The Fiery Depths
The descent was a nightmare. They were all acutely aware of the urgency, but it was evident from the way Darroch slowly picked his way down the path that he’d been drugged. It touched Isabel’s heart that Kyla insisted she help guide him.
When they reached the ledge where they’d left the horses, her husband suggested she take Storm’s reins. He mounted behind her. A man who acknowledged his weakness and deferred to his wife was a rare find; his trust bolstered her courage.
Kyla seemed content to sit on Uncle Boyd’s lap, regaling him with an account of what had happened in the cave.
They were forced by the thickly wooded terrain to take their time, even on horseback, but the warmth of Darroch’s arms around her waist calmed some of Isabel’s anxiety for her father.
He slid from the horse once they reached the bailey. “I’m feeling a tad better,” he said, reaching up to help her dismount.
She gripped his broad shoulders as he lifted her. “I felt better the moment I set eyes on ye outside the grotto.”
Coira rushed out to greet them. “Saints be praised ye’ve returned. The Nellis woman is here,” she shrieked.
Her words confirmed Isabel’s fears.
They hurried to the door of the keep, followed closely by Boyd and Kyla who ignored suggestions she remain with Coira, and there was no time to argue. The Great Hall was empty, save for a few servants tidying up who stopped to gawk. “No point asking,” Isabel said, keeping up the pace. “I ken where she’s headed.”
But they came to an abrupt halt when raised voices caught their attention as they exited the hall.
“Ye might kill me,” they heard Fanny hiss, “but ye’ll nay murder Rory.”
“He’s already a dead mon,” the witch replied.
Darroch put a finger to his lips and motioned them to stay out of sight of the winding stone staircase. He peered around the corner then quickly turned back. “Ghalla has a dagger. She’s forcing Fanny backwards to the top of the steps.”
Isabel gasped. “We must do something.”
*
“Stay here,” Darroch rasped to his wife before stepping out from hiding to walk slowly to the bottom of the stone staircase. He had to make sure Ghalla saw him, but didn’t want to provoke her into doing something rash since he still felt lightheaded.
He’d only ever seen Rory’s wife with her hair swept up in tight braids. Now, she put him in mind of the fabled Medusa, a nest of black snakes writhing atop her head. Her gown was disheveled, torn and soiled. She’d evidently been living rough, and it hadn’t improved her snarling disposition. But the sallow tinge to the skin of her fat face suggested an acquaintance with opium beyond just dispensing it.
Fanny gripped the balustrade, her back to Darroch, but he would guess she was refusing to give Ghalla the satisfaction of showing fear, especially since the canny islander was aware of what he had also seen. Rory appeared in the doorway of his chamber behind Ghalla and leaned heavily against the frame.
“Ye canna escape,” Darroch said softly, one foot on the bottom step, worried that he’d be hard pressed to help Fanny if she fell.
Ghalla waved the dagger in Fanny’s face but her attention was on Darroch. “Dinna come closer lest I cut off the meddling witch’s nose afore I dispatch her to Hell.”
“’Tis ye bound for the fiery depths,” Fanny shouted in reply. “Poisoning yer husband.”
Rory swayed and opened his mouth but, to Darroch’s relief, said nothing.
“Pah,” Ghalla retorted. “Do ye think he’s the only one? ’Twas easy to persuade poor Eileen to take a potion to ease her pain, and then a simple matter to convince the grieving fool he was too auld to sire a bairn and his dead wife had lain with another.”
Boot heels clicking on stone behind Darroch indicated Isabel had followed him. “Ye murdered my mother?” she shrieked.
The color drained from Rory’s face.
Darroch gently took hold of his wife’s waist as she tried to rush up the steps. “We’re dealing with a madwoman here,” he whispered. “Stay calm.”
Ghalla pointed her dagger at Isabel. “Eileen’s spawn will ne’er succeed to the chieftaincy o’ this clan.”
Fanny sidled away from the steps and closer to safety.
“Ian will be chief o’ the MacRains,” Isabel shouted.
“Nay,” Ghalla smirked. “Tremaine will be chief. I’ve planned it thus.”
Darroch took a chance that dire tidings would distract her. “Yer son is dead.”
Ghalla cackled. “Ye lie.”
“Thrown from his horse,” Isabel confirmed. “Didna survive.”
It was Rory who finally broke the long silence that followed as Ghalla’s hooded eyes roved from one accusing face to the other. “Arrest this harridan,” he rasped.
Ghalla whirled, then waved the blade at Rory. “Ye stupid mon. Tremaine is yer true son.”
He snorted. “How can that possibly be?”
“Ye dinna even remember raping me when ye raided Flodigarry,” she shrieked like a demon loosed from purgatory as she rushed at her gaping husband.
With the agility of a woman half her age, Fanny launched headlong at Ghalla, sending her crashing into the stone wall beside the door.
Darroch took the steps two at a time, wrenched the weapon from Ghalla’s manic grip, and handed it to Rory. “My laird,” he panted quickly before turning his attention to separating the two women hissing, spitting and clawing at each other on the tiled floor. He was short of breath and still somewhat dizzy, effects of the opium he supposed. At least he’d managed to stay on his feet.
“Like she-cats,” Boyd remarked dryly as he joined the fray.
Darroch sensed Isabel intended to take out her fury on Ghalla, but he pulled her away. “Yer uncle and his men have her firmly in hand,” he said. “She’ll receive a just punishment.”
“Aye,” Rory breathed as Ghalla was dragged off down to the cells, shrieking her demands to see her son’s body before she would believe he was dead.
*
Her father’s voice brought Isabel back from the abyss of blinding anger. “Dadaidh,” she whispered, taking his weight as he slumped against the doorframe, dropping the dagger.
Darroch came to her aid and they helped him back to bed.
“Forgive me,” he wailed over and over. “My lovely Eileen. I can assure ye I ne’er raped a woman in all my years of raiding, and I ne’er set foot in Flodigarry. There’s easier pickings than going all that way for sheep.”
Isabel sat beside his bed and laid her head on the mattress, sobbing as her father stroked her hair. She believed him. He had many faults, but he wasn’t a rapist. “I ken.”
She felt Darroch’s presence behind her and, soon, a small, warm hand took hold of hers. “Dinna cry, Bel,” Kyla whispered.
She sat up after a few minutes and lifted her stepdaughter onto her lap when Boyd joined them.
“I failed ye,” Rory told his brother-by-marriage.
Boyd shook his head. “Ye failed yer family,” he replied. “But that was Ghalla’s plan.”
“Is the lad weel?” Rory asked, his voice breaking.
“Aye,” Boyd answered. “He’s weel and the spitting image of his sire.”
“I dinna have the right to ask…”
“’Tis his right to live in Dungavin,” Isabel interrupted, torn between elation that her father had come to his senses and anger at his abandonment of her brother. “He’s yer son.”
“But he must hate me.”
Boyd shook his head. “I raised him to hate Ghalla, nay ye.”
Rory nodded to his bandaged stump. “’Twill be a few years before he’s old enough to become chief, and I’m nay much use to the clan now.”
It was on the tip of Isabel’s tongue to assure him that she was there to help, but her husband was destined to be chief of Clan MacKeegan. His duty lay elsewhere.
“Ye have me and Dadaidh and Bel to help ye, and Fanny,” Kyla offered.
“Aye,” Darroch confirmed, his hands on Isabel’s shoulders. “We’ll stay as long as needs be. In any case, we live on the same island. We can visit back and forth. Especially when we’ve babes to show off.”
Isabel felt the heat rise in her cheeks, but his remark brought a welcome smile to her father’s face and gave her confidence for the future.
But Fanny snorted. Scratched and disheveled, as though she’d been in a tussle with a determined ram, she said, “Dinna count on me. I canna wait to get back to Harris.”
“Ever the same, auld woman,” Rory told her, “and thank goodness for that. Ye saved my life.”
Fanny shrugged. “’Twas for Eileen, nay for ye, though I didna ken the Nellis woman had kilt her, else I’d have crossed the Minch sooner.”