Sue-Ellen Welfonder - [MacLean 03] (38 page)

“Mine?” This time, Colin blinked.

A thickset man of middle years stepped up to them, nodded to Colin. Garbed similarly fine as the other royal emissaries, this one set himself apart by his evident aura of authority.

“I am Sir Alastair Douglas,” he said with a quick glance at the parchment roll clutched in Colin’s hand. “Word came to the Guardian not only of your bravery on the field, good sir, and your injury, but also of the loss of your home.”

Colin inclined his head, his eyes, too, suddenly overbright. He reached for Janet’s hand, drew her away from the old laird and to his side. “Aye, that is the way of it, Sir Alastair,” he said, his deep voice huskier than usual. “Naught remains of my home save a few scorched stones and rubble.”

“And it would be an ill day for Scotland if so great a loss and loyalty such as yours was not duly rewarded,” the crown’s representative said, with another glance at the scroll. “Yon parchment is a charter for you, Sir Colin. It confirms the fullest possession and all rights of your former lands, restoring them to you—along with ample restitution to see your home rebuilt to its former strength.”

“I—I am humbled, my lord,” Colin said, sketching the courier the best bow his almost-healed leg would allow. “I do not know what to say. A mere thank-you seems—” Colin’s voice broke and he blinked, swiped a hand beneath his eyes.

The man nodded, clapped a hand on Colin’s shoulder. “Send word to the Guardian when you are returned to your own dominions and the funds will be delivered to you forthwith. But for the nonce”—his gaze lit on the four of them, their wet and bedraggled appearance—“I would suggest you freshen yourselves and then join us thereafter. My men are sore weary of plying your stormy Hebridean seas and will be ready for a warm fire and a night of good food and converse.”

Magnus wholly agreed, but before he turned away, there was one niggling riddle that needed solving. “You have been in our waters over-long, then?” he asked, and slid a pointed look in his father’s direction.

“I told you they were my ghost galley!” the old laird snapped, thrusting out his bristly chin. “And dinna you dare snigger at me—an old man is entitled to his . . . delusions on occasion.”

The courier looked confused.
“Ghost galley?”

Magnus cleared his throat. “For some time now, my father has claimed to have seen a galley approach our shores only to vanish before his eyes, disappearing into the mist. No one else in the household e’er saw this mystery vessel until a guardsman spotted yours, so—”

“You are wondering if we could have been this vanishing galley?” A smile began tugging at the corners of the courier’s mouth. “Aye, like as not, it was indeed our galley your father claimed to see. We made numerous attempts to reach your isle, only to turn back when the seas ran too stormy or the tides adverse. Yours is a wild coast, my friend, and many are the hazards in your skerry-strewn waters.”

“But surely an emissary of the Scottish crown would have oarsmen skilled enough to navigate the Sea of the Hebrides?” Dugan said, earning a dark look and a sharp foot-stomping from Magnus.

“Excuse him, sir,” Magnus said, feeling the neck opening of his tunic tighten on him. “My brother only meant—”

Sir Alastair waved a hand. “No offense taken, my friend. And, aye, our oarsmen are experienced and able indeed. It was the prize tourney stallion we brought you that had us seeking shelter in the deep harbor and sea cave of a nearby, unoccupied isle each time the passage grew too rough.”

“The horse?” Amicia flickered a glance at Magnus. “I do not understand.”

“You are not a horsewoman, my lady,” Magnus reminded her. “A plunging and lurching galley is no place for a high-strung steed—or even a steady-hearted garron. See you, the beasts must be secured with rope for any passage—a rough one causes them to thrash about, possibly causing hurt to themselves, not to mention the oarsmen.”

The courier nodded. “Exactly. Had we wished to hold our course for your isle, we would have been forced to put the poor beast out of his wild-eyed misery and toss him overboard. We did not want to suffer you his loss, though, so we made many turnabouts, spent our nights deep inside the other isle’s sea cave, soothing the poor animal. We almost did not make it here this morning, either, but this time the storm broke upon us when we were much closer to your shores than the other isle.”

Magnus turned to his da. “So, Father! Now we know for certain that neither old Reginald nor the Horned One have been meaning to bedevil you.”

“And I shall bedevil you if you do not take your fine lady wife abovestairs and let her freshen herself. She is wet and shivering—as is your cousin,” his father declared, wagging a finger. “Wee Janet has been telling me of Dagda and I would have you fill my ears with that sorry tale as we sit at meat with these good folk. Something we cannot do until the whole sodden lot of you hie yourselves back down here in clean and dry raiment.”

“We shall make haste then and return anon,” Magnus said, pulling Amicia from the hall even as he spoke.

But once they reached the privacy of their bedchamber, he did not appear in all that great a hurry. Neither to see to his ablutions—or to have her tend to hers.

Nay, much to Amicia’s astonishment, rather than peel off his damp garments and make good use of the wooden tub of steaming, scented water someone had thoughtfully set before the hearth fire, Magnus MacKinnon went straight to the great canopied bed, dropped to all fours, and, as best Amicia could tell, began rummaging about beneath the bed.

Looking on with amazement, Amicia listened to his muffled curses, a few grunts, and the sounds of a
thump
or two, until at length he wriggled backward, dragging an ancient-looking and quite dusty strongbox with him.

A money coffer, but one that had clearly not been opened in years.

Straightening, he set the coffer on the bed. Little puffs of dust rose from its lid and a few bits of rust fell off the hinges and onto the bedcoverings. For a long moment, he just stood looking down at it, the oddest, almost reverent, expression on his face.

Amicia moistened her lips.

Her heart began to pound and her palms dampened just watching him.

There was something very strange about the way he’d handled and was staring down at the battered and grimy coffer.

Almost as if it were his greatest treasure.

The thought made her shiver.

Apparently noticing, he reached a hand to her, drawing her near when she laced her fingers with his.

“W-what is that?” she asked, eyeing the coffer, not surprised when her voice came out sounding . . . squeaky.

“My greatest treasure,” he said, mirroring her thoughts. “My heart’s treasure.”

Now she did shiver—a great flood of trembling ripples racking her from head to toe.

“It looks old,” she got out, slipping free her hand so she could rub her forearms against the chillbumps.

“It is old, lass, and it contains nary a
siller.
That is why I want you to see it.”

“I do not understand.”

“Och, but I think you will when you see what is inside,” he said, reaching to lift the coffer’s lid.

It opened with more little puffing clouds of dust, the hinges emitting an ear-splitting screech, but try as she might, Amicia could see nothing inside.

“Never you worry, it is not empty,” he said, reading her thoughts again. “It contains my dearest possession. Something I have kept safe and cherished for many long years, something that has consumed me always and—and kept my hope alive when darkness and doubt surrounded me.”

Hot tears began pricking the backs of Amicia’s eyes at his words, some soul-deep part of her recognizing what she had not yet grasped.

“And why do you want me to see this . . . something?” That came out strangled-sounding.

He looked at her and the warmth, the love shining in his beautiful blue eyes, made her heart slam against her ribs.

“I am showing it to you because of my good fortune, because of the wealth—my newfound wealth—swelling the great hall below. I want you to see what I value, have always valued, above all else.
Who
I have cherished above all others.”

Amicia swallowed, nodding when words couldn’t be squeezed past the hot lump in her throat.

“I want you to see it so that you will never have any doubt about how much I love you.”

“And this . . . t-this something will show me that?”

“I believe so,” he said, lifting a flat package from the bottom of the strongbox. A rectangle of time-darkened sheepskin. He laid it on the bed with even greater care and reverence than he’d shown the coffer.

“Open it.”

Amicia couldn’t move—her knees had jellied and her pulse was roaring so loudly in her ears she wasn’t sure she’d heard him aright.

“Open it, sweet, for what lies within is yours—or was.”

Biting hard on her lower lip, Amicia stepped up to the bed, reached for the packet. She touched trembling fingers to the brittle leather, untied the yellowed string holding it together.

It fell open.

The years slid away.

“Oh, dear saints,” she choked, swaying on her feet as she stared down at the dried sprig of bell heather.

Dried, pitifully flat, and very brown.

But definitely bell heather.

Magnus MacKinnon’s most prized possession.

Something he’d kept and cherished since the long-ago day on the high moors when he’d tucked it behind her ear.

“Oh, dear saints,” Amicia said again, a sob this time. “You kept this all these years?”

“To be sure, I did,” he said, sliding his arms around her from behind, nuzzling her neck. “It fell from your hair after my fight with your brother that day—when you limped away, crying. I retrieved it and have cherished it e’er since.”

Amicia turned to face him, near blinded by her tears. “If only you’d known how I ached for you, how much I loved you—even then,” she said, wrapping her arms around his waist, holding him tightly.

“But I know now, my minx,” he murmured, planting a wee kiss on the tip of her nose. “We both know now. And nothing shall e’er keep us apart again.”

“Nothing,” she agreed, brushing a light kiss against his lips.

“So it will be,” he promised.

“Forever?”

He nodded, gave her a dimpled smile.

“Och, aye, lass. Through all our tomorrows, unending.”

Epilogue

M
ANY MONTHS LATER,
after a harsh winter had passed and spring was just beginning to kiss the land, a great gathering of the Hebridean clans came to MacKinnons’ Isle to rejoice in the restoration of Clan Fingon’s good fortune and, for those who believed in suchlike, the swinging of an ancient curse into a blessing.

A joyous blessing.

And a goodly number of them.

So on this day of inimitable beauty and importance, no few of the clansmen, friends, and allies crowding the isle’s crescent-shaped boat strand knew quite which blessing to lend their most rapt attention.

Those whose hearts beat most rapidly for warring campaigns and great deeds of heroism admired the two score of new MacKinnon galleys heaving on the long westerly swells, great square sails flapping in the wind, slantwise spars and tall carved prows upthrusting and proud, their imposing outlines against the cloudless sky boldly declaring their sovereignty of the seas.

The Grant banner flew from one of the vessels, that one a gift from the MacKinnons to Colin Grant, and it was to this galley in particular that many Islesfolk stared. For although the grand festivities had been called to hail the launching of the new fleet, the recent wedding of Colin and his Janet and their imminent departure for their own dominions stirred the blood and had many an eye misting.

Already the sweeps had been lowered and the helmsman’s baton kept a rhythmic, clanging beat on the gong, each steady stroke echoing from the enclosing dunes and hillsides. From the shore, it was clear to see that the oarsmen were in their places, their deep-voiced chanting rising on the wind, in perfect timing with the beating gong.

Soon that one galley would shoot forth, distancing itself from the others in a burst of speed and sea spray to carry those onboard to distant shores.

“You were great-hearted not to reveal her part in the treachery.” A diminutive figure in black laid a gnarled hand on Amicia’s sleeve. “Aye, it was good of you and I would have expected no less,” Devorgilla added, her shrewd gaze fixed on the Grant galley. “Inside, the lass has a shining heart and e’er did.”

Amicia started, stopped feeding broken bits of honeyed oatcakes to Boiny, and gave her old friend a narrow-eyed stare. “And just how did you know about that? I have ne’er spoken of it to anyone—not even my husband.”

The
cailleach
hooted, turned her own gaze on Magnus’s galley as it skimmed across the waves, keeping fast pace with Colin’s. A friendly farewell and salute he’d pursue until the Grant vessel moved out of MacKinnon waters.

“And no purpose would have been in telling him, either.
That
one would ne’er have believed you, for he sees only the good in those he holds dear,” Devorgilla said, helping herself to one of the oatcakes piled high in the little basket Amicia held balanced against her swelling belly. “And you, lass, ought eat more of these yourself rather than feeding the whole of them to that dog.”

“Do not skip around my question, Devorgilla.” Amicia demonstratively gave Boiny the largest oatcake she could find in the basket. “How did you know what transpired that . . . that day?”

She shuddered, even now, not comfortable remem-bering.

“Tsk, lass, the same way I know . . . many things.” Devorgilla hedged. “But knowing ’em or nay, a prudent heart ne’er
discusses
them. Some things just are and ought be accepted as such.”

“I am sorry about the cloak,” Amicia said, keenly aware of its loss now that its creator stood beside her. “It kept me warm.”

The crone clucked her tongue. “Keeping you warm was ne’er its purpose. Just be glad it served you so well.”

Amicia nodded, snuggled deeper into her
new
cloak, a much lighter one, and also crafted by Devorgilla’s own true hand, if not so fine and splendorous.