Chapter Seventeen
“In the Highlands, one must always be on guard for a dark cloud among a sunlit sky.”
Clasping her hands firmly together in front of her, Ailsa waited for her father to speak. His face was a mask of stone, matching the color of the stones in the Great Hall. Muir’s stance was one of fury, but she cared not. She was not troubled by his lack of approval. Nae. There was only one she required. Fully prepared to do battle with her father, she tried to temper her impatience.
She swept her gaze to Desmond, noticing the tight strain of his jaw muscle, along with the hands firmly clenched behind his back. The moment he had stated his offer for Ailsa, the room became eerily quiet, and a sudden chill descended around all of them.
The flames snapped behind her father, mirroring everyone’s mood, and she decided to take control. Taking a deep breath in, Ailsa released it slowly and stepped toward the man.
Relaxing her shoulders, she smiled and placed a hand on his arm. “I truly love Desmond. He is the warrior we need for our people. Did ye not take my mother from her own clan and bring her to the island?”
Bran’s eyes softened. “She did not come willingly in the beginning.”
“Truth? And here I thought ye charmed her right away with your flowery words of love,” she teased.
His grin flashed briefly. Wagging a finger in front of her, he said, “Ye ken I am nae bard when it comes to words.”
She tugged on his arm playfully. “I do recall Mother speaking of how ye would show off your skills in the lists. Ye tried to impress her with your strength. Although, she never did say what won her over.”
Bran placed a hand over hers. “Aye, it did not gain her favor, and she called me a brute.”
“What did?”
Her father cupped her chin and then glanced at Desmond. “I professed my undying love before departing for home. The next morn, I stood looking out from the ship toward Eire. I thought never to set my sight on the land again. My love was lost to me.” Bran’s smile broadened as he looked to Ailsa. “Yet, there she came, running down those rolling green hills and shouting my name.”
Ailsa’s eyes misted with unshed tears. “She loved ye as I love Desmond.”
“Aye,” he uttered in a hushed tone. Bringing her hand to his lips, he kissed her knuckles.
Turning toward Desmond, he gestured him forward. Reaching for the man’s hand, Bran joined it with Ailsa’s. “I grant your request to marry my daughter. Welcome.”
“Nae, Bran!” shouted Muir in frustration. “He is an outsider!”
Her father moved toward the man. “My wife was an outsider. And ye have forgotten another truth. Your family was taken into our clan.”
“But we have been loyal for generations,” he argued.
Bran angled his head at the man. “And what makes ye believe Desmond O’Quinlan willnae?” He folded his arms over his chest. “If ye had your own desire to wed Ailsa, ye should have spoken sooner.”
Muir’s eyes darted around the room. “I have never stated thus.”
Ailsa moved forward. “I have loved ye like a brother, Muir. Can ye not accept and trust my decision?”
He stared down at the floor. Several moments lapsed, and he finally met her gaze. “I wish ye well, Lady Ailsa.” Giving her a curt nod, he strode out of the hall.
“Muir,” she pleaded.
Desmond came to her side. “Let him be. He is a man torn.”
Bran brushed a hand over his beard in thought. “Muir has been troubled ever since we arrived on Scottish soil.”
Ailsa let out an exasperated sigh. “I reckon in time he will come to accept ye, Desmond.”
He took her into his arms. “I pray so as well.”
“’Tis time we celebrate this joyous announcement,” shouted Alastair, entering the hall, along with his brothers and their wives.
Ailsa looked at Desmond. “How do they ken?”
Desmond narrowed his eyes at Alastair, though he fought the smile forming on his mouth. “I reckon the news traveled quickly after my words with a certain Dragon Knight.”
Alastair gave them a wink as he presented a cup to each of them. “About bloody time, too.”
Desmond snorted. “Ye could have waited.”
“Blame your sister,” the man countered. “She was so overjoyed at seeing ye in each other’s arms that she called forth the Fenian Warrior, Ronan—again—to stay your leaving.” Holding up a jug, he added, “Now let us toast ye with our finest barrel of uisge beatha.”
“What an honor,” stated Bran, accepting a cup from Duncan.
As they all gathered around the couple, Alastair held up his cup. “May the Gods and Goddesses bless your union with love and happiness.”
A rousing cheer resonated within the Great Hall.
****
The heat of the room, along with too much to drink and little food, left Ailsa feeling dizzy. Each time she looked at Desmond, her heart soared with love for the man. He stirred emotions she dreamed of, but feared never to find.
After informing Desmond she would return shortly, he brushed a soft kiss on her lips. Now, fresh air beckoned her, luring her swiftly outside the castle doors.
The entire hall teemed with every person at Urquhart—from the stable master, to the cook. They all had come to offer their good wishes on their forthcoming marriage. Though she tried to argue with the women on assisting with the wedding preparations, they utterly refused. Told her they would arrange everything.
Breathing in the crisp afternoon air soothed the dull ache behind her eyes. Her steps joyfully led her to the stables. Pushing open the doors, she went directly to Elva.
“Greetings, lovely lady.”
The horse snorted, and Ailsa patted her soft nose.
Pulling forth an apple from a side basket, she removed her sgian dubh from her side belt and cut a piece for the horse. Slicing one for herself, she chewed on the sweet fruit.
“Have ye heard the news?” she whispered in delight. She wiped away the juices from her mouth. “Desmond is returning with us. ’Tis a wonder this journey we have taken, my friend. I cannae tell ye—”
Sharp pain slammed into Ailsa’s head. Fighting the inky blackness, she turned toward her attacker. Yet, the person was swifter and covered her head in a thick wrap before she had a chance to slash at them with her blade. Trying to fight whoever it was, she was rewarded with another blow to the head, and this time Ailsa faded into the bleak despair of emptiness.
****
A hawk’s screech brought Ailsa out from her forced sleep. Blinking, she realized she was trussed up like a pig over a horse. Her arms were bound together, and a hood was placed over her head. The steady movement and her position made it difficult to stay focused.
Pain radiated down her neck, and the constant rocking motion of the horse made her ill. She blinked, trying to listen to her surroundings. However, all she could hear was the crunch of snow as they continued onward. Swallowing the bile that threatened to come forth, Ailsa attempted to calm her racing heart. Remembering her training, she tampered the fear, and brought forth the fury.
“I can ride, ye ken,” she complained. “Bind me to the horse, if ye must.”
Silence was her answer.
If the person continued on this path, she would surely empty what little she had in her stomach inside the hood. Resorting to another tactic, she moved, trying to free herself. “I am ill!”
The animal’s steps slowed, bringing them to a stop.
Her captor shoved her onto the ground, and tugged at the bindings around her hood. As they came free, he yanked it over her head, and Ailsa took in huge gulps of clean, cold air.
“Ye should have all listened to me,” snapped a familiar voice behind her.
Standing slowly and turning, Ailsa gazed into eyes that held hatred. A cold knot settled in her stomach. “Muir.”
“Aye.” His bitter stare raked over her body. “And remember I ken the way ye fight, so dinnae try anything.”
“Explain,” she ordered, trying to fight the wave of fury mixed with panic.
He sneered. “Dinnae command me in that tone.” Pulling forth his dirk, he waved her over to the horse.
Ailsa tried to rein in her anger. “What are ye doing? Is this because of Desmond and me? Please tell me.”
“The O’Quinlan bastard should have never come to your aid.” Pointing the blade at her, he continued, “’Twas an easy plan. All but ye were supposed to die. For five long years, I have plotted, gained favor with those in league with King John, and finally an opportunity presented itself when your mother passed. The lone requirement was Bran’s death, so I would become the new chieftain with ye by my side.”
Shock resonated within Ailsa. The man she had known her entire life had betrayed her family—her clan. When had he become a traitor? Did he fully reckon their people would accept him as their new leader? His mind was twisted. “Why?” Her question was laced with the hostility she could no longer contain.
Muir snarled and grabbed her braid, twisting it around his fist. He leveled the blade at her throat. “Because it should have all been mine ages ago. My family had claim to the isle, and it was snatched—stolen from my grandfather. Ye think we were taken in, but nae. A battle was fought and a choice was given. Accept the new chieftain or leave in dishonor. In the end, my grandfather relented. Yet, my father spoke of seeking revenge. Though he knew it would take time, he planted the seed within me. I plotted, schemed, for years. Kept it locked inside my mind. When my father died, I pledged a vow over his ashes that one day, Ailsa Creag would be mine, and the MacDuff clan would be squashed under my heel.”
“Liar,” she hissed, fighting the pain as his fist tightened more firmly.
Muir released his hold on her hair and punched her in the stomach. His laughter sent a chill down her spine as she fell to the ground. “How can ye rule when ye cannae hear the truth?”
Ailsa gasped for breath, even as her hands dug into the ground behind her. “I ken the story well, but it was your grandfather who started the rebellion. It was not his to claim. He became greedy.”
“Now who’s the one lying? Get up.”
“Ye were our guard. Our friend!”
“I was never your friend. When we meet up with King John’s men, I am handing ye over to them. By the time ye become King John’s captive, I am sure your father will do anything to bring ye back, including forfeiting his own life. Ailsa Creag will come under English rule and since ye are now spoiled goods, I will take a bride. Perchance the English soldiers will find ye pleasing and take ye to their beds.”
Standing, Ailsa faced her enemy. “My people will never accept English rule, nor ye as their chieftain. ’Tis mine.”
He bristled, eyes narrowing. “Ye may think to be a warrior, but ye are simply a woman.”
Ailsa’s mouth tightened in disgust as he helped her mount the animal. Your day of reckoning will come, Muir, and ye had better pray it is not at the end of my blade.
The next hour was spent in silence while they climbed upward and farther away from Urquhart. The forest gave way to the loch below, and Ailsa studied the landscape, committing as much detail to memory as possible. If she escaped—nae, when she was free, she had to be certain of her direction. In her heart, she would not allow herself to be handed over to the English.
Muir might understand her fighting skill, but she had other ones, too. Deirdre MacKay had shared some valuable moves and insight to fighting. Considering the woman was a descendant from the great warrior woman, Scáthach, she absorbed as much knowledge from her as she could. Never did she reckon to need it now.
In addition, Ailsa knew the man’s weakness. Aye, he was a strong and skilled fighter, but all the mighty could fall, including this man. He favored moving swiftly and at times, tired easily when angered. She risked her life in taunting him and stirring his ire. If the chance presented itself, Ailsa would have to fight Muir.
Shoving aside the mixed emotions, she now considered him her enemy. And her warrior mind turned inward at preparing a means of attack.