Chapter 2
James MacKinnion moved slowly. An enveloping mist still clung to the dewy ground, and he was sopping wet from crossing the second of the two Esk rivers.
He was tired from lack of sleep and the rough ride south.
They had had to ride more than a mile out of their way to find a shallow river crossing.
All things considered, he was in a foul mood.
And he couldn’t squelch his disquiet. There was something wrong in all this, but he didn’t know what it could be.
He was alone, having left his men shrouded in the dawn mist by the river’s edge.
Jamie and his brother and Black Gawain had separated in order to survey the area for signs of possible ambush.
It was something he always did when a raid was expected, and this one surely was.
And it was something he did himself, not as a display of courage, although, being alone, he risked being captured, but because the welfare of his clansmen was his responsibility alone.
He would ask no man to do what he would not do himself.
The mist swirled and parted before him in a gentle breeze, revealing for a moment a wooded glen not far ahead. Then the mist settled again, and the vision was gone. Jamie rode for it; the trees were a pleasant change from the barren moors and heather-clad hills.
He had never been this far east on Fergusson land before.
He had never raided Lowlanders in the spring before, either.
Autumn was the time for raiding, when rivers were broad but shallow, and cattle were fat from summer grazing and prime for market.
He had always crossed the river in direct line with Tower Esk, the home of Dugald Fergusson.
The swollen water had made that impossible this time.
But their delays were short ones, and he was confident they were less than an hour behind the attackers, even though he and his men hadn’t found their trail.
He would not give them time to celebrate their victory.
Jamie’s anger warred with his common sense.
He wondered about the wisdom of his decision to ride south without further reflection.
He had reacted to what facts he had. In truth, he could not have done differently.
Dead men demanded he ride to avenge them.
A scrap of plaid demanded he ride south.
Yet…why? He would have given anything for more evidence.
The act bordered on insanity. Was he sure of what he was doing?
Not knowing for sure ate away at him and turned him sour on the task ahead.
Dugald Fergusson could not fail to know that Jamie had it within his power to wipe out his whole clan.
The MacKinnions could do it alone, and they also had the alliance of two powerful northern clans, through the marriages of Jamie’s two sisters.
More than five hundred men could be raised if needed.
Old Dugald must have known that. He had known of the first alliance three years before, and of the second just after Jamie’s father died and Jamie made his first—and last—raid on the Fergussons as the new MacKinnion laird.
Dugald had not retaliated after that raid, even though it had cost him twenty head of cattle, seven horses, and nearly one hundred sheep.
Dugald knew then he was no match for the MacKinnions, and Jamie knew it, as well.
There was no challenge in carrying on the long-standing feud, so Jamie had let his Aunt Lydia think she had convinced him to end it.
It pleased her to think so, and he liked pleasing her.
She had always been after him to marry one of Dugald’s four daughters in order to end the feud for good, but he would not go that far.
His one marriage had ended so tragically. That was enough for Jamie.
He frowned, thinking how his aunt would react when she learned where he had gone, and of the total destruction his dark side called for. It could very well make her retreat from reality and not return.
Lydia MacKinnion had not been quite right since the MacKinnion-Fergusson feud had begun forty-seven years before.
She had witnessed the cause of it—though she had never told what she saw, or said why Niall Fergusson, Dugald’s father, had killed both of Jamie’s grandparents, starting a vicious war that lasted ten years and wiped out half the men of both clans before it settled down to periodic raids that were solely for the lifting of livestock, a practice as common in the Highlands as breathing.
Perhaps Niall Fergusson had been insane. Perhaps insanity ran in their family and Dugald was insane. That was possible. And an insane man must be forgiven, maybe even tolerated. After all, wasn’t his aunt just a little bit insane herself?
A calm settled over Jamie as he came to this conclusion. He could not punish a whole clan for the acts of a madman. His terrible upset about the whole affair was eased then. He would retaliate in kind, but not destroy them all.
The mist was rising steadily as Jamie entered the wooded glen.
He saw that he could pass through it in a matter of minutes, the span of trees being no more than a hundred yards.
He had ridden only about half a mile away from his men, but with no croft in sight he was beginning to wonder if he was even on Fergusson land, if they hadn’t miscalculated and ridden too far downriver when they sought their crossing.
Then he heard a sound, and in a flash he slid off his horse and ran for cover. But when he listened again, he recognized the sound as a giggle, a feminine giggle.
Leaving his horse behind, he moved stealthily through the bracken and trees toward the sound. At that early hour, the sky was still gray-pink and mist still clung to the earth.
When Jamie saw her, he wasn’t quite sure he believed the vision. A young girl was standing waist-deep in a small pool, the mist swirling about her head. She looked like a water sprite, a kelpie, unreal, yet real enough.
The girl laughed again as she splashed water across her naked breasts. The sound enchanted Jamie. He was mesmerized by the girl, rooted where he was, watching her play. She was frolicking and having a joyous time of it.
The water should have been freezing. The morning was cold. Yet the girl seemed not to notice the cold. Jamie didn’t, either, after he had watched her awhile longer.
She was like nothing he had ever seen before, a beauty, and no mistake about it.
In a moment she faced him, and he saw nearly all of her loveliness.
Pearly white skin contrasted starkly with brilliant, deep red hair.
Almost magenta, it was so dark and gleaming and long.
Two strands waved around her breasts and floated in the water.
And those breasts were tantalizing, round, high and proud in youthful glory, the peaks sharply pointed because of the caress of icy water.
The tiny waist complemented the narrow shoulders and the taut belly, which dipped teasingly in and out of the water, revealing a gentle swell of hip as the girl moved around.
Her features were unmistakably delicate.
The only thing not clear to Jamie was the color of her eyes.
He was not quite close enough to see, and the reflection of the water made them appear a blue so clear and bright as to be glowing quite impossibly.
Was his imagination running wild? He wanted to move closer and see.
What he really wanted was to join her in the water.
It was an insane idea, born of the strange effect she was having on him.
But if he did move closer, she would either disappear—proving she was not real after all—or scream and run away.
But what if she did neither? What if she just stayed there, let him come to her, let him touch her as he ached to do?
Common sense had fled. Jamie was ready to chuck his clothes and slip into the pool when the girl murmured something he couldn’t hear.
Suddenly there was a splash, and the girl reached for an object that came from…
where? Jamie’s eyes widened. Was she truly a sprite then, to invoke something and have it appear?
The object turned out to be a chunk of soap, and the girl began to lather herself with it.
The scene was simple enough now, a girl bathing herself in a pool.
The unearthly quality was gone, and Jamie’s senses returned.
But…soap falling into the water all by itself?
He scanned the high bank opposite until he saw the man, or, rather, the boy, sitting on a rock with his back to the girl.
Her guardian? Hardly. But the boy was watching out for her nonetheless.
Jamie felt the full weight of disappointment descend on him now that he knew he was not alone with the beautiful girl.
The presence of the boy brought him back to reality.
He had to leave. As if to point out his folly in tarrying, the first rays of sun broke through the glen, showing him the time he had wasted.
His brother and the others would have all returned to the men by the river. They would all be waiting for him.
Jamie was suddenly sickened. Watching the girl, being transported to what seemed a sphere outside reality, he was appalled by the contrast between the lovely scene before him and the bloody one he would see in just a short while.
Yet he could no more stop the one that was soon to happen than he could forget the one he was watching. Both seemed inevitable.
Jamie’s last look at the girl was a wistful one. Beams of sunlight dotted the pool, and one touched the girl and lit her hair like a burst of flame. With a sigh, he turned away. That last vision of the mystical girl would be etched in his memory for a long time to come.
As he rode back to join his men, Jamie could think only of the girl.
Who was she? She could be a Fergusson, some crofter’s daughter, yet Jamie found that hard to believe.
What man with such a beautiful daughter would let her bathe as naked as you please in an open pool?
And he hated to think she might be a Fergusson.
Even a beggar passing through Fergusson land would be preferable.
She might indeed be a beggar, he thought, bathing before she stopped at Tower Esk for a handout.
The country swarmed with them, especially in the Lowlands where kirks were more numerous and the people more pious and charitable.
But such a beautiful beggar? Possible, but doubtful. Who was she, then? Would he ever know?
The urge to go back to the glen and find out was strong, but his men were within sight, and now that the mist had cleared, Tower Esk could be seen in the far distance atop its fortified hill. Numerous crofts were visible, scattered over the moor. The time had come.
But Jamie was not as hell-bent on devastation as he had been earlier.
The lovely girl had eased his anger, as had thoughts of his aunt and what warring would do to her.
A wrong for a wrong would be exacted, but Jamie would be merciful.
When he reached his men, he explained his change of heart.
His word was law, so those who felt he was being too lenient could be damned.
Three crofts were destroyed that morning, the crops trampled, and all the stock lifted. But no women or children were killed. They were made to stand by and watch as their homes burned. The crofters who wanted to fight did—and died. Those who didn’t fight were spared.
Jamie tarried at the scene of his vengeance, waiting for Dugald Fergusson to come if he dared.
He burned crofts that could be seen from the tower battlements, but his band of men was large, and he knew Dugald couldn’t afford to respond.
It was really a challenge for vengeance, meant to humiliate his enemy.
Once his men were satisfied with victory, he withdrew.
The feud was on again. Jamie was not pleased by it. He had enough troubles at home without bothering with the faraway Fergussons. The Fergussons had wanted this, and so it was.
But on the long ride home that day, Jamie was not planning future raids. He was thinking of a beautiful girl in a secluded glen, a mystical maiden with skin like pearl and hair of darkest flame.