The Sinner (27 page)

I
missed ye,” Alex said, kissing his wife’s cheek again as she walked up with him from the beach. He had just returned from a meeting with Connor and the others at Dunscaith.

“Ye shouldn’t have sailed across the Minch to Skye this time of year,” she scolded.

“I have Saint Michael to protect me,” he said, placing his hand on his chest where the medallion rested. “Besides, it’s been a mild winter.”

He wrapped his plaid more tightly around Glynis’s shoulders. Judging from the sharp wind coming off the water, they were in for a change in weather.

“There’s a wee bit of commotion in the hall,” Glynis warned him. “So tell me the news now, before we go in.”

“Angus and Torquil are dead,” Alex said. “The Clanranald chieftain had Angus tied in a sack and dropped at sea, straight off, since he was the one who offended their clanswoman.”

“What about Torquil?”

“He was kept prisoner for a time, but then he bragged about how fast he could run. When they let him run on the beach to prove it, he tried to flee. He was shot in the leg with an arrow.”

“He died from that?”

“Well…,” Alex said, “they decided the wound was incurable and put him to death.”

“Hmmph. And how is Connor?”

“Hugh has vowed to take bloody vengeance for his brothers’ deaths,” Alex said. “And if that is no enough, there’s a rumor floating about that the MacLeods and the Macleans have secretly advised the Crown that they are willing to switch sides in the rebellion—for a price.”

“For a price?”

“Aye, and the price is usually someone else’s lands,” Alex said. “And then, Connor’s heard that his sister Moira is being treated poorly by her husband.”

“Ach, that’s terrible,” Glynis said. “What will he do?”

“He’s sent Duncan to Ireland to find out if it’s true,” Alex said, giving her a sideways glance.

“That’s a lot to ask of Duncan,” Glynis said.

“I haven’t told ye the most startling news,” Alex said, still not believing it himself. “My parents are living together—and they’re acting like a pair of lovebirds.”

Glynis laughed and squeezed his arm as they climbed the steps to the keep.

“They still think of no one but themselves, but they’re more pleasant to be around.”

“I’m glad ye made it home in time to celebrate Saint Brigid’s Day,” Glynis said, as he opened the door for her.

Alex had no idea it was Saint Brigid’s Day.

When they entered the hall, he saw Sorcha with the group of women and children at the long table. They had made the traditional figurine of the saint from sheaves of grain and were in the midst of decorating it with ribbons and shells.

“Da!” Sorcha ran to greet him and tugged at his hand. “Come see Saint Bridget.”

Alex dutifully admired the doll in all her finery.

“Come, children,” his wife said, “and I’ll tell ye about Saint Bridget’s Day.”

As the children gathered around her by the glowing hearth, Glynis rested her hand on her swollen belly and smiled at him. They were both so happy about this baby.

“Saint Bridget’s Day comes at a time when the sheep get their milk in preparation for the birthing of new lambs,” she told the children. “Although winter is not over, we see the first glimmer of spring. We celebrate new life, the reawakening of the land, and our hope for good fishing after the stormy season. No spinning or other work involving a wheel is permitted because the wheel of time is turning between the seasons.”

Alex chuckled to himself. Like most Highland feast days, this was a pagan celebration wrapped in the guise of a Christian saint.

“The fishermen gathered seaweed for fertilizing, while we women spent the day cleaning,” Glynis continued. “And then we placed live limpets outside the four corners of our clean houses to foster good fishing.”

Glynis met his eyes over the children’s heads and gave him another warm smile. “Saint Bridget’s Day is the day we celebrate home, hearth, and family.”

This was the kind of home that Alex had dreamed of when he was a child. He sighed with contentment as he glanced at the faces of the folk who had gathered in the old keep that Glynis had made into a home. He nodded at Tormond, who—if he wasn’t mistaken—had his hand on Bessie’s leg beneath the table.

Glynis sent Sorcha to the door to call out, “Brigid, come in.”

“Welcome, Brigid,” the other women chanted. “Your bed is ready.”

Glynis took the doll from the table, and everyone gathered around as she laid it in a bed of rushes by the hearth.

“This is called Brigid’s wand,” she explained, as she tucked a smooth, straight birch stick in with the doll. “The saint uses the wand to bring earth back to life.”

“I think I know what the stick is supposed to represent,” Alex whispered in her ear.

She gave him a mock-severe look and then handed Ùna a bowl of water and a bowl of salt. “Set them outside for the saint to bless. We’ll use them all year in medicines, for Saint Brigid’s Day is also a time of healing.”

Alex knew she chose Ùna for the task because the lass had a special need for healing.

“These will bring healing and protection to each of us in the months ahead,” Glynis said, as she cut a strip of cloth for every member of the household to leave outside the door for Saint Brigid to bless.

Alex took his to please her, though Glynis had already healed his wounds.

The last ritual of the night, after the feast, was for the head of the household to smother the fire and rake the ashes smooth. In the morning, they would look for signs of the saint’s visit in the ashes. Alex made quick work of the task, for it was the last thing between him and taking his wife upstairs to bed.

Later that night as he lay with her in his arms, Alex thought of his blessings and the many changes wrought in his life over the past months. As Teàrlag predicted, Glynis had fulfilled his deepest desires.

“Ye gave me everything I longed for but didn’t believe I deserved,” he told her. “And ye made me a far better man than I thought I could be.”

“I look forward to every day with ye,” she said, as she rested her palm over his heart. “Ye make me so happy.”

He did make her happy. But then, Glynis had surprised him from the start.

One of the joys of doing research for a historical novel is discovering real-life characters and events that no one would believe if you made them up. Happily, sixteenth-century Scotland is a treasure trove of such finds, and I included a number of them in this book. After five hundred years, many details are unavailable or disputed, and the line between historical fact and legend blurs. This, of course, gives a fiction writer room for imagination.

Shaggy Maclean and Catherine Campbell did marry. The incident with the tidal rock, including Shaggy’s subsequent visit to the Campbells, is a well-known tale, though these events occurred a few years later than I make them. In 1523, Shaggy was murdered in Edinburgh, probably dirked in bed. It was generally believed that John Campbell, Thane of Cawdor, was responsible.

John Campbell’s wife, Muriel, is also a real historical figure. According to the stories, Muriel was stolen by the Campbells from outside Cawdor Castle when she was very young, was raised in the Campbell chieftain’s household, was married to John at twelve, and had a happy marriage. I was lucky enough to visit Cawdor Castle and see a carved mantel commemorating their marriage.

James IV’s death in the Battle of Flodden led to a long minority rule by his son, which fostered factional fights for power. Under the dead king’s will, Margaret Tudor, who was his widow and also Henry VIII’s sister, initially served as regent. The Douglas chieftain, who makes an appearance in
The Guardian
and is mentioned in this book, became her lover in a bid to control the Crown. Douglas overplayed his hand, however, when he married her. As a result, Margaret Tudor lost the regency. While Margaret took refuge in England, Douglas helped himself to her funds and took up with another woman. His marriage never recovered, but for three years, he held his teenage stepson, James V, as a virtual prisoner and ruled on his behalf.

Antoine D’Arcy, a French nobleman known as the White Knight, was a real person who came to Scotland to assist the next regent, the Duke of Albany. Apparently, D’Arcy had visited Scotland earlier to participate in jousting tournaments. As with the other historical figures, I filled in his personality to suit my story.

My character Connor’s half uncles are loosely based on the real sons of Hugh, the first MacDonald of Sleat chieftain. Because Hugh named two of his sons Donald and two Angus, I changed most of their names to reduce confusion. My version of how two of these men were captured is wholly fictional, but the manner of their deaths is consistent with stories told about them.

I based Magnus Clanranald on a Clanranald chieftain named Dougal. The real Clanranald chieftain was actually assassinated by members of his own clan, and his sons were excluded from the succession to the chieftainship.

I adjusted travel times as well as the dates of some events to suit my story. Except for Dunfaileag, all of the castles mentioned in this book existed, though some are in ruins now. There is a Loch Eynort on South Uist, but I have no idea if it has secret bays and inlets. I hope I can visit it one day and find out.

D
uncan MacDonald could defeat any warrior in the castle—and yet, he was powerless against his chieftain’s seventeen-year-old daughter.

“As soon as my father leaves the hall,” Moira whispered, leaning close enough to make him light-headed, “I’ll meet ye outside by the ash tree.”

Duncan should refuse her, but he may as well try to stop his heart from beating.

“I’ve told ye not to speak to me here,” he said, glancing about the long room filled with their clansmen and the chieftain’s guests from Ireland. “Someone might notice.”

When Moira turned to look straight at him with her midnight-blue eyes, Duncan felt as if a fist slammed into his chest. That had happened the first time she looked at him—
really
looked at him—and every time since.

“Why would anyone take notice if I speak with my brother Connor’s best friend?” she asked.

Perhaps because she had ignored him the first seventeen years of her life?
It was still a mystery to him how that had changed.

“Go now—Ragnall is watching us,” he said when he felt her older brother’s eyes on him. Unlike Moira and Connor, Ragnall took after his father—he was short-tempered, fair-haired, and built like a bull. He was also the only warrior in the clan Duncan was not certain he could defeat at arms.

“I won’t go until ye say you’ll meet me later.” Moira folded her arms, but amusement quirked up the corners of her full lips, reminding Duncan that this was a game to her.

But if her father learned that Duncan was sneaking off with his only daughter, he’d murder him on the spot. Duncan turned and left the hall without bothering to answer—Moira knew he’d be there.

As he waited for her in the dark, he listened to the soft lap of the sea on the shore. There was no mist on the Misty Isle of Skye tonight, and Dunscaith Castle was beautiful, ablaze with torchlight against the clear night sky. He had grown up in the castle and seen this sight a thousand times—but Duncan took nothing for granted.

His mother had served as nursemaid to the chieftain’s children, and he and Connor had been best friends since the cradle. From the time they could lift wooden swords, the two of them and Connor’s cousins, Alex and Ian, were trained in the art of war. When they weren’t practicing with their weapons, they were off looking for adventure—or trouble—and they usually found it.

Moira had always been apart, a coddled princess dressed in finery. Duncan had little to do with the lovely, wee creature whose laughter often filled the castle.

Duncan heard the rustle of silk skirts and saw Moira running toward him. Even in the dark and covered head to toe in a cloak, he could pick her out of a thousand women. Though she couldn’t possibly see what was in her path, Moira ran headlong, expecting no impediment. No stone tripped her, for even the fairies favored this lass.

When Moira threw her arms around his neck, Duncan closed his eyes and lost himself in her womanly softness. He breathed in the scent of her hair, and it was like lying in a field of wildflowers.

“It’s been two whole days,” she said. “I missed ye so much.”

Duncan was amazed at how unguarded Moira was. The lass said whatever came into her head, with no caution, no fear of rejection. But then, who would refuse her?

The chieftain had sent Duncan to attend university in the Lowlands with Connor and Connor’s cousins, and he’d learned about Helen of Troy there. Moira had a face like that—the kind that could start a clan war. And worse for his jealous heart, she had lush curves and an innate sensuality that made every man want her.

But for Duncan, Moira was the bright spark in his world.

Moira pulled him down into a deep kiss that sent him reeling. Before he knew it, his hands were roaming over the feminine dips and swells of her body, and she was moaning into his mouth. They were in danger of dropping to the grass at their feet, where anyone could happen upon them, so he broke the kiss. One of them had to keep their head—and it wouldn’t be Moira.

“Not here,” he said, though he knew damned well what they would do if they went to the cave. Anticipation caused every fiber of his being to throb with need.

For the first weeks, they had found ways to please each other without committing the last, irrevocable sin—the one that could cost Duncan his life if his chieftain knew of it. He felt guilty for taking what rightfully belonged to Moira’s future husband. But it was a miracle that he’d held out against her as long as he had.

At least he was confident that Moira wouldn’t suffer for it. She was a clever lass—she wouldn’t be the first to spill a vial of sheep’s blood on her wedding sheet. And Moira was not one to be troubled by guilt.

Once they were inside the cave, they spread the blanket they kept there and sat close together.

“The Irish chieftain’s son is rather amusing,” Moira said, poking his side with her finger.

Moira’s father had not taken another wife after Connor and Moira’s mother died. So when they had guests, Moira sat on one side of her father, charming them, while her older brother Ragnall sat on his other side, frightening them.

“The man was looking down the front of your gown all through supper.” And Duncan thought Moira let him. “I wanted to crush his head between my hands.”

All his life, he’d minded his temper, both because he was bigger than other lads and because his position was precarious. He hated the way Moira made him lose control.

“That’s sweet.” She laughed and kissed his cheek. “I was trying to make ye jealous.”

“Why would ye do that?”

“To make certain ye would meet me because we need to talk.” Her voice was serious now. “Duncan, I want us to marry.”

Duncan closed his eyes and, for one brief moment, let himself pretend it was possible. He imagined what it would be like to be the man so blessed as to sleep with this lass in his arms each night and to wake up each morning to her sunny smile.

“It will never happen,” he said.

“Of course it will,” she said.

Moira was accustomed to having her way. Her father, who had no other weakness, had spoiled her, but he would make his own choice on such an important matter.

“Your father will never permit his only daughter to wed the nursemaid’s bastard son,” he said. “He’ll use your marriage to make an alliance for the clan.”

Duncan pulled out his flask of whiskey and took a long drink. With Moira talking such nonsense, he needed it.

“My father always lets me have what I want in the end. And what I want,” she said, her breath warm in his ear as she ran her hand up his thigh, “is you, Duncan Ruadh MacDonald.”

With all his blood rushing to his cock, he couldn’t think. He pulled her into his arms, and they fell across the blankets, their legs tangled.

“I’m desperate for ye,” she said between frantic kisses.

He still found it hard to believe Moira wanted him—but when she put her hand on his cock, he did believe. For however long she wanted him, he was hers.

Duncan ran his fingers through Moira’s hair as she lay with her head on his chest. He fixed every moment of their time together in his memory to retrieve later.

“I love ye so much,” she said.

An unfamiliar sensation of pure joy bubbled up inside Duncan.

“Tell me ye love me,” she said.

“Ye know I do,” he said, though it made no difference as to what would happen. “I’ll never stop.”

His feelings didn’t come and go like Moira’s. One week, she loved her brown horse, the next week the spotted one, and the week after that she didn’t like to ride at all. She had always been like that. They were opposites in so many ways.

Duncan forced himself to sit up so he could see the sky outside the cave.

“Ach, it’s near dawn,” he said and cursed himself. “I must get ye back in a hurry.”

“I will convince my father,” she said as they dressed. “He’s no fool. He can see that you’re a warrior who will one day be known throughout the Western Isles.”

“If ye tell your father about us,” he said, cupping her face in his hands, “that will be the end of this.”

Moira could not be as naïve about it as she pretended.

“He would let us wed if I carried your child,” she said in a small voice.

Duncan’s heart stopped in his chest. “Tell me ye are taking the potion to avoid conceiving?”

“Aye,” she said, sounding annoyed. “And I’ve had my courses.”

He brushed his thumb over her cheek. It was strange, but he would love to have a child with her—a wee lass with Moira’s laughing eyes. He had no business having thoughts like that. It would be years before he could support a wife and child, and he’d never be able to provide for a woman accustomed to fine clothes and servants.

The scare she gave him made him resolve, once again, to end it. Moira could hide the loss of her virginity, but a child was another matter.

“If my father won’t agree, we can run away,” she said.

“He’d send half a dozen war galleys after us,” Duncan said, as he fastened her cloak for her. “Even if we escaped—which we wouldn’t—ye would never be happy estranged from our clan and living in a humble cottage. I love ye too much to do that to ye.”

“Don’t doubt me,” Moira said, gripping the front of his shirt. “I’d live anywhere with ye.”

She believed it only because she’d never lived with hardship. And Duncan knew that even if he could give her a castle, he could never keep her. Moira was like a colorful butterfly, landing on his hand for a breathless moment.

The sky was growing light when they reached the kitchen entrance behind the keep.

“I love ye,” Moira said. “And I promise ye, one way or another, I will marry ye.”

Duncan was a lucky man to have her love, even for a little while. He pulled her into one last mindless kiss and wondered how he would last until the next time.

He lived on the precipice of disaster, never knowing which would befall him first—getting caught or having her end it. And yet, he had never felt happier in his life. He had to stop himself from whistling as he crossed the castle yard to his mother’s cottage.

Damn, there was candlelight in the window. Duncan was a grown man of nearly twenty and didn’t have to answer to his mother. Still, he wished she were not awake to see him come in with the rising sun. She would ask questions, and he didn’t like to lie to her.

Duncan opened the door—and his stomach dropped like a stone to his feet.

His chieftain and Ragnall sat on either side of his mother’s table with their long, claymore swords resting, unsheathed, across their thighs. Rage rolled off them. With their golden hair and fierce golden eyes, they looked like a pair of lions.

Duncan hoped they would not kill him in front of his mother and sister. Though he didn’t take his eyes off the two warriors dwarfing the tiny cottage, he was aware of his mother hunched on the floor in the corner, weeping. His eleven-year-old sister stood with her hand on their mother’s shoulder.

“The old seer foretold that ye would save my son Connor’s life one day.” The chieftain’s voice held enough menace to fell birds from the sky. “That is the only reason I did not kill ye the moment ye walked through that door.”

Duncan suspected he would be flogged within an inch of his life instead. But a beating, however bad, meant nothing. He was strong; he would survive it. What weighed down his shoulders was the realization that he would never again hold Moira in his arms.

His chieftain was speaking again, but Duncan found it hard to listen with the well of grief rising in his chest.

“I suspect Connor and my nephews knew ye were
violating my daughter
!”

When the chieftain started to rise from his chair, Ragnall put his hand on his father’s arm.

“We are taking Knock Castle from the MacKinnons today, so fetch your sword and shield,” Ragnall said. “As soon as the battle is over, you, Alex, and Ian will sail with Connor for France. Ye can hone your skills there, fighting the English.”

“By the time ye return,” the chieftain said, his eyes narrow slits of hate, “Moira will be far from Skye, living with her husband and children.”

Duncan had known from the start that he would lose Moira. And yet, he felt the loss as keenly as if he’d been the expectant bridegroom whose bride is torn from his arms on his wedding night.

The bright spark was gone from his life forever.