Chapter 4
Isolde waited until Devorgilla left the door, but the moment the crone paused at the hearth and reached for a long-handled ladle to stir the simmering stew, the words tumbled out…
“He compared me to a she-goat,” she railed, remembering. “Claimed he’d rather see his man piece wither and fall off before he’d bed me.”
“So.” Devorgilla glanced at her. “He knows what you would have of him?”
“Nae. Not yet, anyway.” Warmth crept into Isolde’s cheeks. “He wanted to hurl nastiness at me.”
“Ill-humored, is he?” Devorgilla dipped the ladle into the cauldron and began to stir the thick, bubbling stew. A cloud of delicious-smelling steam rose to encircle her grizzled head, and Isolde was certain she heard the old woman chuckle.
“There is nothing amusing in such insults.”
“’Tis not amused I am, but intrigued.”
“I am offended.”
“Are ye now?” Devorgilla looked at her, one brow lifting. “Why do you wish more of the potion if he vexes you? Riled as you are, I’d think you’d have no need of my anti-attraction tincture.”
Isolde clasped her hands. “I know you went to see him. Is he the one? The man you glimpsed in the cauldron steam?”
Devorgilla cast her another look, then waved a hand through the steam rising from her stew. “A shame he doesn’t appear now. Then you’d know without asking me.”
“But I am.”
“So you are.”
“And you won’t tell me?”
“Such things cannot be rushed.” Devorgilla returned the ladle to the tabletop. “More often than not, the answers we seek are already deep within our own hearts, if we’ll but look.”
“I have looked. At him.” In her mind, Isolde recalled every detail she’d seen of the enemy laird. His broad shoulders, the muscled expanse of his chest, nicely dusted with dark hair. His powerful arms and legs, and – of course! – the wickedly intimate parts she wished she hadn’t glimpsed.
“I did not like what I saw,” she added, speaking as calmly as she could. “Nothing about him appeals to me.”
Devorgilla peered at her. “Is that so?”
“It is.”
“You surprise me.” Devorgilla tsked. “Many lassies would be pleased.”
“Well, I am not.” Isolde blew out a frustrated breath. “Nor did I care for what he said.”
“No one will blame you for that.” Devorgilla rubbed her bristly chin.
Isolde frowned. The crone was clearly trying to hide how her lips quirked. Sure enough, a tiny chuckle, nae, a cackle, escaped her.
“There is nary a thread of humor in his slurs.” Isolde rubbed her arms. “He is mannerless.”
“See here, lassie.” Devorgilla set her hands on her hips. “How many men do you suppose wouldn’t anger under such circumstances? Waking up in a cold and slimy-walled cell, naked and chained, a gaggle of grizzled ancients gawking at him?”
Isolde glanced up at the smoke-blackened ceiling rafters.
Devorgilla was right.
His fury was understandable.
Still…
After meeting him, she preferred anger to acknowledging how her heart had skipped upon noticing his resemblance to the man she’d dreamt of on the night of Beltane.
If only she hadn’t put yarrow sprigs under her pillow!
But she’d wanted to see if the herb’s magic would conjure her future husband. A man she’d hoped to recognize as anyone but Balloch MacArthur, the man her clan elders wished her to marry.
She looked again at the crone. “I must know. Is the MacLean the man you saw in the cauldron’s steam the night of Beltane?”
Devorgilla pursed her lips and reached again for her ladle.
Stepping forward, Isolde gently eased aside the old woman’s arm. “Is he?”
“The man in my vision was the one, the man you cannot help but to love, as he will love you.” Devorgilla hedged. “He was not that bumbling ox, Balloch,” she added, confirming Isolde’s long-held belief that the crone could read minds.
“Praise be.” Relief washed over Isolde, but not enough. The niggling fear that Donall the Bold might be ‘the one’ was too bothersome.
“Dinnae look so grieved, child.” Devorgilla crossed the room to a rough wooden shelf that ran the length of one wall and began rummaging through a jumbled assortment of clay pots, earthen bowls, and jugs. “You can be gladdened. Your one true love is a braw man, a fine warrior.”
Isolde flicked at her sleeve. “I hope that is so.”
“Bah!” Devorgilla glanced over her shoulder, a mischievous gleam in her eye. “Do you think I didn’t see him?”
“Nae, but…”
“Images seen on the night of Beltane do not lie.” Devorgilla lifted a small leather flagon off the cluttered shelf. “The power of the old gods should not be doubted.”
“I just wish they weren’t so silent.”
“I will tell you what I can.” Devorgilla came back to her. “The man I saw in my cauldron steam was dark of hair. His muscles spoke of hard training, and he was of good heart.”
“Then he cannot be the MacLean, dark and well-muscled or nae.”
“Who is to say?” Devorgilla shrugged. “The vision did not show me the man’s face clearly enough. The cauldron steam was thick, swirling everywhere.”
Isolde bit back a sigh. She didn’t believe the crone, but knew better than to pry.
“Is this the anti-attraction potion?” She eyed the little flagon in Devorgilla’s hand.
“’Tis what you came here for, aye.” Devorgilla gave her the potion and then went to the door, opening it wide. “You should be on your way. My bones tell me a storm will break soon.”
Isolde almost blurted that a storm already had broken, and its fury threatened to claim her soul.
Instead, she called Bodo, thanked Devorgilla for the shielding potion, and stepped out into the cold wind.
To her dismay, she caught another of Devorgilla’s cackles as the door closed behind her.
About an hour later, on the opposite side of Doon, pounding rain drenched the massive walls of Baldoon Castle and lightning streaked across the night sky.
The heavens had turned as dark as the black mourning cloth draped over the altar of Baldoon’s private chapel. A lone man knelt there, his broad shoulders and lowered head silhouetted against the flickering candlelight.
High above him, tall round-topped windows gleamed bright with each flash of lightning.
The man didn’t notice.
To his left and right, clusters of slender, round pillars supported the vaulted ceiling and formed shadowy arcades where young boys stood with their heads bowed as they rang hand bells. Their task was to ward off the demons that might torment the departed soul of the man’s late wife, Lileas.
All around him, booms of thunder rattled the precious panes of jewel-toned glass high above the altar, and even seemed to shake the cold stone floor. The grieving man, Iain MacLean, prayed on, heedless of the fury outside the chapel.
The truth was, a dark cloud of sorrow, cloying as the incense-laden air, clung to him. He heard neither the mournful ringing of the bells, the storm’s wrath, nor the clatter and scrape of scores of men sharpening their swords in the great hall just beyond the chapel’s half-opened door.
He also didn’t catch the soft footsteps of the raven-haired young woman who now appeared at his side.
“Your sorrow will not bring her back,” she said, placing a hand on his shoulder.
Only then did he stir, lifting his dark head as if awakening from a dream, then pushing to his feet to stare at his sister, Amicia.
The shock that flickered across her face didn’t surprise him.
His eyes burned and felt like they were filled with sand, so he knew his despair had dulled and reddened them.
Lack of sleep had also dug deep lines in his face – the very one his beloved Lileas had always claimed was so bonnie.
He didn’t feel bonnie now.
Indeed, he wanted to tear someone apart – anyone! Instead, he scrubbed at his eyes, not caring if he looked like a rotted bog monster. He also felt his brows lowering as he saw his sister’s shock change to pity.
“Can you no’ leave me be?” He swayed a bit, long hours on his knees having weakened his legs. “Lileas needs me. She-”
“She is gone, my heart.” Amicia reached to touch his cheek. “You should rest.”
“Perhaps.” He pulled on his beard, his voice weary. “But I would rather ask the gods to lend speed to the men repairing our storm-damaged galleys. If they are just, they will also give us fair weather and safe passage to MacKinnons’ Isle.”
“If they are wise, they will send more storms.” Amicia set her hands on her hips. “Then you would have no choice but to wait for Donall and Gavin to return before you rush off on such a foolhardy mission.”
Iain’s face darkened. “This is no’ the time to rile me, Amicia. Sister or nae.”
“Someone must make you see reason.” She stood her ground, her gaze locked on his. “Setting sail now, with Donall gone, and upon a hastily repaired ship, is asking for more tragedy.”
“Avenging my wife’s murder is what it is.” He gripped her elbow and led her out of the chapel. “See for yourself,” he said, guiding her to the center of Baldoon’s great hall. “Behold our warriors…”
With a sweep of his arm, he indicated the bustle around them. “Every MacLean before you is ready to avenge my lady wife’s death. You alone object.”
“I do not.” Amicia pulled free of his grasp. “I, too, would see her murderer punished. But I will not stand silent when your grief and anger sends you off in a ship that could sink. Allowing such folly would cost me not only you, my brother, but all the kinsmen you mean to take with you.”
Iain leaned back against a table for his damned legs had gone to sleep. “You are a woman,” he said, frowning at his sister. “Dinnae meddle in men’s business.”
“Hah! Donall would say the same.” Amicia reached to straighten his mussed plaid. “Why do you think he and Gavin meant to join the MacInnesses on their journey to the mainland rather than wait until our own galleys have been made seaworthy again?”
“Our brother didnae lose his wife,” Iain snapped. “He doesnae even have one. I did, and the MacKinnons-”
“Iain.” She took his hand, linking their fingers. “We have no proof the MacKinnons are responsible for Lileas’ death. Perhaps the storm that damaged our ships ravaged their fleet as well?”
She tilted her head to the side, squeezed his hand. “Can you not wait until Donall’s return to seek your revenge?”
“It will be months before he finishes his business in Glasgow.” He pulled his hand from hers. “As for the MacKinnons, who else could’ve done the deed? Our clans have e’er been at odds. They’ve no fondness for the MacInnesses either.”
“I do not believe the MacKinnons are responsible.”
“I do.”
“All the same, our ships aren’t ready. Even the one least damaged isn’t-”
“The voyage to MacKinnons’ Isle is not hazardous or long.” He pushed away from the table and set his hands on her shoulders. “I promise we shall not leave until the galley’s hull has been fully repaired.”
When she started to protest, he placed two fingers over her lips. “Retaliation will not bring Lileas back to me. I know that. But I cannot rest until her murderer’s bones have been picked clean by crows. My heart demands it.”
Amicia sighed. “There is nothing I can say to change your mind?”
Iain shook his head.
“Then may the gods watch over you.” She shook her head. “Some say they take special care of fools,” she added under her breath. But the softly spoken words were lost in a crash of thunder and the din of men making ready for war.