A Highlander's Temptation Page 5

  “Ah, well….” The shipmaster rubbed the back of his neck. “That’s a fine puppy for sure. Mina’s her name. But she isn’t to be had for any coin.” He looked uncomfortable, slid a sympathetic glance at Arabella. “She’s a sleeve dog I’m to deliver to one of the Manx princesses. I picked her up in Flanders and there’d be hell to pay if I arrive in Man without her.”

  “Oh.” Arabella bit back her disappointment.

  Her father assumed his most belligerent look. “I’ll make it worth your trouble, Arneborg. What say you to double what Manx is offering?”

  Arabella caught her breath. “Father!”

  He only grinned, sure of his triumph.

  “I gave my word, sir.” Arnkel Arneborg turned to gaze at his ship. “But I know the breeder in Flanders. I can pick up another puppy next time I’m there. For the now, perhaps Lady Arabella will care for Mina during the voyage?”

  Arabella’s heart sank.

  She didn’t want another dog. She wanted this one.

  She also knew that honor was the one thing no MacKenzie would argue against.

  A word given was sacred.

  “My lady?” The shipmaster was looking at her, awaiting her answer. “You know my own cabin has been prepared for you. It’s not large, but there’s more than enough room for yourself and Mina.”

  Arabella shifted her feet.

  Her stomach was rolling again and the throbbing in her temples was worse than ever. The little dog—Mina—was still watching her. She could feel her piercing stare even without looking.

  “Well?” Arnkel Arneborg persisted.

  Despair wrapped around her, squeezing hard and tight.

  Getting attached to Mina would only make it harder to let her go. But she could see the puppy’s tail wagging through the slats of the crate. She also saw the excitement in Mina’s eyes, the quick flashes of her tiny pink tongue.

  Arabella’s father glanced at her, one brow arcing.

  When she didn’t answer, he frowned and returned his attention to the shipmaster.

  “We expected you weeks ago.” His gaze followed Arnkel’s to the Merry Dancer. The high-sided cog with its fore-and-aft-castles looked large and bulky riding anchor so close to the sleek, low-slung galleys.

  Another chill slid down Arabella’s spine.

  Now that the time was nigh, she wasn’t sure it was a good idea to spend a settle-in night on the ship before they left Kyleakin in the morning.

  Her father slid an arm around her, drawing her close. “Your cog looks sound.” He eyed the other man. “I trust you didn’t run into difficulties?”

  “Only great basking sharks!” Arneborg laughed. “Leaping clean out of the water they were, scores of them. Any seaman will tell you that they only do that when a fierce storm is brewing. So-o-o”—he looked around, drawing nods of agreement from passersby—“we changed course and lost a few days in the offing.”

  Arabella glanced at her father.

  He was nodding. Sagely, as if he agreed with every word.

  Yet she knew he’d never heard the like.

  Arnkel Arneborg hooked his thumbs in his belt. “Last time I didn’t heed jumping baskers we sailed into a storm so wicked the wind blew off my beard!” he boasted, rocking back on his heels. “Better to make port a few days late than risk life and limb, eh?”

  Arabella saw her father conceal a grimace.

  She knew from experience that his patience only went so far.

  Quickly, before he could change his mind about letting her go—or before the shipmaster could be persuaded to deny her passage—she reached inside her cloak and retrieved a small leather satchel.

  If she wasn’t as strong and daring as she’d hoped, she had come prepared.

  “See here!” She untied the bag’s strings to retrieve a square of well-stitched linen. “Should anything happen onboard, I will be of use to you.” She thrust the patch in the shipmaster’s hands, pride in her work making her bold. “You can see how fine I ply my needle. So, too, can I mend flesh if such needs arise.”

  She lifted her chin, not stopping now. “I’m also well versed in medicinal herbing.” She indicated her pouch, stuffed with cures and remedies. “My mother is a skilled healer and I’ve worked at her side since I was young.”

  “By thunder!” Arneborg peered at the cloth, then her. “Did I not want to frighten the good folk of this village I’d raise my sword to you. As is”—he turned to her father—“I’ll commend you on having a fine daughter! Not only is she a woman of beauty and spirit, but she’s of a practical mind.”

  Her father’s eyes darkened. “She is… everything.”

  Arabella felt his arm tighten around her. His words caught in her throat.

  “That I know!” Returning the linen to her, the shipmaster grasped her father’s hands with both of his. “I’ll look after her as if she were my own, never you worry,” he assured, pumping hard. “See her on board whenever you’re ready.”

  Stepping back, he planted his hands on his hips. “I’ve a hold full of French bay salt to see unloaded.” He winked. “Barrels for yourself, Dunvegan, and even old Dunakin if he’s still got the breath in him to pay me!”

  And then he was gone, striding off down the quay as quickly as he’d appeared.

  Arabella stared after him, some of her earlier exhilaration returning.

  Her adventure was about to begin. Already, she’d taken her farewells at Eilean Creag, bidding her mother and others to stay behind when she’d left with her father for Kyleakin.

  Now he, too, would be leaving her.

  He’d give her into the care of twelve MacKenzie stalwarts and a sea captain that he knew well but that she’d never seen in her life.

  Arabella smoothed her cloak and tried to look brave. “Did he truly say I can have his cabin?”

  “He said it’d been prepared for you.” Her father shot a glance at the man’s retreating back. “What he should have said is that I’ve bought his cabin for you. Truth be told”—he threw back his plaid and patted the money pouch at his hip—“after all the silver I poured o’er his palm he ought to have strewn the cabin’s floor with rose petals and painted the walls with liquid gold.”

  Arabella’s heart filled on seeing her father’s black scowl return.

  Faith, but she’d miss him!

  But first she had a mission… a secret one.

  And she could only see it accomplished if she reached the Seal Isles.

  So she cleared her throat, eager to be on her way. “I have one question before you go,” she began, not missing how his brows flew together on hearing her dismissal. “Are you sure the MacLeans of Doon know I’ll be coming?”

  Her father snorted. “You ask?”

  Snatching up her travel bag, he signaled to her guards to fetch it and her coffer chests. They’d agreed he wouldn’t go with her onboard.

  As soon as the men gathered her goods and set off for the Merry Dancer, he turned to her, placing his hands on her shoulders.

  “To be sure, the MacLeans know.” He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. “You ken their cailleach, old Devorgilla, is likely peering at us even now! That one doesn’t miss anything. She sees the path of every raindrop to fall from a Highland leaf.”

  “But—”

  “But is a word MacKenzies don’t speak.” He crushed her to him, letting his fierce hug say the words she knew would break him if spoken aloud. “Devorgilla will ensure the MacLeans know you’re on the way. Just you return safe in the spring….”

  “I will!” Arabella drew back to kiss his cheek, her world spinning when she found it damp as her own. His dark blue eyes, so like hers, glittering with the same brightness. “Oh, Father! I love you so—”

  But like the shipmaster, he, too, was suddenly gone. Only the four guardsmen who’d stayed behind to escort her onto the Merry Dancer remained.

  She hoped that Devorgilla really did know she meant to call at Doon on her way south.

  Such magic wasn’t
easy to believe.

  Not because it didn’t happen.

  She’d seen enough proof of the crone’s powers to never doubt her. But this time the magic would involve her. She was the one MacKenzie not born under a charmed star.

  And that changed everything.

  Unless—she flashed one last look at Dunakin’s empty tower windows—she took matters into her own hands.

  Which was exactly what she meant to do.

  “She saw him!” Devorgilla of Doon, the most far-famed cailleach in all the land, rubbed her hands together in satisfaction. Scudding mists swirled around her, dark and mysterious. Night wind, thick with damp and the tang of the sea, whistled past her. And a bright full moon rode high above the towering cliffs, its silvery light giving the strand an eerie, luminous glow.

  Almost as if the Auld Ones were smiling.

  As they should be.

  She served them well.

  “Great is our magic,” she cackled, looking down at the little red dog fox standing so quietly beside her at the rock pool.

  The fox didn’t blink.

  Devorgilla laughed with glee, not bothered by his solemn stare.

  “A mere wriggle of these fingers”—she held out her hand and admired each knotty-knuckled digit—“and there he was in Dunakin’s tower window!”

  Her old bones warmed with the glory of it.

  Her pulse quickened.

  Of all the tidal pools dotting the narrow stretch of beach beneath Doon’s cliffs, she’d chosen rightly. Its smooth surface understood her need, allowing her to peer into its secrets, conjuring as she wished. The most powerful spelling words she could’ve mumbled wouldn’t have mattered if the water wasn’t obliging.

  Even a newt-brain knew that.

  Her own knowledge was vast.

  Throughout the land, paeans were sung of her skills. Those who loved her threw open their doors in welcome. Anyone fool enough to shun her was wise to hide in shadow, quaking in their fear.

  Devorgilla patted her grizzled hair, pleased with her reputation.

  Soon, this very night, she’d demonstrate that greatness.

  But first she’d celebrate having shown the doubtful one a glimpse of her future.

  So she took a small silver flask from her belt and treated herself to a sip of her own prized heather ale. Then, after wiping her mouth with the back of her gnarled hand, she rummaged in her skirts until she found a little bag filled with twists of dried meat.

  From this she selected a particularly large strip and handed it to the fox.

  He, too, played a role in her success and deserved his due reward.

  “Did you see her eyes widen?” She relived the moment, victory still sweet. “How her breath caught as she stared up at him?”

  Somerled, her pet fox and helpmate, continued to eat in silence.

  He didn’t seem to appreciate their accomplishment.

  With a disdain worthy of the most high-browed noble, he ignored the two keeps that were only now beginning to fade from the dark, mirrorlike surface of the tide pool. Instead, he turned a deliberate gaze on the steep stone steps carved into the cliff face.

  As he’d done again and again, ever since they’d picked their way down the harrowing path with its many heart-stopping twists and plunges.

  Indeed, if she hadn’t nudged him with her black-booted foot, he might have missed the grand moment when she’d caused the young warrior’s silhouette to disappear from his own window and reappear at Dunakin.

  And even then—as soon as the wonder happened—a single swish of the fox’s plush, white-tipped tail was the only indication he’d noticed.

  The cliff path fascinated him more.

  A fixation that annoyed Devorgilla until he returned his attention to her and she saw the worried look clouding his deep golden eyes.

  Understanding, she laughed. Then she hitched up her skirts, displaying ankles surprisingly well-turned for someone of her untold years.

  “These feet are as sure as your own, my little friend. Even if I hobble, I made it down yon slippery track. The climb back up will be no bother! Now come”—she dropped her skirts and began peering along the strand—“help me find a curl of mist thick enough for our purpose.”

  At once, Somerled dipped his paw into the rock pool, rippling the surface until the fading outlines of the two keeps vanished completely. The deed done, he lifted his foot and shook off the water droplets.

  They fell to the sand, cold sparkles lit by moonglow and—Devorgilla beamed—caught up by a sudden gust of wind and turned into a lovely, whirling twist of blue-white haze.

  “O-o-oh!” Devorgilla trilled her approval.

  Somerled nodded acknowledgment.

  Then, as the mist pulsed and thickened, she wiggled her fingers again, this time procuring a length of thin, knotted rope.

  Thrusting her hands into the spinning mist, she caressed each of the four knots—one for each direction of the wind—before untying two… the knots representing the north and the west, the direction from which a certain merchant cog would approach Doon.

  “North wind, so cold and mighty,” she chanted, lifting her voice as the mist whirled even faster, “carry this fog to where I will it. West wind, so strong and honored, keep it there so long as needed. Old Ones, you who rule all days that have passed and all those yet to come,”—the cording vanished from her hands—“hear my plea and bless what has begun.”

  The spell released, she took a deep breath.

  No longer a tight, fast-spinning vortex, the mist now shimmered and grew, spreading and thickening as it drifted seaward, moving slowly toward the horizon.

  There, she knew, the creamy white fog would remain until she recalled it.

  An impassable barrier, dense and impenetrable, its eastern edges shaded in black.

  Devorgilla’s eyes flew wide.

  She clapped a hand to her breast, her jaw dropping.

  But there could be no mistake.

  Even Somerled saw the unholy blackness. His hackles on end, the little fox ran to the water’s edge, snarling. Not that his growls and agitation or Devorgilla’s own dread could change what was done.

  They could only look on in horror, watching as the blackness spread.

  A terrible darkness such as Devorgilla had never seen.

  And that she knew meant grave danger.

  All her earlier elation evaporated. Her mouth went dry and her stomach dropped.

  Unknown evil was almost impossible to challenge.

  Shuddering, she grabbed up her skirts again and hastened for the cliff path, leaving Somerled to trot after her. If they hurried, they might be able to avert disaster.

  So much was at stake.

  Perhaps even Lady Arabella’s life.

  Chapter Four

  You should be in your cabin, my lady.”

  The MacKenzie guardsman gave Arabella a look that said he wasn’t making pleasantries. And even if his eyes held concern rather than fierceness, she recognized the iron will her father prized in those who served him.

  “Not just yet.” She tried a smile.

  The guardsman’s face didn’t crack. “I don’t like these seas.” He glanced at the thick drift of mist just beginning to swirl around them. “If you ask me, it’s worsening faster than a wink.”

  She hadn’t asked him, but she refrained from saying so.

  She understood why he didn’t want her on deck. The endless blue-green of the Hebridean Sea had turned murky and dark, the waters churning and white-capped. Nor did she need anyone to tell her that the tides ran with ever increasing speed. She could taste the salt tang on her tongue and inhaled it with each breath. Almost as if the sea was claiming the air. And that wasn’t all. The winds no longer simply blew but shrieked through the rigging, the wildest gusts they’d seen since leaving Kyleakin a sennight before.

  Seven days of calm, barely rippled water. Only an oddly persistent bank of fog had broken the monotony.

  This was different.

&nb
sp; And the cold, flying spray and heavy swells excited her.

  The guardsman narrowed his eyes as if he knew. “This is no place for you.”

  When he took a step toward her, she flashed a glance at her aft-castle cabin with its sturdy door and security. A tiny coal-burning brazier waited within, spending warmth, and a small table and chair and a snug berth lent an air of coziness. She’d even taken a few curls of cinnamon bark and dried heather from her herb pouch, using them to scent the air.

  But at the moment, such comfort didn’t interest her.

  Looking away from the cabin, she eyed the tossing seas. Huge breaking seas that tested her mettle, as did the darkening sky. Never had she seen such heavens. Seething black clouds blotted the moon and stars, leaving only angry, rumbling masses that boiled like an upturned cauldron.

  Arabella shivered.

  But beneath that one wee quiver, her heart soared. Frightening or not, the roll of the ship exhilarated her. The leaping waves were a delight, absolutely fascinating. And the racing wind, so sharp and brisk, made her feel more alive than ever before.

  Just days ago she might have hidden in her cabin’s bunk, the covers to her chin, and curled into a cold ball of fear and dread.

  Now…

  She tossed back her hair. “I came on deck to fetch a meat bone for Mina,” she lied. The little dog was asleep in her padded crate, her belly filled with tidbits and broth. “As soon as—”

  “I’ll see to the dog bone.” The guardsman dismissed her excuse.

  She started to argue, but just then a plume of spray arced over the side, wetting them both. An irresistible urge to laugh welled inside her. She burned to give into it and savor the night’s fury. Revel in the icy prickles of the sea misting her skin. Instead, she blinked and lifted a hand to slick the damp from her face.

  Her father’s man was only doing his duty.

  A bit longer and she’d return to Mina.

  Even so, she shifted her feet on the slick deck, made sure she was standing ramrod straight.

  The guardsman came closer. “See here, lady. Your father would know you safe.”