“It mayn’t be Campbells.”
“But—”
“ ’Tis either Campbells burning or being burned, and either way it’ll bring more o’ Dunstaffnage’s men tae call—and soon. But we should have a few hours yet before they are near.” He frowned at her disturbed expression. “There’s nought we can do to aid the poor buggers, lass, whomever they be. ‘Tis war after all.”
“Someone else might be burning the Campbells’ homes?” she asked again, baffled and alarmed at the introduction of a new source of brutality. “Who could it be?”
Malcolm handed her the rifle and the gun belts.
“The MacColla’s men, most likely. But it could be others, Gallowglas or covenanters. It matters naught for I’ll no’ be taking ye near them, love.” And with that, Malcolm scooped up their packs and strode out into the night on his long, powerful legs. “Bestir yerself, Taffy lass, an ye want that bath.”
“Is that it? Not even a kiss? Or a word of thanks before you walk away? Oh, you’re welcome, Mister MacLeod,” she muttered at his rapidly retreating back, refusing to admire the sway of his plaid. “Don’t give your lover a moment’s thought. I am ever so glad that you found the time to enjoy yourself with me this evening. Do come visit me again some time.”
A throbbing of her loins was her only reply.
“What if I said that I love you—you exasperating, unromantic Scotsman? Would that give you pause?”
But she wouldn’t say that. Not ever, she vowed, unless he opened that door himself. It was too much to hope for.
“Are ye coming? Hie ye, Taffy lass,” Malcolm called back softly. “This is no’ time for feminine dawdling. Fuss wi’ yer hair later.”
For one moment, the urge to hurl something at him was overpowering. Unfortunately, she had nothing to throw except her rifle, and that was too extreme a sacrifice. She might need it later and couldn’t chance bending it on the piper’s hard head.
Chapter Eight
The silence about them was complete as in a church before mass and demanded contemplation of one’s life course. Temporarily undisturbed by dangerous—or even lustful—distractions, Malcolm allowed his mind some time to consider his course of action.
First and foremost of the questions in his mind was what were the still-folk up to? Did they intend that he die after he had seen Taffy to Casilean na Nor? Was that why he continually sensed that the low road neared him, why he dreamt of endless darkness and the smell of ancient earth around him?
But why wait for their arrival? It made no sense! The still-folk could show her the way back to her home anytime. They had no need for him to escort her to their golden castle. Or anywhere.
Indeed, the delay of her return was a seemingly irrational act, for every day they left her here, the risk to her safety—and that of the bairn they so wanted—grew stronger.
As he and Taffy walked in wary silence through air so full with smoke that it made the bloated moon glow like harvest time, Malcolm considered the possibility that she had not yet conceived a child. But that was highly unlikely. They would not have been able to leave the glen’s sheltering prison were the still ones not certain that she was with child.
A bairn. The notion was stunning. No child had he ever fathered. He had thought himself incapable, and had been just as glad that it was so. Or so he had told himself. But now?
His feelings had altered. He wondered what was this babe like? Was it a lad after himself, or a sweet bud like his golden lass? Was it healthy and contented?
He could know these things. If he wanted.
Aye, he could. If he wanted to know enough to use his new sight.
But did he want to accept this new gift? Knowledge could be a blessing, but as often was a curse.
Malcolm thought on it for a while. Reaching a decision, he took a deep breath and then cracked open the door inside his mind. He hesitated for a moment on the threshold, sensing that there would be some steep price for this knowledge. But curiosity was very strong, and his time upon earth was drawing to a close. He allowed himself a brief look inside.
Aye, there was a bairn! A female. She smiled at him with a happy, toothless grin and waved tiny, but already graceful arms.
He allowed himself one small smile in return and then quickly eased the door shut again, not wanting to see too much of what might be waiting there in the place of knowledge.
He took a deep breath and then released it slowly. There was no denying now that the sight had truly come to him just as his mother had predicted.
Malcolm looked back at Taffy, wondering what he should say to her about the daughter she carried, but was distracted from his purpose by the sight of her bathed in moonlight.
So bonnie was she!
There had been other lasses who had caught his eye and even his imagination, but never one who had stolen his heart. That part of him went with her now, and with their bairn, though Taffy did not know it.
He watched as her graceful walk covered the cluttered ground beneath them in total silence. She moved with the deceptive ease of the gifted MacLeods who came from the faerie line. Every day that passed brought her greater strength of mind and body, and beauty of face as more of her magical gifts awakened.
So, he was not the only one who had altered in recent days, grown more adept at finding his way by dark—at sensing and seeing invisible things. He felt pride in her bearing. She had done well with all the violence thrust upon her.
The only aspect of the alteration that disturbed him was the thought that it was not a voluntary change, but one forced upon her by grave circumstance.
Had she the choice, would she refuse these arcane gifts? And should he add to the burden she carried by sharing his foreknowledge about their child—and that he would likely be parted from her?
It would aid his decision if he knew better what was in her mind. What was his beautiful, silent companion thinking as she stared so hard at the rusty moon? Did she ken what had happened in the sacred glen? Was she embarrassed by the fact that the still-folk were aware of what she and Malcolm had done? Would it always bother her when she reflected on the circumstance of their first union?
Worse still, would she someday see their daughter as a bastard—as something unholy?
Nay! She could not.
Still, it gnawed at him that they were unable to seek out a priest and have the Church’s formal words spoken over them. His father’s teachings meant little to him anymore, but they likely did to Taffy, and perhaps it would permit her to put aside her modesty and accept the rightness of sharing pleasure with him. And perhaps it would rid him of this lingering sensation of some task left undone if he undertook the ceremony before she departed. It might even afford her some protection in mind, if not in body.
Malcolm frowned, not caring for the trend of his thoughts.
Why would she need protection? He was there to see after her. He would protect her with his life; it was his purpose. And in her own time, she had a father to look after her. And surely the still-ones meant her no harm! He was starting at shadows.
Her own time…. That bore some thinking on.
What he would do once she was taken from him, he did not know. A few days before, he had been resigned to death, but now hope and life had been reawakened in his breast.
He had thought at one time to go to the colonies, but now? The thought brought no joy, even should his life be spared so that he might go there to his family.
If only there was a way he might go with her to see her world! How he would love to have a glimpse of her wheeled horse and visit the America that she described. And, of course, to have her with him always and watch their child grow! That was what he truly desired. The where and what-have-you didn’t really matter, he said fiercely in the corner of his mind where he spoke to the still-folk. Surely there was some way that he could be with her forever. Someplace that they could live out their lives, even if it had to be among faerie kind.
But there, as it had been for many days, was
only more unanswerable silence. He waited a moment longer in the shadowy place, but there was no reply. No sign of a new path. No reason for hope.
Very well, then. It was pointless to think on this chance—and crueler still to speak of it and put the thought into her mind. Every tale he had ever heard told of mortals who were returned to the world from a stay in faerie land had ended with them crumbling to dust when struck by the light of new day. Taffy came from the future; the passage of time in the past would not affect her. But for him? That was another matter. He had never dwelled within the shians and tomhans of faerie kind, but he had walked their ways, dined on their unsubstantial food, and played their bespelling music upon his pipes. He even shared a small measure of their blood.
But he was not truly one of them, and their powers, longevity, and weather magic were denied him. Sometimes, even the simple understanding of their purpose was refused him.
Such was the case now. And on this occasion it angered him, for it was not simply his own life that was endangered and altered by their tricks. Again, he tried to apply reason to their actions, to guess their motives and foresee their actions.
He knew that the still-folk were much in the habit of stealing mortal women and babes for the pleasure of their own kind. Such thefts meant nothing to them. If aught pleased them from the world of men, they took it with little or no thought for the unhappiness they caused.
Perhaps they had sensed his longing for her apparition and since she was of his kind, they had carelessly fetched her to him as a gift. Perhaps any female would have suited their purpose as well and her being with him was all his own doing, he thought with a frown.
It would certainly seem to an observer that they cared nothing for her welfare. Had they not given her horrible visions of war and death, forced her to travel alone the low road, which often made men and women insane? And now they had left her—with a bairn—in a forest full of murderous men of every ilk.
And if they had done this, who would wonder at it? After all, what would one mortal woman’s happiness, dreams, and ambitions mean to them? Her poor, short life would be lived and over in the space of one night in their kingdom.
Even if they observed her, they would not understand the value of the free gift of her grace to a rootless soul such as he. They did not appreciate that it was hope—cruel and beautiful—she gave with every smile when she welcomed him into her body, something she did willingly even though there was as of yet very little pleasure for her in the act.
Hope. Perhaps that was it.
But he did not understand their methods in this instance. The root of their many branched plan was still buried from his sight. But he had come in recent times to sense their habits and feelings. Whatever their final intent, they were certainly in some way taken with Taffy, and they shared his pleasure that she was with child.
Something about the woman—about their union—was of special importance to them. Given this as fact, then it followed that they would not risk her to the human battle waged about them without some good purpose.
“Come away, cu” he instructed softly, noticing that the hound was scenting some other, human trail. He abandoned his speculations to concentrate on the dangerous matters nearer at hand.
Forewarned by the canine’s sensitive nose, Malcolm used more than routine caution as they slowed their pace at the crest of a small, bald-crowned hill and looked about carefully before beginning their descent into the wooded vale below.
Taffy did not need a warning to move deeper into the shadows and become as a ghost drifting over the ground. She, too, sensed something in the air.
Smoke from the fires begun earlier in the day still curled in ghostly billows out of the red embers and joined the pall in the sky. He could see no evidence of dead about and concluded that this had been a raid by the Irish mercenaries of Colkitto’s Gallowglas. It was their character to destroy property, but not slaughter the women and babes of the crofters unless specifically ordered.
Just as they reached the foot of the hill, their hound began whining softly. It was not alarm, but curiosity that colored the beast’s voice.
Malcolm hesitated for only an instant while he, too, scented the darkened air. Then, sensing no danger, he gave the Campbell beast a signal to move on.
“Smokey?” Taffy whispered, her voice softer than wind through grass. “What are you doing?”
The hound didn’t answer. He was happily following his nose and loping off toward an unscorched stand of trees at the base of a hillock with thickly bush-clad slopes.
“Let us see what the beastie has found,” Malcolm answered softly, turning to follow the hound. The ground, being uneven and full of loose scree, had to be taken at a slow pace and he was careful to remain close to Taffy in case she slipped.
Smokey had been trained not to howl, so he contented himself with doing a quivering dance beneath the tree where one of his favorite scents was emanating. It took his master and mistress a while to arrive, but he was patient because he knew that he couldn’t fetch down the lovely ball of orange fluff that was lying about up in the branches taunting him.
“What is it, boy?” Taffy asked, peering up into the leafy bower.
“A cat,” Malcolm answered. He didn’t add that it might be a very particular kind of cat.
“Where—oh! I see him. Hello, puss. Would you like to come down?” Taffy asked politely, keeping her voice soft. “Hush, Smokey! You’ll scare the kitty.”
Unhappy, but compliant with the order, Smokey ceased whining.
The cat looked down at Taffy with unblinking eyes. He was a pleasant beast, large, cheerful of face and, excepting only his darker orange color, resembled nothing so much as a shaggy dandelion growing out of the tree’s wide-spreading limbs.
“ ’Tis fortunate that this moggie is not black, for they would have burned him for a demon an they had to set the entire hill afire tae kill him.” Malcolm spoke to her, but was staring pointedly at the lofty feline. There was no humor in his voice, no twinkle in his eye to suggest that he jested about the animal’s fate.
“A demon!” Taffy looked at the cat again.
It grinned at her, amusement showing plainly in its gray, nearly human eyes. Its ears were exaggerated in length, she saw. Rather like a lynx, in fact.
“Well, I’ll admit that cats can seem rather canny at times, but it’s ridiculous to suppose that they are anything but animals.”
The moggie yawned at her comment and examined his paw, alternately ejecting and then retracting his black claws. The sight of those dark talons gave her another moment’s pause. She had never seen such weapons on any animal. They looked like hooked obsidian knives.
“Malcolm? I don’t believe in demons, of course, but there is something very odd about this cat.”
“Aye. He is a messenger. Well, puss, what wish yer folk wi’ us?”
As an answer, the cat sat up and began clawing at something in the fork of the tree. Two small silver objects tumbled to the weedy ground below him. One fell more heavily than the other and gave a low but musical ring when it struck a stone.
“My knuckles!” Taffy exclaimed, picking up the knuckle-duster, which had been missing when her clothes disappeared. She stared in amazement at the carvings that had been added to the silver. She was sure they had some meaning that she would be able to discover if she just studied them long enough. They were runes or letters, or some sort of powerful symbol. It was hard to make out, for the lines seemed to shimmer and shift when she stared at them.
Malcolm retrieved the other offering, and was pleased to discover that it was his lyart reed. It was entirely possible that his pipes had been pierced with arrows or even burned by an enraged Lady Dunstaffnage, but his precious reed had been saved. That it had been returned to him was a sign of continuing grace.
Smokey whined sharply, alerting them even before they heard the slight rustling overhead, that the cat was departing. Though they peered closely, no sign of the feline was to be had anywhere in t
he leafy branches that shivered overhead. There came a tiny shower of silvery sparks and then there was only calm.
“He’s gone. Just disappeared,” Taffy marveled.
“Aye. ‘Tis their way.”
Dejected at being deprived of his toy, Smokey wandered off to nose a stand of gorse.
“What is that you have there?” Taffy asked, looking away from the empty bower and noticing the reverence with which Malcolm handled a sliver of moon-bright silver.
“ ’Tis my reed,” he answered cheerfully, opening his sporran and dropping the needle inside the pouch. “It means I shall play the pipes again. And what is that bit o’ fancy mongery there?”
“These are brass knuckles. They’re for fighting,” she said, slipping them over her fingers in demonstration. She mimed a blow at Malcolm’s chin.
His elevated brows arched higher.
“Ye’ll break ye hand hitting out like that. Donnae be bending yer wrists so. And, Taffy lass, ye need tae be learning yer metals. This isnae brass. ‘Tis very pure silver.”
“Well, no. These knuckles are sterling silver, but most are brass or lead. But look! Something has been added. These symbols here. They look like writing. Do you know what they mean?”
Malcolm leaned closer and then laughed softly.
“Aye. They mean trickery. I think the still-folk approve of yer weapon.”
“This is faerie writing?” she asked, awed. “They actually write things down?”
“Aye, nobody has a flawless memory and they do live a long while. Now come, we’d best away whilst we have the dark and solitude tae travel in. These burned out Campbells will be back soon enough, and have the black-bitch’s men wi’ them.”
“Malcolm, will we ever see the faeries, do you think?” she asked, carefully stowing her decorated weapon deep in her pocket.
“I pray not.”
“Why?” she demanded, rather startled at his vehemence. “Aren’t they fair and handsome? And they’ve been friends to us, haven’t they?”
“Well, lass, they have been friends after their own fashion.”
Night Visitor Page 13