Chapter 4
Chapter Four
“Some of the crofters claim they’ve lost chickens and food stores to a small band of thieves hiding out in the woods beyond the loch,” the night patrol captain told Dorchad as he finished his morning report. “’Tis likely the same bastarts chased out by the dairy farmers in the southern valley.”
As the captain described the men from what witnesses had told him, Dorchad’s thoughts strayed once again to Rebecca McIan.
Never had he forced himself on a woman, and yet yesterday he’d nearly ravished her.
He’d paced the floor of his chamber last night for hours to keep from going in search of her, but his blood refused to slow and cool.
If he didn’t do something he might well lose control of himself with her.
Thanks to the dark Fae blood that tainted him, that prospect did not horrify him as much as it should.
“Chieftain?” the captain asked, startling him out of his brooding.
“Send word to the magistrate about the thieves, and double your patrols,” he said as he locked away his thoughts of Rebecca McIan. “They may attempt to land on the island in the night to avoid arrest.”
The captain bowed. “Aye, Chieftain.”
Since that was the last of the reports, Dorchad went to relate what news he had to Tair.
It took him an hour to track the laird to the barn in which the clan stored the materials used by their dyers and weavers.
There he seemed to be wading through piles of the washed white fleeces, tossing them this way and that as he searched.
Pale wool fibers hazed the air, which smelled strongly of sheep.
Dorchad watched him, batting away some of the bits that flew in his direction, until the laird finally noticed him. “You reckon you’ll find the cluet in here, my lord?”
“’Tis as good a place as any for the facking thing to hide itself.” Tair shook the stray curls off his hands and eyed him. “Why do you look as if you mean to slay me? I’ve done naught to earn your wrath since the other night. Besides, you’d make a poor lord.”
“Never should I prove such an eejit.” He made a silent vow to end the battle with himself over Rebecca before he said, “Should my senses ever abandon me so utterly that I might try such, I beg you, end me.”
“You jesting may serve as reason enough, and do you think me an eejit? No, dinnae answer that.” The laird strode out of the barn and flung out his tartan before slinging it over his shoulder. “You’ve no’ slept a night at least, I reckon. You’re ready to take Healer McIan as your bed wench, then?”
Dorchad forgot himself and stared at him. “What dolt suggested such?”
“My lady wife, and I suspect she’s right yet again.
” Tair gestured for him to follow, and walked over to the next outbuilding, in which the clan dried and stored the cooking and strewing herbs for the household.
When he opened the door, the smell of greenery wafted out, making them both grimace.
“Gods, but I hate the stink of withering plants. Why the fack cannae Cook use fresh? If Dr. McIan’s the one you wished for, she’s yours. ”
“I never wished for her or any female.” He followed the laird inside the storage building. “Why should I?”
“You’re a man. You’ve a tadger and baws. Wholly neglected, I reckon.” Tair swatted at some hanging bunches of drying heather. “Why did Ronan stop making brew from these facking blooms? I much enjoyed heather mead.”
Dorchad knocked away a bunch that started to fall to the floor before changing direction and hurtling toward his face.
“You like whiskey better.” Because he never lied to the laird, he added, “Dinnae jest over me and Healer McIan. What should I do with such a female? ’Twas another.”
“Then learn which eejit among us wished for her, and where,” Tair said as he began sorting through a heap of empty hemp cloth sacks.
“According to that herbalist hermit from the village, to use the cluet, one must touch the facking rag. Ack.” He shoved his way to the back of the building, making a cloud of herb dust fill the air.
“Tonight I swear I shall beat that golden haired witch for persuading me to look...”
Dorchad left the laird to his labors, and walked back into the stronghold.
He had abruptly left Rebecca in the laird’s chamber yesterday morning, and had no wish to see her cross his path again.
He wasn’t certain why hearing her defend him to Lochran had angered him so much.
All he could really remember was the way she had looked up at him when he’d tried to frighten her.
Someone who hates women has no reason to be kind to one, even when she’s in trouble.
Why would she say thus to him? No female on the island would come near him, much less accuse him of kindness.
Yet this addled wench spoke to him as if she wished him to ravish her senseless.
Could a female desire such a thing as he?
Did his cold darkness, which terrified the strongest of mortal men, seem some sort of twisted lure to her?
Even you admit you’re not a bad man, Chieftain. That’s why I won’t listen to anyone talk garbage about you.
He found himself outside the war master’s quarters in the garrison hall, and nearly knocked on the door before he thought better of it.
Then as he walked away, Rebecca’s image came into his thoughts, and the strange, almost pouting set of her pretty mouth when she had spoken to him, offering him what no female ever had.
Is that what you want? To make me yours?
Dorchad turned around and went back to the war master’s quarters, but once at his door he stopped and stepped back. No, he couldn’t speak with Cath about this, he thought as he turned away. Not when it had him thus confounded. He would forget about her, and attend to his duties–
The door opened, and the war master looked out at him with no small amount of vexation. “By the Gods, get in here before I facking slay you.”
Dorchad reluctantly went inside, trying to think of an excuse to make for his appearance. “The laird searches the outbuildings for the cluet today. Did you ken?”
“Aye, and ’tisnae why you came to me.” The war master went over to throw a split on the banked fire, thought better of it, and carefully placed it in the hearth before he regarded him.
In his dark eyes was a kind of wall made of shadows that reminded Dorchad of the many years Cath had spent living in the dark Fae realm of Elphyne.
“Tair bid you find which of our brothers wished for Rebecca McIan, aye? I told him I wouldnae take on such a fool’s errand.
Also, ’twasnae my desire that brought her to the island. ”
“That I already guessed,” Dorchad told him. “You’re too busy swiving every maid here and in the village who’ll lift her skirts for you to do such. When could you work in time to wish for yet another wench?”
“Envy ever sharpens a tongue,” Cath said without heat as he poured two goblets of whiskey.
“I’ve shed more than a few lovers of late.
Eilish sent me on my way after I dealt with that brute beating her.
She’s hoping to remarry and wants naught to do with me again.
I’ve only ever swived the maids on the island willing and wanting me.
Of late, just that bold maid from the laundry. ”
He wanted to warn the war master that Sheona, the maid he had referred to, often left the island.
Most females with a lover in the village did the same.
Still, the vassals could bind themselves to other mortals as they pleased, for none of the MacRune would do anything other than bed them.
He also knew Cath to be the loneliest man in the clan, even with all their brothers around them.
“Do you want the red-haired wench, then?” He tried to sound indifferent as he added, “’Tis plain how hot her blood runs, and she’s biddable. She needs a man to attend to her, and soon.”
“Indeed.” Cath gave him a long look before he said, “I reckon by the time she’s settled, the one who wished for her shall claim her. How do you ken what she needs?”
“I but guess.” Dorchad hesitated before he added, “She’s no’ like Lady Lucy. Indeed, I cannae understand why she’s no’ afraid of me.”
“Mayhap she wished for you.” He handed him one of the goblets. “Or a man like you.”
“The cluet doesnae grant wishes to mortals, or so the laird claims.” He took a long swallow of the burning spirit. “I ken no other man like me. I dinnae attract any wenches. The prospect of bedding me, ’tis terrifying to them.”
“I watched her in the hall when you dragged her off,” Cath said, and made a gesture at his eyes. “She didn’t struggle, didnae you notice? And the scent of her changed as well.”
Dorchad grunted. “Do you become Lochran now?”
“Females from the future dinnae smell like our lassies.” The war master sipped some whiskey and sighed.
“Lady Lucy, she’s the cleanest woman ever I’ve encountered, soft and sweet, with the faintest tang of what I cannae name.
’Tis fetching, but also easy for my nose to read.
I oft wonder if the cluet gifted her Fae blood along with immortality, for when she’s angry of late, she radiates cold heat. ”
Dorchad had always been wary of the laird’s woman from the first moment Tair had bid him imprison her in the dungeons.
Since she had been changed, he’d also sensed some new strangeness about her, particularly when she became annoyed with one of them.
Yet since the wedding he’d given her a wide berth, for she was now the lady of Gealladh.
The moment he touched Rebecca he’d had a far different reaction to her, but he couldn’t remember her response.
She smelled of sunshine to him even in the laird’s chamber.
“How did Mistress McIan’s scent change?” he asked Cath.