Chapter 32

Chapter 32

In the few minutes elapsed since Iseabal had left the cabin, she'd entered the skiff and was halfway across the cove. What she lacked in skill in rowing the small boat was more than made up in determination, Alisdair realized. Irritated, he commandeered his brothers' boat and followed her.

"Iseabal!"

She looked back once, frowned at him but didn't answer.

When he called out again she didn't bother to turn, simply beached the skiff, and disappeared into the cave. With any luck, the men would be hauling another cask up the steps and she'd be forced to wait. But she'd accidentally timed her ascent well, he discovered upon reaching the cave. One barrel had just been lifted and another was being tied to the winch ropes.

She had escaped while he was being forced to wait.

Leaving the priory, Iseabal halted, startled at the transformation that had occurred at Gilmuir in the past ten days. Barracks were being erected where the English fort had once stood. The cook was commanding his encampment while Brian and the other crewmen of the Fortitude were finishing up four stone walls of a cottage built away from the other structures. Dozens of barrels were aligned along the old castle's roofed corridor, along with extra tools. Wood was being culled from the forest and used for supports for yet another large structure, designed, she thought, to act as a community place during the time it would take to rebuild Gilmuir.

Sound gradually eased as saws and hammers, shovels and mortaring tools, were lowered. Even the flap of laundry along a line strung from two supports grew mute, as if the wind had suddenly ceased to blow.

Pockets of silence met her as she stood there, arms folded around her waist. The training of her childhood came to her aid as she slowly made her way past the villagers and the crew. Studiously ignoring them, Iseabal walked toward the land bridge, each step marred by the glares of men she'd thought she had come to know and strangers who hated her simply because of her birth.

If she were truly brave, as she'd once thought, she'd turn and address them all, tell them that they were wrong to judge her by kin alone. But her courage was not renewable, Iseabal discovered. Once spent, it was simply gone.

Her isolation would stretch out for a lifetime, a mirror of her childhood. Suddenly she couldn't bear it. Running across the land bridge, Iseabal headed for the forest.

Finally able to ascend the steps, Alisdair began looking for Iseabal. The crew and the villagers were looking toward the land bridge, expressions of anger on each face. As if, he thought, Magnus Drummond had strode onto MacRae land.

Not the father, Alisdair realized, following their gaze. But the daughter. The revelation was not a pleasant one. He'd been too selfish in his thinking, believing that Iseabal's restraint was directed toward him. What an idiot he'd been.

Alisdair found himself suffused by two emotions—regret and irritation. Brushing aside questions and ignoring the looks of his crew, he began to run, intent on reaching Iseabal.

Glancing over her shoulder at the sound of footsteps, Iseabal began running faster on seeing Alisdair. While she didn't fear her husband, neither did she wish for a confrontation at this particular moment. She felt on the verge of tears and too vulnerable for detachment.

Finding the overgrown path easily, Iseabal began following its winding course upward.

"Iseabal!"

She jerked, startled by the proximity of his voice.

Desperately, she glanced from right to left, looking for a thicket or some large boulder where she might find cover. Nearly obscured by thick branches and overgrowth was an entrance to a cave, a yawning shadow and a possible refuge.

Racing up the bank, Iseabal slipped inside. The cave was curiously intimate, graced by both darkness and filtered sunlight. The wind soughing through the trees whispered nature's poetry, the scent of pine and earth almost welcoming.

She peered out to find Alisdair closer than she'd thought. He stood, feet planted apart, both hands on his hips as if he commanded the forest itself.

A moment more and he would have seen her.

"Are you a ghost?" Alisdair called out, deliberately recalling their first meeting. In the sun-dappled shadows the pale blue of her skirt acted as a beacon against the slate walls of the cave.

"I remember the last time we were in this forest together," he said, taking one step closer to the incline. "We were laughing."

Iseabal didn't answer him, but then, he'd not expected a response. After all, she'd taken great pains to avoid him.

"I can understand why you might want to avoid people who are rude to you, Iseabal, but what have I done to hurt you?"

Slowly, he mounted the sloping ground in front of the cave.

"Perhaps I insulted you when I was senseless? Said something that you took amiss. Did I do that, Iseabal?"

No answer.

"Then perhaps it was a gesture. A look, a movement, some wave of hand that made you angry?"

Another step and he was on the shelf of stone leading to the cave. The place seemed oddly familiar to him. Words from a dozen years ago slipped into his mind. "It's a secluded place," his father had said. "One with many memories," he'd added, winking at Leitis.

"I'd not pursue that, Ian," she'd teased him back. "Not with all your sons listening."

"It's where we kept the MacRae treasure," his father explained.

"The MacRae treasure?" Hamish had asked eagerly.

"Not what you might think, Hamish," his mother had corrected, brushing a hand over his curls. "Not jewels, gold, and silver, but the possessions of simple people. Those things that made life worth living."

"A plate with a blue-and-white pattern," Ian had said, bringing his wife's fingers to his lips.

"Or a set of pipes once played by a gruff old man," she'd added, smiling at him as her cheeks bloomed with color.

Alisdair surveyed the entrance, turning to see what stretched in front of the cave. The pine forest had grown up around the cave opening, obscuring any view that might have once been possible of Gilmuir and the loch.

"Now," he said, anxious to solve a more pressing riddle than the MacRae treasure, "if I have done nothing, why are you running from me?"

"Perhaps I don't wish to speak to you," she said as he stepped into the cave.

"When is going to be a propitious time, Iseabal?" he asked dryly. "These last few days you've done nothing but ignore me."

Placing her palms against his chest, she suddenly pushed him with all her strength. He only rocked back on his heels, an action that seemed to further anger her.

"Don't you understand?" she shouted. "You've married a Drummond, and however much I might want to change that, MacRae, I can't!"

He shouldn't be so surprised. Her temper had been hinted at often enough, the flash of fire in her eyes demonstrated on numerous occasions before now. But the faint light sought out the sheen on her cheeks and it was only then that he realized she was crying.

"You're a MacRae, Iseabal," he said, reaching out to trap her wrists. She pulled away from him easily, took a few steps back until she was in the shadows once more.

"Tell that to your men," she said, wiping at her cheeks. "Or the villagers. Or your brothers. I notice you had no words to correct them."

"I don't comment every time an ass brays, Iseabal," he said, conscious that she was right; he'd not defended her as quickly as he should have.

"Every time I see one of your men, MacRae, they stare through me as if I'm not there."

"I am sorry for that, and for the hurt it caused you," he said, moving toward her. "But perhaps it isn't solely your birth they distrust, Iseabal, but your actions."

"So this is my fault, MacRae? My behavior that is wrong?" she asked, folding her arms in front of her and gripping each of her elbows. The tap of her foot against the slate floor warned him that his next words should be wisely chosen.

"It is not, Iseabal," he said, hearing the echoes of her childhood in her question. "If my men had not trusted you, they wouldn't have left you alone with me."

Threading his fingers through his hair, Alisdair wondered how to explain. "I've been with my crew through countless battles, Iseabal," he said. "Men form bonds when they're trying to survive. Bonds sometimes even stronger than family. I don't know if I can explain it." Placing both his hands on her shoulders, he drew her closer. She stiffened, but allowed him to put his arms around her.

Leaning forward, Alisdair pressed a kiss to her forehead, an absently fond gesture that amused him. The last emotion he felt at this moment was detachment. Instead, he was irritated, even angry, both at his own actions as well as Iseabal's.

"Nothing matters when you're trying to survive but the fact that a man is willing to support you, fight beside you. You don't see his nationality or his race, don't care about his language or his character. His appearance, his habits, his ancestry, none of these are important. Iseabal, you were in battle with my men. Rory told me what you did. You became one of them."

"Is that why they look at me as they do, Alisdair?" she asked, pulling away once more. "Or why they treat me with such disdain?" She began to walk away, as if wishing to keep the maximum amount of distance between them.

"But instead of protesting, Iseabal, you chose to allow your distance to speak for you." He turned toward her, impatient with his own inability to explain. But he was not prepared to live the rest of his life this way, with Iseabal remaining silent and cloistered in her thoughts. "What else are they supposed to think, but that you were repudiating them? I felt the same," he added. "I can't understand your silences or know your hidden thoughts. Am I to divine them, Iseabal? I am only a mortal man without the gift of hearing what you don't say."

"Where do you get your courage, Alisdair?" she asked quietly.

The change of topic annoyed him, but he answered nonetheless. "What makes you think I have an unending supply of it?"

"Because I've never seen you afraid."

"There are numerous occasions in which I've been afraid, Iseabal. More than I wish to recall."

"Yet I've never seen you doubt yourself, Alisdair, or seem unsure."

"Do you wish to see me weakened, Iseabal?" Her tears could accomplish that, he thought.

"You want my thoughts, Alisdair? They are terrible things sometimes, requiring a courage I don't know that I have."

"You are as brave as any of the men of the Fortitude, Iseabal," he assured her gently. "But instead of knowing that, you are acting like a freed bird who still sees the bars of her cage."

"Then here is the truth, Alisdair. I hate Magnus Drummond. I hate him for making me feel afraid, and I hate myself for being a coward. But I hate him even more for trying to kill you."

He said nothing as he followed the sound of her voice.

"I can bear the disdain of others, Alisdair; but I don't want to see you look at me as if you hate me."

"I wish that I could say I've always treated you well, Iseabal," he said, uncomfortable with that particular truth. "But my anger was never because of your birth."

"Why did you wish to stay married to me?" she asked, voicing a question he wished she had not posed.

"I could tell you it was your beauty," he said slowly. "Or," he continued, laying his palm against the warmth of her cheek, "I could say it was because this marriage was no fault of yours, and I could not punish you for it." He moved his hand to the back of her neck, fingers burying themselves in the hair at her nape. "Or even that it was the proper thing to do."

"Was it that?" she asked dispassionately.

"All of that, Iseabal," he said, suddenly wondering at the true meaning of courage. The words he wished to say were trapped behind a restraint as formidable as Iseabal's.

Her hands gripped his sleeves as she rested her cheek against his chest. Raising her arms, she linked her hands around his neck, held onto him in a way she'd never done before.

"We are man and wife, Iseabal," he said. "Partners in life. We must trust one another with our fears and our hopes and our wishes."

"Do you trust me?" she asked a moment later.

"With my life," he said easily. "But I want all of you, Iseabal. Your fears, your hurts, your uncertainties. I want your opinions, even your anger. Not coldness."

Standing on tiptoe, she gave him a quick, lighthearted kiss. But he caught her and held her close, deepening the kiss.

Steadying her chin, he widened his mouth, encompassing hers, touching the edge of her lip with his fingertip.

Her fingers felt for the opening of his shirt, but his hand halted them, raising each one to his mouth to stroke his lips across each knuckle.

Hands smoothed over her back, pressed against her waist, measured the curve of her breasts, as if he'd never before touched her body. The hunger he'd felt for her earlier had been interrupted by his brothers' arrival. Now it roared to life again in the darkness and privacy of this cave.

He kissed her once more, capturing her breath on a sigh and transmuting it to another sound, one of almost pained need. He wanted this, as his body craved air and food and water. He felt as if he were too slow in his ministrations, too delicate in his touch.

He gripped her suddenly, pulling her up until she could wind her legs around his waist. Slowly, he pressed her to the wall, reaching out with one hand to raise her skirts while bracing the other on the wall beside her.

An object fell to the floor with a heavy metal clang. Another sound immediately followed the first, this a soft, muffled groan of air so plaintive that it seemed like a woman's wail.

"What was that?" she asked as Alisdair gently lowered her to the floor. Iseabal fluffed her skirts before touching Alisdair's sleeve.

"I don't know," he said, moving to the side. He stretched his arms outward, then down, feeling the way in the blackness of the cave.

His earlier thoughts came to mind as he bent and fumbled on the floor for the object. His fingers traced the filigree design while he smelled the sour odor of pitted silver.

"It's the MacRae treasure," he said as his hands felt the lip of a stone shelf. In the Stygian darkness he encountered a variety of objects, their purpose and their design easily determined.

"A treasure?" she asked, her voice sounding amazed.

"A silver tray," he said, handing the fallen object to her. "Bagpipes," he added, his fingers moving across the sticky bag of a long-unused set of pipes. "A metal cup with an elaborately carved handle and an initial etched in the pewter."

Carrying the tankard to the cave's entrance, he held it out in the faint light.

"R?" Iseabal asked, coming to his side.

"I think it belonged to my great-grandfather," he said. "Ranulf MacRae."

"I found a necklace of blue rocks in the ruins one day, but I thought it was the only thing left of Gilmuir."

He linked his hand with hers and walked back to the shelf. The slate floor beneath his feet was pocked and worn, leaving Alisdair to wonder how many centuries his clan had hidden their wealth here.

What he had originally thought to be dozens of items turned out to be hundreds. Goblets and bowls, dusty fabric, the tight woolen weave beneath his fingers hinting at a tartan pattern. A wooden platter, bowls carved from MacRae trees. All items salvaged from a life lived at Gilmuir.

"Why did they leave all these things behind?" Iseabal asked.

"When they left Scotland with the Raven, they could only take one pack," he explained.

"So they left the rest here for safekeeping?" she asked wonderingly.

"Yes," he said, "and here they've stayed all this time."

The day, bright with sun and summer, lured him forward. Gritting his teeth, Fergus obeyed the summons.

His stump was inflamed, the pain constant and irritating. With small steps he'd made the journey, telling himself that Gilmuir was just over the next rise. In such a way he'd come this far, and he wasn't about to stop now.

He was a MacRae and not a man easily vanquished.

Only a little hill, Fergus. Don't look at the top, but at your foot and the crutch. Better yet, count the damn sheep. Where once the glens had been green and thick, now there was only a continuous flock of dingy sheep, moving from one hill to another like a great glutted worm.

Counting a beat in his mind, like the swing of his hammer against an anvil, Fergus measured his steps. A hundred and he was nearly halfway to the top. Another hundred or so more and he was there.

The sunlight glittering on the waters of Loch Euliss was a magical sight. So, too, the moment he turned to his right, shielding his eyes.

Gilmuir. He blinked several times, realizing that he was acting the fool. But, idiot or not, he felt his eyes mist over and a yearning fill him.

Where was the English fort? The last time he'd seen his home, the structure had sat so close to the old fortress that it looked to be nudging it over the cliffs. This wasn't the place of his dreams, Fergus realized. Still a ruin, but teeming with people and activity.

A movement to his left caused him to turn his head. Streaking across the glen was a mirage, a vision given to his willing mind in payment for his efforts. Leah, as she had been so long ago, racing to meet him in their secret spot. Her hair flew out behind her, her body bent over her horse as if she and the animal were one at this moment, flying over the ground with more joy than sense.

Watching her, he was taken back to another time, when he'd waited anxiously for her to join him. Secret lovers and public friends. He'd felt the same back then as he did at this moment, captivated and eager, love lodged so deep in his heart that it would never shake free.

Not a mirage, his mind told him, even as his heart warily acknowledged the truth. Not a vision from his past, but a woman, after all, her destination obviously Gilmuir.

Behind her, just emerging from the curve of land, was a troop of mounted men. But the twenty or so riders didn't concern him as much as those who followed on foot, their ranks uneven but their numbers impressive. They, too, were headed for the promontory.

Several questions needed to be answered, Fergus thought, beginning his descent to the glen. The first of them was why Gilmuir was being besieged. The second was the identity of the woman.

Measuring the distance, Fergus ignored his throbbing leg. Instead, he began planning a shorter route, if a more difficult one. As a boy, he'd been familiar with the forests surrounding his home. Now he'd discover how much he remembered.

"The least he could have done was leave our boat," Brendan complained, sluicing the water from his face. "It was a damn cold swim."

"I doubt he was thinking of us," James replied, his attention fixed on the cave paintings around him.

"Ionis's lady?" Hamish asked, moving to his side. James nodded. "The image of Iseabal." A tie to Gilmuir more fixed and real than their presence.

"Are you going up, then?" a man asked, threading three strands of rope through his hands. Behind him, a barrel was being fitted with two thick lengths of rope.

"We are," James said, leading the way up the staircase. The journey was made in silence as they navigated the ropes, pulling themselves up into the priory.

"I'd envisioned it differently," Brendan remarked, walking across the slate floor and peering through one of the fallen arches into the water below. "Less ruin and more building."

"I'd be careful if I were you, Brendan," Hamish cautioned. "You're standing where the major fell."

Brendan's face blanched and he stepped back carefully.

"She'll be sad to hear of its destruction," James said, his two brothers turning to look at him as if they'd shared that common thought.

"It's true," Hamish agreed. "Our mother does have a fondness for Gilmuir."

"I'll not tell her," Brendan said.

"And I'll not lie to her, Brendan," James countered. "Especially since Alisdair has plans to rebuild the old place."

"Do you think he can?" Hamish asked, looking around him at the ruins of the once great castle.

James began to smile, knowing his brother's obstinacy. "I do," he said, striding through the priory and out onto the rocky ground.

There, ahead of her, was the fortress of the MacRaes.

At first Leah thought that her eyes were playing tricks, but then she realized that it was no illusion after all. There weren't ghosts milling about in Gilmuir's courtyard, but people. A white canvas shelter stood just beyond the bridge of land linking the promontory to the glen, and still farther, it appeared as if some men were in the process of putting a thatch roof on a long, rectangular building. This was not a scene of despair or mourning, a fact which gave her some measure of hope.

At the land bridge, she slowed and dismounted, walking her horse across to the courtyard.

"Can I be of some assistance, mistress?"

Turning her head, Leah saw a young man with earnest hazel eyes standing in front of her. "The afternoon meal is being served now," he said, his arm sweeping out to indicate an encampment obviously dedicated to feeding all these people.

"I've not come for your food," she said brusquely, "but to find my daughter."

"Who might she be?" he asked kindly.

"Iseabal MacRae."

His face changed in that instant, becoming fixed, his lips narrow and straight. Even his eyes seemed to ice over.

"Drummond's daughter. And you're Drummond's wife?" he asked curtly.

She nodded, familiar enough with expressions of contempt. Drummond's power came with an unsavory reputation.

"I'm here to deliver a warning," she said. "My husband is on his way to Gilmuir with a force of men."

Turning, he signaled to a group and in moments, it seemed, she was being surrounded.

"Why would Drummond be coming here?" a tall young man said, stepping forward. His eyes were the same shade as Alisdair's, a feature that she hoped marked him as a relative.

"You're a MacRae?" Leah asked, feeling the tightness in her chest ease when he nodded.

"One reason only," she said bluntly. "To kill Alisdair."

"Why should we believe you?" another, shorter man demanded.

"Because of that," Leah said, half turning in her saddle. Slowly she raised her arm, pointing toward Fernleigh. One by one, they all followed her gaze, contempt and doubt vanishing as they stared.

There, on the horizon, was Drummond, his troop of mounted men and hired soldiers behind him.