Sue-Ellen Welfonder - MacKenzie 07 (10 page)

A muscle jerked in the MacConacher's jaw. "You mean Conall, my cousin. His arms are burned. The scars may have looked like flames in the light of the rising sun."

He studied her a moment, his eyes narrowing as if he expected some reaction other than the pity that swept her on hearing his words.

Arabella felt herself flush.

She now suspected her travails at sea were responsible for the chills that had just swept her. Worse, she'd insulted her rescuer's kinsman.

Uncomfortable, she curled one hand into the linen coverlet and slid the other around Mina. The little dog nudged her with a cold wet nose. Arabella glanced at her, grateful. She needed Mina's warmth.

The MacConacher continued to look at her, his expression unreadable. "Conall held you, my lady. He cradled you in his arms as I rowed us to shore."

"There aren't words to thank you." Arabella knew he didn't believe her. "I am indebted to you both. Especially" - she looked down at Mina, snuggled so tightly against her - "for rescuing Mina."

"Frang is responsible." The words were clipped. But when he glanced at the dog, his face softened. "He knew you were there before Conall and I saw you."

As if in agreement, the huge dog's tongue lolled out and he wagged his tail.

"Then Mina and I will consider him our champion." Mina tilted her head and laid a paw against Arabella's arm as if she agreed. Arabella looked on as the MacConacher dropped a hand to rub his own dog's ears.

"He is a hero." Arabella saw the MacConacher's face harden again.

"All MacConachers honor life, my lady." He gave her another strange, almost piercing look. "There isn't a one of us who would stand idle when a ship founders in our waters. We - "

"The Merry Dancer didn't founder." Arabella shuddered just remembering.

"There was a storm, yes, but the shipmaster swore the cog could ride it out. I believed him. What happened was" - she glanced aside, tears burning her eyes again. "We were attacked. A black-painted dragon-ship sank us."

"The Vikings you mentioned?" Darroc stared at her, horror freezing his blood.

He'd so hoped he'd misheard.

Or that she'd dreamt such a nightmare.

But she was nodding and the terror in her eyes told him she spoke true. "They came out of the mist, shooting straight at us with a long steel-headed ramming lance projecting from the prow. They pierced the cog and - "

"You fell overboard?" Darroc could hardly speak past the bile in his throat.

"No." She pressed trembling fingers to her lips. "The shipmaster and his men lowered the spare boat, but when they dropped me over the side the men in it didn't catch me. I don't remember much after that."

Darroc rubbed the back of his neck. "You were on a raft of cargo barrels when we found you."

"I don't know how I got there." She dashed away the tears dampening her cheeks.

"The seas were high. Perhaps I was washed onto it?"

Darroc considered.

He didn't like any of this.

Least of all her name.

"You say the dragon-ship was painted black?" He posed the question that troubled him almost as much.

Again she nodded and Darroc's heart sank.

The certainty on her face gave substance to a myth most folk in these remote isles told around the fireside to frighten children into behaving.

If they weren't good, the Black Vikings would get them.

Darroc glanced aside, his gaze going to the window arch. The sky was even darker now and the first spatters of rain were just beginning to pelt the tower. From below, the crashing of the waves was louder, too, the familiar sound filling the little room.

When he looked back at Lady Arabella, he saw the day's bleakness all over her.

"My regrets, lady" - he hated having to push her, even if she was a MacKenzie -

"but can you tell me of them? The Black Vikings?"

"I..." She trailed off, shuddering. Then she pulled the little dog - Mina - onto her chest and dug her fingers in the dog's long, silky fur. "I only caught a glance at them, but it was enough. Everything about them was black, the hull and shields, the sail, and even the sweeps."

She looked up from stroking the dog, her eyes glistening. "I'm not certain, but I think even the men were clad in black jerkins."

Darroc released a grim breath. "You cannot have been mistaken? There were thick drifts of fog last night. Perhaps you - "

"I know what I saw." Her chin set with a stubbornness that would have amused him under different circumstances. "Would that I were mistaken! But" - She held his gaze, her expression determined. "I must ask... I would know if..."

Her voice cracked and her bravura faded. "If anyone else... if there were - "

"My sorrow, lady." Darroc spared her the question. "You were the only living soul we found."

She bit her lip and glanced aside, her entire body shaking. Darroc clenched his fists. He didn't want to feel sympathy for a MacKenzie. But when she finally looked back at him something had changed. Her eyes still glittered and her cheeks remained damp, but her gaze was steady and she no longer trembled. He could almost see the steel flowing in her veins.

"You said I was injured." She didn't make it a question. "It must be my leg, for it pains me the greatest."

Darroc nodded, unable to lie.

But he wished she hadn't mentioned it. He'd hoped for her to recover before she saw Mad Moraig's handiwork.

And now...

He cleared his throat. "There was a gash in your left leg. It was bad and needed immediate care. Old Moraig, our clan hen wife, cleaned and stitched it for you.

She'll make certain the wound doesn't fever and heals well. Until then, I advise you no' to look - "

But it was too late.

She'd already lifted the coverlet's edge to peek beneath.

Darroc braced himself for her screams, but she only stared down at bunched and sewn flesh. Her eyes did widen and the blood drained from her face, but she didn't dissolve into panic.

"Please thank Moraig for her kindness." She looked up from the clumsy stitching.

Her pallor was the only indication that the sight unsettled her. "If you swear not to tell her, I would be grateful for a small knife, a needle, and stitching-thread. I can undo her work and re-sew the wound myself."

"Lady, I do not believe that is wise." Darroc stared at her, his own insides quivering at her proposal.

Everyone knew her race had hearts of stone and cold iron for backbones, but she was a lass. Even if being in the same room with her cost him dearly, he wouldn't have it on his conscience to allow such foolery.

He shook his head. "You do not know what you're saying. The wound is - "

"I have tended more grievous injuries." She set Mina aside and clasped her hands, linking her fingers with purpose. "Now it would seem I must see to my own."

Darroc frowned.

She angled her head, unbending.

"Is that Moraig's healing basket?" Her gaze went to the table where the hen wife had left her leeching goods.

Darroc clamped his jaw.

"I will not shame the woman." She looked back at him, misunderstanding his silence. "She will think the work is her own."

"I am thinking of you, my lady." Darroc's heart galloped at the notion of her cutting into her own flesh.

The image tied his guts in a knot.

"Then please bring me the stitching tools." Her voice held an edge of iron.

"As you wish." He bit out the words.

Then he went to do her bidding, silently vowing to snatch the blade from her if she so much as flinched. But when he returned to the bed and handed her the basket, he saw by the hard set of her face that she could likely slice off her entire leg and sew it back on without cringing.

He had a sinking feeling as to why.

"You are a bold-hearted woman, Lady Arabella." He spoke before he could stop himself, needing to know. "There are many MacKenzies in Kintail. Which family of that race do you call your own?"

"My family is Kintail." She looked up from the basket, the pride on her face as damning as her words. "I am the eldest daughter of Duncan MacKenzie. He is the Black Stag of Kintail, chief of our clan."

Darroc nodded, his worst dread confirmed.

Something inside him clenched and twisted until he was sure he couldn't draw another breath.

His hated enemy's daughter returned her attention to Mad Moraig's healing basket, oblivious. "Do you mind leaving me now?" The words were sweet, even calm. "I would be alone when I tend myself."

He still couldn't speak.

She glanced up at him, waiting.

"I will leave you, aye." He found his voice at last, the words emerging in a strange, hollow tone he didn't recognize as his own.

He crossed the room, glad to be gone from her. A thousand screaming demons buzzed in his head and he only wanted to get away.

He needed air.

A hefty swig of mind-numbing uisge beatha.

But he paused at the door to glance back at her. "I will look in on you later," he said, honor demanding the courtesy. "I'll keep Moraig occupied the while."

To his horror, she smiled. "You are kind, my lord. I thank you."

He almost choked.

She simply nodded, dismissing him.

And looking as serene as if she were about to sit down to a meal of honeyed cakes and mead and not preparing herself to begin her grisly task.

Chills spiking through him, he escaped onto the landing and closed the door. Not that such a flimsy barrier made a difference. He could still feel her all around him, see her sapphire eyes watching him so innocently, so totally unaware of the storm she'd unleashed.

He shoved a hand through his hair, striving to gather his wits.

The saints knew he needed them.

But as he hurried down the tower stairs, he knew things were going to go badly for him. Arabella MacKenzie had stolen more than his ability to think clearly.

She'd dug her fine Kintail-born talons into him and he wasn't sure how to break free.

He just knew he had to.

Anything else was unthinkable.

Days later, across the glittering expanse of the Hebridean Sea, Linnet stood before the window of her herbarium, breathing deeply. She loved the little stone workshop set against her herb garden's seaward wall. Ever sensitive to still and gentle places, she'd claimed the garden and its workshop as her own almost immediately upon arriving at Eilean Creag as a young bride so many years ago.

Thick-walled, low-ceilinged, and brimming with treasures for those with a hand for herbs and healing, the dimly lit herbarium soon became her sanctuary.

It was here that she spent her sweetest hours.

She found peace inside the herbarium, beneath the smoke-blackened rafters, each beam crowded with bundles of dried herbs and flowers.

Someone - Duncan himself, she suspected - made certain that a small brazier always crackled in a corner, the brazier's few lumps of burning peat taking off the worst of a day's chill. Equally pleasing, the single, deep-set window where she now stood let in just the right amount of tangy sea air to keep her alert when she worked on her medicinal tinctures, poultices, and salves.

Though, in truth, she didn't always come here to work.

Sometimes she just appreciated the pungent, homey smells. The comforting blend of dried herbs, peat smoke, the sea, and - she couldn't deny - the earthy richness of the hard-packed dirt floor.

Other times she simply let the quiet surround her. The well-filled shelves and work tables were her friends. Each flagon, jar, or earthenware pot held a memory.

As did her carefully tended pestles, mortars, and wooden mixing bowls. They all told stories that warmed her heart. Even the precious set of metal scales, dented and grimed when she'd first discovered it in a corner cupboard. Now the scale set gleamed bright and never bore a speck of dust.

Then there were times this place embraced her, softly.

Today was one of those days.

So she flattened her hands against the smooth surface of her work table, enjoying the connection to all the MacKenzie women before her who might have stood in this very spot.

They, too, would have used their skill and knowledge to the good of the clan.

Women like her who toiled daily, making their own cures, creams, and powders.

Perhaps they also used their time here to savor the silence and solitude.

Linnet hoped it was so.

"Beannachd leat." She spoke the words with a smile, as she always did. "Blessings be with you."

She never failed to offer the greeting to those long-ago kinswomen. She was certain they heard and it was important that they knew she wished them well.

Unfortunately - for she was a bit tired this day - it was also important that she do some work.

But not before she treated herself to a glimpse out the window. For once, no soft mists floated across the loch, hiding the great hills and turning the water a deep, slate-colored gray.

The sky was high and blue, without a trace of cloud. And although a freshening wind stirred up little white-caps, the sun shone brilliantly. The whole glory of Kintail stretched before her, ancient and magnificent.

Her breath caught, the beauty piercing her.

For a beat, she felt quite spoiled and indulged, so blessed to call this place her home.

"Ah, well..." - she spoke to the view, not feeling a bit ridiculous doing so - "I see I shouldn't have praised you so lavishly."

On the far side of Loch Duich, where the hills rose so stark and rugged, a dark bank of heavy rain clouds gathered and swirling mist already wreathed the highest peaks. Linnet frowned, at first thinking she'd imagined the swift change in weather.

The day had been so cold and sunny.

But as she stared, long swells began rolling across the loch, chased by rainy squalls until they crashed against the rocky base of the cliffs. Even at a distance, she could see how each new wave sent up spumes of glistening white spray.

She almost laughed.

She should have known the sun-bathed afternoon wouldn't last.

Not that she really cared.

She loved Kintail in all weathers. As did every soul she knew who dwelled here. A fierce love of land was a Highland tradition, unspoiled. And she was no different from any other of her race.