Night Visitor (5 page)

He thought then of all the wondrous beauties he would never see again. The moon shining down on fields at harvest time, the quietude of the meadows on a summer afternoon, the drifts of luckengowen growing wild in a late spring blanket, which would thicken and darken as summer wore on.

But the most beautiful thing he had ever seen was his golden-haired apparition, and he clung to the thought—the hope—that his dreams were true and he read them aright. For if they were, she would very shortly appear and lead him on
the “low road” to
Caislean na Nor,
the golden castle of faerie Elysium. He would be happy there, even if shut off from the heaven of man, were she there with him.

The area about the castle in this century was more thickly cloaked in woods, but the stones were the same and the stream had not diverted its course, so Taffy found her way to the tiny keep with ease.

Grateful for the dull brown of her dress, which matched both deadwood and earth, she crept up to the castle until she came upon a barrack of rock flanked by a thicket. It was the perfect place for her to make a stand; it had a perfect view in through the gate of the keep, boasted lots of cover, and the setting sun would shine directly in their eyes when the enemy turned her way. If only she could lure Malcolm’s captors into the open courtyard, her plan would turn this into what the Americans called a
“turkey shoot.”

On that thought, the object of her interest obligingly stepped into plain view.
Malcolm.
She felt a sharp stab in her chest as he looked up and stared in her direction. His eyes were fey.

“Are ye coming, lass?”
his still lips seemed to ask.

It was impossible that he could see her, of course, but perhaps, just as she thought she had
sometimes read his thoughts, he sensed that she was near.

Taffy had already loaded her Winchester rifle, but she made a last check to see that she was truly prepared. The steel was cold beneath her hands.

“Yes, Malcolm. I am coming.”

Absorbed as she was in the task at hand and Malcolm’s steady stare, she was not aware of the rustling in the dry undergrowth behind her, as if the roots of the copsewood trees were being transhifted.

They stood in the courtyard, he and the Black Bitch, staring into each other’s eyes. Freedom was only fifty strides distant had he the desire to strive for it. Through the gate, he could see the surrounding forest just outside the keep. Once in the magic wood, the secret ways would open up and he could disappear within them. He could escape Lady Dunstaffnage and her hatred.

The Campbells on the ramparts had not understood the MacColla’s veering off at the last moment, but Lady Dunstaffnage had seen the Irishman salute the piper through her glass. Unfortunately, she too had recalled the trick that had once saved Colkitto’s father. She alone kenned what had passed. And she had decided to exact her vengeance.

To harm a piper was to bring misfortune upon
one’s clan, but ill-luck or no, the Black Bitch’s wrathful punishment would fall upon Malcolm for her humiliation. Her pride demanded it, whatever the cost.

There was no time for lamentation. Malcolm had known he would not return from this assault on Duntrune. And should his death bring misfortune to Dunstaffnage and her men, gladly would he surrender the here and now for the better hereafter he believed would follow.

A movement in the woods caught his eye. It was only the smallest flash of gold, but he knew it well. It was his spirit lass come to guide him! He allowed himself a small inward smile.

“Are ye coming, lass?”
he whispered.

She did not reply at once, and immediately he could sense that she was somehow altered. She seemed solid and not wandering in some fathomless way, but studying the castle with determined eyes. Alongside her cheek, the flesh now bleached pale as linen, was what looked to be one of the Sassenach’s unreliable flintlocks.

“Yes, Malcolm. I am coming,”
said a soft, but determined voice in his head.

Malcolm stared in disbelief, a sense of odd dizziness overtaking him. Exhausted indifference fled. Seeing his apparition—suddenly made in vulnerable flesh and prepared to rush into mortal danger—he found a reason to take up arms and rejoin the fight. Alarm pumped strength and
quickness into his tired muscles, and his desire to die took flight.

Suddenly there was an eruption of shots, louder than any he had ever heard. The man beside him leapt back, as though receiving a blow to the breast. His readied axe dropped to the ground.

Without hesitation, Malcolm snatched up the weapon in his bruised and bound fists and swung it into the nearest Campbell’s chest.

The axe pulled away only with difficulty as it had lodged somewhat firmly with the force of his blow. Thereafter, reluctant to lose his weapon to a careless cleave, Malcolm spent some time in nimble avoidance of the other guards’ dirks. Reversing his axe, he swung the blunted end up into his nearest captor’s bearded chin.

There was another crack of flintlock fire followed by a sharp cry. Malcolm spun about, amazed that a path was being systematically cleared before him. Without hesitation, he sprinted for the gate, hands still tied in front of him, leaping over wounded Campbells with an agility born of sudden hope.

He felt the tug of an arrow as it passed through his plaid but did not look back to see how closely danger followed, rather he sprang like a wolf after a fleeing hart and ran with all his strength.

His eyes burning with some new inner fire that had slipped free of his control, Malcolm bared
his teeth in a feral smile that frightened the remaining Campbells into falling back from the gates rather than face the strange, inhuman power burning within him.

He did not know what manner of weapon his golden savior carried, but it was more effective and grievous than any Sassenach flintlock he’d ever seen. And more powerful than anything he’d ever recalled wielded by the still-folk.

The Campbells seemed confused by the repeated gunfire, Taffy was elated to see. Doubtless, they thought that a company of the MacColla’s men had come upon them through the covering forest.

Her first shot had sent the axeman staggering. Her second and third went into Malcolm’s nearest guards, wounding though not killing them. The next would have been sent into the breast of the woman responsible for Malcolm’s torment, but she had already fled into a doorway below the now familiar and hated banner. Taffy had to content herself with clearing a path for the piper’s escape.

She pumped the lever rapidly and brass shellshot fell to the ground nearby with tiny pings. She aimed for those nearest the castle gate who were in the best position to interfere with Malcolm’s escape. The piper had felled two more guards, she was pleased to see, but there were
still several more between him and freedom. Fortunately, they were now focused on the outlying threat to the castle and did not perceive the danger behind them.

The gun snicked without firing, telling her that she was out of ammunition and needed to reload. She dropped behind a large boulder and began to thumb shells into her rifle. The barrel was burning hot to the touch.

“Bloody hell!” she swore, as a new threat in the form of an arrow splintered against the boulder that shielded her. Another struck, quivering angrily in the ground, to her left. Pounding footsteps heralded Malcolm’s approach—directly into the path of the archer’s fire.

Taffy rolled to her knees, moving some distance to the right and began scanning for the archer. She had him in an instant, an arrogant silhouette with a crossbow standing against the reddening sky. He crumpled nicely when she put a bullet in his thigh.

All at once, there was a crash and then a rustle, as if tree limbs had been smashed violently together. Before she could bring her rifle around to defend herself, a battle-enraged Campbell was standing over her, slashing down with a gleaming claymore.

She had no time even to scream, for in an instant Malcolm was there, and the Campbell was swallowed by the nearby shrubbery, an axe buried
in his chest. His wicked sword clattered to the ground beside her, slicing deeply into her skirt.

“Come wi’ me,” Malcolm ordered, jerking her to her feet with a single tug of his bound hands. He headed into the heart of the thicket where, miraculously, the seemingly solid wall of plants gave way for them.

“The claymore!” she suggested. But he did not bother to retrieve the sword.

“Never mind it! We’ve no time for a stirrup-cup.”

A hound bayed loudly from within the castle walls, calling to Taffy’s mind the tales of how Campbells had hunted down their enemies, letting their animals rip their victims to pieces when they had them cornered in the glen.

With that image in her head, Taffy didn’t argue. Hearing the sounds of pursuit behind her, she put the Winchester over her shoulder and discharged a round in the general direction of the castle, hoping to temporarily deter their enemies.

For her pains, she caught a stray limb in her hair, which tugged painfully until Malcolm pulled her free.

“Dinnae bother, lass. They’ll be skedaddled in the woods.” Then Malcolm set his leather bonds to his lips where he bit down with hard, white
teeth. In a flash, the binding was shed from his wrists and flung violently away.

The now free hand that towed Taffy also guided her, which was a fortunate thing as her hair was again loose and falling over her eyes. Through that golden veil, she thought she saw a wall of brambles fold apart and then, as she turned her head to stare in disbelief, weave itself together behind her. She had the uneasy impression that the very greensward around them was being rearranged as they passed through it, becoming denser behind, but she could not see clearly enough through her hair to know if it was true.

Presently, all noise behind them ceased, and Malcolm slowed their pace, which was fortunate as fatigue and sickness were finally overtaking her. Whatever battle-rage it was that had guided her into setting the bloody ambush was departing quickly, leaving a sort of lightheaded horror behind and her stranded in the middle of a nightmare.

Taffy bent over at the waist and took some calming breaths. She absolutely, completely, and utterly rejected her stomach’s suggestion that she empty the remains of her supper onto the forest floor. But as a precaution, she removed the heavy belts of ammunition that were pressing on her chest. She took a few deep breaths.

Malcolm looked at the apparition—nay, the
lass!
—and felt some of the strange and awful power that had flooded his body folding back in on itself.

“Ye are real,” he muttered, for human she certainly was, and doing poorly. Her face was pale rather than the pink it should be from their run, and she looked to be on the verge of gut sickness.

“Are ye ill, lass?” he asked gently, running his eyes over her slender form to see if she had been hurt from the Campbell’s claymore. For one with even a hint of faerie blood, the simplest wound from cold iron could sometimes prove fatal. “Are ye wounded?”

“No.” She swallowed and straightened valiantly. “Just…just…tired. I’ve had a busy day, shooting people, running through the woods.…”

Malcolm forewent a smile; such a mettlesome reply deserved better than teasing. Gently, he tucked her straying hair behind her lovely pointed ears. The expression on her face was one of confused disbelief and wariness.

He didn’t know what aspect he himself wore. A strange but giddy mix of euphoria and desire beat at his temples and drove his blood fiercely through his pounding heart. Not all of the heady new power had left his head, though, and he made an effort to throttle it before it frightened her. Despite her brave attack upon the Campbells,
he kenned that this lass was tenderly made.

“Ye’re a MacLeod,” he said softly, not terribly surprised. He put his other hand beneath her chin and tilted it up. “Of course, they would send someone tae me who shared the cousin-red.”

She looked confused.
“Cousin-red?
Oh. Blood.” She swallowed again. Color was beginning to flood her cheeks. Too much of it. “Yes, I’m a MacLeod. At least, my mother was.”

“And what are ye called?”

“Taffy. Tafaline, really, but I prefer Taffy.” She peered at him in the deepening twilight. Her breathing had not slowed and she was showing some signs of alarm at his fingers, which remained tangled in her hair and beneath her chin.

“Taffy,” he repeated, tasting the syllables. He wasn’t surprised by her words. They were as his inner dream had predicted.

“And you are Malcolm, the piper, aren’t you?” It was just barely a question. “And this is really Scotland in sixteen-hundred and forty-four—and those were Campbells chasing us.”

“Aye. You kenned that, did ye?” He reached out and caught a second tuft of her golden hair. He stared, mesmerized as it curled about his blistered fingers. He tugged experimentally and then started to wind the tress about his fist in the manner of a distaff.

“Yes. I saw their banner and—Malcolm?” She stepped forward a pace as he wound her hair
tighter. This was no fairie, no apparition that had come to aid him. Unable to resist, he bent down to take a tiny taste of his beautiful,
human
savior.

As he suspected, she was sweet. She was also very near collapsing now that the battle rage had worn off, so he contented himself with only the smallest of touches before releasing his hold upon her. His body ached to do more, but Malcolm fought his baser impulses down.

“My gratitude tae ye,” he whispered, suddenly thanking the still-folk for more than just his life.

Taffy knew that at various times in history, kissing had been used as an ordinary mode of casual salutation, rather than any special endearment between lovers. But she felt sure that wasn’t the case in seventeenth-century Scotland, where Puritans had outlawed kissing, even between mother and child. A single look at Malcolm’s face assured her that the piper was feeling anything but casual. The emotion there might be gratitude or excitement—or even something wholly different—but whatever it was, it would have to wait for another time. In spite of her determined struggle, Taffy feared that she was going to be ill.