"On yer feet," he growled.
Using the bottom step for leverage, Ali hauled herself up, her legs trembling. She wiped her damp palms on her thighs. Her beautiful sky blue gown was torn and streaked with dirt. She heard the din of excited voices, and self-con sciously touched the tangled mess of her hair, lowering her hand at the sound of the man's derisive laughter. He grabbed her arm, his grimy fingers biting into the flesh of her upper arm. He dragged her around the corner of the building--the marketplace was jammed with people. They lined the wal s of the surrounding buildings ten deep.
"There's the witch! There she is!"
A rock whizzed by her ear and struck the wal behind her. Ali fought against the same sense of defeat that had al but consumed her during the long, cold night on the mudpacked floor without blankets or food. Her resilience, her strength to face whatever they might do to her, had slipped from her then. As she did in her cel , she cal ed on her memories of Rory, and her love for him, to give her the strength to fight. She had too much to live for to give up now. Ali lifted her chin and walked defiantly into the center of the square. Someone shouted out her name, and Ali searched the angry faces of the crowd. Her gaze froze on the wooden stake just beyond the fringe. She forced herself to look away, then spotted Mrs. Mac, Cook, Janet, Maureen, and several of the girls from the kitchen, relieved to see Mari was not among them. Their kind, caring faces blurred before her, and she swal owed past the lump in her throat. The guard jerked her arm and hauled her in front of the sheriff, who sat behind a smal wooden table. He kept his eyes glued to the piece of parchment on the desk. "We await yer accusers."
One by one the onlookers' heads turned and Ali looked to see what drew their attention. A smal contingent pushed their way through the curious spectators, and Ali's mouth dropped when she saw who led the way--Moira MacLean. But of course, what did she expect? The priest, the one who'd accused Mari and Ali once before, fol owed close behind.
The sheriff rose to his feet with a smile of welcome and assisted Moira to her seat on the narrow bench. She thanked him, batting her eyes at the man. He looked bemused as he walked back to his stool, and Ali groaned. Moira shot her a haughty look. "Yer circumstances have changed much since last we met, Lady Aileanna." Brushing a dainty hand over her magenta gown, Moira's upper lip curled in a sneer she made certain only Ali would witness. Out of the corner of her eye, Ali saw Cook and Janet hold Mrs. Mac back. Ali knew how her friend felt. Her own fingers itched to wrap around the little witch's neck. Anger battled with fear, and won.
"The truth wil win out, Moira, and I'l be anxious to see how you explain your part in this to Rory."
The other woman's composure slipped, but was quickly replaced with a disdainful smile. "I'm certain he'l under stand given the evidence. In al good conscience, I had to come forth."
The sheriff cleared his throat. "Lady Graham, yer brought here on charges of witchcraft. How do ye plead?"
She held his gaze until he lowered his. "Not guilty, and as al are innocent until proven guilty, I ask you, Sheriff, what is your proof ?"
The sheriff blinked and looked from Moira to the priest. His voluminous gray robe swirling, the little man jumped to his feet. "She struck me down in defense of a witch."
"Those charges were addressed by Lord MacLeod and al were dismissed." Ali didn't look at the priest, giving her ful attention to the sheriff instead.
He stroked his beard. "Is this true?" Although he had brought her there to stand trial, Ali was beginning to think the man at least would be fair. A glimmer of hope flickered to life inside her. Al she had to do was stay strong and hold her ground.
"Aye, but the trial wasna' fair."
"Ye had yer chance, Priest. The only reason ye bring charges against Lady Aileanna is because she shamed ye in front of the people fer stonin' an innocent child," Janet Cameron cried out.
"Aye . . . aye." Several of the others from Dunvegan agreed loudly.
"Quiet! Did ye stone a child?" the sheriff asked.
"She was no' innocent with her red hair and eyes of two colors. 'Tis the sign of a witch."
"The sheriff has red hair. Are you accusing him of being a witch?"
The priest glared at Ali. "Ye see, 'tis what she does. She twists the truth. 'Twas the same at Dunvegan."
The sheriff blew out an impatient breath. "Sit down, Priest."
Moira patted the distraught man's hand and rose to her feet. "Although it pains me to say, Sheriff, there is no doubt this woman is a witch. I've seen it with my own eyes." Her hand fluttered to her chest, and crocodile tears slid down her flushed cheeks. "I was to be married to Laird MacLeod, and this woman, she bewitched him. Cast her wicked spel s on him, she did. I was a witness to it al ."
"No, Moira, what happened is Rory final y came to his senses and saw you for who you real y are. You're more of a witch than I'l ever be."
For a brief moment al the hate Moira MacLean felt for Ali shone in her eyes, but she was quick to conceal it. "I have other witnesses, Sheriff, if you'l al ow them to speak." Not waiting for the man's response, she motioned to someone in the crowd behind her. Two men and a woman stepped forward, unwil ing to meet Ali's eyes, and her heart sank. They were gaunt, their legs thin and bowed with obvious signs of starvation, and Ali knew they would do anything for money.
"Say yer piece." The sheriff waved his hand and ordered, "Speak up."
"I . . . I saw 'er dance naked under the moon with the devil himself."
There were gasps of outrage, and Ali would have laughed if not for the fact they appeared to believe the woman.
"Aye, 'twas what I saw as wel ," one of the woman's companions said. "And 'twas after that my cow dropped dead."
"Aye, and the water in the wel turned blood red."
"Do ye have anythin' to say fer yerself, Lady Aileanna?"
the sheriff asked, his expression grim.
"I'd like to question the witnesses."
Moira and the priest looked at each other in obvious distress.
The sheriff scratched his head. "'Tis an unusual request, but I'l no' have Laird MacLeod sayin' ye were no' given a fair trial."
"Thank you." Ali turned to her accusers. "You do realize when you give evidence at a trial you're swearing to God to tel the truth?" She paused to let her words sink in. The priest once again jumped to his feet. "What right does she have to invoke the name of the Lord?"
"I wasn't. I'm simply stating a fact, is that not true, Sheriff ?"
"Aye." He gave her a tight nod. "Ye may go on."
"Did Lady MacLean offer you money for your test . . . to speak against me?"
"Nay," the oldest of the three was quick to say. The other two bowed their heads.
"Tel him," Moira shrieked. "Ye tel them I gave ye no money or--"
The sheriff came to his feet and shot an angry look at Moira and the priest. "I doona' like to be played fer a fool.
'Tis my findin' that Lady Aileanna Graham is inn--"
"Nay . . . nay." A young dark-haired man pushed his way through the crowd. "I saw it with my own eyes. She brought a wee lad back from the dead. He'd drowned in the loch."
Ali closed her eyes. Now how was she supposed to explain that? "She's no witch. She's an angel. Saved my son, she did."
Janet Cameron's cries were drowned out by the sound ofhorses' hooves pounding on the hard-packed earth. The ground shook beneath Ali's feet. Dust bil owed and choked the onlookers.
When the cloud cleared, she looked up to see Alasdair MacDonald. Like an avenging angel, he urged his white steed forward. The people fel over themselves to get out of his way. At least a hundred men rode with him--fierce, angry men.
"Are ye al right, my pet?" he asked.
Ali nodded. Bemused relief washed over her.
"What is it ye charge my daughter with?"
"Yer daughter? I didna' ken she was yer daughter, Laird MacDonald."
"Speak, mon! What are the charges?"
"Wi . . . witchcraft, my lord."
"Ye
r chargin' my daughter with witchcraft?" he bel lowed, bringing his horse within snorting distance.
"Nay . . . nay, they are." The sheriff stumbled backward, pointing to Moira and the priest. "But . . . but I was just about to declare her innocence when this lad says she brought a child back to life."
"Aileanna?" Alasdair raised a brow.
She gave a frantic shake of her head. "He wasn't dead. He swal owed a lot of water and the loch brought his body temperature down too low, that's al ."
"I saw her. She blew into his mouth."
"Yes, of course I did. I had to replace the air he'd been deprived of. I've seen it done before."
"My daughter is a healer. She's no witch, and if I hear another spout lies against her, they'l answer to me." He reached for Aileanna's hand and pul ed her onto the back of his horse. "Do ye declare my daughter innocent?"
The sheriff 's Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. "Aye, my lord, aye."
Alasdair brought his horse around to face Moira and the priest. "I warn ye, doona' ever threaten my daughter again or ye'l be verra sorry ye did." Color drained from their faces. "Fire the stake," Alasdair roared. "And make certain I see no other raised in its place."
Those that had come from Dunvegan cheered, rushing toward Ali. "We'l see you at the keep then, my lady," Mrs. Mac said with tears in her eyes.
After returning their happy smiles and good wishes, Ali slumped against Alasdair's broad back, too weary to do anything but. "Yer safe, my pet, yer safe." He patted her leg. Rory leapt from the boat, leaving the men that accompa nied him to pul it onto the rocky shore. Soaked through to his skin from rain and sweat, but he barely noticed, too intent on rescuing Aileanna. They'd crossed The Minch in the middle of the night, thankful for the winds at their back. Racing along the path to the courtyard, Rory cal ed out to the men on the parapet. "I need four of you to accom pany me to the vil age."
If his men were surprised to see him, they didn't show it. Cedric shot him a sympathetic look. "We wil na' make it, my laird. The trial is already underway."
"Nay, I wil make it on time. There's a chance she'l be proven innocent."
Byron shook his head. "It doesna' look good, my lord. I ken she's innocent, but after Jamie's accident . . ." The man gave a helpless shrug of his shoulders.
"What . . . what happened?" Connor had been so exhausted on his arrival at Lewis that Rory had been unable to get more than a few words from him.
"The lad drowned in the loch. He was dead, my lord, I swear it, and yet she brought him back to life."
"The lad drowned in the loch. He was dead, my lord, I swear it, and yet she brought him back to life."
Rory had never felt more helpless than he did at that moment. He raged inwardly at his inability to save her, to protect her. With evidence such as that, there was no question in his mind she'd be found guilty. Heart pound ing, he raced for the keep before it was too late. He knew what had to be done. There were no other options available to him. He couldn't al ow her to die.
Rory threw the door to his study open and pul ed the books from the shelf to get at the secret compartment behind them. His hand shook as he withdrew the fairy flag. Closing his eyes, he clenched the piece of silk in his fist and slammed it into the wal . The books from the shelf above crashed at his feet. Rory took the stairs to the tower two at a time, knowing he had no choice but to use the clan's last wish. Al he could think of was Aileanna. He had to save her. His chest grew so tight he thought it would explode. His throat ached from choking back the emotion, the pain of losing her. A rush of cold air whipped at the flag as he raised it.
"Good-bye, mo chridhe, my love."
Rory strode from the keep. "Back to the boat," he barked at the men who awaited his command in the courtyard. As they prepared to set sail for Lewis, Rory took one last look at Dunvegan and the fairy flag on the tower fluttering in the wind. She was lost to him forever, and he cursed the fairy flag and the superstitious fools who had forced his hand. Haunted by images of Aileanna--her beautiful face, her laughter and her strength--he wanted to be as far away from everything that meant anything to him as he could get. He'd lost the only woman he truly loved. And not even Dunvegan or thoughts of his clan offered him peace. Chapter 26
As the distance between Ali and the vil age grew, the tension inside her eased. Exhausted, she clung to Alasdair.
"'Twil no' be long, lass, and I'l have ye back at the keep."
Ali smiled, raising her head as the tower of Dunvegan beckoned in the distance. A cream colored piece of fabric fluttered at the very top. Ali gasped. No, it can't be! She rubbed her eyes, praying she was mistaken. She held her breath as once more she raised her gaze to the tower. Her heart shattered. Rory had raised the fairy flag. Her breath came in short panicked gasps and spots dotted her vision. A prickly heat flooded her limbs and she clutched at Alasdair's shirt to keep from fal ing off the horse. How could he do this to her? How could he send her back to a place she no longer cal ed home, to no one, to nothing? Alasdair, as though sensing her distress, twisted in the saddle to look back at her. "Aileanna, what is it? What's wrong?"
"Take me to Armadale with you, Alasdair. Please," she choked out on an anguished sob.
"Aye, my pet, whatever ye wish." He took one last look at her before he waved his men on. "We ride fer Armadale."
The men cheered. The raw beauty of the landscape blurred before her eyes. Ali didn't know how long it would take for the fairy magic to work, but she couldn't be at Dunvegan when it did. To spend whatever time she had left surrounded by the people she loved, only to disappear, would be unbearable. They were lost to her forever.
"Wake up, lass, we're home. There sits Armadale." Alasdair pointed proudly to the fairy-tale castle perched on a sloping hil with a loch below. Ali shook off the last remnants of sleep, glancing at her hands and the landscape to reassure herself the flag's magic hadn't worked--at least not yet. "It's beautiful," she final y managed to croak. The horses clomped across the cobblestoned courtyard. Servants rushed to greet them. Noting Ali's presence, they held back, their jaws dropping in open astonishment. A lovely looking woman, her auburn hair lightly streaked with gray, stepped through the massive oak doors with a warm smile on her face. Catching sight of Ali, she clapped a hand to her mouth. Her cry of dismay brought several servants to her side. Alasdair sighed. "That would be Fiona, my wife's sister. After Anna left with the babe she remained to care for Brianna."
Ali's eyes widened. "Your wife's name was Anna?"
Helping her from the horse, his brow furrowed. "Aye."
"My . . . my mother's name was Anna."
Alasdair stared at her. Grabbing her by the shoulders, he gave her a little shake. "Do ye see it now, lass? 'Tis the truth--ye are my daughter."
Ali shook her head. "No, it's a coincidence, Alasdair, that's al . I can't tel you why I'm so sure, but I am." If she told him the truth, he'd think she'd lost her mind. Unable to escape on the long journey to Alasdair's home, she had to find a way to leave Armadale without raising his suspicions, or he'd find a way to stop her. She didn't know where she'd go to wait until the magic sent her back, but she couldn't be with Alasdair when it did. The man had suffered enough.
"Ye'l tel me, Aileanna. I must ken, or 'twil eat at me until the day I die. Can ye no' understand, my pet? I need to ken."
"Aileanna? Alasdair, is it truly she?" The woman stood plucking at his sleeve. Luminous brown eyes brimmed with tears, and Aileanna felt a fleeting sense of recognition.
"'Tis. Whether she wil admit to it, or no'," he said, his voice tight with anger.
"Alasdair, I don't mean to hurt you, but I can't pretend to be your daughter when I know I'm not. No matter how much both of us wish it was true."
He shook off the woman's hand and dragged Ali after him. "I ken 'tis true, and I'l show ye why."
"Alasdair, can this no' wait? The child is obviously exhausted."
"Nay, I've waited over twenty-seven years to find her, and I'l no' wait a moment longer."
"Alasdair, I know I look like Brianna. I've seen her portrait be--"
"Nay, that one." He held her by the shoulders and directed her gaze to the portrait on the right of Brianna's. Ali stared at the painted image of a woman with the topaz eyes and hair the color of spun gold. Her breath quickened, and her heart stuttered in her chest. Faded mem ories rushed at her in a swirling torrent. The room spun, and her knees buckled. She was so terrified it was the fairy magic she could barely breathe. But it wasn't--it was shock, the shock of looking at her mother's beautiful face. She clutched Alasdair's arm. "How . . . how can it be? I'm not from . . ." Her voice trailed off, unable to tel him the truth. Fiona dragged over a chair. "Here, sit, my dear. There, there." She patted Aileanna's shoulder. "Ye should ken better, ye old goat. The child is dead on her feet."
Alasdair scowled at the woman. "I need to ken once and fer al . Ye of anyone should understand, Fiona."
"Aye, I do." Her voice was gentle as she knelt at Ali's side.
"I ken ye've had a rough time of it, and I doona' want to add to yer troubles, but when yer mo--when my sister had the babies she sent fer me. I helped with the bairns, until . . . until." She let out a shuddering breath. "If ye al ow me, I can tel ye fer certain whether or no' yer Aileanna MacDonald."
"But I can't be . . . you don't understand."
Alasdair shot Ali a ferocious glare before he turned to the other woman. "What are ye sayin', Fiona? How would ye ken?"
"The bairn had a birthmark, Alasdair, a wee crescent moon just below the hairline at the back of her neck."
Before Ali could respond, Alasdair lifted her hair. She heard Fiona gasp, and let out a weary sigh. "I'm sorry, Alasdair. I tried to tel you."
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