Somewhere My Lass (13 page)

Neil needed all the strength he could get. He obediently sipped the broth laden with leeks, potent herbs, and Lord only knew what else. His eyes watered, and the pungency assailed his sinuses. It would either empower or fell him.

Hoping for the former effect, he looked up into Aunt Margaret’s kind gaze, so like Mrs. Dannon’s, but with a keen alertness. “Now, tell us how you came to be here. It seems as though we’re expected.”

“Aye.” Still wrapped in her green and blue arisaid, only her expressive face and gesturing hands were visible as she spoke. “M’ sister, Mary, Lord rest her sainted soul, came to me in a dream, jist as real as ye sit before me now.” She shifted her pensive gaze to Mora. “Do ye remember Mary?”

“Nae, but I’m told she was a goodly woman.”

“And a wise one. She spoke of yer coming.”

Mora bent forward. “Did she, now?”

“In m’ dream. And with her foretelling, she uttered the warning that Neil and Mora were in grave danger and to tell no one yet, but journey to this wee croft alone. So convinced was m’ spirit, I stole away on the gray mare this very afternoon to ready fer ye.”

Neil exchanged glances with Mora and Fergus as they absorbed these remarkable tidings. “We are relentlessly pursued by the Red MacDonald.”

Again the sage head nodded, as if she knew this to be true. Nor had she questioned Neil about his altered appearance or American accent. Either she understood him to be a different Neil, or she’d accepted him and Fergus based on her dream. Unless he was mistaken, they had another seer in their midst, guided by yet another such soul from beyond.

Was it possible that her departed sister Mary was somehow linked to Betty Fergus? Mrs. Fergus had said to expect assistance from this quarter. How had she known about Margaret MacKenzie?

Come to think of it, Mrs. Dannon’s first name was Margaret. Only, he never called her that.

No. It was too much.

Neil had no notion how such perception transcended the vastness of four centuries any more than he grasped quantum physics, but made up his mind then and there to put his trust in Aunt Margaret. She had that quality about her which inspired confidence.

He gestured to her. “Please sit with us. We seek your counsel in laying our plans.” He nodded at the door. “We must remain on our guard for any who might come tonight.”

Aunt Margaret lowered herself onto a stool. “My mare will alert us if our ears do not. But I think none will molest us.”

The wariness in Fergus and Mora’s eyes reflected Neil’s own caution. “That demon has a way of springing up as if from the very earth.”

Their hostess gazed into the flames with the air of one seeing far beyond their light. “The Red MacDonald is delayed. He lies bound.”

“Where?” Neil asked, voicing his question in unison with the others.

“In a darkened passage.”

Neil jerked on his stool. “Donhowel?”

“Nae. A foreign place I know not.”

“How in the world?” Neil swiveled his gaze at Fergus’s wide-eyed stare. “Did your mom tie up that madman and leave him in the hall?”

He raised and lowered his shoulders. She might have taken a taxi to your house and arrived soon after we left. Knowing Mom, she could have subdued him with mace, or a whack over the head with whatever came to hand. She carries an arsenal in that purse. He might be tied up with a hand painted silk scarf and macramé, or Wrenie’s beadwork.”

Neil shook his head in bemusement. “And she seems so gentle.”

Fergus smiled. “A mother tiger defending her young. But she wouldn’t kill him outright.”

“God’s blood! I would!” Mora erupted.

Neil would have been strongly tempted.

Mora flashed violet eyes at Margaret MacKenzie. “Will he be freed again?”

She nodded. “I fear so.”

How long had Mrs. Fergus, if this was her doing, bought them? Neil wondered. The MacDonald would escape his bonds sooner or later, and he must still face the menace. But not yet.

A growing awareness of what he’d once been and might be again, coupled with the man he was, stirred inside Neil—a glimmer of hope shining in the darkness. They had a chance, however slim. And he was determined to seize it.

“We must journey to MacDonald land before Red MacDonald intercepts us. Reaching the chapel at Domhnall castle is crucial.”

Wise eyes considered him, and his aunt inclined her head. “Yet sae weary ye are. Take yer rest this night. Tomorrow we arise early and go to Donhowel. All ye need fer the trek to the MacDonalds awaits ye there.”

That and a household of suspicious family and retainers. Neil expected his brother, Calum, would be especially difficult, and he had scant time to persuade him to their view.

At the thought of Calum, he instinctively flexed his fist in the primal memory of how they used to resolve their conflict.

Chapter
Twenty-One

Hugging Margaret MacKenzie around the waist, Mora rode behind her on the gray mare. She’d prefer her own mount, but needs must. Grass rippled in the breeze and drifts of heather lined the track, partly concealed in mist. Here and there, hardy blooms still held their purple color in the sea of green. A burgundy flush tinged the leaves where they’d darkened with the advancing season.

Yellow and tawny brown shrubs also lent color to the steep hills. The faint scent of gorse drifted down to her. Stones loomed in the haze, some shaped like earth dwelling dwarfs. Others resembled sleeping giants. Well enough, as long as they didn’t awake. Her nerves on edge like a hunted doe’s, Mora’s imagination ran away with her.

Neil, limping slightly, with Fergus at his side, walked ahead of the horse as they wound down between the foggy slopes. Morning had  advanced, though Mora wasn’t certain how far, only that she was chilled and her stomach churned. The swaying mare, her awkward seat, and the rough path only increased her discomfort.

Perhaps with her own horse and a proper saddle, she could better make her way to the MacDonald chapel. Her innards wound even more tightly at that grim thought. But they must go. And soon. Time was fast evaporating.

Then Donhowel came into view below them, rising from the shores of the loch on a high point of rocky ground. A watery sun battled unsuccessfully to dispel the white vapor enveloping the stone walls of the castle like a cloud. The native stone, a mellow hue on sunlit days, appeared an unwelcoming gray and cold with the damp.

The tremor darting down her spine wasn’t entirely due to the late autumn weather or the forbidding prospect of Donhowel. What would Calum say?

Worse, what might he do?

She couldn’t imagine he’d be any more hospitable than the aspect of the fortress he now ruled as new laird of the MacKenzie clan. The return of Neil, coupled with the announcement of their renewed engagement, wasn’t likely to brighten this already gloomy day. Calum possessed a temper as hotly fired as his red hair. He more closely resembled their late father in looks and temperament. Some considered him the more striking of the two brothers, but Mora had only ever had eyes for Neil.

With his dark coloring and gray eyes, Neil was the image of his bonnie mother, and like Anna MacKenzie, the steadier of her two sons, thinking before he acted. Once Neil did act, though, watch out. His fist flew every bit as hard as Calum’s. And they’d always been rivals. Only two years apart, they scrapped like twins, but without the closeness.

Mayhap they were too removed in temperament. Mora wasn’t certain why they didn’t possess greater affection for the other. At least, until her coming. She’d unintentionally wedged a chink in any hope of brotherly love.

And yet, when Neil was lost in the attack on Strome Castle Calum had appeared more glowering than usual. Somewhere inside that volatile heart of his, he must bear some fondness for his older brother. Even so, any hidden tenderness he might have was about to go up in flames. Now that Neil had come back, the rightful  heir and chieftain.

Calum must step aside and offer his loyalty and support. Granted, the two Neil’s were different and yet alike in many ways. She expected the contrast between them would supersede their similarities today.

Bracing for a tumultuous welcome, she could hardly envision what lay ahead as a merry reunion. She prayed it wasn’t a bloody one.

****

Like dreaming of a place so many times it seemed real…that was how Neil felt upon his arrival at Donhowel, or was it his return?

Cobbles underfoot, he paused in the open courtyard of the bailey, buffeted by the relentless breeze. Beyond the castle walls spread the loch. White vapor rose over the deep water to meet the gray clouds above, and swirled through the trees on the shore. The  raw wet  blown from the  loch and saturating the wind dampened his hair and face. Rain was coming, or possibly even snow.

The sights and scents surrounding Neil roused memories from the recesses of his soul, sharpened by the cry of an eagle hidden overhead. The hurried flap of wings and call of ducks emerged briefly in the mist and disappeared again. He breathed in the cold watery air, carrying with it the earthy fragrance from the veiled hills.

With an uncanny sense of déjà vu rippling through him, he walked across the stone yard with Mora. The hardness of the granite underfoot reinforced the reality of the castle. The bitter cold further sharpened his senses. He really was here.

Lengths of hair whipped around Mora from beneath the scarf and her cheeks were reddened, but her hands were gloved and she hugged the fur coat to herself. Thank heavens Mrs. Fergus had the foresight to distribute winter garb.

Though bareheaded,  Neil’s coat collar turned well up at the neck, and the added length provided an extra buffer to the wind. Fergus, unaccustomed to being out of doors in any weather, let alone bad, hunched in his fedora, sweatshirt, and lined windbreaker. No doubt he longed for a top of the line hooded parka, winter boots, and steaming coffee in a thermal flask. His friend’s profound sacrifice in accompanying them wasn’t lost on Neil. Somehow, he must see to it that Fergus made it safely back to the future. As for himself, his lot was already cast, and seemingly had been a very long time ago.

Wrapped in her arisaid, Aunt Margaret made up the fourth member of their little band. No one spoke. The wind further muffled their tread across the courtyard.

So far no one from inside the castle gave any indication of detecting their approach, and they’d easily made it through the gate in the outer wall. These were troubled times. What if they’d been MacDonalds? Hadn’t Red MacDonald himself gained entry when he’d chased Mora through the passage beneath the keep and wound up in Staunton?

Calum might not realize his enemy had been within his very walls. Still, he  ought to keep better watch. He had men and servants on hand. Defenses would be tightened if, when, Neil was in charge. Even his diligent dog gave no warning bark.

Something was amiss. “Where is Kiln?”

Mora spoke through chattering teeth. “Seeking for ye out in the hills. He’ll no return without ye.”

A pang of sadness shot through Neil. “Poor fellow.”

Fergus shivered in the moisture laden breeze blowing across the loch. “It’s even colder here than in those hills. The dog probably has the sense to seek shelter,” he added more sympathetically.

“True. And he hunts.” Neil recalled reading of Highlanders nicknamed
Redshanks
for the hue of their bare legs exposed to all sorts of weather. A product of modern life, he was not so hardened. Even in wool pants, his legs were chilled, and the torn knee flapped open.

He also remembered a reference to trews, a kind of legging the wealthier Scots wore. He should acquire a pair of trews, although he could do with those sleek long johns left in his bedroom back home.

Back home…
How long would he still think of the family house in Staunton that way? How long did he have to ponder? Not long if their quest failed.

They reached the heart of the Donhowel. The foggy keep towered up above them. He paused before a heavy door set in an arched framework of stone. The writ on the ancient wood was Gaelic and must date back to the tenth century, at least. The age of the lettering tugged at him, as if his fate was written within these walls.

Fergus hunched behind him. “What does it say?”

Mora answered. “’If ye be our friend, welcome. If our foe, beware.”

An apt phrase and one Neil also could have translated, even though he wasn’t familiar with Gaelic. At least, not until now.

“Ho there!” Giving a shout, he rapped on the barred oak.

After what seemed an interminable wait, the door opened. He paid little heed to the servant girl who ushered them inside or the maid in petticoats scurrying to announce their arrival, but strode, a hitch in his knee, through the stone entryway with his small party and up the steps to the Great banqueting Hall.

Magnificent
.

Such sensations assailed him as he walked over the oak floorboards and swept his gaze around the expansive room. The narrow glazed windows, originally constructed with slanting sides for archers, allowed little light to penetrate even if the day had been sunny. Broad posts lent support to the timbered roof.

Admiration mingled present day appreciation of the architecture with the host of thoughts surfacing in his mind as he absorbed the images revealed by firelight and candles flickering in iron brackets on the walls. These beeswax candles burnt far more sweetly than the tallow ones, and were cleaner too. Only those with means could afford to use them, but the MacKenzies were no peasant band.

Pride in his clan swelled inside him and not only because of the tapers. Funny what simple things triggered his memories. Back they stole, like ghosts from the shadows, some so faint they were barely detectable, others jarringly real. He could almost reach out and seize them.

Almost.

He racked his brain to recall more…spinning back, back, back, in his mind to the faint weave of the life he’d once known. Across the chamber on the opposite wall stretched the enormous stone hearth. Heraldic crests emblazoned the intricately carved wooden mantel—

There! That nick on the upper right hand corner, wasn’t that where he’d chopped it with a sword too heavy for a twelve-year-old boy to wield?

Or had that only been a dream? He gazed intently at the long chamber, turning slowly around to take in its circumference.

Thick stone, three or four feet in depth and outlined with timber, comprised the walls. Over these were hung tapestries depicting scenes even more ancient than the time he’d returned to. Knights on horseback fighting battles of long ago. Ladies lamenting the fallen. The victorious with banners upheld. Celebratory banquets.

He raised his gaze higher. Blackened beams crisscrossed the rafters overhead. How long had they been there? It boggled the mind.

Dropping his eyes, he surveyed the long table stretched across the center of the room covered with an equally long white cloth. Resplendently carved and upholstered chairs reigned at each end of the table. Benches provided seating on either side. Had he hidden beneath that table as a child? The image of a little boy holed up under the furniture pretending he was in a cave teased the corners of his mind.

Along one wall stood a massive hutch fashioned by expert craftsmen. Here and there, Neil saw engraved Tudor period chests and high-backed settles for extra storage and seating. Granted the room was large, but the furnishings so plentiful it didn’t appear as large as it might have. To a child, however, it had been enormous, a vast playground.

This room, the castle, had the feel of a bastion that had withstood the storms of time and foul weather, impervious to destruction, as if it had been and always would be here. And deeply familiar to him, though still no more so than a vivid dream he’d often had. And yet, here he was in this Great Hall with Mora fair.

Dearest Mora, if the man he was now faded away and the man he used to be restored in his place, would that Neil adore her as utterly as he did? Was Niall heart and soul in love with her? It seemed to Neil that his former self had been smitten by her, but not as fully as he was now. Would that man cherish her as fully as she deserved?

Oddly, it grieved him to the core to think of leaving her to the care of another, even if that man was his past self. There must be a way to unite both Niall and Neil into one man.

He could only do as Betty Fergus instructed, take the vial secured in his pocket back to the chapel where it had been stolen, and pray the key in Mora’s crucifix  gained them admittance to the chamber hidden below in the crypt. His family, he, had paid dearly for the theft of this sacred relic.

Revulsion ran through Neil as he envisioned himself held prisoner, and tortured in that dark hole. Thankfully, not a memory fully returned in all its horrors, but he caught the dank scent of moldering stone and human misery, and saw himself bound in the depths.

More wrenching still, the realization, that if, despite his best efforts, there was nothing he could do other than to preserve the old Niall, then he was resolved to do so in order that Mora not be left desolate. She mustn’t be deprived of them both. Perhaps the tear vial could be traded for Niall’s life.

Like thread sliding in and out of cloth and disappearing into the pattern, Neil sensed each cherished moment left with Mora slipping away. Two days, Betty Fergus had said, until the Neil he was ceased to be. And this day was fast waning. He had but one left. With ice in his veins from more than the weather, he stepped toward the beckoning warmth of the hearth. He mustn’t let dread overtake him, a disempowering emotion, but draw on the determination welling in his very soul.

The others gathered with him in front of the blaze and pocketed their gloves, except Margaret MacKenzie who had none, and held out their hands to the flames. The orange glow and homey crackle added much needed cheer to the dim, drafty hall.

Aunt Margaret gestured at several high-backed chairs comfortably positioned before the hearth, the backs inlaid with contrasting wood in a leaf and pear motif, the shaped arms semi scrolled, and the seats upholstered in crimson. That design in the chairs had intrigued him, hadn’t it? Did he recall tracing the fruit and leaves with childish fingers?