Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

1 310, the Isle of Harris, the Western Scottish Highlands

Arne MacLeod stood next to his older brother Haldor on the headland above the village, pulling his coat around him against the freezing rain and the biting wind that tugged at their clothing like a fierce terrier.

Ignoring the rising storm that was heading in from the sea, and the rain coursing from his short blond hair and down his face and neck, he continued to stare out from their vantage point at the southernmost tip of Harris, out across the darkened, turbulent waters, towards the northern shore of the tiny island of North Uist. He knew it was there, but even with his sharp eyes, in such harsh conditions, it was impossible to make out the rocky coastline.

"There's nae a single boat out there tonight," Haldor observed just as it began to rain harder, as if a sluice gate in heaven had been opened.

"Anyone sailin' out there in this must have a death wish," Arne said with a sigh, his heart feeling as cold as the rain soaking him and trickling down inside his collar.

"Jaysus, 'tis gonnae be a bad one, I reckon," Haldor said, the wind plastering his long fair hair to his face.

"Well, there's nay point standin' out here in this. We're likely tae freeze our bollocks off," Arne replied.

"Aye, but there's still work needs doin' in the mornin'. We havenae finished speakin' tae everyone we need tae."

"Dinnae fash yersel', Braither. I have a room at the inn already. I'll stay there tonight and speak with the villagers we couldnae see today on the morrow. I've naethin' better tae dae," Arne told Haldor grimly. "Ye can get on home if ye like, before the storm really takes hold."

"Are ye sure about that?" Haldor asked, sounding doubtful and glancing at Arne sideways. "D'ye nae want tae get back tae the castle? Thorsten will be waitin' fer ye."

"Ach, he'll be all right. He's a strong wee laddie. He can dae without me fer the night, I reckon."

"Aye, maybe he can, but he's still young and misses his faither when he's away," Haldor said.

"Look, he's managed tae grow intae the best wee son a man could wish fer—and all without a maither." Arne frowned, wondering what had made him say it. He hardly ever alluded to Maeve at all, let alone mentioned her by name. It hurt too much. So, why now?

And he could tell by the way Haldor turned to look at him that his brother was surprised too. Haldor had no idea that every time Arne found himself near the sea, and the boats that plied their trade there, he could not help but wonder if it had been one of those boats which had taken Maeve from the island three years prior. He was sure she was definitely not on the island because during that time, he had searched for her everywhere.

But she had told him in the letter she left for him when she abandoned Thorsten not to search for her, that she was going far away where no one would ever find her. She had been as good as her word, for all Arne's efforts had proved pointless. She did not want to be found . Nae by me, at any rate.

But Haldor did not pursue the subject, likely because he had had his head bitten off too many times in the past when trying to broach the thorny subject. Perhaps because he wanted to get home before the storm hit.

Instead, he said, "Well, if ye're sure, I'll leave ye then and get back tae the castle," and clapped Arne on the back before going to mount his horse, which was tethered to a wind-bent tree with Arne's nearby.

"Aye, I'll be as quick as I can and report back tae ye," Arne said, following him and taking the reins of his own horse, intending to ride the mile or so back to the inn.

"All right. I'll see ye back at home when ye're done," Haldor said over his shoulder as he turned his beast north and rode away, giving a last salute.

"Aye, safe journey, Braither," Arne called after him, watching him disappear into the rain-filled darkness.

Once he was alone, Arne turned his back on the wild, wind-whipped sea and walked the horse slowly away from the sound of crashing waves, towards the lights of the tavern that were just visible through the driving rain in the distance.

He was halfway there, intent on a pint or three of strong ale to take the chill from his bones and help him sleep, when a terrible grinding sound fit to wake the dead rent the air. It stopped him in his tracks, for it sounded as though the heavens above were being torn asunder. The horse whinnied and snorted, pulling against the reins, spooked. Arne began stroking its nose and spoke comfortingly to it to quiet it.

He squinted through the rain at the sky, searching for a celestial source of the din. But there was nothing above he could make out. Then, suddenly, out of the murk came the distant shrieking and groaning sound of timber being violently pulled apart, followed by shrill screams of terror that ripped through the night.

A shipwreck! But who would be mad enough tae sail on a night like this?

The horse whinnied, bucking in panic. Arne gripped the reins to bring the frightened beast under control and swung himself into the rain-soaked saddle. He kicked the horse's flanks and sped towards the village and the nearby shoreline, where the dreadful sounds of a boat being shattered to pieces on the rocks grew louder, filling the darkness.

Soon he met others who were running down to the beach, and he hailed a passing youth. "Hey, lad, will ye take me horse back tae the stables at the inn?" he shouted to him, slipping from the saddle.

"Aye, Sir," the drenched youth replied, taking the reins Arne handed to him along with a few coins.

"Thanks, that's somethin' fer yer trouble," Arne said above the racket of the storm and the bone-chilling sounds coming from the shore. The lad hurried away with the frighted horse, while Arne ran the short distance down to the gravelly beach with the other villagers and stood panting, casting about in the turbulent semi-darkness to see what was happening and who needed help.

A few yards distant, he vaguely made out two older men helping another from the water, dragging him between them away from the lashing waves. The man appeared to be unconscious. He could be dead for all Arne knew, but he ran towards them, nevertheless.

"D'ye need help?" he shouted above the terrible crashing of the waves and the groans of the disintegrating vessel, which he could vaguely make out being tossed like a broken toy on the raging tide.

The rescuers laid the unconscious man on the sand and peered at Arne through the gloom while dashing water from their eyes. "He's all right, but there are more still in the water," one of them shouted, gesturing with his arm at the waterlogged man at his feet. "This one's the captain of the birlinn that's breakin' up. He sails these waters all the time."

"But why is he sailin' at night in a storm like this? That's pure madness!" Arne exclaimed, going closer to help them drag the captain farther away from the rushing waters.

"Aye, but his business is better carried out under cover of darkness, if ye get me meanin'. He deals in black market goods, givin' fugitives and the like passage tae the mainland," one of the rescuers explained as they laid the captain on safer ground. "He needs the darkness tae play his trade."

"Well, it's nae done him nor them any good this foul night," Arne responded, brushing sand from his hands and noticing that more people were arriving. Some carried lighted torches, casting a hellish light on the proceedings. Others were racing down the beach and splashing into the water, seeking other survivors. "I cannae see many of the passengers makin' it through this," he shouted to the two men, following behind as they raced back down the beach into the foaming sea.

Anxious to save as many of the poor souls as possible, he too waded out into the waves fully clothed, still in his boots, looking to aid more of the unfortunate ship-wrecked passengers being tossed up on the shore. Suddenly, he spotted something floating nearby, something white. A woman! He threw himself into the sea and swam as fast as he could towards her, against the frenzied, dragging tide, swallowing mouthfuls of the salt water as the tossing waves broke over him.

He finally reached her and took her limp body in his arms, brushing the lengths of her floating dark hair from his mouth as he turned on his back and towed her in until he could feel the bottom beneath his feet once more.

Then, he carried through the surging waves up onto the sand and gently laid her down near the growing line of bodies. The sopping mass of her hair was plastered her face, hiding her features, but he cared naught for that, wanting only to know if she was still alive.

He felt a spark of hope to see her chest moving. She was breathing shallowly, but he knew he had to act fast, for that could change at any moment. Some of the villagers came to aid him, holding their lighted torches high, others helping as he turned her on her side and thumped her back, to get rid of the water in her lungs.

For some reason he could not fathom, he felt very protective of her, whoever she was, and he was terrified she would die in his arms. When she finally started coughing violently, water running from her mouth, her entire body shaking, Arne slid an arm under her back to hold her up as she coughed and heaved.

To help her get some air, he pushed back the veil of dark hair obscuring her face, and his hand froze in midair as he stared down at the pale, almost blueish features revealed to him. As he took them in, the breath left his body in a rush, and his head went dizzy.

The face was as familiar to him as his own, as Thorsten's, for it belonged to the woman who had walked out on him and their son three years before. It was none other than the boy's mother. The only woman he had ever loved. The one who had ruined him forever.

Maeve!