Donald stood at the top of the stairs. His brow was furrowed with rage.
“Donald, I just took Katie out to—”
“Quiet, Lochlann.” Donald’s voice sounded grim and loud in the sleepy inn.
“We were only—”
“I said be quiet. Your excuses are useless.”
“It’s not an excuse, it’s—”
Donald’s fist hit him square in the face. His nose cracked and a blinding shot of pain exploded in his head. He fell back down the stairs.
* * *
Katie imagined the bright weather should have lightened her mood. The sky shone bright blue, the weather had stayed warm the last two days, and they were almost to Fort William. She still ached all over from Donald’s attentions that night in Kintraw. Her face healed slowly, but it did heal. She hadn’t had the chance to protect it as before. Bruises on her cheek and temple were purple tinged with yellow edges, and she had other marks here and there, wherever Donald found his target. Lochlann’s broken nose swelled and both his eyes were an amazing deep purple. He had sprained his wrist when he had fallen down the stairs, but luckily nothing worse had happened.
She hadn’t dared dose Donald again with foxglove. He had been sick for about two days with the last dose. Being sick once happened on the road. Being sick the same way twice… it would lead to suspicion. She must be cautious. But at least now she knew the dosage strength.
Besides, Katie hadn’t wanted to try anything so bold since the other night.
She had been so certain she was free. It had been delightful to be walking down the road in the starlight. As if she hadn’t a care in the world. Éamonn would be right around the next bend, surely. They’d run into each other’s arms, and he’d carry her away to somewhere new. England, or France, someplace Donald and Lochlann would never follow.
But Lochlann had come, and the very trees had helped him recapture her.
Lochlann had tried to stop Donald’s blows and received a huge one for his troubles. He still tried to shield her from his brother, in little ways. He stood between them when they were setting up camp, and answered for her when asked a question. He had become a sort of armor she needn’t take off. Katie’s anger softened in the light of his gallantry.
Perhaps there existed no true freedom in the world without bonds. In order to remain safe, you must agree to certain levels of imprisonment. Marriage, whether you entered into the state willingly or not, would be both prison and protection.
I imagine this is true on a grander scale as well. You were free to do what you like in a Traveler tribe, within certain rules. You couldn’t kill someone, or the tribe would bring justice. The tribe protected you from outsiders but protected their own as well.
The only true difference is if you shouldered the protective armor of your own free will or had it foisted upon you.
Such grand philosophy on such a warm day. She stretched her back, though it ached to do so. Taking a sip from the wineskin, she relished the cool liquid going down her throat. Her hands were tied again, making the process difficult. However, Lochlann made sure she had access to the food and drink before they set out each morning. Her feet were also tied to the wagon, and the stout rope around her waist chafed as the seat jounced on the rough track.
Despite herself, she wished this trip over and to be safe in Skye. She didn’t particularly want to fulfill her promise to Lochlann to consummate the marriage, but she remained heartily tired. She had traveled across the countryside all her life, but never trussed like a pig, ready to go to slaughter.
Swallowing to keep her gorge from rising, she took another sip. It helped. Sneaking a glance at Lochlann, she saw him wince with each jolt of the wagon. His nose must be incredibly painful. It looked horrible, swollen to nearly twice its original size.
The wind whipped up. They had crossed the mouth of Loch Leven, across an old, rickety ferry. The horses were not pleased with the arrangement, and Clarence the mule made his displeasure known loudly enough to be heard for several miles. Nonetheless, they got the beasts and the wagons across eventually. Now the weather coming in along Loch Linnhe glowered on the horizon.
Katie did her best to pull her cloak up. In the warm day, she had let the garment fall behind her. She tried to twist around and grab it with her tied hands, pulling it over her shoulders. Lochlann saw her gyrations and reached out to help her. She rewarded him with a grateful smile.
Despite her cloak, the chill came through quickly. The biting wind found its way under the edges of the fabric, making it flap and flutter. The sky darkened further, and she peered up nervously. Lochlann also looked up and furrowed his brow.
“Donald! Donald, I think we should find a place to shelter.” Her husband needed to shout over the wind.
“What? It’s barely midafternoon. We’ve miles to go before we rest for the night. I want to get to Fort William before dark.”
“The sky is darkening now, and not with the night. Let’s find a place to brave out the storm?”
His voice sounded so tentative and pleading, Katie wanted to give him some of her own backbone. How could a man—a true man—be so weak? His sweetness now worked like a liability. He had no mettle whatsoever. With a sigh, she tried to tug the edges of the cloak back over her arms, now covered in gooseflesh.
The first big drops had already splattered in the dirt before they found a rocky overhang along the edge of the hills. The land, mostly farms and woods, now began to rise into rocky peaks of grey mountains. The storm slapped against this stubborn rock and ran down in rivulets until there she saw a cascade of water outside the cave.
The wagons and horses were still outside, but they managed to get themselves and their saddle bags into the shelter before the full fury hit. The rain thrummed above her, earth’s blood flowing down the wall through a million vessels. The water sluiced in front of them like icicles, almost solid. Very little came into the cave, as the ground rose higher than outside. It enthralled her.
Donald deigned to untie her for their stay, correctly assuming she wouldn’t risk being caught out in such a storm. She brought out the bread they had bought in Creagan and passed it around. A hunk of cheese and dried fish completed the simple meal.
She wanted hot tea so badly she could taste it, but they had no wood for a fire. She contented herself with small ale, but still shivered in a huddle. Warmth eluded her until Lochlann came behind her.
“Your teeth are clattering, lass. Let me help?” Confused, she nodded. He opened his own cloak and wrapped one arm around her. Sitting, he pulled her into the cocoon of warmth. This had become a habit.
“Better?”
“It is, thank you.” Eventually, her shivers eased and then ceased. He was a nice lad, despite his spinelessness. She might even learn to like him. It wouldn’t be so bad, would it? He acted kind and considerate. Certainly, many men did not. He had a trade in horses and promised to take care of her. If Éamonn never came—
She saw no clue whether Éamonn would travel over to Scotland for her. For all she knew, he had turned tail at Ballycastle and returned to his family, never to see her again. And she couldn’t truly blame him. Their trysts were so few, their chances so slight… she had never even kissed him. Regret seemed too pale a word. The imagining sometimes kept her up at night. More carnal fantasies made it even harder to sleep.
* * *
Éamonn hadn’t found a trace of Katie or the MacCrimmons since they’d left Campbeltown, but he pushed doggedly on toward Skye. He knew where they were ultimately bound, after all. It would have been so much faster to charter a boat the entire way, but it would be too expensive with three of them and the horses. They would be moving faster than the two wagons. They would catch up.
Ever since the night he and Deirdre almost lay together, Éamonn’s own mood had been miserable. He regretted that evening with as much passion as he had shown during that betrayal. Deirdre, on the other hand, acted bubbly, cheerfully bouncing along as the days progressed. She did not relent in her constant t
ouches, but Éamonn resisted them. His resolve was all he had left. He determined not to give her a chance to breach his walls again.
Ciaran had retreated into a shell and seldom came out to say a thing to either of the others. He stewed like a skulking thief, staring at the interplay between them. Parry and riposte, touch and rebuff. Deirdre went off to forage for food, while Éamonn and Ciaran set up camp.
“Ciaran, help me with the tents.”
After a few moment of silent work, Ciaran spoke.
“Want to tell me what’s going on with Deirdre?”
Éamonn snorted. “Nothing I wanted.”
“It doesn’t look like that to me. Why are we even on this trip if you’re just going to bed every girl you see?”
Éamonn quickly forgot the tent. With a bark of laughter, he said. “I don’t bed every girl I see! Ciaran, don’t be a fool.”
“Why can’t you just leave her alone, then?”
Rolling his eyes heavenwards, Éamonn sighed. “Ciaran, I’m not the one sneaking into tents at night. That’s your sweet, innocent Deirdre doing so, it is. If you want her so bad, why don’t you go do something about it?”
Ciaran answered by punching him, but Éamonn ducked in plenty of time.
Éamonn was tired of the fighting. He just glared at his cousin.
“Ciaran, I love Katie, not Deirdre. Obviously, you want Deirdre. Show her! Do something to win her. I’ll not fight you in the slightest. In fact, I’ll help all I can. Deal?”
His cousin scowled at him and made a noise in the back of his throat. Rustling bushes nearby heralded Deirdre’s return.
* * *
Éamonn tried to think of anything other than Deirdre’s gaze upon the back of his head. It burned into him. His own body questioned his decision. Having brought the horses onto a ferry across the mouth of Loch Etive, he concentrated on the view in the early morning mists.
It was a sublime view, after all. The fog clung to the glass-still waters, diffusing the orange morning glow of the sun into an otherworldly haze. It had the strange light he imagined the land of the Fae might have, coming from nowhere and everywhere all at once, bathing all things in the odd luminosity of time.
Slight ripples ran out from the ferry as the last of the passengers boarded the large, flat raft. The ferryman collected all his tolls and called for his assistant to help them push from the dock. With large poles, they shoved against the shore. A mighty creak and nervous stamping from the horses and they were off.
This was a far cry from the tumultuous sea crossing from Ireland. A long rope lay across the channel, allowing the ferryman to pull the craft across. A major inlet to a long, narrow loch and a beautiful one, Éamonn had to admit, but still, another barrier to finding Katie.
The end of the day should bring the party to Fort William. What would it be like? Rumor had it Fort William was garrisoned with English soldiers, a massive block fortress, utterly impenetrable on the shore of Loch Eil. Éamonn had seen many castles in Ireland, but most were ruined shells from the time of Cromwell’s armies a hundred years before. Cromwell had stood on the crumbling bones of one such fortification at Drogheda. Cromwell had slaughtered its people after taking the town, even those Catholic priests who had sought sanctuary in the church.
Fort William had been another site of carnage. Just a month ago, when Scottish rebels in the Jacobite cause had laid siege to it. Éamonn didn’t know how many lives were lost during that encounter. War never treated soldiers kindly. The officers seldom thought twice about sending men to their deaths.
And the people on the land, they were the true losers in any war. Crops were trampled, stolen, and sometimes burned for spite. They appropriated livestock for the use of whichever army found them first—without any compensation to the poor crofting family which relied upon them for their own livelihood. Houses were burned, women raped, sometimes children as well. War never meant good news for the common folk of a country. Even if the war occurred on foreign soil, young men were pressed into the service of the army, sometimes as young as twelve or thirteen years, and never again seen by their family.
Thinking again of Cromwell’s work in Ireland, Éamonn remembered stories of entire towns burned, the lands salted to prevent crops from growing for years. Even towns that surrendered were massacred, such as Drogheda and Wexford. He didn’t know if the English would be any better or worse in the current struggle in Scotland, but he remained convinced he wanted no part of finding out.
A jolt of impact jerked him from his reverie. Having reached the north side of the inlet, the ferryman began to unload his craft. Éamonn hurried to help, thankful he once again had a physical task. He didn’t care for forced idleness. It let his thoughts wander to painful places.
Remounting and checking to make sure his companions were ready, he set off on the road north. Perhaps they would catch up with their quarry this day. He eyed the clouds on the horizon, hoping they’d hold off long enough.
As they passed a clearing, Éamonn spied a thin shred of light blue cloth, the same color as Katie’s wedding dress. Katie had been here, and she wanted to be found. The sight strengthened his resolve.
* * *
Gone were the gentle farmlands and green pastures of the lowlands. They wended their way through narrow passes between massive mountains, working through the Highlands of Scotland. It started at Fort William. Lochlann pointed out Ben Nevis, Scotland’s tallest mountain. It sported snow even now, in late May. They passed along Loch Lochy (what a funny name to say!), to stay in Bun Loyne that evening, as if they were a needle, threading through mountains in a constant switchback.
“It’s much like this until we get to Skye. Even there, we’ve mountains—the mysterious Black Cuillins and the majestic Red Cuillins. Dunvegan itself is flat, in comparison, but you can still see the peaks on the horizon from our home.” With a dreamy gaze, he looked hopelessly homesick.
What would it be like to have an actual place to call home? Her parents’ wagon had been home for as long as she could remember. They had never wintered in a place more than once.
“What’s your home like, Lochlann?”
“We’ve got a large farmhouse on the northwest coast of Skye, within sight of Dunvegan castle. The village is called Borreraig. My father is ill at the castle.”
“Do you travel every summer?”
“We’ve been gone… well, since August. My da and I got into an argument.”
Would Éamonn have wanted to make a home in some place? Or would he be more content to wander? She didn’t know what she would prefer. She’d never given it a great deal of thought. Settled folk were other—the non-Travelers. Usually ignored, sometimes dealt with, but always handled with caution and a mind for one’s purse and safety. Soldiers were worse as they would try to arrest anyone for being a Traveler like it was a crime to be free of place.
A group of ten soldiers came toward them along the road. Donald pulled the wagons to one side to let them pass and watched them warily. They stopped for a moment, and the leader stared at Katie. Her hair danced in the wind, bits having escaped from her tie during the day. She kept her tied hands hidden in her lap, under the edge of her cloak. While she wanted to get away from Donald, being taken by English soldiers would be jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire. They would have no compunctions about rape or murder, from stories she’d heard around campfires.
Finally, the leader nodded to Donald and Lochlann and moved on. Each soldier glanced at her as he passed. Most gazed upon her with indifference or even a little kindness. The last one, a dark-haired man with one eye, glared at her with a naked hatred she didn’t understand.
Lochlann sighed with relief as they passed around the bend. “For a moment I thought they would be trouble.”
“Ten would have been too much for us to handle. I’m glad they moved on,” Donald agreed.
Bun Loyne was a quiet place, more of a crossroads than anything else. The alehouse had no rooms, only places to sleep on the floor nea
r the measly fire. But it was better than nothing, and the ale and bread filled them.
Katie tried to find a way her body wouldn’t ache on the hard floor. Her bruises were in odd places. A solid kick from Donald’s boot had connected with her right hip, making sleeping on her side impossible. A couple of blows on her left shoulder ruled out that side as well. Her back ached from the hard bench of the wagon. She could never sleep on her stomach. At least, not since she had grown a woman’s curves.
The sun hadn’t yet risen when Lochlann roused her.
“Get up! Quickly now, we’re off.”
“Now? But the sun isn’t even up. What’s going on?”
“Donald said we must move now. Get up!”
Wondering what the fuss was about, she sat up, moaning at the pain in her muscles. Lochlann offered her a hand up, and she gratefully accepted.
Outside, Donald already had the wagons set and the horses harnessed. He stared impatiently down the road.
“Hurry up, lazy gits! Now!”
She scrambled to her bench, relieved he hadn’t tied her hands again this morning. He had either forgotten, or was in such a hurry he didn’t care. It allowed her to rip off another strip from her dress. She did so about a dozen times over the trip, tying them in places where Éamonn might see. It wasn’t much, but all she could think of.
What had been the panic? Had he spied Éamonn down the road? Hope soared in her heart as she craned her neck, but only saw darkness in the pale starlight. The moon had set, and she only heard the jingle of the horses’ tack. With a click of his tongue, Donald got both mares moving. The mule let out a bellow of protest, but he started off, as well.
The water glittered to the left, with more black mountains in the dim starlight. She nodded off several times during the harrowing journey. She’d only gotten a few hours’ sleep before being roused, and dozed in and out while the wagons bounced along the road.
She could have sworn she heard hoof beats other than their own, but that must simply be her active imagination.
All sorts of sounds lived in the deep of the night. Usually, they kept to themselves, only intruding upon waking folk with padded feet and the forgotten dream of terrors past. Sometimes, however, they would reach out and jerk someone from sleep’s embrace, an abrupt transition into the waking world. Such a brusque change left a person gasping, with peripheral awareness of slithering in the darkness. Katie knew there was a thing out there, something she couldn’t see or hear, questing for her, to hook and drag her into the night. It made her whimper in fear. Lochlann’s arm tightened around her shoulders.
Legacy of Luck (Druid's Brooch Series 3) Page 18