Warrior and the Wanderer (2 page)

And the reverse movie of his life ended abruptly at that moment on Mull before he began the next phase of his life at age fifteen. When his life was so bloody simple, his only need was to survive, and his future was one big unknown full of endless possibilities.

The sun enveloped the Corvette, burning out the image of that young man he once knew. A blast of heat wrapped his body. Not a warm hug but a slap by the bloody devil. The sun bled into the asphalt river as the Corvette hurtled directly into the fireball. Ian wrenched his hands from the steering wheel and covered his eyes, even though he still wore the sunglasses. He waited for the pain as the fire consumed him, but there was no pain, only a loud drone, as if the air was charged with feedback. He closed his eyes but still saw orange through his lids, watched the thread thin arteries pump blood, as the light grew more intense. Then hot fingers grabbed Ian by the throat.

* * * *

Isle of Mull, Western Scotland; Friday, 13 June 1523:

Icy water lapped at Bess Campbell’s feet. She tugged on her chains, refusing to give in to the inevitable. She sat on the slippery top of a large rock as the tide grew around her, and all she could smell was salt and the stench of her impending death.

“T’will not be my fate this day!” she declared to the black water about her. “By God it will not! I have my revenge to seek!”

She reached down with her manacled hands, her wrists raw and bleeding from the iron that had been locked shut around them. With cold, numb fingers she grasped the ring that held her chained wrists and ankles to this watery fate, the ring that had been hammered into the rock by her husband.

“And may he be damned to hell,” she said over gnashed teeth, her every muscle taut with trying to free herself, “And I vow I will be the one to put him there.”

She pulled the ring hard, the bolt that held it fast to the rock gave way just a wee bit, or was it her fervent wish that it did speaking to her?

The tide lapped over the top of the rock, over the bolt and the ring, over her frozen, bloodied fingers.

As she struggled for her life, the wind buffeted her, her imagination making her believe that voices rode upon it. Yet, it was the sound of her thoughts and memories that rang in her mind as she fought to free herself.

Her husband’s anger still reverberated through her mind. He had pounded the forger’s hammer hard into the U-shaped hook with more blows than was necessary. In the brief time she had known him, and in the briefer time she had been married to him, only two days, he had not been tempted to keep his words to himself. But this morn he had only a few words to share with her. Her brother was dead. That was all Lachlan had told her around his smug sneer as he hammered the hook in sealing her fate blow by blow. And now he was condemning her to die. Next, she knew, he would set out to destroy her clan.

They had married to unite the clans. As far as Bess was concerned, love had nothing to do with it. ’Twas her duty to marry Lachlan. But ’twas not her duty to die by his hand.

After he had hammered her fate, he left her standing on the rock, her torn linen tunic rippling against her body in the wind. There was no use screaming at him, or shouting, or pleading. That she would never do.

 
With her brother dead, Bess was now chief of clan Campbell of Argyll. But if she died that honor would go to her husband. Not if she had anything to do with it!

She had little time to shed a tear for her brother’s death, as she struggled to survive. She had to protect her people from Lachlan. She must live to seek her revenge.

“Cursed are the MacLeans!” she hissed.

Bess stood upright. Taking in a deep nourishing breath. The tide covered the ring, swarmed about her ankles. The raw places there stung from the salt. She took in another deep breath that reached to the tips of her toes and gripped the chains. Her gaze shifted east, to the Firth of Lorn, to the green-grey horizon of the Scottish mainland, to the watery outermost fringe of her land.
Her land.
She gripped the chains with bloodless fists. Her clan needed her.

She looked to the sky. The flames of her hair lashed about her face, each long damp lock like a whip that urged her forward to freedom, to go to her clan. With a mighty yank, she pulled the chains back, her bare feet fighting for purchase on the slippery rock. She imagined the metal that held her here giving way, springing forth from the rock and flying from the water. She imagined….

Nothing. Bess was still shackled. She looked up at the sky, as wave after rising wave beat at her. Gritting her teeth, she tugged and yanked at her chains.

“
Chan e strìochdadh!
” she screamed at the sky. “I willnae surrender!”

The weather turned more violent, as if it echoed her distress, and mocked her will of iron to live out this day and many more. The clouds above her swirled like sheared wool stirred in a boiling cauldron. Then the clouds suddenly funneled down, not more than a quarter league away from her. They touched the surface of the water, sending waves breaking over her head.

She sputtered and spit out water, while still maintaining her struggle against her chains. The weather was behaving so oddly. It must be fog coming in. Fog was just clouds touching the water. Yet, the sun, blazed forth from the fog, with uncommon brilliance. Suddenly her drive for freedom was replaced with something so out of place here and now.

Awe.

The strange light bathed her face in warmth. She could not help but relinquish her grip on the chains a wee bit.

Then she jumped when a ball of fire roared over the black water followed by a deafening clap of thunder. She was forced to close her eyes to the blinding light. A wave, larger than all the rest, pounded her, knocking her off balance and under the water’s surface.

Bess quickly found her footing and regained her grip on the chains and the rock. The water had risen to her breasts.

Then she saw a large piece of fog, silvery and smooth, break free from the wool-grey arch and skim the water’s surface. It sank below the waves just a dozen yards away from her. She could do nothing but blink at the sight as the waves broke about her. In the wake of the strange apparition, Bess felt oddly calm.

“’Tis a sign,” she whispered over salty lips. She wished she knew what kind of sign.

Without warning, a figure sprang from the water in the same vicinity where the piece of fog had disappeared.

A mythical selkie, a seal-man. As he thrashed in the water, she could see the top half of his body was covered in a slick dark hide. Then she saw he had legs as they beat the water as he swam on his back, coughing water, and staring at the sky. If not a selkie, he must be the devil coming to tempt her to go to hell with him.

She took a deep breath and pulled at the chains. And, ho! What fortune! They gave way a wee bit, and it was not her imagination.

But the man in the water was not in her imagination either. He was a half-dozen yards away from her now, churning the water, coughing, spitting, beating his fists, and turning it to foam about him. He slowly stopped and then looked about in all directions before capturing her in a brilliant gaze of amber.

She could not help but gasp at the intensity of his stare.

He could not be a man, for no mortal could possess such eyes, or a face so braw.

His dark hair was a stormy mass of thick waves shining with saltwater. His nose was set at a confident angle to his face over perfect lips above a strong chin covered in dark bristles. Bess felt her grip loosen on the chains again, caught herself, and grabbed them anew.

“Satan, dinnae tempt me,” she whispered into the salty wind.

She could not help but look at his eyes. The amber blazed out at her with fierceness as if he was determined to do battle with the water or with her.

She grabbed the chains and set about quickly to tear herself from her prison The man swam closer to her. She pulled violently on the chains. His gaze kept their grip upon her as fervently as she kept her hold upon the chains. The water was at her throat. Small waves broke into her mouth, choking her. The man was almost upon her.

She despised herself for allowing desperation to make her do the next thing.

She swallowed and shouted in the strongest voice she could muster, “
Cuidich!
”

He stopped swimming and stared at her, head tilted just slightly, and then shook his head. Droplets of water sprang from the lush dark locks, like tossed diamonds.

“You’re speaking Gaelic,” he said. “I think you said…’help.’ Is that it?”

Bess spoke to him in one of the several languages that Highland nobility were taught since childhood. “Help me, Selkie, I command you!”

He stepped up onto the rock with her. The water lapped at the center of his chest; at the slick hide he wore, which was actually not his skin but a well-tailored doublet, the finest work she had ever seen. He was taller than any man she had known, than any man in Scotland she guessed.

“Can’t you swim to shore?” he asked his Scottish inflection muddled, and quite odd.

She stared at him, and then raised her hands to just below the surface of the water and that was all she could manage. He did not look down, so she thrust her fists forward into his unyielding hard abdomen. He uttered a small “oof” and looked down just as she meant for him to do.

“I must be hallucinating,” he murmured once he saw her shackled wrists.

He spoke like a Scot, but his words were so strange.

“I dinnae ken your meaning,” Bess said. “But I need ye to join me in pulling this chain from the rock.”

“Let me see,” was all he said.

He disappeared under the water. Bess jumped when she felt his hands pushing her ragged tunic into her legs. His hands were large, this she knew without seeing. If he tried, he could wrap his fingers about her thighs. She took a deep breath. No such thoughts should invade her mind now. She renewed her grip on the chain and pulled it taut. But she could not ignore the tiny shivers coursing through her body as he touched her so boldly, without reservation, using her legs to find the base of the chain. Then his touch was no more.

He resurfaced and pushed out a whoosh of air. “Pull tight and step to one side of the chain.”

When she did not immediately move, he seized her waist with one extraordinary firm grasp and shoved her rudely to one side. Bess fought to regain her balance as the water lapped at her chin.

He displayed a fist-sized rock, one he must have found at the base of the stone where she was held captive.

“Wish me luck,” he said.

Bess replied, “Luck be with you.”

He stared at her for a moment, those amber eyes tearing into her as if he were searching for something. Then a wave struck her, knocking her off balance, her feet skidding from the rock. She would only go down bringing the weight of the chains with her. The stranger grabbed her arms, pulling her tight against the firmness of his body; steadying her balance and making her heart beat like a wild animal. For a moment she felt safe, almost free, with his arms wrapped about her body there in the rapidly growing tide. Then she found herself. She was chief of her clan, and too strong to let herself be swayed by a handsome visage.

“Release me and do the task!” she snapped.

“Who
are
you?” he asked.

“’Tis the least important thing to concern ye now,” she said.

“Aye,” he said with a wink, one that slid over his right eye, capturing time, and stealing a fraction of her strength. This would not do!

“Then to it!” she shouted.

He slid under the water. Once again he used her body as his guide to the base of the chain. She fought to ignore his touch as she pulled the chain back as hard as she had during the entire ordeal. She stopped breathing, telling herself it was from her struggle to be free and not from his bold touch.

She could feel the vibrations on the chains as he bashed at the base of them with a rock. Bess tugged harder, making her body taut, one with the chain. Then the chain gave way from the rock and she fell backwards and under the water.

The chains pulled her down as she fought to swim to the surface. Their weight was too great, or her strength was gone from the eternity of pulling she had done to try and free herself. She found the rock strewn, sandy bottom of the firth and couldn’t swim to the surface. Dizziness began to invade her as the fringes of her breath ebbed away.

Darkness, darker than the water that rushed about her, consumed Bess.

Lachlan will win. That was her last thought, before she felt strong arms wrap around her and then a chilling breeze raked across her wet body.

She opened her eyes to the gray sky and the amber eyes of the stranger.

Then he slipped from her sight. She rubbed the salt out of her eyes with her left hand. It felt oddly lightened. She looked and saw only the red-raw ring on her pale flesh where the manacles had been. Then she heard a sickening, familiar sound. The pounding of rock upon metal. She sat up so quickly it made the world sway. Her right wrist, too, was light and free of the iron band.

She rubbed her eyes with both hands and steadied her breathing, before looking directly in front of her. The stranger was there, kneeling before her, the fingers of one hand wrapped around her ankle resting on a flat stone. He held a rock in his other fist and with it, bashed at her shackle. Small, guttural grunts issued from his mouth with each pound. His head was bowed to his task, the dark waves of his hair dripping to the sand between her ankles. Soon this extraordinary stranger freed her completely from the chains.