To Bewitch a Highlander (Isle of Mull series) (20 page)

“I do not understand”, Shoney said.

“Tonight”, Morna said, smiling, “the entire clan will pay homage to you.”

“Look at her face, Morna. Why ‘tis as green as a cut of fresh peat. Whatever is the matter Bridget?”

Shoney did not know who spoke. Her head was spinning, a dance in her honor. She had watched the clan revelries from a distance and always wished she could join, but in her daydreams she was always herself—Shoney. Tonight she was supposed to be Bridget MacLeod from the Isle of Skye, late of Iona when she had never before left Mull. Surely, the clan would see through their deception.

“Enough chatter, ladies. Let us get her home. She looks as if she might faint,” Morna put her arm around Shoney’s waist and guided her through the courtyard, passed the gate, and into the village.

News had spread of Anwen’s recovery. People gave warm greetings and cheers as they passed. Morna, Una, and Flora gracefully returned every good wish, but they never slowed their pace or offered introductions. Shoney felt like she was in Aidan’s sail boat again, only this time the village was the sea and the ladies were the waves propelling her forward.

Morna pointed out her hut just up ahead. Shoney, having observed the tidy entrance and smoke curling from out its rooftop, started to race forward, pulling the other women along. At the door, Una and Flora said their farewells, and as the door closed behind her against the commotion and noise, Shoney felt the peace that only comes with silence. She sighed with relief and closed her eyes as she sagged against the door and slid to the ground.

“It will do you no good to sleep there, Bridget,” Morna chided. “You’ll wake with such a crick in your back someone might mistake you for the Witch of Dervaig.”

“What?” Shoney’s eyes snapped open.

“I didn’t mean to alarm you, dear. It was a jest. No doubt you’ve heard of the Witch even on Skye. Mind my words, Bridget, but don’t be telling anyone what I say, you need not fear the Witch.”

At first, she could not believe her ears; then it occurred to her that perhaps Morna was one of the women who had sought the aid of the Witch of Dervaig. She had never helped her, but mayhap her mother had. She stood and threw her arms around Morna, feeling as though she found an ally at last.

“Thank you, Morna”, Shoney said.

“Whatever for, a clean bed and a warm fire? I would give you all that I own and more to show my thanks for what you’ve done. Anwen is my best and oldest friend. By saving her life you have saved mine as well. Come now, lie here by the hearth where it is warm, and I will tuck you in.”

She snuggled beneath the blanket and closed her eyes, listening to the sounds of Morna moving about and taking care of what could not be put off until after her rest. For a moment, Shoney was a young girl again, pretending to be asleep while her mother worked into the night, preparing salves and potions. She felt safe, wrapped in the warmth of childish memories, but as she drifted off to sleep, she thought of Ronan and his sideways smile.

She knew he would be at the dance that evening, and she suddenly felt nervous thinking of what it would be like to dance with Ronan MacKinnon, son of the chieftain, with everyone looking on. Perhaps, just for one night, she would let herself play the part of Bridget MacLeod. For one night only, she would believe her dream of life with Ronan had come true.

Chapter 19

The courtyard was alive with music and dancing. Several cattle had been slaughtered at his father’s command to mark the occasion, and the scent of roasting meat filled the air with its tantalizing aroma. The joyful significance of the night was not lost on Ronan. His mother’s near brush with death had terrified him, but his mind was elsewhere. His body went through the motions of celebrating—eating, drinking, greeting friends, and graciously accepting the relieved embraces of his kinsmen, but it was Shoney who filled his thoughts.

His eyes skimmed the crowd. She was still nowhere to be seen. Perhaps, she had refused to come and was at that moment trudging over the moors toward her hut, vowing never again to see him. He stormed out of the courtyard with the intention of going after her, but when he passed through the gate, he met the blackness of night and knew she was going nowhere—at least not until daylight. He muttered a thank you to Shoney’s god, Skatha, for not yet removing her fear of the dark.

He returned to the festivities, fixing a smile on his face. He just had to be patient. Morna would insist that Shoney come, and no one, even Shoney, could refuse Morna once she had made up her mind.

He tried to relax. She would soon arrive, no doubt furious and not without justification, but he also felt his reason for deception was defensible. When he first looked upon Anwen’s failing body, gripped with pain, he knew Shoney was her only hope. Surely, she would understand he had no choice. The only way to ensure her safety in the village was to give her a new identity. Nathair’s reaction to her presence only confirmed this.

He still could not believe his father had known. Nor could he forget the hatred that enflamed Nathair’s eyes and blinded his senses at the very sight of Shoney. That kind of anger does not simply disappear—no matter that Shoney save his beloved’s life. There would be a reckoning to be sure. Nathair had yet to confront him, but he knew it was only a matter of time.

His mind started to race, but all the while he maintained the appearance of the rejoicing son for the revelers that surrounded him. He raised his cup to toast his mother and then again to honor the healer, Bridget MacLeod.

“God’s blood”, Ronan swore aloud when he heard Shoney’s alias called out in unison by the entire clan.

“She will never forgive me”, he said turning to Aidan.

“She might”, Aidan smiled, “but ‘tis very unlikely.”

Ronan scowled and was about to tell Aidan just where he could stick his so-called words of encouragement when a flash of burnished gold caught his eye as Shoney passed through the gate and stepped into the courtyard. She soon disappeared from sight as a sea of grateful MacKinnons swallowed her up.

Morna, Una, and Shoney shuffled through the crowd as they advanced across the courtyard. Ronan’s jaw clenched as he resisted the urge to push past everyone and scoop her into his arms, but as far as anyone knew, they only just met.

Finally, she stood before him. “Hello, Bridget”, Ronan said.

“Ronan”, she nodded.

He knelt before her then and took her hand. “I have no words for the gratitude in my heart.” He kept his eyes downcast, wishing to avoid the fury he would surly find in her grey depths. But when he finally met her gaze, her eyes were brimming with tears, and her mouth curved into a gentle smile.

“My heart shattered the day my mother died. I am glad I could help save you from such grief.”

He kissed her hand. “I know you sacrificed a great deal coming here to be with us, Bridget, but I need you to understand you were our only hope”, he implored.

She said nothing, but smiled in response. A full smile and bright eyes were not what he expected, although they were a good sign. Perhaps, now that she was in Gribun, and a hero to the people, she was willing to forgive the underhanded means that brought her there in the first place.

“Now that you are here, Bridget, let me just say it is my greatest desire you remain for as long wish.”

“Quit fawning over her, Ronan”, Una interrupted. “Come on, Bridget”, she said taking Shoney’s hand. “Let us join the dance.”

Shoney was whisked away, leaping and kicking out her heels with the others as they wove through the tables and benches, eventually forming a large ring. The music was quick and lively with pipers and flutes. Ronan savored the expression of wonder that never left Shoney’s face as she joined in the revelries. Everything was new to her, and he was nigh bursting with the joy of watching her partake in the pleasures she had long been denied.

As the large ring of dancers broke into pairs and groups of three, he decided he had kept his distance long enough. But just as he was about to grasp Shoney’s hand, another man moved in and whisked her into a twirling reel. He wanted to flatten Cormick Mackinnon to the ground and beat the love-struck look from his face, but he took a deep breath and tapped him on the shoulder.

“I would ask to cut in, Cormick”, he growled.

Cormick muttered a brief excuse to Shoney before he scampered away. Ronan took her hands and together they stepped in a circle to the quick tempo of the music, but with every step, he pulled her closer and closer.

“No, Ronan”, she protested. “No one can know how familiar we are with each other.”

“I assure you, Shoney, no one here could know you and I have lain together.” He dipped his head and whispered into her ear, “Or that I have tasted your skin and felt your warm thighs wrap around me.”

“Hush, Ronan,” she laughed. “Put some space between us.” She wriggled from his arms and twirled in a circle. Her hair burned like crimsoned gold in the torch light.

“Ronan”, she said, “this is my first dance.”

Then she threw her head back and laughed, “What am I saying—this is my first everything.”

“Not your first
everything
, my love.”

She blushed, and his body responded immediately. His self-control was being tested. He glanced with longing high up the keep wall at his bedroom casement. He wanted nothing more than to throw her over his shoulder and race up to his rooms. He would stand her in front of his great hearth where the flames would warm her as he eased her tunic and kirtle over her head. He imagined the feel of her silken curves. His hands would stroke her skin, and she would tremble in response.

“Ronan?” Shoney said.

“What? Yes, I’m sorry. I was somewhere else. What did you say?”

“This music”, she whispered, “’Tis beautiful.”

Ronan followed Shoney’s gaze to where a short, brawny man with flaming red hair stood strumming a harp. His voice was soft and clear as it drifted over the intent onlookers.

“That is Callum. He is a fine bard.”

“His voice is like nothing I’ve ever heard. The song’s poetry is beautiful, but what does it mean?” she asked wistfully.

“It refers to an old story of a young monk who claimed he was visited by Saint Columba in a dream. He told his abbot, who was of the Clan MacKinnon, that Columba bade the abbot set sail in search of a magical island. Wanting to please the Saint, the MacKinnon embarked on the dangerous voyage. Along the way, he encountered the plaintive song of a mermaid who lured him into the waves. She swam him safely to a sandy shore where he met an old man who did not return his greeting. The man was as still as a statue but for his eyes, which darted from the sky to the abbot’s ship. When the colors of twilight painted the heavens and the waters, the old man suddenly turned away, shielding his eyes. The sky erupted with myriad veins of lightning, and deafening thunder shook the ground. Then right before the MacKinnon’s very eyes, his vessel and crew vanished.”

“’Tis a chilling tale”, Shoney whispered. “Remind me never to venture out upon the sea again.”

“Are you enjoying yourself, Shoney?” he asked.

“More than you could ever know or understand, Ronan”, she said as her face lit with laughter at the now drunk and raucous antics of a few of his clansmen. Shoney was wrong. He did fully understand the joy of the evening, for it was the finest he had ever known.

As the festivities drew to an end, he still could not believe how contented she appeared. Perhaps, she could be happy as Bridget McLeod.

“Shoney”, he whispered, “I have something to show you.” He guided her through the courtyard, passed the gate, and into the village.

“You wouldn’t be bringing me to your home, would you?” Shoney asked playfully.

“You’ve naught to worry about, lass; my intentions are entirely honorable. But if
you
wanted to come to
me
during the night, my rooms are in the keep. Be sure to use the stairwell opposite the one leading to my parent’s rooms.”

“I wouldn’t wait up if I were you”, she teased. “Where are you taking me then?”

“You’ll see.” He shrugged and gave her a lazy grin. “We are almost there.”

As they approached the hut chosen for Shoney, Ronan was pleased to note the freshly swept entrance and smoke curling from the rooftop like fingers beckoning them inside.

“Here we are”, Ronan said as he swung open the door.

She peered in. “Whose home is this?”

“’Tis yours, Shoney.”

Her eyes were wide with surprise, and Ronan watched as a slow smile spread across her face.

“Come inside and see for yourself. Morna arranged everything. You have your pallet there against the far wall and a table and chair. Over here are baskets with potatoes and oats and plenty of peat for the fire. ‘Tis all yours, Shoney.” With dismay he watched her smile falter, and her eyes grow somber.

“You mean Bridget. Don’t you?” she muttered.

“What?” he asked.

“You meant to say ‘tis all yours, Bridget, because I am quite sure your clan did not give Shoney this home.”

Were they back at the beginning again?

“God’s blood, ‘tis just a name”, he swore.

“’Tis not just a name, Ronan. ‘Tis the name my mother chose for me, and you are asking me to give up much more than that. Am I to disgrace my mother and dishonor the gods?”

“Yes”, he shouted. “Yes. If it makes you mine, then that is what I want you to do.”

“But it would not be me.” She turned away from him.

“Already you are not yourself”, he snapped. “You are the Witch of Dervaig.”

When she spoke next, her voice betrayed the tears she had tried to hide. “I will be loved for who I am or not at all, Ronan.”

He reached out, and wrapping his arms around her waist, he pulled her close. “Hush, my love. Please do not cry, Shoney. Fight me. Scream. Pummel me with your fists, but do not cry.”

“What have you done to her, Ronan?” He jerked around to see Morna standing in the doorway. She stomped over to where they stood and pulled Shoney from his arms.

“Are you going to tell me what you have done, lad, or need I go fetch your mother from her sick bed?”