Under an Enchantment: A Novella (11 page)

He could only ask. When the sun rose, he would rise as well, dress, and make his way to the dower house. If they refused to let him see her, he’d find a way to get to her. He’d tell her the truth. He was no bewitched creature, come to claim her to a faerie world. He was nemesis, and she’d gotten in his way.

It was his duty, he told himself. His responsibility, to take her back with him, to wed her, in case, as she insisted, there was a bairn from this night’s work. But despite what he told himself, it felt like no duty he’d ever performed in his life. It felt like his heart’s desire.

He closed his eyes, drifting into sleep, when he heard the voice. It was a true
spaewife,
keening, eerie, soft on the morning dampness, insinuating itself into his sleeping mind. “Mind yon lassie,” the voice moaned. “The seal hunter has her.”

A nightmare, he told himself, opening one eye to glance around the deserted bedroom. There was no one there, but the voice came at him from the comers of the room. “Domnhall’s ta’en her,” the voice said. “And only you can save her.”

He sat up, throwing back the covers as panic speared through him. “Who’s there?”

No answer from the empty house. Just the keening of the rising wind, the rush of the surf against the shore, and the sense of dread that seeped into his bones. He knew. This was no nightmare. Ailie was in danger from the seal hunter.

He threw on his clothes as he ran, still fastening his shirt on the stairs as he barreled into Collis. The dawn had scarcely risen, and the house was dark with shadows, yet there was no missing the expression on the old man’s face.

“
Something’s wrong,” Collis said abruptly. “I was pulled from a good night’s sleep and sent to ye, and I dinna like it one bit. Where’s the mistress? Did ye harm her?”

A brief vision flashed through Malcolm’s mind—Ailie in his arms, crying out in pleasure and sorrow. “No,” he said, wondering if he lied. “I think the seal hunter’s taken her.”

“
Are ye daft yourself, man? Why in God’s name would Domnhall dare touch her? Torquil would have his heart for it.”

Malcolm shook his head. “I don’t know. I heard a voice as I was sleeping. I think I saw a face. An old woman, with streaky white-and-black hair and eyes like coals, and she told me only I could rescue Ailie.”

“
Christ!” Collis looked properly shocked. “You’ve seen Morag then. She never shows herself to most folk. Mayhap you’re a selkie after all.”

“
Don’t waste my time, old man. Where would Domnhall have taken her?”

Collis shook his head. “He knows this island better than almost anyone. Except for Ailie. He has a croft not far from mine, though I doubt he’d take her there. There’s a storehouse by the water where he keeps his sealskins. No one goes there—the smell is dreadful, and people say it’s cursed. He might have taken her there.”

“
I’ll check the storehouse—you go to the croft.”

“
He’s a dangerous man, selkie. Bigger than you, forebye, with a dirty way of fighting. Mind you don’t find yourself gutted and skinned.”

“
A fine end for a selkie. I have to save Ailie first.” Malcolm moved past him, heading for the door, when Collis’s voice followed him.

“
And what was the mistress doing out at this hour of the day, that Domnhall could have ta’en her?”

Malcolm paused by the door, turning to look up at the dour old man. “Giving herself to the selkie, old man. And I’m not about to lose her now.”

His grandparents’ cottage was at the far end of the island, away from the tiny harbor town. He started through the woods, going by instinct alone, half-blind in the shadows and mist, until he sprawled across something that had once been living flesh.

It wasn’t Ailie’s lifeless body. That knowledge made him shake, with relief and fury, as he stared at the corpse of the gentle seal. The man who had done this had taken his love, putting his filthy, murderous hands on her, and every moment she was with him would be torment for her airy, gentle soul.

He ran through the mist and the gradually lightening day, past sleeping houses and silent fields, the smell of the sea in the air. He knew where to find her, not with his mind but with his heart and soul. With the help of the
spaewife
echoing in his ears.

The storehouse was at the far end of the village, set off from the other buildings, sagging into the ground, a dark, dour place. Not even grass grew nearby, and Malcolm could see why the people of St. Columba would consider it haunted. The thought of his gentle lass trapped inside there at the bloody hands of a murderer sent his own murderous rage sweeping over him.

The voice came to him again, on the mist, on the wind, a keening, warning voice. “Mind the front door, MacLaren. He’s waiting for you.”

He didn’t stop to question that voice, or the warning; he simply heeded it, moving to skirt the edge of the building. There were no windows, and the stench of death and sea was strong and gagging in his nostrils. The smell of dead seals. MacLaren, the voice had called him. The voice knew who he was, better than he knew himself. He was a MacLaren, if not by blood, by heart and soul. By all that mattered.

He put his ear against the damp, rotting wood of the old shack, listening, but only silence issued forth. If Domnhall had touched her, he’d kill him, but he’d cut his balls off first and feed them to the gentle seals while the seal hunter watched.

And then he heard her voice, calm, steady, and he knew she was still safe. “He won’t come, Domnhall. He’s a selkie, he knows when he’s in danger. He’s not going to walk into your trap.”

“
You misjudge your charms, mistress. If he’s a selkie, then he came to St. Columba for you, and he willna leave you in my hands without a fight.”

“
If he’s not a selkie, why would you want to harm him?” She sounded a far cry from his deliberately daft lady, Malcolm thought. He could almost smile at the practical note in her voice, if he weren’t so terrified of the danger she ran.

“
Because he’s had you, mistress. And yon Torquil won’t like that one wee bit. He’ll be best pleased if I rid him of the competition, and give him a taste of revenge in the bargain. Torquil’s a shy man when it comes to blood and violence, but he’s more than happy to have me take care of things for him.”

“
He won’t be happy to hear you’ve touched me.”

“
Torquil can’t have everything. I hate this island, and the people here. They think you’re their sweet, daft lass. They all love you. How will they feel when they find you’re a whore? That you rutted with the selkie, and then gave yourself to me hours later.”

“
I’d never give myself to you,” she said flatly.

“
Nay, mistress. But they’ll not believe you, will they? Your family will lock you away, Torquil and Angus will split your inheritance, and I’ll be well paid. And you, poor lady, will spend your days locked away, mourning your dead selkie.”

“
I’d rather die myself.” Malcolm could hear the first trembling traces of emotion in her voice.

“
Mayhap I’ll oblige you. After I finish with the selkie.” There was an ominous silence. “In the meantime, lay back and lift yer skirts, yer Ladyship. I’d like to see if you’re equipped any differently than the trulls in Inverness.”

There was a backdoor to the shanty, half in the cold gray water of the sea. Malcolm slammed through it, using his shoulder, rolling to the ground as he went. He had no knife, no weapon at all, and he could wait no longer.

He had the element of surprise, and that was all, and he used it, coming in low and knocking the huge form of the seal hunter onto the ground as well. The stench of the place, of the man, was awful. The sealskins were piled high all around in the murky darkness, and he could sense Ailie in the corner, shocked, immobile, but still unharmed.

He slammed his fist against the man’s face, again and again, feeling the skin of his knuckles split as Domnhall groaned. And then Domnhall surged up, taking Malcolm with him, knocking him against the wall, and Malcolm could feel the cold steel of the knife at the base of his belly.

He went very still, waiting for his chance.

“
Shall I spill your guts for yon lass?” Domnhall said in a thick, panting voice. “Do you have the heart of a seal, or a man? I’d like well to know.” The knife pressed hard against him, and it wouldn’t take much for the seal hunter to split him, stem to stern.

Oddly enough Malcolm felt no fear. Merely an odd, disembodied regret, that Ailie should have to see it. It would turn her truly mad.

“
Selkie.” Her voice was cool and eerie, halting Domnhall’s stroke. “You need your pelt. Domnhall must have taken it, or you would have been back in the sea already. Which is his pelt, Domnhall? Ye must give it back to him, or his soul will haunt you.”

“
Get away from me,” Domnhall snarled. “I’m not afraid of ghosts. He’s a man, no more no less...”

“
It’s black, you told me,” Ailie said in that dreamy voice, and Malcolm heard her move closer. “Like your hair, black and silky and very soft. I like your hair, did I tell you that, selkie? I don’t want him to kill you.”

“
Get away from me,” Domnhall snarled, momentarily distracted as he turned to kick her away.

It was all the advantage Malcolm needed. In a flash he came up under Domnhall’s burly arm, taking it and twisting it back, so that the knife fell with a thud on the dirt-packed floor, and the two of them were locked together in a deathly embrace, rolling onto the ground, over onto the pile of soft skins, rolling back to thud against the side of the small building, until the rotting wood splintered and they crashed out into the gathering daylight.

Domnhall had him pinned on the ground, and he grinned at him in evil triumph. “I don’t believe in selkies, or ghosts. I’ll kill you while the lassie watches, and that’ll be the end to it.”

Malcolm stared up at him, panting, filled with an icy calm. “Will it? Look at my face, seal hunter. Have you seen it before?”

Domnhall’s thick, cruel countenance grew still as his eyes narrowed. “You’re a stranger,” he said, but he sounded suddenly uneasy.

“
Am I? Or do I look like another lass you killed, years ago, and threw into the sea? She didn’t die, Domnhall. She joined the seals, and sent me here to claim her vengeance.” Domnhall released him, staggering to his feet as superstitious horror swept over his face. “Catriona,” he gasped. “You’ve the look of her.”

“
She sent me after you, Domnhall,” Malcolm said, coming to his feet, moving after him. “I’m just one of many. We’ll all come for you, we’ll haunt your days and nights, until you give yourself to us. We’ll eat your flesh, seal hunter, as you ate ours, and your soul will rot in hell.”

He’d pushed him too far. Domnhall let out a low, keening sound, more mazed than Ailie could ever fabricate, and he turned and scooped up the knife that had fallen. “You have her eyes,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll cut them out!” He lurched back toward him, murder in his face, as Ailie screamed in terror.

The pile of sealskins, still bloody, couldn’t have moved, Malcolm told himself afterward. Domnhall was too blinded with murderous rage, and as he lunged for Malcolm, knife held at the ready, he stumbled, sprawling across the pile of skins, and lay still, as blood pooled underneath him.

“
Ailie!” It wasn’t his voice calling to her, it was Torquil Spens’s rich, panicked tones as he rounded the corner, winded, his moon face crimson from exertion. Collis was close behind him, and Malcolm flashed him a bitter, reproachful look.

Ailie stood in the middle of the shanty, her face in darkness, and Domnhall’s motionless body lay between them. She looked at Malcolm, and her voice was soft, and very sane. “Catriona?” she said.

And then Torquil reached her, pulling her into his arms, hiding her face against his burly shoulders as if to shield her from the sight of Domnhall’s body, the blood flowing from underneath him, soaking the sealskins. He glared at Malcolm, and it took all Malcolm’s self-control not to leap over the body of his fallen nemesis and rip Ailie from his arms. “Who the hell are you, MacLaren?”

“
Catriona MacDugald’s son.”

Torquil’s ruddy face turned pale. “I didn’t believe Collis when he came for me. You’re here for vengeance, lad, but you’re too late. Your father’s dead these last six weeks.” Ailie lifted her head to look at him, and in the gathering daylight he could see the mark of Domnhall’s fists on her pale face. There was no daftness in her face now as full understanding of who and what he was hit her. Just a dark, impossible sorrow.

It didn’t matter, Malcolm told himself, ignoring the searing pain in his heart. He’d come for one reason, and one reason alone, and he meant to have the answer. “Who gave the order?” he demanded. “Who paid the seal hunter to take my mother and cast her into the sea?”

Torquil shook his head. “Ye’ll not believe it, lad, but Duncan paid him good money to take her to the mainland and see her safely settled. None of us meant her ill.”

“
You can’t prove it.”

“
No,” said Torquil, releasing Ailie to face him bravely. “And I’m supposing you’ll want your vengeance on me as well. Or did taking a poor daft maid prove vengeance enough?”

She was so pale. He wanted to go to her, to kiss the bloom back into her cheeks, he wanted to hear her singing her mad songs about Bonnie Prince Charlie. He’d taken her innocence, not in the taking of her maidenhead, but the betraying of her trust. She was better off with the old man who’d love and care for her.