Chapter 6

COAST OF EIGG - JUNE 20, 1384

W hat on earth was she thinking? The bìrlinn? 1 pitched and listed to the right as it rounded the coast of Eigg, and Moira dug her fingernails farther into the rough wooden deck. Rain splattered over them and soaked through her plaid. Helpless, she cowered against the bottom of the boat, bending forward to protect the missive tucked against her breast, and to avoid looking at the only thing that terrified her—the ocean.

"Are you all right, Mistress Allen?"

Moira raised her face and looked at Father McElduff. The round-faced and graying priest narrowed his eyes at her. "Oh dear. You've gone green."

Aye. Her stomach pitched as the bìrlinn dropped over another wave. Sickened, she raised a hand and motioned him away.

He gestured to a young Irishman who was hanging so far over the side of the boat, his backside pointed north. "If you say so, lass. But if you get the need to be sick, just hang over the side like Father Tierney is doing."

Hanging over the side of the bìrlinn was not an option. Not for her. The thought of the black depths of the sea below made the shaking return. Sweat erupted over her forehead. She would hang on to the contents of her stomach if it killed her, which felt like a distinct possibility.

Fraught by nerves and nausea, she ran over the details of her father's plan once more in her mind. Father McElduff sat down on the bench in front of her, ignoring her silent gesture to be left alone.

"Have you thought about how you're going to communicate? Which of the MacLean brothers are you trying to reach? Lachlan?"

Moira tried to remember the name Léo had scrawled on the page through the panic in her mind.

"Hector?"

The bìrlinn skittered to one side and she made a silent yelp as she rolled into Father MacElduff's legs.

Lachlan? Hector? The names meant nothing to her. As the boat righted itself she curled inward, slipping the missive up and stealing a look, then shoved it back down her leine.

She shook Father MacElduff's shoe. Trembling, her hands formed letters. H-E-C…

"Ahh Hector. He's a fearsome man, they say. Just elevated to noble chief for his successes against the Wolf. Largest holder of land of any of the chiefs now. Reckon the king is afraid of him?"

She shook her head back and forth with force, not daring to raise her eyes and catch a glimpse of the black waves.

The sails caught a gust of wind and the bìrlinn skittered with speed to the left. Her stomach rushed to the right, and she tightened her grip on the wood. O God, please don't let me vomit.

"Have you heard his nickname?"

Why, oh why, did she have to be travel companions with the chattiest priest in all Scotland and Ireland? All she wanted to do was lay her cheek on the bottom of the boat and pray. She shook her head again.

"Beithir."

The venomous monster famous for stalking its victims with poisonous sting and chasing them to the lochs to consume them. A shiver momentarily replaced her need to be sick. She looked up into the pouring rain at old Father Mac and raised an eyebrow.

"Aye. Accountin' for his midnight escape from Lochindorb castle with his wife. The one he pitched Elspeth MacKinnon over for. Tore men apart with his bare hands to save her, nearly kicked the brains out of the Wolf."

Out of habit she looked around for Niall MacKinnon's lackeys before remembering she was safe on a boat of Irish priests loyal to the King of the Isles.

"They say he's got the strength of twenty men. Ugly as sin. Dangerous with sword, lethal with axe. Berserker, they say."

Moira swallowed, wondering who ‘they' was. Father Mac inclined his head to an older priest, whose head lopped forward over his chest, his jowls flapping with snores. "Father McCaffrey says otherwise. Says the Beithir's a man of God. Pure of heart. There's others on Iona say he's often there when he's not traveling the Isles."

A berserk man of God?

"Are you sure Hector MacLean is the MacLean chief you're supposed to meet? It's only…your father says you're traveling to visit Lady MacLean with healing herbs?"

Her father's concocted story. The story that caused her skin to crawl against the need to repent. Lord please don't punish me and toss me back into this ocean. Trying to think of dry land, Moira nodded.

"It's only…Lady Cara MacLean is not…that is…she's with child. She hasn't had a…woman time."

Moira cringed and tried to think of a lie when all she wanted to do was confess the truth. With her hands she motioned a pregnant belly in front of her, then a baby in her arms, then fished the jar of herbs from her pack, holding it up, and mouthed the words, for after the delivery.

"Well that I am sure he will appreciate. Anything to help keep her safe. They say the Beithir is fierce protective of her. Doesn't tolerate anyone speaking a word against her. Some fools in his clan attacked her last year and they say he raised a man up in one hand and choked him to death. They also say he almost killed the MacNeil chief at a council meeting last year for calling her—something unladylike. Yes, they say a fast way to die is look the wrong way at his wife. He doesn't tolerate it."

She gulped.

"I'm sure she'll be grateful for anything to help with…em…woman's complaints. You're a cousin of one of the MacLeans, your father was saying? "

Moira made a face she hoped looked like agreement, uncomfortable with the lie Father wanted her to tell.

The boat pitched violently down and back up again, and she prayed for God to forgive her. What was she doing in a flimsy bìrlinn in the midst of a storm? Why was she doing anything for a man she hardly knew and seeking out a berserker for him?

"End of December it were when the Beithir got his wife out of Lochindorb. If you ask me, with the cold and the number of men guarding the Wolf's castle—in the middle of a loch, no less—he had to have help. They say Laird MacKinnon's brother was there."

Moira froze and dared look up at Father Mac, skin prickling and heart squeezing.

"Course he's a half-brother. Favorite of his father growing up, he were."

The pieces fitted into place. End of December? Léo came to Cràdh half-dead the first of January. The boat skittered to the right with force and she hung on for dear life.

A deep rumble of laughter came from Father Mac. "That boy was the only likable child poor Laird MacKinnon ever had. Son of Blanche d'Audrehem, the woman he took for leman." For a few moments the auld man's wizened face went dreamy. "I saw her once. Most beautiful woman I've ever seen—not even Elspeth MacKinnon could rival her beauty or kindness. Eyes the color of raw amber, hair the color of sand after the tide's gone out."

Léo.

"His brothers always resented him. I'm sure you can imagine how Lady MacKinnon felt about it, having her husband's illegitimate child under her own roof, and his leman." His voice dropped to a loud whisper. "Blanche died, then his father the same week. Poisoned, they say. Not a week later his brothers dumped young Léo in France. Not more than seventeen. Been there ever since, I've heard. Some muckety-muck in the French court, they say. No, I'd not be surprised to hear Léo was involved in working against his brother. I don't know how he'd know the Beithir though."

The bìrlinn bucked upwards and the disc of Léo's necklace pattered against her breast, bouncing off the missive. Clutching the rough sketching paper through her wool gown, she held it steady and bent forward to protect it from the driving rain, unwilling to let it come to ruin.

Thunder cracked overhead and a violent gust of wind pushed the bìrlinn faster through the surf and her hands gripped the soaked wooden boards. Father McElduff kept talking as if there was nothing wrong, but his voice was lost in the storm. Dear God please don't let me die. Forgive me, Lord.

The hood of Father McCaffrey's brat fell over his eyes and he continued to sleep. These Irishmen were crazy. Lightning streaked across the heavens and she gripped Father McElduff's ankle in fear.

"Only…clouds. Not toward…we'll be fine."

Fine? This wasn't fine. Her mind drowned in the whirlpool of her memories. The dolphin's glossy back. Cold black water. Think of something else…anything else. She squeezed her eyes shut.

Léo's warm hands settling the necklace around her, the feeling of her beating heart as his face nuzzled beside her ear. His breath upon her neck, his lips brushing over the skin. His rough, gentle hands upon her throat. She forced that memory away as hard as the memories of her near-drowning in the surf, feeling foolish.

Gabriel. That was why she was here. Not Léo. Some little boy in France was missing his da, thinking he was dead. That little boy deserved to know his da was alive and hadn't forgotten him, and loved him very much.

Oh very much, indeed. The story of Gabriel's birth and the loss of his wife had torn Léo, and her heart, to pieces. By the love in his voice when he'd talked about the little boy's thumb sucking and curiosity, and the way Léo's eyes had filled with such affection as he held her drawing, she'd known with all her heart he was a good, attentive father. He'd pressed his lips to the page and shuddered with emotion, needing his boy, needing the link to his wife.

Regret that she hadn't come to Cràdh Prison when he'd first asked assailed her. He'd wanted to see the only piece of his wife he had left, and she had been caught up in her own hurt.

Moira's heart cracked a little further thinking of their afternoon together. After all her wondering, it turned out he did remember their kiss, but he remembered the regret even more. Of course he did. No man wanted Moira the Mute.

The chains tightened around her heart. That was all right. He did not know. No one did. She wasn't Moira the Mute. She was Aileen the Brave.