Chapter Thirteen
“To safeguard his heart, the warrior used his honor as a shield.”
Storming through the gates of Urquhart, Desmond brought his steed right up to the massive oak doors of the castle. Duncan was the first to greet him, a frown marring his features. “What happened?”
“She was rubbing her head and spouting feeble words about a storm coming. And then she passed out.”
“Give her to me,” ordered Duncan.
Placing Ailsa’s limp body into the Dragon Knight’s arms, Desmond quickly dismounted. Seeing Finn, he waved him over. Placing a hand on the lad’s shoulder, he asked, “Can ye go up to the ridge and fetch Elva? In my rush to return, I left Ailsa’s horse behind.”
Finn nodded. “Aye. I shall bring something to tempt her as well.”
“Thank ye.”
Turning to Duncan, he took Ailsa back into his arms. “Please send for Aileen or Tam.”
Duncan rubbed a hand down the back of his neck. “Aye, but I believe I ken what happened. Take her to her chamber, and I will send for them.”
Confused, Desmond fought the urge to demand more from the man and barely nodded. Stepping past him, he made his way into the castle and up the stairs. Entering her chamber, he gently placed her on the bed. Unfastening her cloak, he brushed a hand over her brow.
“Will ye not wake, lass?” he urged, clutching her hand.
Duncan soon entered. “Nell has gone to fetch Aileen and Tam. They went in search of mistletoe for the Midwinter feast.”
“And her father?”
“He was in the stables. If ye have any sense, ye would remove your hand and stand apart from Ailsa.”
Desmond cut him a sharp glance. “I have done naught.”
The man shrugged. “’Tis your death.”
Blowing out a frustrated breath, he kissed her fingers and moved away. “Ye stated earlier ye might ken what is wrong? Would ye care to share?”
Duncan moved toward the window. “I believe the lass has the gift of sensing oncoming storms.” Turning around, he crossed his arms over his chest. “Apparently, Tam had mentioned to Aileen about his lady’s gift, though he has not been forthcoming with details. He also pointed out her father does not accept her skill.”
“But why would it cause her pain?” Desmond glanced back down at her still form. Her face had taken on a pale color, reminding him of fresh snow, and he longed for her to wake.
“I cannae say until I speak with her.”
“What did ye do to my daughter?” bellowed Bran, storming into the chamber.
Desmond glared at the man. “Naught. She spoke of a storm coming and then fell ill.”
The MacDuff flinched, his face transforming from outrage to shock. Moving away from Desmond, he went to his daughter’s side. Clutching her hand, he stared down at her. “Has someone sent for Tam, or your healer?”
“Aye,” answered Duncan. “I shall go lend my services in the search.”
Bran wiped a hand over his brow. “Come back to me, daughter,” he pleaded.
Seeing a pitcher of ale on the table, Desmond went and filled a mug. Returning to the man’s side, he handed it outward. “Has this happened before?”
Taking the offered drink, Bran shrugged and stared for several moments into the mug. Finally lifting his head, he took a swallow. “Truth be told, I cannae say for certain. I have ignored the fact my daughter has…a rare gift. I refused to listen and forbade her from speaking thus.”
“Why?” asked Desmond, pulling a chair near the bed for the man to sit.
Bran cast him a look of outrage, but then quickly looked away. “This gift of sensing storms is one which is passed down from father to son. It comes from my late wife’s kin, not mine. The druids’ prophecy states all should bear the talent within the first-born male child. If none is conceived, then the power will pass on to the next generation. My wife and I were blessed with only a daughter, but I refused to accept she held the gift.” Sighing, he handed the mug back to Desmond. Grasping his daughter’s hands, he squeezed them. “How I wish her mother was here to guide her. I have been foolish all these years.”
Finding it difficult to say any words of comfort, Desmond placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Ailsa is strong. She may have inherited her gift from her mother, but she learned her strength from ye.”
Bran nodded and kissed his daughter’s hands. “Aye, and her stubbornness, too.” Releasing his hold, he stood. “Not only are ye brave, O’Quinlan, but I sense ye would have made a fine warrior on our isle.”
Startled by the man’s declaration, Desmond had no time to respond as Tam and Aileen entered the chamber. Both men moved out of the way, and Aileen went to sit on the edge of the bed.
“What happened?” asked Tam, pulling out some herbs from his pouch.
“She complained of pain in her head and mentioned a storm was coming,” answered Desmond, striding over to the hearth and putting on an extra log.
“Umm…oh, goodness,” stammered the druid. His gaze went to Bran. “I am sure ’tis merely a feeble headache.”
Bran rubbed vigorously at his eyes. “Nae, Tam. I have known for some time that when ye say a tempest is brewing, I ken the information is from Ailsa and not ye.” Glancing back at his daughter, he added, “Has she always had severe pain?”
Obviously stunned by his chieftain’s statement, Tam shook his head. “No more than slight, and never has she fainted.”
Seeing Duncan standing at the entrance of the chamber, Desmond strode over to him. “Give me your speculation,” he uttered low.
Duncan pulled him out of the chamber and into the corridor. The torches flickered, their shadows dancing eerily around them. When he spoke, the Dragon Knight’s eyes shimmered with the beast inside of him. “I cannae say for certain, but since I am holding back the storm, it might be causing an ill effect on Ailsa.”
“And your reason?” he hissed out, shifting slightly.
“I am unable to disclose them at this time.”
“MacKay,” growled Desmond.
Duncan grabbed him by the shoulders. “Trust me, O’Quinlan. ’Tis best ye do not ken.”
“And Ailsa? What about her?”
“If I am correct, then the lass will awaken after I lessen my hold on the approaching storm. When she does, send for me.”
Desmond raked a hand through his hair. “Do what ye must, and swiftly.”
The man turned to leave, but halted. Glancing over his shoulder, Duncan said, “Tread carefully, Desmond, for I fear your heart is beginning to show for the lass. This may end badly, considering ye and she depart separately after Midwinter.”
Watching as the man strode quietly away, Desmond leaned against the wall. Since the moment he encountered Ailsa MacDuff, he had battled his mind and body over the lass. He had thought it to be merely lust, but when he lifted her lifeless body into his arms, Desmond knew there was more than just his wanting to bed her. Fear at losing her, struck like a blade to his heart.
And this frightened him.
Stepping away from the wall, he wandered back inside the chamber. For the first time in his life, Desmond longed to have what the Dragon Knights had all possessed. Love.
Reaching for another chair, he brought it outside Ailsa’s chamber and sat. Not content to sit idle anywhere else, he reasoned his place was beside the woman who had breathed light into his soul. And once she awakened, Desmond would tell her.
****
Sharp pain slammed into his side, and Desmond blinked in confusion, trying to focus. Sitting on the cold stone, he noticed the upturned chair off to the side. “God’s blood!” he roared, staring upward at the man.
“Ye dare to slumber by the lady’s door? Did ye plan on ravishing her when our druid departed?” Muir spat out. Crouching low on the ground, he held a blade in front of Desmond’s face. “I should slit your throat where ye lay.”
“But not before I slice your balls from your body,” growled Desmond, leveling his blade low in front of the man’s body.
“Or I impale ye in the back with my axe,” added Alastair from behind the man.
Muir’s face paled.
“Sheath your blade, Cameron,” ordered Alastair.
The man complied and stood. “Bran shall hear of this.”
“And I will tell him how ye drew your blade to do harm within the walls of Urquhart,” countered Alastair, lowering his axe.
Giving Desmond a scathing look, Muir stormed away.
Alastair righted the chair and took a seat. “Go seek your bed O’Quinlan.”
Looking at Ailsa’s closed door, he shook his head. “Nae.”
Grumbling a curse, Alastair stood. “Then fetch some food and drink.”
Wiping a hand over his unshaven face, Desmond asked, “What is the hour?”
“Dawn.”
“And she has not awakened?”
The Dragon Knight smiled. “Hours ago. The druid is sitting with her.”
Relief coursed through him. “Has Duncan been informed?”
“Aye. He’s taking his meal and then will speak with the lass.”
Desmond took a seat and folded his arms over his chest. “Then I shall wait for him.”
“For the love of Mother Danu,” groaned Alastair. “Have ye—”
Desmond held up his hand to halt the man’s words. “Dinnae speak any further. I have no wish to hear the thoughts of another Dragon Knight.”
“Lugh’s balls! Are ye still sitting here like a forlorn pup?” asked Duncan, striding forth.
Narrowing his eyes at the man, Desmond ignored the question.
Duncan leaned against the wall.
“I shall take my leave,” announced Alastair, chuckling softly down the corridor.
“Should ye not knock?” asked Desmond.
“I am waiting for Brigid. She is bringing some broth for the lass.” Duncan shifted his stance. “What did ye do this time to stir the wrath of the Cameron?”
Stretching his legs to relieve the tension from being cramped most of the night, Desmond replied, “Apparently, the man did not like finding me near Ailsa’s door.”
“Hmm… I find it odd the Cameron continues to find fault with ye.”
Desmond pointed a finger at him and stood. “Aye! The man has nae manners and tosses out barbs at every chance.”
“Perchance he sees ye as a threat to Ailsa?”
Shrugging off the possibility, Desmond understood there was naught between Muir and Ailsa. As far as Ailsa and him? “There is naught between us.”
“Your actions deem otherwise,” argued Duncan.
Swallowing, Desmond paced along the corridor, not wishing to pursue the conversation.
“Go seek your bed or food, O’Quinlan.”
“After ye have spoken to Ailsa.” He glared at the man, daring him to challenge his decision.
Brigid approached carrying a trencher. “Good morning, Desmond. I trust you slept well in this drafty corridor?”
“Aye, most assuredly,” he lied, stepping aside to let her pass.
She laughed softly and looked to her husband. “Would you be so kind as to knock on the door?”
Brushing a kiss on her lips, he complied.
Tam greeted them. “Good morn to ye all.”
As they all entered, Ailsa was sitting on a chair near the hearth. Color had returned to her face, and she gave Desmond a knowing smile. He returned the gesture with one of his own and stood off to the side of the door.
“When you’re ready, I’ve brought some of Delia’s broth with chicken and mushrooms,” stated Brigid, and placed the trencher on a nearby table. “Would you like more water? Ale?”
Ailsa stood. “If the men are staying, then I shall need some ale, please. Are we expecting my father?”
“He is breaking his fast and will be along shortly,” responded Duncan, taking a seat by the hearth.
Brigid moved toward the door. “Then ale it is.”
“No need. I have brought a pitcher,” announced Bran, stepping past her. “I thought we could use some, since Duncan has shared with me some knowledge as to why ye have been suffering from your gift.”
Clasping her hands together, her eyes grew wide. “Ye…ye have spoken to the others about me? What I can sense?”
Setting the pitcher down, Bran rubbed his forehead. Lifting his gaze to meet hers, he nodded. “Can ye ever forgive me for my harsh ways with ye, daughter?”
Ailsa let out a strangled cry. “Father!” Rushing to his side, she embraced him.
“I have been a fool, Ailsa. I should have done more to accept what ye are. I see I have wasted time ignoring what ye have, instead of helping ye to bring it out for our clan. I shunned your gift, especially after your mother passed. I found it difficult to breathe at times. And then I feared ye were lost to me, as well.”
She squeezed his hands. “Ye were…are still grieving. Furthermore, I am nae going anywhere.” Raising an eyebrow, she added, “And as a man, ’tis challenging to ken one day a woman will rule the isle.”
Bran tweaked her nose. “But ye are of my blood. A warrior.”
She hugged him once again. Moving to the table, she poured some ale into several mugs and handed one to her father and Tam. She held another mug in the direction of Desmond. “Aye?”
Pushing away from the wall, he ached to take her into his arms. She had no idea how worried he had been. Taking the mug, his fingers brushed against hers, and he watched as her mouth parted. She quickly averted her gaze, but not before he spied the rosy blush creep up into her face. Retreating to the window ledge, Desmond drank deeply, watching as she took a seat at the small table.
“Eat,” urged Brigid, sitting down across from her. The woman turned toward her husband. “Would you like to begin?”
Duncan leaned forward. “As your father has spoken to me of your gift of sensing the storms, I believe the pain ye are experiencing is my fault.”
“Humph!” snorted Desmond.
Ailsa sputtered over her broth. “How can this be?”
Duncan glanced sharply at Desmond and then turned his attention back to Ailsa. “Since I have the power over the sky, I have been keeping back a powerful storm from entering the glen. I deem this has caused ye to suffer. Do ye find that once the tempest strikes, your pain lessens?”
“Aye,” she whispered.
Duncan tapped a finger to his mouth. “I have another thought, which I would like to share.”
Ailsa nodded. “Continue.”
“I have spoken to your father and believe I can help ye to direct the storms once ye are able to sense them. If ye wish to remain hidden from the English, or other enemies, ye could use your gift to aid your people.”
Ailsa blinked. “I would like some of that ale, Brigid.”
The woman laughed. “Of course.”
Duncan turned toward Bran. “I am curious, though. ’Tis rare to encounter another with this power. Even the druids have no more than a select few who can control the skies. Ye have spoken that it passes from mother to son.”
Bran drained his mug. “Aye. It has always been thus with my wife’s clan.”
“And they are called?”
“The great O’Neills.”
“Hells bells,” muttered Brigid, dropping the pitcher and sloshing ale onto the table.
Rising, Duncan quickly made his way to her and grabbed her around the waist. “Leannan?”
She placed a hand on his cheek. “Strange how the fates still continue to guide us.”
“What is wrong?” asked Ailsa and Bran in unison.
Desmond moved away from the window, stunned by the revelation.
Tears misted Brigid’s eyes. Walking over to Ailsa, she clasped both her hands, bringing her to standing. “Remember how I told you I have traveled the Veil of Ages?”
“And a wonder,” she responded slowly.
“I did not share my full name. I am Brigid Moira O’Neill, descended from the first Order of the Dragon Knights, which I believe you are, too.”
“We are kin?” squeaked Ailsa, embracing the woman.
“Yes.” Brigid laughed.
“Do ye not have the power to sense the storms?”
“Happily, no. Yet, I can speak with the Fae and sense Duncan’s thoughts.”
“I believe many branches of the O’Neill clan still possess some of the original power bestowed to them from the Fae, though not as powerful,” stated Duncan.
“When do we begin my training?”
Duncan raised an eyebrow. “Let us wait until tomorrow. Your father wishes ye to rest one more day.”
Ailsa put an arm around Brigid. “Then I am happy the fates brought us together and caused me to suffer, since this knowledge surely would have remained hidden.” She glanced to her father. “Now I can truly use my gift for our people.”
“Aye, my daughter,” agreed Bran, lifting his mug to her.
Unexpectedly, Desmond concluded his own position within Ailsa’s life. Though he had strong feelings for the lass, she was destined to become a great ruler—one who would need to choose a man from her own clan to rule at her side.
Her father may have thought himself a fool, but Desmond O’Quinlan was a bigger one to think he had a place in Ailsa’s life.
The ale left a bitter taste in his mouth, and Desmond’s gut soured. Quietly slipping out of the chamber, he steadily made his way out of the castle, ignoring the shouts from Fiona. He was done being around the MacKays. Finished with folly thoughts and desires.
Storming past the gates of Urquhart, Desmond took off running toward the loch.