A Useful Weapon
The next few days tested Isabel’s patience and resolve. She, Boyd and Fanny took turns keeping vigil at her father’s bedside. Tossing and turning in a rambling stupor, he didn’t recognize any of them, and seemed unaware that part of his arm had been removed. He refused to swallow any of the broth they tried to spoon into his mouth.
Fanny had located vials of laudanum in the Still Room, but she was reluctant to administer large doses of the drug and it seemed ineffective in easing his pain. He grew belligerent, demanding to know where his wife was and why she wasn’t bringing him more black water.
“What is he talking about?” Isabel asked Fanny.
“I’ve a suspicion she’s been drugging him with opium for quite some time. He’s addicted. There’s opium in the laudanum but I canna risk overdosing him. She may have added something like hemlock to finish him off after he was wounded.”
“That explains the change in him after she arrived. But where would she get opium?”
Darroch appeared in the open doorway hand in hand with Kyla. “There’s many a ship plying the Minch that carries opium,” he replied.
“And how would ye ken that?” Fanny asked with a half-smile. “Mayhap ye’re acquainted with the pirates that lie in wait in Loch nam Madadh to raid unsuspecting ships.”
Darroch winked at Isabel. “Me? Nay. I’m a happily married mon. I ken naught of such matters.”
His wink prompted her nipples to tingle and harden. They’d resumed their love-making, but not with the same ardor and exuberance since a cot had been brought to Isabel’s chamber for the bairn. In some ways, having to be quiet felt more wicked and exciting.
She often caught him gazing possessively at her, and the prospect of bearing his children brought great solace at a trying time.
They’d agreed it was better to keep Kyla out of the sickroom, but the lass craned her neck trying to see what was going on as Rory thrashed and cursed.
“We’re going to the cliffs to practice throwing with the sling again,” Darroch said over the din.
Kyla proudly held up her shepherd’s sling.
“Good,” Fanny chortled. “I’ve saved many a sheep from predators in my day. ’Tis a useful weapon for any islander.”
Isabel had a brighter future in mind for Kyla than herding sheep, but apparently the lass had an aptitude for the device, and she was glad for father and daughter to spend peaceful time together. “Keep an eye out for Ghalla and Tremaine,” she warned unnecessarily, since Darroch was hardly likely to let down his guard.
He shrugged. “Nobody has seen hide nor hair o’ them. If they have any sense they’ll ne’er come back.”
“Aye, they will,” Fanny cautioned.
*
Darroch got the feeling Kyla loved practicing with the sling because Blue chased after every rock she flung.
Her accuracy was impressive, especially for a wee lass, although clad in breeches, shirt and leather jerkin, she could easily be mistaken for a lad. “Ye’re a tomboy, right enough,” he told her.
She grinned, but he doubted she understood.
He hunkered down on the trail to look for more rocks. “Round and smooth are best,” he explained as she crouched beside him, “but there’s nay too many like that up here.” He gestured to the edge of the cliffs. “One day we’ll venture down to the shore and see what we can find.”
She took his hand and tried to pull him towards the sea.
Regaining his balance, he stood. “Whoa! Too dangerous to go that way. We’ll find a path. Another day.”
She stuck out her bottom lip, threw the sling to the ground, folded her arms across her chest and glowered. He was about to pick up the weapon when he remembered gentle hints Isabel had made about giving in too easily. Leaving the sling where it lay, he strode off towards his horse and took the reins from Grig. “Are ye coming?” he shouted as he mounted.
Still pouting, his daughter picked up the sling and trudged towards him, eyes downcast.
She grasped his outstretched hand and scrambled up to sit in his lap. He chuckled inwardly at the small victory as he and his men rode back to Dungavin.
*
Isabel slowly unclenched her fists as she watched her father finally succumb to the first peaceful sleep he’d enjoyed in a fortnight. “That’s a good sign,” she whispered to Fanny sitting in a chair on the other side of the bed.
“Aye, and so far he’s kept the broth in his belly,” her cousin replied wearily.
The long ordeal had taken a visible toll on Fanny. Isabel had always considered her an “auld woman”, but now she looked old and worn out. Her face seemed more wrinkled, her hands more gnarled. She fretted about her sheep, though Dougal had undertaken to take care of them, thankful for the healing skills of his neighbor.
It was evident she was homesick for the wee croft on Harris, but they would need her help tending Rory for some time to come.
Darroch had sent word of their marriage and Ghalla’s treachery to his father, but Isabel sensed his desire to return home to Dun Scaith. It was her duty to go there with him to confirm the feud was finally at an end. Not to mention she itched to tell Stewart MacKeegan to his face just what she thought of his cruel rejection of his granddaughter.
Word spread of Kyla’s prowess with the sling and soon a handful of lads joined Darroch’s practice sessions. Before long, every bairn in the village wanted to be part of the excursions to the pebble-strewn shore below the cliffs to collect “ammunition”. It was a relief for Isabel that the folk of Dungavin were slowly coming to accept that their chief’s daughter had married a good man, despite the fact he was a MacKeegan.