To Bewitch a Highlander (Isle of Mull series) (8 page)

“Aidan can you hear me?”

When Aidan did not respond, Ronan began to check the extent of his wounds. He had not suffered any fatal blows. There were no punctures from blades, but he had been thrashed nigh to death. One eye was swollen shut. His face was smeared with blood and dirt, and bruises were forming from his skull to his legs.

“Who did this Aidan? Wake up so I can find the bastards and beat the life out of them.” Ronan gently shook his friend. “Aidan, wake up. You must wake up.” Aidan stirred and slowly opened his one eye. He lifted his head but winced and fell back.

“Don’t worry, Aidan. You’ve been flattened alright, but you will live.”

“I thought I was in heaven”, Aidan whispered through cracked, dry lips. “There was an angel with golden hair and dark eyes smiling at me.”

“You aren’t in Heaven, Aidan. You are right here on Mull,” Ronan said.

“I know I can’t be in Heaven. You would never get past the gate,” Aidan chuckled. “Oh damn that hurt. No more jokes—that felt like a hot poker jabbing my side.”

“You have some broken ribs”, Ronan said.

“Those bastards were certainly thorough.”

“Who did this, Aidan?”

Aidan tried again to raise his head but fell back. “To hell with sitting up. Just leave me, Ronan. Let me stay here and wait for the angel to come back. She was sweet to look upon. I’m sorry friend, but I would rather die in her arms than yours.”

“You aren’t going to die”, Ronan said dryly.

“If it meant seeing her face again, then I would wish to die.” His voice trailed off into a whisper Ronan strained to hear. “I’d wrap myself in her long golden hair and drown in her stormy eyes. Eyes like gray stone, but they were warm, and they beckoned me.”

Aidan’s whispers describing his angel trailed off as he fell asleep. Golden hair and gray eyes made Ronan once again think of Bridget. If one could imagine immaculate beauty sent from Heaven, who else might this beauty look like but Bridget. Again he pictured her safe and warm in his cave. Ronan shook his head. He had to put her out of his thoughts for good. Right now he had only two concerns, getting Aidan home and punishing those who hurt him. But Aidan never confirmed who was to blame. He knew it was likely the MacLeans. Still, with tinkers about, he had to be sure.

“Aidan,” Ronan said as he gently shook his friend. “Aidan, who did this to you?”

“MacLeans”, Aidan whispered, “five of them.”

Chapter 5

Ronan lifted Aidan astride his horse. His friend fumbled with the horse’s mane in an attempt to secure his seat. Observing his struggle, Ronan wrapped the extra folds of Aidan’s plaid around the horse’s neck to anchor him down.

His friend’s safety assured, Ronan mounted behind him and turned his horse toward Gribun. Aidan’s broken ribs set the pace, but he longed to race home. A creeping sense of foreboding washed over him. The source likely caused by Aidan’s injuries weighing on his mind, but with every gait that brought him closer to the village, the gnawing suspicion of greater woe intensified. He suspected Aidan was not the only MacKinnon to suffer misfortune that night.

The luminous moon shone a glow over the outskirts of the village. At first glance, all seemed normal, but then he caught the scent of scorched hay and timber on the breeze, and as he drew closer, he could hear the faint din of upheaval.

“Sorry, Aidan.”

Ronan tightened his hold on his friend and drove his heels into the horse’s flanks. The beast spurred forward, charging toward the village at a faster pace than Ronan demanded as if he too felt the prick of something ominous in the air.

He flew by barren hut and pathway. Not a soul did he pass. The village, which was usually bustling with life, was silent and cast in darkness. He searched for even one hearth fire, but only the stars and moon lit his way. The turmoil was coming from the courtyard of Dun Ara Castle beyond the cluster of usually welcoming homes. He hastened through the open gates of the courtyard and slid from his horse with Aidan in his arms. Silence fell on the crowd when they saw their fallen brother.

Ronan’s father hurried to his side. “Does he live?” the MacKinnon asked.

“Aye, father, he lives, but not because they didn’t try their worst.”

The MacKinnon inspected Aidan’s wounds. “No doubt he’ll live”, and in a louder voice he continued, “and still be the prettiest maid in the village.”

“At death’s door and you take a swipe at my pretty face. You’re jealous, the lot of you.” Aidan smiled but winced from the effort.

“Did the last stretch of the ride rouse you from your beauty sleep?” Ronan asked.

“What were you trying to do? Finish the job?” Aidan groaned.

The MacKinnon motioned to a woman looking on with wide, worried eyes, “Morna, come now and nurse your son.” Then he turned to a large warrior, “Guthrie, help him and make sure Morna has everything she needs.” Aidan winced as he stood with Guthrie’s aid, and as they slowly progressed toward Aidan’s hut, the MacKinnon’s attention turned back to Ronan.

“’Tis safe to assume the bastard MacLean is responsible?”

“Aye, Father. It was a small band of five warriors. Aidan patrolled the eastern fields tonight. They must have attacked during his watch, because I found him near the Cillchriosd Stone.”

“Twice as many attacked the cottars from the same direction. So the bastards did away with the watch. Then they took their fill.” The MacKinnon raked his hand through his hair showing his agitation.

“What damage, father?” Ronan asked.

“No soul was harmed, except Aidan of course, but they torched several fields and emptied one store.”

“’Tis, folly,” Ronan exclaimed. “The MacLean knows we’ve twice the warriors and stores. Why such a brazen raid?”

“Aye”, the MacKinnon replied, “The attack demands a response. We cannot turn a blind eye as we do with their usual tinkering. The MacLean must realize this.”

“Unless he is betting we won’t retaliate because of the battle that awaits us with the Norse”, Ronan said.

Warriors and council members alike began to gather around their laird. Dugald, the largest of the warriors, spoke up.

“Did you see what they did to fair Aidan?” He withdrew his sword. “At your word, MacKinnon, I will go and teach the MacLean a lesson and be back and ready to fight the Norse by dawn.”

Eager to avenge their brother, the warriors withdrew their swords and called out in support of Dugald’s proposal, creating a din loud enough to be heard on the open moors.

“Hold, lads. Hold.”

Ronan turned to look at the owner of the soft voice, trying to penetrate the rambunctious calls of the men. His faced was creased with age and his plaid hung loosely over frail shoulders.

Ronan raised his hands and shouted, “Silence. Argyle wishes to speak.” A hush fell over the men as they turned expectant eyes toward the old man.

“We are on the brink of war with the Norse not only as men of the MacKinnon but of the Hebrides and as Scotsmen. Our good laird promised King Alexander our swords in battle.” Ronan watched as his clansmen nodded their heads in agreement.

 “We must stay our course, Lads.” Argyle finished.

“Argyle is right,” The MacKinnon said. “We cannot allow the shite to the south to distract us from our responsibility. A responsibility, so tells the most recent messenger from the king, the coward MacLean refuses to accept. We will not waste time and resources against their cowardice.”

Dugald raised his sword to speak once more. “We understand the wisdom of the Mackinnon’s words, but, good Laird, we must do something. The MacLean cannot duck blame after such a blatant attack.”

“Aye, Dugald, you are right, and we shall retaliate, but in a manner the MacLean will not expect,” the MacKinnon replied.

“They’re all as dense as fence posts. They haven’t the wits to expect the morning sun to rise”, Guthrie said as he joined the group, and like the rest of the clansmen, Ronan enjoyed a good laugh as the MacLean’s expense.

“Ronan, my lad.”

“Aye, father.”

“What say you in all this?”

“I propose a mission of stealth,” he replied.

“Aye, my thinking as well.” The MacKinnon faced Ronan and rested his hand on his son’s shoulder. “What is your plan?”

Ronan raised his voice so that every council member and warrior could hear. “We will track the thieves at a distance, allowing them to gain some ground. They will think they’ve won an easy victory and conceit will guide their actions, ensuring imprudence.”

“And by imprudence you mean pissed drunk don’t you”, shouted Dugald. When the laughter died down Ronan continued.

“’Tis likely they woke up pissed, Dugald. What else would have made them act so foolhardy? Once they make camp, we move in. We silence the watch and take back our stores. They wake up empty-handed and disgraced.”

***

A short while later, Ronan raced once again across the moors, only this time on the trail of the MacLeans. He was joined by Dugald and Guthrie. He chose Dugald for his large, intimidating frame and his ability to close in on the enemy undetected. Guthrie wielded the swiftest blade among the warriors, faster even than Ronan. Both were essential in any situation where the numbers favored the enemy.

The band of raiders cut a careless trail over the moors, carved by the pounding of their horse’s hooves. On a cloudy night, a child could have followed the MacLean’s tracks. With the bright moon at its fullest, it was effortless.

“The tracks are growing fresher”, Dugald said. “We are gaining ground fast.”

Ronan nodded and slowed his pace, signally for the other men to do the same. “Let’s make sure we give them plenty of time to break into the whiskey they lifted from our stores.”

Dugald rode beside him, and they discussed the plan of attack in more detail. When the matters of timing and whether to kill or maim were settled, Dugald shifted the conversation to Aidan. “An angel must have guided you.”

Ronan inhaled sharply.

Bridget.

 Amid the chaos and planning, he forgot about Bridget—something he had tried to do for a fortnight. Apparently, to set his mind free of her required an attack on his village, the theft of essential stores, and the pummeling of his best friend. He could not afford to be so consumed by a woman.

Owing to Ronan’s abrupt intake of breath, Dugald signaled an alarm to Guthrie and both reached behind their backs, swiftly drawing their swords.

“Sheath your blades, lads. There’s naught amiss. I simply remembered something requiring my care, but the matter will have to wait.” Ronan tried to forget Bridget again, but having renewed her place in his thoughts, she laid claim to all of him. He longed to abandon his kinsmen, forget the mission, and race back to the cave where she was waiting.

Where did you say you found him?” Dugald’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Who?” Ronan asked.

“Aidan. I asked you where you found Aidan. Are you alright?” Dugald said, his expression bewildered.

Distracted was not something to which Ronan was accustomed, and apparently, he was not the only one to notice. He needed to pull himself together.

“I rode west to find something of value last seen near the Cillchriosd Stone. It was there that I happened upon Aidan.”

“A very lucky coincidence for Aidan”, Dugald said.

Ronan grunted in agreement, but then his eyes narrowed. His chance discovery of Aidan’s beaten and unconscious body at the very place to which Bridget urged him went beyond auspicious. Bridget led Ronan to Aidan’s side. Was it serendipity? Or had she known his kinsman’s fate? He felt certain it was the latter.

‘Tis a matter of life or death
, she said before he left. But if the lost pendant was a plot to save Aidan, why not speak of his need in the first place?

He shook his head. How could she have known about Aidan’s attack when she had never left his side? Unless she was in league with her fellow clansmen, but then why would she reveal Aidan’s location, ultimately saving his life? What’s more, if she was acting on behalf of her clan, what did they hope to gain by putting Bridget in his path? Did they hope he would find her irresistible, using the defiling of a MacLean maiden as a legitimate way to start a war? Every new thought led to a new question, but the answers he sought were less than a league away. He needed to be patient for just a little while longer. The brigands they tracked would be able to shed some light on the uncertainties surrounding Bridget even if they needed a little persuasion.

“God’s blood”, Ronan swore.

“What now?” Dugald asked.

“’Tis nothing”, he replied. “Only, I am tired of waiting.”

“That makes two of us”, Guthrie grinned.

Ronan’s smile concealed his true frustration, which had forced the oath from his lips in the first place. He could not question the MacLeans without putting Bridget at risk, and he refused to jeopardize her safety regardless of her crimes. Only one thing was certain—there was never a lost necklace. Bridget had lied, but he would find no answers tonight. He would have to bide his time until he could return to the cave.

He smirked, thinking of her high above the surface of the tossing seas, his mind eased by another certainty—Bridget wasn’t going anywhere. At that moment, she was likely asleep on his pallet. Her slim waist and the flare of her hips outlined beneath his plaid. He closed his eyes as her slender but ripe figure came to mind. He imagined her parted lips, and his touch enticing her breaths to quicken as she issued forth a plea for more.

He shook his head, trying desperately to remove the tantalizing images of her sleek curves from his mind. He needed to steel himself against her allure to ensure he did not place his physical hunger for her above his need for answers—a challenge that would demand all of his strength.

Chapter 6

Shoney paced up and down the length of the cave. Three nights passed since Ronan left, and as the sun dipped low in the sky, signaling the arrival of darkness, she resolved to spend another night trapped in her gateless prison alone.

Why had he not returned?

The Cillchriosd Stone was only an hour’s ride from the cave. What if Ronan had been attacked as well? What if he lay bleeding beside his friend who was sure to be dead by now? Her eyes opened wide with fear. If he was dead, she would be trapped inside the cave until death released her. The only alternative, to scramble down the rope, would likely end with her lifeless body being pushed by waves against the cliff face again and again until the tides swept her out to sea.