The Raid
Blue was the first to sense something was amiss. He scratched frantically at the door, whining loudly enough to wake Isabel. She sat up in bed, trying to get her bearings in the dark, alarmed by distant shouts and dogs barking.
“Is it wolves?” she asked.
“’Tis a raid,” Fanny shouted. “Hide ’neath the loom.”
Isabel could scarcely breathe as she slid out of the box. She’d lived her life within the safe stronghold at Dungavin. “A raid?”
“MacKeegans,” Fanny spat. “Sounds like they’re attacking my neighbors.”
Isabel’s feet felt as though they were nailed to the dirt floor. “Why would they attack? They’re the ones who insulted our clan.”
Then she recalled her father’s plan to raid the Trotternish. But surely it was too soon for a reprisal.
Fully dressed, Fanny emerged from the darkness, a mallet in her grip, her hair a wild tangle. “I’m taking Cù outside. Hold yer dog here and bar the door behind me. ’Tis the sheep they want. We must keep them inside.”
Isabel looped her trembling fingers in Blue’s collar and obeyed as Fanny disappeared out the front door into the night. The frantic beating of her heart pulsed in her ears, drowning out even the deafening racket coming from the agitated flock on the other side of the half-wall.
Male voices were raised in anger, women screamed, bairns wailed, dogs barked. Growling, Blue stood on his hind legs and planted his front paws on the door. Panic threatened to rob Isabel of breath. She grabbed the only weapon she could lay her hands on in the darkness, terrifyingly aware as she crouched beneath the loom that a hatpin would be of little use in saving her life.
*
It wasn’t the first time MacKeegans had raided MacRain territory on Harris, but the usual convention was to stay well away from Roghadal and Tur Chliamainn. Burning crofts and stealing livestock was expected, desecrating a church was a sin, especially one designated as the final resting place of MacRain chiefs. Clans might feud and fight but a dead chief was owed respect.
Darroch had taken upon himself the responsibility of raiding furthest from where they’d landed. Flaming torch in one hand, axe in the other, he jogged up hill and down dale, relishing the mayhem around him. He stopped from time to time to hurl rocks from his sling at panicked local crofters. Responding to whistled commands from his men, the dogs from Ywst were herding bleating sheep towards Obbe. Behind him, his team members whooped and cheered. He recognized their exhilaration as Viking blood pumped through his veins.
Other men shouted angrily, women shrieked, dogs barked, and fire glowed not far away when he paused to glance over his shoulder.
It troubled him that he was slightly out of breath. “Havena done this for a while,” he muttered.
Swallowing hard, he considered the terrain ahead. If he wasn’t mistaken, there was one last croft, not far from the looming shadow of the church tower. It was still in darkness, mayhap abandoned. Retreat would be wiser than going ahead alone. Loading the stolen sheep would require the efforts of every MacKeegan.
Then he heard bleating and barking coming from within the last cottage. The desire for vengeance smothered all other thoughts. MacRains would be outraged that MacKeegans had raided close to their precious church.
Bellowing a war cry, he ran on, picking up speed. The door of the croft was no match for his fury, swinging open with one blow of his axe. He kicked it and rushed forward, only to tumble down stone steps. He managed to stay upright by jamming his hand hard against the wall, cursing as pain arrowed up his arm.
His heart lurched when an enormous dog came at him out of the darkness. He staggered backwards, fending it off with his torch, bothered by the blue glow of the flame in the dog’s eyes. Sheepdogs he’d expected; this was the fabled hound of the faeries, the legendary Cù Sìth. The beast backed off, but snarled menacingly, displaying an awesome array of sharp teeth.
He tried to raise his axe, but his arm didn’t seem to be working properly.
“Dinna hurt him,” a plaintive voice pleaded.
Keeping a wary eye on the growling hound, he lifted the torch. A young woman knelt by a loom. He thought she wore a black hooded cape but then realized the dark hair cascading over her shoulders was the longest he’d ever seen. The light betrayed the terror on her pale face, but she was lovely nevertheless. Over the years of his penance, he’d disciplined himself to control his male urges, but his unruly tarse chose that inconvenient moment to salute her beauty.
This final cottage held more surprises than he’d bargained for. He’d an urge to laugh when he espied the weapon she brandished. “Do ye think to stick me with yon pin?” he asked.
He didn’t hear her reply as something struck him hard on the back of the head. His knees buckled and he dove into oblivion.
*
Standing atop the stone steps, Fanny cackled triumphantly, brandishing the mallet she’d used to clobber the raider. Isabel feared she might swoon when the giant collapsed to his knees and fell forward with a sickening thud. She’d never seen a man die.
“Quick—the flame,” Fanny urged, snapping her back to reality.
She stooped to pick up the fallen torch and tossed it into the hearth. The remains of the peat fire flared back to life. Her relative wrenched the axe from the raider’s lifeless hand. Blue barked wildly at the body.
“’Tis all right,” Isabel murmured softly, coaxing him away. “He’s dead.”
The dog sank back on his haunches, but kept up a low growl.
Fanny lifted a lighted candle. “I doot I kilt him with the mallet, but I couldna lay ma hands on the axe,” she shouted over the din of the sheep. “I’d best quiet that lot, or they’ll send another MacKeegan to finish what this one started.”
She crossed to the enclosure, whistling for Cù.
The light from the rekindled fire allowed Isabel to see that the invader was definitely out cold, and there was no blood in evidence. Despite the terror he’d caused, she hoped he wasn’t dead. He was probably someone’s husband, a young man with bairns. It seemed a terrible waste. She envied the wife of such a fine warrior—the woman would surely mourn his death.
Suddenly aware the sheep had quieted, she startled when Fanny broke the silence. “He’s a bonnie mon. Too bad he’s a MacKeegan.”
Once again, the elderly islander had discerned her thoughts. The raider was well-muscled. He looked almost like a sleeping bairn with long red hair framing the rugged features of his face. She gingerly sifted her fingers through the wiry curls to feel the back of his head. “Ye’ve raised a lump on his noggin,” she said.
Fanny grinned. “Aye. Should keep him quiet for a while, but he’ll have a fearsome headache when he wakes.”
“He’ll be angry too.”
“We’ll tie him up. Make sure he has no hidden weapons. I’m off to get help.”
She was gone after thrusting the raider’s axe at Isabel.
The weapon was more than she could manage with two trembling hands, so she laid it aside. Having no notion of where a man might conceal a weapon, she considered the task. Blue would protect her if the raider woke, but unmarried women didn’t touch men. Though he’d invaded her temporary home, she felt she didn’t have the right to put her hands on him without his knowing.
Stockings designed to come up to the knees had slipped down to his ankles. His rumpled plaid barely covered his arse. His bare legs were long and muscled. She plucked up her courage, and put her hands on his calves, surprised to feel soft hair. His skin gave off enough heat to make her sweat. The closer to his hips she explored, the hotter she became. Touching him evoked peculiar sensations in private, female parts of her own body. She supposed fear had caused her nipples to tingle.
If he had a blade, it was likely tucked into his belt, but he was lying on his belly and she had no intention of trying to turn him over.
Gooseflesh marched across her nape when the thought struck her he might have impaled himself on his own dagger. “Nay,” she whispered.
Blue woofed and licked her hand, but growled again when the raider stirred.
She hefted the heavy axe and struggled to her feet, gulping air to steady her racing heart.
The warrior’s eyes fluttered open. “Kyla,” he rasped before lapsing back into a stupor.
Isabel grieved for Kyla. Her husband wouldn’t be returning from the raid. She stifled the jealousy that rose in her throat. Had she not been jilted, she’d have been a married woman by now, with a husband of her own, though she doubted the feckless Darroch MacKeegan was as handsome as this bonnie lad.
She put down the weapon when Fanny returned with two of her agitated neighbors. “The rest escaped,” her cousin panted, striding over her victim, “but I’ll warrant they didna get as many sheep as they hoped. And nary a single life lost. One croft burned out, but we’ll all help rebuild.”
“Aye,” Hammond confirmed, breathing heavily as he knelt to wind a thin rope tightly around their captive’s ankles. Innes worked to set the damaged door to rights.
Once the raider was bound hand and foot, the two crofters heaved him onto his back, quickly removed the dagger sheathed at his waist and pulled free a shepherd’s sling tucked into his belt.
Hammond patted a small pouch tied to the belt. “Empty. Used up all his ammunition.”
Innes pointed to a discoloration on his own cheekbone. “This is likely the bugger who nicked me.”
“Good aim,” Fanny chortled, earning a scowl from her neighbor.
Isabel thanked God there was no knife wound, but she sank to her knees and gritted her teeth when Hammond peered more closely at the captive, chuckled and said, “Ye did weel, Fanny. He’ll fetch a hefty ransom. ’Tis Darroch MacKeegan, son o’ the chief.”