncan’s warm hand settled over hers, and she stared at it, the black hairs, thick and wiry, springing from the tanned skin. With an effort, Gilda dragged her gaze away.
“Nae. I am a wee bit cold, ’tis all.”
She ignored Duncan’s puzzled look and pulled her plaide close about her, shutting her eyes against the memory of the horrific day Ryan, the love of her life and her son’s father, had died.
* * *
Ferlie eyed the ship’s hull in disgust. Beside him, Shona snorted and sidled nervously as the timbers creaked and groaned.
“How long will it take to get that repaired?”
The ship’s mate jerked his gaze from the damaged planks. “Och, ye’d be better off finding another ship to get ye to Ayr. But in this weather, ’tis doubtful any will be setting sail before a couple of days at least.”
Frowning, Ferlie peered at the overcast sky, squinting against the spray kicked up by the rising wind. Shona stomped a forefoot and shied at the hollow sound of the wooden dock. Ferlie tightened his grip on her lead rope and rested a comforting hand on her muzzle. The ship bounced and grated against the pier. Shona laid back her ears and nipped the edge of his palm.
“Witch!” He snatched his hand back, taking a quick inventory of his fingers. “I will see this beast to her quarters and return to talk to the captain. Is there anything ye need from town?”
Shaking his head, the man moved away, directing the offloading of the ship, likely glad to see Ferlie taking care of himself and one less thing to cause him worry.
Shona danced sideways down the length of the dock, ears flattened against the sounds of the ships and crews. Ferlie spoke soothingly to the mare.
“Enough is enough, aye? Only one more leg to our journey and I will give ye free rein to run.”
Greum hurried to catch up, his peculiar rolling gait reminding Ferlie the wizened old man had suffered his share of sailing woes.
“’Tis right glad I’ll be to see Scotland’s shores again,” Greum muttered from deep within the cowls of his cloak. His eyes sparked, reflecting the flickering torchlight along the quay. A gust of wind roared off the sea, pushing him against the mare’s shoulder. He hopped a step away, regaining his balance, and huddled deeper in his plaide. Rain began to spatter the already slippery wooden planks.
Ferlie raised his voice over the noise. “Go to the tavern. I will settle the mare and be inside anon.”
Greum lodged neither argument nor complaint as he headed for shelter and a roaring fire.
A bit of coin Captain Rousseau had gifted him to help along his journey secured Shona a bag of feed and a snug stall away from the worst of the wind. Leaving her munching contentedly on her oats, Ferlie charged across the rain-swept yard, and into the inn.
He closed the door behind him, shutting out most of the sounds of the gale, and hung his cloak on a wooden peg on the wall. The noise from the main room was a cheerful contrast to the weather outside, and the glow of the fire drew him in. A harried serving girl spared him a glance as she moved among the tables full of tattered sailors and weather-worn travelers grounded by the storm. Across the room, he spotted Greum and veered in his direction.
He slid onto the bench next to the older man. “Any chance you were able to find us a place to sleep tonight?”
Greum finished a deep drink of his mug, wiping the back of his hand across frothy lips. “Nae. But we can bide the night by the fire. Too many people already here to get a private room.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “But the ale is good and there will be food as fast as wee Mairi can serve it.”
Ferlie peered about the room. Catching wee Mairi’s eye, he held up a coin. She gave a jerk of her head, and moments later placed a trencher of stew and a plate of bread on the table. The warm aroma reminded Ferlie he hadn’t eaten since early morning, and he dug in.
“Here is a bit of ale, me fella.”
A tankard appeared at his elbow and Ferlie met wee Mairi’s gaze. A silent invitation played about her lips and she pressed against him, her breasts nearly spilling from her low-cut bodice. He grinned, but a nagging feeling of doubt slid through him, and he declined her offer. Placing another small coin in her hand, he waved her away.
Greum wiped up the last of broth with a hunk of bread, then pushed back from the table with a rumbling belch. He thumped his chest and slumped against the wall at his back.
“’Twas a right good meal for all it was shared with this manky group.”
Ferlie followed his gaze as it wandered about the rough men at the tables, their damp clothing giving off various, rather offensive aromas in the warm, crowded room. For the first time, he was aware of his own rather pungent odor; a combination of hard work, the stables, and infrequent rinses with sea water.
“I dinnae suppose one overworked serving lass can provide a couple of travelers with a bath?”
Greum picked a partially masticated particle from between two of his teeth with the edge of a fingernail. “Nae. There isnae an unused space to put a tub, even if I were of a mind to shuck my breeks amid this rabble.”
After weeks at sea, the warm, crowded room began to seem oppressive. Ferlie pushed his trencher to the center of the table amid the rest of the clutter. “I think I will step to the doorway for a bit of fresh air.”
“Mind ye, dinnae be long. I cannae hold ye a sleeping spot once this lot decides to turn in.”
Ferlie acknowledged the warning with a shrug as he rose to his feet. Weaving carefully amid the packed tables, he arrived in the front hall without incident. He opened the door with care, pleased to note a lull in the storm. No moon or stars shone through the heavy clouds, and it was certain they wou
ld endure another drenching rain soon, but for the moment, the stiff wind was cool on his face and the overhanging roof above the door kept the steady, light drizzle at bay.
He stepped to the edge of a pool of light cast through the tavern’s window and breathed deeply, shedding the stifling heat of too many bodies packed too close together.
To his left, the stables were a dark stain against the darker night. Across the mud-churned street, torchlight blinked blearily beneath a dripping eave. The door beside the torch opened and three men exited into the street, pulling their plaides tight across their shoulders as they prepared to cross to the tavern. The men were of differing ages, older to younger, their multi-colored cloaks marking them as Scotsmen.
The younger man was bare-headed, his bright golden hair glinting in the flickering light. He was tall and lanky, and primarily notable for the petulant scowl on his face. The elder of the three was a bull of a man, thick-necked and powerful. His balding pate glistened with moisture, and his fierce eyes stared at Ferlie from beneath bushy eyebrows that shot upward in a surprised motion.
The man’s arm sliced through the air at chest height, blocking the other two men’s forward progress. They jolted to a stop, angry words against being held to the middle of the street in the rain. The bulky man’s voice rumbled from deep within his barrel chest.
“Sweet Virgin’s tits! ’Tis the Macraig’s son!”
Chapter 29
Ferlie recoiled from the force of the man’s accusatory tone. He drew back into the shadows but the Scotsman barreled his way forward and grasped him by the shoulders, dragging him once again into the feeble glow. Ferlie shrugged off his grip but did not retreat again.
Eyes squinted to mere slits, the man peered at him intently, his gaze settling on his face. At last he gave a grunt of satisfaction and jerked his head.
“Aye. No doubt about it. Ye are Macraig’s son.” He fisted his hands on his hips, feet spaced beneath him to balance his stout, muscular weight. His chin jutted forward. “Whereaboots have ye been, lad?”
Ferlie’s gaze darted from one man to the other. The middle-aged man’s countenance was calmly interested, but the younger’s scowl deepened and he leaned forward aggressively, his height overshadowing Ferlie by a couple of inches.
Giving the golden boy a quelling look, Ferlie faced the question. “I am recently arrived from France, sir. Might I ask what business it is of yours?”
“Ye stole m’ bride!” The blond youth took a menacing step forward, his fists clenched at his sides, his outburst startling Ferlie. The older man halted him with a slicing movement of his hand.
“She wasnae the lass for ye, Boyd. Haud yer wheesht.”
Boyd’s scowl twisted into a jeer and he jerked his head at Ferlie. “Aye. Yer da dinnae think her good enough for ye, neither.” He snorted, scorn evident in the tilt of his head and the way his gaze slid down his crooked nose. “He still doesnae.”
Ferlie drew himself up, tired of not understanding. “Enough! Who are ye?”
The bull-necked man puffed his chest. “Are ye daft, lad? I am Laird Maclellan and this is my son, Boyd. Yon is my brother, Drustan. Gilda’s da, Laird Macrory, and I had all but signed the betrothal documents when she ran off with ye.”
“Aye, and ’tis a good thing they werenae signed. M’da would—”
Ferlie scarcely heard Boyd’s scornful, bragging words.
Gilda.
His knees threatened to buckle and his breath came harsh to his chest. Visions of enticing lips beneath gray eyes framed with red curls flashed before him. In rapid succession memories poured through his head. Bare legs peeking from her tucked-up skirt on the beach, a smoldering kiss in a moonlit garden, naked skin beneath his hands, golden in the firelight. Gilda’s sweet voice.
I willnae marry Boyd.
I want to be yer wife, mo chroi.
Gilda…
Graim thu, Ryan. I love you.
Ryan.
“Ryan, lad. Ye dinnae look so good. Are ye ailin’?”
Through the roaring in his ears, Ryan heard the concern in Laird Maclellan’s voice and he took a deep breath, pulling himself together.
Boyd spoke first. “I dinnae think he’s daft, Da. He likely stayed away so he dinnae have to put up with the Macrory bastard.”
Anger raged through him, and Ryan whirled on Boyd. “What did ye say?”
“I said ye are likely sorry ye married the Macrory bastard.”
Ryan’s fist flew, catching Boyd off-guard. He staggered back a pace, his hand to his jaw. His eyes flashed and with a roar, he launched himself at Ryan, grappling him about his middle, shoving him backward. Ryan’s breath left him in a whoosh as Boyd’s arms forced air from his lungs. His feet slipped in the mud and they both went down, rolling and struggling to gain footing and the upper hand.
Boyd straddled Ryan’s hips, using his weight to hold him in place. Pinning one of Ryan’s arms in his meaty grip, he loosed a punch at his head. As the blow descended, Ryan bucked his hips upward and shoved his body to the side, throwing Boyd off balance. Ryan snaked an arm upward as they rolled, taking the brunt of the blows from Boyd’s fist against his shoulder, using the force to roll the larger man beneath him.
Someone grabbed him from behind, hauling him off the young Maclellan. He struggled to free himself, but more hands caught at him and pulled him back. Boyd scrabbled backward in the mud and quickly regained his feet. He flexed his arm and darted forward, but his da stepped between them.
“Enough! Ye both disgrace yerselves. Hie back to the inn and clean that muck off ye.”
“He swung first!” Boyd wiped the back of his skinned knuckles across his jaw, his eyes full of resentment.
“Ye dinnae have to call the lass a bastard,” the laird replied with heat. “Insolent wee scunner.”
Boyd spat on the ground. “Doesnae matter. He’s welcome to her.” He sneered. “If she doesnae marry the MacLaurey lad first.”
Ryan tore himself away from the restraining hands and pushed his way through the crowd, and made his way to the wharf. Returning to the inn an hour later, he spied Greum and waved to him to follow. Without a word, Ryan led him through a back door and through the narrow streets to the stable.
“Who have ye been fightin’ with, lad?”
Ryan ignored the critical edge to Greum’s voice. “Laird Maclellan’s son needed to be reminded of his manners.”
“What does Laird Maclellan’s son have to do with ye?”
“It seems he believed Laird Macraig’s son took something he considered his.”
Ryan opened the neck of his leine and poured a bucket of cold water over his head, washing away the worst of the mud plastered in his hair. Shrugging out of his filthy leine, he set it aside and used the remainder of the water to finish his ablutions.
Greum’s eyes widened. “Ye are Laird Macraig’s son?”
Turning his shirt wrong side out, he used the cleaner surface to dry himself off. He shrugged in answer to Greum’s question and shoved his arms into a cleaner leine from his bag he’d left earlier in Shona’s stall.
Meager light from a single lantern resting on a wooden shelf in the stable barely pierced the gloom. Lacking a looking glass, he could not tell how he’d fared at Boyd’s hands, but the left side of his face was tender to the touch, and he was certain he sported a scrape and bruise or two. He would arrive home looking much the worse for the wear.
“I have no doubt Boyd Maclellan and his da spoke truth. They recognized me.” He lifted his gaze to Greum’s. “I recognize me.”
Clapping his hands with glee, Greum settled back on his stool. “’Twill be fine to see ye welcomed home, lad! I hate to see the storm delay ye, but another couple of days willnae change things.”
“I dinnae plan on waiting.”
“But the storm, lad! There willnae be a ship in yon harbor willing to set sail in this!”
Ryan shoved his meager belongings deep in his cloth bag and yanked the drawstring closed. “I have al
ready spoken to the captain of a birlinn headed for Scotland. He is agreeable to leaving within the hour.”
“But, the storm!”
Heaving the strap of his bag over his shoulder, Ryan paused, giving Greum an impatient look. “The crossing will take only a few hours. I have missed much this past year, my friend. I have a lady wife who pines for me. My father and sister also believe me dead. Would ye have me wait longer to tell them I dinnae perish?”
Greum’s jaw clenched. “A shipwreck could still make it true.”
“Aye. But now my memory is returned, I cannae wait to be home. I find I miss my sweet wife.” He could not keep the pleased look from his face and Greum sighed.
“I hope ye willnae take it amiss if I dinnae join ye on this journey?”
Ryan patted the old man’s shoulder, aware of his fear of being shipwrecked. “I am sorry to leave ye at this point, my friend, but I understand. Ye must follow as soon as ye feel able. Ard Castle will always welcome ye.”
With a slow nod, Greum acknowledged Ryan’s words. “I pray ye safe journey. I would like to meet this lass who holds yer heart. She must be devoted to ye and grieving terribly.”
“She is a beautiful young woman. I can only imagine the toll this has taken on her. Her hair glowed as though lit with fiery embers, and her skin smooth as the finest cream.” He winced. “If she has declined, ’twill be my fault. I would spend my life making her happy again.”
Greum leapt to his feet and clapped Ryan on the shoulder. “Then, Godspeed, my friend. Yer lady waits for ye.”
* * *
It had taken a hefty bribe and a ship’s captain anxious to set foot on Scotland’s soil and willing to risk the brewing weather, but they made the crossing from Larne just ahead of the next squall. The revelation of who he was spurred Ryan beyond caution, and he had been impatient to set sail. Much too impatient to even spend a moment longer with the angry, arrogant Maclellans, and he’d been glad to escape their ‘talk’ with little more than a few bruises and mucked clothing.