The Highlander's Keep

by Bess McBride

  I supposed the solution was practical. Torq could not have watched out for the children, busy as he probably was with the business of guarding the island.

  The sun shone pleasantly down on us as Torq carried me across the tabletop toward the keep. I thought about the dense fog that I’d first seen upon arrival at Dun Eistean. The darkness of the keep room did not appeal to me at that moment either, even as tired as I was.

  “Torq, do you think you can just deposit me somewhere in the sun for a bit? It’s so nice and warm.”

  Torq paused, looking up at the sun.

  “Aye, it is a rare sight.”

  “So?”

  “I thought ye wished to rest?”

  “I can sleep under the sun, can’t I?”

  “Aye, I suppose that ye can. I could carry ye round to the back of the keep. The lads can see the sea from the tower, but no the base of the tower. I could set ye there for a spell. Would that please ye?”

  “Oh, yes!”

  Torq carried me around the rectangular tower and onto a brief expanse of grass that led to the edge of a steep cliff. Beyond lay the vista of rugged coastline, crashing surf, sea spray, whitecaps, seagulls and turquoise water. I swallowed hard against the magnificence of the sight and my fear of heights.

  Once Torq set me down on the grass against the base of the keep’s stone wall though, the sensation of being at the edge of a cliff diminished. My back ached, and I longed to lie down. I slid down to lie on my side, the sun now in the west, warming my face.

  “Just leave me here for a bit. If you’ve got something to do, I’m fine.”

  “I will get ye a blanket in case ye get cold.”

  “I can’t imagine needing one,” I said drowsily. I closed my eyes and listened to the sound of Torq moving away across the grass, the wind whistling across the tabletop, the seagulls squawking as they flew by, and the rhythmic sound of waves crashing against the shoreline from below.

  I hardly remember Torq laying a blanket over me or his hushed words.

  “I will return to check on ye,” he said.

  “Not too soon,” I mumbled.

  “Nay, rest now,” he said, his voice soothing.

  I felt his hand flat on my back for a moment.

  “That feels nice,” I said, drifting off.

  Several times throughout the afternoon, I felt Torq’s hand on my back, but I continued to drowse.

  “Are ye rested?” Torq asked quietly.

  “No, still sleepy,” I said, finding it impossible to open my eyes.

  “I’ll leave yet then.”

  I pulled the blanket close to my face as the air grew cooler. I knew I was sleeping into the twilight hours but didn’t care. I remembered thinking that Torq was so thoughtful to let me sleep.

  Suddenly, the blanket was ripped from my hands, and my face buried in material. I felt myself hauled roughly off the ground, trapped in someone’s arms.

  “Torq!” I shouted, clawing at the material covering my face. “What are you doing? Torq! Stop it! Put me down! You’re hurting me!” I cried out, agonizing pain searing my back.

  A muttering of Gaelic burst through the pounding in my ears. I wanted to struggle, to fight. I think I tried, but whoever carried me had thrown me over his back, and every breath I took was forced from me by the impact of the man’s shoulders. I knew it wasn’t Torq. If I knew nothing else, I knew what it felt like to be carried by Torq.

  I tried to shout, but my efforts sounded like gasps more than cries. I couldn’t see anything but darkness, as the blanket covered my face. The blanket and the man’s grasp bound my arms tightly to my sides. I couldn’t beat on him. I couldn’t fight back.

  Painful bouncing suggested running, then a pause. More Gaelic. I heard shouts in the distance, and I hoped everyone survived what I suspected was yet another raid. I prayed that the children were protected, and I worried that Torq had been hurt. I knew he would have come for me if he could.

  My captor shifted his hold on me, and then we started a descent. Even blinded as I was, the feeling of going down in spurts was unmistakable. I didn’t think it was possible, but it felt as if we were descending one of the cliffsides by rope in short spurts—in fact, rappelling.

  “Stop!” I gasped. “Stop!”

  “Quiet!” an unrecognizable guttural voice barked near my ear.

  Male voices crowded around my head, and I felt myself tossed onto something hard. At that, I let out a scream, my face covered but my voice not muffled. Something painful hit my head, and I blacked out.

  Chapter Ten

  A rhythmic bouncing beneath me brought me awake. My head pounded, and I reached to touch the tender spot, which hurt only a little less than my back as my body was jolted mercilessly.

  The unmistakable sound of a horse’s hooves pounding the ground penetrated through to my consciousness. Darkness surrounded me, broken only by a blue-gray light cast from the half-moon. Night.

  I clutched the saddle pommel, my hands encountering skin, warm skin, and not the horse. I pulled back but felt my arms pinned to my sides yet again.

  I looked over my shoulder. A bearded stranger held me in front of him on the horse.

  “Ye are awake then, lass. I am verra sorry that my man hit ye. I have reprimanded him. I told the men that no harm was to come to any women or children we captured.”

  “Let me go,” I mumbled. “I can’t ride on this horse. It’s too painful. My back!”

  The horse slowed to a stop, and the man called out in the darkness. I saw the other men then—silvery figures maneuvering their horses as they surrounded the stranger who had called to them. I suspected he was their leader.

  “I dinna want to cause ye pain, lass. What can I do? Were ye injured when we took ye?”

  “No,” I panted through the pain. “Yes! Someone knocked me out! I could have a concussion!” I felt a lump on the side of my head, but no moisture to suggest blood. I continued.

  “My back was already hurt. I can’t be on this horse. It’s killing me.”

  “But ye must ride the horse, lass. Surely ye canna walk. Let me see what I can do.”

  He called to one of the men, who dismounted and approached. My heart, already pounding, skipped a beat. I hoped it wasn’t the man who had already knocked me out once.

  The man approached the left side of the horse and grabbed my leg. I shrieked, and my captor behind me spoke sharply.

  “Calm yerself now, lass. Ranald will no hurt ye.”

  “What’s he doing? Why is he pulling on my leg?”

  “He is helping me fix yer seat.”

  I had no idea what that meant.

  The man on the ground, bearded and long haired, of medium height, waited until my captor gave a nod, then with a more gentle touch bent my leg to push it and my skirts over the horse’s back such that I rode sidesaddle.

  My captor cradled me in his arms like an infant, my legs draped over the right flank of the horse. His helper returned to his mount.

  “This will have to do,” my captor said. “We cannot tarry. They will pursue, perhaps with the birlinns.”

  “They?” I asked as the animal moved out again. My captor urged the horse to a trot, but cushioned as I was, the piercing pain of the earlier jostling eased somewhat.

  “The Morrisons.”

  “Who else did you take? You didn’t get the children, did you?”

  I looked up at my captor. I couldn’t really make out the details of his face, other than that he was a typical sixteenth-century Scot. His hair and beard were dark, and I guessed his age to be late twenties, though that was hard to tell with the facial hair. I did see his grimace though.

  “Only ye,” he said with a shrug of his shoulders. “We could no reach the crofts. Too many guards. We were spotted, and the alarm sounded. The lads barely made off with ye, and that was against my orders, but they had dropped ye in the boat afore I ken what they had done. So here ye are.”

  “A boat? You came by boat? Where is it?”
/>   “It was no but a wee thing we stole from a fisherman. We abandoned it on the beach.”

  “Well, the Morrisons aren’t going to send the birlinns out just for me. Now, if you’d taken the chil—” I shut my mouth. I had no intention of giving them ideas.

  “If we had taken the Macleod’s grandbairns? Aye, that was to be our purpose. The Macleod would have paid handsomely. But I dinna ken it is about the money. My chieftain wishes to please the Macleod.”

  “Your chieftain?”

  “The Macaulay. Murdo Macaulay,” he said.

  “Well, who are you? I thought you must be the chieftain.”

  My captor laughed, a full-bodied sound of amusement. I should have been more frightened than I was. I was definitely terrified, but something about the man lessened my fear. I couldn’t put my finger on it.

  “I am no a chieftain.” He chuckled. “My name is Iskair Macaulay. I am no but a distant cousin of Murdo Macaulay, the chieftain. My father and his father were cousins.”

  “Iskair,” I repeated.

  “Aye.”

  “What are you going to do with me, Iskair? You might as well let me go. They’re not going to send out boats for me, or a war party.”

  “Nay?” He looked down at her. “Who are ye then? Ye are no a Morrison, I’ll wager.”

  “I’m a nobody. Just visiting.”

  “Are ye a relation to the laird or his lady? To Torq Morrison? The lads told me he fought a good fight when he found them spiriting ye away. They wondered if ye might be Torq’s lady. But I think that is no the case. Torq married Mary Macleod, though I heard she died. Still, ye are no his lady, are ye?”

  “Is he hurt? Oh, please tell me he’s not dead!” I tried to sit up, but Iskair pressed me back down.

  “Dinna fash, lass. Torq lives. The man never dies.”

  Relief flooded through me, and I slumped farther into Iskair’s arms.

  “But if ye are no his lady, ye certainly hold him in some affection, I ken.”

  “I do! Do you know Torq?”

  “Aye, this is but a small island. We ken each other well. But I have no heard of ye. Who are ye then? If I am to give ye over to the chieftain to trade to the Macleods, I should be able to tell him yer value.”

  “I have no value. I’m just visiting.”

  “Visiting? Dun Eistean? I dinna ken they have many visitors to their prison.”

  “Prison? What a thing to call it!”

  “It is truly no more than that. What is yer name? Are ye English? Irish? Yer accent is no Scots.”

  I thought about the question, wondering if my answers would lead to more questions.

  “I don’t think you need to know my name or where I’m from, as it happens. We’re not having tea here, you know. You have taken me hostage, and you are not my best buddy.”

  “Auch, there is no need to be rude—” he began.

  “And I really don’t want you turning me over to anyone. Not your chieftain. Not the Macleod chieftain. No one!”

  He looked down at me, and though I couldn’t make out much about his face in the faint moonlight, I thought I detected sympathy. Maybe that was just wishful thinking.

  “The lads took ye. The deed is done. I canna undo that. I could no even drop ye here by the roadside to let ye go. It is no safe here—there are wild animals about, but more importantly, the lads will want some reward from the chieftain for the taking of ye.”

  I clutched at Iskair’s sleeve. “Please help me. You seem so reasonable. You can’t think this is okay.”

  “I canna let ye go, lass. I am sorry.”

  I released his sleeve.

  “Where are we going?”

  “To Ardmore Castle.”

  “But that belongs to the Morrisons.”

  “Nay, the castle belongs to Angus Macleod...now.”

  I wished that the Morrisons would mount a rescue party to save me from an uncertain fate, but that was highly unlikely. They barely had enough men to protect Dun Eistean, and it seemed likely that the Macaulay and Macleod raids to steal children, women, whatever they could, were far from over.

  “What is the point of raiding Dun Eistean? You all have everything that the Morrisons once had. They have nothing!”

  “I dinna mind telling ye. Murdo Macaulay seeks favor wi Angus Macleod. If my chieftain were to present him with the children, the Macleod would grant him money, lands and a promise that the Macaulays would survive. An alliance, ye would say. But any boon pleases Murdo and Angus—grain, the birlinns, swords, women.”

  “They’re going to raid the Morrisons to death.”

  “Aye, the Macleod wishes to destroy Clan Morrison...after he retrieves his grandbairns.”

  “It just so senseless,” I said. I wished now that I had read more about sixteenth-century Scottish history. My classes in Mediterranean archaeology weren’t helping me now.

  “Is it?” he asked.

  We trotted on through the night. I heard—and smelled—the sea to our right, so I assumed that we followed the coastline.

  “How long till we get to Ardmore Castle?”

  “We will be there by morning. Ye should sleep.”

  “Why don’t you guys stop and sleep?”

  “We have to put distance between ourselves and the Morrisons.”

  “I told you, they’re not going to come after me. I’m just a visitor.”

  “Ye didna say where ye were from.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  I set my jaw and stopped talking. The warmth of his cocoon soon put me to sleep.

  Sometime later, a voice penetrated my subconscious.

  “Lass. We approach Ardmore Castle.”

  I opened one eye to see a handsome bearded man with chocolate-brown shoulder-length hair and beard looking down at me with matching warm brown eyes. The horse had slowed to a walk.

  His cadre of mounted Highlanders surrounded us, and I wondered which one had hit me on the head. It didn’t matter. I hated them all. It had taken me all of only a few days to fall into the morass of clan feuding.

  At the moment though, I kicked into survival mode, begging and pleading.

  “Ardmore?” I repeated in a whisper. “Oh, please, Iskair, please don’t turn me over to anyone. What if they—” I couldn’t say the words.

  “I ken ye are afeared, lass, but I have no choice.”

  “Please.” I clutched the sash of his great kilt, a mustard-yellow-and-black-plaid combination interspersed with faint red lines.

  “I will do my best to protect ye, lass, from that which ye fear. I will try to speak to Murdo, to persuade him that ye need protection, but if he turns ye over to Angus, I canna help ye. Angus has a reputation for chasing the lasses wi’out asking permission. I am so verra sorry.”

  “No!” I grabbed the sleeve of his dusty black coat and pulled myself upright. “No. This isn’t happening! You can’t leave me to be assaulted!”

  “I dinna plan to ‘leave ye to be assaulted!’ I will speak to Murdo.”

  “Please, please, please do,” I begged shamelessly.

  “Is there any chance that ye come from a wealthy family, lass? It would go a fair way to convincing my cousin to protect yer virtue.”

  The earnestness in Iskair’s warm brown eyes touched me. I wasn’t sure I had the kind of virtue he referred to, but I babbled.

  “Yes! Yes! Yes, I do. As a matter of fact, my family is...I am related to...I’m the daughter of Viscount Dunnon...from England. My father has a lot of money. A lot! He will pay a ransom, but not if I’ve been harmed...if you know what I mean!”

  “Ye dinna say! An English viscount? I will wager that is worth a nice ransom! I ken yer meaning. This is braw news, lass! Why didna ye say so earlier? The Macaulay is staying at Ardmore right now, but I am sure he will take ye to Broder Castle when he leaves on the morrow. Murdo willna wish to leave ye with Angus, no if he intends to demand ransom for ye.”

  “That’s right! He’d better not. Now, does he chase the lasses without
their permission?”

  “My cousin? Nay, he has a bonny wife, three bairns. His lady keeps him happy.”

  I released the air I had been holding in. I didn’t know how fast things moved around here, but surely it would take several weeks to figure out there was no Viscount Dunnon.

  A magnificent gray stone castle surrounded by a high wall came into view, and I buried myself in the arms of my captor.

  “Remember, I’m worth a large ransom...if I keep my virtue.”

  Iskair gave me a reassuring squeeze.

  “I will persuade my cousin of such.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The Macaulays rode their horses through a guarded stone archway and into a courtyard busy with activity. Men, women and children moved about as if the courtyard were some sort of town square, some selling produce, others tending to animals, yet others hanging about chatting. Many turned to watch as the raiding party entered.

  I was the only hostage, and after a few cursory glances, interest in me turned to questions from the men—spoken in Gaelic.

  I winced as Iskair slid off the horse and pulled me with him. He carried me across the courtyard and into an arched doorway leading to the highest tower in the castle. I noted that his men led all the horses, including Iskair’s, to a one-story building just inside the gate that probably housed the stables.

  Iskair and I entered a large stone room that I assumed was the great hall. A large fireplace dominated one wall, and a massive oak table centered the room. Other smaller tables dotted the room, giving it a pub-like atmosphere, although an expensive one.

  A ruddy-faced short, plump lady in a white cap, gray skirts and apron came rushing toward us. She spoke to Iskair rapidly in Gaelic, looking over her shoulder as if she didn’t want to be heard.

  Iskair responded. I wished I understood the language.

  “What are you saying, Iskair? Who is this?”

  “Forgive me, Mistress Dunnon. This is Mrs. Mackay, housekeeper for the Macleod. She asks about the bairns, and I told her we could no reach them. She asks who ye are.”

  “Set her down, Iskair!” she demanded in English. “Is she injured?”

  “Aye, she had an injury before she was taken. I didna want the lads to take her, but I had already climbed down from the cliff when they took her. I couldna leave her on the beach to drown at high tide, and the lads were no disposed to leave her on the mainland. They kent Murdo and Angus would be pleased with their prize.”