Her breath stopped. No air descended into her chest.
He said, “I never thought to hold you so close to me. I thought I’d be in my grave today.”
Then his soft lips pressed on hers. His heat and scent warmed her. And he pushed her back gently and looked into her eyes. “Are those tears? I should not have kissed you.”
“No, no! Not tears of sadness. Tears of joy. I’m glad you are still alive. Very glad.”
“Never better.” He sighed and closed his eyes. “The sweetest kisses I ever had. My mother included.”
He pulled her to him and kissed her again. Like striking steel on flint, her blood carried the sparks and her skin flamed. She could not draw breath fast enough. Neither could he and he was injured. She had to stop. She might kill him with her enthusiasm.
Still breathing quickly, she sat up. “Are you all right?”
His friendly smile was back. He might be well on the road to recovery.
“You should sleep, Alasdair.” Was he truly himself again? Would he remember these kisses?
“Will you sit with me? Will you sing?”
Why not? The rest were away for a while. She sat beside him and sang a lullaby and he fell asleep. She lay down beside him and nestled into his chest. She’d rest for just a moment.
Something, someone shook her shoulder. She woke up. Morag. Alasdair's face sheened with sweat, he was restless and murmuring.
“He has a fever.”
Alasdair awoke from a nightmare of water and horses’ hooves. He reached for his claymore. Not there. The light of bright day filtered down the smoke hole and lit up a creepie stool near his pallet. For a short time he had no idea where he was. He inspected the room and saw but a few chairs, two chests and a box-bed. He recalled the Shona's sweet scent and cool hands. Shona, the sìtheach, the fairy who had brought him to the Land of Apples for healing. Where one hour counted as one day. Where kisses were sweeter than honeyed apples. He closed his eyes. Would he return to a people who didn’t know him?
He tried to remember what happened. His fairy woman and an old woman had bathed him and wrapped his head and chest in the bandages. Ruari and the others had carried him to shore. Thinking hurt his head. He banished the world from his mind.
When he awoke again, the crùisgean lamps cast a gentle light on the old woman. Morag. Her name came back to him.
“I see you’re back with us.” Ruari hove into view.
He was still in the right world and little time had passed. He breathed a long sigh.
“You’ll take some broth now you’re awake. Best thing for you.” Morag gave Ruari a small clay vial of liquid. “And this.”
Ruari smelled it and grimaced. “I’ll make sure he takes it.”
“Your clansman rarely left your side,” Morag told Alasdair. “I told him you’re on the mend, but he wouldn’t leave. Most of the time. So he’s made himself useful.”
“I mended a few things. Wove heather rope, and built up the dry stone wall that protected the herb garden.”
“Good man.” Alasdair dropped off.
One day Alasdair’s eyes stayed open for a long time. recognised the fairy queen who had fluttered in and out of his dreams. Shona of the sweet kisses.
She smiled. “You’re still feverish. Do you remember me?”
He'd never forget her for all eternity. “You’re beautiful.” He followed her movements. She had no idea she was so lovely.
Morag came to him, unwrapped his bandage and examined his ribcage. “The wound in your side won’t heal quickly. See that you keep it wrapped.”
“How is he keeping?” asked Ruari. “When can we leave?”
“Did you give him the medicine in the vial?”
“Of course.”
“He’ll mend just fine. Just a few more days and he’ll be able to ride.”
Shona brought him more broth. “You must drink.” She propped him up with more pillows and spoon-fed him.
He wished for a hundred years in her arms. “You’re a fairy woman,” he said.
Both women paused and looked at each other. Alasdair said nothing more, and they resumed what they were doing.
“This is a magical place,” Alasdair turned his head from side to side. “Magical.”
“You’re still mad with fever,” said Shona.
“You have the most wondrous hair,” he said. “Like new gold. “ His tongue was thick in his mouth. He spoke as though he were drunk. Must be the medicine that Ruari had given him.
“We’re off,” said Shona. “You must rest.”
“Falling in love with your nurse, are you?” asked Ruari when the women left the house.
“What day is it?”
“Three days after Saint Michael’s Feast.”
Alasdair scrutinised the neat house and knew it well now. “The race?”
“You lost.”
Ruari’s wooden face hid something. “What else?” Disturbing images flashed through his mind. Silver. A large dirk.
“You were hurt.”
Not funny. Alasdair tried to rise and couldn’t. “Evidently. Will you help me?” When Ruari brought him to a sitting position, the pain in his ribs stopped his breath for a few moments.
“I’ll put you back down.”
“No, let me be.” Alasdair’s responsibilities returned to him. “The cattle?”
“Fine. All fine. We’re safe, but there was a death,” said Ruari.
“I remember. Myles Campbell, who was drowned.” He could make no sense of the jumbled pictures in his mind. Connington’s horse screaming. The water surrounding him like a waterfall. Tumbling riders and horses. Yelling. “Did he fall from his horse?”
“I believe he did, but he had help leaving this world. His léine is stained with traces of blood. His face is all right. He’ll look good at his funeral.”
“I was pushed into the side of the birlinn. That’s all I remember.” Then he remembered the knife.
“We must leave as soon as you’re able. The women haven’t said anything to you, but the Campbells think you murdered Myles.”
“Me! Why would I do such a thing? I have a deal with them.”
“So enough Campbell gentlemen say. And Shona Campbell herself. That’s why you’re not lying in a pit in Castle Muirn.”
“I’ll answer any accusation they have.” Only one person benefited from Myles’s death. The one who had wielded a knife in the sea.
“Best we leave soon.”
“I’m sure Connington is joyful that I was unwell and unable to answer to anyone’s accusations. Has Myles been buried?”
“Today.”
“Then we’ll go and witness it.”
“Are you strong enough? Cailean and Donall can represent us.”
“I’ll go,” Alasdair said.
The old man opened his mouth and closed it, then brought him his fèileadh and belt.
“Help me dress.” He had fallen in love with Shona, and blurted out his thoughts in his sillier moments. Her uncle’s death changed nothing for him. He was a MacDonald, the ancient enemy. He wondered if they would still do business with the Campbells, and take their cattle to market. He was supposed to avoid any impropriety with Shona. Well, that fence was broken, and he was glad. He could fill his eyes with the sight of her and kiss her.
How much time would he have with her before she was stolen from him?
Chapter 14
The mourners had gathered outside the castle when Alasdair and the old man joined them. Myles’s shrouded body was carried out on a bier of staves by the strongest men in the district. Morag and the other women, who’d lead the lamenting, followed, their feet naked, their hair long and dishevelled.
Alasdair saw Shona with Connington, arm in arm. He had a powerful urge to go and tear her away, but he restrained himself. He and Ruari joined them.
Connington put his hand on his sword and sneered at Alasdair as he passed by. Alasdair quickened his pace to catch up to Connington before the funeral processed to the ch
urch. Ruari kept up with him.
“Are you well enough to walk this fast?” said Ruari. “Besides, it’s not polite.”
Alasdair ignored him. Ruari grabbed his arm and stopped him. “What are you about, young fool?” Then Alasdair saw hostility in the faces of those in the procession. “Enough of them think that you killed Myles.”
“I’m sorry.” He’d have to tolerate Connington, holding Shona close to his side. The Lowlander stopped and pulled her to him. He crushed her against his chest and studied Alasdair.
AHe didn’t know what to do—Connington had murdered her uncle, and now he was free to court Shona. The Lowlander planted a kiss on the top of Shona’s head and she wrenched her body away. She had no liking for him. That was clear to Alasdair, but to all the world it looked like Connington was comforting the bereaved. Even at a distance Alasdair saw her face had gone white and her eyes were wide. She saw Alasdair. She opened her mouth, but no words came out. Connington pulled her to him. Her face darkened.
No grief there, it’s anger.
“You still have the fever.” Ruari pulled him aside and sat him on a large stone.
Alasdair looked up at the old man.
“Whatever mad thing you want to do, you can forget,” said Ruari.
He was old, but he had been a soldier and he was still strong as Fionn the hero. Alasdair sat and watched the mourners pass by.
“He’s not well, this man,” said Ruari to the curious in the procession and they nodded politely. And glanced back at Alasdair after they passed. He smiled weakly, reminding himself where he was. Alasdair stood and joined the procession far behind Connington and Shona, his captive.
His clan approved of him wanting to deal in cattle, not marry a Campbell. Right, then. He wasn’t going to marry her, but he had to make sure she was all right. Had to know she would not be forced to marry against her will. And he had to make sure the Campbells knew that Connington was a murderer.
The wind unfurled the dark mantles of the mourning women against the grey stone of Castle Muirn. Morag raised her voice to sing, low and quiet at first, but slowly rising to a great volume as they walked toward the church. The rest of the women joined her song. At the end of every phrase, they struck their palms together like drums. Their voices, their claps echoed among the black rocks on the bleached shore of the loch. As the women reached the churchyard, pipers began to play and the voices of the mourning women soared above them.
In the churchyard the whole procession travelled deiseil around the church three times. The funeral was held outside in the churchyard, as the church was too small for the number of mourners.
Alasdair screwed his eyes shut. His mind filled with images of Shona with the Lowlander. He banished them to the bottom of his mind, in that dark place where lay the horrors of the war. After he made sure she would be allowed to make her own decisions, he’d gather his men and they’d drive the cattle eastward, where he could make his profit. After that he could look for a suitable bride, though he had no desire for anyone but her.
A sharp pain ripped through his head behind his eyes. No more. Don’t think any more. He placed his hands over his ears and bent down to recover.
He felt a hand on his shoulder.
“Rest easy, a bhalaich. You’re still not well.”
Alasdair waited for the pain to ebb. Finally he lowered his hands and lifted his head. He breathed normally. “Thank you for watching my back. Again.”
“My duty. Look at the Lowlander. A minister of the Reformed Church saying part of the service.”
“I haven’t seen any of them here before.”
“All in grey or black. They haven’t much in the way of coloured coats, it seems.”
“Why would a Lowlander say the service in Inglishe? So few of us speak it.”
“It’ll be Connington’s doing. Well, everyone is polite, at least.”
The minister in the long black gown and thick white collars of the Lowlands began his service for the dead. Why did a Lowlander offer prayers at a Highland funeral? At the end a piper struck his bag, took a deep breath and piped the return to village and castle.
Some village women chatted on the way.
“They don’t look happy.”
“It’s a funeral. Why would they?”
“Thomas Connington has his arm about her.”
“I hear they’ll marry soon.”
That wounded Alasdair once more. He wanted to put his hands to his ears. However, that might not be her choice if it were true. He’d find out.
Ruari put his hand on Alasdair’s shoulder. “That Connington man looks right cocky. She has the face of mourning on her.”
“Because her uncle’s dead.”
“I wonder,” said Ruari. “Have you noticed the numbers of Lowland men about?”
There were many men with the baggy breeches of the Lowlands outside the castle. Many more than there had been even yesterday. Too many.
With a grip of iron, Connington guided Shona away from the church. She had no strength to push him away--he wore his big iron sword and dirk. Morag was right—Shona was a banshee and here once again was the proof.
At the edge of the crowd, Shona saw one of the Lowlanders cut a branch from a rowan tree and lay it across the door to the church where Myles Campbell’s body awaited interment in the family’s tomb. Obviously he was afraid that Myles’s spirit might rise from the grave and haunt him. And he was fearful because the murder might start a bloodfeud between the Campbells and his family. A bloodfeud caused by someone connected to him. Connington. But he had to belong to the Highlands if he knew about the rowan.
The funeral party slowly returned to the castle and prepared for the last feast before returning to their homes. Cooks roasted fowl and beef at a bonfire as high as a horse. After people helped themselves at the tables, they sat down to eat in family groups on a field that rippled with plaids: soft reds, leafy greens, earthy browns. A living quilt of Gleann Muirn people and their loved ones.
She longed to be among them.
Her suitor strutted like a raven among pigeons, with her arm trapped under his. She heard people say, “A wonderful funeral.”
“He’ll have a good journey to the next world.” They looked content, while she felt like throwing herself into an open grave. They must not know about the murder. She saw Una and Ròs Màiri.
Shona smiled as sweetly as she could manage, and withdrew her hand from under his arm. “I will greet my friends.”
A short distance away her friends smiled at her, but the smiles faded when Connington came close. His eyes could wither oak trees.
“A blessing on the day to you,” they replied, but as they approached to speak further, Connington steered Shona’s shoulder to the edge of the crowd. “Dear lady, ye’re fatigued.”
“No, Sir Thomas.”
“Pray set a moment and rest yerself.” He tried to take her hand while she pretended not to see the gesture.
“No need, sir.”
He waved the unwanted hand in the direction of the quiet loch. “A very peaceful place. You’ve had no dealings with the dangers of the world.”
“My father says many a Lowlander will not come to the Highlands without making a will. Have you made one?”
“Yer faither jests. No one in the Hielands is a danger tae me.” When he leant toward her, he smelled like rancid butter.
“Why do you wish to wed me still?”
“These are troubled times. We seek our friends where we may.” He paused as if to remind himself of the purpose of marriage. “I’ve had no time tae take a wife. I was too lang a soldier.”
“And my dowry is considerable.” She walked ahead and didn’t look at him.
“Are ye afraid?” he asked.
“Of what?”
“Wifely duties: bairns, servants, the sick. Are ye fearful of the married state?”
“I will do my duty to a loving and respectful husband.” Not you.
“Ye answered me, ma little fledgling.
Be sure I’ll guard ye well.” She tried to walk away and he held her arm tighter.
“You hurt me.” She shook his hand loose. “Sir, if we marry, you cannot treat me so.”
He pulled her close to his chest like a lover.
“Ye agreed.” He grabbed her arm and swung her around, his sword caught between them. Her knees wobbled with weakness.
“I will do my duty to whomever becomes my husband.”
He gripped her right arm painfully. “So ye will. But ye’re a young lass, ignorant. ”
“Not so ignorant I can’t recognise unseemly haste.”
“Ye do what I say or I’ll make ye mind. Tomorrow ye ride wi’ me tae see the MacPharlans.”
The next day, Shona rode out with Catriona and three Gleann Muirn men, followed by Connington and a dozen of his. Clouds dulled the beauty of Loch Muirn into a hard floor of glass. She’d discover why Connington was in the Highlands, and if he planned another murder and whose it would be. She wondered once again how her family had come to form an alliance with his.
“How many tenants has yer faither?”
The question ended her speculations about his motives. “Three hundred on the rent roll and another hundred cottars, I believe. Why do you want to know that? You won’t live here. If we married, you’d get my dowry, and you’d take me to the Lowlands.”
“What extent are yer father’s lands?”
“I don’t know.”
“Any difficulties with neighbours?”
“Sometimes.” She didn’t understand why he wanted to know about Gleann Muirn.
When he rode closer, she flinched. “Yer family may need ma especial help. Speak.”
When she said nothing, he pulled her pony’s bridle. The animal snorted in fear and jerked its neck, ready to rear. She hung onto the saddle while murmuring to it and stroking its neck. She calmed the beast by whispering quietly so that only it could hear.
Anger strengthened her voice. “You’ve mishandled me twice. I am noble and you shall not strike me. My people won’t follow your orders if you don’t respect me.”
The Gleann Muirn men glowered at him.
The Banshee of Castle Muirn Page 16