“Home,” she said innocently. He took her to the other side of the deck, out of the crew’s keen hearing. “Are ye in trouble, lass?”
“Nay, Angus. I’ve been visiting my uncle, and now I wish to go home as quickly as possible.”
Warning prickled under Angus Mor’s thick skin. The lass was pale as a winter moon, and she had smudges like storm clouds under her eyes. She was so thin a fresh breeze would carry her overboard. She was hiding something.
“If there’s trouble, we can easily stop at Carraig Brigh, gather some men. Marriage makes us allies, lass.”
“No!” she said quickly. He frowned. “My father is ill.”
“We have healers at Carraig Brigh, and your sister would want to help—”
“She has the children to see to. I don’t want to worry her.”
“You’re worrying me,” he said.
My uncle is coming with me. He’s skilled with plants and cures . . . How long will they voyage take?” she asked, eyeing Virgin’s sleek lines.
“It’ll take a fortnight at this time of year,” he said.
A flock of seabirds flew over the ship’s tall masts, sensing an early spring and heading for their nesting grounds. She tracked their progress anxiously.
Then she smiled at Angus. What was it about the way MacLeod lasses smiled that turned a man’s wits to porridge? Angus Mor sighed. “Fine. I’ll take ye where ye need to go. What about them?” he nodded toward a small group of ragged young folk that stood on the wharf. They hadn’t taken their eyes off of her.
“They’re my tail,” she said. “My escort. They’re coming as well, along with my Uncle Hamish.”
Angus rolled his eyes. “Good thing we’re sailing empty. We’ll go on the morning tide tomorrow, weather permitting.”
Storms pummeled the coast as winter and spring fought for control. The wind and sleet were fierce, but Iain stood on the deck of the small, fat cargo vessel that moved like an old woman. He let the rain lash his face and body, soak his black leather clothing, and tried not to think of Laire, which was like trying not to breathe. He concentrated on his journey, his mission. With luck, by the time Laire returned to Glen Iolair—and he knew she would—Bibiana would be dead.
As would he, most likely.
He couldn’t say what would happen to her family . . . He went down to the hold and unwound the leather bindings of his pack. He picked up his sword—his great-grandfather’s sword—and slid it out of the leather sheath. He tested the blade with his thumb, and then honed it until it sliced his flesh at a touch and blood welled. He put two dirks in his belt, one by his right hand, and one behind his back. He tucked a third into his boot. He checked the bow, and the barbed points and fletching of the arrows. Then he sat in the shuddering belly of the ship and stared into the darkness. Laire’s soft eyes gazed back at him, and he felt desire and regret rise, at war with anger and determination. He took out his sword once more and went up on deck to practice with the blade, hoping the work and the storm would pound her out of his brain.
But it was no use.
Magpie, Fussle, and Wee Kipper refused to be left behind in Morag’s care, so they crept aboard the ship like mice and hid themselves. When the coast had disappeared behind the Virgin’s stern they crept up on deck.
Angus Mor blustered and shouted about hanging stowaways, but there was naught to be done without turning back. He set Fussle to work untangling ropes, and Magpie and Kipper were sent below to help the cook.
At night, Wee Kipper found Laire and curled up in her bunk with her. And Magpie shared Hoolet’s narrow bed on the other side of the cabin. “Ye shouldn’t have come,” Hoolet told them both angrily, but she let them stay.
Fussle had a hammock in the hold near Bear, and Dux and Sir Hamish spent the entire voyage studying the books they’d brought with them.
By day, Laire stood on deck and watched the sky. The clouds scudded by, and the wind grew warmer. The ice on the hawsers thawed and dripped. The Highland coastline became more familiar as they rounded the northern headlands and got closer to home. Home. Laire shut her eyes and gripped the railing.
She could feel the residue of the poison in her veins, like shards of glass rubbing against her nerves, though her mind was clear, sharp, and determined. She would save her family from Bibiana, and she would find Iain. Had he gone back to Bibiana, to serve as her sealgair once again? It would destroy him . . . Her heart caught on the edge of a ragged breath, ached for him. When she got to Iolair, she intended to offer Bibiana a choice—herself, her own life, in exchange for Iain’s freedom. Her uncle would save her kin.
She spent the rest of the voyage practicing with her dirk, honing her skills with Hoolet and Bear until she was so exhausted she could think no more.
The Virgin put into the bay a dozen miles from Glen Iolair, and Angus Mor sniffed the wind. “D’ye smell that?” he said to Laire. “That’s the smell of spring in the air. It’s early this year, and thank the lord for it, after the winter we’ve had.” He crossed himself. “Look—there’s flock of finches, back already.”
Laire watched the tiny birds winging inland toward Iolair and wondered if Iain was in the wood, his bow at the ready, his eye on the wee creatures as he took aim . . .
She felt the blue mark on her neck pulse, and ran her fingertips over it. She was home, but this time, there’d be no welcome for her.
She turned to find Angus Mor watching her. “I’ve seen your face these past two weeks. You’re worried, fearful. You’ve been practicing with that dirk of yours, sharpening it over and over again. I’ve been askin’ myself why a lass would do that if she’s just going to sit by her sick father’s bedside. Will ye no’ tell me what we’ll face when we reach your father’s keep?”
Laire swallowed. “I truly don’t know. Angus, will you promise me something?”
He folded his arms over his broad chest. “If I can.”
“Promise me if things go wrong, you’ll save my uncle and my friends. Especially the little ones.” She shut her eyes. “And Iain Lindsay. Get him safe away from here. Tell him . . .”
Angus’s frown deepened, and he scanned the shore with the keen eyes of a warrior. “I don’t know the man, so ye’ll have to tell him yourself. I’m not good with delivering lovers’ messages. Always sounds like a threat when I say such words, especially to another man. I will promise I’ll do what I can—your sister and Dair would skin me alive if I did any less. I’ll save your man for ye, lass, but your life will come first with me. If your lad is worthy of ye, he’d want that too. Now ye’d best get some sleep. It’s nearly dark and it’s a fair way to walk. We’ll go up to Glen Iolair in the morning, and leave the wee ones aboard with Jock. He’s got a bairn of his own on the way, and he needs the practice.”
Hours later, when everyone was asleep, and the sailor keeping watch was on the port bow, Laire slipped over the starboard side of the ship, gritting her teeth to keep from gasping at chill of the frigid water. She swam the short distance to shore and climbed out on the rocky shore. She checked to see if the dirk was still in place inside her sleeve, wrung the water from her woolen skirt, and took the path that led homeward.
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Glen Iolair
Bibiana was waiting for him. Iain stood at the shadowed edge of the wood and saw her standing on the parapets of the castle. Her golden hair caught the sun, and the silver brocade that trimmed her red gown glinted. She was alone on her high perch—there wasn’t a single MacLeod warrior in sight. His blood thickened, and his senses sharpened, ready for danger. He checked his weapons, broke an arrow in half and slid it into his sleeve.
He could feel Bibiana’s eyes on him, knew she was waiting. He shouldered his pack and headed up to the gate.
There was danger here—Wee Kipper could feel it. He remembered the sharp scent of it, the way it felt in his bones. Last time, he’d crept away, hidden himself, and the soldiers had come . . . This time, Laire needed him. She didn’t like the dark, and between
the trees it was very dark indeed. The water was cold, but he climbed down the anchor chain, splashed the short way to the shore, and ran up the path she’d taken. His ears pricked, and his skin crawled, but he pretended he was a mouse and scurried after her.
He needed her. So did the others, and Laird Iain most of all.
He wasn’t going to lose her.
Angus Mor grabbed Hoolet’s skinny wrist and dragged her back behind him again, avoiding the dirk in the fierce wee lassie’s hand. “No ye don’t. Ye can’t take the lead. That’s man’s work. Now stay behind me where you’re safe.” He was angry enough that one lass had eluded him. He wasn’t about to be bested by another one.
It has been Hoolet who’d sounded the alarm in the pale light of dawn, screaming blue murder that Laire had gone, and the wee lad with her. Angus and Niall had hurriedly donned leather jacks, snatched up weapons, and followed, ready to move at a run. But the lass’s uncle and his young bespectacled companion had insisted on bringing all the books they could carry. They were slowing things down, walking, talking, and reading all at the same time.
Sir Hamish had a dozen small glass bottles of medicines and antidotes tucked into his pockets, and they clinked together as he walked, making it impossible to move through the wood silently. Angus Mor frowned.
“The best thing to try first will be bistort,” Sir Hamish told Dux. “It conquers many poisons. We might try bleeding the patients to flush the toxins from their bodies.”
“Or a hot seaweed bath, followed by ginger tea,” Dux replied, pushing his spectacles up his nose and trying to hold the herbal open at the same time. He stumbled, and Hamish caught his elbow.
“Careful, my lad,” he said.
“What about charcoal?” Dux asked.
“Or yellow dock, perhaps.”
“Or fresh lettuce?”
“Just what kind of illness are we speakin’ of?” Niall Sinclair asked.
Hamish and Dux glanced at him. “It’s not illness. It’s witchcraft,” Bear said.
Niall flushed. “Witchcraft!”
“Aye,” Hamish said. “And dark poisons made with blood and other secret ingredients.”
Niall looked ill as he crossed himself. Angus dragged Hoolet back into line again and quickened his pace.
Iain walked into the great hall. There were birds roosting in the rafters, doves cooing, sparrows chirping and beating their wings vainly against the sealed windows. He dropped his pack by the door and pulled the dirk from his belt.
“Hello, Iain.”
Bibiana stood on the stairs, her red gown glowing in the gloom. She held the hand of a small girl, her red curls tumbled, her blue eyes wide. The girl stood on the very edge of the stone steps, watching the birds. God, she looked like Mairi . . . He felt his breath catch in his throat.
“You know who this is, don’t you? You told me she’d died along with her mother. You deceived me, Iain, cheated me.”
“I gave you something more valuable—”
She laughed. “Yourself? You’ve never served me fully. You’ve counted the days, the months, the very moments, of our contract.”
“Which ends tomorrow.”
She tilted her head and smiled her most beguiling smile. “But that was before I discovered you’d lied. I demand another payment.”
Iain braced himself. “What do ye want?” Bibiana’s hand rested on the girl’s shoulder. One push and the child would tumble down the steps. He edged forward, ready to catch her. Bibiana laughed. “Such a hero, aren’t you? The child is safe enough for now. What do I want? I want you to suffer, Iain, and I want Laire.” She stroked the child’s pale cheek. The mirrored ring on her finger glinted in the dim light.
Iain shifted the dirk in his fist. He could not throw it for fear of hitting the girl. She was frightened and there were tears in her eyes—she had Mairi’s eyes, and her russet curls.
“She’ll grow into a beauty, like her mother, if she lives.” Bibiana said. “Do you remember the night she was born, the night you deceived me?”
Iain remembered.
It was weeks too soon, and Mairi fought the birth pains, screaming. The midwife was late and drunk. Mairi pleaded for David, called his name over and over again, and begged to go home to Scotland.
Iain had bought a potion from a woman he’d met at a ball, a beauty with sympathetic eyes and lavish jewels. Iain didn’t usually blurt out his woes to strangers, but she was a good listener, kind, and he’d downed nearly a whole bottle of brandy. She’d whispered in his ear that she could help, make Mairi love him and forget David with a simple potion she knew of, a harmless blend of flowers and green plants. Mairi would sleep, and when she woke, she’d turn to Iain with love in her eyes. All for him. Only for him. It would be costly, she warned him. Was he ready to pay the price?
He was desperate and drunk. He would have paid anything, given anything, and he told her so. He wanted Mairi, wanted his brother to suffer as he had, knowing the woman he loved wanted another man. The beauty even promised Mairi would forget who’d fathered the babe in her belly and believe it was Iain’s.
God help him, but he’d done it. He’d taken the small glass phial and poured the contents into Mairi’s wine and watched her drink it. She’d smiled at him and fallen asleep. She woke screaming in the darkest hours of the night.
He’d held her as the pains tore through her body, too thin, too frail from grieving for David. The child had rolled and squirmed inside her, anxious to be out. The midwife had lifted Mairi’s gown, had crossed herself at the terrible pool of blood. She’d shaken her head, told him to send for a priest, and fled. The wet nurse cowered in the corner, no help at all . . .
Iain delivered the child himself, a boy, small and blue, born without breath in his body. Iain had wrapped the babe in the swaddling blanket Mairi had stitched with her own hands and laid the child in the cradle.
But Mairi had screamed again, and a second child was born. She was small and pale, but she cried like an eaglet and thrashed her arms and legs. “Mairi—a daughter,” he’d whispered, but Mairi’s life was ebbing away. Iain wrapped the living babe in the blue velvet coat he was wearing and handed her to the wet nurse. “Take her away. Keep her safe,” he said. She left the house minutes before Bibiana arrived.
“I’ve come for my fee,” she said.
“Your potion did not work,” he said, holding Mairi’s dead hand in his, filled with regret.
Bibiana made a moue of pity. “Still, you made a promise upon your honor. Is that worth nothing to you?”
He’d met her eyes, saw his own face reflected there, haggard and tearstained, full of guilt and sorrow. “What’s the price?”
“Her child,” she said. “I want the child.”
He’d felt his belly roil, sickened by the evil he saw now in her lovely face. He swallowed. He’d made a pact with a witch. He could have saved himself if he’d told her of the living child, given Mairi’s daughter’s life to save his own . . . “The child was born dead,” he said, pointing to the cradle.
There wasn’t a shred of sorrow in Bibiana’s eyes, no sympathy for the young woman who’d died, or her babe . . .
“Then I’ll take you. You will serve me for seven years, hunt for me.”
Then his brother had burst in, come from Scotland to find the woman he loved. Bibiana watched as David stared at the unholy sight of Mairi in Iain’s arms, bloody and limp, and saw his stillborn babe dead in the cradle. He’d broken Iain’s nose, beat him half to death. Iain didn’t fight back.
And when David had gone, he left Iain in a room filled with death and remorse. It was his fault, his sin. He had nowhere to go, no hope, no future. “Well?” Bibiana had asked. And he’d nodded his agreement, ceased to be Iain Lindsay, and became the sealgair instead.
Until he found Laire.
He stared at Bibiana. Laire was safe with her uncle, far away. He took comfort in that at least. But Mairi’s daughter was here. He raised the dirk in his hand to throw it, but hesitated. Coul
d he hit the woman without harming the child?
“I wouldn’t,” a voice said behind him. Iain felt the unmistakable sensation of a cold steel point against the back of his neck. “Or you could try.” Rafael said. “The odds are against you. Either way, you’re a dead man. Bibiana has promised I can kill you when the time comes, as slowly as I wish.”
“Not yet,” Bibiana said. “Take his weapons and bring him upstairs to my chamber.” She took the child’s hand and led her along the upper hall.
Rafael began to disarm him, taking all three dirks, throwing them to the floor. The steel rang on the stone, made the birds startle and fly, crying out. The noise echoed through the silent castle, and feathers floated like snow. “Where are the MacLeods?” Iain asked.
Rafael snickered. “Terza put them all to sleep for the winter, but they’ll soon wake. Haven’t you heard? Spring has come early.”
“And who will hunt her birds?” Iain asked.
Rafael smirked. “Terza’s been feeding the lasses well all winter. She won’t need birds. Not now. And she won’t need you.” He pressed the sword into Iain’s neck, and forced him up the stairs.
In Bibiana’s chamber, he bound Iain to a chair with his hands behind him. Mairi’s daughter squatted on the floor hugging a ragged doll wrapped in an equally ragged blue coat. Iain stared at the garment. The pocket was missing. It was downstairs in his pack, the corner still stained with Mairi’s blood.
“You recognize your coat, then,” Bibiana said. “I discovered your secret a few years ago. I saw you giving money to a messenger, had him followed. I could have taken her then, but having a secret is so much more powerful, don’t you think? Until it’s discovered. She looked balefully at Iain. “You should have told me the whore had twins.”
“You didn’t ask,” he said. She flew across the room and slapped him, hard. His signet ring cut his cheek. A lock of hair came loose from her coiffure, and she crossed to the mirror, smoothed it back into place, ran her fingertips over her flawless face.
The Lady and the Highlander Page 24