Chapter 16

DUN RINGILL CASTLE - JULY 4, 1385

T he first heat wave of the season had descended over Dun Ringill. Moira shifted uncomfortably in the dense gown that buttoned all the way to her throat, and wished with all her heart she was home on Breacais in a simple linen leine, or better yet, soaring the lofty branches of the pines surrounding Loch na Beiste in her sleeveless tunic and hose, preparing to sketch.

Isobel wrapped a plait around the back of Moira's head and pinned it in place, then patted the icy blue silk at her shoulder. "You look lovely, dearie. This color does bring out your eyes."

A color that she had once loved and now loathed. It was the only color Niall allowed her to wear when important guests were expected, as if she were an object he got out to flaunt in front of slimy men.

Niall barged in without bothering to knock, sweating in an absurd, too-small velvet doublet. "You look beautiful as always, my dear." He held out a box.

Mentally, she became his demure leman, gave him an encouraging smile, and trained her eyes to look as empty as they could. With a flourish he opened the ornate wooden box, revealing a jeweled circlet with fleurs-de-lis rising in points all the way around. Without Niall having to say whom it had belonged to, or what it symbolized, she knew. This was the coronet of Blanche d'Audrehem, Léo's mother—and just as Blanche had been forced to wear a symbol of her ownership, Moira would now be forced to wear it.

It fit as if it were made for her, crowning her, chaining her, as he pushed it over her forehead. "Aye. Just as I thought. It suits you, my jewel."

Suited her like leg irons.

He held out his arm. "Come dear, there is someone I'd like to show you off to."

Isobel fanned out Moira's long skirt, and Niall led her from her chamber like a mismatched king and his jester. Lifting a silent prayer to the Lord, she asked for him to make her mind sharp, her flesh obedient, and her memory astute. Every bit of information she could gather could be weaponized against Niall. She raised her head and squared her shoulders, taking a confident step into the solar.

Malvina's voice lifted with unusual cheer as they entered. "Ah, here he is."

Her breath shuddered to a stop and she wavered, struggling not to gasp. There, standing before the hearth was a fully restored, and nearly unrecognizable, Léo.

She wobbled as Niall's hand came to her elbow in a show of care and ownership. Tears sprang into her vision and she blinked them away, mindful of Malvina's intense stare over her appearance.

"You remember Mistress Moira Allen."

He was wearing the same blue tunic she had sewn over many weeks, the same russet color trews. Only the tunic now clung to thickened biceps and chest, and the trews to powerfully muscled legs. A long beard covered his chin and chest, but his eyes were the same. Her stomach flipped. Those honey brown eyes. Their parting kisses. Mindful of Malvina's eyes upon her she restrained her urge to smile, but oh how she wanted to.

Léo walked toward her, a hardness in his expression as his eyes roved from her toes up to her head. His eyes narrowed on the coronet and her heart broke at his expression. This was why Niall had made her wear it. She was the leman of Laird MacKinnon, the heir to his mother's position, the physical reminder of Léo's place in the MacKinnon family. Chest heaving, she longed to yell out that it wasn't what he thought, she hadn't allowed Niall to touch her, that she was on Léo's side alone.

Léo's roughened hand took hers and he pressed his soft lips to the back of her hand, causing gooseflesh to rise on her arm. "Mademoiselle Allen."

The hardness in his voice matched the hardness in his eyes. He dropped her hand.

Had he forgotten her? If only she could get his attention, perhaps she could give him a sign, a gesture, to let him know how much she had longed for him.

Dropping back to Niall's side, she let him guide her to their bench. As she had for weeks, she behaved as the perfect leman, curling beside Niall on the seat and putting her hand in his, angling into him and smoothing her hand over his arm and along his neck. Despite her disgust with his merciless cruelty to his brother, he must be at his most pliable.

Shame built in her chest. For weeks she had been able to perform without thinking about what she was doing, but now she could see herself and her sins mirrored in Léo's sharp expression.

Despite the intensity in his eyes, Léo's voice remained calm. "I see you have adjusted well to life at Dun Ringill."

She hadn't. A powerful longing for her father, her mother, for the comfortable cottage by the sea, for the feel of Léo's embrace affected her as it hadn't for months. But of course, she was unable to respond except to give a slight nod, and a longing look into Niall's fecal-colored eyes.

Niall lifted her hand and put his vile lips where Léo's had been. "I've at long last found a leman who can please me. In every way."

Her eyes closed. It's a lie, Léo. He's never…

"I can see she does. Some women are suited to that life, I suppose."

Léo's words ran through her like Niall's sword had run through her father. She clutched her stomach with her left hand.

Niall touched her cheek. "Claret, please, Moira."

Without thinking or rebelling, she rose to her feet and behaved as his devoted leman would. Collecting three goblets from the shelf, it occurred to her that from her position behind Niall and Malvina, Léo could see her but they couldn't. She stared at him, but he would not raise his eyes to hers, seeming focused on Niall and Malvina's tedious small talk about the upcoming harvest.

Please look at me Léo. She filled three glasses and brought one to Malvina, and to Niall. She passed inches from him, but he would not look at her. As she returned to collect the third glass, the door burst open.

"I'm sorry, I couldn't hold it any longer. It was a long journey from Pabay."

Four heads turned in Gordon's direction. His eyes raked over her. "Wine, wench."

No one told him to watch his language this time. That is what she'd become. Heart crumpling in on itself she picked up the third glass and handed it to Gordon and returned to the table, lingering, praying. God please, please let him look at me.

Léo's eyes lifted to hers. Behind Niall, she mouthed the words she couldn't speak. I've missed…

His eyes hardened and he looked back at Niall.

… you every day.

Why was he acting this way? Scorching her with unspoken judgment without knowing what she'd been through at the hands of his brother and stepmother for the last eleven months. All she longed to do was to run into his arms and hold on to him, and he was treating her as if…as if he despised her.

If she could only hold his gaze. She filled Léo's cup and approached him, praying that this time he would give her a sign that he understood.

Extending the cup to him, she raked her eyes over him in a sensual way and then dropped them demurely, trying to show him it was all an act. His mouth fell open for a moment, and he recovered, taking the goblet from her fingers without another glance. Deflated, she returned to Niall and let him draw her onto his sweating lap.

"Now we're all settled… I've asked you here because I've been suffering from the most pestilential dream the past few months. Gordon informs me that you've a gift for interpretation. I assume you've quite the talent owing to your gain in size."

Léo sipped his claret, a brief expression of pleasure crossing his face, before he continued. "I've interpreted several. The guards have been generous."

The Shield had been generous. When Moira had last seen him he was a bony shadow of the man he was. Here, now…he looked… she realized she was staring when his hateful eyes met hers, and embarrassed, she looked away. Niall squished her closer, heat growing in the stuffy room.

"I've a mind to punish Mowbray for not keeping that in check." Moira sensed the beginnings of Niall's temper, and she ran her nose along Niall's cheek and kissed it until his expression softened. "Well…let's see if you can do something for me."

Léo swirled the claret in his glass and drew it to his nose and breathed it in, then tilted it back, letting it wash over his lips. When he'd sipped the wine, he spoke with a note of authority in his voice. "As memory serves me, brother, the last dream we spoke of earned me an extended stay in France."

Malvina snarled like a tiny dog provoked by Léo's very presence. "The cheek. You haven't changed at all."

Moira ran her fingertips along Niall's neck, encouraging him to remain soft.

Niall cleared his throat. "Of course, your dream was a lie to taunt my brother and I. This dream is my own, I know it's real. And I believe it's meaningful."

Léo sipped his wine. "Understand that I do nothing for free, brother. I am a MacKinnon after all." His family name ground out from his lips with bitterness.

"First I need to know where your loyalties lie."

"My loyalties lie with myself. I cannot pretend I care anything for the Wolf, but my time in prison has helped me see that any misguided loyalty to the Beithir, or whatever he calls himself now, is a waste of my time. He left me there to rot. My only desire is to get to France and to my son. Can you promise that if my interpretation of your dream proves true that you will allow me to leave and return to France?"

A knife of betrayal tore at her heart. Of course he should be with his son, but did he speak in earnest? Did he not care for Hector, for their clan? His tone was so convincing she wasn't sure .

"You ask too high a price for a prophecy. I can give you your old room and a position equal to Gordon running the granaries. He can watch after you, and you can watch after him. If your interpretation is true, and your loyalties are proven, then I will consider further gifts."

Malvina and Gordon both sprang to their feet, protesting the sudden turn of events.

Gordon recovered first. "Have you forgotten he's a prisoner?—"

Niall pushed Moira off his lap and she tumbled onto the floor as he squared off with Gordon. Léo's eyes locked on hers for the first time and he shifted forward in his seat.

"No. And I haven't forgotten your under harvest, either," Niall snapped. "My brother may be traitorous, but he understands how to conduct a proper reaping. His experience with the King of France would benefit me, and his eyes on you would be surety that you don't fail me again."

Léo drained his glass and waved it at her. "More."

At least he had not added wench. Befuddled, she got to her feet and refilled the empty goblet. For a moment, he had taken notice of her.

Léo bargained. "I want clothes. And a sword."

"I can get your trunk out of storage, and your estoc was in Elspeth's things that arrived from Lochindorb."

Moira walked the glass of wine back to Léo and he gave her a look of disgust as he took the glass.

Confused, swallowing her urge to cry, she sat back down next to Niall and let him lean his sweaty body over her and kiss her lips deeply. Léo would be delivered from prison—she ought to rejoice. Yet her heart was crushed. Whatever they had once shared was gone.

Ardis pushed into the room with a tray of pastries. Léo's eyes flicked over her. "I want a woman as well."

Ardis placed the tray down and came forward, her dark hair setting off the fairness of her skin, the blue of her eyes, and the red of her lip. She leaned her bosom toward Léo and smiled. What woman wouldn't smile with a man so handsome interested in her?

"I would be most happy to oblige."

" Bon. " The pleased little word ground her heart beneath his heel.

Moira's chest tightened and her throat constricted. She looked away at the ragged crack in the plaster trying to appear like the empty-headed fool every person in this room thought she was.

"I'd not mind a special attendant myself while here." All eyes flew to Gordon, everyone having forgotten he was even in the room. "Perhaps Moira has some time to see to my needs."

Horrified, she shifted beside Niall, praying he wouldn't be so cruel.

"That—" said Niall his tone menacing, "is out of the question. She is far too busy every afternoon and night pleasing me." Ardis, Gordon, Malvina, and Léo all stared at her. Two expressions of interest, one of disgust, one of deep disappointment.

Leo scoffed. "What, the mornings are devoted to prayer?"

Niall set his glass on the side table with a thunk. "Hold your tongue or you'll go back to Cràdh."

Thoroughly humiliated, she barely hung onto her composure. Niall caught her expression and his sweaty hand caressed her cheek. "Don't listen to him, my prize."

Léo's expression became flinty. "Tell me your dream or I might as well return."

Niall tightened his hold on her. "A lion, thick with mane and muscled of body, walked straight out of Loch Slapin. He made his home in the rushes and waited to pounce upon Dun Ringill."

Chill prickled her scalp as she listened to Niall describe his dream aloud, the dream he had told her weeks ago, the dream she was certain came from God.

"Patiently he waits in the rushes, and I know he is there, but I cannae scare him away. After a time a unicorn comes out of the loch as well. The unicorn is malevolent and unable to be controlled, he tramples upon any man in his path and consumes them when they're dead. After the unicorn has consumed everyone around Dun Ringill he lunges at the lion, but the lion springs from the rushes and devours the unicorn. Just before I wake, an eagle descends from the air, shooting fire from its beak, the flames consuming Dun Ringill and everything around it but the lion. I have told it to all the servants and to Father McElduff in Kyleakin, but no one can interpret it."

The two lines above Léo's right eyebrow deepened. "God is revealing to you what he is about to do. Unicorns represent your power and ideals, and the lion represents courage and strength."

Niall barked with laughter. "I thought you would tell me that the lion represented you, and the unicorn represented me."

When Niall told Moira his dream it was the first thought that came to her mind. Léo the lion, and Niall the unicorn, because he aligned himself with Scotland.

Léo chuckled. "They're symbols of the clan. The lion, the unicorn, and the eagle. The lion is the strength of the clan, the unicorn is the ambition of the clan, and the eagle, the hope of the clan."

Malvina lowered her glass, her face looking astonished at his perceptiveness. Niall frowned. "But what does it all mean?"

"It means that you must exercise caution as laird to ensure that your ambitions are correct, for there is one who is ready to destroy you. Yet despite a trial by fire, hope will deliver the clan."

Niall looked pleased with the interpretation. "Strength will not deliver us? The lion devours the unicorn."

Léo shook his head. "The lion is not the savior of the clan, but the eagle."

Niall made a discontented sound. "Hope is it?"

Léo's eyes met hers. "Aye. Hope."

Moira hid on the edge of the encampment, her face, legs, and hair covered in black. Three rings of tent groups surrounded the trebuchet, but none could see her among the shadows. Training her eyes on the patrol, she stayed concealed in the bracken until they made the turn toward the opposite end of the camp.

She hefted the bucket and brush. They would know she was here soon enough.

Stalking through the rows of tents, she approached the wooden beast, attuning her ears to the sounds of snoring men and listening for movement as Angus trained her to do.

She assessed her exits as Hector had taught her. She would coat the structure, then head east, through the barest patch of tents. From there, she would ascend into the trees to avoid detection, making her way out of the forest and toward the moors. Once she ran the moors, she would hop into the skiff and sail herself away.

Moira shuddered. The sailing bit was the worst part. She'd stuck to the coastline on the way here, and managed not to get sick. She bowed her head, praying a request she felt she had no right to ask after her months pretending to be Niall's leman. Lord, please help me. I know I was made for more than this.

For weeks she'd begged Hector, Iain, and Calum to allow her to infiltrate the camp on Sleat to destroy the siege engine, but they'd refused. Insisting it was far too dangerous to attempt a second time and assuring her that they would come to destroy it when patrols were low.

But patrols were not decreasing, they were increasing. That evening at their rendezvous she'd pleaded with Calum to sail her to Sleat, but he rebuked her, saying that Hector had given her a direct order to wait until the time was right. Moira placed the bucket on the platform and jumped up beside the machine, determination solidifying her resolve. Between Calum's dismissal and Léo's cruelty, she'd had enough of men for one day.

The unfairness of being ordered to wait until the time was right for everyone else smarted. She was the one running out of time and taking the risk. Indeed, that very night Niall had stayed at her door for hours, encouraged by her increasingly bold behavior. He had pleaded, then pounded, then stomped off to his room that evening assuring her that the next time he saw her, the long wait for her to fully become his leman would be over. No—there would be no more waiting after tonight. Not unless there was a distraction. A big one.

Hulking the bucket up, she climbed atop the machine and shimmied up the long arm. It wobbled against her weight, but stayed aloft. When she made it to the top of the arm she adjusted the bucket and began painting the pitch, then scooted her way down. After ten minutes, the arm was covered. She paused at the bottom of the frame and found the patrol still lingering at the back of the camp, unaware that she was sabotaging the very siege engine they were tasked to protect.

Descending the large triangular framework, she coated tar as fast as she could. A noise sounded on the edge of the camp and she stilled. The stink of the pitch was powerful enough to give her away if anyone in the first ring bothered to wake up. She waited. An owl hooted on the edge of the clearing.

Lightning? What was he doing here? She hardened her heart. He wouldn't stop her. No one would. Niall MacKinnon would be brought low, Malvina, Fingon, and yes even Léo, after all she'd done to try and help him. The whole MacKinnon family could make their beds in Sheol as far as she was concerned.

Upending the bucket she poured the remaining contents out, then set it on its side, pulling fists of hay from within her tunic. It was properly stuffed. Time to run.

Sprinting through the clearing, she made her way east, pausing near a tent on the edge of the camp. Its fire was burning low.

Removing the wad of cotton from her pouch, she stuffed the basket of the four-pronged arrow, pitch from its pre-dipped head leaving black streaks along her fingers. She wiped them on the leather of her trews, then held the arrow into the embers until it caught. An owl sounded from the wood, this time closer.

Ignoring Calum, she nocked the arrow just as Murdoch had taught her, the same way she'd been doing each night for weeks in the cover of night, in the forest outside Dun Ringill. She lined her shot, drew, angled, and released.

Orange flame arced across the sky and sank into the hay of the bucket. She'd done it. Flame burst forth from the bucket and spread out over the base of the trebuchet. In seconds, a blast of fire that sounded like rushing wind streaked up the frame, the arm of the trebuchet, and burst into an inferno. Tent flaps began to open around the trebuchet and flames leaped onto them.

Run. Not looking behind her, she sprinted into the wood and made for the trees. Light behind her grew, and grew, and became so bright she paused to look back. The innermost ring of tents had gone up in flame, lighting the boughs of the trees hanging overhead. Flame jumped with speed from one dried pine to another, coming right toward her.

A hand closed around hers and she turned, eyes wide. Calum held onto her, his face contorted with fury.

The trees no longer an option for safety, they sprinted, her long legs keeping pace with Calum's for the first two minutes. They crested the ridge line and she looked back. All three rows of tents were up in flames and men streamed away from the wildfire, straight toward her. She began to lag behind. Calum turned and tossed her over his shoulders in one smooth movement.

Horrified, she watched as three hundred men pursued them as he sprinted over the hills. Calum's grip tightened over her rear end as he sprinted, his muscular shoulders hitting her over and over in her gut.

"What in the world were you thinking, Birdy?"

She opened her mouth, but couldn't answer.

Anger punctuated every word. "I've. Never. Been. So. Angry."

His long legs stretched and charged up the hill. The closest man was now only ten yards away, sword drawn. She beat on his back, trying to let him know that the men were almost on them.

Calum changed direction and ran west, jumping down a rocky slope, stumbling forward, but stayed on his feet. The men clustered behind them confused, then regrouped and resumed the chase.

Racing at a pace she wouldn't have thought humanly possible, he galloped across the moors, increasing a gap of twenty yards over their pursuers. His breath came in rhythmic bursts. In, in, out.

Coming down the last moor, he hefted her onto his other shoulder and turned southeast. She beat on his back and pointed across his face toward the western shore.

He slapped her hand out of his face. "We don't have time to row a bloody skiff all the way to Dun Ringill!"

Legs pumping, he made his way through a rock formation and down a boat slip, tossing her into the bìrlinn where Iain waited. "GO!"

"OARS!"

They all three pulled on the oars in tandem, creating distance between bìrlinn and the shoreline. The men rushed onto the slip and arrows sank into the wood of the boat.

Iain put one hand on her head and shoved her to the deck. " Stay down, ya mad wooman. Let's hope they don't hit the sail."

After two minutes of rowing a mighty wind raked up over the sea and Iain loosed the sheets, the bìrlinn racing away through the waves.

Calum hauled her up until she was eye level with him. "What on earth were you thinking? You nearly got yourself and us killed! I knew you were up to something when you dropped the argument this evening instead of pressing and pressing me like you had for weeks."

She pushed him away and began signing, furious that once again everyone wanted her to digest what they wanted but wouldn't listen to her voice. What was I supposed to do? You wouldn't help me when I asked!

Iain steered the boat speeding at broad reach. "Aye. He wouldnae help you cos ye wanted tae disobey orders. Orders! Does tha' word mean anaethin to ye, wooman?"

She moved in front of Iain, signing in front of his face so she couldn't be ignored. Not when Niall MacKinnon is knocking at me door for hours every night and trying to break in on the nights he's in a bad mood! What am I supposed to do? Let him in? I needed a distraction.

They looked at each other and Calum threw up his hands.

Iain groaned. "Noo hoo are we supposed tae argue with tha'?"

Calum shook his head. "I dinnae ken, but Chief MacLean's going to be furious."

Furious? Why?

Iain burst with indignation. "Because ye didnae follow orders! As we've been sayin'! Are ye no' listenin'? Ye need yer ears cleaned oot?"

But I did it. I took down the siege engine. A siege engine meant for D-U-N-V-E-G-A-N.

"We dinnae know it was for Dunvegan, we are just goin' oan yer word!"

Hurt cramped her heart and she was unable to toss his words aside like a man might have done. What was it for then, Sea? It weren't for sending a man across the country by way of air travel. What other keep named D-U-N-V-E-G-A-N is on Skye? A keep owned by a chief who doesn't care anything about the Wolf and is friends with the Beithir.

Cowed, Iain held his tongue.

Calum breathed out hard and plonked down on a bench. "The siege engine went up in a huge ball of fire. You should have seen it. Lit up the whole area. Then before you knew it she had taken out every tent and tree on Sleat. "

Moira took the seat beside Calum and shook a curl out of her eyes. My bucket was leaking .

Iain spluttered, then chortled, then broke into hysterical laughter. "Yer doolally. Carryin' a leaky bucket o' pitch around a camp o' three hundred caterans—wi' open flame and fire aboot— climbin' their siege engine."

Calum drew his brow down trying to give them both a stern look. "It isnae funny. She coulda been killed. …Although I didnae expect that whoosh, and for the fire to shoot down a row of tents like that. Like a dragon had just flown overhead."

Iain secured the sheets. "Nae. No' a dragon." He made her little beak with his fingers, opening and closing it. "A wee Birdy."