Chapter 17
I have learned to live each day as it comes,
and not to borrow trouble by dreading tomorrow.
It is the dark menace of the future
that makes cowards of us.
—Dorothy Dix (1861–1951)
U.S. journalist and writer
She forgot about her ankle until she put her full weight upon it. She would have gone down if Alysandir had not caught her against himself. He did not release her but continued to hold her, her body perfectly aligned to his, and she felt as if she were melting into him. Here she was again, imprisoned in his arms, lost as a fledgling fallen from the nest.
Early Renaissance life was going on all around her, laundry being done and chickens plucked. Children were being fed, candles made, fireplaces cleaned, herbs bundled, bedchambers aired, and vegetables brought in from the garden while a visitor from the twenty-first century stood in the courtyard.
A flag flapped from a tower high above them, and it serving as a reminder to Isobella that her idyll with Alysandir was over. She was about to pull away from him when she was overcome with a strange enchantment. Overhead, the sky was darkened by a mass of shifting, vaporous clouds and dense black fog. She wanted to cry out, but no words would come as brilliant flashes of light hit her eyes.
Fear na ye.
She cast a quick look in Alysandir’s direction and realized she must have been the only one who saw the darkened sky or heard the deep, booming voice of the Black Douglas.
About time you paid me a visit, you one-man disappearing act. Are you going to leave me here? Where is Elisabeth? Aren’t you going to help them find her? What are you planning? I have a right to know. I want some answers. I want something besides silence.
Silence is an answer.
She gave a start. What kind of answer was that? A one-size-fits-all reply, like a chair that fits all backsides? A whirlwind stirred up a little cloud of dust that faded just as quickly. She shivered as if a cold rain had washed over her. She opened her eyes. Alysandir was staring at her.
“Why are you looking at me that way?”
“And how am I looking at you?”
“Like I’m a piece of bread and you’re trying to decide which side the butter is on.”
He gave her a ghost of a smile. His finger traced the line of her cheek. “Ye are pale as an evening primrose. Are ye afraid or hiding something ye fear to tell?”
“I am apprehensive. That is all.”
“Yer ankle pains ye?”
“No, I took a moment for some self-encouragement. It isn’t easy to walk into a strange place where you don’t know a soul. I was trying to summon my courage and hearten myself to what lies ahead.”
She realized how very fragile her situation was. If he turned his back on her, no one here would dare lift a finger on her behalf. Comfortable or not, her very life depended on him alone. Numb, she looked away, not wanting him to see what her eyes could tell him. She knew fear now. Real, aching, paralyzing fear.
He whispered softly, “Beware of fears in borrowed feathers, appearing as counsel and see danger in everything.”
Trembling, she turned and their gazes met. He cupped her chin. “Fear ’tis not always a bad thing. ’Tis never present when all hope is gone.”
Her heart pounded. Did he have a sixth sense? His powers of perception went beyond the ordinary. He seemed to know her thoughts as soon as she had them. She had never known anyone so discerning. How could this man from another time and place understand her with such acuity? How did he find words that were as soothing and warm as a balm of fragrant oil? How could the warrior live in harmony with the poetry of a man who could soothe her with mere words?
His voice held grudging respect, and his hand came up to cup her cheek, soft and comforting. “Dinna worrit aboot their reactions to ye or what they will be thinking in their silence. They will be curious and mayhap they will stare at ye, but they willna raise a hand to harm ye nor say a baleful word against ye.”
He tossed the reins to an approaching groom, caught the shoulders of the surcoat, and gave it a shake or two. It settled into place as it fell to her ankles. The amusement in his voice was frank and undisguised.
“Ye do look like a street beggar,” he said cheerfully. “But dinna worrit, for no one will suspect that beneath the surcoat ye are wearing naught but a wee fragment o’ cloth that barely covers yer particulars.”
She shoved his hands away, which made him laugh. In spite of her hurt and humiliation, she suspected he had inflamed her ire intentionally, for her apprehensions burned away in the heat of her rage. It would be easier to face the scrutiny to come with an angry sort of pride and her head held high than to be led inside mewling and sniveling in subjection.
Alysandir laughed and swept her into his arms and carried her forward with confidence and a long stride. She focused her attention on the intricate carvings of griffons—the ancient, medieval creatures with the head, talons, and wings of an eagle and the hindquarters of a lion—over the doorway.
Not as ornate as the Byzantine ones she saw at St.Mark’s Basilica in Venice last summer—make that centuries from now. It gave her a dash of optimism to be greeted by griffons, the protective symbol of strength and vigilance, in spite of the twisting vines of thorns that coiled around them.
Her arms clung to his neck tightly as he carried her through the heavy doors into the massively walled penetralia, the innermost sanctuary of the castle. She was well aware that she was an alien intruder being hauled into the stronghold like a sack of barley. As if sensing her unease, his lips curved into a smile.
“Dinna worrit if ye should find yerself fraught with fear. I am sure I can find a way to divert yer thoughts and to give ye something else to think aboot now that we are home.” He spoke with surprising cheer.
“I am sure you can,” she said, but her mind was focused upon that one word.
Home. The word reverberated inside her skull like a ricocheted bullet. She had not considered that Màrrach would become her home, and the realization of it shocked her. But where else could she go? She had no money, no friends, no family or connections. Mull was sparsely populated with probably no more than a thousand or so people. There were small settlements but no towns. Other than the monastery and convent on Iona, castles and clans were the center of gravity for those who lived here. But the truth was that she suddenly felt safe.
“Ye have had plenty to say, but now ye fall silent. Are ye afraid?”
“Uneasy would be a better word.” A murky darkness surrounded them, illuminated only by torches flaming from the stone walls. Her eyes had not yet adjusted to the dim interior, and by the time they approached the door to the Great Hall, she could still barely see into the room, which was lit only by fat, tallow candles guttered in sconces along the walls. The moment they entered, the murmur of conversation died away.
She glanced around and saw that every eye was on her. Even the fire in the fireplace seemed to cringe and withdraw its light. She felt like a waif as he carried her further into the hall. Here she was in a medieval castle in Renaissance Scotland. Under different circumstances, she would have given more attention to her surroundings and taken note of the tapestries, heavily carved furniture, and the vaulted ceilings decorated with shields that they passed.
Instead, her attention was drawn to the sight of at least three dozen people who stopped eating to stare at her. She knew that behind their stunned gazes loomed many questions. She could almost hear them asking, Who is she? Why is she here? Why is she wearing the red surcoat of Alysandir Mackinnon? And what does she have on underneath it?
With cowardly hope, she prayed the trip through this hall would be a short one and that she never had to experience humiliation such as this again. Never had she felt so undressed, unwelcome, or insignificant, and she doubted this was likely to change.
“Was this necessary? Did you have to parade me in front of everyone like some captive slave?” she whispered.
“I brought ye here because it is better to let them see ye in my arms and holding yer head high enough to strike the cobwebs on the ceiling than for ye to be led with a chain through an iron collar, submissive, defeated, and trembling with fear.”
“I am surprised they make such an effort to stare. One would think they would be accustomed to the public display of your captives.” She lifted her chin a bit higher, determined to give him, and them, the cobweb-striking pride he described.
“My captives don’t make their first appearance wearing naught but my surcoat. That usually comes after I have bedded them.”
Her indrawn breath sounded, even to her own ears, like the wheeze of a winded horse. “I wouldn’t sleep with you for all the bells in Edinburgh.”
“’Tis a moot point, mistress, for ye slept with me yester eve.”
That sent a warm flush of blood racing to her cheeks, made redder by the sudden bark of his laughter. She looked down, thankful for the surcoat, in spite of how it must look to them. It would have been worse, much worse without it.
“I’m too tired to bandy words with you.” The only thing that was truly inviting about being in the Great Hall at a time like this was the succulent scent of food. That and the warmth emitting from the fire that blazed in the fireplace as they passed. What she wouldn’t give for a hot shower, a razor, a toothbrush, a bottle of fragrant shampoo, a large Mexican martini… no, make that two… and some honest-to-God privacy.
“Fret not. ’Twill not be long now, lass.” Alysandir shouted a few words in Gaelic, and two women about her age left the table and hurried toward them. A few more words of Gaelic, and he carried her from the room, the two women following close behind as he barked what she assumed were orders, and then they turned away.
“My sisters will be in charge of finding something more suitable for ye to wear, and they will send Mistress MacMorran to yer room. She will to see to yer ankle and to a bath fer ye. Once that is taken care of, a servant will bring ye something to eat.”
Before she could respond, he said, “I didna mean to humble ye by such a display, but it would have been a long time if we waited until everyone left the hall. With yer ankle ailing ye, ’tis better to get ye to a place where ye can rest.”
When she did not respond, he said, “Be of good cheer, lass. The worst is over,” as he carried her from the Great Hall into the corridor. Relieved, Isobella let her head flop against his chest and closed her eyes, listening to the sound of his footsteps, the ring of his spurs against the stone floor, and the low whispers that followed them.
“Ye came out with yer head intact.”
“Only because I was in your arms. Had I been alone, they would be mopping the floor with my blood about now.”
He laughed. “So brave a mouth, so faint a heart.”
She felt a flash of anger. “So quick to pass judgment, but then, the fox is always comfortable in his own den.” She sighed wearily.
“Tired, are ye?”
“Yes. I am tired of thinking, talking, and worrying. I don’t think I can link two words together.”
Her head flopped against his shoulder again. She found comfort in the familiar sound of his breathing. With her arms around his neck, she could feel the hard coil of the muscles of his shoulders and she understood what it was like to feel safe. Yet she could not help wondering: now that their time alone had come to an end, would she become one of dozens of castle-folk who lived here, rarely catching a glimpse of him?
He stopped in front of an arched door, beautifully carved and heavy. He will deposit me in this room and leave, and that might well be the last I will ever see of him.
He paused just long enough to nod at a sconce on the wall. “Remove one of the candles,” he said. She did as he asked. He pushed the door open with his foot and carried her into the dark room, their way illuminated only by the light coming from the hall and the candle in her hand.
“’Twill be yer room, mistress,” he said, and kicked the door shut behind him. He paused while she lit a taper and took in the sight of the dim room. Then he carried her to the bed. He stopped beside it, but he did not put her down. Her heart pounded thickly in her throat, and his heart pounded wildly under her ear.
She gave him a questioning look. “Do you intend to hold me while I sleep, or are you going to put me down?”
“’Tis a tempting thought surely.”
“I would think that coddling a lass while she slept would be beneath the dignity of the chief of Clan Mackinnon.”
“That,” he said, “all depends upon whether I deem it worth my while.”
“Put me down. I’m too tired to bandy words at the moment. Trust me. There is nothing you could do to me at the moment that would be worth the time that it took to do it.”
For a moment he did not seem to understand what she said, and then he laughed. “I wouldna be so certain of that if I were you.”
She wasn’t certain about it either, but she wouldn’t let him know how his nearness disturbed her or how the warm touch of his breath upon her skin brought back memories that were best left forgotten. She did not want to remember what it was like to lie next to him or to recall the feel of his arms around her, the melting into him at the touch of his lips upon hers. “Think of me as a cold, stone statue in your arms and drop me on the nearest bed.”
“Seems I’ve captured a lass who canna resist having the last word.”
A hot retort formed quickly in her mind. She opened her mouth and noticed the laughter gleaming in his eyes. She quickly clamped it shut.
“Take care,” he said. “Ye havena no idea how close I am to tossing ye on that bed and joining ye there.”
He had no idea how she wished he would do just that. He was so real to her now and had become a part of her life in such a short time. Would he also be part of her future? Or would his noble existence be nothing more than a memory, a whisper from the past? They were pieces on a chessboard, and the game had yet to be played. Would she be a captured pawn or a queen?
Only the ghost of the Black Douglas knew the answer, and he was being very close-lipped.
Alysandir was fighting a few battles of his own. One of them was the urge to place her on the bed and strip away her strange clothing, piece by piece, kissing each newly exposed bit of skin he uncovered. Saint Columba! He had thought of little else since meeting her. He had to hold his yearning for her tightly in check, now that he was in her bedchamber.
He wanted, nae, he needed to know her story—how she came to be in Scotland, who she was, and whether he could trust her in his home among his family. Only then would he dare to make love to her, slowly at first, then wildly and passionately until she cried out his name and begged him not to stop. By that point, he would not want to.
He glanced down at her face and saw the softly glowing fire of desire in her eyes. She made a little noise deep in her throat, and he knew that she was under the same spell as he.
“I think you should put me down now.”
She breathed the words against his skin, and he thought she was the loveliest lass he had ever encountered. He wrestled with himself, yet he knew the man in him had to step away and defer to the clan chief.
He lowered her to her feet beside the bed, and this time she remembered not to put weight on her injured foot. “Sit down.”
“Ahhhh…” She sighed as she sank into the delicious softness of the bed.
“Move back.”
She frowned, gave him a suspicious look, and scooted back.
“I only want to examine yer ankle, naught more.”
She lifted her head to see how her ankle fared. It was horribly swollen and had a bruised, purplish tint.
“’Tis a nasty twist ye gave it,” he said.
“You should see it from my side. It hurts worse than it looks,” she said, not bothering to hide her grumpiness. She was tired, dirty, hungry, and separated from her life, her family, her home, her country, and her century. Her ankle hurt like hell, and she felt like the world was closing in on her. She stole a look at him, and desire coiled in tight knots inside her. Her breathing was erratic.
Did he have to be so damned desirable and the living reality of what she had imagined? He packed so much ammunition that she knew she would be a goner if he ever decided to use it on her. How could she resist him? Why would she want to? Danger, her mind warned. Panic swept over her and she felt stricken, knowing escape was impossible. She was praying for a diversion. She got one when he twisted her ankle again.
“Ouch!” she cried out.
He rolled up a blanket and propped her foot up on it. “’Twill ease some of the throbbing.”
“It wasn’t throbbing until you tried to twist it off!”
“Elevating it will ease the pain.”
“It hasn’t done much to ease it so far.”
He made a disinterested shrug. “I will have Mistress MacMorran make a poultice for the swelling.”
“Have her make one for your swelling confidence, while she is at it. And I don’t want a poultice.”
“What have ye against a poultice?”
“As long as it isn’t amulets, charms, snake tongues, hot irons, or leeches, I’m okay with it,” she said, and wondered if anything from this period truly was beneficial. They had no antibiotics, but she recalled they did rely heavily upon roots and herbs and garlic. She recalled Elisabeth telling her that, strange though it was, antibiotics were not effective against viruses, but garlic was. And that was about as far as she could go with this.
“I dinna understand the word ‘okay.’”
She was startled out of her reverie. “It means something is all right, or that you approve of it.”
“So ye willna allow amulets, charms, and such?”
“No, I don’t want those things.”
“Why?”
She started to say, “Because they are ineffective” but decided he would not know the word “ineffective.”
“Because they do not work.”
He gave her close scrutiny. “Ye have used them then?”
“No, I haven’t,” she said hastily.
“Then how do ye know they dinna work?”
She was too exhausted to delve into that now. “I have been told so by those who have tried those remedies.”
She glanced down at his hand on her ankle. She felt her face warming. He must have realized where his hand was about the same time she did. Before she could say something, he pulled his hand away.
“Ye have a way of coming between a man and his good judgment, mistress.”
“Well, perhaps that will change now that you have me here in your castle. An object in possession seldom retains the same charm that it had in pursuit.”
“Ahhh, a learned woman who can quote Pliny the Younger,” he said. He stood and gave her a look that made her debate whether to raise her foot and invite him back to hold it again.
“Dinna fret. I am harmless as a setting hen at the moment and too tired to be much of a threat to ye. Mistress MacMorran will be along to minister to ye better than these rough hands,” he said, and with a nod, he departed.
She fought the urge to call him back. Rough hands sounded wonderful to her, but he was gone and seemed to take with him all the light and warmth. She was left with the gloom of a cold and unfamiliar room. When she heard the door click, a stony weight settled over her.
She remembered her sunny yellow room at home, with the French doors that opened to a veranda, the sound of music coming from Elisabeth’s room next door, and the sight of the Blanco River flowing slowly. She closed her eyes and could almost smell the aroma of her father’s barbecue and hear the laughter of her younger siblings dancing and chasing each other around the pool, and she wondered if she would ever dance or laugh again.
Thankfully, she did not have very long to devote to melancholy before the door opened and a middle-aged woman, with kind eyes the same color as her grey hair, came into the room. One glance at the pleasant, motherly face, and Isobella’s spirits lifted. “Are you Mistress MacMorran?”
“Aye, mistress, indeed I am, and ye are Isobella Douglas, newly arrived upon the Isle of Mull from parts unknown.”
“Guilty on all counts.”
Mistress MacMorran looked around the room and made a clucking noise with her tongue. “’Tis colder than St. Mary’s Loch in here, and I see a fire has not been laid in the fireplace.” She clapped her hands on her hips, her elbows jutting out like tumped-over pyramids. “I will see that it is taken care of immediately, so dinna worrit aboot it.”
Isobella looked around. The room was dreary, sparsely furnished, and eons away from home, but she would make do. If my ancestors could stand it, I can, too! She forced a smile she did not feel and said in the most cheerful voice she could muster, “You have no idea how wonderful a fire sounds.”
“’Tis the dampness that comes in with the mist at night that makes the chill greater,” Mistress MacMorran said, placing her stout hands on her hips again. She gave Isobella a good going-over, her gaze coming to rest on the throbbing ankle. Her caterpillar-like eyebrows rose in silent study before she finally said, “Weel now, ’tis a fine looking bit o’ damage ye have done to yersel’. Does it pain ye greatly now?”
Isobella nodded, as tears welled in her eyes and began to slide down her cheeks.
“Och! Ye puir lassie, dinna ye worrit none. I will have ye up and aboot in no time. A good soaking in a hot tub will work a miracle, and a brisk rubbing wi’ a few herbs and oils will have ye feeling better soon.” She paused. ’Tis a certainty that ye will be needing some more appropriate clothing to sufficiently cover all yer… charms.”
The longer she talked, the more Isobella cried. She couldn’t help it; exhaustion and anxiety had taken over. But it wasn’t exactly the first impression she had wanted to make. Mistress MacMorran removed the blanket Alysandir had placed under her ankle.
“This will do to cover yer hiddens for the time being.” She covered Isobella and said, “Ye will be needing yer food on a tray, for ye canna go hopping on one foot doon to the hall fer yer repast.”
With that, she turned and departed, leaving Isobella to laugh at the use of words like “hiddens” and “charms” for her private parts. But, the laughter did nothing to lift her sagging spirits. A short time later, a pile of clothing walked into the room on two human legs, followed by two more legs carrying a few more garments.
A lovely, smiling face surrounded with dark, glossy hair peeped over the top. “I am Alysandir’s sister, Sybilla,” the young woman said, and with a great heave, she dumped the load of clothes upon the side of the bed Isobella did not occupy. “This is my younger sister, Marion,” she said, and Marion dumped her load next to Sybilla’s.
Sybilla had very fine hazel eyes and a beautiful face framed by sable brown hair that hung in one long braid down her back. “’Tisn’t much,” she said, “but ’twill fit ye, I think.” She gave Isobella a good going-over from head to foot. Sybilla pulled a garment from the pile and laid it out on the bed next to Isobella. “’Twill do for a sleeping gown.”
Isobella looked it over and decided it did indeed look like a nightgown, made of fine white linen and trimmed with a thin edging of lace.
“Thank you for your kindness. I will have a care with them.” There was a moment of awkward silence, then, “I’m Isobella Douglas.”
She smiled at Marion, who stood quietly to one side, her blond hair in curls, her grey-blue eyes looking at Isobella with great curiosity. “I do hope we will become great friends. I find I am much in need of feminine company.”
“Alysandir said the Macleans took yer sister,” Marion said.
Isobella nodded. “Yes, and I hope your brothers return with her soon.”
“Yer speech is strange,” Sybilla said. “Ye are no’ English?”
“No, I’m not.” She hoped Sybilla wouldn’t question her further. She did not want to alienate her new friends. “I apologize for my appearance. I know I look a fright. I hope to change that soon.”
Sybilla smiled and said, “Mistress MacMorran will put yer other things in the trunk, and she will be back to aid ye with yer bath since ye canna walk.”
Well now, things were definitely looking up, so she thanked Sybilla and Marion. “Please come back to visit me. Often! With my ankle this way, I fear I shall not be able to leave the room for a few days. I would love the pleasure of your company.”
Marion said, “I think ye are verra bonnie, and I ken Alysandir thinks so, too.” Her face turned a lovely shade of pink, and Sybilla laughed. “We will leave now, but we will visit ye again.”
“That would be lovely,” Isobella said, thinking the wind must have changed directions, because a delicious smell drifted into the room and she realized just how very, very hungry she was. She was hoping she would be getting something to eat soon.
As if by magic, Mistress MacMorran entered with a large tray in her hands. Isobella eyed the tray and saw something that looked like chicken, a green vegetable she did not recognize, and some fairly dry, crusty bread. She devoured everything, including the bread, which was divine with a swath of butter and a little honey.
Soaking her ankle in the tub did help, and so did the comfrey poultice Mistress MacMorran put over it after Isobella bathed and returned to bed. She glanced to her right and saw that a demijohn of water had been placed on a small, wooden table next to her. She turned her head back to Mistress MacMorran, who was pouring a cup of something dark and red. Isobella eyed it suspiciously.
Watching her with sharp eyes, Mistress MacMorran said, “’Tis cherry-bark tea. Drink it doon, lass. ’Twill ease the pain and help ye sleep,” Mistress MacMorran picked up the tray, peered into the goblet to be certain it was all gone, and turned away. She paused long enough at the door to say, “I will come by to see how yer ankle fares on the morrow. Will ye be needing anything else now?”
“No, nothing, thank you. You have been so very kind,” Isobella replied. She was the most comfortable she had been since she arrived on Mull.
So why did she wish she could sprout a pair of wings and fly away?