Chapter 3
Isolde hurried through the gloaming, her arisaid clutched tight about her shoulders. A brisk wind whistled past her ears, its chill bite carrying the damp, earthy scent of coming rain.
She followed a narrow track through a rocky landscape of wind-stunted trees and heather, a well-trodden path that hugged the sheer crags along this side of Doon. Her destination was a cliff-top glade at the trail’s end, a sacred and little-visited place the old ones called the edge of the world.
A notion enhanced by the silver birch and rowan trees that surrounded the clearing, and the presence of Devorgilla, the far-famed cailleach who dwelled there.
Isolde struggled against the wind sweeping in off the sea, for she was eager to reach the crone, the only living soul she’d trusted with all her reasons for having the MacLean secreted to her bedchamber.
Not even the ever-faithful Niels knew everything. For sure, she hadn’t told his shadow, Rory.
Only Devorgilla knew.
Although, she’d also confided in her little dog, Bodo.
And neither of them would betray her.
Even now, Bodo displayed his devotion, his determination to keep her safe. He trotted along a short distance ahead of her, his tail held high. Though tiny and still playful as a puppy, the little brown and white dog would defend her to the death, she knew.
If he possessed such courage, who was she to have doubts about a plan to guarantee a secure future for her people? Wouldn’t lasting peace be a more noble tribute to Lileas than another death?
Wasn’t an alliance with Donall MacLean preferable to seeing her clan fade from existence?
She believed so.
Hurrying on, she glanced at the evening sky. Bands of fast-moving clouds, deep gray and heavy with rain, stretched across the heavens, stealing the gloaming’s light as easily as the thought of the MacLean chieftain had robbed her of her nerve.
Regardless, she’d spent hours, whole nights, searching for a solution. She’d considered every detail, even questioning Evelina, Doon’s own joy woman, about the art of seduction.
Quickly, before her cheeks could flame, she pushed aside all thought of her meetings with Evelina, a woman most ladies of Doon, MacInnes and MacLean alike, pretended didn’t exist.
She liked the joy woman.
But she rather doubted Evelina’s claim that she no longer plied her trade, having given her heart to a mysterious benefactor she refused to name.
“Owwwww!” She grabbed her ankle and glared at the root stretching across the path. “May his manhood wither and fall off, indeed.”
She winced at the throbbing in her big toe.
It was the MacLean’s fault.
Had she not been worrying about seducing him, she wouldn’t have slammed her foot into the root.
Bodo bounded back to her, jaws open, a quizzical look in his golden-brown eyes, his perplexed expression all the more endearing for the crooked set of his teeth.
The way he gazed up at her thawed a bit of the frost that had settled around her heart since hearing Donall the Bold’s insults. Ignoring the ache in her foot, she scooped Bodo into her arms for a fierce hug.
“You wouldn’t compare me to a she-goat, would you?” She stroked his back, taking comfort in the soft warm weight of his little body, before she set him on the path.
He scampered ahead, but she cast another glance at the ever-darkening sky and pulled a small leather flagon from within the folds of her skirts. Quickly, she removed the stopper and swallowed the remaining drops of Devorgilla’s anti-attraction potion.
A great shudder tore through her as the bitter-tasting brew burned its way down her throat. But heedless of the potion’s bite, she meant to ask for more.
Enemy or nae, she’d have to be cloudy-eyed not to have noticed the MacLean’s fine form and bonnie face.
And he’d been well-grimed, his hair matted with muck. The impact of his good looks once bathed and properly groomed didn’t bear thinking upon.
She was not looking forward to seeing him again.
Yet face him and more, she must.
So she hitched her skirts and caught up to Bodo at the edge of the small glade Devorgilla called home.
Bodo’s ears lifted, his hackles rising. He peered into the clearing… a strange place lit by an eerie silver light despite the encroaching darkness.
No wind blew, though the approaching storm raged all around them. Even the peat smoke from the chimney of Devorgilla’s thatched cottage rose in a straight, bluish line.
Low rumbles sounded in Bodo’s chest, and she reached down to touch him. “Do not fret, precious. The cailleach would never harm either one of us.”
Bodo stopped growling, but glanced up at her, his eyes white-rimmed and doubtful. Nevertheless, he trotted along beside her, his short, sturdy legs moving quickly over the grass as he hurried to keep pace with her longer strides.
As always, heavy silence cloaked the glade. Devorgilla’s home perched close to the edge of the cliff. Fishnet weighted by stones held the thatch in place, and as in the glade itself, silvery light shimmered up, down, and around the cottage’s thick whitewashed walls.
The soft yellow glow of candles shone through two unshuttered windows, casting more of an otherworldly air than a welcoming one.
But Isolde knew she’d be greeted gladly.
Just as the crone was always an honored guest at Dunmuir, her skills and wisdom appreciated.
Devorgilla also enjoyed the protection of Clan MacInnes and every chieftain took care to treat her with great respect.
Isolde secretly suspected the crone had outlived more MacInnes lairds than her father and his before him.
Indeed, some whispered Devorgilla was older than stone.
“You’ve nothing to fear.” She glanced at Bodo, giving him a reassuring smile. In truth, her own nerves were as frayed as her dog’s.
But unlike Bodo, Devorgilla and her enchanted glade weren’t the cause of her uneasiness.
The reason for her agitation lay naked and bound in Dunmuir’s dungeon.
Or was he even now sitting in a washtub, having the grime scrubbed from his flesh in preparation for being ushered abovestairs to her bedchamber.
The very thought sent heat spilling through her.
Straightening her back against the madness she’d taken upon herself, she raised her hand to knock, but the door swung open before she could.
Devorgilla’s calico cat, Mab, slipped through the opening, rubbing herself against Isolde’s legs before sauntering off into the shadows. Mab didn’t even glance at Bodo, who snarled at the feline’s familiarity toward his mistress.
“Welcome, lassie, have yourself in!” Devorgilla held the door wide as Isolde stepped into the cottage’s low-ceilinged interior, Bodo behind her. Tidy as ever with its well-swept floor and red-glowing peat fire, the coziness of Devorgilla’s home embraced her.
She would so love to just stay here, sitting on a stool before the fire, her cares gone and nothing weighing on her. Instead, she smoothed her palms on her skirts and hoped she could speak without her voice breaking…
“Devorgilla – I need more of the potion.” The words came out in a rush. “And I beg you to tell me what you think of him. Is he the one? Please say he is not.”
“So many wants, my child.” Devorgilla closed the door and then leaned down to retie the red plaid shoelaces that adorned her small black boots. When she straightened, she tsked. “So much irritation thrumming through you, lassie. I can hear the thunder of your heart.”
“Can you imagine how it sounds to me? How I feel?” Isolde let her words tail off when the cailleach again clucked her tongue.
“I was young once, ne’er forget.” Devorgilla’s eyes twinkled for a moment, then she turned her attention to a dark-haired lad of about nine summers who sat on a bench against the far wall, stuffing moss and ferns into a bed pallet.
“Lugh, fetch a cup of heather ale for the lady, and a fresh beef bone for her dog. Then be gone with you for a while. The lady and I have things to discuss not fit for your young ears.”
The lad set aside his work and stood. He gave Isolde a shy glance, then pushed aside a hanging partition of woven straw not far from where he’d been sitting, and disappeared into the darkness beyond.
Isolde listened to him moving about in the larder, and tried to ignore the hunger-stirring aroma of smoked ham and dried beef wafting out from behind the straw curtain.
She had more serious matters to handle than the rumblings of her empty stomach.
The partition moved again, and Lugh returned with a brimming cup of heather ale for Isolde and a good-sized bone for Bodo. A stew bone with a nice portion of meat. His mistress momentarily forgotten, the little dog dashed forward and snatched the treat from the lad’s fingers.
Watching him, Isolde’s mouth watered, and she tamped down the urge to ask the crone’s great-great-grandson to fetch her a spot of victuals as well.
As if reading her mind, Devorgilla laid a gnarled hand on Isolde’s arm.
“Would you like a bowl of onion stew?” Her hazy-eyed gaze went to the bubbling cauldron suspended over the central hearth fire.
“I’ve some fresh bread almost finished.” She glanced toward the circular bake-oven protruding from the thickness of the opposite wall. “It will be nice and warm.”
Indeed, a delicious smell drifted past the seams of the oven’s closed iron-plate door. But Isolde declined. “Ale will do,” she said, accepting the cup Lugh offered her.
“I thank you.” She smiled at him. “And for giving Bodo a bone.”
Lugh gave her another bashful smile before he turned away to head back to the bench and his unfinished task.
“Ho, laddie.” Devorgilla hurried after him, moving her hands in a flapping motion that underscored her resemblance to a tiny, black-garbed bird. “Out with you now.” She urged him toward the door. “Go gather a bit more moss and ferns for your sleeping pallet.”
Without further protest, he took the basket Devorgilla handed him, and let himself out of the cottage. Isolde’s heart twisted for him. He’d scarce uttered a word since his mother died of fever some years past. But as much affection as she bore him, she needed private words with the crone.
Lives depended on her.