by Amanda Scott
Fin glanced at Patrick to see that gentleman’s mouth hanging open.
Patrick looked at him. “You saw that?”
“Aye,” Fin said. “She might not be as skilled as you are, but if I’m not mistaken, that shot was as fine as any other archer might make.”
“I’ve never seen the like,” Patrick said. “She handles that bow as well as any man I’ve ever trained.”
Molly saw Kintail watching her, but she carefully avoided looking at him, because she did not want him to detect her curiosity and mistake it for anything else. Better that he think she had more important matters on her mind. Nevertheless, she was delighted that he was watching when she shot the wood pigeon. Men thought them difficult prey for an archer, because of their fast, steep, erratic flight. When the arrow struck true, it was all she could do not to throw him a smile of triumph, and when he and Sir Patrick rode away, she told herself the disappointment she felt was merely because he could not see her repeat the shot.
Back at Dunakin an hour later, she handed her bow and quiver to a gilly and nodded to another to help her dismount. Before the lad could do so, however, a muscular arm pushed him aside and Kintail stepped up beside her horse.
“Pray, sir,” she said, raising her chin, “stand aside and let me dismount. I have much to do, and Lady Mackinnon is doubtless awaiting my return.”
“I don’t doubt that you have much to do,” he said evenly. “What I do not understand is why you were careering about the countryside all morning instead of attending to your preparations for our departure.”
“Because it is a magnificent day,” she said airily, avoiding his intense, disturbing gaze. “The storm washed everything fresh, and I wanted to hunt.”
“Do you always do as you want, mistress?”
“Always,” she replied.
“You will find life at Eilean Donan rather different, I’m afraid,” he said as he clasped her firmly around the waist and lifted her from the saddle.
To her surprise, he did not set her down at once but held her with her feet dangling. The position was undignified, and she felt her temper stir. His expression challenged her to protest, and she had a feeling that he was spoiling for a fight. When she did not respond at once, his eyes narrowed and he frowned.
She was sharply aware of him physically. In her present position, she looked him eye to eye. His hands at her waist were warm and strong. His body was large—huge compared to hers—and she realized that until he chose to set her down, she was powerless to make him do so. That helpless feeling was unlike any she had experienced since early childhood. Her nerves tingled and her breathing quickened.
She swallowed, hoping she could control her voice long enough to insist that he set her down, without revealing the disturbing effect he had on her.
Before she could speak, he said, “Eilean Donan is an islet, mistress, much smaller than the Isle of Skye. If one had such power, one could pick up our islet and Loch Duich—the entrance to which it guards—and put them both down anywhere on Skye without disturbing much of this island’s present landscape.”
“Have you a point to make, sir, before dinnertime?” she asked.
“I do,” he replied, his strength apparently unstressed by her weight. He was still gazing steadily at her, and briefly meeting that gaze, she saw that his eyes were not dark brown, as she had thought the night before, but a deep blue so dark as to look nearly black. In an area where many men revealed the coloring of Viking forbears, his was unusual.
“The point,” he said, giving her a shake as if to be certain that he held her attention, “is that once we reach Eilean Donan, you will go nowhere without my permission. It is clear to me that Mackinnon has allowed you far more liberty than simple good sense would dictate. That will change.”
“You take your new authority much too seriously, sir,” she said, hoping that she sounded as determined as he did. “I am quite capable of looking after myself, and I would ask you to put me down now. You have shown off your splendid strength to everyone in the stable yard. I warrant that they are much impressed by it, but in truth, such a display is unseemly.”
He looked around and his rueful expression revealed that he had forgotten their surroundings. To her relief, he set her gently on her feet. When he shifted his hands to her shoulders, holding her, relief turned to apprehension.
She realized then that the top of her head did not even reach his shoulder. Thus, he seemed larger than ever when he put a finger under her chin and raised it, making her look at him again as he said quietly, “Hear me well, mistress. You no longer answer to Mackinnon but to me, and you would be wise to remember that. Not only am I not a man you can safely cross, but I am now your legal guardian, and by the King’s authority I hold the right to marry you myself or to arrange a marriage between you and any other man I choose. Do not stir my temper.”
A mixture of fear and something less easily identified shot through her, but she repressed the feeling, licked dry lips, and said with careful calm, “Am I to have naught to say to such plans, sir? I tell you now that I will not willingly marry you. Nor will I marry any man simply because you say that I must. I tell you also—nay, warn you—that if you believe Donald of Sleat will ignore this… this usurpation of his authority, he will soon make you see your error.”
His eyes gleamed. “I hope that Sleat comes to Eilean Donan to debate the matter with me, lass, for he will meet a warm reception. If he dares to set foot anywhere in Kintail, my men and I will be ready for him.”
He seemed suddenly like a different man. Although he had scarcely been gentle before, by comparison to the violence she sensed now just below the surface, his previous demeanor had been lamblike.
Abandoning her airs, she said quietly, “Why do you hate him so?”
“He killed my father.”
“Men kill other men frequently,” she said, struggling to conceal the instant sympathy she felt. To that same end, she added hastily, “For years now, ever since the Crown took unto itself the Lordship of the Isles, the Macdonalds have had to fight to keep what they hold. Other clans, clans the King chooses to set against them, have taken their land by trickery. Indeed, I believe the Mackenzies…”
“Aye, we had Lewis from them.”
“Well, if your father—”
“You know not of such matters,” he snapped. “Hold your tongue.”
Fearing that he might become violent if she pressed him too hard, Molly fell silent, although she burned to inform him that she knew a great deal about the history of the Isles. But if Donald was responsible for the death of Kintail’s father, she was sure Kintail would not willingly discuss that with her. Objectivity in such a discussion would be difficult for him if not impossible.
He waited, as if to be certain that she would not compound her impertinence, and then said quietly, “My father was leading men to Kinlochewe, to help fight off an attack there, when men told him a boat was foundering on the north shore of the loch. When he and his men ran to assist the boatmen, the Macdonalds ambushed them. Sleat is a scoundrel without honor, and he wants to rule the Isles as his ancestors did. Indeed, he would be King of Scots if he could.”
She could think of nothing to say. She did not like Donald the Grim. The only thing that had made his guardianship acceptable to her was his continued absence, for the few times she had met him he had both irritated and frightened her with his fierce looks and abrupt manners.
“Go inside now,” Kintail said curtly. “You will want to change your dress for dinner, and it cannot be long now before we dine.”
“That is true,” she said, wishing she could think of something to say that would bring a smile to his face. Glancing at the bright, cloudless sky to find the sun directly overhead, she said only, “Someone will be ringing the bell shortly.”
“Go then,” he said again. “And, lass…”
She had turned away—gratefully—but at these words, she glanced back over her shoulder at him. “Aye, sir?”
“Wear a blue dress. I would see how well blue becomes you.”
All desire to cheer him vanished.
“Arrogant knave,” she muttered under her breath as she turned away again. Despite the undeniable attractiveness of his person and the irritatingly seductive quality of his voice, his forcefulness annoyed her. She immediately began a mental survey of her wardrobe, trying to decide which of her dresses would declare most loudly to him that she refused to obey his absurd, arbitrary commands.
Fin drew a deep, steadying breath as he watched her walk away, her round little backside twitching in such a way that he wanted to run after her and either paddle her or make love to her until she agreed to submit to his will or he surrendered to hers. The unexpected rider to his thought made him want to smile, but he did not, fearing she might look back and see it and think she had already vanquished him.
For the past fifteen hours or so, he had felt disoriented. Doubtless much of that was due to the swiftness with which he had acted after receiving the King’s messenger, and then his fall from the horse, but for that fall and for much of the rest he had no hesitation in blaming Mistress Gordon. The exasperating fact was that the lass did not know her place. She behaved more like a spoiled princess than the foster daughter of a Highland chieftain.
He had not behaved well either, though, and admitted as much to himself as he walked toward the keep’s postern door, where a narrow service stairway led to the chamber allotted to him. It irked him that the lass could throw his own behavior in his face if he found cause—as he was sure he would—to take her to task again. He had never known anyone so impertinent, or so tauntingly fascinating.
She was different from any woman he had ever met. Border-bred, she was smaller and more slightly built than the Highland women he knew, who tended to be built along the larger, more robust lines of their Norse ancestors.
Clearly, serving as Mistress Gordon’s guardian was not going to be as easy as he had thought, and just as it now seemed absurd that he had not once thought about what she might look like, that he had not thought about how she might act was an equally foolish oversight. If he had, of course, he would have assumed that she would simply obey him. Now he feared that she would not.
He sighed. She would learn, one way or another. He would not allow a mere lass whose head barely reached his armpit to make trouble at Eilean Donan. She would have chores to tend just like everyone else, and she would do as she was bid or she would answer to him. How difficult could it be?
Trying hard to ignore the lingering itch of doubt in his mind and an equally disturbing sensation much lower down, he reached his chamber and, finding Patrick within, demanded that gentleman’s aid in finding a suitable change of clothing.
Molly reached her bedchamber still contemplating how best to show Kintail that domineering males did not impress her. Irritated by the constant echoing in her mind of his command that she wear blue, she pushed open the door hard enough to send it banging against the wall. Then she stopped at the threshold, stunned at the sight of one of the largest wildcats she had ever beheld, curled up on her bed.
Golden eyes gleaming wickedly, the beast growled at her.
“Mercy,” she murmured, too stunned even to be afraid. When the first prickling of fear stirred, she decided that she could jump back and slam the door before it could attack, but even as that thought flitted through her mind, she noticed something even odder than the presence of a wildcat in her bedchamber. At first, it was as if a swirl of mist formed in front of the cat. Then, slowly, a solid-looking outline took shape.
The hair stood up on the back of her neck as, before her eyes, where no one had been before, a little woman appeared. Molly shut her eyes and opened them again, but the woman was still there. About two-thirds the size of the wildcat, she was leaning comfortably against its furry side, her legs stretched out before her, primly crossed at the ankles. In her right hand, she held an odd-looking implement like a stick with a small white bowl at one end from which a narrow stream of whitish gray smoke wafted upward.
“Good day to ye,” the little woman said. “Did ye enjoy your hunt?”
“I did, thank you,” Molly said, responding automatically to the woman’s matter-of-fact tone. Then, still finding it hard to believe that the woman and cat had simply appeared out of thin air, she said warily, “Who are you?”
“Why, I be Maggie Malloch, that’s who.”
“I am afraid that name means naught to me,” Molly said. “Aye, sure, and I expected as much,” Maggie Malloch said, “but we’ve nae time tae discuss me name now. It takes a deal of effort for me tae remain visible, ye see. I must speak quickly, so if ye’ll be so kind as no tae interrupt me—”
“Remain visible!”
“Whisst now, I told ye, ye mustna interrupt,” Maggie said impatiently. “I declare, mortals be as rude as any o’ the wee people, for all that many in both worlds would say different.”
“Wee people!” Molly’s voice went up on the words in a thready shriek, although she had begun to suspect as much when Maggie’s figure formed out of the swirling mist.
“Whisst now, whisst,” Maggie said sternly. “Ye’ll do nae good by settin’ up a screech, for if anyone else comes in, I’ll ha’ tae be taking me leave o’ ye straightaway. Would ye mind shuttin’ that door now—and quietly, mind.”
Fascination replaced the lingering remnants of Molly’s fear and disbelief. She had heard tales of the wee people all her life, but never had she actually seen one before—or two, if one counted the cat, as she hoped one could. “But you cannot be a fairy,” she protested. “Fairies are much smaller than you are.”
“How small? Like this, d’ye think?” Maggie shrank until she was smaller than the wildcat’s paw. The beast looked much more menacing now.
“I-I’d prefer larger, if you don’t mind,” Molly said, eyeing the cat warily.
“Aye, well, that’s what I thought,” Maggie said, returning to her previous size. “Now, shut the door if ye’d like me tae stay and chat.”
Molly pointed to the wildcat. “What about him?”
“Dinna fash yourself. He’ll be doin’ ye nae harm.” Maggie snuggled deeper into the wildcat’s thick fur.
To Molly’s astonishment, the beast began to purr.
“There, now, ye see,” Maggie said. “But we canna be wastin’ time. What d’ye think o’ yon Finlay Mackenzie o’ Kintail?”
The question caught Molly as she moved at last to shut the door. Using more force than necessary, she said bluntly as she turned, “He is hateful and arrogant.”
“Aye, well, I were afraid ye wouldna like him, though he seems tae be handsome enough.”
“I suppose,” Molly said, “if one likes dark-haired men with eyes that seem to look right through one. I do not.”
“ ’Tis a pity then, but once our Claud had stuck his finger in the pie, there were little I could do. He’s in lust again, Claud is, and bein’ in such a state turns his brain tae porridge. Nobbut he’s no so strong in that area most days, come what may. I fear our Claud didna come out o’ the womb wi’ all his bits in such fine order as I did m’self, ye see, even though he had the good fortune tae ha’ me for his mam.”
Thoroughly bewildered, Molly stepped nearer and said, “Whatever are you talking about, and who is Claud?”
“If ye’d but listen, I told ye, he’s me son, though it isna summat I care tae brag about most days. Aye, sure, and ye can believe me when I say that!”
“But who are you? Or, more to the point, what are you?”
“Aye, now that would ha’ been a better way tae put your question in the first place, instead o’ taking it for granted that I were one o’ them feckless Highland fairies,” Maggie Malloch said, nodding. Making a gesture with the white implement in her hand, she said, “Ha’ ye no heard tell o’ the household spirits, then?”
“I don’t think so, although I have heard many stories about the wee people,” Molly said, “about fairies that steal babes from their crad
les, and about the evil Host that flies at night, seeking stray souls to collect.”
“We’ll no speak o’ the Host, if ye please. As for fairies stealing bairns, them would be Highland fairies or the Irish lot, and I’ve nae truck wi’ such. Foolish creatures they be, always spouting o’ kings and queens and the like, and making mischief—stealing grown folks away, too, and then returning them twenty years later tae everyone’s consternation. I dinna hold wi’ such fractious goings-on.”
“Are you a Highlander of another sort, then?”
“Nay, lass, I be nae more a Highlander than ye be yourself. Me and Claud, we traveled wi’ ye from the first, when your uncle took ye away tae Tantallon, and later we followed ye tae Dunsgaith when that misbegotten fool that’s presently ruling Scotland sent ye here tae Skye. And we ha’ been wi’ ye at Dunakin since Donald sent ye here.” She put the stick end of the white implement in her mouth, sucked on it, and then blew out another stream of smoke.
Watching this process in fascination, and feeling that she somehow owed the little woman an apology, Molly said, “I am sorry if I caused you to leave your home, but you can scarcely blame me when I did not even know you existed.”
“Pish, tush, I dinna blame ye at all. ’Twas a dreadful night, that.”
“It was, indeed,” Molly agreed, involuntarily putting a hand on her left breast as a sudden, unexpected memory swept over her of the pain she had endured.
The little woman nodded, watching her. “I ken fine that ye sometimes still ha’ nightmares about it, for all that we try tae divert them tae others wha’ deserve more tae suffer them,” she said quietly. “But in time, an all goes well, that scar will fade, mayhap even disappear, just as memories fade and disappear.”
Again, Molly had the feeling that Maggie Malloch could read her mind, but she did not like thinking about that night and was grateful when curiosity pushed the uncomfortable memories aside. “You divert my nightmares to others?”