by Allie Mackay
It didn’t help.
And when they started forward again, she promptly stubbed her toe against a rock. “Ow-w-w!” She faltered as she grabbed her throbbing foot. “I didn’t see—”
“Hush, you.” He scooped her into his arms, holding her close to his chest as they reached the end of the bay and approached the joy woman’s home. “I should’ve carried you the whole way.”
“I didn’t mind walking.” She hadn’t. But being in his arms was better.
Even so, she wanted to be standing on her own two feet when she met Orla.
“You can let me down now.” She was watching the cottage, dreading their arrival. “My toe doesn’t hurt that bad and—” Her jaw slipped, her protest snagging in her throat as the red door swung open and Orla stepped out onto the cottage’s tiny stone stoop.
“Dear God in heaven.” Margo stared at the other woman, her heart racing as Magnus lowered her to the ground, oblivious.
Margo was anything but.
She was shocked to the core.
She could only stare, disbelief sweeping her as Orla smiled a greeting, gesturing them inside.
Orla had a face Margo recognized.
She could’ve been Marta Lopez’s twin.
Chapter 15
“Magnus, it is too long since you darkened my door.” Orla waited until Magnus and Margo were inside, then grasped Magnus’s arm and lifted on her toes to kiss his cheek.
Margo watched, stunned. Amazement and surprise gathered tightly in her chest, shivers rippling up and down her back. Her breath locked in her throat, making her glad the other woman addressed Magnus first, giving her time to recover before she was forced to respond.
“I’ve been hoping you’d come soon.” Orla led them inside the candlelit cottage, her warm brown eyes assessing Margo, her smile full of welcome.
And it was Marta’s smile.
Marta’s rich chocolate eyes looking at her.
They were beautiful eyes, fringed with thick black lashes, and so familiar. They also brimmed with a secret knowledge as if Orla understood exactly why Margo was staring at her, still unable to speak.
And the reason wasn’t only that Orla resembled Marta so strongly.
Her home could’ve been a medieval version of Ye Olde Pagan Times.
Charmingly feminine, and with the same candle-wax, aromatic essential-oil scent, the cottage was low-ceilinged and heavily beamed. All manner of dried herbs, flowers, and leaves hung in clusters from the thick black rafters, and the stone-flagged floor looked painfully well swept. Odd bits of driftwood, wooden bowls of pinecones, and innumerable pebbles and stones crowded the thick window ledges and the shelves arranged artfully across two walls. A large plaid curtain hung across one corner, discreetly hiding Orla’s sleeping quarters, a niche where, according to Magnus, she likely plied her trade when such men came to call.
Marta would’ve loved the cottage.
Patience and Ardelle would’ve swooned. And Margo’s chest tightened as she imagined how the three women’s eyes would’ve lit with wonder if they’d been here with her. They would’ve walked about, examining everything, and exclaiming their delight, deeming the cottage perfect.
It made Margo felt right at home.
Magnus looked out of place. His head almost brushed the heavy black ceiling rafters and he had to duck to avoid the hanging clusters of flowers and whatnot. Towering above her and Orla, he sent a look at the tray of fresh-baked oatcakes and cheese set upon the room’s lone table. Along with the earthen jug of ale and three cups placed invitingly beside it. A brace of candles burned nearby, their golden glow lending to the cottage’s homey atmosphere.
Magnus cleared his throat, plainly uncomfortable.
“Three ale cups, Orla?” He looked at his friend, one brow raised questioningly.
“Magnus.” Margo blushed, his meaning obvious.
Orla’s eyes only lit with amusement and she laughed. “I still leave such delights to my less discerning friends in the trade,” she announced, not looking at all embarrassed. “The truth is ...” She lifted her chin and met his gaze, her dark hair gleaming in the firelight. “Something told me you’d bring a friend here this day.”
“Humph.” Magnus frowned. “Dinnae start with suchlike. I hear enough second-sight and rune-casting foolery from Orosius. I dinnae need you—”
“I have a woman’s good sense, no more. That is all.” She smiled at Margo. “Though I’ll own that living so close to nature”—she gestured to the treasures displayed all around the cottage—“allows one to observe and discover truths some folk never notice.
“I also trust in my dreams.” She tucked her hair behind an ear, her gaze still on Margo. “All women do.
It’s why we’re wiser than men.”
“Say you?” Magnus didn’t look impressed.
“I do.” Orla turned her smile on him, and then took Margo’s hand and ushered her to a low bench against the back wall, urging her to sit. Her no-nonsense, take-charge personality reminded Margo so much of her friend that a terrible hotness swelled in her throat. She had to blink rapidly to keep from embarrassing herself.
Orla was shaking her head, tutting over her as she took a length of soft linen from a basket near the bench. Stepping close, she used the cloth to dab sea spray from Margo’s hair and off her face.
“I can see you’ve suffered an ordeal, mo ghaoil.” She chose the same Gaelic term of affection as Magnus. And she glanced at him now, a frown marring her brow. “What have you done to her, h’mmm?”
“Naught, as you surely know.” He stood near the cottage’s central hearth, warming his hands before the strangest fire Margo had ever seen. The flames shone blue, purple, and gold as they hissed and spat, dancing almost sinuously atop a small heap of elegantly twisted silver-hued wood. “Margo is from a distant land to the south,” he improvised, avoiding Margo’s eyes. “She’s the sole survivor of a foundered ship. We found her just north of Gairloch and took her on board the Sea-Raven.”
“Did you, now?” Orla’s arched brow said she didn’t believe a word.
But she held her tongue, setting aside the drying cloth and dusting her hands. “Then you have come seeking raiments for her, h’mmm?”
She flicked a glance at Margo, winking as if they shared in a conspiracy Magnus knew nothing about.
“As it is . . .” She tapped her chin, looking about the one-room cottage as if searching for something.
Margo watched her, more drawn to the laughing-eyed joy woman by the moment. She had what Patience called heart.
Just now, she gave Margo another quick wink, proving it.
“It could be,” Orla began again, “that I set aside some goods that would serve Margo. Two gowns and a linen chemise, a fine wool cloak, and a butter-soft pair of good leather cuarain”—she paused, and Margo was so glad she knew cuarain was Gaelic for slippers—“plus a few bits of frippery.
“I needed to clear space for my pebbles and suchlike. I have so little room. . . .” Orla shrugged expansively, a smile playing across her lips. “You are very welcome to the goods, if you wish?” She looked at Margo, waiting. “I do believe everything will fit.”
“I’m grateful to you.” Margo didn’t hesitate.
She couldn’t keep walking around naked and in a heavy furred cloak, her feet bare-soled.
She was also sure that Orla’s hand-me-downs would be the right size for her. She and Marta had often exchanged clothes on weekends and special occasions. Doing so allowed each woman to wear something different without the expense of purchasing a new outfit.
“I’ve put everything in a leather satchel. Though . . .” Orla started tapping her chin again. “I can’t recal where. ...”
“Come, Orla.” Magnus circled a hand around her wrist, lowering her arm. “How did you know I’d bring Margo here?”
Orla beamed. “The men from Wave-Dancer passed this way a while ago. I offered them refreshment and”—she shrugged again, her tone affectionate—“men do sp
eak when they’re enjoying a good cup of ale and what-have-you.”
“They told you about Margo?” Magnus sounded surprised.
“They mentioned the cothouse in the wood and that they were to stand watch there.” Orla went to the table and poured three cups of ale, offering Magnus and Margo each a cup before taking one for herself. “As I know you would never order a full ship’s crew to guard your sleep, it was clear you wanted protection for your sleep, it was clear you wanted protection for something much more precious.
“And”—she took a sip of ale, smiling at him over the cup’s rim—“what is dearer to a man than his woman?”
“Margo isn’t—” Magnus clamped his mouth tight.
Orla lifted a brow. “You see, women are wise.”
“Long-nosed, some might say.” Magnus remained stubborn.
“Mayhap, I’ll not deny.” Orla set down her cup, her expression turning earnest. “I did hear something disturbing from a visiting friend not too long ago.” She slid a glance at Margo, and then looked back to Magnus. “It was troubling news.”
“You can speak plainly.” Magnus folded his arms.
“I don’t want to frighten someone unaccustomed to life here.” Again she flicked a look at Margo, her eyes seeming to say so much more than her words. As if she knew Margo was genuinely out of place.
“I have seen Viking battles.” Margo wished she hadn’t seen such a horror.
She shuddered before she could stop herself.
Orla crossed the room quickly, placing a comforting arm around Margo’s shoulders. “They are not easily forgotten, h’mmm?” She gave Margo a squeeze, and then went to fetch the ale jug, topping Margo’s cup.
“We’re all revisited by such terrors in our dreams, aren’t we?
“But”—she returned the jug to the table—“my news is disturbing in a different manner. Good folk have been disappearing from the countryside.” She looked at Magnus. “Whole families vanished from their farms without a trace. There have been three discoveries so far, all in the hinterland west of Gairloch.
“No one knows what’s happening.” She looked between Margo and Magnus. “There’s never been a sign of struggle and not even a speck of blood. As I heard, they’re simply gone from their homes. Folk up that way are worried.”
Margo glanced at Magnus. She wasn’t surprised to see him wearing his fierce warrior look again. His eyes blazed and he’d reached to rub the back of his neck.
“I don’t care for the sound of that.” He frowned, looking at Orla. “Get word to me if you hear anything else. And if you see”—he hesitated—“a small dark-haired woman in a black cloak and who covers her wrists and ankles with jangling silver—”
“The sorceress, Donata Greer?” Orla’s face hardened. “I never could abide that woman. She is at St. Eithne’s last I heard. Her captivity has caused a stir among the Northmen. None seemed overly bothered when you slew her brother, Godred. But there’s a simmering anger that Donata is locked away at the nunnery.
“But why do you ask?” Orla’s glance flicked again to Margo. “Is it because she cursed you?”
“Pah!” Magnus cut the air with his hand. “Her mutterings couldn’t curdle milk.”
Margo knew he was speaking for her benefit.
Donata Greer could probably alter the earth’s axis if she wished.
Nothing she did would surprise Margo.
But the mention of her name tinged the atmosphere.
The light also dimmed in Orla’s eyes and she now looked worried. Magnus reminded her of a caged tiger, furious to be confined and ready to rip flesh the instant he could bend the bars and break free.
His face was harsh and dark, his eyes glinting dangerously. “We’ll have the clothes, then, and leave you, Orla.” He glanced around the room, his expression turning fiercer when he didn’t see the desired leather satchel. “There is much to do and—”
“Oh, I know.” Orla’s expression softened as she took a polished pebble from the window ledge, rolling the little stone in her palm.
Magnus’s brows lowered. “I’ll no’ be hearing your tales, Orla. No’ that kind. Pebbles are no’ runesticks, howe’er often you claim to see things in them.”
“I do.” Orla smiled. “Though not in them, but by reading their cast.”
A chill rippled down Margo’s spine. Marta read tarot.
In that moment, she felt so close to her friend that emotion gripped her like an iron vise around her chest. Her breath snagged again. Especially when Orla glanced at her, her expression turning almost wistful as she carefully returned the pebble to the window ledge.
Margo stood, aware that Magnus’s patience was thinning.
He’d folded his arms, his gaze level on the joy woman. “Whate’er you think you know, Orla, I’m warning you to keep it to yourself. I’ll no’ be hearing strange tales up and down this coast. If I do, my next visit will nae be a friendly one.”
Orla didn’t look concerned. “You should know me better.” She glanced at Margo. “Your lady does.”
“I told you, she’s no’ my lady.”
Orla laughed.
Then she took his arm and hastened him across the room. “Wait outside while I help Margo dress.” She’d no sooner spoken the words than she’d maneuvered him across the threshold, closing the door firmly behind him.
She turned to Margo. “He can be a great fearsome brute, but he has a good heart beneath his scowls and bluster. And”—she bent to whip a plaid off a bulging leather satchel near the door—“he has been too long without a woman. Many long years, it is. Or so I believe.”
Margo felt her face heating. “He wasn’t lying. I’m not ‘his lady.’”
Although how she wished she was.
Margo took a breath, remembering his passion when he’d spoken of the woman he had loved. “He told me about Liana. She was—”
“Liana was an innocent child.” Orla’s voice held respect, but wasn’t particularly warm. “A good lass, to be sure, and beautiful. But . . .”
Orla set the satchel on a bench and opened it. “I do not believe she’d have made Magnus happy, had her life”—she hesitated, clearly not wishing to detail the young woman’s tragic death—“been different. She desired babies and a family, but a man needs more.
“If they didn’t”—she bent over the satchel, her dark hair falling across her face, hiding her expression—“there’d be no need for women like me.” Margo bit her lip, not sure how to respond. She liked Orla and didn’t want to offend her.
“Liana was chaste?” Margo chose the safest reply.
She was surely going to land in hell because it mattered to her, but she hoped the young woman had been virginal.
That would mean ...
Margo’s heart began to pound, the hot desire flaring in her letting her know for sure she was hell-bound.
“Aye, Liana was pure.” Orla’s words confirmed Margo’s suspicion. “She died a maid. Magnus never touched her, nor any woman since, though many have tried to catch his eye. He lives only for vengeance.
“There are many of us”—Orla’s tone became agitated, proving how much she cared for her friend—“who feel he’s been alone too long. He needs a wife to not just sit proudly beside him at the high table and bear his sons, but who will bed him well of a night.” She spoke frankly, her words making Margo blush.
“Someone to heat his blood, make him burn, and remind him that being a man is more than carrying a sword and killing Vikings.”
Margo didn’t know what to say. “I think vengeance is important to him.”
“Pah!” Orla snorted. “To be sure it is, and rightly. But he needs to remember that there are other important things in life. Things that remain when vengeance is served and sword blades rust and dull, and when a man’s powerful shoulders begin to thin and slump.
True love burns eternally, my lady. No power on earth can dim it. And”—there was a catch in the joy woman’s voice—“I believe that is why you’re here.”
Orla had been pulling garments from the satchel, but now she straightened, eyeing Margo up and down.
“You are a desirable woman and he hungers for you.
A woman of strength and courage,” she added, the familiar words sending a rush of chills across Margo’s nerves.
A woman of strength and courage.
They were the exact words Dev Doonie had used at the Bucks County Scottish Festival and again at the Gairloch Heritage Museum.
Margo swallowed, half-certain the floor had dipped beneath her feet.
Orla’s gaze flicked to her pebbles on the window ledge and then back to Margo. “True friendship never fades, either, my lady. Those who love us deeply do so always, no matter where we are.”
Margo blinked.
The other woman’s words were strange. And so apt that Margo’s heart squeezed so hard, her chest hurt.
Her eyes were stinging again, the cozy cottage beginning to blur and swim.
She hoped she would see Orla again.
If by some miracle she stayed here, she’d ask Magnus to bring her on visits to Badachro. She’d insist, even if the journey would mean suffering the ordeal of traveling on the Sea-Raven.
She started to glance aside, not wanting Orla to see her emotion. But the other woman was already fussing briskly over her, smoothing Margo’s hair and deftly undoing the large Celtic pin holding the bearskin cloak at Margo’s neck.
The strange moment was gone, spinning away as Orla swept the mantle off Margo’s shoulders, leaving her naked before the strange blue-flamed fire.
Then, from nowhere—or so it seemed—the joy woman produced a small bucket of steaming, rose-scented water and a soapy linen cloth. Humming softly, she busied herself bathing Margo’s shivering body.
It wasn’t until a short while later, dressed as a medieval Scottish woman, and with Magnus leading her deep into the thick, piney wood, that Margo recalled something that sent chills coursing through her again.
The tune Orla had hummed as she’d helped Margo bathe and dress was a melody Marta had favored, often humming the lyrical notes beneath her breath when she studied her tarot.
The memory made Margo’s blood thrum.