Amanda Scott (24 page)

In childhood, his favorite tales had been those about his Viking forebears, men who sailed the wild northern seas in search
of booty, adventure, and women. Sitting by the hall fire on cold winter nights, he had listened to his father’s men tell the
same tales over and over again. But although he had easily imagined himself such a warrior, carrying off willing ladies by
the score, he had never understood the Vikings’ apparent lust for taking the unwilling ones. If in those days, childish pride
had made it impossible to imagine any lady unwilling to go with him, his present situation made it plain that such women did
exist. Why, then, did he apparently welcome the challenge to make her change her mind?

The errant thought of rescuing Mistress Gordon from Sleat had stirred the old fancies, but the reality spun all such images
into absurdity. Despite himself and despite her continued defiance, he knew that he was increasingly attracted to the lass
and had grown to like her. Nonetheless, his duty to her remained clear.

She could not protect herself against the likes of Sleat, and unless he could manage somehow to make her understand that she
must not defy him, he could not protect her either. Perhaps he had made a small start by letting her know that she might have
ridden earlier had she behaved, but he could not be sure she understood that. He could not tell what she was thinking—not
now, not ever.

The more he considered his choices, the more he believed that Mackinnon was right. The only sure way to protect her was by
marrying her, but that would work only if Sleat reacted as Mackinnon had predicted, and Sleat was an unknown quantity, never
predictable.

Fin had spoken with Dougal Maclennan, the priest of Kintail, and Dougal had declared, as expected, that faced with a royal
writ of marriage, he had no objection to performing the ceremony, with or without the bride’s consent. Fin remained reluctant,
however. The notion of marrying Molly was daily becoming more appealing, but although he had every legal right to command
her, he had a strong notion that if he did his life thereafter would be a living hell.

Deciding that it would be best to speak plainly now, he ended the long silence, saying, “I hope you will think carefully on
this matter of marriage, mistress, before rejecting it. I have no wish to force you into a union for which you have no taste,
but neither will I shirk my duty to protect you.”

“You don’t care about protecting me,” she muttered. “You’d not think twice about that if you could control my fortune without
controlling me.”

“I won’t deny that I could use it,” he replied honestly. “But as I’m no more likely to lay hands on it than anyone else, it
need not concern either of us now.”

“You will have my land, in any case,” she reminded him. “Aye, and a sore trial that is, whether I control it as guardian or
husband, since it lies hundreds of miles from here and is unlikely to move,” he retorted.

Again, she fell silent, and again he let the silence lengthen before he said quietly, “All I ask, Molly, is that you do not
dismiss the notion of marriage out of hand but consider carefully the most likely ramifications if you refuse.”

She nodded, and he had to be satisfied with that. By late afternoon, when they returned to Eilean Donan, the clouds had darkened
and Fin feared that the gathering storm might prove to be an omen. They had exchanged no more conversation about marriage,
so although he had enjoyed the outing more than he had expected to, he could not flatter himself that his arguments had been
persuasive.

Molly did think about what he had said, but his introduction to his people made a stronger argument than his words had. At
the baron’s court, seeing the sundry persons gathered in the great hall had given her but a small sense of their personalities—save
for the man who claimed the fairies made him shoot his neighbor’s cow. But seeing Kintail’s people as she had today, standing
in their own yards, surrounded by their wives, their children, and their aged parents, had cast them all in a more personal
light. The thought that her presence in their midst could endanger them disturbed her deeply.

Alone after supper in her darkening bedchamber, she told herself that marrying Kintail could make no difference to his people’s
safety. Although her presence might endanger them, it was not all that did.

“Donald is determined to reclaim the Lordship of the Isles, and Kintail will do all he can to stop him,” she muttered to the
ambient air. “That’s the danger.”

“Aye, it is,” replied the now familiar voice. “But ’tis gey possible that Kintail’s people will fight harder tae defend his
lady than they would if they were only tryin’ tae stop Donald from claiming some ancient title for himself.”

Startled, Molly looked around the chamber. “Maggie, where are you?”

“Here, in the corner. If ye’d light a candle and stir them embers into a decent fire, ye might see me. Night be fallin’, and
it be brewin’ up tae storm outside.”

In no mood to cater to the little woman’s brusque temperament, Molly said, “The embers’ glow provides light enough for my
mood at present. Can you not make yourself visible in the dark?”

“I can, but the effort be greater, and I canna stay visible as long.”

Molly could see her dimly. Stepping nearer, she said, “What should I do?”

“I canna tell ye that,” Maggie said. “Ye must decide for yourself, ye and Kintail, betwixt the pair o’ ye.”

“He does not want to hear what I say,” Molly said with a sigh. “He always thinks he knows what is best.”

“Then make him heed ye,” Maggie said, rather spoiling the effect of her decree by adding, “if ye can.”

Puffing on her pipe, she sent up a cloud of smoke, then kept on puffing gently while Molly tried to think how she could force
Kintail to do anything.

“It still seems odd to see smoke billowing from your mouth,” she said at last, “especially when I can barely see
you
.”

“Aye, but I like it. Now then, did ye speak aloud before only tae hear yourself speak, or did ye ha’ summat ye wished o’ me?”

“Can you grant wishes?”

“I expect I could if I saw good reason and if ye wished for summat that lies within me powers tae grant ye.”

“Then tell me where I can find my fortune,” Molly said. “I canna do that,” Maggie said, smiling ruefully. “I can tell ye,
though, that when the right time comes, ye’ll find it.”

“When will be the right time?”

“Ye’ll ken that when ye should.”

“The treasure lies at Dunsithe, does it not?”

“Perhaps.”

“But Dunsithe lies far from here. Will Kintail have any part in finding it?”

“He might,” Maggie said. “He has the gift if he would acknowledge it, and meantime, he has the power tae keep ye safe.”

“What gift does he have?”

“I told ye afore—second sight—if his grand education hasna spoilt him.”

Frustrated, feeling as if her head had begun to spin but curious to learn as much as she could about Kintail, she said, “What
has his education to do with it?”

“Only that men who leave the land tae live in cities and towns, even for a short time, be apt tae take pride in being free
from what they call superstition and tae smile pityingly at them who believe in fairies and their ilk.”

“Kintail does not believe in fairies,” Molly said, remembering his court.

“Aye, men like him develop an unnatural insulation from nature,” Maggie said with a sniff. “A laird wi’ a grand education
can make himself believe that he hasna seen what he has seen. Peasants, no being informed that they should ken better, believe
what they do see.”

“But I am educated,” Molly reminded her. “Perhaps not so educated as Kintail but more so than most women.”

“Aye, but one doesna ha’ tae be
un
educated tae see the good people,” Maggie said. “One need only admit that one sees what one sees.”

“Then I must have the sight, too, for I can see you.”

“Nay, lass,” Maggie said, shaking her head. “Had ye the gift, ye could see me wi’out me having tae expend so much effort.
And ye could see the others, too, when they’re about. Kintail, now, he could an he would, but he will not.”

“By heaven, I swear I do not understand you. How could that be?”

But evidently, Maggie’s energy had expired, for she had vanished.

Molly stared at the empty space in the shadows, then walked over and waved her hand around in the dark corner. Only air remained
where a moment before Maggie Malloch had sat smoking her pipe.

Outside, a rumble of thunder announced the onset of the storm that had threatened all afternoon, and soon winds howled and
rain lashed the castle walls. Molly quickly closed the shutters on the bedchamber window, stirred up the fire, and lit several
candles. Then she sat down in front of the cheerful fire to think.

Her thoughts were disordered and remained so until Doreen came to help her prepare for bed, because no sooner would she tell
herself that all anyone cared about was her fortune than an image of Kintail would present itself, smiling, eyes twinkling,
and she would remember the warmth she felt when he smiled at her. Then she would imagine him grim and unsmiling, and wonder
what had possessed her to forget, even for a minute, how implacable he could be.

Nor did her thoughts order themselves after Doreen had gone away and she lay sleepless in bed. She tried to imagine how she
could prevent Kintail from forcing her to marry him if he resorted to force, but she found herself, instead, imagining what
marriage to such a man might be like. Those thoughts stirred feelings in places she had not previously suspected she could
have
feelings.

When she tried to remind herself that she did not like him, her imagination presented a picture of him on horseback beside
her, gently asking what she wanted.

Remembering then that he had allowed her to help keep the castle accounts, she tried to imagine herself as his partner, helping
him rule Kintail and Dunsithe. Unfortunately, the mental image of him that leaped to mind then was that of a large, determined,
domineering man, unwilling to accept any opinion of hers without question, let alone to accept her as a consort ruling his
domain. Trying to imagine him otherwise staggered her imagination.

Maggie Malloch had been no help. Her suggestion, that Molly simply make him heed her wishes, seemed absurd when she could
not even make him understand how much she valued the freedom she had had at Dunakin. At Eilean Donan, she had practically
none, and although he had not tried to turn her into a drudge as she had first feared, she still had little opportunity to
do the things she most enjoyed.

She missed her solitary rides on Skye, where people knew her, and wherever she went, willing hands would help if she ran into
trouble, and where trouble rarely involved more than a broken rein or a strained fetlock.

She had been at Eilean Donan only a short time, but already she knew that if things did not change, the confinement would
drive her mad, married to him or not. Therefore, she had to make him see that she would not submit to thoughtless, arbitrary
orders. His commands had to be reasonable, and he should discuss them with her, not simply issue them and expect her to obey.

She realized, however, that to make him understand all that, she first had to show him that he could not make her obey if
she did not choose to do so.

Fine, she thought, an excellent start, but how could she show him any such thing? He was rarely around during the day to see
what she did or did not do, and she would not let Mauri or Doreen suffer for her defiance. Moreover, as long as she remained
tamely at Eilean Donan, she could do nothing but what he allowed.

Kintail must see that she was pitting herself against him alone. He must see that if he did marry her, he would be marrying
a woman with thoughts, opinions, and capabilities of her own. The people at Dunakin had understood that. Surely Kintail would
come to do so, too. He might be block-headed, but he was not stupid.

So, she would have to leave Eilean Donan, at least for a short time, and preferably before Donald and his armies arrived,
for she had no wish to run into them. She was not a fool, so she would attempt no more than what she had done at Dunakin.
She would simply ride out by herself and…

That would not do. She tried to tell herself it would not do because Kintail’s people were unlikely to let her row across
the channel and take her horse from the stable without his permission, but she knew the truth was that she knew he would make
good his threat if she did, and forbid her to ride for three months. That he might do more than that, she did not want to
consider. She would not ride.

The first thing, then, was to get off the islet. She could row one of the small boats, perhaps even manage to sail one of
the fishing cobles. The storm would not last forever, but would Kintail’s men permit her to take any boat?

Not if they saw her, she decided, but what if she arose before dawn and slipped down to the beach? Could she launch a rowboat
quietly enough to get away without any watcher on the battlements seeing her?