Chapter Two

"H ead for the harbor!"

Ailsa heard the captain bellow at his crew.

"Are we there already?" she asked excitedly.

She opened the door of the tiny cabin and ventured onto deck. The crew was hurrying along the edges of the ship, their pace far brisker than normal.

"Clear the deck, mistress!" the captain ordered her. He pointed off to the right. "We've a storm to escape."

A storm? But it was midsummer.

Another crew member came barreling down the deck. Ailsa flattened herself against the wall of the cabin to avoid being run into. She looked to the right and sure enough, there were dark, swollen clouds.

"Sweet Jesus," Mol exclaimed from the door of their cabin. "Fate has turned unkind. I fear this marriage is cursed."

The sentiment was ludicrous.

It was ridiculous to be frightened by omens found in tumultuous weather.

But the clouds were very, very dark. Ailsa couldn't help but think again of the fact that it was midsummer. Not at all the time for fierce storms.

Her logical thinking offered her no reprieve from the onslaught of nature's fury. A gust of wind slapped into the ship, hitting her in the face while the sails cracked ominously.

The crew was fighting with the canvas, trimming the sails while the captain quickly maneuvered the helm, steering the ship toward land. But the storm was gaining on them.

A chill went down her back when lightning flickered in the black mass of clouds. She shook her head, trying to deny the strength of the storm but the ship rolled violently, sending her stumbling into the rail. As much as it had hurt, she was grateful to not be tumbling into the ocean.

"Here now, let me help you." Mol was suddenly there.

Ailsa was bent over the rail, her head hanging over the water. Relief flooded her when she felt Mol's hands on her waist. But instead of pulling her back onto the ship, Mol lifted Ailsa off her feet and sent her right over the rail.

She screamed in fear and astonishment, but the wind's howling drowned out the noise. She was sorry she'd given into the urge to scream because one moment she was falling and the next her senses were overwhelmed as she choked on salt water. She sank down, down into the ocean's watery depths, her skirts becoming horribly heavy.

The need to live exploded inside of her, giving her the strength to fight her way back to the surface. The ship was still there, its sails strangely flat and empty.

Mol and the captain looked down at her, filling Ailsa with hope. She lifted her arms, eager for them to throw one of the many ropes along the rail to her. Soon, it would all be but a misadventure.

She'd be far more respectful of the dangers of the ocean now, that was for certain.

Instead, Ailsa watched as the captain stretched out his hand toward Mol. She placed a large leather purse in his open palm. The captain hefted it, judging its weight, before he turned his back on Ailsa, leaving her to the open ocean.

Behind her the thunder rumbled. Like a demonic trumpet, heralding her betrayal at the hands of greed.

They were leaving her to die. Not that it was hard to understand why. She was her father's eldest child, born to his first wife. Her stepmother had three daughters. All of whom would enjoy the fine match Ailsa had been bound for. Mol clearly knew how to take advantage of the trust Ailsa's father had placed in her.

Their motives didn't matter. Ailsa ordered herself to focus on reaching the shore. If she lived, she could ponder why Mol had paid the captain to let her die.

There was a flash of lightning. The dark mass of clouds was now directly overhead. In the distance, the ship was flying across the water, its sails bulging full of wind from the storm.

Another flash of light illuminated the shoreline.

So far away…

And it felt as if there was a grip on her from below. Hands reaching up to pull her down to her death.

The thunder rumbled above her.

No, she would not give up and die!

Ailsa ripped at the buttons on her doublet, forever grateful for the tiny cabin on the ship that had seen her dressing in her simplest garments. There was no room for farthingale or fashionable French dresses. Now, she stripped the outer garments off.

With her legs free, she began kicking, propelling herself toward the shore. Toward life. If there was any mercy in the heavens above, she would make it.

The best vengeance would be to survive. Because if she failed to live, there would be no way to claim justice.

*

Keith stronghold. Scotland.

In the middle of summer, the roof of the stables was dry. Far too dry for the bolts of lightning the storm brought with it. Flames ate greedily at the thatch. Though the rain extinguished the flames atop the roof, inside the stable, the fire continued to smolder.

Diarmuid rushed out into the onslaught of rain and wind with the rest of the Keith retainers. Horses screamed, the scent of smoke making them frantic to escape. The thunder felt as if it shook the very ground he stood upon, while the wind was so fierce, the drops of rain hit like pebbles.

"Get the horses!" Diarmuid ordered. Every able-bodied man braved the onslaught to calm the horses. The animals were key to the defense of the clan.

As the stable continued to burn, smoke filled the stalls.

"Take them to the hall and the Maiden's Tower!" Diarmuid ordered. "Anywhere there is shelter!"

There was no time to debate old curses. The retainers led the horses to the old, square tower where the animals at last found relief from their terror. The wind still howled, but there was no smoke to blot out their senses.

"Get the goats and sheep up the steps," Diarmuid directed.

The younger lads who took care of the smaller animals spared a glance upwards.

"I'll go first." Diarmuid led by example.

Superstition be damned. He grabbed up two ewes and climbed with them secured beneath his arms. The tower was mostly empty thanks to the curse. Today that was a blessing because it meant there was a place for the animals.

Soon the place reeked of wet wool. Diarmuid nodded with satisfaction, though, for the small ewes would survive. Wool was the currency of the country. Tomorrow, there would be chores a plenty to clean up the mess, but they would have their animals.

"Help me…please, please, please."

Diarmuid frowned. He looked around but there wasn't another human in sight.

"Oh, do please open the door. I am shut in here!"

The voice came from above him. Up another steep flight of steps was the top floor of Maiden's Tower. The place where Brigitta Campbell had been imprisoned and died.

"Please, please, please do not leave me here all alone."

Diarmuid let out a little grunt. At last, it seemed as though there was someone else who didn't let the old stories frighten them into staying away from the tower.

He climbed some more, and the door was unbarred. He peered intently at the thick bar of wood that was propped against the wall. Beyond the doorway, a bolt of lightning illuminated a large bed.

Someone had, in fact, come up to the top floor. He was curious to meet her. Whoever she was, the lass had spirit.

"Lass? Where are ye?" Diarmuid ventured across the threshold and into the chamber. The wind thrashed at the shutters, rattling them like it was some beast intent on ripping them free to get inside.

Perhaps the wind was carrying the sound from somewhere else.

There was a step behind him. He started to turn but pain jolted through him like lightning, a hard blow hitting his head. Diarmuid never finished turning. He crumpled to the floor.

Diarmuid's other cousin Fingal emerged from the shadow at the end of the landing. He smiled, pleased with his evil deed. Fingal raised his hand, the thick pommel of his dagger catching a glint of light.

"Diarmuid? Are ye up there, man?" Barclay called.

Fingal grunted but melted back into the thick bed curtains.

"Sweet Christ, what were ye thinking to come in here?" Barclay exclaimed. He knelt down, trying to rouse Diarmuid.

His efforts failed. Barclay raced down to alert other members of the clan.

"I told ye it would work," Ysenda declared gleefully after emerging from the other side of the bed.

Fingal nodded. "I need to finish him off." He raised his dagger high, this time with the blade pointed at Diarmuid.

Ysenda caught his forearm. "If you spill his blood, they will know there was foul play. Let them think Brigitta has taken him for her groom."

"He might recover," Fingal warned her. "Better to make certain he is dead so I can be voted into the lairdship."

"If Diarmuid is murdered, ye will be suspected of doing the deed because of what ye have to gain," Ysenda insisted. "With just the right timing, we'll have everyone believing that the curse has come for Errol and his blood line. After that, ye will be laird."

"And if he wakes?" Fingal demanded.

Ysenda smiled. "I will finish him off with poison."

"Give him the poison now," Fingal insisted.

"Are ye daft?" Ysenda exclaimed. "I do not carry the vial about so I can be discovered. Do this my way. Ye cannot be suspected, even silently. Men vote without voicing their truest thoughts."

Fingal sniffed but nodded. "Yer way."

*

There was music.

Everything seemed hazy around him. Diarmuid tried to focus, but the music was the only thing that seemed clear.

He turned his head to one side, looking across the chamber. A woman sat there. She smiled sweetly at him while strumming the strings of a mandolin with slim fingers unmarked by the signs of hard labor.

"I am so happy you have come, my lord."

She strummed some more, her hair and dress perfectly arranged. The chair she sat on was also placed to provide him with the best view of her performance. A table near her was draped with a fine tapestry. There were candles burning for light, but they also added the sweet scent of beeswax to the air.

A noble bride.

She was educated and tutored in all of the fine arts so that she might offer her husband an evening of refined entertainment before he took his ease in her sweetly scented bed linens. No tavern companionship could compare.

Noble bride?

Diarmuid frowned. He needed to recall something important, but the music lured him away from thinking. It would be so simple to just return her smile and partake in the entertainment she was so happy to lavish upon him.

But…there was something important.

It needled him.

"My lord…please stay with me."

Her eyes were large and pleading. "Allow me to be your wife at long last."

A chill gripped him. It was bone deep and unlike any cold he'd ever experienced. Inside his chest, his heart thumped hard and then there was a long pause before the next beat.

And then an even longer time before the next beat.

"Brigitta?" Diarmuid asked incredulously.

She smiled again. Sweetly. Welcoming. "At last, you are here with me."

His heart was between beats. The chill grew cold enough to freeze the organ.

Something hit him hard. His heart contracted, pumping blood through his body. Diarmuid felt the warmth of that blood hitting the chill inside him like two opposing forces on a battlefield.

"My lord…please do not leave me alone…" Brigitta employed him.

But she melted into the background, the music fading away to blackness.

*

"Diarmuid!" Errol shoved his hand into his son's chest to force his heart to beat.

"Laird, ye can nae force his heart to beat!"

Several of the Keith retainers pulled the laird away from his fallen son.

"We need the priest," someone muttered.

"Nae!" Errol declared. "I will not have a priest near him. Bring the Healer!"

"Only a mortal bride can lure him away from Brigitta."

Aodh had spoken in a bare whisper. Diarmuid jerked as though the old man had shouted. Lying out on the bridal bed with its rotten bedding and thick coat of dust, Diarmuid's fingers twitched, and he muttered as if he was talking to someone on the other side of the veil.

In that moment, Errol caught a hint of beeswax in the air. A quick look at the table revealed dried candles coated in decades of dust. They were still there in tarnished silver candle holders, exactly where Brigitta had placed them in the hope of her bridegroom coming to her.

Errol looked at Aodh, desperation etched into his face. "Tell me, Aodh…what do I do to save my son's life?"

Aodh looked at the chair across from the bed as if he was seeing something or someone who wasn't there. It took a moment for him to look at the laird.

"Find a bride of warm flesh and blood to tempt Diarmuid away from Brigitta. If she fails, he will join Brigitta in an eternity of being a spirit haunting this land."