Dawn Marie Hamilton - Highland Gardens (5 page)

She yawned and promptly fell asleep. A slight stab
of inadequacy furrowed his brow. He’d make it better for her next time.

Archibald rose from the marriage bed, tiptoed to
the hearth, and banked the fire. He removed a goblet from the mantel. Some wine
remained. He downed a good portion then gagged. Bitter. The remainder he tossed
into the fire. He stumbled and the goblet slipped from his weakened hand to the
floor.

Whew… He wobbled. Something was amiss. Was the
wine tainted? He shot a glare at Isobell, her features innocently composed in
slumber. Had she meant to poison him?

He stumbled to the side of the bed and collapsed.
Panted through a wave of nausea. Clambered atop the mattress with effort.
Worked his way to Isobell, hovered over her, and found enough strength to shake
her awake.

Her eyes jerked open, big and round, and full of
fear.

“You have poisoned me.” Vision blurring, he plunged
forward and passed out.

I
sobell
jolted full awake. Archibald’s dead weight half-sprawled over her torso. She
could hardly breathe. What had happened to him?

You have poisoned me
.

What had she done? Memories returned in an
unending wave. All the terrible things of which Da accused Archibald. Stealing
cattle. Burning villages. Killing men. Raping women.

In horror, she shoved at him and tried to push him
off. He barely budged. She reached back, grabbed the bedpost with both hands,
and struggled to pull free. Finally, she dragged the last stuck foot from under
his weight.

Scrambling off the bed, she grabbed the discarded
chemise from the floor. As she donned the garment, she noted the blood on the
inside of her thighs.
Grrrr
. A glance at the bed confirmed the proof of
the consummated marriage. She’d never be free of Archibald, now.

She rushed to the table where a bowl and pitcher
sat waiting. A vigorous scrub with a wet cloth and the evidence on her person
was gone. The soiled sheet was another matter. She crept to the bed. Archibald
snored like a drunken warrior. She tugged on the sheet, but couldn’t free it
from his weight.

Damn! When he woke, he’d find the proof.

Isobell frantically twirled the ruby ring on her
finger, the color of blood, like the blood on the sheet. She wanted to deny its
significance. How had she gotten herself wed to the vile man? How had she ended
up in his bed? No longer a virgin, and wishing to forget the deed.

She needed to leave. Now. A crumpled silver gown
lay on the floor. That would be of no use. She kicked it out of the way and
searched for her lad’s clothes, hoping they hadn’t been destroyed.

Thank goodness for busy servants. Laundry had been
left in a basket near the hearth, her tattered garments included. The lad’s
natty boots lay nearby. She quickly dressed and rubbed soot onto her face.
Pulling the cowl over her head, she tiptoed to the door and listened.

Only muted voices coming from the on-going
celebration below. Good.

She needed weapons. Not wanting to waste time,
Isobell grabbed Archibald’s claymore. Too heavy. Ah, but there in a dark
corner, her sword leaned against the wall.

She’d prefer to also have a dirk, or two, or
three, but had no idea where Archibald stashed his blades, and didn’t have time
to search. She needed to be gone before he woke.

He grunted, flailed an arm, and inhaled a gusty
breath. She spared a moment to pause at the bedside table, where a piece of
leather cradled the large ruby she’d gifted to Archibald. Removing the ring
from her finger, she switched it for the gemstone, which she shoved into a
hidden pocket sewn within her
trews
.

The sale of the gem would provide needed funds.

She snatched Archibald’s
plaide
from the
floor, and made quick work of draping it like a man. Hopefully, she’d be
mistaken as a visiting clansmen.

Another listen at the door, and she eased the
carved panel open. No one to the left. No one to the right. She skulked along
the corridor, praying she wouldn’t be recognized by the servants scurrying to
attend the guests.

Instead of exiting through the great hall, she
took the circular stairs to the kitchen, skirted the large prep table, and
lunged for the door. The staff was too busy to pay any mind. Hand on latch, she
took a bracing breath, and shoved the heavy wood panel open. Wind whipped her
face. Ankle-deep snow covered the courtyard. She clung to the shadows, hugging
the castle wall, dragging her feet to make the footprints look less like that
of a woman.

Once clear of the yard, she ran to the beach and,
with a grunt, dragged a
currach
across the shingle and shoved it into
the icy water. The current tried to steal the boat, but she was too stubborn to
let go. On the opposite shore a beacon light burned in the stable. She climbed
aboard and rowed across the bay, struggling to keep the small boat on course.

Luck was with her; the stable lads snored in the
hay. They’d be telling the truth when they claimed not to have seen her. She
fitted Dealanach Dubh with a saddle, hoisted onto his back, and departed the
village without waylay.

The heavy snow would cover their tracks, but made
the going difficult. She followed a trail seldom used through the Fir-wood,
wanting distance between her and her new husband.

Cursed life. She was wed to the evil MacLachlan.

He believed she tried to poison him. Though he
hadn’t planned to hang her for reiving, he’d certainly see her swinging from a
gibbet for attempted murder no matter the charge false.

She held no illusions, he’d search for her with
unwavering determination. Her only chance was to ride for Glasgow and procure
passage to France. Distant relatives lived there who might agree to harbor a
fugitive.

The going was easier out of the wind, within the
protection of fir trees, but she needed to guide Dealanach Dubh carefully, away
from tree wells, into which he might sink and break a leg or worse. They
emerged from the trees into a clearing. The blizzard had worsened.

They rode until she realized they crossed their
own tracks. They’d ridden in circles and were miserably lost. Leaning forward
in the saddle, she shielded her eyes, unsure which direction to travel. In the
distance, a bright white light beckoned. Dealanach Dubh trudged toward the
glow.

Archibald’s wool
plaide
pulled over her
head gave minimal protection as they slogged through the blinding snow, the
light guiding them to who kenned where. Isobell clung to Dealanach Dubh with
fingers numb from cold. Icy flakes stung the exposed skin of her face. Yet they
followed the light taking them further from Castle Lachlan and the man who
would never forgive her for an act she didn’t commit.

As the storm worsened, Isobell wondered if she’d
gone mad, risking life itself, traipsing over a countryside experiencing the
worst weather of the season. For what? To escape a man she once loved. Was it
worth killing her horse and possibly losing her life over such?

Should she go back and plead her case? If only she
could curl into a ball and fall asleep in the snow and forget. Feeling drowsy,
she started to slip, but caught herself before falling.

Isobell. Isobell. Fear not.

What? Who said that? She raised her head and tried
to see through the blowing snow. The white light remained; drew them ever
closer.

Emerging from the trees, they stepped out of the
snow onto a mound of the most unusual green grass. Grass that should be
autumn-brown. Above, a full moon shone bright. How was that possible? Isobell
jerked a look over a shoulder at where they’d just been and gasped. The
blizzard raged. Falling snow created a heavy curtain of white.

She patted Dealanach Dubh’s ice-crusted coat.
“Where are we, lad?”

A place of magic.

“’Tis known as the
Sithichean Sluaigh
, a
faerie knoll.” A golden-haired woman of inconceivable beauty sat a stunning
white horse. “Dinnae fear this place.”

Isobell arched her back, stiffening in shock, and
inadvertently kicked Dealanach Dubh, who reared on hind legs. “Easy lad.”

She couldn’t bring him under control. He nervously
skittered sideways, until the woman sidled near and placed a hand on his neck,
said words in a strange ancient-sounding language, and he calmed.

The woman dismounted, and Isobell followed suit.
“’Twas you guiding us to this place.”

“Aye.”

“Why?”

“To save you from a fate you dinnae want.”

“Being the wife of the MacLachlan?”

“Aye.”

What Isobell could only guess was a vision came
over her. The green grass on the mound replaced by a cover of the purest white
snow. Drops of blood stained the pristine surface. She remembered the
bloodstained sheet in the bridal chamber. A trembling took hold of her. She
already belonged to Archibald.

“The only way to avert this travesty is to leave
this realm for another,” the woman said.

“What do you mean?”

“You must leave this place for another. Come with
me unto the center of the mound.”

If she left she’d never see Archibald again. That
thought hurt more than she would have supposed. Isobell closed her eyes,
refusing to shed the tears of her heart.

When she felt strong enough to open them again and
face the truths of the past night, the vision was gone. She stood with her
horse on the mound of green grass. The mysterious woman had vanished.

Isobell stepped back in fear and bumped into
Dealanach Dubh. The horse bolted through the curtain of falling snow and into
the storm.

She darted after him but the snowdrifts had deepened
to her waist. If she continued she’d surely perish. Backtracking, she returned
to the grassy knoll, but stayed at its edge, afraid to venture onto the mound
itself.

Rumors abounded about places such as this. Stories
told by old folk. Stories Isobell had thought were intended to frighten
children into behaving.

There were many such tales about the knoll in the
Fir-wood. Legend claimed the place was inhabited by faeries. As a child, she’d
marveled over stories of mysterious beams of brightly colored lights hovering
over the hill on especially dark, starless nights. A chill skimmed over
Isobell’s shoulders. They claimed that beneath the hill resided Finvarra, King
of the Faeries. She’d heard stories of melodious music coming from below where
the king hosted wild gatherings. Some believed he kidnapped beautiful mortal
women and forced them below to spend a never ending evening feasting and
dancing.

Perhaps there was some truth to the stories. The
hill was definitely a place of magic. Wee twinkling stars danced just above the
grass and in the single tree at the center of the mound. A tree with an
abundance of verdant leaves and fragrant citrus-scented blossoms that shouldn’t
exist in this place, and certainly not at this time of year.

She cautiously approached, drawn by the twinkling
lights glimmering on the unusually green grass. She touched one and it flew
away on wings. She took a step back, away from the knoll, turned, and ran into
the snow.

An arrow whizzed past her head. Isobell dove back
onto the mound. She lingered at its edge for the longest time, chewing on her
bottom lip, wondering what to do. How had the other reivers found her during
such a dreadful storm? Why hadn’t they followed her onto the mound?

Walk to the center of the knoll, Isobell.

More words in that ancient tongue yet this time
she understood.

She couldn’t help but stroll onto the mound and
try to capture one of the wondrous dancing lights. She giggled and forgot to be
afraid. She danced in a circle and laughed aloud.

When she reached the center of the mound, she
looked at the sky and at the full moon, and her stomach quivered. Nausea made
her sway. She grasped her belly as she fell backward into a dark well, falling
as if there was no bottom.

Down, down, down, deeper into the black hole. She
screamed but heard no sound.

Her body spun…or was the hole spinning? She
couldn’t think. Pain exploded behind her eyes. A sharp white beam of light
appeared afore her and on instinct, she followed it. What would she find there?
Before she could find out, she burst into a cloudy sky and dropped ever so
slowly, landing with a soft thud on snow-covered ground.

Isobell clutched the cloth covering her chest. Her
heart felt as if it would gallop away.

Where was she? Nothing looked familiar. She
reached over her shoulder and squeezed the leather scabbard strapped to her
back. Her sword remained in its sheath. She pulled the blade free and pointed
it forward, darting a gaze from left to right, searching for a threat.

She must be somewhere beneath the faerie mound.
Finvarra’s enchanted world?

She stood in a noble winter garden, but none she’d
ever visited. Snow still fell, but in the gentlest of ways, dusting the soil
and bushes with glistening sparkles.

“What are you doing here, Isobell?”

A
rchibald
held the ruby ring in a clenched fist, the large stone jabbing his palm. “She’s
gone? What do you mean she’s gone?”

“Keep calm, my Chief.” Aine was not intimidated by
his bluster. “Dinnae fash. ’Twill make you ill.”

Munn wrung his big hands, gaze lowered to the
stone floor. “She ran away.”

“I gathered that. But why?”

“She refused to stay with a man she hates. Who she
foolishly believes did harm to her clan. That father of hers filled her head
with lies.” Hands on hips, Aine glared at the brownie. “Best be tellin’ him the
all of it.”

Munn released a loud sigh. “I put a potion in her
wine to make her forget all the bad things her da told her about you. When you
drank from the cup you…”

“Go on.”

“You passed out. But before you did, you shook
Isobell awake and accused her of poisoning you. The forgetting spell had worn
off, and she ran away.”

“How long has she been gone?”

“Since before midnight,” Aine said. “You will
bring her back. Aye?”

Archibald scraped a palm over stiff whiskers. “How
long have I slept?”

“’Tis’ nearly time for the even’ meal.”

He paced to the window. Heavy snow pummeled the
castle, making it difficult to see the bay clearly and naught beyond. Isobell
kenned she hadn’t tried to poison him. Why would she risk her life, traveling
through a raging storm?

“Anything could have happened to her out there
alone, lost in the snow.”

“You will find her.” Aine had more faith in him
than he did.

Isobell could be anywhere. They’d never be able to
track her in the snow. He paced back to the hearth. “If the potion wore off for
her, if it was nae longer potent, why did it make me pass out?”

Munn frowned and scraped a foot over the floor.
“My potions dinnae always work as expected.”

“Great! And now my lady-wife is lost in a
blizzard.”

The brownie hung his head.

“You never should have interfered. ’Twas wrong to
give Isobell a potion to forget. With time, I would have convinced her that I
am not the evil man her father made me out to be.”

“She would have run before you had the chance,”
Munn shot back.

There was some truth in that. Isobell wouldn’t
have given him the time he needed. She’d planned to bolt from the beginning.
Archibald ran both hands through his thick hair, wanting to tear the strands
from his head. Had it not been for the potion, she never would have signed the
contract and said the vows.

Though she wouldn’t have run during a raging
storm. She had more sense than that.

No matter what she did in the past, she was
legally his wife, and thereby he had every right to find her and bring her
back. He had to believe she would survive her folly of running away into the
storm and that he would find her and bring her home where she belonged. With
him.

The lull to which Archibald woke was short lived.
By gloaming, the storm intensified with high winds screaming over Loch Fyne and
battering the castle walls. Visibility outside became nil, inside the mood of
the clan downright gloomy.

The fierce weather lasted two more days and
nights. On the third day, dawn greeted the castle with a calm, clear, sunny
sky. The air much warmer. Melting snow dripped from roofs and slush made the
courtyard and paths slippery. Ropes used to pull boats back and forth over the
slushy ice of the bay had been secured prior to the storm, but weren’t needed.
Archibald and a small contingent of men, including Munn, crossed to the
mainland with little difficulty and set out after Isobell on horseback.

With no tracks to follow, Archibald could only
guess as to where she would go. If she thought to be accused of poisoning him,
she’d need to hide well. If he were on the run, avoiding a probable death
sentence, he would head to Glasgow and seek passage to France.

Would she do the same?

The burgh was as good a place as any to start the
search. ’Twas also a great place to hide.

Drifts of melting snow and mud on trails made
traveling difficult. Scouts trudged ahead, swept the area to the left and
right, and returned with naught to report. With each step, Archibald prayed
she’d found safe haven from the storm.

“There is a large animal moving yonder.” Duncan
pointed to a massive thicket.

Archibald signaled two of the lads forward. They
disappeared from sight, but shortly one reappeared and whistled for the others
to proceed. The second lad led Isobell’s black stallion from behind the gnarly
clump of bushes and small trees, and Archibald’s stomach and hopes plummeted.

“Is there any sign of my lady-wife?”

One lad struggled with the agitated beast. The
other shook his head.

The curse came from deep within Archibald’s
soul—guttural and vile. He stomped away from the lads and cursed some more.

A series of birdcalls signaled the return of a
scout. The lad approached, carrying one of Archibald’s
plaides
.

Archibald squeezed the wool in a clenched fist and
brought it to his nose. The scent of lavender lingered on the cloth. Isobell
had certainly crossed this area. She must have taken the
plaide
before
leaving their bedchamber. “Where did you find this?”

“On far knoll.” The man pointed and frowned. “A
hill of greenest grass that looks as if ’twas never touched by the storm.”

“The accursed
Sithichean Sluaigh?
”
Archibald shot a stern look at Munn. “What do you ken of this?”

He shrugged yet knowledge and guilt shone on his
weathered brown face.

Archibald pivoted to face Duncan. “Return with the
lads to the castle.”

“Aye, I will send them back, but permit me to
remain. I am well aware of fae activity in this area.”

Archibald’s eyes widened. “Are you now?”

Duncan solemnly nodded. “Lady Laurie demanded I
escort her to the
Sithichean Sluaigh
when she ran from Patrick’s planned
marriage for her to another. She claimed from there she could return home. At
the time, I thought her a faerie. Now I ken otherwise. Still, there is
something magical about that damned knoll. Perhaps Finn MacIntyre’s claims are
truth.”

“That is difficult to believe. The lad lived in a
fantasy world of his own making.”

“Aye, difficult to be sure. Yet…”

“Send the lads home and we will explore the
knoll.”

With Munn standing on the back of Archibald’s
horse, they rode to the
Sithichean Sluaigh
, the infamous faerie hill.
They dismounted, and searched the area, avoiding stepping onto the knoll
itself, but found naught to prove Isobell had been there.

“Look at this.” Duncan squatted and picked up a
nicked arrow.

Archibald’s throat thickened, making it difficult
to swallow. Had the reivers found Isobell and had she ran onto the knoll and...
He glowered at Munn. “How does the knoll work?”

“Dinnae ken. Only the fae ken its secrets.”

“Yet Lady Laurie believed she could magically
travel from this spot?”

“Aye. But not at will.”

“And where exactly would a person travel to from
here?”

Munn’s throat worked. He scanned the hill and the
surrounding area as if he thought others might be near. He stepped close to
Archibald and whispered, “To other realms, to the past, to the future.”

“Ach, I must be as mad as the village idiot to
consider this.” Archibald handed his reins to Duncan. “If I can make this work,
send a messenger to Glasgow requesting Suibhne return home from university at
the earliest opportunity. Until he arrives, you are in charge of the castle and
clan.”

He strode to the center of the knoll, shoulders
back, jaw set. Waited. Naught happened. He made fists and waited. Naught. “What
am I doing wrong?”

Munn shrugged. “Workings of the faerie hill are a
mystery.”

“Perhaps ’tis the weapons,” Duncan offered.
“Mayhap they put off the fae.”

“
Grrrr!
I dislike traveling unarmed.”
Archibald glanced around. “Dinnae see Isobell’s sword anywhere.”

With a tilt of the head, Duncan held his hands up,
palms forward.

Archibald shrugged off the scabbard securing the
claymore to his back and handed them to his man. Then he removed the dirk from
his waist and the multiple blades hidden upon his person and dropped them at
the edge of the knoll. With a brisk pace, he returned to the center. Still
naught happened to take him to Isobell. “Now what?”

“’Tis said the fae have a dislike of iron.”

“Duncan, you possess an uncanny wealth of
faerie-lore.”

The man grinned at the sarcasm, which increased
Archibald’s frustration, but he removed the pouch from his belt anyway, placed
the brooch from his shoulder into it, and removed his belt with its heavy iron
buckle, handing the lot to Munn.

He stood, legs apart, hands fisted on hips, in the
center of the cursed mound wearing
leine
and
trews
, draped in his
plaide
, and counted to one hundred. Still naught of a magical nature
occurred.

“Mayhap you cannot take anything from this time.”
Archibald didn’t care for Duncan’s suggestion. Not in the least.

“You jest?” Yet he removed the
plaide
,
leine
,
and
trews
, leggings and boots then stood in the center of the knoll
butt-naked. And naught happened except his feeling an arse. “’Tis not working.”

“Perhaps the timing is wrong. Lady Laurie had
wanted to arrive at the knoll by nightfall and on a full moon.”

Munn’s eyes rounded, then he spun and vanished.

Damn
brunaidh!
Archibald cursed something
fierce while dressing and rearming.

“Why dinnae you mention this timing theory before?
Though it was not visible because of the storm, there was to be a full moon the
night of the wedding. I took it as a good omen. I was wrong.” He banged a fist
on his thigh. “
Grrrr!
Nearly two fortnights must pass before the next
moon grows full.”