by Cathy MacRae
“Ma!”
Riona sat in a chair at the table in the single room of the seer’s cottage, Gilda curled contentedly in her lap. She stroked the child’s red locks and placed a kiss on the top of her head.
“I have missed ye, mo chroi.”
“So, the auld laird is dead.” Tavia clicked her tongue and wagged her head. Riona sent her a warning look over Gilda’s head. The door to the cottage opened and Fergus stepped into the house, ducking to avoid hitting his brow on the low-beamed portal. Instantly, the tiny room grew smaller, the man’s bulk taking up an impressive amount of space in the room.
He glanced around, an uneasy look on his face. Setting the baskets on the floor at Riona’s feet, he gave a quick nod. “I’ll wait fer ye outside. Nae hurry.” He pivoted, the sweep of his sheathed sword barely missing a stack of firewood near the low hearth.
Riona held her breath as his footsteps rattled the crockery on the table. Stooping once again, Fergus was through the entrance, his frame blocking the bright sunlight for a moment before he closed the door carefully behind him.
Gilda scooted around in Riona’s lap to view the two closed baskets and sent a hopeful look toward her. “For me?”
Riona playfully pinched Gilda’s plump arm. “Yes, my sonsie lass. Plenty of goodies for ye and yer auntie, as well as a new pair of slippers for yer bare wee feet.” Riona leaned forward and pressed her face against the little girl’s soft cheek. “I heard ye lost yer other pair in the water.”
Gilda’s smile disappeared and she tried to make herself very small on Riona’s lap.
“What were ye doin’ out in the water, mo chroi?”
Gilda cut her gaze to Tavia, who merely raised an eyebrow in mild reprimand. The lass dropped her head, staring at her fingers, fidgeting in her lap. With a sigh, she squared her shoulders and glanced up. Riona’s heart clutched at her daughter’s soulful gaze.
“I was lookin’ fer angel shells.”
“And did ye find any?”
Gilda bobbed her head vigorously, her red-gold curls dancing about her shoulders. “Five,” she announced, holding up her hand, fingers spread for emphasis. Her face fell. “But they all washed awa’.”
Riona huffed, trying hard to keep a stern countenance. “Ye know ye are no’ to go out to the water without me or Auntie Tavia, don’t ye, mo chroi?”
Gilda’s lower lip trembled and she gave a slow nod.
“Not for all the angel shells in the ocean would I risk losing ye, Gilda,” Riona scolded her gently. “Ye are nae big enough to go out there alone.”
“But, Ma . . .”
Riona held up a hand against her protest. “Nae excuses. Ye willnae be allowed down here if ye cannae obey me in this.”
Gilda’s face puckered. Riona could tell there was more she wanted to say. She gestured warningly, reminding the lass she was already in enough trouble without adding to the list of grievances. Gilda crossed her arms, frowning with four-year-old annoyance.
“Has she finished her punishment?” Riona turned to Tavia.
The old woman nodded. “Aye. She’s cleaned out Bridie’s pen and swept the floor. If she minds her tongue, she can help unpack these baskets.”
The nanny bleated from her stall on the far side of the room. Gilda shot the goat a look of disgust mixed with apprehension and Riona swallowed a laugh to remember Bridie’s less-than-pleasant welcome when she’d brought Gilda to stay with Tavia shortly after the laird’s accident.
“I think that will do for now. Gilda, would ye help yer auntie with these?”
Gilda slid from Riona’s lap, landing on her knees beside the baskets. Her hands flew to the clasp, short fingers fumbling with the fastener, disdaining help from either woman. A moment later she threw the lid wide and gasped in pleased surprise to see the assorted pastries nestled within.
Riona sighed. “I’d hoped ye would open the one with the meat pies and fish first.” She eyed Gilda sternly. “Ye may have one pastry, lass. Only one. Then awa’ with ye until dinner time.”
Gilda grabbed the edge of the basket and tilted it toward her, staring intently at the alluring contents. Finally, she pulled out a crisp tart, breathing deeply as the aroma of cinnamon and apples wafted out.
Riona flapped a hand at her. “Ask Fergus to take ye along the beach to look for shells.”
Nodding happily, Gilda skipped to the door, munching on the pastry as juices dripped down her chin.
“And take this!” Riona admonished, tossing a piece of linen at her to wipe her face and hands. It landed on Gilda’s head and she giggled as she ducked out the door.
Riona gave Tavia a grateful look. “Thank ye for looking after yon lintie. I dinnae mean for her to frighten ye.”
Tavia waved away her thanks. “The lass is a good one, and she dinnae mean to disobey. I made sure she understood I wasnae pleased with her for wandering to the stones. The tide pools are her favorite places for hunting shells, but too dangerous with the tide coming in.”
“If she hadn’t . . .”
“Wheesht. Dinna borrow trouble, lass. She’s back and none worse for wear. Tell me about the new laird.”
Riona opened her mouth to protest, but clamped it shut, a mutinous glare on her face. “Ye know full well who King Robert sent to take over as laird here.”
Tavia nodded. “Aye. And I remember him as a lad. He was more content to ride the horses or help yer da with his duties.” She laughed softly. “His brother was always with Kinnon, getting into trouble. Not that the three of them weren’t a handful, mind ye, and young Ranald got into his fair share of scrapes, but he wasnae the one who stole yer da’s wee boat and swamped it around the point. Or filled the cook’s kettle with live eels the day Father Frang came to bless the laird’s new galley.”
Riona’s hand drifted to her neck, her fingers automatically seeking the scarred ridge on her collar bone.
“But Ranald was the one who pushed me over the cliff.”
Chapter 5
Fergus held the door open as Gilda skipped into the room, clutching her skirt in her hands to form a pocket before her. Riona’s lips framed an amused smile at the happy look on Gilda’s face, red curls clinging to her forehead, her bare toes covered in damp grit.
“What have ye, mo chroi?” she asked, pointing to the fabric clutched in Gilda’s hands.
“Shells!” Gilda moved her hands, allowing Riona to peek inside her pocket.
“I think there’s more dirt in here than shells, lass.” Riona clucked her tongue. She placed a hand on the child’s shoulder, guiding her to the door. “Awa’ with ye and let’s brush ye off outside. Ye’re making a mess on Auntie Tavia’s floor.”
“There’s MacEwens outside, readying their boats to leave,” Fergus said quietly from his position at the door. Riona jerked sharply at his words, her heart tight in her chest. Gilda looked up, her eyes wide with question.
Riona swallowed. “Then we’ll dust ye down here and sweep up later,” she said firmly. Helping Gilda stack her shells on a corner of the table, she proceeded to brush the drying grit from the girl’s gown. Gilda shifted from one foot to the other, rubbing the tops of her feet clean on the backs of her legs.
“Wheesht, now, lass. Ye’re no’ getting cleaner, ye’re nae but transferring the dirt from one part of ye to the next.” With a sigh, Riona rocked back on her heels, placing one hand on the table for balance.
Tavia spread a thin blanket on the floor beneath a chair. “Put the wean here. We’ll worry over the floor later.”
Gilda sat on her chair, swinging her feet as she sorted through her shells. “This one is white.” She held it out for Riona to see. “Like angels’ wings!”
“Yes, it is.” Riona smiled to cover the nervousness racing through her at the knowledge there were MacEwens on the beach.
&n
bsp; “Can I take it to Grandda?”
With a start, Riona turned her attention back to Gilda.
“She’ll have to know sooner or later,” Tavia said softly, as Fergus’s eyes clouded with grief.
Scooting her chair close to Gilda’s, Riona leaned forward and touched the fragile shell, tracing the ribbed veins with a fingertip. Realizing she was stalling, she gently cupped her daughter’s hands in her own, still holding the shell.
“Mo chroi.” Her voice broke and she swallowed against the lump in her throat. “Grandda has been verra ill.” Riona stopped as her eyes brimmed with tears. No matter the why of Gilda, she had been Laird Macrory’s joy, and it had been a difficult decision to send the lass to stay with Tavia while Riona remained at the laird’s bedside. Now the lass would never see her grandda again.
“Is he an angel?” Gilda asked, tilting her head, her eyes somber.
The child’s insight humbled Riona, and she squeezed Gilda’s hands gently. “Aye, Grandda is an angel.”
Gilda’s lower lip quivered. “Can I see him?”
“Nae, mo chroi, not until we are angels, too.”
Gilda slumped in her chair. She turned the shell over, running a thumb over the smooth, pale pink center. Silence stretched painfully in the room.
“Are ye all right, Gilda?” Riona whispered gently.
Two pairs of gray eyes locked. Gilda nodded slowly, and Riona had to be content.
Ranald stood in the bailey, arms crossed over his chest, feet braced a shoulder-width apart. Only half his attention was on the activities around him as people went about their daily jobs. A good many of those who had come for the old laird’s funeral and stayed for the banquet ventured out at last into the sunlight to take their leave of the new laird before heading to their own homes.
The Macraig waved a cautious salute, his men clustered close around him, their horses breaking into a bone-rattling trot as they approached the open castle gate. Senga and Pol loped at their heels and Ranald bit back a grin as the men jerked the eager horses back to a sedate walk.
Below the castle walls, Laird McEwen and his men had already set sail up the coast. Ranald flinched to consider what the rollicking waves would do to the soldiers’ weakened stomachs. Good sailors or not, he’d be willing to wager more than a few would be green long before they reached home.
The other half of his attention was on the castle gate from the village. Riona had left several hours ago and had yet to return. Had he not with his own eyes seen Fergus accompany her, he would be in a state of panic. As it was, the longer he waited for her, the more agitated he became, and he didn’t like the uneasy sensation gripping him.
The last of the Macraigs rode through the gate and the two hounds veered back into the yard. A single rider passed in the opposite direction, entering the bailey. Ranald identified the horse and rider as a spurt of alarm jolted through him. Where the hell was Fergus? What was he thinking, letting Riona ride by herself?
Trading his anxiety for the burn of anger, Ranald strode across the bailey yard, swearing under his breath.
Riona rode toward the stable, either oblivious to Ranald’s approach or not caring. Ranald quickened his step.
“Ree!”
Riona’s head jerked up, her face white as sunlight on water, eyes wide with shock. Her gaze fastened on Ranald, and bright color flooded her cheeks. Catching the shank of her horse’s reins, Ranald brought him to a halt.
As Riona arched an eyebrow at him in unspoken challenge, Ranald hid his bad temper. “I want to ride through the village. Would ye go with me?”
“Why?”
“‘Tis an ungracious thing to ask,” Ranald chided. “I’d like to see how the village is run, meet some of the people, understand what my part is here. Ye are the best person to show me.”
He tried a winsome smile. “Step down and refresh yerself. I dinnae have to leave this instant.”
Riona didn’t seem pleased with his request, but she nodded. Her resentment concerned him, but he would put forth a good effort to change her opinion of him.
Especially since they were to be wed in seven days.
He had developed a serious headache trying to find a way to tell her about the wedding without getting kicked in the shin. Remembering her earlier avowal, he hoped her aim hadn’t improved.
Refocusing his worry for her safety, he asked, “Where is Fergus?”
“He is helping Tavia with a few things.” Riona relinquished her reins and dismounted, striding away.
Ranald stared after her retreating form and shrugged. It was obvious she didn’t want to be scolded for riding alone. He’d deal with that later. Leading her horse to the stable, he handed him off to a lad to water while he saddled Hearn.
A few minutes later he emerged into the sunlight and spotted Riona coming toward him. With another attempt at a smile, he laced his hands together, palms up, offering her a boost onto her horse.
Riona flicked him a startled look, then placed her foot in his hands and stepped lightly onto her gelding. Ranald patted the horse’s shoulder.
Finlay strode across the yard and took pointed note of Ranald’s hand lingering possessively on Riona’s horse. “I’ll send retainers to ride with ye.”
“Nae. We are but going through the village.”
“Ye need protection,” Finlay urged.
“The village is as heavily fortified as the castle. There is nae need.”
Finlay studied the thick walls rising from the very rock of the earth. They flowed from the castle and around the village, enclosing it in a protective embrace. After a moment, he gave a short nod and conceded both the observation and the conversation. “Aye, then.”
The ride through the village was enlightening. Ranald liked what he saw, from the neat yards to the quality of cloth in the weaver’s shop. Though the land was hotly contested and the village well-fortified against attack, the old laird had obviously spent time and coin to keep the villagers prosperous and happy.
Ranald reined Hearn from the road and turned to the field north of the castle. The summer grasses swayed in the breeze, bowing flat as men worked the field with scythes to harvest it as hay for the winter. Sheaves lay stacked in orderly rows, drying in the sun, soon to be carted to the storerooms near the stables. A path ran around the edge of the field, and Ranald noticed a small group of soldiers on the far side, relaxing in the shade of the trees. Their job should have been watching for pirates or marauding clansmen, though from their stance, it wasn’t likely they’d notice any danger until it was far too late.
Making a quick decision, he called, “Race ye to yon trees.”
Riona spurred her mount to a run before Ranald realized she’d accepted his challenge. Hearn reared and Ranald shook out his reins, urging him on. Hearn’s long-legged stride devoured the distance between the two horses. Riana threw a startled glance over her shoulder as they came abreast.
Hearn pulled at the bit and Ranald gave him his head. They tore past the lounging soldiers with a rush of sound. Curses were lost in the thunder of hooves and whinnied greetings of horses tugging at their ropes in the picket line. Belatedly recognizing the new laird, the men scrambled to attention.
Ranald reined Hearn to a halt and wheeled him back on his haunches to face the men. One kicked a leather flask into a nearby pile of leaves, maintaining a wide-eyed, innocent look.
Ranald’s voice rose, deep and firm. “Ye know who I am?”
Behind him, he heard a sharp intake of breath and gritted his teeth, determined not to let Riona’s protest interfere with the anger brewing inside him. She was not the laird, and if he demanded a higher level of performance from the soldiers of Scaurness than either Manus or her father, it was not her concern.
The eldest, a gray-bearded warrior with a stooped stance, lifted his chin, me
eting Ranald’s stare. “Ye are the new laird.” The man’s tone bordered on insolence.
Ranald’s eyes narrowed in displeasure. If he had to make an example of one of these men right here and now, so be it. “Laird Scott, soldier,” he bit out, uncaring of rank. He nodded toward their campsite. “What are ye supposed to be doing here?”
Two of the men glanced at each other then back at him. “Protecting the workers, Laird.”
Ranald swiveled his head, taking in the men’s range of vision. “Ye cannae claim to see much of the workers from here.”
The men grew still.
Ranald returned his attention to the duo. “On whose orders?”
One replied, “Manus.”
“Spread out around the field. Place at least two men in the woods at point, and stay alert.” He looked directly at the barely-hidden leather flask, his rebounding stare conveying his displeasure. “If I ever catch a man drinking on duty, he will be whipped. Do I make myself clear?”
The men shuffled their feet.
“Well?”
“Aye, Laird,” Murmurs of acknowledgement ebbed, then faded.
Ranald released them with a jerk of his head, and the soldiers scrambled for their weapons and retreated to their horses. As they hurried to follow his orders, Ranald realized Riona had not uttered a single word.
Riona’s first response was anger. How dare Ranald criticize her father’s men? Sucking a breath of heated air, she took a good look around her. The soldiers, their weapons scattered about, lounged around the rough campsite. Were they suffering from their drunkenness the night before? If so, why had Manus not demanded the men on duty curtail their drinking during the banquet?