Chapter 7 Time Grows Short
HAZEL’S ATTENTION SNAPPED back to Maclean.
Their gazes met and held, and then his lips quirked.
“Thank ye,” she replied stiffly, taking the onion from him.
He didn’t move away. Instead, he began gathering more. Around them, the whispers grew louder. Hazel could feel the weight of every stare in the market. Great. Now, seeing Maclean with her like this just confirmed the rumors. Could today get any worse? “I can manage,” she muttered.
“I’m sure ye can.” He deposited three more onions into her arms. “But it’s faster with help.”
A short while later, they’d retrieved all the scattered bulbs. She shoved them back into the broken pannier, painfully aware of Maclean’s presence beside her. He smelled of leather and something sharper, like pine.
Standing, she brushed dirt from her kirtle. “I appreciate yer assistance, Maclean,” she said, raising her voice slightly so that everyone nearby—including his men—could hear. “But I’ll be on my way now.”
She turned to lead Duncan from the square.
“Head back to the castle, lads,” Maclean ordered his warriors. “I’ll join ye shortly.”
Murmurs of assent followed, and then the chieftain fell into step beside her.
“Let me help ye with that,” he said, reaching for the broken pannier basket.
“It’s not necessary.”
“The strap’s snapped. Ye will lose everything again if ye try to carry it like that.”
He was right, curse him. Hazel pressed her lips together as he lifted the basket from Duncan’s back and tucked it under his arm.
They passed through the village in silence. Hazel walked as fast as she could, nearly dragging her donkey behind her. She had to get away from this place. All she wanted was to return to the safety and seclusion of her home nestled deep in the oakwood.
However, when they’d cleared the last cottage and were on the path leading into the woods, she whirled on her companion. “What the devil are ye doing?”
Maclean blinked, clearly taken aback by her venom. “Helping ye—”
“Do ye not care that every tongue in Lochbuie is wagging?” Hazel gestured back toward the village. “That they all think—” She broke off, heat rushing to her cheeks.
Understanding dawned in his eyes. “Ah.”
“Is that all ye have to say?” She snatched the pannier from his arms. “Ye send a cart full of provisions to my cottage … and the servant ye choose has a mouth bigger than the Firth of Lorn.”
“What do ye mean?” he replied, his tone cooling. “I asked Rab to be discreet. Has he said something?”
“It has to be him … or one of his pals at the castle.”
His gaze narrowed. “If he’s been spreading rumors, I shall deal with him.”
“Don’t bother,” she shot back, frustration spilling over. She just wanted to leave today behind her. She didn’t want her name mentioned again. “It’s too late now, anyway.”
Maclean’s brow furrowed. “I didn’t intend to cause ye trouble,” he replied, an edge creeping into his voice.
“Maybe not … but ye were thoughtless.”
A muscle flexed in his jaw, his expression hardening now. “I only wished to thank ye.”
“And I’m grateful,” she replied. “But no more gifts, Maclean. Please.”
Their gazes locked for a few moments, and then the chieftain grimaced. “Agreed.”
They stood there a moment longer, the warm breeze stirring the leaves of the surrounding birches. Duncan shifted impatiently, ready to be home.
“I’m sorry for biting yer head off,” Hazel said finally, awkwardness stealing over her. In the wake of her outburst, she suddenly felt foolish. “But I’ve been … on edge … of late.”
He nodded, accepting her clumsy apology.
She cleared her throat. “I should go.”
“Then let me walk with ye.” Before she could protest, he added, “Someone must carry yer basket. It’s heavy.”
She opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again. There was no need to continue being churlish. “Very well.” With that, she passed him back the pannier.
Continuing along the narrow path that wound north through the woods, Hazel was acutely aware of Maclean traveling beside her. The basket was tucked under his arm. He had a long, confident stride.
They walked in silence for a time, the only sounds the fluty whistle of blackbirds in the nearby twisted oaks and Duncan’s occasional snort. The donkey seemed pleased to have company, his large ears flicking between them as if following their unspoken conversation.
“How old are ye?” Maclean asked suddenly.
The question caught her off guard. “What?”
“Yer age. I’m curious.”
Hazel cut him a sharp look, anger bubbling up once more. She’d almost had enough of the Chieftain of Moy today.
“I’m one and twenty,” he said, as if that settled the matter. “And ye?”
Hesitating, she considered lying. But what was the point? “One and thirty,” she muttered.
She waited for him to react. However, his response surprised her. He smiled. “Ye seem younger.”
“Flattery won’t—” She broke off, flustered. “It doesn’t matter anyway.”
“No, it doesn’t,” he replied firmly.
Ahead of them, Duncan suddenly veered off the path, investigating a patch of wild mint. Tugging on his lead rope, Hazel pulled him back. “Behave yerself, Dunc.”
The donkey tossed his head and deliberately stepped on her foot. Not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make his point.
“Oof! Put that sharp wee hoof elsewhere.” She shoved against his shoulder, slipping her foot free.
Maclean huffed a laugh. “He’s a character.”
“Aye.” Hazel scratched behind Duncan’s ears, and the donkey leaned into her touch, eyes half-closing. “Duncan is all I have now.”
Walking on, she felt the chieftain’s gaze on her. The weight of his attention made her skin prickle.
“How are ye coping?” he asked finally.
“Well enough,” she replied, deliberately vague.
“Have things gotten easier?”
She nodded, avoiding his eye now. If only that were true. However, she wouldn’t admit how much she’d struggled of late; how she didn’t think she’d ever be able to forgive Siùsan her lies.
“Maybe a change of routine would help,” he said then. “Would ye pay us a visit at Moy Castle?”
Hazel’s pulse fluttered. Cods. Had she not made herself clear earlier? “I’m not sure that’s wise,” she replied, her tone cooling. “Not with folk already yapping about us.”
He snorted. “The best way to deal with gossips is to face them head on.” Their gazes met then, and his dark eyes glinted. “Besides … the castle’s healer retired recently, and some of our residents are in sore need of yer skill.”
Warmth washed over Hazel once more. She cut her attention back to the path through the trees, wishing Maclean didn’t fluster her so much. “I’ll think about it,” she murmured.
The Isle of Ulva
West of the Isle of Mull
Hamish Macquarie walked through the gates to his holding and took the path that would lead him down to the shore.
Above him, his tower house rose stark against the summer sky—grey stone weathered by centuries of storms. Below, the sea churned against Ulva’s western coast, white foam hissing over black rocks.
Briny air—the scent of salt and seaweed—filled his lungs. Gulls wheeled overhead, their cries harsh and mocking.
He’d been avoiding this visit for weeks. But the dreams had grown worse. And when Hamish dreamed that he was falling into a deep, dark abyss three nights running, he knew better than to ignore it.
Passing through the rambling garden beyond the walls, he spotted his wife and daughter among the herbs. Moira knelt between rows of sage and thyme, her greying hair covered by a simple kertch. Beside her, Isla plucked weeds with the same quiet diligence she brought to everything.
“Father.” Isla straightened, brushing dirt from her kirtle. Her smile was tentative. Hopeful.
“Daughter.” He nodded curtly, not slowing his stride. “Yer mother keeps ye busy, I see.”
“Aye. She’s teaching me which herbs to use for simple remedies.”
“Good. A wife should know such things.” He was already moving past them, down toward the beach path. Behind him, he heard Moira murmur something to Isla. Soothing words, no doubt. His wife had always been too soft with the lass.
But Isla would be Lady of Moy soon enough. She’d have servants to tend her gardens then. All that mattered was that she gave Craeg Maclean sons and strengthened the alliance between their clans.
Hamish’s son appeared ahead on the path then, long legs eating up the distance between them.
His hair was an untidy mop, his lèine was damp with sweat, and his cheeks flushed.
At eighteen, Cameron was tall and gangly, all awkward limbs and uncertain movements.
Nothing like Hamish had been at that age—already seasoned in battle, already commanding respect.
“Where have ye been?” Hamish demanded without preamble.
“Practicing swordplay with Fergus on the beach,” his son replied. “He’s helping me with my footwork.”
Hamish grunted. At least the lad was trying. Though God knew if he’d ever amount to much. His gaze went to the wooden sword tucked into his belt. “One day, ye’ll have to swap that toy for a steel blade, Cam,” he muttered. “I hope ye are ready for it.”
Cameron’s face flushed red. “Aye, Da.”
Pushing past him, Hamish continued down the path. He had no time for the lad’s wounded feelings. Not today.
The trail grew steeper as it descended toward the shore.
Wild thrift bloomed pink among the rocks, and patches of sea campion clung to crevices.
Behind him, sheep bleated. Wool and mutton were the mainstay of his clan’s income.
Shepherds and cottars lived in squat bothies behind his tower house, the wind-blasted hills of this isle dotted with sheep.
The sun beat down on his shoulders, unusually warm for Ulva.
Summer had been kind this year—good weather for the harvest. Fine weather for forging alliances and securing his clan’s future.
Below, the beach opened up—a crescent of white sand studded with black rocks. At the far end, where the cliff curved inward, a dark mouth yawned in the stone.
The crone’s cave.
Hamish’s jaw tightened. He’d first come here as a young man, seeking guidance after his father’s death. The crone had been ancient even then—wizened and bent, her eyes milky with cataracts. That had been thirty years ago. She should be dead by now.
But she wasn’t.
Crossing the beach, he ducked beneath the cave’s entrance. The temperature dropped immediately, cool and damp after the summer heat. Water dripped somewhere in the darkness. His boots crunched on shells and dried kelp.
Then he saw them.
Bones and feathers hung from the cave ceiling—hundreds of them, maybe thousands. Crow and gull feathers, fish bones, and sheep skulls, all strung together with sinew and hair. They formed a curtain, a barrier between the outside world and whatever lay beyond.
Gritting his teeth, Hamish pushed through. He hated coming down here, but the dreams made it necessary.
The grisly curtain clattered against him, clicking and rustling. A sheep skull swung into his shoulder. Feathers brushed his face, soft and unsettling.
And then he was through, into the inner chamber.
The crone sat beside a small fire, its smoke curling up through a natural chimney in the rock. She looked impossibly old, skin like weathered leather, eyes clouded with age. Yet those eyes saw everything. Her body was tiny, frail, swallowed up by the voluminous blanket she’d wrapped around her.
“Hamish Macquarie.” Her voice quavered slightly, even as her thin lips twisted into a goading smile. “I wondered when ye’d come back.”
“Is yer advice the same?” He didn’t bother with pleasantries. It vexed him that he had to visit this woman, that he needed her counsel. But that didn’t mean he had to be polite to her.
“Aye.” She stirred something in a clay pot that sat at the fire’s edge. The smell was pungent, rank. It made his bile rise. “The past ye buried still breathes. The seed ye planted still grows.”
His hands bunched into fists at his sides. “Not this again, witch.”
“I told ye last time. A sin from yer past will come back to haunt ye.” She looked up at him then, those opaque eyes somehow piercing. “A fruit from yer loins lives amongst the Macleans of Mull.” Her smile widened. “A woman who will ruin yer ambitions.”
The cave seemed to press in around him. “But that’s impossible,” he wheezed. “I sent men out looking for her. The bairn died. We found the midwife. She swore it.”
“Did she?” The crone shrugged her frail shoulders. “Or did she take pity on a mewling infant? Did she perhaps spirit the child away, claim it died, and give it to someone else to raise?”
Hamish’s heart hammered against his ribs. The bitch was taunting him. If he hadn’t feared she’d curse him, he’d have struck her across the face for her impertinence.
Yet, the crone’s words were a reminder of the past. Thirty-two years ago. The raid on Lochbuie. The woman he’d forced in the chaos. She’d been comely, and he’d wanted her—and so he’d taken her.
He’d thought nothing of it afterward. Such things happened in raids.
But then, recently, the dreams had begun.
They were always the same. He was always tumbling into a dark chasm.
The crone told him that he had an illegitimate daughter living amongst the Macleans of Moy who’d be his downfall, and so he’d sent his men out to ask a few questions.
They’d discovered the identity of the woman he’d raped, and learned that she’d died in childbirth, taking her bairn with her.
And he’d believed the tale. Why wouldn’t he?
Archie had been adamant upon his return from Lochbuie. Both mother and bairn had perished.
“Where is she?” His voice came out rough. His anger was rising like a kelpie from the depths.
“Close.” The crone stirred her pot. “Living quietly. Keeping to herself. But not for much longer. The threads are tightening, Hamish Macquarie. Soon they’ll draw together, and when they do, yer carefully laid plans will unravel.”
Shite. His pulse started to hammer in his ears. He had to find that midwife—and beat the truth out of her, if necessary.
“I’ve worked too hard.” He stepped closer to the fire, fists still clenched. “This alliance with the Macleans will finally give my clan the recognition we deserve. The status. The power. I won’t let some bastard daughter destroy what I’ve built.”
“Then find her.” The crone’s voice was implacable. “And do what must be done before she ruins everything.”
“Where?” he demanded, taking a threatening step toward her. He loomed over the old woman now, yet she didn’t appear the least bit intimidated. “Give me a name, hag! A place!”
“I can’t. But ye already know that Lochbuie is where ye should be searching. Seek the woman with black hair and blue eyes who carries yer blood, whether she knows it or not.” The crone held his gaze fast. “But be quick, Hamish Macquarie. Time grows short.”