The man cast her a wary glance. “D’ y’ see these waves? I’ll not be putting in today, lass. ’Tisna fit for man or beast.” He peered over her shoulder at Liusaidh, and returned to the care of his sails. “Come back tomorrow,” he suggested, though without much interest.
Sorcha couldn’t wait until the morrow. She felt an urgency to press on. Today. Right now. There was no telling how long that star would be along to guide her, and if she waited until the morrow, maybe it would be gone. She furrowed her brow.
His boat was small, she decided, and moved along to the next ship, a far bigger seafaring vessel. “Pardon sir, I would like to buy passage aboard your boat.”
“Ach! D’ye ken the difference between a boat and a ship, lass? This is a ship, not a boat. There’s nay boat what can weather the Minch on a day like today. An’ ye’ll find yourself fodder for the Fin Folk, mayhap in the belly of a beast.”
“Pardon me,” Sorcha corrected. “I would like to buy passage aboard your ship.”
“Nay,” the man said quickly, and without even bothering to ask where Sorcha was going. He had dismissed her out of hand. But then he glanced across the harbor at another ship across the way, and Sorcha sensed a bit of hesitation, so she said, “Please, sir. I will pay you my horse as fare. She’s young and she’s healthy and has good teeth.”
The man stopped what he was doing, glancing over at Liusaidh, perhaps reconsidering, but then he said rather abruptly. “I wadna put my ship in the Minch if ye paid me a rag of stolen horses—not today.”
Stolen!
“Good sir,” Sorcha argued. “Liusaidh is not stolen! She was born and bred in—” she stopped short of revealing whence she’d come. “The Mounth. She’s a fine, strong horse and listens verra well. I’ll ha’e ye know, I raised her myself. I shod her feet. Broke her, as well. An’ I would ne’er attempt to sell ye a stolen mount.”
“Well, in any case, lest ye dinna notice, lass, this here be the Minch, and we dinna need horses, fine-bred or nay. What I need is a ship, and if’n I put mine in the brink, I’ll sign me own death warrant. So, there ye ha’e it, lass. I enjoy breathing too much to serve ye. Go on wi’ ye now. Imeacht gan teacht ort!” Go away and don’t come back!
The wind whipped Sorcha’s hair about her face. It was true; the ocean did look menacing, but these men hardly seemed the type to be afeared of a bit of water and wind. Liusaidh was a precious horse. It wasn’t everyday an opportunity like this would present itself, and in fact, she’d kept to the woodlands as much for Liusaidh’s sake as she had for herself, because a woman alone on a horse of Liusaidh’s worth was tempting bait.
Frustrated, Sorcha studied the harbor, spotting only one other ship that might brave the frothing sea. And, once again, she peered up at the star, wondering if its presence had somehow riled the gods. But, of course, if it be the Cailleach, she’d probably meant to stir the pot. Nevertheless, undaunted, Sorcha made her way around the harbor to where the biggest ship lay moored—a fabulously ornate vessel, wherein a thickset man stood wrapping a length of rope about his hand. “Pardon sir, will you be sailing today?”
The man puffed out his chest. “Well, o’ course!” he said, grinning. “We are born of Viking blood. A wee bit o’ bluster would never keep us.”
Big and burly and very, very blond, the man was nearly as pretty as his boat. By his demeanor, he did not appear to be the sort of man who’d be prone to villainy, but there was something “off” about him nonetheless—something Sorcha couldn’t quite afford to notice, because it wasn’t as though she had any choice. She must find a way to cross the Minch. “Tell me sir… how far away is the Isle of Skye?”
“The man shrugged. “In this weather? A good half-day’s journey, no less.”
Sorcha bit her lip. “So far?”
“Today, we’re at the will of the Minch, lass. If’n ye ne’er had the misfortune of tangling with the Blue Men, ye dinna ken how willful they can be.”
Blue men?
Sorcha hadn’t a clue what he was on about. She had no idea who the blue men were, or why they should tangle with one. Fin folk. Blue Men. She had no clue what any of these ship’s captains were babbling over. But, one glance aboard this ship revealed a crew of pale-haired men, all at work on the sails. None of them happened to be blue. “Well,” Sorcha said, venturing a gamble. “I would like to book passage on your ship. And, please, listen before you deny me. I have a valuable horse for trade.”
The man stopped what he was doing, peering over at Liusaidh, who was still standing precisely where Sorcha had left her by the post, her beautiful mane whipping all about. “That one?”
“Yes, sir. That be the one.”
“Free and clear?”
Sorcha inhaled a breath. “Aye, sir.”
“Is she easily riled?”
“Not so much, sir.”
Unlike the others, he seemed to be considering Sorcha’s offer, and Sorcha held her breath.
“Will she take to the sea, d’ ye think?”
Sorcha turned to peer over at Liusaidh, considering the man’s question, and then she turned back, feeling both titillated and sad. “I canna say why not.”
“So, then, what’s the filly’s name?”
“Liusaidh,” Sorcha replied, smiling, because she was the one who’d named her. “It means warrior.” And, certainly, Liusaidh looked like a warrior maid, standing all alone, ready to brave the world and all its troubles. Sorcha had never had any doubt of her devotion—unlike some feckless folks.
The man swept a forearm across his brow, considering Sorcha’s offer as he appraised Liusaidh. “All her teeth, ye say?” His tone seemed hopeful.
“Aye, sir.”
“And has she been shod?”
“Aye, sir. Her shoes are new.”
“What about her temper?”
He eyed Sorcha meaningfully, inspecting her up and down, leaving her to wonder whether he was referring to Sorcha or to her horse. Quite fortunately, there didn’t appear to be any lechery in his gaze, but if he wanted a fight, Sorcha would certainly give him one. She and her sisters were not walkovers. And just in case he was considering something untoward, she said, “Fine, sir. Unless she is provoked.”
After a moment, the man shook his head, as though he meant to deny her. “Ach, lass, the sea is mean today, hardly meant for a pleasant journey.”
“Please, sir!”
He tilted her a re-assessing look. “Ha’ ye guid sea legs yourself?”
Sorcha furrowed her brow, unaccustomed to such language. “I dinna ken what ye mean, sir. But aye, I’ve two perfectly good legs.”
The man grinned broadly. “What I mean is, are ye prone to spewing your guts o’er the water? I’ve too much to do, and ain’t nobody aboard ready to serve a well-born lass like ye.”
Well-born? Truly, he hadn’t any clue who Sorcha was, and if he did he might have spat on her. For all that she loathed the man who’d sired her, Sorcha wanted to spit on herself. But she felt an instant of relief over the man’s words, because she had a notion she might convince him, after all. “Dinna fash yoursel’, sir, I dinna require anyone to serve me. As for the sea legs, I lived in a house on a loch for most of my days and I have never once spewed my guts for any reason save that I’d drunk too much ale.”
The man chuckled. He rubbed his whiskered jaw. “You and me both, lass, you and me both. So then, ye’re headed to the Isle of Skye, d’ ye say?”
Sorcha’s belly fluttered with excitement. “Yes, sir.”
The man narrowed his eyes, and then, after a long, suspenseful moment, he finally nodded. “Go on, then, grab your horse, bring her down. We’ll coax her into the boat and be on the way.”
Boat, he’d called it. Not a ship. Sorcha couldn’t hide her jubilation. She nearly kissed the man where he stood—if for naught else, for giving her more time with her beloved Liusaidh.
She ran to collect her mare, and never saw the look of satisfaction that passed between the sailors. Once aboard the ship,
the man she’d bargained with came over to offer Sorcha a jug. “I warrant the journey will go all the smoother wi’ a bit o’ uisge in your gut.” He drank from it, and made a face as he swallowed, handing Sorcha the jug. He added, “By the by, my name is Alec, and ye’re welcome aboard St. Ronan’s Barque.”
“Thank you,” Sorcha said, accepting the man’s kind offer. She was, indeed, thirsty, and hungry besides. Since leaving the Vale, she’d eaten little more than berries and mushrooms. “St. Ronan’s Barque? ’Tis a fine name, but I dinna ken who it be.”
“The patron saint of my home,” the man said. “For those who love the King’s faith, but for myself, I’ll take the Cailleach any day. Until a few days ago, I found myself astray, but—well, it matters not, sweet lass. Drink up. We’ve hoisted the sails.”
Sorcha had no true knowledge of the King’s faith. Nor did it matter to her who anyone prayed to. But even so, the man had so little notion how close he was to the Mother of Creation. Sorcha would surely introduce them. Excited by the adventure—over the prospect of being one bit closer to reuniting with her mentor—she took the man’s uisge and chugged down a swallow, only to find it worse than the uisge in their larder. One way or another, Sorcha meant to prove, once and for all that she was no softie. He grinned in approval when she swallowed without hesitation, and Sorcha handed back the jug.
“Nah, keep it,” he said. “You’re gonna need it, lass. The journey isna long, but a wee nap’ll do ye. There’s naught better for a wink than a dram.”
Sorcha knew it to be true. Though, of course, not even uisge had been able to put her to sleep after discovering the lies her clansmen had told. She feared she could drink the entire contents of the jug and still lie awake, tormented. She thanked Alec for the jug, and settled herself near Liusaidh …
In dreams and in memory, Padruig Caimbeul loomed larger than life. To the youth Aidan had been, the man was fearsome with his long, red-speckled beard and blood-thirsty sword. But the man who sat before him now was a sickly toad, wearing three chins and a belly protruding past the arms of his chair. Lìli’s estranged father was overlord of Caisteal Inbhir Nis, bequeathed to him by his sire, and confirmed by David mac Mhaoil Chaluim, as payment for his part in the conspiracy to murder Aidan—a scheme that, evidenced by Aidan’s presence in the man’s hall, had failed. And yet, for all the gold Padruig weaseled from David for his perfidy, he’d merely bought himself an early grave. He was half dead already, judging by the greasy pallor of his skin.
Nevertheless, his court itself was resplendent, with gilded tapestries and carved woodwork about the dais. There were no rushes upon the floors. The granite stone was polished to a sheen. Columns, unlike any Aidan had ever seen, marched along the periphery, straight up to the lord’s seat on the dais. It was a stage befitting a petty king. Between them stood liveried guards, men who stood by, never once looking at anyone but Aidan. But none of this was intended to impress Padruig’s current guests. To the contrary, Aidan had the feeling Padruig would lock them away in a cell and throw away the key if it would not earn him David’s wrath. For all that he had been a minion of David’s, more and more, it seemed that David was distancing himself from dishonorable men—a fact that, while fortuitous for Scotia, did not recommend David as Aidan’s one-true king.
The party of five, including Padruig’s own daughter, stood surrounded by guards, all bearing silver tipped lances. Aidan realized the very instant he confessed the purpose of their visit that he had faced the man in vain. Not only did Padruig not know where Sorcha was, he’d clearly had no clue he was her sire. More’s the pity, for if Aidan could have lived another twenty years without ever seeing Padruig’s face again, he would have died a happier man.
Padruig wiggled a short, fat, greasy finger at Aidan. “You mean to tell me I have a daughter?”
He let the question hang in the air, unanswered, because Aidan had already said as much, and he would not be goaded into repeating himself.
“I have a daughter and you never saw fit to let me know?” He screwed his face. “’Tis no wonder they call you savages; you have so little couth.”
Aidan clenched his fist over the man’s arrogance. He sat up there in his golden chair, high atop his dais, speaking to Aidan as though he were a lowly grunt—and this, after having raped and abused Aidan’s mother. And then he dared to question why Aidan would fail to reveal Sorcha’s parentage?
Filthy swine.
“In case ye dinna recall, ye have another daughter you were perfectly willing to put to death. Why would anyone entrust you with another?”
Of course, Aidan was speaking about Lìli, who had been sent to Dubhtolargg to murder Aidan in his bed—a fact her Da would no doubt deny. But Aidan had Lìli’s word for it, and despite whose blood ran through her veins, he trusted his wife without fail.
“I see,” Padruig said, skewering Aidan with his uncanny violet gaze. “And would ye care to enlighten me as to your meaning?” He plucked a plum from a tray beside his chair, savoring it slowly, peering down his nose at Aidan. He made a show of every bite, letting the juice drip nastily down his chins. Aidan waited to speak, restraining his temper, until finally he could wait no longer.
“Are you, or are you not, holding my sister?”
“Sorcha?”
“Aye.”
“What a charming name,” Padruig said, still enjoying his fat plum. “Does she shine as brightly as her name? In that filthy tongue o’ yours, doesn’t it mean something like bright, radiant light? Something of that sort. How curious that she stole away under the light of that strange new star. Don’t you find it fascinating?”
Something in the man’s demeanor told Aidan he was already scheming over the news. He turned to address the woman seated beside him—presumably Lìli’s mother, although the lady seemed to have no words for her long-lost daughter—who was standing quietly behind Aidan. There were no queries about their grandchildren, not even a furtive smile. As luck would have it, Lìli had yet to speak, and Aidan hoped she would not, because unarmed or nay, he would strangle Padruig where he sat if the man so much as dared to abuse the woman he loved. It was for that reason alone he’d not wanted Lìli to come. But clearly, for all her bluster, when faced with her father, Lìli had decided to remain silent. Aidan wondered if she’d come hoping that her reunion with her mother could be bittersweet—a tearful acceptance of their estrangement, a bit of regret for all that had passed. There was nothing.
Padruig spoke in a heated whisper to the woman seated beside him, and then he turned again to face the unwelcome entourage, peering around Aidan to address his daughter. “I see you there, Lìleas. Come forward to greet your lady mother. I know we taught you better manners.” When Lìli did not show herself at once, he added, “Or, mayhap you have become naught but a savage, like the one you wed?”
Trembling, Lìli stepped up, beside Aidan, reaching for his hand. He gave the support she requested, unconcerned with what her father might think of his gesture. If he doubted Aidan’s strength, he could try it for himself. He was no longer that hapless youth who, at one time, had had no recourse against the man who’d slain his Da. “Is this true?” her father asked. “Is Sorcha mine?”
Lìli lifted her chin. “Yes, sir… she is my sister.”
Padruig guffawed. And then he laughed some more—clearly amused. Finally, he cleared his throat and said, “Well, now… ’tis too bad for you, my dear, as I feared to leave you aught, lest you give it all to that hill Scot beside you. Now, it seems I dinna have to.” He smiled grotesquely. “Perhaps your little sister will be a bit more… malleable? And if she’s as fiery as her lady mother… mayhap she will fetch a lovely price?”
Aidan’s face burned. “You will not find my sister malleable,” he said through clenched teeth. “And if ye dinna hold her, we are finished and we will take our leave.”
Padruig’s eyes narrowed. “You know, whelp, I should have killed you when you were but a scrawny lad. Alas, I didna.”
Aidan sque
ezed Lìli’s hand. “You may try me now.”
Once again, Padruig laughed. “Bold words from an unarmed guest. Tell me, king of the hill Scots, what would prevent me from cutting you down, right where you stand? I would be well within my rights to do so.” He waved a hand to indicate the entirety of his court, all his guards. “After all, I would say you threatened me here today, and no man present would deny it.”
Aidan grit his teeth. “I doubt you could extricate yourself from that chair in time to save your life.”
“Why you—” Padruig rose from his seat, far more quickly than Aidan would have supposed.
He’d best not goad the man while he had Lìli beside him, but it was all he could do to control his temper. “To answer your question,” Aidan interrupted, “I should warn you I’ve not come alone.”
“So, I have seen, miscreant. And yet, while you may have David’s accompaniment here, today, tell me, dún Scoti, who is out there guarding my little Sorcha?” He waved a hand so to signify the firmament above. “She is my own bright star. And if anything should happen to my daughter I would hold you personally responsible.”
Aidan clenched his teeth, unwilling to show the man how much the question troubled him. It was true. He’d come with an army, but Sorcha was still out there, alone, undefended. And now, the worst was true; her da, the devil, also knew.
“Away with ye now,” Padruig said, seating himself once again, and waving his hand in dismissal. “Please rest assured I will spare no expense in searching for my child. I will turn every stone…” He affected an air of concern. “And I will find and reunite with my dearest darling, and—”
Maiden from the Mist (Guardians of the Stone Book 4) Page 4