Chapter Sixteen

Fiona sat in the solar of the impressive MacLeod castle and felt as significant as a gnat. Every woman here had a role in the tightly knit society, and unlike at Dungarbh—where she acted as Traci’s translator—she had no such role.

Over in the corner, several women embroidered linens. Nope, she’d probably stab her finger and bleed all over the expensive fabric and colorful threads.

At another table, two women practiced a composition on a lute and viol. Fiona didn’t have a musical bone in her body.

In another corner, by the light from a narrow slit in the stone wall, an elderly lady spun yarn, her fingers working the drop spindle and wool with a deftness that would make a reenactor weep.

Fiona, however, was sitting at a small table drinking a “restorative” that didn’t taste half bad, but when finished she’d have no more excuse for being idle. She’d been grateful, however, for the bath. She’d made sure to thank the servants who’d had to lug up all that water. Traci and Fiona had become used to the more regular sponge baths, so this had been a luxurious treat.

The chief’s wife, Florence, breezed into the room, shifting everyone’s attention. She carried a heavy book, larger and fatter than any Fiona had ever seen, and dropped it onto a long table near the vertical-slit window. Dust bloomed upward, catching the light, and settled. Intrigued, Fiona stood and moved closer. She’d met Florence when they’d arrived and had found her reserved, but strangely approachable.

“What is that?”

Florence glanced up with a small smile and caressed the leather-bound book, something that, quite honestly, looked like some spell book from a fantasy novel. Florence’s dark hair was swept up into a simple style, setting off her rectangular face.

“ ’Tis the Red Book of Clan MacLeod. We’ve had some recent additions to our family, and I mean to update it.”

Holy crap. Her dad would be in fits right now if he were here. Fits.

Many of their fellow enthusiasts at the Highland Games would rhapsodize about the rare clan genealogies, which many called red books, that still existed. Many also talked about those that were lost. Her main pal at the games was a Robertson, and their clan—Donnachaidh—had lost theirs around this time to a fire.

To see one being used!

Florence thumbed it open as if it were any old thing, shifted a large chunk of pages to the left, and flipped until she came to a section she seemed to be searching for.

Humming softly, she removed several letters from her pouch and laid them beside the book.

Should she ask?

Yes. Yes, she should. “Can I help you?”

Florence looked up in surprise. “Can ye read?”

Fiona nodded. Behind her, the door scraped open. A servant entered with a quill and ink, and Florence settled into the carved oak, throne-like chair in front of the book.

“Well then, ye can aid an old woman’s eyes by reading me the portions of these letters which name their new babes and marriages.”

Fiona almost squeed, she was so excited. Finally, she didn’t feel so useless. Plus, helping record the clan’s genealogy was something she’d pay to do. What an opportunity.

She was helping to record history. Literally.

She dragged a chair over, and her excitement helped to forestall her worry about what role she could have if she made her life with Duncan here in 1689. Traci would soon not need her as a translator.

What kind of duties did a wife of a warrior have in a larger household? She looked over at the ladies spinning and embroidering. If she was supposed to just make pretty things, she was doomed.

She settled into the chair and accepted the first letter from Florence. She glanced at it and the Red Book, a new thread of excitement buoying her. Perhaps she could see if Iain’s clan needed a family historian.

She gripped the heavy parchment and squinted at the unfamiliar handwriting. She’d scoured plenty of old documents helping her dad research their family, so she was used to the dips and swirls, but reading it in Gàidhlig was a little more challenging than she’d thought.

“Bottom of the first page is when she starts, I think,” Florence said.

Fiona skimmed, and finally the words gelled. She’d be a little embarrassed at how haltingly she read it, but luckily Florence must have assumed this was her low level of competence at reading instead of it being the fact that it was in Gàidhlig. She patiently allowed her to sound out the words.

Soon, Fiona got the hang of the writer’s quirks of the pen and read faster.

But then Duncan’s name filtered to her from the ladies’ conversation, and she faltered.

Florence’s voice pulled her away from the nearby gossip. “Tormod married whom last Whitsun?”

“I-I’m sorry.” Fiona pretended to be having trouble with the words again, brushing her finger along the line. All the while, she strained for the speaker’s next words.

“That’s his babe, running around.”

Fiona flushed, her finger jerking across the letter. Duncan had a child? Here?

She read off the next entry, and while Florence wrote, she felt as if her ears were gigantic cartoon ones, angling and focused on the far side of the room. She caught enough to learn that he’d gotten Torquil’s fiancée with child before they wed.

The gossiper continued, “And Mary, bless her, just told me he’s with Margery in her sitting room even now. The door’s open, aye, but I’d be worried if I were Torquil. That Duncan is a fine specimen of a man.”

Florence lifted her head, her forehead bunched in a frown. “Ladies. Enough. You know I despise gossip.”

Fiona wanted to kiss the woman, but she’d also heard news she hadn’t learned from Duncan himself, and that didn’t feel right. Like she’d snooped.

A spurt of jealousy flared, and she tamped it down. Flat. Whatever Duncan had done before they met was not her business. She knew he was honorable, so he’d have a good reason for visiting Margery. She was Iain’s sister after all.

She shifted in her chair and smoothed her sweaty palm along her skirt. Did Duncan still carry a torch for her? Could that explain the sadness that sometimes lurked in his eyes?

“Wait!”

Duncan stopped on the threshold of Margery’s sitting room, eager to leave her presence.

He spun around, careful to wipe his face of any emotion.

She nodded as if she were a queen. “Do not leave yet. I already have the details and the payment, and I know you’ll not be wishing to meet with me again alone. Let’s dispense with the specifics, aye?”

Criosd, but she was correct. He did not wish to meet with her alone again. Not if it could be avoided.

Suddenly she looked small and, for a brief moment, vulnerable. A trace of the little girl he remembered, as well as the fresh-faced beauty he’d fallen for.

Memories flashed of the times he’d seen her laugh and take delight with the world. Memories which had all occurred while the old chieftain—her father—had still been alive, he realized. He’d spoiled his only daughter.

For such a daughter to lose him at four summers? Followed by the death of her adoring older brother several years later?

It must have been frightening. And…difficult. Especially when combined with a cold and neglectful uncle as her guardian. It had all made her vulnerable to that Campbell scoundrel. Vulnerable to love.

A chill slithered up his spine—Margery had been led astray by her need. Need to be loved.

His need had left him with a lingering bitterness and a scar.

But hers?

Left her pregnant and now blackmailed. Because she was vulnerable still, due to the love she now held for her husband.

Warily, he sat beside her. Aye, he saw her situation in a new light, but he couldn’t forget that those experiences had warped her into the woman she was now.

She strode to a squat oak chest carved with rosettes of varying sizes and unlocked it. She returned with a leather bag. “Here.” She placed it in his palm, its weight dipping his hand. “These are jewels that weren’t part of my tocher, so I may part with them. It should be enough to satisfy the man.”

He gripped the bag’s opening and yanked it wide. Inside, the luster of semi-precious stones glinted dully.

He pulled the string tight. “Very well.” He set it on a table and met her gaze. “Where am I to meet this William Campbell?”

“You’re to seek out a Mr. Hendrie in Drumnadrochit, a village near Urquhart castle.” She swished to her chair and settled, arranging her skirts with care. “He’s a tailor with whom William has left further instructions.”

Duncan leaned forward, waiting until she met his gaze. “This concerns more than just you and your indiscretions. It affects our clan. It affects your brother and his reputation. I can’t just hie off to Drumnadrochit.”

She stilled, and fear flashed briefly in her eyes, quickly schooled. “What are ye saying?”

“I must share this request with Gavin. He’s in charge of clan business in Iain’s stead while we’re here.”

She waved a dismissive hand. “No need to do that.”

He infused every word with conviction. “I’ll not lie for ye. Not again. I’ll do as he directs. Not you. After this, you’ll contact me no more.”

She smiled, though sadness lurked in her eyes. “I understand. After all, I hear ye have a new wife, handfasted on the way here. I wish ye good will and happiness.”

A pang pierced his chest at the mention of his wife—parting so soon after they finally came to an understanding was not what he desired. Another grievance to lay at Margery’s feet.

Accepting her well-wishes with a nod, Duncan stood and exited the room, never looking back.

Duncan gripped the top of the courtyard wall, his hip cocked against the stone, and watched Gavin’s reaction to his news. They’d sought out this spot to converse in private. To his left stretched Loch Dunvegan, its waters peeled back to reveal mounds of dull brown seaweed and rocks. Overhead, clouds the color of a dull mirror roiled and stretched, tinging to near black on the horizon. Already a fine mist of rain infused the air, and the threat of more kept the courtyard clear of others, save a kitchen maid lowering a bucket hand over fist into the well.

Gavin pushed away from the wall on a curse. He strode to the middle of the courtyard and tugged and held the queue of his long hair—a clear sign he was anxious. Duncan was only too happy to abdicate the decision, for he was so tied up with conflicting emotions, he dared not trust himself to make the wisest choice.

While the darkness on the horizon grew closer, close enough now that the wall of approaching rain was visible, Duncan chose and discarded several responses if the choice had been left to him. Finally, Gavin pivoted and strode back. He raised eyes dark with emotion.

“Kill him.”

A clear path now ahead, Duncan nodded. “Consider it done.”

Gavin returned to the wall and gripped the top, knuckles white. “And we all thought she was sweetness and light.” He leaned in, then pushed out, locking his elbows tight, exhaling roughly. “Keep this to yourself for now. We’ll discuss it further upon your return, but this must be taken care of without delay.” He turned his head and held Duncan’s gaze, his features grave. “We’re not wanting rumors that our clan succored the enemy. Not during these turbulent times. Heads were being lopped off too quickly after that Rising. Who knows what fate awaits us now.”

Duncan bowed. “Till we meet again.”

Florence heaved one side of the Red Book up and over, shutting it with a thunk.

Fiona bit her lip. A request, an outrageous one maybe, had formed as she assisted Florence. Any time traveler in her position would be dying to do the same, and now Florence might be more favorable to it. Besides, she needed some distraction from what she’d just learned about Duncan.

“May I see the Fairy Flag?” she blurted out.

Florence looked up at her, eyebrows winging upward. “You’ve heard the legend then?”

Shit. Was it not common knowledge? “Yes.”

She looked down and rubbed her hand across the leather-bound cover. “Its fame has grown. Which version did ye hear?”

“That it was given to your family by a fairy, and that when in battle, raising the flag will turn the tide in your clan’s favor.”

“Aye.” She stood, the stout legs of her heavy chair scraping dully against stone. “I don’t see the harm, though we must be careful. Twice we’ve used its powers in battle, and we have one more time to use it, according to the legend.”

Florence led the way downstairs and ushered her into a strong room below the great hall. She handed her the torch, and Fiona held it high. Its flickering glow illuminated trunks stacked, one atop another, as well as racks of weapons and armor. One dark wood trunk stood separate from the rest, banded and stamped in silver filigree. It was by this trunk that Florence knelt and unlocked a large, black hunk of iron. She lifted the lid, its hinges creaking in the cool stone room, and reached inside. She straightened, allowing the cloth she held to unfold.

Fiona had seen pictures of the flag, tattered and worn. While this one was tattered, more of it was left. Time would take its toll on this fabric. Already, one corner was missing, its straight lines showing it had been deliberately cut away as a keepsake and talisman.

Awe suffused her. “May I…May I touch it?” In her time, this flag was encased in glass and attached to a wall in Dunvegan’s modernized great hall.

Florence nodded indulgently.

Fiona wiped her shaking hand on her skirts and slowly stretched it forward. She didn’t grab it, just barely brushed her forefinger across the fine silk. Just to say she’d touched it.

She shivered. Pulled her hand back. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure. I’m not sure how much I credit its magical powers, but my husband believes. Then again, he is a MacLeod.” She smiled. “Stories vary. Some say ’twas given by a fairy to her human lover at the fairy bridge nearby. Others say a nurse left the chief’s child alone in a room, only to return and find a fairy looking over the child, swaddled in this cloth. A gift.” She gave a soft chuckle and reverently refolded the cloth. “Who knows?”

Indeed.