* * *
It should have been a clean kill.
Lachlan mulled over what went wrong as he waited at the meeting point for Hugh’s galley, which would take him back to Trotternish. He had wasted his first arrow on the wrong man. When the rider entered the clearing, he fit the description Lachlan had been given: a tall warrior near Lachlan’s age with a rangy build and hair as black as a crow. Fortunately, the man’s horse had jerked to the side and saved his life. Lachlan was relieved he had only winged him. He did not make a practice of killing men who did not deserve it.
As soon as the next man charged his horse into the clearing, Lachlan realized his mistake. He could not have said why, for the two looked much alike, but he had known immediately that the second man was the chieftain. There was something about him that bespoke his position as leader of the clan.
Odd, how the chieftain had ridden directly into Lachlan’s range when he saw the arrow strike his companion. Connor MacDonald had not hesitated, not spared a glance behind him to look for someone else to do it.
It was the chieftain’s unexpected willingness to put the life of one of his men before his own that had caused Lachlan to falter, just for an instant, and send his next arrow into the chieftain’s thigh instead of his heart. Lachlan recovered quickly, and his third arrow struck the chieftain in the chest, though it may have been too high to kill him.
Next time, he would not falter.
* * *
The four men were in deep discussion when Ilysa slipped into the chamber with a tray. She glanced at Connor, who had no business being out of bed a day after he was wounded. Though he hid his pain well, she saw it in the strain around his eyes.
“We haven’t found the man who shot those arrows,” Ian said. “His tracks were washed out in the rain.”
As Ilysa started around the table refilling their cups, Duncan gave her his icy warrior’s stare to let her know that their earlier argument was not finished. Ilysa responded with a serene smile to let him know that it was.
“We all know Hugh is responsible for this attack,” Alex said, referring to Connor’s half uncle who was set on taking the chieftainship from him. “He’s tried to have Connor murdered more than once.”
“The MacLeods wouldn’t attack us here on the Sleat Peninsula where we are strong,” Ian agreed. “This was a single archer, and my guess is he was one of our own.”
“We have vipers among us!” Duncan slammed his fist on the table, causing their cups to rattle.
As Ilysa refilled their cups, Ian shot her a quick, dazzling smile, and Alex winked at her. She had always been fond of Connor’s cousins, though the pair had been philandering devils before they settled down to become devoted husbands. Ian and Connor had gotten their black hair from their mothers, who were sisters, while Alex had the fair hair of the Vikings who had once terrorized the isles.
“Will ye reconsider your decision to live at Trotternish Castle?” Ian asked Connor. “Up there, ye won’t have us to guard your back as we did yesterday.”
“Hell,” Alex said. “if someone kills ye, we’re likely to end up with Hugh as chieftain.”
“By making Trotternish Castle my home,” Connor said, “I’m sending a message to the MacLeods—and to the Crown—that I am not giving up our claim to the Trotternish Peninsula.”
Connor’s deep voice reverberated somewhere low in Ilysa’s belly, making her hand quiver as she poured whiskey into his cup. For a moment she feared he would notice, but she needn’t have worried.
“I want them to know,” Connor continued, “that we will fight for the lands the MacLeods stole from us.”
“A’ phlàigh oirbh, a Chlanna MhicLeòid!”—a plague on the MacLeods!—the four chanted in unison and raised their cups.
Ilysa could see that she had arrived just in time with more whiskey.
“If you’re intent on this,” Duncan said, “I should remain as captain of your guard and go with ye.”
“I need ye to protect our people here, just as I need Ian and Alex to hold our other castles,” Connor said. “I’m sailing for Trotternish in the morning, so I suggest we discuss how to remove the MacLeods from our lands.”
Ach, the man should let his wounds heal before leaving. Ilysa would have to watch him closely on the two-day journey.
She took her tray to the side table and stood with her back to them, pretending to be busy. Because they suspected Connor’s uncle had spies in the castle, Ilysa had always served them herself when Connor’s inner circle met in private. The four men were so accustomed to her coming and going that they never noticed when she stayed to listen.
“The MacLeods are a powerful clan,” Ian said. “We won’t defeat them without a strong ally fighting at our side.”
“If ye want us to take Trotternish,” Alex said, “ye should make a marriage alliance with another clan.”
Ilysa tensed, though she was certain Connor would say it was not yet time, as he always did.
“Several clans have already left the rebellion, and it will end soon,” Ian said. “’Tis possible now to judge which clans will have power—and which won’t—when it’s over.”
“Ye always said that’s what ye were waiting for,” Alex said. “Of course, we think ye were just stalling.”
“You’re right,” Connor said. “’Tis time for me to take a wife.”
Ilysa’s vision went dark, and she gripped the edge of the table to keep from falling. Concentrating to keep her feet under her, she sidestepped along the table. When she reached the end of it, she turned around and half fell onto the bench that was beside it against the wall.
From the long silence that followed Connor’s announcement, the men were as surprised as she was.
“We prodded the bull by taking Trotternish Castle. Alastair MacLeod could strike back at us at any time,” Connor said. “The sooner I make a marriage alliance, the better.”
Soon? Ilysa took deep breaths trying to calm herself. What was wrong with her? She had known Connor would wed eventually.
“God knows, ye need a woman,” Alex said. “How long has it been?”
When the others began making ribald remarks, Ilysa knew they had forgotten her completely and was grateful for it. Connor’s apparent celibacy since becoming chieftain had been the subject of a good deal of speculation and gossip. The men of the castle seemed almost as amazed by the chieftain’s failure to take any lass to his bed as the women were disappointed.
The distance to the door suddenly seemed too far. As soon as Ilysa could trust herself to walk, she forced herself to get to her feet. She crossed the floor with her head down and bit her lip hard to keep from weeping.
* * *
Connor let them have their laugh though he had little humor for this particular subject. He took a long drink of his whiskey. By the saints, he needed a woman.
His father and grandfather were great warriors, but the strife they caused with all their women had weakened the clan. His grandfather’s six sons by six different women had all hated each other. After the murder and mayhem among them, only two remained alive. Connor’s own father’s philandering had caused another round of turmoil.
Connor was determined not to follow in their footsteps in that respect. During his years in France and before, he had taken pleasure in the company of women, as young warriors will. But when he returned to find his father and brother dead, everything changed. He could never again do as he pleased. As chieftain, his every decision had consequences for the clan.
He could afford no missteps. Connor’s half uncle, who was called Hugh Dubh, Black Hugh, for his black heart, had nearly destroyed the clan before Connor took the chieftainship from him. Thanks to the help of the three men sitting with Connor now, the clan had recovered much of its strength. Relying on their swords and their wits, they had taken control of the clan’s castles and secured most of their lands. All that remained was to reclaim the Trotternish Peninsula.
Connor would not destroy all he had built by leaving
a legacy of strife and sorrow as his father and grandfather had done. He was determined to wed only once, provided he was not widowed, and to have no children except with his wife.
“This decision of who I marry is vital to the clan’s future,” Connor said when he grew tired of his friends’ jests about his celibacy. “We must weigh the benefits and drawbacks of each possible alliance.”
“The best match would be a daughter of the MacLeod chieftain,” Ian said. “Remember, the oldest method of subduing an enemy is through the marriage bond.”
“And it has the distinct advantage of requiring the sacrifice of only one man,” Alex said with a twinkle in his eye.
“Alastair MacLeod will never agree to settle matters between our clans without blood,” Connor said. “Besides, his daughters are too young.”
“The MacLeod waited even longer than you to wed,” Ian said. “Ach, he must have been well over forty.”
That was unusual, indeed. The attempt on Connor’s life had been a harsh reminder of his duty to produce heirs and made him decide he could wait no longer to wed. In the violent world they lived in, it was important for a chieftain to have many children, both to be assured of an heir and to have children to make marriage alliances for the clan. In fact, it was common for chieftains to “put aside” wives who could not bear children—or who could no longer do so. Connor’s father and grandfather had not bothered using that excuse.
“There are plenty of other chieftains with marriageable daughters,” Ian said. “The upcoming gathering is the perfect opportunity.”
So many chieftains and their sons had died in the Battle of Flodden that there was an abundance of chieftains’ daughters in need of highborn husbands. Connor had avoided gatherings up until now for that very reason. But the time was ripe, and the chieftains would all be at this gathering, except for the few who were still in the rebellion. The Campbell chieftain, as the king’s Lieutenant of the Isles, had summoned them to re-pledge their loyalty.
“No matter which chieftain’s daughter I wed, I risk offending half a dozen other chieftains.” Connor rubbed his forehead. If he had five or six siblings, he could spread alliances out like the Campbells did, marrying into clans all across the Western Isles.
“Shaggy Maclean said he’d make a gift of that sweet galley we stole from him if ye wed one of his daughters,” Ian said, stifling a smile.
“I don’t know that I’d want a father-in-law who is half mad and threw us in his dungeon,” Alex said. “Besides, we already have his boat.”
“Shaggy is mad and dangerous, which is precisely the reason I’d prefer to have him fighting on our side,” Connor said, taking the suggestion seriously. It made him uneasy that the Maclean chieftain had joined forces with Alastair MacLeod as of late. “If Shaggy had not gotten himself on the wrong side of the Campbells, his clan would be a good choice for the alliance.”
“Ye ought to consider the qualities of the lass as well as her clan,” Duncan said. “She’ll be the mother of your children.”
“We’re proof that ye can both please yourself and serve the clan with your marriage,” Ian said.
Connor had seen these three, his closest companions, find happiness beyond all reason in their marriages. Despite their jesting, he knew they wanted him to have a love match as well.
But Connor neither hoped for nor wanted that for himself. He had seen the consequences of an unruly, all-consuming passion and would never trust it. Instead, he intended to have a smooth, cordial partnership with a lass whose father had enough warriors to defeat the MacLeods.
“Pick a pretty lass who’s no afraid to argue with ye,” Alex said and winked. “A man needs a wife who stirs his blood.”
Any lass who was breathing could stir Connor’s blood. After so long without, there was not a single one he did not find overwhelmingly appealing. He was like a man dying of thirst at sea, surrounded by water he could not drink.
“Frankly, lads, ye haven’t been much help,” Connor said, getting to his feet.
“Ask Teàrlag,” Alex said, referring to the old seer as he and Ian drifted toward the door. “She’ll give ye good advice, even if it makes no sense at the time.”
Connor needed to get out of this room, but he stayed behind because he sensed that Duncan wished to speak with him. His head had begun pounding the moment he entered it. Like his father and grandfather before him, Connor had used this room as his private chamber. Even after he had stripped it of its ornate furnishings, he had felt his father’s presence too keenly—stifling and choking him.
At his sister’s insistence, the ornate furniture was back. The chamber was hers and Duncan’s now that the two were wed and Connor had made Duncan keeper of this castle.
Connor hobbled over to look out the arrow-slit window. As his gaze traveled along the shore, he paused at the place where the warrior had carried his mother’s body ashore all those years ago. Whenever he remembered that bleak day of his childhood, he thought of his brother Ragnall, who would have made a better chieftain.
But Ragnall, like his father, was dead, so the task fell to him.
“I’m honored that you’ve entrusted Dunscaith Castle to me,” Duncan said.
“There are too many ghosts for me here,” Connor said, though his personal reasons played no part in his decision. “I know ye will keep this castle and the surrounding lands safe for our clan.”
“Have ye decided who will replace me as captain of your guard?” Duncan asked.
“I’ll never find a captain who is as loyal or as fierce a warrior as you,” Connor said, turning to grip his friend’s shoulder. “But I’ll pick a man from among our warriors once I reach Trotternish Castle.”
“Choosing the wrong wife could make things unpleasant for ye.” Duncan paused. “But choosing the wrong captain could get ye killed.”
CHAPTER 2
A sense of freedom washed over Connor as he sailed away from Dunscaith Castle. He would have lived the rest of his life there if that met the needs of the clan, but praise God it did not. Every day at Dunscaith he lived in the shadow of two men—his father, whom he had never been able to please, and his older brother, whose place he had taken.
Before heading north to the far end of the island, he directed his men to pull onto the beach below Teàrlag’s cottage, which was perched high on a cliff overlooking the sea. The questions he meant to put to the clan’s ancient seer were private, so he left his guard in the galley. The steps cut into the stone cliff were black and slippery with rain, and his injured leg gave him some trouble.
He forgot Ilysa was behind him until he heard her cough.
“Careful,” he said, turning to offer his hand to her.
“Does your leg pain ye badly?” she asked.
“No,” he lied.
Teàrlag was not waiting for them at the top of the cliff, as she usually did. Perhaps the old seer was losing her gift. When he reached her cottage, he knocked on the weathered door, then pushed it open.
“I’m no losing The Sight,” Teàrlag greeted him, glaring at him with her one good eye. “Has becoming chieftain gone to your head, lad? Ye can’t expect an old woman to stand out in the rain waiting for ye.”
While she spoke, her cow mooed in complaint from behind the half wall that divided the cottage.
“I see you and your cow are as cheerful as ever,” Connor said, holding back a smile.
Teàrlag had two plaids wrapped around her and was so short and hunched over that he could not tell if she was standing or sitting until she shuffled over to the table where Ilysa was unpacking the basket of food she had brought. Connor was relieved that she looked no worse than the last time he saw her. When he handed her the jug of whiskey he’d brought, the old woman’s wrinkled face brightened.
“There’s a good lad,” she said as she retrieved her cup from the shelf above the table.
“I’m making Trotternish Castle my home,” Connor said. “I wished to pay my respects before I go.”
“Hmmph
, that’s no why ye came.” Teàrlag poured a large measure of whiskey into her cup. After she drank it down, she fixed her good eye on him. “Ye came because ye fear I’ll be dead before ye come back.”
Connor did not bother denying it, though that was not his only reason. He sat at the table and nodded his thanks to Ilysa, who had eased the jug out of Teàrlag’s hand and poured him a cup.
“I wish to know what ye foresee for the clan,” he said. “Do ye have any warnings I should heed to protect our people?”
“I told ye before,” she said, looking sour again. “The clan’s future depends upon ye wedding the right lass.”
Connor had only been eleven or twelve at the time, though he remembered it well enough. He and the other lads had asked her about their future because they longed to hear about their great feats as warriors. Instead, she had disappointed them with predictions about women.
“I did harbor some hope,” he said, “that in fifteen years ye might have gained a clearer picture regarding what lass I ought to choose.”
“Ach, ye don’t listen,” she said. “I told ye that the lass will choose you.”
Connor’s chest was throbbing from the arrow wound, and the old seer was trying his patience. His bride would be a chieftain’s daughter and would have no choice over the matter. Their marriage would be an alliance between two clans, agreed upon between Connor and the lass’s father.
“I feel a vision coming,” Teàrlag called out in a strange voice.
Connor suspected Teàrlag was warming up to re-enact a vision she’d had earlier, if she was not making it up altogether. The old woman did like to make a show of her gift.
Ilysa helped the old seer turn on her stool to face the hearth, then tossed a handful of the herbs Teàrlag used to enhance her visions onto the fire, causing it to spit and crackle. After drawing in several deep breaths of the pungent smoke, Teàrlag fell into an alarming fit of hacking. Connor started to get up, but Ilysa shook her head and helped the old seer turn around to face him again.
The Chieftain Page 2