The Chieftain

by Margaret Mallory

  Instead of answering, Sorely shuffled his feet and looked distinctly uncomfortable. If he had proof that Lachlan was Hugh’s man, Connor would have expected him to be gleeful. Perhaps he had not given Sorely sufficient respect.

  “Damn it, tell me,” he said, but still Sorely did not answer. Connor had lost all patience with him when he finally spoke.

  “Ilysa.”

  CHAPTER 35

  Ilysa?” Connor felt the blood drain from his head. “What about Ilysa?”

  “I saw her sneak out of the castle a short time ago,” Sorely said.

  “She’s a healer,” Connor said. “I’m sure she’s helping one of the farmer’s wives deliver a babe or some such.”

  “When she does that, someone always comes asking for her first,” Sorely said. “No one came. She stole out like a thief in the night.”

  Connor knew Ilysa was no spy for Hugh. The suggestion was ridiculous. But where was she going in the middle of the night if no one had come seeking a healer?

  Can Ilysa be meeting a man? The thought struck him like a blade to his heart. No, she would not do that, not so soon after they had been together.

  He hated himself for thinking it. But now that the idea took hold, he could not shake it. A lass like Ilysa needed a lover. After Connor had uncovered her passionate nature buried beneath her layers of calm control, he hated the idea of her sharing it with another man.

  “You’re certain it was her?” he asked.

  “Aye,” Sorely said, looking mournful. “I’ve seen her go before.”

  Had she found another man while they were still lovers? Could that be the reason she was able to turn her back on him so utterly?

  “Ye gave a clear command that no one was to leave without your permission,” Sorely said, lifting one shoulder.

  “I’m sure there’s an innocent reason.” He hoped to God there was. “She probably woke up worrying about some child she saw days ago with a fever.”

  Ilysa would not want to hurt his pride. If she were meeting a man for a liaison, she would not do it here in the castle where he was certain to find out. She was nothing if not considerate.

  “Perhaps we should follow her?” Sorely suggested. “That would answer it.”

  Sorely was a fool to suspect Ilysa was their traitor. If she was meeting a man tonight, Connor did not want anyone to discover it but him.

  “No, this is a trivial matter. I’ll send a couple of the young men who need to practice their tracking skills,” Connor said. “You and Lachlan will be leaving early, so get your rest.”

  “I came as soon as I saw her leave,” Sorely said, “but whoever you’re sending will need to be quick to catch her before she’s crossed the field and is out of sight.”

  * * *

  Ilysa’s breathing was loud in her ears as she ran, then walked, then ran again along the dark path. It was a long distance to the faery hills, and she had to hurry to make it there and back before dawn. As she hastened her steps, she was grateful for the moonlight that shone intermittently between the windblown night clouds and kept her from losing her way.

  After a couple of hours, the outline of the odd, conical hills emerged against the blacker night. White dots of sheep lay scattered across them, like stars in the sky. Ilysa set down her bag and caught her breath as she unpacked her things. Before starting the fire, she changed into her robe. Though no one was here to see her, she felt too exposed to remove her clothes in the firelight.

  Once she had the blaze going, she found a stick the right length. She needed to calm herself and focus her thoughts for the spell to work. She stood facing the fire and drew in deep breaths until her heartbeat slowed.

  Gradually, she pushed back the fear that had dogged her steps while traveling alone at night, as well as the tiredness from running and lack of sleep. Finally, and hardest of all, she set aside the hurt, the anger, and the desolation that had engulfed her since the arrival of Connor’s bride.

  She released all the emotions that crowded her heart and thoughts. All she kept of them was the longing, for that helped her to focus not on herself, but on the man. On Connor, for whom she was casting her spell.

  She tossed a handful of the herbs she had brought onto the fire, and a burst of sparks shot above her head. The fire glowed in hues of blue, green, and orange. As she stared into the flames, she conjured an image of Connor, and she felt his presence so strongly that she was hopeful her spell would succeed.

  Slowly, she began to circle the fire, left to right, in the direction for good fortune. As she walked, she dragged her stick behind her. It made no mark on the grass-covered ground, but the strength of the circle of protection she was making around Connor had nothing to do with what the eyes could see.

  “Connor, son of Donald Gallach, grandson of Hugh, and great-grandson of the Lord of the Isles,” she chanted as she circled, keeping his image in her mind, “may you be the chieftain who brings security and peace to our clan.

  “May your feats be so great that the bards write poems and sing songs about them for many generations,” she chanted as she circled a second time.

  “May ye live to be an old man,” she said, and in her mind’s eye, she aged his beloved face, giving him deep lines and snowy white hair. “May your children be bonded to each other by great affection, and may ye have grandchildren who bring ye joy.”

  When she had circled three times, she flung her head back and raised her arms to the night sky. “May this circle protect and keep you until all these things have come to pass.”

  Now that she had completed the simple protective charm of the circle, she was ready to begin the more powerful fire dance. With every movement of the dance, she must please the faeries and thereby win their favor. In exchange, they would employ their magic for Connor’s protection. Highlanders were good Christians, of course, and so the chant also called on God’s help.

  Blades may cut you,

  Yet none shall kill you.

  False friends may deceive you,

  Yet none shall kill you.

  Allies may desert you,

  Yet none shall kill you.

  Enemies may trap you,

  Yet none shall kill you.

  Seun Dhè umad!

  Làmh Dhè airson do dhìona!

  Spell of God about you!

  The hand of God protect you!

  * * *

  Connor knelt on one knee in the grass, mesmerized. So he had not imagined the dancing faery the night he stumbled into the faery glen injured and bleeding. Somehow, it made sense that his dancing faery was Ilysa. As her hair caught the light of the fire and her body swayed back and forth, he thought of her above him and the magic of their lovemaking.

  When he left the castle, he had been lucky to spot her at the far edge of the field in the moonlight. He had kept close enough to protect her should trouble find her, yet far enough behind her that she would not sense him following. The distance she traveled had surprised him. The longer she walked, the lower Connor’s opinion sank of the man who had asked her to come so far alone to meet him. But when he recognized the odd, conical hills of the faery glen, he realized he had been wrong.

  Instead of a romantic liaison, she had come all this way to reach the faery glen and recite some sort of spell. Connor set less store by the power of the Old Ways than most Highlanders—and clearly less than Ilysa did. With too little thought, he had dismissed the rumors that she was learning more from Teàrlag than headache cures.

  He could not make out the words of her chant, for he kept his distance, not wanting to interrupt her until she finished her enchantment. Or curse. When he was injured and thought she was a faery, he had not seen her circle the fire with a stick as she was doing now. But he had fallen asleep that night and could easily have missed it.

  As she circled the fire, long-ago memories of his mother cursing his father flashed through his head. What Ilysa was doing looked the same, and yet was markedly different. His memory of his mother was black as night, from th
e hate in her eyes, to her harsh words, to her hair writhing like snakes, while everything about Ilysa radiated light—her hair, her face, her robe.

  When Ilysa began to dance around the fire, Connor forgot to breathe. Her movements were so erotic that desire swept through him like a storm. He imagined making love to her in the firelight and watching her dance above him with her golden hair falling all around him.

  * * *

  Ilysa dropped her arms and closed her eyes, drained by her effort. When she recalled the image of an aged Connor, she smiled to herself. Ach, he would be a handsome old warrior. Her smile faded as she remembered that she would not be there to see him grow old.

  When she opened her eyes, a jolt of fear coursed through her. Across the fire, she saw the outline of a huge warrior coming toward her out of the darkness. Her heart raced. In this magical place, he could be the faery king or a warrior from the dead. She quickly made the sign of the cross.

  “Ilysa.” The phantom said her name in a voice so deep she could feel it in her toes. “I was hoping to find ye here.”

  Her mind had been so focused first on Connor and then on her fear that it was a long moment before she took in his disfigured shoulder and realized who he was.

  What was Alastair Crotach, chieftain of the MacLeods, doing here in the Faery Glen?

  And why was he looking for her?

  CHAPTER 36

  Greetings and God’s blessing upon you,” Ilysa formally addressed the MacLeod chieftain. Now that she knew who he was, she was far more curious than fearful. “What brings ye to the faery glen this night?” Or any night.

  “I remembered that ye collected healing herbs in the glen when the moon was full.” He lifted his hand toward the moon that shone through the night clouds. “I took a chance that ye would be here.”

  “But why?” Ilysa asked. “Our clans are on the verge of spilling each other’s blood. ’Tis dangerous for ye to come to Trotternish alone.”

  “I have fifty warriors within calling distance,” he said. “I needed to speak with ye.”

  “Me?” Ilysa could think of nothing that would bring the great MacLeod chieftain into a faery glen just to see her.

  “I believe I know who your father was,” he said.

  “My father?” This was the last thing she expected to hear. As exhausted as she was, it was one surprise too many. The MacLeod chieftain took her arm to steady her as tiny sparks crossed her vision.

  “Come sit with me,” he said. “I’ll tell ye a story.”

  Ilysa had given up expecting to find out who her father was years ago, yet Alastair MacLeod did not seem the sort of man to make a joke of this. Blindly, she let him lead her to a log, then she sat with a thump as her legs gave way. He sat beside her and put a hand on her shoulder, an unexpectedly kind gesture.

  “Do ye know about your mother being stolen away by one of my warriors?” he asked. “This would have been a long time before ye were born.”

  “Aye, though I only learned about it a short time ago,” Ilysa said. “She returned to our clan with my brother when he was a babe.”

  “I was at our fortress on the isle of Harris and knew nothing of what happened at the time,” he said. “In my absence, your mother’s MacCrimmon relations complained to my son Ruari. He commanded her release and escorted her to the MacCrimmons himself.”

  “I thought your children were all younger than that,” she said.

  “I married late, but I had a natural son many years before my marriage,” he said, staring off into the darkness. “Ruari was sixteen at the time, same as your mother.”

  “I am grateful to your son for coming to her aid.”

  “Ruari was kindhearted and gentle like his mother, not at all like the warrior he should have been.” The MacLeod’s silver hair shone in the moonlight as he shook his head. “From the time he was a bairn, he cared for three-legged dogs and birds with broken wings.”

  “Was he a disappointment to ye?” Ilysa asked, her thoughts on Connor. Although Connor was a gifted warrior, his father had never been able to see his other strengths because the two were so different.

  “I tried my best to make a warrior out of him, but he was never more than passable with a sword.” The MacLeod chieftain gave a deep sigh. “I could not name such a son my tànaiste, successor, but I did love him. I grieve for him still.”

  The sorrow in his voice made Ilysa’s eyes sting, but she kept silent. Pity would only offend such a proud man.

  “I recognized the brooch ye wore at the gathering,” he said. “I had given it to Ruari’s mother upon his birth, and it became his when she died.”

  Though she was not wearing it now, Ilysa’s hand went to her throat where the brooch had rested. How did her mother come to possess a brooch belonging to the MacLeod chieftain’s family?

  “After seeing ye wear the brooch, I returned to Dunvegan and spoke with those who knew my son best. Eventually, I pieced it all together.” He paused. “I believe Ruari was your father.”

  Ilysa sat up straight and blinked at him. She had been so caught up in the tale that she had forgotten where it was leading.

  “’Tis easy to imagine how it happened. Your mother was a fragile creature who had been hurt—my son was bound to think himself in love with her. As for your mother, my son would not have frightened her as other men did. Ruari was the one who rescued her, and he had a gentle nature.”

  “He could not be my father,” Ilysa said after she had gathered her thoughts. “What ye speak of happened near the time of my brother’s birth, which was many years before mine.”

  “Nothing happened then, but they met again nine years later when your mother accompanied your chieftain’s family to a large gathering of the clans,” he said. “When they both disappeared soon after, no one guessed it was with each other.”

  “How do ye know it was?” she asked.

  “My son confided in his best friend, who I recently persuaded to tell me all about it,” he said. “Ruari knew, of course, that I could not approve a marriage to your mother, as she was not close kin to a chieftain.”

  “Of course,” Ilysa said, unable to keep a touch of bitterness from her voice.

  “They became lovers, and he begged her to come live with him at Dunvegan and bring her son,” he continued. “But she refused. She told him she had made a promise to care for your chieftain’s children, and she would not break it.”

  “I can’t imagine my brother Duncan raised as a MacLeod,” she said. “His first chance, he would have run away.” Then it struck her that if her mother had gone, she would have grown up as a MacLeod herself. As much as the prospect of being parted from Connor grieved her, the thought of never knowing him was worse.

  “When your mother chose to return to her own clan, it broke my son’s heart. Ruari died in a battle not long after.” He paused. “I don’t believe he knew she carried his child.”

  “I’m sorry ye lost your son.” Ilysa could not yet think of the young man in the story as her father. “Do ye want his brooch back? Is that why ye came to tell me this?”

  “I didn’t come for the brooch.” The MacLeod chieftain’s gaze was intent on her face. “I came for my dead son’s only child. I came for my granddaughter.”

  CHAPTER 37

  Connor was the worst kind of fool.

  He had caught Ilysa red-handed. And yet, as he followed her slight figure through the darkness back to the castle, doubts assailed him. That’s how much he loved her. Passion for a woman could rob a man of rational thought if he let it. Ilysa had sneaked out of the castle for a secret meeting in the middle of the night with the chieftain of their enemy clan. There could be no innocent explanation. And yet, his heart could not accept that Ilysa would commit this treachery.

  Even if she hated him for taking a wife, he could not imagine Ilysa doing anything that would put the clan in danger. It made no sense. Yet he had seen her with his own eyes, sitting and talking with the MacLeod chieftain as if they were old friends.

>   Or more than friends.

  Connor wanted to shout at her and shake her—and most of all, to hold her in his arms and beg her to say she had not betrayed him. But his emotions were too raw, the pain too fresh. Until he could think this all through with a clear head in the cold light of day, it would be unwise to confront her. In his current state, he would believe anything she said, grasp at any straw.

  Connor kept his gaze on Ilysa, slipping in and out of the moonlight ahead of him like a sprite, while he tortured himself going over and over again what he had seen in the faery glen. When the MacLeod first appeared like a wraith from the darkness, Connor had reached for his sword. He was on the verge of sprinting toward Ilysa to save her when instinct born of years of fighting froze him in place.

  First, he sensed the presence of other men in the darkness. When he paused to listen, he heard the telltale sounds of a large group of warriors trying to be silent: a nervous hand sliding a dirk in and out of its sheath, the shuffling of feet, a muffled cough. The hidden warriors would not have stopped him from rescuing her, but only led him to be cautious and cunning in devising a plan to do it.

  What truly halted him was Ilysa’s reaction to the MacLeod’s sudden appearance. She did not attempt to run, or even take a step backward, when he approached her. Instead the pair appeared to exchange greetings. While Connor watched from his hiding place, she allowed their clan’s greatest enemy to take her arm and sit beside her. Ilysa showed no resistance even when the MacLeod chieftain rested his goddamned hand on her shoulder.

  Connor had been too far away to hear their conversation. With so many MacLeod warriors hidden in the darkness, he dared not draw closer. Yet their ease with each other was obvious, as was the MacLeod chieftain’s reluctance to part with her at the end. The MacLeod held Ilysa’s hands, as if trying to persuade her not to leave him.