Arabella bit her lip. She wasn’t about to admit that her head had been fine until a courier had arrived from her younger sister’s home a few days before, announcing that Gelis had at last quickened with child.
A pang shot through her again, remembering. Hot, sharp, and twisting, her bitterness wound tight. Just recalling how the messenger’s eyes had danced with merriment as he’d shared the long-awaited news that had upturned her world.
It’d been too much.
The whole sad truth of the empty days stretching before her had come crashing down around her like so much hurled and shattered crockery.
She refused to think about the cold and lonely nights, warmed only by the peats tossed on the hearth fire and the snoring, furry bulk of whichever of her father’s dogs chose to scramble onto her bed.
Setting down her spoon, she fisted her hands on the cool linen of the table covering and swallowed against the heat in her throat.
To be sure, she loved her sister dearly. She certainly begrudged her naught. But her heart wept upon the surety that such joyous tidings would likely never be her own.
“Faugh!” Her father’s voice boomed again. “Whoe’er heard of a lassie wanting to sail clear to the edge of the sea? ’Tis beyond—”
“Hush, you, Duncan.” Stepping up to the high table, her mother, Lady Linnet, placed a warning hand on his shoulder. “Bluster is—”
“The only way I ken to deal with such foolery!” Her father frowned up at his wife and, for a moment, all the fury drained from his face.
Linnet, the mirror image of Gelis, only older, flicked back her hip-length, red-gold braid and leaned down to circle loving arms around her husband’s broad shoulders. Blessed with the sight—another gift she shared with her youngest daughter—Linnet’s ability to soothe her husband’s worst moods wasn’t something Arabella needed to see at the moment.
The obvious love between the two only served to remind her of the intimacies she’d never know.
Burning to call such closeness her own, she winced at the sudden image of herself as a withered, spindle-legged crone humbly serving wine and sweetmeats to her parents and her sister and her sister’s husband as they reposed before her on cushioned bedding, oblivious to aught but their blazing passion.
Arabella frowned and blinked back the dastardly heat pricking her eyes.
Her mother’s voice, clearly admonishing her father, helped banish the disturbing vision. “Ach, Duncan.” Linnet smoothed a hand through his thick, shoulder-length black hair, sleek as Arabella’s own and scarce touched by but a few strands of silver. “Perhaps you should—”
“Pshaw!” He made a derisive sound, breaking free of her embrace. “Dinna tell me what I should and shouldn’t do. I’d rather hear what that meddling lout who calls himself a friend has—”
“Uncle Marmaduke has nothing to do with it.” Arabella spoke before he could finish. “He is a better friend to you than you could wish. Though he did mention that he’s here because a southbound trading ship—”
“A vessel said to be captained by an Orkneyman you know and trust.” Her uncle sipped slowly from his ale cup, his calm giving her hope. “Word is that the trader is large enough to take on your girl and an escort in all comfort.”
“Hah! So speaks a meddler!” Her father smacked his hand on the table. “Did I no’ just say you were the cause of this?” He roared the words, glaring round. “Aye, there’s a merchant ship set to call at Kyleakin. Could be, the captain is known to me. I ken most traders who ply these waters!”
“And I ken when you are about to make a bleeding arse of yourself.” Sir Marmaduke set down his empty cup and leaned back in his chair, arms casually folded. “A pity you do not know when to heed those who care about you.”
Duncan scowled. “And I say it’s a greater pity that you dinna ken when to hold your flapping tongue!”
He flashed another look at Arabella. “I’ll take you to see what wares the merchant ship carries. There are sure to be bolts of fine cloth and baubles, perhaps a few exquisite rarities. Maybe even a gem-set comb for your shiny black tresses.”
Pausing, he raised a wagging finger. “But know this. When the ship sails away, you will no’ be on board!”
Arabella struggled against tightening her lips.
The last thing she wanted was to look like a shrew.
Even so, she couldn’t help feeling a spurt of annoyance. “I have coffers filled with raiments and I’ve more jewels than I can wear in a lifetime. There is little of interest such a ship can offer me. Not in way of the goods it carries.”
She took a deep breath, knowing she needed to speak her heart. “What I want is an adventure.”
“A what?” Her father’s brows shot higher than she’d ever seen.
He also leapt to his feet, almost toppling his chair.
Out in the main hall, several of his men guffawed. On the dais, one or two coughed. Even the castle dogs eyed him reproachfully.
Duncan’s scowl turned fierce.
“A little time away is all I ask.” Arabella ignored them all. “I’m weary of waiting for another suitor to make his bid. The last one who dared approached you over a year ago—”
“The bastard was a MacLeod!” Her father’s face ran purple. “Dinna tell me you’d have gone happily to the bed of a sprig of that ilk! We’ve clashed with their fork-tongued, cloven-footed kind since before the first lick o’ dew touched a sprig of heather!”
“Then what of the Clanranald heir who came before him?” Arabella uncurled her fists, no longer caring if anyone saw how her hands trembled. “You can’t deny the MacDonalds are good allies and friends.”
Her father spluttered.
Lifting her chin a notch higher, she rushed on. “He was a bonny man. His words were smooth and his blue eyes kind and welcoming. I would have—”
“All MacDonalds are glib-tongued and bonny! And you would have been miserable before a fortnight passed.” Her father gripped the back of his chair, his knuckles white. “There isn’t a race in the land more irresistible to women. Even if the lad meant you well, sooner or later, his blood would have told. He would’ve succumbed, damning himself and you.”
Arabella flushed. “Perhaps I would rather have chanced such a hurt than to face each new day knowing there won’t be any further offers for me.”
Mortification sweeping her, she clapped a hand over her mouth, horror stricken by her words.
Openly admitting her frustration was one thing.
Announcing to the world that she ached inside was a pain too private for other ears.
“Why do you think I ceded you the Seal Isles?” Her father’s voice railed somewhere just outside the embarrassment whipping through her. “Soon, new offers will roll in, young nobles eager to lay claim to our Hebrides will beat a path to—”
“Nae, they will not.” She pushed back from the table, standing. “You’ve frightened them away with your black stares and denials! There isn’t a man in all these hills and isles who doesn’t know it. No one will come. Not now, not after all they’ve seen and heard—”
She broke off, choking back her words as she caught glimpses of the pity-filled glances some of her father’s men were aiming her way.
She could stomach anything but pity.
Heart pounding and vision blurring, she spun on her heel and fled the dais, pushing past startled kinsmen and serving laddies to reach the tight, winding stairs that led up to the battlements and the fresh, brisk air she craved.
Running now, she burst into the shadow-drenched stair tower and raced up the curving stone treads, not stopping until she reached the final landing. Hurrying, she threw open the oak-planked door to the parapets and plunged out into the chill wind of a bright October morning.
“Ach, dia!” She bent forward to brace her hands on her thighs and breathe deeply. “What have I done….”
Shame scalded her, sucking the air from her lungs and sending waves of hot, humiliating fire licking up and down her sp
ine.
Never had she made a greater fool of herself.
And never had she felt such a fiery, all-consuming need to be loved.
Wanted and desired.
Cherished.
Nearly blinded by tears she refused to acknowledge, she straightened and shook out her skirts. Then she tossed back her hair and blinked until her vision cleared. When it did, she went to the battlements’ notched walling and leaned against the cold, unmoving stone.
Across the glittering waters of Loch Duich, the great hills of Kintail stretched as far as the eye could see, the nearer peaks dressed in brilliant swatches of scarlet and gold while those more distant faded into an indistinct smudge of blue and purple, just rimming the horizon. It was a familiar, well-loved sight that made her breath catch but did absolutely nothing to soothe her.
She’d lied about her reasons for wanting to journey to the Seal Isles. But she wished to keep her reasons secret. Even so, she’d never before lied to her family. And the weight of her falsehoods bore down on her, blotting everything but the words she couldn’t forget.
Words her sister had spoken when last they’d visited.
Innocently shared accountings of the wonders of marital bliss and how splendorous it was to lie naked with a man each night, intimately entwined and knowing that he lived only to please you.
Exactly how that pleasing was done had also been revealed, and thinking of such things now caused such a brittle aching in her breast that she feared she’d break if she drew in too deep a breath.
Worst of all were her sister’s repeated assurances that Arabella, too, would soon be swept into such a floodtide of heated, uninhibited passion.
Everyone, Gelis insisted, was fated to meet a certain someone. She’d been adamant that Arabella would be no different.
It was only a matter of time.
Then she, too, would know tempestuous embraces and hot, devouring kisses the likes of which she couldn’t begin to imagine.
As for the rest… it boggled the mind.
And ignited a blaze of yearning inside her that she feared would never be quenched.
Frowning, she flattened her hands against the cold, gritty stone of the wall and turned her gaze away from her beloved Kintail hills and imagined she could stare past the Isle of Skye far out into the sea.
But still she heard her sister’s chatter.
Her insistence that the feel of a man’s hands sliding up and down one’s body, his fingers questing knowingly into dark, hidden places, brought a more intoxicating pleasure than the headiest Gascon wine.
Arabella bit down on her lip, sure she didn’t believe a word.
What she did believe was that she had to be on the merchant trader when it set sail from Kyleakin.
And what she knew was that—if she made it—her life would be forever changed.
Many leagues distant, across the vast stretch of sea Arabella imagined her gaze to stray, a sleek, newly built birlinn that swept around a headland of tall, thrusting cliffs and sped into the deepest, most sheltered bay of a remote Hebridean island, known to those who dwelt there as MacConacher’s Isle.
Oars flashing and gong beating, the high-prowed galley shot forward in a cloud of spray, its bold race for the bay’s curving, white-sanded shore churning the water and drenching the oarsmen with plume. On the stern platform, Darroc MacConacher’s heart swelled with pride.
This was why he lived.
Never before had his plans for avenging the MacConacher name seemed a greater possibility. For years—nearly a lifetime—he’d burned to redeem their honor. The MacKenzies might not expect vengeance now, so long after their dark deeds, but the surprise on their hated faces would only serve to sweeten Clan MacConacher’s triumph.
Almost tasting the glory, Darroc grinned.
The day’s victory set fire to his soul. It’d been overlong since a chieftain of his name could claim such elation, and the headiness was almost too sweet to bear.
And he wasn’t going to let his sour-faced seneschal’s presence on the strand spoil his triumph.
Still grinning, he waited until his oarsmen raised the long, dripping sweeps, then he leapt down into the boiling surf. He splashed ashore even as the birlinn surged up onto the sloping, wet-sanded beach.
“Ho, Mungo!” He made straight for his dark-frowning seneschal. “Have you filled your eyes with the seafaring skill of MacConacher men?” he greeted, careful to keep his grin in place.
“I have only one eye, if you’ve forgotten!” The seneschal’s bushy gray brows lowered over the eye in question and he put back his twisted, somewhat hunched shoulders. “And you needn’t mind me of the sea prowess of our men. There’s ne’er been a MacConacher born who wasn’t nursed on seawater along with his mother’s good, sweet milk.”
“Then why meet us with scowls?” Darroc slung an arm around Mungo’s shoulders, using camaraderie to disguise his attempt to keep the older man’s feet from slipping on the slick, weed-strewn shingle.
He also bit back a frown of his own, furious that he hadn’t spoken with greater tact.
Everyone on MacConacher’s Isle knew that the once tall and straight seneschal had never come to grips with the battle injuries that disfigured him.
Darroc also knew what was plaguing the man.
Mungo didn’t share his faith in the battered clan’s ability to best their foes. And he resented the coin needed to build such a splendid warship.
Coin the seneschal would rather have seen spent on a bride who would bring them new blood and, perhaps through her dowry, a garrison of strong and bold warriors.
“Scowls, you say?” Mungo glowered indeed. “I was only scrunching my good eye to see how many men I’d have to help climb the cliff path back to the keep!”
“Nary a one.” Darroc laughed. “They are as fit now as when we pushed off this morn.”
“Humph!” Mungo looked sullen.
Releasing him, Darroc tossed back his spray-dampened hair and flashed his brightest glance to where his men crowded around the birlinn. With luck, their enthusiasm would soften the seneschal’s humor.
Unfortunately, Mungo’s face remained as set as hard boiled leather.
Darroc’s grin almost slipped.
Determined not to let it, he tried another tactic. “The birlinn gave a fine flourish, eh?” He hooked his thumbs in his belt. “She is nimble, I say you! I’d set her against any full-manned, sixty-four-oared dragonship to sail the Hebrides.”
Mungo snorted. “You could build a fleet of such sixteen-oared demons o’ agility and it’d matter naught without the men to sail them! Yon birlinn might well be a fishing coble for what little she will serve us.”
“She is a beginning.” Darroc refused to be daunted. “Our men handled her well.”
“The only men we have who are able.” Mungo’s lips tightened. He threw a glance down the strand to where the newly tested seamen cavorted about the little galley like giddy-headed loons, slapping backs and laughing.
Turning again to Darroc, he jammed his hands against his hips. “There’s no’ a man amongst those leaping fools what could hold his own against a MacKenzie. No’ on land, as well we ken, and no’ by sea, either.”
Darroc breathed out hard, unable to deny Mungo’s words. It was true that each man who’d handled the birlinn with such flourish bore some kind of physical imperfection—faults visited upon them by the MacKenzies—and couldn’t be expected to stand well against that powerful race.
As for the few stalwarts without battle scars, or who didn’t miss an ear or a digit, their greater age gave them a distinct disadvantage.
Darroc struggled against looking pained. His gaze stretched past the cliff-guarded bay to the reefs that circled his isle. Black, jagged, and menacing, some ledges rose sharply above the crashing waves while others, even more dangerous, lurked unseen beneath the seething foam.
It’d been nothing short of a miracle that his men had sent the birlinn dancing in and out of the bay’s narrow opening
with such dash and flair.
Seawater in their veins or nae, they were limited. But that only made the day’s triumph all the more sweet.
And just as he greeted their victory as a turning point for the clan, so did his men need the burst of pride he’d seen light their eyes when they’d raised the oars with such aplomb, their gleeful shouts ringing as the fine little warship slid to a halt on the shore.
It’d been a moment of hope the likes of which MacConacher’s Isle hadn’t seen in centuries.
Hope he meant to kindle until it blazed brighter than the sun.
He flashed another glance at the excited men. “They’ll no’ face our enemy alone. The birlinn will stand them by as well as a score of good fighting men. Nor will we challenge anyone until we have several more such warships. Then,” he grinned, “we beat north and harry their shores. When they give chase, we attack and harass like fleas to a dog. We’ll use our birlinns’ greater maneuverability and fighting decks to chase the MacKenzies low-sided longships from the seas.”
Mungo remained unimpressed.
“The MacKenzies are bog trotters.” Darroc sought to sway him. “Their strength lies in fighting on land.”
Sure of it, he allowed himself another grin. “At sea, we can best them.”
“No’ with graybeards and war-blighted manning our galleys.” Mungo spat onto the sand. “Or will you be taking down the keep stone by stone and”—he cast a sulky glare at the stark, square tower of Castle Bane, perched on the edge of a soaring sea cliff on the far side of the bay—“calling on the Auld Ones to turn each brick into a man?”
“Pride will be magic enough for us.” Darroc’s glance flicked again to his men. “And,”—he tossed back a fold of his plaid—“we aren’t the only clan with a taste for MacKenzie blood. Once we have a few more birlinns and word spreads, others will join us.”
“Salting the MacKenzie’s tail is all you’ll be doing.” Mungo jutted his bearded chin. “Kintail has the luck o’ the devil. Any word that spreads will reach him first and he’d swoop down here to smash this isle as soundly as his father chased us from Argyll.”
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