Chapter Twelve
Elise stuck her head through the door, scanning the courtyard. There was no sign of Jamie. Good.
She stepped down, looking left and right.
Andrea walked by her side, seeming a little nonplussed at Elise’s cautious behavior.
The housekeeper had no idea what had transpired between her and Jamie, and Elise was only too happy to keep it that way.
Hell, she didn’t want anyone to know what had happened between them.
She was miserable enough as it was. She didn’t need gossip making it worse.
The courtyard of Dun Arach was a riot of color and activity this morning, and the air was filled with the tang of wood smoke, roasting apples—and the zingy scent of excitement.
It was the morning of the harvest dance—an event that Andrea had told her was the highlight of the year, and it seemed everyone was as excited as a child on Christmas Eve.
Everyone except her, that is.
Around the courtyard, straw bales were being laid out for seating, garlands of late flowers were being strung from the walls, children were laughing and bickering as they wove corn dollies that would be thrown into the bonfire that evening.
At any other time, Elise would have loved the excitement and the preparations—she was never one to turn down a good party—but now the sight of all the activity only reminded her how out of place she was. Of how much she didn’t belong.
“Elise?” Andrea asked. “Is something wrong?”
She shook herself and forced a smile for the housekeeper. “No. I’m fine.”
She wasn’t fine, of course, and she suspected that Andrea wasn’t fooled by her lie.
Since she and Jamie had returned to the keep three days ago, she’d been avoiding him like he was the plague wrapped in tartan.
She’d made sure not to come down in the morning until long after his daily duties had started, ate her meals alone in her room, and absented herself from the castle as much as possible.
Three times he’d come to her door. Three times he’d knocked, asking to be let in so that they could talk. And three times she hadn’t answered, pretending to be asleep.
She didn’t want to talk to him. She didn’t want to see him.
She didn’t want to have to look into those eyes, remember that kiss—and then be reminded that he was marrying somebody else.
Far better to bury herself in her quest for answers, which was what she’d been doing for the last three days, spending all her time out of the castle with Andrea, interviewing eyewitnesses.
But the memory of the kiss she’d shared with Jamie seemed burned into her thoughts, and she couldn’t forget it. The ghost of his mouth against hers lingered like a bruise she kept pressing to see if it still hurt.
It did.
“Are ye sure ye wish to go down to the village today?” Andrea asked, snapping her back to the present. “We could stay and help with the harvest dance preparations if ye’d prefer.”
Elise shook her head. “No. I’d like to get out of the castle.”
Andrea gave her a shrewd look but didn’t press the matter. Instead, she handed Elise a basket containing a wrapped loaf of bread, a crock of butter, and a bottle of whisky—a bribe for the fisherman they were going to see.
“Neil will talk more freely with a drink in his hand,” Andrea said by way of explanation.
“That makes two of us,” Elise muttered.
She took the basket from the housekeeper, and they left Dun Arach, following the coastal track towards the cluster of cottages nestled near the harbor.
The air grew colder as they drew closer to the sea, heavy with the scent of seaweed and salt.
Gulls wheeled overhead, their lonely cries carrying over the wind and making Elise shiver.
Andrea led her through the village to the far side.
The cottage they were looking for sat apart from the others, half sunk into the hill, its thatched roof sagging like a weary old man’s shoulders.
As they approached, Elise saw smoke puffing lazily from the crooked chimney, and when they knocked, a voice barked from inside, “Come in, before ye let the wind steal my fire!”
Elise pushed open the door and was met by a wall of warmth and the smell of fish stew. The man they’d come to see—Neil MacBride—sat by the hearth, wrapped in layers of wool. His beard was a mass of silver curls big enough to hide in but his eyes were bright as gems—sharp and full of mischief.
He grinned, revealing several missing teeth. “Ah! There ye are! The Witch of Islay I’ve been hearing so much about! Well, come in, come in, ye are letting in the cold.”
Elise and Andrea crowded into the tiny room, seating themselves on the rickety stools that seemed to be Neil’s only furniture. Elise set the basket down on the well-scrubbed table, and Neil started rummaging through it eagerly, pulling out the bottle of whisky.
“Ah! Ye know a way to a man’s heart, all right!”
Elise found herself liking this gruff old man. “Okay, I’ll admit it: It’s a bribe.”
“Oh?” he replied, pouring three cups of whisky and pushing one each across the table for Elise and Andrea. “And what could a MacFinnan spellweaver want from the likes of me?”
“Information,” Elise replied. “I’m told you saw a pirate attack on the laird’s fishing fleet. I was hoping you could tell me what happened.”
Neil was the seventh person Elise had come to speak to. After her failure to find the pirate base and discovering nothing else of use in Phillip MacClelland’s documents, it had seemed the most sensible thing to do.
And of course, being out of the castle helped her to avoid Jamie.
Neil gave a long sigh and gently combed his fingers through his beard.
“Aye. I saw it. A bad job all round. I was fishing out by Shingle Cove. Saw one of the laird’s merchant vessels approaching—bringing supplies from the mainland.
Thought nothing of it until, out of nowhere, a second ship appeared.
Low, sleek, built for speed. It flew no flags, made no signals asking for surrender or such.
Just came up on the merchantman and opened fire with cannon.
Well, I got out of there sharpish, I can tell ye.
Rowed like my life depended on it. But when I got back to shore and turned around to look, the pirate ship was gone.
Disappeared just as quickly as it had appeared—and taken the merchantman with it. ”
He leaned back in his chair, his whisky cup held in one hand, staring into the fire as though reliving the memory. “Aye, a bad job all round. It’s gonna be a tough winter if this keeps up.”
Neil’s story didn’t differ much from the written account that Phillip had recorded just after the event. Frustration seethed in Elise’s gut. She was getting nowhere. Leaning forward, she clasped her hands on the table.
“Was there anything else you noticed?” she pressed. “Anything that seemed unusual or out of the ordinary? Any detail you forgot to mention when you spoke to Phillip? No matter how small?”
She was clutching at straws, but straws were all she had left right about now.
Neil shook his head. “Not that I havenae already told ye. The way the ship appeared and disappeared was mighty strange—like it had been conjured out of thin air.”
Elise stifled a sigh and took a sip of her whisky to hide her frustration. She already knew all this. Everyone she’d spoken to, and all the eyewitness accounts she’d read, all said that these ships were uncommonly fast, that they were able to attack out of nowhere and then disappear again at speed.
“Still,” Neil continued, leaning forward and fixing Elise with his mischievous stare. “We needn’t worry now, eh? Not now we’ve got the scourge of the seas in our midst! Not now ye can blast these bastards from the face of the Earth!”
Elise’s eyebrows climbed her forehead. “Blast them? Um…that’s not how spellweaving works.”
“Isnae it? That’s not what I heard. I heard ye turned the pirates’ vessels to splinters when they went after the laird’s ship.
The lads down the docks are still talking about it.
Ah, I wish I’d been there to see it. A MacFinnan War Weaver in action.
Now, that would have been a sight to behold.
It would be like the glory days of old!”
Elise started. “What did you just call me?”
“A MacFinnan War Weaver. That is what ye are, is it not?”
“What’s a War Weaver?”
He looked at her incredulously. “Ye mean ye dinna know?” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
“My grandda told me stories when I was no taller than a crab pot. Stories of MacFinnan War Weavers who wove spells for battle and binding. Could call up the wind to fill the sails, or twist a man’s shadow against him.
They say in the old days, before the Isles were ruled by lairds and kings, the War Weavers fought beside the sea clans.
When war came, they wove spells into the very earth and sea—threads of power that bound man and land together.
Some say that’s why the Isles still stand, even after all the storms and raids.
The magic’s in the bones of the rock itself. ”
Elise felt a slow chill run down her spine. She’d heard plenty about the MacFinnan spellweavers from her family—stories of healers and charmers, not warriors. But this…
War Weavers? Was this just a folk tale that had grown in the telling?
Or could it be true?
“What happened to these War Weavers?” she asked.
“Who knows?” Neil replied with a shrug. “They passed into legend, just like all the old magic.” He grinned and raised his whisky in a toast. “But here ye are, come right out of the stories to help us. I’m glad the old magic is back—Islay sorely needs the strength.”
Elise didn’t reply. She took a sip of her whisky, trying to get a grip on her scattered thoughts. War Weavers. Spellweavers who used their magic for battle.
Could this be…could this be what she was? Could this be why her magic was so difficult to control?