by Bess McBride
John nodded that I should follow them, and I did as they entered the small conclave of houses. Torq and John stepped through the doorway of one croft. I couldn’t decide whether or not to linger outside, but the men following us sort of swept me up and pushed me inside.
To my surprise, Mistress Glick looked up from a kneeling position on the floor next to two tartan-covered piles. She rose and nodded in my direction but spoke to John and Torq in Gaelic.
As she moved, I recoiled in shock. The piles of blankets very obviously covered bodies. I turned and pushed my way through the men to get outside. I burst out of the door and bent double, trying desperately not to heave. I had never seen a dead body, never smelled one, and I had no earthly idea what I was doing in a century where such lawless violence existed and no air-conditioned morgue housed the victims. I had only studied eighteenth-century America. I hadn’t actually lived it!
I dropped the hand covering my mouth and nose and straightened, becoming aware that the villagers had stopped their activities to watch me. I eked out a wan smile but felt light headed, as if I might faint. I suspected they studied me as an outsider more than as a woman about to heave in the middle of their housing complex.
A long arm slipped around my shoulder, and I looked up to see John’s troubled eyes.
“Have ye no experience with death then, lass? Do people no die in yer time?” He kept his voice low.
I fought back tears and shook my head.
“Yes, of course, people die, John. We have war and murder and all the terrible things that humans do to each other, but no, I’ve never seen bodies.”
“Och, I am sorry for yer distress, lass. I must visit with three lads who were injured last night, but I will have Andrew take ye back to the keep.”
“No!” I said. “I can do this! I would rather not run away.”
John nodded and squeezed my shoulder.
“Why did ye no tell me about Angus, lass?” he said in a low voice. “Ye canna stay. No if Angus has taken a fancy to ye. I ken the man. It is possible he will come for ye again.”
The thought of Angus Macleod returning to take me sent a chill down my spine, but not as much as John sending me back...before I was ready.
“No,” I murmured.
“I fear that I can no protect ye, Ann.” John’s use of my first name startled me in its intimacy. “I could no protect my sister or the bairns.”
“He won’t come for me. Don’t read too much into that. I think he was just curious about me.”
“Och, I doubt his interest was naethin more than curiosity, lass. Ye are a rare beauty. He would have seen that.”
My face flamed. Me? A rare beauty?
“Oh, no, not me,” I mumbled.
Thankfully, Torq and the others came out of the croft and surrounded us, bringing our conversation to a halt. John lifted his arm from my shoulders and allowed Torq to help him walk into one of the other crofts. I felt bereft and useless in John’s absence, and many of the villagers still stared at me. I followed Torq and John into the croft.
The layout was similarly styled to Mistress Glick’s and Mary’s houses. A man in a white shirt lay on a bed against the far wall. I recognized him as one of the gate guards I had escaped from the previous day. Long dark matted hair spread out over a sweat-stained pillow. A plump woman who had been bending over him straightened as we entered. She rubbed her hands on her red tartan skirt and greeted us.
“Och, yer lairdship, look at ye!” Blonde with rosy cheeks, she appeared to be about thirty. She spoke in English, her accent unlike the Gaelic speakers.
“I heard ye fared worse than my Rob here, but he was always one to lay about.”
She grinned as if she was kidding, and I wondered at her good humor, given that her husband had obviously sustained a wound to his upper arm. A blood-stained cloth wrap encased his arm.
“And who told ye of my wounds, Catherine?” John said, matching her smile.
“Mistress Glick,” she said. “Oh, good morn, Rob, you lazy Scot,” she said, catching sight of her husband stirring. Her term of endearment convinced me she was English. “Here is the laird come to see ye. At least he is up and about!”
Rob opened his eyes. As soon as he saw John, they widened, and he rose to stand, one hand reaching for his injured arm. I blinked, unused to seeing the men in the absence of their kilts. Rob’s white shirt, soiled and stained, fell to his knees though. He seemed not to notice me, standing as I was behind tall Torq and John.
“Yer lairdship! I saw ye fall but could do naethin to help ye as I engaged in battle with a Macleod. Are ye well?”
John laid a hand on Rob’s shoulder.
“I am well and am pleased to see that yer injuries are no worse.”
Rob looked down at his arm.
“Nay, I will mend.”
“Good, because we need ye on the morrow. We leave for Ardmore in the morn.”
It was Torq who spoke, also in English, and I gasped at his words.
John murmured something to Torq and pivoted slowly to look at me.
“Tomorrow?” I whispered.
“Aye. We will speak of this later.”
“I will be ready!” Rob said, though I seriously doubted it. His face was as pale and wan as John’s. I suspected his injury was much more serious than his wife made out.
But barring that, how could John possibly think he could journey south to Macleod territory and engage in some sort of retaliatory raid to retrieve his sister and the children so soon after his life-threatening injuries?
I turned and stomped out of the room, unable to deal with my anger and anxiety. Unwilling to even meet the stares of the villagers as I emerged from the croft, I marched out of the housing compound and across the tabletop. I rounded the keep, heading for the back and away from prying eyes. The abrupt edge of the cliff brought me to a halt. Turquoise and white frothy waves crashed on the dark rocks below. Farther out, the blue agate sea sparkled under the sunlight. The scene seemed so peaceful, so tranquil.
Suddenly exhausted, I bunched up my skirts and lowered myself to the ground while I struggled to imagine John marching off to battle in the morning. He couldn’t possibly walk. They had no horses. Was he planning on being carried on a stretcher or a gold-plated sedan chair like some ancient pharaoh? What insanity was this? How could I stop him? What could I say? Surely Mistress Glick could tell him that he wasn’t up for a raid, couldn’t she? I contemplated enlisting her help in making him see reason.
Ten minutes later, a shadow fell over me, and I looked up. John stood there alone, without Torq or anyone to support him. He didn’t wobble, and when I rose quickly to slip my arm around his waist, he stayed me.
“No need, lass. I can fend for myself. Sun and fresh air are healing to me.”
He lowered himself to the ground with a wince.
“How on earth do you think you can go off on a rescue mission to save your sister in your condition?” I blurted out. “For all you know, you might have a concussion!”
Naturally, at John’s request, I had to explain my cursory understanding of a concussion.
“Anyway, concussion or not, you’re in no shape to go. Can’t some of the other men go?”
“Aye, they could,” John said. “But Mary is my sister, Sarah and Archibald are my niece and nephew and it is to me to bring them back.”
“But Torq looks pretty proficient. Why can’t he go?”
“As enamored as Torq is of my sister, he is no her kin. No yet, anyway,” John said with a faint smile.
“Oh! So that’s why he was so angry.”
“Aye, that and he wanted to leave at once. I told him I was no fit to travel today.”
“I’ll say!” I sputtered. “Or tomorrow, or probably even next week. I saw that slice across your back and neck.”
John reached over with his right hand to touch his neck.
“Aye, it is a good thing Angus did no cut to the right. I will need that hand for my sword.”
�
�No,” I said firmly, as if I had any say in the matter at all.
“I must,” John said. He looked out to sea, and I turned to stare at him. Sunlight gleamed off the dagger hilt on the belt at his back. I blinked and turned away.
John must have caught my movement...or read my mind—I wasn’t sure which. He reached for the dagger and offered it to me.
“I thought to wait until the morn to give ye the dagger, but suppose that a selfish gesture. Take the dagger, Ann. Go home. This is no place for ye.”
As if John would grab my hand and force it around the hilt, I tucked my hands under my skirts, securing them under the weight of my hips.
“No,” I said. “I can’t believe I’m saying this after I begged for the knife, but no. I’m not leaving. Not yet.”
John set the dagger down on the grass between us.
“Why do ye say no yet? Yer words tell me that ye do want to leave then.”
I didn’t answer but turned my face into the wind blowing in from the sea.
“Ann? Do ye wish to leave or no?”
That was an easy answer.
“No, not yet.”
“But ye wish to leave someday.”
That was less easily answered.
I shrugged, keeping my head forward. The rugged landscape before me—the white caps dancing on the waves, the frothy waves crashing against dark volcanic cliffs in the distance, the emerald-green coastal grasses billowing in the coastal breezes—drew me. As if possessed, I found the vista mesmerizing, compelling.
Or maybe it was the sixteenth-century man at my side. I could not take the dagger and return to my safe life in the twenty-first century.
“Why can ye no tell me what ye desire, Ann? I ken what I want.”
Color flushed my face, and my breathing quickened.
“I want ye to go home.”
Chapter Eleven
I stifled a gasp, and my heart dropped to my stomach. A knot formed in my throat, threatening to choke me. Hot tears burned my eyes, but I didn’t dare wipe at them.
“Take the dagger, lass,” John said.
He didn’t feel like I did at all, did he? Of course he didn’t. Why should he? I was the sap who had fallen in love in the space of a day, hours, maybe even minutes.
I continued to stare out to sea.
“Lass, please.”
At the pleading in John’s voice, I almost reached for the knife. I would do anything for him, anything. Well, almost anything.
A hand touched my cheek, turning my face toward him. I caught a faint hint of a wince as he twisted his body to reach for me. His pain made me speak.
“Not today,” I whispered. “Not today, John. Can’t it wait until you come back? I don’t think I could bear to leave and not know you returned safely.”
John traced the line of my jaw with his fingers. Rough and calloused, his touch made my heart race.
“In fact, let me go with you!”
John dropped his hand and shook his head.
“Och, lass, ye canna. If the Macleod kens ye are with us...if he sees ye...” John finished neither statement.
“Really, John, I don’t matter to him. Please let me go with you.”
“We dinna take womenfolk on raids, lass.”
I blew out a breath of air in frustration.
“Well, I can’t just sit here and worry about you.”
“Nor do I wish to travel away and fash about yer welfare, Ann. I would no fash if ye went home.”
No, no, he wouldn’t, would he? John didn’t feel the same about me. Knowing that his heart wasn’t breaking like mine gave me the strength to fight him.
“Unless you stick that dagger in my palm and wrap your hand around it to force me to go, I’m not going!”
John drew in a sharp breath.
“Then ye wish to stay? Forever?”
I couldn’t commit to that. Not forever. In the sixteenth century? I said nothing.
John sighed heavily, picked the dagger up and stuck it into its sheathe.
“I dinna understand ye, Mistress Borodell. No at all. Come! Help me rise, and give me no lectures on my weakness. All I require to set me right is more whisky.”
I stood and did my puny best to pull John to his feet, though he had to do most of the work. I had to admit that he did better if he kept moving. His wounds seemed to stiffen when he rested.
We returned to the keep, where John refused to lay down, opting instead to sit in a chair. I poured him some whisky, and he drank it. Taking the seat across from him, I studied him surreptitiously, trying to memorize his face. I suspected that I wasn’t going to convince him to let me accompany them. Why would he if women traditionally didn’t accompany them?
He seemed about to say something, but a knock on the door signaled Andrew, who brought some food from his aunt, Torq’s sister. He set down a tray holding two bowls of soup and a plate of oatcakes, which seemed to be the standard fare on Dun Eistean. A jug of ale accompanied the meal.
“Thank you, Andrew, and thank your aunt,” I said. Hungry, I dug into the hearty carrot soup.
“Aye, lad. Thank her kindly.”
“Aye, yer lairdship.” Andrew turned and vanished from the room, leaving John and me to alternately eat and stare at each other. It was as if both of us wanted to say something but could not. And so we didn’t. We ate in uncomfortable silence. When I finished, I pushed my plate away and eyed the bed. In our absence, someone had come in and replaced the blood-stained sheets and freshened things up with a clean tartan blanket. I suspected Andrew.
“You really should rest,” I said.
John met my eyes, and to my surprise, he nodded.
“Aye, lass. I ken ye are right. I am fair weary.”
“Are you in pain?”
“Aye, but the whisky and ale will help.” He looked toward the bed. “I think it best I find other accommodations and leave ye here in peace.”
“No!” I said vehemently. “This is your room. I took it from you. Rest. I’ll find something to do with myself.”
John, on the point of rising, turned and looked at me.
“What do ye mean? Ye will no try to leave the island again, will ye? I am no sure I can give chase today.” His lips curved, albeit tiredly.
“No,” I said. “Why would I leave since you’re now willing to give me the dagger?”
I reached out quickly to help John lower himself to a sitting position on the bed.
“Aye, of course! Ye are free to leave. What was I thinking?” he asked, kicking off his boots. I plumped his pillow and watched as he sank onto his side with a wince.
When I turned away, he grabbed my hand.
“But please do no leave without saying farewell, Ann,” he said. He released my hand, reached behind his back with obvious pain, and retrieved the dagger. I backed up as if he would hand it to me, and he dropped it onto the stone floor with a ringing thud.
“I’m not going anywhere right now, John. I told you that. You’re the one who thinks I need to go, not me.”
John ran a tired hand across his eyes. He looked pale and wan, and I couldn’t believe he was planning on traveling the following day, or worse yet, engaging in some sort of raid or battle.
“I dinna ken if I want ye to stay or go,” he murmured, his eyelids drooping. “Neither perhaps.”
The words fell from his lips as his breathing deepened, and I blinked. Had he actually fallen asleep that fast, or fainted? I checked his forehead, noting a warm but not feverish temperature, before turning away to scan the room.
What was I going to do with myself for the next few hours? With no particular destination in mind, I left the room and came upon Andrew, sitting on the floor of the keep, eating the same food John and I had shared. Although the day was reasonably warm, the peat fire continued to burn, albeit low.
Andrew set down his food and jumped to his feet at my appearance. At the same time, I heard several men up in the tower above.
“Are they on lookout?” I asked.
“Aye, mistress. James and Torq keep watch.”
“Is someone always watching out from the tower?”
“Aye.”
“How did the Macleods manage to get onto the island then? Weren’t they seen from the mainland or the path leading to Dun Eistean?”
“I am no sure, mistress. I heard the men tell the laird they came silently in the night, on foot, with no torches. The laird asked the verra same question this morn.”
I moved out of the dimness of the tower and into the afternoon sun. People were in motion, and activity bustled on the island. Andrew followed and stood by me while I watched.
“He’s too weak and injured to travel tomorrow,” I said.
Andrew didn’t answer, and I turned to look at him.
“You don’t agree?”
“It is no my place to question the laird, mistress.”
“No, I guess not,” I said with a sigh. “Would Mistress Glick talk him out of going? Does she have any influence with him?”
Andrew shook his head. “I dinna think he would listen to her.” He bit his lip and kicked dust at his feet. “What I mean is, he is no used to taking orders or advice from anyone. No that I have ever kent!”
I nodded and returned to watching the activity on the tabletop.
“No, I imagine not. He seems very stubborn.”
“Och, I would no say stubborn, mistress.” Andrew shuffled his feet again.
“Willful?” I smiled at his discomfort.
“Noooo.”
“Obstinate?”
Andrew’s cheeks flamed. “Mistress, I can no say such things. He is the laird.”
I laughed.
“What can you say then?”
“The laird is—” Andrew paused. “Determined.”
“Determined,” I repeated with a grin. “Yes, he is definitely that.” I turned to Andrew. “I have been meaning to ask. People call him the laird. Is he an aristocrat? Titled?”
“Titled? Och, nay, I dinna think so. He is no king or duke. He is laird of Dun Eistean and Ardmore Castle.”
“So, by laird, you mean lord of property.”
“Aye, mistress. He is our chieftain.”
“Chieftain,” I repeated thoughtfully. “For the entire Clan Morrison?”