Chapter Four #3
Everyone knew that MacFinnan spellweavers were not normal women.
Possessors of formidable powers and strange gifts, they were more akin to witches or seers, and anyone with an ounce of sense was wary around them.
He caught his men casting covert glances at her and then looking away quickly when she noticed.
For her part, Jenna said nothing, but her head swiveled from side to side as they rode, taking in the craggy landscape they passed through. Was this as strange for her as it was for him and his men? Or was time traveling all in a day’s work for her?
Finally, Dun Tabor, the ancestral home of the MacLeods of Skye, came into view.
It was an impressive sight, even if he thought so himself.
A tall, imposing keep, it was built into the side of a rocky hillside, with a winding causeway leading up to the gates.
High, round towers rose at all four corners and pennants snapped in the breeze.
A loch spread out from the keep’s knees, and clusters of houses were nestled in terraces below the keep and around the loch’s shore.
He felt a flush of pride as he looked out at Dun Tabor.
His home. The place he loved more than any other in all the world.
With the sparkling loch at its base, the craggy hills behind, and the thick forests of pine, alder, and birch that cloaked the hills to east and west, it was a beautiful spot that never failed to take his breath away.
And it was under threat. If they failed, if Jenna was unable to revive the magic that protected Skye, all of this would be lost. An image formed in his mind’s eye. Smoke billowing. The houses and crofts burning. Dun Tabor’s gates broken, its towers nothing but skeletal ruins reaching into the sky.
No, he told himself. That will not happen. While there is breath in my body and blood in my veins, I will not let Dun Tabor fall.
At the sight of the keep, some of his men let out delighted whoops and cries of triumph. He understood their excitement. They had survived another day and made it home to their families. In these troubled times, that was the best any of them could hope for.
As they began passing through Dun Tabor village, people stopped what they were doing and came to line the road, calling out greetings and well-wishes.
There were many faces he knew, some he didn’t, but he waved and called out greetings and bantered good-naturedly with them all the same, letting his people see him relaxed and in control, as they needed their laird to be.
The curious glances at Jenna were many and his men moved into a circular formation around his horse without Arran having to ask them, shielding Jenna a little from the prying eyes and prying questions that Arran waved away without answering.
“They all seem to know you,” Jenna observed in a quiet voice.
“Aye,” he replied. “I’ve led them for ten years now. My father was chieftain before me, and my elder brother should have followed him. But they were both killed in a raid so the title passed to me.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him, her eyes large and shining with compassion. “I’m sorry.”
“Dinna be. It was a long time ago and although I canna say I ever wanted the lairdship, I’ve found peace with it. After a fashion.” He wasn’t sure he was being entirely truthful. Aye, he’d found acceptance of a kind, but that didn’t mean it didn’t chafe at him.
They wound their way up the causeway to Dun Tabor’s open gates and clattered through into the bailey where they pulled their horses to a halt.
The messengers he’d sent on ahead had obviously reached the keep in good time as it seemed the whole of the household staff had turned out to welcome their laird home.
Welcome me, he thought dryly. Hardly. It’s the MacFinnan spellweaver they’ve come to welcome.
The household was arrayed in two lines in front of the keep’s doors, the soldiers, farriers, kennel masters, and stable hands in the row behind, with the steward, chamberlain, cook, and household servants in the front row.
His mother stood in the middle of the front row as well, wearing her best dress and the MacLeod plaid draped across her shoulders.
Arran swung down from the saddle, handing the reins to one of the stable boys. “Bring the mounting block to help the lady dismount,” he instructed the lad.
“Aye, my laird,” the lad replied, running off in the direction of the stable.
But Jenna didn’t wait. Grabbing hold of the saddle horn, she swung her leg over the horse’s back in a most undignified manner and then slid ungracefully to the ground. Her knees buckled and she would have fallen had not Arran darted forward to catch her. He set her safely on her feet.
“Thanks,” she muttered, looking up at him.
He found himself staring into her bright, clear eyes before clearing his throat and stepping back. “I… um… ye are welcome.”
Arran’s mother stepped forward and executed a perfect curtsey.
Despite her advancing years and the gray that now lined her once auburn hair, she was still a vigorous woman.
When she smiled, he saw the glimpse of the beauty she had once been.
But the death of her husband and eldest son had taken its toll on Lady Rosaline MacLeod and now she rarely smiled.
“Welcome to Dun Tabor, my lady,” she said. “I’m Rosaline. A delight to meet ye.” She glanced briefly at Arran, her eyes full of questions. No doubt he’d get a grilling later, but she was too well schooled in courtesy to ask anything in front of Jenna.
“My lady?” Jenna replied. “I don’t think I’ve ever been called that before! It’s just Jenna. And wow. Your place is amazing!”
“That’s very kind of ye to say, my lady. Jenna. Will ye come inside? I’ve had a room made up for ye and food prepared. Ye must be tired after yer… um… journey.”
Again that glance from his mother that promised a thousand questions later.
Arran sighed inwardly. Jenna wasn’t the only one who was tired.
It had been a challenging day, and Arran would love nothing more than to shut himself in his study in front of a roaring fire and enjoy a tankard or two of ale in solitude.
Little chance of that. His mother would not be the only one with questions, and he knew he’d be up late trying to explain everything.
“Go with my mother,” he said to Jenna. “Get some rest. We’ll begin work in the morning.”
“Right. Okay,” she said, looking slightly unsure. Then she smiled at Rosaline. “Lead the way.”
Arran watched as Jenna left with Rosaline. She paused at the doors to the keep and looked back. Their eyes met across the distance, and damn him if he didn’t feel a strange stirring inside. Then she was gone.
“Is she really a MacFinnan spellweaver?”
He turned to see David, his steward, standing at his elbow, staring after Jenna. “And is it true she’s come to save us?”
Arran stifled a sigh. “Aye, it’s true.”
Mal joined them and whistled under his breath. “Bloody hell, ye dinna do things by halves do ye?”
“What do ye mean?”
“This morning ye swore ye would find a way to stop the raids. This afternoon ye ride home with a MacFinnan spellweaver. I dinna think ye could have caused more of a stir if ye had ridden home having grown horns and a tail.”
It was true that an excited hubbub filled the bailey—the kind of enthusiastic clamor that had been missing from Dun Tabor for many a month. His people were talking among themselves, gesticulating at the door through which Jenna had gone, and shooting him awe-filled looks.
Ah, damn it. Perhaps he’d underestimated the impact that bringing Jenna might have on Dun Tabor.
MacFinnan spellweavers were a legend on Skye, most people assigning them the status of myth, and now here he was riding through the gate with one of them.
No matter. The lass would do what he’d brought her here to do, he would pay her the agreed fee, and she would go home.
Then Dun Tabor could go back to life as usual.
Life as usual? he thought. I’m not sure what that is any more.
What would he do with his time if he wasn’t constantly scouting his lands, fighting off invaders, or training his warriors? Perhaps he would finally have time to settle down, find a wife, and give his mother those grandchildren she was always badgering him about.
“Ye are going to have to tell them something,” Mal said.
“Eh?”
Mal nodded at the people filling the bailey.
“Ye are going to have to tell them how it is ye have returned with a MacFinnan spellweaver and where ye found her. If ye dinna tell them something, then ye can be sure the gossips will and before ye know it, the whole island will be abuzz with wild tales and outlandish rumors.”
Arran found himself reluctant to talk about his encounter with Lir and his subsequent trip through time.
It was uncomfortable to think about, and part of him still couldn’t quite believe it had been real.
How could he expect his people to understand something he didn’t understand himself?
But Mal was right. He needed to tell them something if he didn’t want tongues wagging with all sorts of mischief.
“Fine. Tell everyone the laird will be attending the evening meal tonight where he’ll address them.”
Mal clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll put the word out. I look forward to hearing yer tale.”
Aye, Arran thought, as Mal walked off. He had quite the tale to tell. Question was: would it have a happy ending?