Sue-Ellen Welfonder - MacKenzie 07 (34 page)

The isle's beauty took her breath.

And the seals bobbing in the water delighted her. They were everywhere, their gleaming wet heads bobbing up and down as they peered at her with curious, doglike eyes. Others basked on rocky offshore islets or swam around the birlinn, playfully following their race to the shore.

Then they were there, Conall slowing the beats of his gong and the oarsmen taking his cue. The birlinn dropped speed and they began to glide, the bow running up on to the sand. A great cheer rose from the rowing benches and the oarsmen raised their sweeps.

Laughing, Darroc leapt onto the strand. He opened his arms to Arabella, catching her around the waist and lifting her down to join him.

"Your isles, my lady." He sketched a bow. "And that" - he pointed to a steep and twisting goat track that led up the cliff face on the far side of the bay - "will surely be the way to your hermit's cell."

Arabella looked to where he indicated and her heart clenched.

The path was worse than the one that climbed from Darroc's boat strand to Castle Bane, not to mention that the cliffs were white with seabird droppings.

A fool would know how slick the track would be and she was anything but a dimwit.

"Oh, dear." She saw no reason to hide her dismay.

"I will no' let you fall." Darroc didn't tell her he was equally concerned about slipping. But he couldn't bear to see her disappointment.

If it'd please her, he'd crawl up the track on his hands and knees, letting her ride on his shoulders. After all, compared to facing her father and demanding her hand when they journeyed to Kintail, a wee thread of a goat track was nothing.

The steep cliff it crept up was even less significant.

A dust mote held more importance.

Only she mattered.

And she was looking again at the cliff, frowning. "I don't know...."

"Come, lass." He set his hands on her shoulders. "Have I ever let you down?"

"Nae, but - "

"The men will be putting up the sail screen for us." He glanced to where they were already busy erecting the small, tentlike shelter. "Now is as good a time as any to visit St. Egbert."

He took her hand, pulling her down the strand before she could protest.

Something told him she had more reasons to wish to visit the Seal Isles than a hermit's cell. And he hoped her prayers at the shrine, if she spoke them aloud, would shed some light on the mystery.

But the saint's cave proved more difficult to find than he'd hoped. And the track up the cliffside was so dizzy-making, he wasn't sure they'd find it before good sense made them turn back. Especially when they rounded a sharp turn and were faced with retreat or a mad scramble across a steep crevice filled with jagged, loose rocks and gravel.

"Lass." He gripped her elbow. Below them, the cliffs fell sheer to sea and heavy swells crashed over the reefs, and the white-crested waves glistened in the afternoon sun, cold and windy as it was.

Winds gusty enough to pluck them right off their feet and send them hurtling down into those shifting, glittery waves.

Darroc frowned, his decision made.

"I say we go back." He placed his fingers against her lips when she started to protest. "I'd ne'er forgive myself if you fell and" - he forced a smile - "I'm no' of a mind to make you a widow, either."

Her eyes flared on the word widow and he knew she was thinking of his avowals that - since their promises to each other on Olaf's isle - they were as good as wed.

In his eyes they certainly were, by God. And he'd not tolerate anyone saying otherwise.

A muscle in his jaw twitched.

The tales of her father were as black as the man's by-name, the Black Stag. Darroc checked the urge to curse. He might not have a by-name, but men would speak of him with even greater dread if Duncan MacKenzie refused to see reason.

Arabella was his now and he wasn't about to let her go.

Nor would he allow her to plunge down a cliff.

"Come, sweet." He tugged on her arm, pulling her away from the treacherous spill of broken rocks. "You can pray to St. Egbert on the strand. He'll no' mind."

"But I will! And we're almost there." She bit her lip and looked around, the stubborn set of her jaw not surprising Darroc at all. "I can feel it. Here" - she pressed a hand to her breast, her gaze still darting about - "and because I heard the seals singing the night we sailed to Olaf's isle. I know - "

"There wasn't a single seal near us on the voyage." Darroc's brow knit, trying to remember. But he was sure. "You must have heard the wind."

She shook her head. "I know what wind sounds like. But I did think it was the wind at the time. Then" - she glanced down at the water, the hundreds of small dark shapes swimming there - "when we reached the bay here and I heard the seals' calls, I recognized the sound. It wasn't quite what I heard the night of our voyage, but the sounds were close enough for me to be sure that's what it was.

"And so I'm certain that I was meant to come here." She pulled him out onto the scree with her, stepping lightly over the broken rubble. "I believe we were both meant to make this trip, together."

"Even so, I'm for returning to the strand. We can - "

"There!" She smiled, her gaze on a spring pouring from the rocks on the far side of the crevice. Several feet away, a dark vertical opening yawned in the cliff face.

"That has to be the cave. And St. Egbert's holy well."

Darroc tried not to groan.

She slipped from his grasp and hurried forward, nipping into the cave before he could stop her. "Damnation!" He sprinted across the rocks, following her into the hermit's dank, foul-smelling sanctuary.

"It is the shrine!" She whirled to face him, her eyes bright. "See, there's the altar."

She pointed to a low stone slab, incised with a Celtic cross and covered with bird droppings and what could only be splatters of centuries-old candle wax.

A narrow ledge nearby was surely the hermit's sleeping bench. Formed naturally by the rock of the cave, the ledge now held nothing but a scatter of pebbles and a smear of mold. But even in the dimness, it was clear to see where St. Egbert made his fire, the roof above still blackened with soot.

"I - do you mind if I say my prayer now?" Her voice cracked on the words and she brought a hand to her mouth, biting her forefinger.

"Sweetness, what is it?" Darroc slid his arms around her, pulling her close. "Do you want me to leave? I can wait outside."

"Nae." Arabella shook her head, embarrassment scalding her. "I want you here with me, but..."

She glanced aside, blinking hard to keep her eyes from misting. "Now that I have you, my reason for beseeching St. Egbert's benevolence no longer exists. And now" - for someone who didn't believe in magic and superstition, she feared to tell him what was bothering her - "I am worried that I might jinx us if I ask for something more."

She was especially concerned about performing the Giving Stone ritual. But having come so far, she also feared she'd anger the old gods - if there were any - if she didn't pay homage to the stone.

Darroc was staring at her, his fingers stroking her hair. "Perhaps you should tell me what you wished to pray for."

"A man." She blurted the answer before she could bite her tongue.

"A man?" Now he was really staring at her.

She nodded. "But not just any man." She rushed on, sure her face glowed crimson. "I didn't tell you, but the reason my suitors all left without making an offer was because my father chased them away. He - "

"Your father?" Darroc's brows snapped together. "What do you mean he chased them away?"

"He didn't want me to wed." She forced the words, knowing the truth sounded awful. "Or perhaps it is more that he can't bear to think of me married. But I so wished for a husband and family. I" - she slipped out of his arms and went to stand before the little altar - "knew of this shrine and wanted to come here and beg the saint to send me my true love."

"And now you have him." Darroc joined her at the altar. "You will always have me, Arabella." He rested his hands on her shoulders and dipped his head to nuzzle her neck. "You did not need prayers to find me and you do not need them to keep me. Your father will no' scare me away and neither will I allow him to tear us apart. That I swear to you."

She reached up and placed her hands over his, needing the contact. She so wanted to believe him. "I couldn't bear to lose you." She spoke past the swelling in her throat. The strange little cave with its stone-carved cross and musty smell made it seem so possible that some vengeful saint or god might spring from the shadows and snatch away her happiness.

She couldn't voice her fears.

But Darroc seemed to guess because he turned her in his arms and kissed her, claiming her lips with a slow and gentle sweetness that curled straight through her soul, warming her to her toes and banishing her doubts.

"You will no' lose me, Arabella." He broke the kiss and rested his forehead against hers. "I told you once that I'd never walk away from a prize like you and I meant that. My word is my honor.

"And" - he stepped back and grinned - "I say we head back down to the strand now and I shall show you exactly how much I love you."

But when they reached the beach a short while later, a score of beaming faces greeted them, each man's eyes ale-bright and his spirits high. They'd also used their time alone to fill the sail screen tent with every comfort and amenity. Thick woolen plaids carpeted the sand and a tiny brazier glowed red in a corner.

Someone, likely Conall, had dug a pit and built a cook fire, its crackling flames already roasting a side of beef ribs and what looked to be at least six freshly caught herring.

A fiddle was propped against a rock and a few feet away stood a small ale cask, several battered tin cups sitting in the sand beside it.

There could be no mistake that the men were looking forward to a long and raucous evening.

Conall strode up to them, his mile-wide grin proving it. "So-o-o!" He looked from one to the other. "Did you find the hermit's cave?"

"We did." Darroc reached for Arabella's hand. "Though" - he laced their fingers, squeezing - "I wouldn't recommend the trek up there."

Conall laughed. "No worries. I'm a seaman, not a mountain goat!"

He was also a great cloven-footed loon who, at times, couldn't hold his ale, Darroc decided hours later when his cousin started retelling the same no-longer-amusing tale he'd been regaling them with all evening.

Every other man had long since returned to the birlinn.

Most were snoring deeply, the flutey rumbles carrying on the wind.

Conall showed no signs of tiredness.

Until - Darroc could have killed him - Arabella gave her third voluptuous yawn and, pleading exhaustion, slipped inside the sail cloth tent.

"I'd best hie myself back to the birlinn." Conall pushed unsteadily to his feet.

"Sleep well, cousin!" He gave Darroc a lopsided grin and then took off, weaving down the strand to seek his bed at last.

Furious, Darroc watched him go, only turning away to enter the tent when Conall scrambled over the side of the birlinn without mishap.

As he'd dreaded, Arabella slept deeply.

But she'd stripped naked and her skin gleamed softly in the moonlight seeping in through the open edges of the sail screen. Even worse, depending, she'd rolled onto her stomach and the twin rounds of her buttocks proved so tantalizing that it was all he could do not to drop to his knees and straddle her, taking her from behind as he'd been burning to do but hadn't quite had the courage to suggest.

"Damnation." He growled the word, his frustration deepening when she shifted on the pallet, drawing up one knee so that the sweetness between her thighs was exposed to him in all its sleek, raven-curled glory.

Darroc's heart slammed against his ribs and he rammed both hands through his hair. Need, sharp and urgent, flamed through him, unbearable heat pouring into his loins as he stared at her. He was unable to look away.

His manhood ran granite hard.

He wanted to lick her. Throw himself upon her and bury his face in all that dark, musky-scented sleekness. He ached to drink his fill of her essence until the taste of her was forever branded on the back of his tongue.

But she slept so soundly.

He frowned, knowing he couldn't disturb her.

"Odin's balls!"

He whipped around and flung back the tent flap, letting the frosty night air cool his ardor. Only when his hardness diminished, did he turn back and lower himself onto the pallet beside her.

He eased his arms around her, drawing her close so that she lay along the naked length of him. Not for his passion, sadly, but because he wished to keep her warm. But he could feel her every soft breath and the slow, rhythmic beating of her heart. Privileges that filled him with such wonder and love that he soon forgot his frustration.

They had a lifetime to love each other.

And he'd use the advantage of the morning, taking her slow and sweet when she awakened. Kissing her endlessly and letting his fingers tease and tempt her until she writhed and moaned for him, begging him to claim her.

But when at last the first gray light of morning began slipping into the tent, pulling him from his dreams, he found the pallet cold.

Arabella was gone.

The sail screen tent was empty.

"Damnation!" He leapt to his feet, wide awake.

He dashed outside, naked and uncaring.

Arabella was nowhere to be seen.

He looked about, frantic. Cold panic seized him and, he wouldn't have ever believed it, but his damnable knees were knocking!

He ran around to the other side of the tent and stared down the strand at the beached birlinn. But all was still there and a chorus of assorted snores and other bodily noises came from the ship, assuring him that his men still slumbered deeply.

Arabella would never have gone there.

Desperate now, he began to run, making for the goat track to the hermit's cell. He couldn't think of anywhere else she might have gone. The thought of her picking her way up the treacherous path curdled his blood.