Highland Thunder (Isle of Mull Series) (16 page)

“Follow me at a run, Anna, but do not lose the light,” Brenna said. Then she darted toward the barn.

The door creaked open. The candlelight danced on the high beams, casting sinister shadows that toyed with Brenna’s mind. Everywhere she turned she saw the cloaked figure. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath to calm her racing heart.

“Anna,” she whispered. “Take Nellore and stay here.”

Anna nodded, eyes wide with fear.

With the candle in hand, Brenna scanned the stone and timber walls and remembered the last time she was in the barn at night. With every breath in her body, she wished for Duncan’s return. She wanted more than anything in that moment to feel his strong arms around her. He would chase away the demons. Nellore’s safety would be assured.

“Fool,” she muttered under her breath. Fear made her long for Duncan, but no amount of wishing would make him appear.

She swallowed her terror.

For Nellore.

She stepped toward the ladder, her heart pounding in her ears. The rungs were cold to the touch. She looked toward the loft, expecting to see Liam’s blood dripping off the edge, but even in shadow, she could tell the wood was clean and dry. Ascending with breath held, she crested the top. Just as she feared, Liam lay unmoving.

“Lord, have mercy,” she said as she hurried to his side. Tears filled her eyes. His innocent face appeared soft and peaceful. It was then she noticed the fall and rise of his chest.

He slept.

They had screamed with all their might. The dark wails of a ghostly intruder had filled the night. Still, Liam slept.

Brenna inched silently backward and hurried down the ladder.

“’Tis glad I am Liam was not here to protect us,” Brenna said.

“Is he dead?” Anna whispered.

“Nay, he sleeps.” Brenna smiled as relief washed over her.

Anna shook her head in disbelief. “He certainly has a few skills to hone if ever he wishes to become a warrior.”

“The night watch will be coming through soon enough,” Brenna said. “We can send a message to your mother.”

They exited the barn, racing once again across the yard. When they arrived inside, Anna tucked Nellore beneath the blanket as she soothed the child to sleep. Brenna sipped some ale and stared into the fire. Her mind raced to understand the night’s events.

Then the answer came to her. The truth was horrid and unthinkable.

Brenna turned to face Anna. “She was the Witch of Dervaig.”

Anna stood and walked closer. “Don’t be ridiculous. That is only the stuff of legend.”

“Nay, Anna. You are mistaken. Many in the clan still remember when she walked the moors. The Witch of Dervaig is no legend. Tonight proves this.”

“Nay, Brenna. Tonight proves nothing other than confirming our fear of an intruder.”

“It must be she,” Brenna insisted. “You saw her. What other explanation can there be?”

“’Tis impossible,” Anna said, “There is no witch.”

“How can you be so certain?” Brenna asked.

“Because the Witch of Dervaig is a silly story told to make children fear misbehaving.”

“Anna, you were asleep. You did not witness everything as I did. ‘Twas unnatural.”

Anna turned away.

“How can you stand there and deny the possibility?”

“Because,” Anna said a she whirled back around, her silver eyes flashing.

Brenna looked at her friend in amazement. “Are you angry?”

“Aye. You refuse to listen to reason,” Anna said.

“You have yet to answer my question, Anna. How can you be so certain?”

Anna did not respond.

“Tell me,” Brenna demanded.

Releasing a frustrated shriek, Anna turned away. Then she sighed and once again faced Brenna. “My mother is the Witch of Dervaig.”

Chapter 14

Bridget arrived before dawn. When she crossed the threshold into Brenna’s hut, driven by habit Brenna went to embrace her but hesitated.

A knowing smile curved Bridget’s lips. “So you know my secret.”

Anna stepped forward. “She knows your secret, Mother, but not your story. I thought it best if you told her.”

Bridget nodded. “Mayhap you are right, Anna.” Then she turned and faced Brenna. “What have you learned thus far?”

Brenna swallowed. “I ken your real name is not Bridget. Your birth mother named you Shoney after a pagan god. I ken you are the real Witch of Dervaig.”

“’Tis a start,” Bridget said as she sat down and bid Brenna join her at the table. Brenna sat and stared expectantly at Bridget whose gaze lingered on the fire.

“How can you be the Witch of Dervaig” Brenna blurted, “when she has supposedly haunted these shores for centuries? You would have to be hundreds of years old.” Brenna’s breath caught in her throat. “You are not hundreds of years old. Are you?”

“Nay, Brenna, this winter will mark my fiftieth year. I am not hundreds of years old, and I am not a witch. I am a Pict, one of the last I imagine. The Picts inhabited these lands long before your ancestors, the Gaels, came to stake their claim. Most of my people converted to your religion and became Gaels themselves, but those who refused became recluses, swearing never to accept Scottish rule. For centuries, my ancestors suffered persecution for their pagan beliefs. Relief came only when the first of my descent donned the fearsome disguise of the Witch of Dervaig. The disguise was handed down from mother to daughter. And so the legend was born of a cruel witch, centuries old, who sold her soul to Satan.

“Indeed, I spent my youth on the outskirts of this isle. I was secreted away by my mother who always donned the cloak whenever need took her away from the safe confines of our hut. She was a proud and beautiful woman, but all the villagers ever saw was a bent hag in filth-covered robes. They ran from the sight of her. When she died, I, too, took up the cloak. No one on this isle knew my true identity, and so the legend continued.

“This was my life, one of regrettable solitude.” She paused as a wistful look filled her eyes. “That is, until Ronan discovered the truth. Our love released me from my past. I’ve shed my cloak and have been made new as Bridget, the clan’s lady.” Bridget leaned in close as she whispered, “But always I remain Shoney in my heart.”

Brenna’s brow furrowed as she considered her lady’s words. Bridget’s silver eyes watched her, once again laying her very soul bare. “Have you magic then, Bridget, or should I now call you Shoney?”

“Call me Bridget and safeguard what you’ve learned here today. Ronan risked everything to bring me to the village and make me his bride. Time has done little to change this. Despite how well the clan loves me, I dread to imagine the possibilities if ever the villagers knew I was really Shoney, the Witch of Dervaig. When present, fear is a guiding force which crushes reason. Only Anna and Ronan know my true identity, and, of course, Aidan.”

“Who is Aidan?” Brenna asked.

“He was Ronan’s oldest friend. He left Mull long ago to follow his heart, but that is another story.”

Brenna nodded her acceptance.

“To answer your question,” Bridget continued, “Nay, I’ve no magic, but I do have a gift like my mother before me. I see that which others are denied. I have visions of what has come to pass or of what may be confined in the distant future. In fact, ‘twas a vision that guided me to Nellore the night I found her.”

“Now I ken why I’ve no secrets from you, my lady.” Then Brenna turned her attention to Anna. “And you share your mother’s gift, I’d wager.”

Anna nodded.

“Anna alone inherited the gift of sight. Tira, Isobel, and Fiona did not, nor do they know my secrets,” Bridget said.

“Why ever not?” Brenna asked, shocked that Bridget would not trust her own daughters with the knowledge.

“A secret is not a privilege, Brenna. Secrets are dangerous. To reveal a secret to another is to burden their soul. I’ve saved my children from this fate. Regrettably, the secrets we three keep are mounting, for we’ve now another to add to our burden. The fey details of the intruder must not be revealed. Brenna would not be the only one to suspect the Witch of Dervaig. We cannot risk such hysteria or scrutiny, yet we also cannot leave your land unguarded until Duncan returns.”

Brenna nodded, understanding Bridget’s desire for discretion.

“You have received my tale with admirable composure,” Bridget said.

“My cool exterior conceals my inner turmoil,” Brenna confessed. “But at its center is fear for Nellore. I’ve told you before, Bridget, you’ve my faith and trust—nothing will ever change this. If it were not for you, I would have no daughter.”

Bridget smiled, pulling Brenna into a warm embrace. “And we shall do everything to ensure your daughter’s protection. Whether human or demon, we shall face this threat together. Have courage. Fear will only draw the shadows in the night.”

Chapter 15

Duncan sat up with a start. The haunting image of Rose, the wee lass, lying in a pool of blood amid spilled apples lingered in his mind’s eye. His dream was always the same. He kneels beside her lifeless body, weeping. Then suddenly her eyes open, and she whispers, “Stay with me.”

And so he did. Every night in his dreams.

Would Berwick ever retreat in his mind? Would the dreams ever stop?

Wishing to redirect his thoughts, he turned his mind to Brenna only to feel awash in worry for her safety.

He shook his head and scanned the deck. Cormac and Jamie slept, and Ronan sat at the rudder. He was grateful when his laird motioned for Duncan to join him. Stepping around his sleeping clansmen, he made his way toward the stern of the ship.

“Sit,” Ronan said, motioning to the seat on the bench beside him.

Duncan obliged.

“Having spent some time in the company of the MacDonald, how do you judge the man?” Ronan asked.

“I care not for the MacDonald. His actions are treasonous,” Duncan said.

“You judge him harshly for going to Edward and rightly so, but as laird, I ken why he did. If King John had given the MacLean authority over our lands, I would have sought the aid of Satan if need be to gain back what was rightfully ours.”

The brutality of the massacre at Berwick flashed before Duncan’s eyes. He shook his head to chase away the memories. “Indeed, you are not far from the mark, for in my mind Edward is the devil himself.”

Ronan stared out to sea for several minutes before he continued. “His brother is the true leader.”

“Aye,” Duncan agreed. “I would stand beside Angus Og on the battlefield. I only pray I am given that chance. An alliance with the Clan Donald led by the younger brother would secure my faith in Scotland’s future.”

“I agree. Angus is the finer man, but I am not as ready as you to dismiss Alexander.”

Duncan shrugged, not wishing to argue the point with his laird.

Ronan passed Duncan a flask of ale. “There is another matter I wish to discuss, a personal matter. ‘Tis about Brenna.”

Duncan’s head whirled around as he met Ronan’s gaze. “There is nothing to discuss. Brenna is my responsibility.”

“Calm yourself, Duncan. I do not wish to criticize your efforts,” Ronan said. “Better than that, I wish to praise your loyalty and return your freedom.”

“I do not ken,” Duncan said.

“You’ve done well by Brenna and Nellore, despite how disinclined you were toward the responsibility,” Ronan said.

“With all due respect, MacKinnon, it has been an honor to care for Ewan’s family.”

“I ken, Duncan. You are a man of honor, and Ewan was blessed to have your friendship in life. You’ve been vigilant, and Ewan would be grateful. But I believe a change is needed.”

“A change?” Duncan asked, his body tense.

“Aye. You have your own life to lead and cannot spend the remainder of your days sleeping in Brenna’s barn,” Ronan said with a chuckle. “I’ve decided she will wed again.”

Duncan’s fresh sip of ale sprayed from his lips.

“Nay, Ronan, ‘tis too soon. She is only just a widow, and…” Duncan words were cut off as Ronan interrupted.

“Nay, you are wrong. Ewan has been dead for nigh five months. She has had time to grieve, and more importantly, ‘tis in her best interest to wed. If Ewan’s council could be sought, he would demand it. ‘Tis the only way to ensure her safety.”

“I ensure her safety,” Duncan growled.

“I meant no offense, Duncan. As I’ve said before, ‘tis a fine job you’ve done; however, ‘tis time for a more permanent arrangement. God’s blood, man, I thought you’d be happy,” Ronan said.

Duncan stood portside, gripping the ship’s rail. He wanted to throw the MacKinnon overboard for even suggesting Brenna wed.

“I know you feel responsible, lad, but you worry for naught. The right man will be chosen. In fact, Jamie has already expressed an interest in Brenna.”

Duncan whirled around. “Jamie,” he gritted, as he fought to keep his voice low. “Nay, not Jamie. Never Jamie.”

“Why ever not? Jamie is a fine man.” Ronan said, narrowing his eyes.