Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
A listair woke from a troubled sleep to the sound of a soft hitching breath beside him. Niamh stirred in an uneasy dream, but before he could reach out to her, she settled, curling into the warmth of the blankets with a soft sigh. Alistair watched her sleep for a few moments, then slid himself silently out of bed. The crispness of the air suggested it was already dawn, or close to it, and he knew there was no chance of going back to sleep.
The events of the night before still weighed too heavily on his mind for him to experience anything more than a restless, fleeting sleep, broken by dreams of the past, and his fears for the future. He’d lost track of how many times he’d woken with sweat pouring down his face, a memory of Constance’s death playing in his mind. And how many times he’d dreamed that it had been Niamh instead.
Alistair moved toward the outer room to stoke the fire. The washtub was long gone, of course, but the feelings evoked during the bath the night before remained, and they filled his thoughts now.
The feeling of Niamh washing his hair and tending to his back and shoulders had been comforting in a way he hadn’t experienced in a very long time. The last time he’d felt so gently and tenderly cared for had been when he had been a very small child. Back when his mother had been the one to wash his hair and aid him in bathing.
He had hoped that he and Niamh might one day have an amiable relationship with each other, even if he knew the curse meant they could never have a loving one. Last night, however, had proved that he might be mistaken - that they could have a loving relationship, though it might take the form of kindness and gentleness more than the heat of passion bards so often described.
That tenderness, that feeling of being loved and protected had been what had allowed him to speak, to tell Niamh as much as he had about Fergus MacTavish. He still hadn’t been able to tell her the full truth about what had happened to Constance, but he suspected she had some suspicions. After all, he’d told her at their first meeting that the ring she now wore had once belonged to a woman he loved. A woman who was no longer around.
And Niamh might join her, if she insists on stayin’. ‘Tis sweet o’ her, and brave, tae say she’ll nae run from the danger, but it means she’s in peril every moment she stays with me, and she’s nae even safe behind these walls.
That was what terrified him, that MacTavish had so easily slipped through his defenses with that poisoned sweet. And again, slipping sellswords disguised as bandits through his patrols to strike at her again. Perhaps Niamh could say she wasn’t frightened, but Alistair knew down to his bones that he was terrified of what might befall her.
He was terrified of losing her, and equally worried by the depth of his concern. He had no idea what depth of feeling, or what sort of love and strength of emotion might serve to activate the curse. He only knew that, if it was awakened, it was their doom - his, and likely hers as well.
The worst of it was, he wasn’t sure that even that knowledge could stop the growth of his feelings for the fiery young woman he’d claimed as his bride.
He was still thinking about the matter when Niamh emerged from the bedroom, already fully dressed. “Ye woke early.”
“Aye.” He wasn’t about to trouble her with his thoughts, however. “Just thinking where a likely spot might be tae harvest wood fer the fires and stones fer the rings.”
“Ye dinnae have cleared bonfire rings already? We always had one or two kept free o’ growth near Cameron Castle.”
Alistair snorted. “And so do we, but winter storms and the like are hard on the stones. I never kent a Samhain yet where some o’ the boundary stones didnae need tae be replaced. An, o’ course, there’s always an enterprising farmer or two who tak’s the stones from the rings to guard his fields and forgets tae put them back after the harvest.”
Niamh blinked. “Is that what happens tae them? Faither never did tell me.”
She smiled, and the expression was like a knife to Alistair’s heart. So sweet, and yet… he couldn’t allow himself to be drawn in by her beauty or that gentle warmth.
He turned away with a grunt. “Best eat yer breakfast. We’ve much tae dae taeday, and ‘tis tradition fer women tae choose the wood the men bring home, so they can share the luck o’ the Samhain fires.”
His voice was harsher than he meant it to be, but he made no effort to make it kinder. Gentleness would only encourage both of them to venture closer to lines that were better left uncrossed. Knowing that, however, didn’t stop the pang of guilt that hit him when he saw her unhappy expression.
The conversation after that faltered and died away, and they ate the rest of their breakfast in silence. Afterward, the two of them joined a small party of men and women going into the woods to gather the bonfire material. Alistair stopped Niamh when she would have saddled a horse for herself. “Ye’ll be ridin’ with me. We’ll want the spare horses f er the wood, and I dinnae want ye more than an arm’s length from me. There’s nae telling what might happen otherwise.”
“I’m perfectly fine ridin’ on me own.” Niamh scowled at him.
“Aye. And I still say ye’ll be ridin’ with me or stayin’ here with the colf who arenae going out fer the bonfire wood.” Alistair folded his arms and gave her the sternest look he was capable of managing. “So, what will it be?”
Niamh huffed. “All right.”
She was vexed with him, he knew. However, if there was danger about, or any chance of more sellswords out there, he had no desire to see her attacked by them. Better she be frustrated by his overprotectiveness - as she saw it - than be hurt or killed due to negligence.
The ride toward the wooded area they’d selected for collecting the wood for bonfires was a tense one. Niamh was visibly fuming in his arms as they rode, and by the time they’d reached the woods and dismounted, she had a look in her eyes that reminded him of their first days together, a look that hinted that she intended to make life as difficult as she could for him.
Sure enough, as soon as he suggested that she choose some likely trees to bring down, she turned to a large fallen log tangled in the undergrowth. “Och, why kill a tree, when ye’ve got a lovely piece o’ deadwood right here.”
She had a point, but when he readied the axe to split it into smaller pieces for transport, Niamh frowned at him. “Ye need large logs for the bonfires, or ye’ll have nae time fer the dancin’ or prayers, ye’ll be so busy tending tae them. Surely ‘twould be better tae tak’ it back like this.”
Alistair scowled at her. The log was a heavy one. It would need to be hitched to at least two horses, otherwise they would risk overburdening the animals. On the other hand, it could form the base for a sturdy pallet to drag more wood away at once. “All right.”
Alistair set the axe to one side, then reached down to grasp the log. As he’d expected, it was heavily tangled in the undergrowth around it. It was also large - too wide for his hands to wrap fully around it, and a good three feet long.
Most men would have needed help to pull such a heavy piece of wood free. Alistair suspected that was what Niamh was hoping, that he’d need help to lift it, and she’d be able to use that against him later. He wasn’t quite sure how she intended to use a need for assistance against him, but it was his best guess for why she’d insisted on that log, and requested it remain unbroken.
Alistair felt a grim smile tug one corner of his mouth. His lady was a devious one, but fortunately, in this case, she’d underestimated him.
He bent and got his arms wrapped securely around the log. Then, with a grunt of effort, he straightened his back and legs in one movement.
The log tore free of the undergrowth, and Alistair went staggering backwards. He might have fallen on his arse, but he’d expected the result and was already resetting his stance and his balance. He got his feet under him, then swung the log onto his shoulders to make carrying it less awkward. “I’ll just tak’ this tae where we’ve left the horses.”
The log was heavy across his shoulders as he carried it out to the clearing where the horses were tethered, but the look of admiration and the blush of desire that crossed her face made the effort more than worth it, so far as Alistair was concerned.
So were the looks she continued to give him for the rest of the log gathering expedition.
Watching Alistair carry the wood they collected for the bonfires was… mesmerizing, to say the least. The flow of his muscles, the way sweat gleamed on his skin and slid down his temples to dampen his shirt and make it cling to his lean frame - Niamh couldn’t recall when she’d ever wanted to touch anything more.
And that terrified her. She could guess now, after their wedding night, that what she felt was desire. But there were so many mysteries surrounding Alistair.
What had happened to his first betrothed? She’d been killed - at least, that was Niamh’s best guess. She could even guess that it had involved Fergus MacTavish. But what exactly had happened?
And what was the curse she’d heard whispered about? What was the purpose of it? Who had cast it?
She thought she knew the answer to the last question. The witch - whoever she was. But that only brought new questions.
Who was the witch? Why had she cursed Alistair? What might convince her to undo the curse?
So many questions - when piled on top of her own fears of child-bearing, they seemed an insurmountable wall. And yet, Niamh wasn’t inclined to give up on finding the answers.
She hesitated to ask Alistair. It was clear the wounds ran deep, and she had no desire to cause him further pain with her questions.
She was equally hesitant to ask any of the clan folk she knew. Those who might feel comfortable speaking on the subject were unlikely to know the full story, whereas those who were likely to know the most - like Catriona and Ewan - were as unlikely to wish to share the information as Alistair himself.
However, one thought did occur to her again as they rode back to the castle. There was one person who might be willing to answer her questions. The witch herself.
The trick would be finding her. But that was something she might be able to convince Catriona to help her with.
She waited until Alistair had summoned a bath to rid himself of the sweat and grime of collecting the logs, then excused herself to seek out Catriona. Her cousin was working in the healer’s cottage, preparing herbs, tonics and tisanes for winter when Niamh approached. “Och, is the woodcutting team back already?”
“Aye. ‘Twas a good load, according tae Alistair. The wood has plenty o’ time tae dry out, and the bonfires will burn long and hot.”
“Good fortune if ‘tis so.” Catriona nodded. “But what did ye seek me out fer, cousin? I can see ye’ve something on yer mind.” She tilted her head. “’Tis nae problems with Alistair, is it?”
“Nae as such. And nae what ye might be thinkin’.” Niamh bit her lip. “’Tis only… he seems wary o’ something, something more than the attacks we’ve weathered. And I… I’ve heard whispers o’ some sort o’ curse?”
From the way her cousin winced and looked away, it was clear the curse was real. “Where did ye hear that?”
“It doesnae matter. Only that I have. And that I ken that it has somethin’ tae dae with a witch. I was wonderin’ if ye could tell me aught about her.”
Catriona grimaced. “’Tis nae wise tae speak o’ the fae-touched without their permission, and such the witch o’ MacDuff clan surely is.”
“I understand, but…” Niamh paused. “But I want tae understand why she cursed me husband. And I dinnae ken if ‘tis possible but mayhap I can convince her tae lift it, even if she willnae fer anyone else.”
“I dinnae think ye’ll succeed in that regard. She’s a fair stubborn woman.”
“Even so, I would like tae try. I ken I need tae be careful tae avoid giving offense, but I dae wish tae speak with her. Will ye tell me what ye ken?”
Catriona sighed, her eyes on the herbs she was working with. For several moments, it seemed as if she wouldn’t speak at all. Then she took a deep breath. “’Tis a fair enough wish, I suppose. And kenning what I dae o’ ye, ye’re likely tae try tae find the truth on yer own, with or without me help, and I’d rather nae send ye intae such a tangle unarmed.”
“Thank ye.”
Catriona shook her head. “Dinnae thank me, fer I’ve nae idea how she’ll react tae ye. But, if ye’re truly determined tae seek answers from the witch - her name is Sorcha, an’ she lives in a cottage tae the west, where the rising hills meet the woods. There’s a path, but ‘tis nae well maintained, and fair steep, so be cautious as ye walk. And walk ye must, fer a horse could never make it tae her door.”
Niamh nodded. “Dae ye think I am in danger from her?”
“I cannae say, though I think ye’d ken already, were she against ye. She’s nae the sort tae keep silent when she’s displeased, as ye can tell from the curse she cast.” Catriona stopped a moment, then turned and took Niamh’s hands in her own. “I would counsel ye against seeking her out, but if ye go, go in the day, and go with caution and courtesy. Sorcha can be… unpredictable, but she’s nae cruel, that I’ve ever heard, so long as ye’re polite in turn.”
“I understand.” And Niamh did. It was unwise to anger anyone gifted with the powers of magic, whether they had gained them through study, a blessing of the Fair Folk, or an inborn gift. Such folk knew and understood more than most mortals, and to cross a witch or warlock was to court disaster.
Sorcha. She wondered if knowing the name would draw the witch’s attention, but then she recalled that Ewan had been sent to the witch to ask about the poisoner at the wedding feast. That meant the witch already knew of her - at least her name and that of her husband, and a witch who had a name could learn as much as she wished about the individual to whom the name belonged.
Niamh thanked her cousin for the information, then left, casting a measuring look at the sky as she did so. The weather was chill, but fine, however, it was far too late in the day to undertake a journey beyond the castle walls. Especially since she had no idea how long it would take to reach the witch’s home, or how long a discussion might last. She would have to wait until tomorrow.
Which, of course, also meant that she would have to find an appropriate excuse to disappear. She could hardly tell Alistair the truth about where she wished to go - he’d surely forbid her. However, neither could she use an excuse that might be proven false under questioning, such as claiming to have joined the ladies working on Samhain projects. One question would unravel that pretense.
On the other hand, if she said she was working on private Samhain preparations, or a tradition unique to her family or her clan, such as the letters she and her father wrote every year… that might serve.
Niamh’s stomach chose that moment to rumble, reminding her that it had been some time since she’d last eaten. With a chagrined smile, Niamh made her way to the kitchens in search of some morsel to tide her over until the evening meal.
She had a plan, and a chance to find some of the answers she sought. All that was needed now was patience, and the proper opportunity.