Chapter Fifteen
Quinn eyed the teeming cliffs of Caithness, marveling at the wild beauty of crashing waves, tall caves with sharp jutting teeth, vibrant blue pools, and whirling eddies.
Fragrant breezes puffed against their sail as he waited for a strip of shore upon which to land.
He glanced back at Catarina. She craned her neck back, staring wide-eyed at the imposing cliffs.
And then a distant rumbling broke her trance. They locked eyes.
“Horses,” Quinn said. He quickly lowered the sail. “Get down,” he told her, his voice calm yet firm. She crouched in the hull, curling into a ball. Then he tossed one of the blankets over her. “Do not move unless I tell ye to.”
The pounding of hooves grew closer. He reckoned they were just beyond the cliffs.
Readying his bow, he kept his eyes fixed on the ridge above.
The Sinclairs were not the only highlanders to occupy the northeasterly tip of Scotland.
Anyway, he knew better than to assume the best from any unknown.
The thundering drew closer to the edge. Quinn hunkered down to give the potential enemy less of a target, but just then a stag came hurtling over the side and smacked the surface of the water, creating a terrific splash.
Quinn sat back on his heels in amazement, locking eyes with the lifeless stare of the large horned animal.
A chorus of deep voices speaking Gaelic rang out from above, drawing his gaze an instant before several men peered over the cliff edge, their long hair catching in the wind.
One of the men called down to Quinn.
He held up his hands. “I’m afraid I do not understand what ye said.”
The biggest of the lot pulled out a crossbow and took aim at Quinn. Then in English, he said, “Before ye get any ideas, the stag is ours.”
Quinn dropped his bow and held up his hands. “I’ve no interest.”
The man narrowed his eyes. “How can ye have no interest, lowlander? Do ye not eat?”
Quinn continued to hold his hands aloft. “Aye, I do, but I reckon it would be my last meal, and I’d rather live on, if ‘tis all the same to ye lot. Ye can trust I won’t be taking what’s yers.”
“What’s yer name?”
“MacVie, Quinn MacVie.”
“Outta my way,” someone behind the men said. Then a familiar face peered down. “My eyes are conjuring ghosts. Quinn MacVie is that really ye?”
Quinn sagged with relief when he saw Hamish smiling down at him. “Aye, Hamish Sinclair. ‘Tis I.”
“I thought ye died along with the rest of those poor souls in Berwick.”
Quinn shook his head and stretched his arms wide. “Ye can see I’m still as alive as any man.”
Hamish smiled. “And glad I am for that. What about yer brothers and Rose and Roslyn?”
Quinn’s smile faded. “Only my brothers and Rose survived.”
Hamish frowned and made the sign of the cross. “Poor souls,” he said, and hung his head for several quiet moments. Then he looked up and with his next breath, Hamish asked, “But what are ye doing here? ‘Tis quite a journey ye’ve made.”
Quinn smiled. “I came to find ye.”
“Ye’re in trouble then,” Hamish said knowingly.
Quinn shrugged but offered no reply.
“Ye can keep yer silence but only if ye save me the trouble of taking a swim. Tie the stag to yer wee ship. In less than a quarter of a league the cliffs slope down and ye’ll find a strip of shore.”
Quinn glanced at the heap of blankets concealing Catarina. “I have something with me, something I treasure a great deal,” he said cautiously.
“Ye’ve not to fear, my friend. Ye’re safe on Sinclair land. I trust my men with my life.”
Hamish’s promise lightened Quinn’s heart.
He and Catarina would be able to bide their time hidden among the Sinclairs until Quinn could think of a way to clear Catarina’s name and bring the real murderer to justice; that is, if Hamish was still the decent man Quinn remembered.
“Stay beneath the blankets for now,” Quinn whispered.
“I wish to look Hamish in the eye to make sure he’s the same man I once knew. ”
Her reply was muffled. “Do you think he could be so very altered?”
“Time changes us all, and hardship can strip away a man’s compassion. Brother Matthew told me once that apathy is only a step removed from wickedness.”
The blanket shook as Catarina chuckled. “Is this Brother Matthew a real monk?”
He reached down and pinched what he hoped was her round bottom, earning a squeal for his efforts.
Huddled in the dark, Catarina listened to the water lapping against the sides of the boat.
“The wind has picked up,” Quinn said. “I can see the shore up ahead.”
“Can I come out now,” she asked, beginning to overheat beneath the warm sun and the wool blanket.
“Stay hidden until I say, and when ye do come out try not to talk. That old tunic does little to conceal who ye really are.”
Her head bumped the side when the skiff hit sand, but she managed to swallow the subsequent groan of pain. Holding her breath, she listened to the nicker of horses and their stomping hooves.
“Quinn MacVie,” a man said.
“Hamish Sinclair, ye cannot imagine my relief to be standing here with ye.”
“Given yer leagues from home and alone in a rickety old shame of a skiff, I believe I have an idea.” His accent was very thick. She had to concentrate to understand his words.
“Now that is not entirely true,” she heard Quinn say. “I am not alone.”
Nerves twisted Catarina’s stomach. She felt Quinn’s hand rest on her back through the blanket. “Ye can come out now. ‘Tis safe.”
She gasped, instantly wanting to swoop the covers back over her head. Never had she seen men so wild looking. She was surrounded by them. They leaned forward in their saddles, eyeing her.
“She’s a pretty lass to be sure,” one of the men said.
Catarina sat up and stiffened her back. She opened her mouth to tell the beastly looking man that it was unkind to stare, but Quinn reached out his hand to her, cutting off her speech. “Come, lass. Let me help ye ashore, and then I can properly introduce ye to my friend.”
Catarina did her best to smile graciously as she placed her hand in Quinn’s.
Once on dry land, he wrapped his arm around her waist and presented her to the Hamish. “This is Katie, my bride.”
She jerked around, looking at Quinn with eyes wide. “But—” Before she could finish, Quinn smothered her protest with a kiss. Cheers erupted from the men. She opened her eyes as Quinn’s soft, full lips lifted from hers. “Trust me,” he whispered.
Hamish slapped Quinn on the back, a smile stretched his rugged features wide. “’Tis sorry I am to hear she’s spoken for—sorry for myself that is,” Hamish said, winking at Catarina. “Had ye been free, I would have claimed ye here and now.”
She did not bother concealing her surprise as she stared up at the large, hairy man. Stepping closer to Quinn, she placed her hand in his. “I told ye,” he said, smiling down at her. Then he wrapped his arm around her waist.
“We’ve had a long journey, Hamish. Do ye think we could rest a bit and have something hot to eat.”
“Aye, my friend. Come along. We’ll get ye feeling fresh as the new heather.”
Catarina watched the Highland village unfold with fascination.
It was nearing the end of June. The fields were lush and ripe with honey colored wheat and bright yellow flax.
The periphery of the village was enclosed within a stonewall.
It did not have the defensive height of a castle or fortress outer wall, but when they passed through the gate Catarina noticed that the ground on the other side of the gate was elevated, giving the advantage of height to those on the inside.
Small, stone cottages with thatched roofs dotted the interior.
Chickens, cattle and goats all moved freely, just like the children—most of whom wore naught but smiles on their faces as they played in the early summer sun.
They passed through yet another wall, which again was not impressive in height, but the ground on the other side was once more elevated.
Still, more cottages came into view and longer huts made of peat and thatch, which she assumed were used as stores or for gatherings.
And then they crossed through yet another stonewall, stepping onto higher ground where she spied the only two-story dwelling.
“First, I’ll present ye to my father,” Hamish said to Quinn. “And then I will show ye where ye can bed down.”
His words made Catarina’s spirit soar. To sleep on a bed would be such a welcome respite from weeks sleeping on the hard earth.
They passed through what she deemed the equivalent of a small courtyard where a large, skinned cow was roasting on a spit.
The scent made her stomach growl. They walked on and spotted more animals roasting and more people milling about with purpose.
“What is the day?” she whispered.
“I would guess the twenty-second of June,” Quinn said.
Her spirits lifted. “They must be preparing for St. John’s Eve?”
Quinn nodded.
“Then what I was told about Highlanders is false.”
“What is it ye were told?” Quinn asked.
Catarina leaned close and whispered, “That they were savages and heathens.”
Quinn threw his head back and laughed.
“Hush,” she said, looking pointedly at Hamish in the lead.
Quinn smiled. “Ye’ll never meet finer folk than Highlanders,” he whispered. “Ye’ll enjoy the festivities. Ye’ll find ‘tis a blending of the old and the new.”
“You always seem to have all the answers,” she said, smiling up at him. “How is it that a fisherman and a peasant knows so much?”
He took her hand in his. “Captain Bellerose taught me how to read and write and how to navigate with the stars.” He shrugged. “I’ve a curious nature, I suppose.”
They walked into the large, rustic dwelling. A great room stretched out before them with a massive hearth filling one side, and in front of that Catarina glimpsed the high dais where an older couple sat.
She felt Quinn’s lips brush her ear. “Remember yerself. Yer Katie, a common lass. Show the laird every due respect. Be humble and...”
“And what?” she whispered when he hesitated.
“Roughen up yer speech if ye can.”