Kilted at the Altar (Clash of the Tartans Book 2)

by Anna Markland

  Across the hallway, a man fought for his life; Ghalla and Tremaine were somewhere in this enemy stronghold that Darroch had never thought to set foot in. Yet he was at peace, lying abed with the two people he loved most in the world.

  *

  Isabel emerged from a dreamless sleep, aware of a solid back pressed against hers. Feeling content, she turned over and draped her arm over Darroch. Her fingers came to rest in Kyla’s soft curls.

  This was her life now. She was married to a strong man who loved her, and he had a beautiful daughter who would grow up with the bairns she would bear to her husband. The feud was over.

  Someone had lit candles. Probably Coira. It must be getting late.

  Her heart lurched as breath whooshed from her lungs. She’d slept through her father’s ordeal. Had he survived? How long since Darroch’s return? Surely he would have told her if…

  Kyla stirred. Isabel had to smile at the dirt-streaked face. “I could do with a bath myself,” she whispered, loath to wake Darroch after what he must have witnessed in the kitchens.

  Coira floated out of the shadows. “There’s hot water in the boudoir,” she said. “Fanny sent the scullery maids up not long ago.”

  Isabel turned to Blue as he came to all fours and stretched. “Tell Kyla I’m going to take a bath. She’s welcome too, if she wishes.”

  *

  Darroch woke to the sound of female giggles, screams of laughter, barking, and stern warnings from a voice that belonged to Coira if he wasn’t mistaken.

  His back felt cold, but his body heated when it occurred to him Isabel was taking a bath, probably in the little alcove he’d espied earlier. He should respect her privacy, but surely a husband had a right, nay even a duty, to assist his wife with her bath. Maybe he’d join her if the water was still warm. His tarse responded predictably to the prospect.

  Without another thought, he shoved his plaid off his shoulder, pulled his shirt over his head, slid off the bed and sauntered to what he assumed was a garderobe of some sort.

  He paused in the doorway, disappointed it hadn’t occurred to him that Kyla was also in the bath. But his joy quickly banished any disappointment he felt. A mound of frothy soap suds sat stop red curls. A white mustache graced his daughter’s top lip. She laughed uncontrollably at Blue who tried to snap at the handfuls of foam she lifted to his nose.

  Coira scolded dog and bairn, though it was evident her admonishments were halfhearted.

  But it was his wife who held his gaze. Her maid had managed to pile all that incredible hair into a towering creation that defied gravity, but emphasized the length of her slender neck. She sat in water up to her waist, obviously completely at ease being naked in the bathtub with his little lass.

  From where he stood he could only see her back. Thirsting for another glimpse of the perfect globes he’d suckled too many days ago, he moved closer.

  Kyla saw him first. “Look, Boo. Dadaidh.”

  Isabel turned. Happiness rendered him mute. He was married to the beautiful woman who raked her hungry gaze over his naked chest, and his daughter had finally spoken his name.

  A Useful Weapon

  The next few days tested Isabel’s patience and resolve. She, Boyd and Fanny took turns keeping vigil at her father’s bedside. Tossing and turning in a rambling stupor, he didn’t recognize any of them, and seemed unaware that part of his arm had been removed. He refused to swallow any of the broth they tried to spoon into his mouth.

  Fanny had located vials of laudanum in the Still Room, but she was reluctant to administer large doses of the drug and it seemed ineffective in easing his pain. He grew belligerent, demanding to know where his wife was and why she wasn’t bringing him more black water.

  “What is he talking about?” Isabel asked Fanny.

  “I’ve a suspicion she’s been drugging him with opium for quite some time. He’s addicted. There’s opium in the laudanum but I canna risk overdosing him. She may have added something like hemlock to finish him off after he was wounded.”

  “That explains the change in him after she arrived. But where would she get opium?”

  Darroch appeared in the open doorway hand in hand with Kyla. “There’s many a ship plying the Minch that carries opium,” he replied.

  “And how would ye ken that?” Fanny asked with a half-smile. “Mayhap ye’re acquainted with the pirates that lie in wait in Loch nam Madadh to raid unsuspecting ships.”

  Darroch winked at Isabel. “Me? Nay. I’m a happily married mon. I ken naught of such matters.”

  His wink prompted her nipples to tingle and harden. They’d resumed their love-making, but not with the same ardor and exuberance since a cot had been brought to Isabel’s chamber for the bairn. In some ways, having to be quiet felt more wicked and exciting.

  She often caught him gazing possessively at her, and the prospect of bearing his children brought great solace at a trying time.

  They’d agreed it was better to keep Kyla out of the sickroom, but the lass craned her neck trying to see what was going on as Rory thrashed and cursed.

  “We’re going to the cliffs to practice throwing with the sling again,” Darroch said over the din.

  Kyla proudly held up her shepherd’s sling.

  “Good,” Fanny chortled. “I’ve saved many a sheep from predators in my day. ’Tis a useful weapon for any islander.”

  Isabel had a brighter future in mind for Kyla than herding sheep, but apparently the lass had an aptitude for the device, and she was glad for father and daughter to spend peaceful time together. “Keep an eye out for Ghalla and Tremaine,” she warned unnecessarily, since Darroch was hardly likely to let down his guard.

  He shrugged. “Nobody has seen hide nor hair o’ them. If they have any sense they’ll ne’er come back.”

  “Aye, they will,” Fanny cautioned.

  *

  Darroch got the feeling Kyla loved practicing with the sling because Blue chased after every rock she flung.

  Her accuracy was impressive, especially for a wee lass, although clad in breeches, shirt and leather jerkin, she could easily be mistaken for a lad. “Ye’re a tomboy, right enough,” he told her.

  She grinned, but he doubted she understood.

  He hunkered down on the trail to look for more rocks. “Round and smooth are best,” he explained as she crouched beside him, “but there’s nay too many like that up here.” He gestured to the edge of the cliffs. “One day we’ll venture down to the shore and see what we can find.”

  She took his hand and tried to pull him towards the sea.

  Regaining his balance, he stood. “Whoa! Too dangerous to go that way. We’ll find a path. Another day.”

  She stuck out her bottom lip, threw the sling to the ground, folded her arms across her chest and glowered. He was about to pick up the weapon when he remembered gentle hints Isabel had made about giving in too easily. Leaving the sling where it lay, he strode off towards his horse and took the reins from Grig. “Are ye coming?” he shouted as he mounted.

  Still pouting, his daughter picked up the sling and trudged towards him, eyes downcast.

  She grasped his outstretched hand and scrambled up to sit in his lap. He chuckled inwardly at the small victory as he and his men rode back to Dungavin.

  *

  Isabel slowly unclenched her fists as she watched her father finally succumb to the first peaceful sleep he’d enjoyed in a fortnight. “That’s a good sign,” she whispered to Fanny sitting in a chair on the other side of the bed.

  “Aye, and so far he’s kept the broth in his belly,” her cousin replied wearily.

  The long ordeal had taken a visible toll on Fanny. Isabel had always considered her an “auld woman”, but now she looked old and worn out. Her face seemed more wrinkled, her hands more gnarled. She fretted about her sheep, though Dougal had undertaken to take care of them, thankful for the healing skills of his neighbor.

  It was evident she was homesick for the wee croft on Harris, but they would need
her help tending Rory for some time to come.

  Darroch had sent word of their marriage and Ghalla’s treachery to his father, but Isabel sensed his desire to return home to Dun Scaith. It was her duty to go there with him to confirm the feud was finally at an end. Not to mention she itched to tell Stewart MacKeegan to his face just what she thought of his cruel rejection of his granddaughter.

  Word spread of Kyla’s prowess with the sling and soon a handful of lads joined Darroch’s practice sessions. Before long, every bairn in the village wanted to be part of the excursions to the pebble-strewn shore below the cliffs to collect “ammunition”. It was a relief for Isabel that the folk of Dungavin were slowly coming to accept that their chief’s daughter had married a good man, despite the fact he was a MacKeegan.

  Don’t Tell Him Yet

  Darroch sensed the castle folk were beginning to accept him, and acknowledged that Kyla’s presence had gone a long way to smoothing his path.

  Dungavin was a fine fortress, but Dun Scaith tugged at him. It was difficult to explain. He hadn’t been content in his father’s castle for many a year, yet he felt the need to take his bride there. It was an important step in laying the feud to rest once and for all, but he selfishly wanted his clansmen to see for themselves that he hadn’t been jilted. Stewart MacKeegan knew but that was no guarantee he would spread the good news.

  Even his father would have to be blind not to see Isabel truly loved him; he foresaw sparks flying when his bride met his sire. She’d already shared her opinion of his attitude towards Kyla. Dun Scaith could probably benefit from the upheaval Isabel’s arrival would cause. There’d be challenges—she was a MacRain after all—but he was confident his clanfolk would come to love her.

  But she would refuse to leave Dungavin while Rory still battled for his life, though Fanny seemed more optimistic these days, and Isabel less tense.

  He looked forward with great impatience to the time they spent together in their chamber after Kyla fell asleep every evening. Each was learning new ways to please the other, and he began to have a true appreciation for the value of a wife who wasn’t only passionate and giving, but also intelligent and wise. If he could look forward to lying naked with Isabel every night of his life, enjoying her body and her laughter and wit, he’d be a happy mon.

  He had to trust Isabel was right that Kyla would one day speak to him.

  *

  Rory MacRain blinked open his eyes, looked around as if seeing his chamber for the first time, then rasped, “I’m thirsty, Daughter.”

  Isabel’s joy constricted her throat and caused tears to well as she leaned forward to kiss his forehead. “Welcome back, Dadaidh,” she whispered. “We’ve missed ye.”

  He yawned. “Something’s wrong with my arm, and I feel…”

  She was thankful when his eyes closed again and he drifted off. She dreaded telling him he’d lost an arm, and explaining the reason for it would be a quagmire she might drown in. Boyd thought he should be the one to reveal Ghalla’s scheme, but she knew it was her responsibility.

  It was difficult to decide what to tell him first. That she was married to a man she adored; that she had a stepdaughter who didn’t speak; that she hadn’t been jilted after all and the raid on the Trotternish had been unwarranted; that his wife had been poisoning him.

  He was emerging from a long nightmare. It would take time for him to digest all that had happened. At least he’d recognized her, but Ghalla had bewitched him. Convincing him of her treachery would be nigh on impossible.

  *

  There came a point when there was no choice but to explain the amputation to Rory MacRain which, in the end, Fanny undertook. However, they made no mention of Ghalla’s part in aggravating his wound.

  Isabel agreed with Darroch’s suggestion that it was time to impart good news in the hopes of nudging her father out of the doldrums into which he’d sunk after receiving the dire tidings. He continued to plead for his missing wife.

  They decided to tell him of their marriage and introduce Kyla. He’d hopefully put her reluctance to speak down to a wee girl’s shyness.

  Darroch entered the sick room with some trepidation, glad of Kyla’s firm grip on his hand. She’d been forewarned to be on her best behavior and appeared excited by the prospect of the excursion, even though Blue wasn’t going to accompany them.

  Darroch was about to be formally introduced to his father-by-marriage for the first time. The future prospects of both clans would be brighter if Rory accepted him, but the chief was a man recovering from the loss of a limb whose health and wellbeing still hung in the balance. Ghalla had succeeded in driving a wedge between father and daughter, so there was no reason to assume he’d welcome Darroch with open arms.

  He felt more optimistic when he saw Rory sitting up in bed, certainly looking far better than immediately following the amputation. However, Isabel had warned that her father was still suffering the aftereffects of being drugged for so long. She didn’t think he was ready to hear accusations against Ghalla.

  She smiled reassuringly and held out her hand when he and his daughter approached the bed. He hoped the twirl of his thumb in the warm moisture of her palm would calm her nervousness.

  “Dadaidh,” she began, “I waited until ye were feeling better before I told ye about something wonderful that happened.”

  Darroch wasn’t sure whether to keep smiling when Rory looked up at him and snarled, then decided he preferred a more direct approach. He and Isabel had done nothing to be ashamed of. “Chief MacRain,” he said with a polite bow, “I’m Darroch MacKeegan.”

  The snarl turned to a sneer, but before Rory could open his mouth to utter whatever curse he had in mind, Darroch rushed on. “’Tis my honor to inform ye Isabel is my wedded wife, and I swear to ye I’ll defend her with my life.”

  MacRain’s mouth fell open. His eyes darted from Darroch to Isabel and back again. His face reddened. “The mon who insulted me by jilting my daughter?” he spluttered.

  For a brief moment Darroch thought he was talking to his own selfish sire.

  Isabel put a hand on her father’s shoulder. “He didna jilt me,” she assured him with only a slight catch in her voice. “He was waiting at the chapel in Sleat. He thought I had jilted him. ’Twas all a big misunderstanding.”

  Rory seemed about to argue until Fanny folded her arms and declared, “’Tis true.”

  Darroch reminded himself the utter confusion evident on the chief’s face truly had nothing to do with his marriage to Isabel. It was Ghalla who had caused it, and he sought for a means to break the uncomfortable silence as Rory stared into nothingness.

  An insistent little pull on his sleeve gave him the answer.

  “I’d like to introduce my daughter, Kyla,” he said, lifting her to sit on the edge of the mattress.

  A hint of a smile tugged at the corners of Rory’s mouth. “Bonnie lass,” he murmured.

  Kyla stunned them all when she crawled into the chief’s lap and asked, “What’s the Faerie Flag?”

  The Faerie Flag

  Rory chuckled and tussled Kyla’s red curls. “Eh, lassie, who told ye about yon flag?”

  Kyla shrugged, apparently unwilling to recount Grig’s mention of it.

  Isabel’s heart raced. Long ago she’d sat on her father’s lap enthralled by the tale of the Faerie Flag, a relic she’d seen only once, years ago. It was secreted away somewhere in Dungavin Castle.

  “Weel,” Rory said hoarsely, “’tis made o’ silk and covered in elfin dots. Some say ’twas a gift to a clan chief from his faerie lover.”

  Kyla frowned, obviously puzzled.

  Fanny snorted. “Rory MacRain, have ye no sense? She’s a bairn.”

  “Aye. But she kens faeries canna wed, I’ll wager.”

  Kyla nodded. “Not like Bel and Dadaidh.”

  Tears trickled down Isabel’s cheeks as Darroch enfolded her in his arms and nuzzled her neck.

  “Aye,” Rory confirmed hesitantly after a quick gla
nce at Isabel. “Others say ’twas a reward for defeating an evil spirit.”

  “Like Maine,” Kyla replied.

  Isabel held her breath until her father scratched his head and said, “I’m nay familiar with that demon, but I suppose…”

  Darroch reached for Kyla. “She’s tiring ye, my laird.”

  Rory took hold of the bairn’s arm. “Nay. Let me finish the tale. They say, lassie, that the flag can double the size of the MacRain army in a battle.”

  Kyla laughed so hard her face became as red as her hair.

  “Aye. I dinna believe that myself,” Rory admitted. “On the other hand, perhaps ’tis true the flag can cure sickness in cattle, and bring herring teeming into yon loch.”

  Kyla pressed a fingertip into her chin, evidently mulling over those magical possibilities.

  Isabel’s heart lurched when her father sighed heavily and said, “Apparently, it can save a human life too.”

  Kyla looked up at her father. “We hafta find it, Dadaidh, and bring it here for Chief MacRain.”

  *

  Darroch had lain awake many a night, wondering about the first words Kyla would speak to him, but he’d never imagined she would ask for the impossible. He ought to reveal that if the Faerie Flag was used more than three times it would vanish, according to legend. Or he should simply tell the truth. Even if the relic from the Crusades did exist, it had no magical powers. Instead, he picked up his daughter, hugged her fiercely and said, “O’ course we will.”

  She cupped his face in her hands and declared. “I love ye.”

  Isabel gasped.

  Even Fanny blinked away tears.

  “Where is this flag hidden, Laird MacRain?” Darroch asked in a voice he barely recognized.

  His spirits fell when the old man yawned. As he drifted off into sleep, he muttered, “Ye’re daft if ye think I’d reveal the secret to a cursed MacKeegan.”