When the Laird Returns (27 page)

“It’s the MacRae treasure,” he said as his hands felt the lip of a stone shelf. In the Stygian darkness he encountered a variety of objects, their purpose and their design easily determined.

“A treasure?” she asked, her voice sounding amazed.

“A silver tray,” he said, handing the fallen object to her. “Bagpipes,” he added, his fingers moving across the sticky bag of a long-unused set of pipes. “A metal cup with an elaborately carved handle and an initial etched in the pewter.”

Carrying the tankard to the cave’s entrance, he held it out in the faint light.

“R?” Iseabal asked, coming to his side.

“I think it belonged to my great-grandfather,” he said. “Ranulf MacRae.”

“I found a necklace of blue rocks in the ruins one day, but I thought it was the only thing left of Gilmuir.”

He linked his hand with hers and walked back to the shelf. The slate floor beneath his feet was pocked and worn, leaving Alisdair to wonder how many centuries his clan had hidden their wealth here.

What he had originally thought to be dozens of items turned out to be hundreds. Goblets and bowls, dusty fabric, the tight woolen weave beneath his fingers hinting at a tartan
pattern. A wooden platter, bowls carved from MacRae trees. All items salvaged from a life lived at Gilmuir.

“Why did they leave all these things behind?” Iseabal asked.

“When they left Scotland with the Raven, they could only take one pack,” he explained.

“So they left the rest here for safekeeping?” she asked wonderingly.

“Yes,” he said, “and here they’ve stayed all this time.”

The day, bright with sun and summer, lured him forward. Gritting his teeth, Fergus obeyed the summons.

His stump was inflamed, the pain constant and irritating. With small steps he’d made the journey, telling himself that Gilmuir was just over the next rise. In such a way he’d come this far, and he wasn’t about to stop now.

He was a MacRae and not a man easily vanquished.

Only a little hill, Fergus. Don’t look at the top, but at your foot and the crutch. Better yet, count the damn sheep.
Where once the glens had been green and thick, now there was only a continuous flock of dingy sheep, moving from one hill to another like a great glutted worm.

Counting a beat in his mind, like the swing of his hammer against an anvil, Fergus measured his steps. A hundred and he was nearly halfway to the top. Another hundred or so more and he was there.

The sunlight glittering on the waters of Loch Euliss was a magical sight. So, too, the moment he turned to his right, shielding his eyes.

Gilmuir. He blinked several times, realizing that he was acting the fool. But, idiot or not, he felt his eyes mist over and a yearning fill him.

Where was the English fort? The last time he’d seen his home, the structure had sat so close to the old fortress that it looked to be nudging it over the cliffs. This wasn’t the place of his dreams, Fergus realized. Still a ruin, but teeming with people and activity.

A movement to his left caused him to turn his head. Streaking across the glen was a mirage, a vision given to his willing mind in payment for his efforts. Leah, as she had been so long ago, racing to meet him in their secret spot. Her hair flew out behind her, her body bent over her horse as if she and the animal were one at this moment, flying over the ground with more joy than sense.

Watching her, he was taken back to another time, when he’d waited anxiously for her to join him. Secret lovers and public friends. He’d felt the same back then as he did at this moment, captivated and eager, love lodged so deep in his heart that it would never shake free.

Not a mirage, his mind told him, even as his heart warily acknowledged the truth. Not a vision from his past, but a woman, after all, her destination obviously Gilmuir.

Behind her, just emerging from the curve of land, was a troop of mounted men. But the twenty or so riders didn’t concern him as much as those who followed on foot, their ranks uneven but their numbers impressive. They, too, were headed for the promontory.

Several questions needed to be answered, Fergus thought, beginning his descent to the glen. The first of them was why Gilmuir was being besieged. The second was the identity of the woman.

Measuring the distance, Fergus ignored his throbbing leg. Instead, he began planning a shorter route, if a more difficult
one. As a boy, he’d been familiar with the forests surrounding his home. Now he’d discover how much he remembered.

“The least he could have done was leave our boat,” Brendan complained, sluicing the water from his face. “It was a damn cold swim.”

“I doubt he was thinking of us,” James replied, his attention fixed on the cave paintings around him.

“Ionis’s lady?” Hamish asked, moving to his side. James nodded. “The image of Iseabal.” A tie to Gilmuir more fixed and real than their presence.

“Are you going up, then?” a man asked, threading three strands of rope through his hands. Behind him, a barrel was being fitted with two thick lengths of rope.

“We are,” James said, leading the way up the staircase. The journey was made in silence as they navigated the ropes, pulling themselves up into the priory.

“I’d envisioned it differently,” Brendan remarked, walking across the slate floor and peering through one of the fallen arches into the water below. “Less ruin and more building.”

“I’d be careful if I were you, Brendan,” Hamish cautioned. “You’re standing where the major fell.”

Brendan’s face blanched and he stepped back carefully.

“She’ll be sad to hear of its destruction,” James said, his two brothers turning to look at him as if they’d shared that common thought.

“It’s true,” Hamish agreed. “Our mother does have a fondness for Gilmuir.”

“I’ll not tell her,” Brendan said.

“And I’ll not lie to her, Brendan,” James countered. “Especially since Alisdair has plans to rebuild the old place.”

“Do you think he can?” Hamish asked, looking around him at the ruins of the once great castle.

James began to smile, knowing his brother’s obstinacy. “I do,” he said, striding through the priory and out onto the rocky ground.

There, ahead of her, was the fortress of the MacRaes.

At first Leah thought that her eyes were playing tricks, but then she realized that it was no illusion after all. There weren’t ghosts milling about in Gilmuir’s courtyard, but people. A white canvas shelter stood just beyond the bridge of land linking the promontory to the glen, and still farther, it appeared as if some men were in the process of putting a thatch roof on a long, rectangular building. This was not a scene of despair or mourning, a fact which gave her some measure of hope.

At the land bridge, she slowed and dismounted, walking her horse across to the courtyard.

“Can I be of some assistance, mistress?”

Turning her head, Leah saw a young man with earnest hazel eyes standing in front of her. “The afternoon meal is being served now,” he said, his arm sweeping out to indicate an encampment obviously dedicated to feeding all these people.

“I’ve not come for your food,” she said brusquely, “but to find my daughter.”

“Who might she be?” he asked kindly.

“Iseabal MacRae.”

His face changed in that instant, becoming fixed, his lips narrow and straight. Even his eyes seemed to ice over.

“Drummond’s daughter. And you’re Drummond’s wife?” he asked curtly.

She nodded, familiar enough with expressions of con
tempt. Drummond’s power came with an unsavory reputation.

“I’m here to deliver a warning,” she said. “My husband is on his way to Gilmuir with a force of men.”

Turning, he signaled to a group and in moments, it seemed, she was being surrounded.

“Why would Drummond be coming here?” a tall young man said, stepping forward. His eyes were the same shade as Alisdair’s, a feature that she hoped marked him as a relative.

“You’re a MacRae?” Leah asked, feeling the tightness in her chest ease when he nodded.

“One reason only,” she said bluntly. “To kill Alisdair.”

“Why should we believe you?” another, shorter man demanded.

“Because of that,” Leah said, half turning in her saddle. Slowly she raised her arm, pointing toward Fernleigh. One by one, they all followed her gaze, contempt and doubt vanishing as they stared.

There, on the horizon, was Drummond, his troop of mounted men and hired soldiers behind him.

T
he inventory of the cave yielded several surprising finds, among them a store of silver objects and a set of porcelain delicately etched with celtic symbols.

“What will you do with all this?” Iseabal asked. She sat beside Alisdair, handing him object after object. Their inspection would have been much better performed in the light of a lantern, but this solemn darkness felt oddly right for this moment. Alisdair could almost feel the members of the MacRae clan march into the opening one by one, as if their shades appeared to claim ownership of their once beloved treasures.

“Send everything back to Nova Scotia with James,” he said. “These items belong to the people who settled there.”

“I wonder what they’ll think, to get their treasures back.”

“I don’t know,” he said, imagining the response. “It will
probably make some sad, perhaps bring back memories they don’t want.”

“Or give them happiness,” she suggested, leaning her head against his shoulder.

“Yes,” he agreed, “or give them happiness.”

Iseabal seemed to know how he felt, because she gripped his hand tightly in a silent gesture of comfort. She did that often, speaking words that could not be spoken, transforming them into gestures instead. But this time she spoke, mirroring his thoughts so exactly that he was startled by her prescience.

“I wonder if they will think it a discovery or a burden,” she mused quietly. “Will these treasures bring good memories or sad ones?”

“I cannot choose for them,” he said, entwining his fingers with hers. “All I can do is ensure that all these items return to their owners.”

“I would make the choice to be happy,” she said. “This would be a link to the past,” she continued, releasing her grip to place the tankard in his hand. “It’s how I feel about the window at Fernleigh.”

“The one with the knight,” he said, remembering the one item of beauty in the great hall.

“Yes,” she replied softly. “I could choose to bemoan the fact that our family is not what our ancestor might have wished it to be. Or I can simply take pleasure in the notion that, at one time, the Drummonds were loyal and brave men.”

“Do not judge yourself by your father, Iseabal,” he chided gently. “A man or a woman has no power over his heritage.”

Pressing her hand on his arm, she leaned forward, brushed his cheek with a soft kiss. “Spoken by a man who has nothing but greatness as his legacy,” she teased.

“If I did not?” he asked, suddenly and unwisely curious. “If I had no ties to Gilmuir, or was not a MacRae?”

Instead of answering him, she spoke, her words startling him. “Do you know why I want to carve your face? I want the image of you to always be seen, like Moira’s portrait and Gerald’s miniature. People may not know your name, but they will wonder at your nature, and know somehow that you were a great man, a man of purpose and dreams.”

“You embarrass me with your praise, Iseabal. No man could live up to your expectations.”

“You already have.”

“It’s a tender scene, I’m thinking, but I cannot understand why you choose the darkness for your courting.”

Alisdair turned his head to find a giant in the cave’s entrance, his height and breadth nearly obscuring the faint, greenish light. One leg of his breeches was pinned back to the thigh, his leg missing from the knee down. Although he stood balancing on a crutch, there was no doubt of his strength, or his potential danger to both of them. Getting to his feet, Alisdair extended his hand down to Iseabal, helping her to rise.

“Who are you?” he asked, discomfited by being caught off guard.

“It’s a hidden place you’ve found, it’s true, but even a whisper would sound loud to a passerby,” the man said.

As Alisdair reached the opening, the other man flinched, drawing back quickly.

“Who is your mother?” the giant asked unexpectedly.

“Why would you be asking that?” Alisdair replied impatiently.

“Because I’ve a notion we’re no strangers. Would she be Leitis MacRae?”

Alisdair said nothing, only stared at other man.

Iseabal came to his side, placing her hand on his sleeve as she studied the giant in the faint light.

“Very well,” he said, when neither spoke, “I’ll be the first to introduce myself. I’m Fergus MacRae and I’m thinking you’re my nephew.”

“You’re dead,” Iseabal blurted, her words the same Alisdair had been about to use.

“As you can see, I’m not,” Fergus said. “But there was a time when I wished it to be true enough.”

“What color are my mother’s eyes?” Alisdair asked.

“The same blue of your own,” Fergus answered, his smile broadening.

“And her talent?” he asked, wondering if the man was indeed his uncle.

If so, he was as his mother had described him, tall, broad-shouldered, and sporting a head of hair as red as the setting sun. His beard was of the same color, although liberally spiced with gray hairs.

The other man’s smile faded. “I can see why you’d be wanting to know for sure who I am,” he said. “The years have not been trusting ones. Your mother loved her loom. And spent all her time upon it when she could.”

Alisdair nodded.

“And your father? Who might he be?”

“Ian MacRae.”

“They always did have a fondness for each other, although I’d like to hear that story well enough,” Fergus said. “I’ll give you another memory to make you certain. Leitis gave your father a brooch to wear on the day of your grandmother’s death.”

I was a young boy and badly hurting
. His father’s voice
spoke in Alisdair’s memory.
But such is not the excuse for wounding another. I crushed it with my boot, and made Leitis cry.

“She speaks of you fondly,” Alisdair said, reaching out his hand. “I am Alisdair MacRae, her oldest son.”

The other man blinked a few times, looked away and then back again. “She’s alive, then?”

“They both are,” Iseabal added.

“And you’ve four other nephews,” Alisdair contributed.

For a moment Fergus said nothing, but his eyes glinted as if they welled with tears.

Suddenly, Alisdair was being enfolded in a one-armed hug, the older man beaming at him through the forest of his beard. Alisdair was a tall man, but Fergus was his equal in height and strength.

Releasing him, Fergus glanced at Iseabal. “And who might you be?” Turning to Alisdair, he fixed a stern look on him. “You’ve not ruined the girl, Alisdair?”

“Iseabal is my wife,” Alisdair said tersely.

Fergus smiled in approval, stepping aside for the two of them to leave the cave.

The descent to Gilmuir was made at a leisurely pace, the moments filled with explanation and shared memory. At one point Fergus turned to Iseabal, his smile fading the longer he stared.

“You remind me of a girl I knew,” he said somberly. “Leah was her name. Do you know of her?”

For a moment Iseabal wished he had not asked, or put her in the position of telling him that the woman he loved was married to another. A lie, however, would not serve this man with hope so fervent in his eyes.

“She’s my mother,” Iseabal said quietly.

He said nothing, directing his attention to the ground as if the hollows and swells of the forest floor were of more importance than his memories. Because she knew how it felt to love so fiercely, she spoke again. “She has not forgotten you.”

“She has not?” he asked, carefully not raising his eyes. “What does she say?”

Her words were halted by Alisdair’s oath. He had stopped at the perimeter of the forest, his attention fixed on the glen to their left. Marching across the glen were what looked to be hundreds of men, led by her father and his troop of men.

“I’m thinking your visitors have not assembled to welcome me home,” Fergus said, frowning at the group.

“Nor me,” Alisdair said. “If it’s a battle he wants, it’s one he’ll get.”

Iseabal frowned at their shared grins, but before she could say a word, Alisdair bent to kiss her lightly.

“We’d best get home, Iseabal,” he said. “It seems your father has come to call.”

“Father?” Fergus echoed.

“A long story, and one best told at another time,” Alisdair said.

“I’ve only got one leg, but I’ve two arms, and I’ll fight beside you,” Fergus said.

Once across the land bridge, Alisdair nodded to his brothers, leaving Fergus to introduce himself.

“How many men do we have?” he asked.

“Seventy-three, not counting my crew, but they’re still aboard ship,” James said.

“How many pistols?” Alisdair glanced at Drummond’s men. They might be outnumbered, he thought, but he
doubted they were out-armed. The army following Drummond carried sharpened sticks and iron staffs.

“Sixteen,” James answered.

“Are there any people in the village?” Alisdair asked Brian.

“They’re all here, Captain,” Brian said. “It’s the noon meal and they come here to eat.”

“We’ve put the women and children in the priory, Alisdair,” James said.

Alisdair nodded, and a few moments later Iseabal found herself being walked across the courtyard.

“I want you to stay here, Iseabal,” Alisdair said at the entrance to the priory.

“Where are you going?” When he didn’t answer, she took one step back. “No,” she said resolutely, her hands clenched into fists as if she would go to war with him. “The last time you left to be a hero, I nearly lost you. I’ll not do it again.”

“I want you safe, Iseabal,” he said, his mouth thinned. “Now is not the time to argue about it. You must trust me.”

“I trust you, Alisdair, but not my father. Or what he might do.”

He smiled then, as if amused by her caution. “I have no intention of letting Drummond win,” he said, bending down to place a light kiss on her lips.

Without another word, he walked away.

Your actions count more than your birth.
The words seemed to linger between them as Alisdair glanced back at her. He’d asked her to see herself as others saw her. An odd time to realize she’d given the crew and the villagers nothing
by which to know or judge her except silence, endurance, perhaps even acquiescence.

But that wasn’t who she was.

Unlike her father, she wanted to squander her emotions, feel wild joy and deep passion. She wanted to hold nothing back, not happiness or sorrow, not even money. Each day of her life would be as a spendthrift.

Nor did she wish to be like her mother, greeting any disaster with silent acceptance. Iseabal wanted to rail against misfortune and fight oppression as well as sadness.

She began to smile, lightly at first as the realization came to her, then more brightly when she decided what she must do.

Stony faces greeted her as she turned, taking a few steps into the priory. The women of Lonvight were not a forgiving lot.

Bending, Iseabal gathered up the material of her petticoat with one hand, creating an improvised sling. “If you’ll not join me,” she said, “I’ll fight alone.”

Silence was the only response to her words. Children stood beside their mothers, hands clamped to skirts. A little boy peeped shyly around his mother’s legs, then ducked behind her again.

“Set aside a few of you to care for the children,” she suggested. “And join me.”

Not one of them spoke.

“Then do as you wish,” she said in a voice as rough as the faceted rocks she placed in her skirt. “But I will not have my husband harmed and my home destroyed.”

Courage, Iseabal suddenly discovered, was not simply accepting in stoic silence what came to you. Nor was it the absence of fear. At this moment, standing here in front of these
women while the sounds of battle escalated, Iseabal was as afraid as she’d ever been. But the choice was stark and clear; she could remain here or be at Alisdair’s side.

“I’ll come,” a woman said, pushing her way out of the crowd.

Iseabal stared at her mother in disbelief. “What are you doing here?”

“Listening to you, Iseabal,” Leah said gently. “You were right. I had accepted too much for too long.”

They exchanged looks, Iseabal seeing in her mother’s face all that she had experienced in these past days. The grief, the anger, the resignation each felt were the same, but her mother’s anguish had been lengthened by years.

“Forgive me,” Iseabal said. “I was wrong. I should never have said such a thing to you.”

Leah smiled. “The truth can be vicious thing, Iseabal, but that doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be said.” She bent, duplicating Iseabal’s actions in gathering up the rocks.

Iseabal had no chance to mention Fergus’s resurrection, because another woman moved beside them, picking up a few bricks that had fallen from the archway. Then another of the Lonvight villagers walked to Iseabal’s side, arming herself as well.

“We’ll not let Drummond take our home again,” one woman said angrily, her hostile gaze fixed on Iseabal. “Any Drummond.” Others behind her nodded.

“My name is Iseabal MacRae,” Iseabal said, raising her voice so that the women in the back could hear her.

An eternity seemed to pass before one of them moved, pushing forward to stand with the other women. Silently, she bent, tucking a few stones into the fabric bowl of her
apron. One by one, each woman stepped forward, nodding at Iseabal.

Alisdair was right; these people were judging her by her actions, not by her birth.

They might have been outnumbered, Iseabal thought as she turned and walked toward the courtyard, but the women behind her were a determined group, armed with their rocks and their rage.

Setting the men in a half-circle formation facing the land bridge, Alisdair began passing out the guns Hamish had acquired. Moments later, the first of the riders began thundering over the land bridge.

“Is that him?” James asked, staring at their leader. Most men looked well suited for horseback. Drummond appeared oddly misshapen, his broad shoulders and barrel chest contrasting oddly with his short legs sticking out at an angle.

“It is,” Alisdair replied tightly.

“Someone should shorten his stirrups,” James said with a smile.

Men were fighting hand to hand, some with clubs, others with nothing more than rocks. A few pistols had been fired, but they took long to reload, and a man was not about to wait patiently while his opponent readied his gun.