Reckless by Hannah Howell

10

“Why canna we go? Jaime’s going,” Manus grumbled, and Rath nodded.

“We shall be very, very good,” Sibeal promised.

“I am sure ye will be, but ye must stay here,” Alexander said, his voice firm as he helped Ailis mount.

Ailis looked at her nephews and niece. They ached to get away from the confines of Rathmor, and she dearly wanted to grant them their wish, but she also knew that Alexander was right to make them stay behind. She questioned the sense of their own journey, but Alexander was determined. He said they would be married by a priest, and the day she had told him of her pregnancy, he had sent out riders to find one. After nearly a week of inquiries, they had finally located a priest, but the man had suffered a broken foot in a strange accident, and so they would have to travel to him. Ailis had a bad feeling about their journey, but Alexander was in no mood to heed her.

“I truly, truly, truly want to go, Aunt,” Sibeal said.

“Well, I fear I must say nay, loving. Dinna forget that there are people who would like to take ye away from your father.” She gave Barra a brief smile as he stepped up behind his children. “When the danger is finally past, I am sure he will let ye run quite wild.”

Sibeal took her father’s hand in hers and stared at her aunt. “ ‘Ware the chickens.”

“Pardon, dearling?” Ailis was slowly becoming used to the odd things Sibeal often said, but thought that this was particularly strange.

“Just be careful of the chickens.”

“Aye, I will.” Ailis looked at Alexander. “Shall we be on our way?”

The men gathered around the inner bailey were eyeing little Sibeal warily, and Ailis decided it was best to at least agree to whatever the child said. She did not like the attention brought to bear upon Sibeal’s unusual skill. Although she still had no idea what Sibeal had been talking about, Ailis did not want to keep discussing it out in the bailey with so many people listening. It troubled Ailis, however, when she waved farewell to the children as Alexander’s small party rode out of Rathmor. Sibeal had that intently solemn look on her sweet face that always made Ailis nervous. The child had been trying to warn her, had clearly had some premonition. Ailis swore to herself that she would be extra vigilant.

In the group that would ride the ten miles to the tiny village where the priest lay recovering from his injury were only six others beside herself. Ailis wondered if Alexander, Jaime, and Angus plus three men-at-arms was really enough protection. Sibeal’s warnings could be for simple things, but they could also be warnings of larger events with dire consequences. The group had been kept small to avoid drawing too much attention to themselves and to allow for a great mobility if they had to race back to the safety of Rathmor. It was a lot easier for seven people to flee and hide then for twenty or more to do so. Rathmor and the children also needed to be protected. Ailis understood and agreed with all of that, but she began to wish that she could convince Alexander to wait at Rathmor until the priest was healed and could come to them. The warning of a five-year-old child was not enough to accomplish that.

Alexander rode up beside her and watched her for a moment before saying, “Ye look worried.”

“We both have enemies.”

“I have enemies. Ye have your kinsmen and your betrothed.”

“Who will act very much like my enemies if they catch me. Aye, and especially if they guess that I am with child by ye. I shudder to think of how Donald will take such news, and I would rather not be with the man when he does learn of all this.”

“Is that why ye chose to wed me?”

“Oh, aye, and such a fine choice I was given,” she muttered, then nodded. “ ‘Twas certainly part of the reason I accepted your proposal.” She met his wry glance with a sweet smile, almost daring him to deny her talk of a proposal. “At least ye willna take your fury out on a wee bairn despite how quick ye are to blame the blameless.”

“Blameless, are ye?”

“Well? What have I done to ye save to be born a MacFarlane? And I challenge ye to show me how I can be faulted for that.” She knew he would ignore the challenge just as he had every time she had made it, but it was interesting to see a glint of humor in his eyes, for that was new. Unfortunately, it was also fleeting.

“What was Sibeal talking about when she said that ye must beware the chickens?” He could tell by the look on Ailis’s face that she understood why he had made that abrupt change of subject, but her insight was beginning to irritate him less and less. “Is the child afraid of chickens?”

“Nay, she wasna referring to some fear she has. She was warning me.”

“About chickens?”

Ailis heartily wished he had directed their conversation to something other than Sibeal’s parting words. She was not comfortable with the child’s premonitions. Alexander certainly was not comfortable with them and would question any implication that the child would have such things. It was not a discussion she wanted to get into. Her growing knowledge of Sibeal’s abilities would make her defend them, and that was certain to irritate Alexander.

“Aye, about chickens,” she grumbled.

“What could she possibly believe chickens could do to ye?”

“Chickens willna do anything to me.” She took a deep breath and readied herself to say things she knew would annoy him. “There will be something about chickens to warn me that a threat is at hand, ‘tis all. I will see them or hear them or it could be that someone will mention them. Why, it could be that the danger will strike whilst I am dining on chicken.”

“So, ye must be alert each time ye hear, see, smell, or even taste a chicken? Do I have that right?”

She ignored his sarcasm. “Aye, ‘tis something about a chicken I must pay heed to.”

“Since nearly every poor crofter betwixt here and London has a chicken or two, that seems a poor warning to me.”

“The lass is but five years old. She hasna learned to be exact yet. Also, I didna have time to carefully question her. I certainly didna want to talk about it much within the hearing of so many of your people.”

“Such caution is wasted. All of Rathmor is whispering about it.” Alexander shook his head, irritated at how quickly the tale had spread and how nothing he had tried to do had stilled it.

That was exactly what Ailis did not want, and she cursed. “Well, if we continue to be careful and to hide her moments of vision, the talk should soon ease. Soon people will, more or less, forget.”

“Do ye really believe that?”

“I hope that is what will happen. ‘Twould be best, safer, for little Sibeal, and that is what is important.”

“Then mayhaps ye should cease feeding the child’s fancies, cease treating these things as real.”

Ailis sighed and shook her head. She was able to muster some patience for Alexander’s attitude, for she understood it. She had also tried to argue away the truth. Her understanding was being stretched to its fullest limits, however. He could just be quiet and watch Sibeal, listen to the child, and then decide without the constant arguing. It was as if Alexander wanted to make her agree that it was all nonsense, too, and he should know that she was not about to do that.

“Ye keep pulling me into this argument,” she said. “I have no wish to participate in it. Sibeal is what she is. I canna explain it, and I willna deny it. If ye have trouble with it, then ye must sort that out by yourself.”

“Ye canna expect a man to react reasonably or with awe to a warning about chickens.”

“Nay, but she will get better. She will learn to explain about what she has seen, to give more precise warnings.”

“She will learn, eh? She will get herself killed is what she will do.”

There was just enough intensity in his voice to cause her to look at him in some surprise. Ailis could see that look of discomfort and even that hint of fear that had been there from the moment he had been told of Sibeal’s gift, but there was more. He was deeply concerned about Sibeal. Alexander might fight the truth for a long time yet, but he understood that many others did and would believe, and he understood what could happen.

“Nay, we must see that she learns what is needed to prevent that,” Ailis said. “And I think one shouldna be so quick to discard all that she says. Mayhaps she doesna have the sight; mayhaps she just sees and hears clues that we dinna. Mayhaps she just reads signs, all signs, far better than most people. Whatever she has, she hasna been wrong yet—not in sensing danger or in guessing the true nature of people.”

Alexander slowly nodded. That the child might have a true gift at reading signs and interpreting the odd overheard piece of information was something he could believe in. It was far more palatable then his niece having the sight, visions, dreams, or premonitions. It was also far less dangerous for them all. Alexander just wished he could believe it wholeheartedly, but he realized that he had already begun to grant credence to the talk of Sibeal’s gift.

“Do ye believe that we should be proceeding with some added caution, then?” he asked.

“We are proceeding with as much caution as we can. The only way we could be more cautious is to return to Rathmor and stay there.”

“Nay, we will go on to the priest.”

Ailis nodded but inwardly cursed Alexander’s stubborn nature. If he was being driven by love, she might have been less condemning, but he was prompted by duty and honor. There were times when she was sorely tempted to suggest that he put his honor and duty in a very dark and uncomfortable place, but she bit back the words. Both were good for a man to possess. She just wished that this time they were not all tangled up with her marriage.

She kept battling the temptation to refuse to marry him. It would be interesting to see what he would do. Her main fear was that she would never reach the man’s well-armored heart. She did not demand much, just some softness, some caring, yet there was only the occasional glimpse of such emotion in Alexander. Her own emotions were so tangled that she was not sure she could trust her own judgment about those occasional glimpses. Simple common sense kept her from retreating, though. She needed a husband, and for all his faults, the Laird of Rathmor would not beat her, would be a good father, and would provide well. After having faced the prospect of wedding Donald MacCordy, Ailis could see the worth of such small blessings.

“Alexander?” When he looked at her, Ailis took a deep breath and asked, “Once we have spoken vows before this priest, I shall be a MacDubh. Will that be enough to make ye cease blaming me for being a MacFarlane?”

“Ye will always have MacFarlane blood in your veins.”

He rode off to the head of his small band, and Ailis cursed. The man apparently took some perverse pleasure in hurting her, although she prayed that he did realize how successful he had been. She worked very hard at concealing her pain.

Then she frowned at his broad back as she silently repeated his response in her mind. He had not really answered her, she thought with a start. His reply had been a simple recitation of a fact. Alexander had never actually said whether or not he would blame her for crimes committed by people of that blood, just that she had such kinsmen. Ailis thought it over and over, but it still came out the same—he had not answered her. It infuriated her. She had to fight the temptation to ride up to him and keep asking the question until she got a real answer. What she would do, she decided, was to listen far more carefully and be less quick to hear some insult behind his words. Ailis suspected that she might discover yet another ploy to hold her at some distance.

 

“Well? Where is this priest?” Ailis asked as Alexander and Angus rode up to where she and the others waited on the outskirts of a little village.

“At the inn,” Alexander replied as he reined in beside her.

“The inn? ‘Tis a strange place for a priest to await a wedding party. Especially when there is a fine wee church close at hand.” She pointed to the little stone church on their right.

“The inn is where he hurt his foot. He fell as he left the place late one evening.”

“Oh, nay, nay. Are ye about to tell me that the man tipples?”

Alexander grimaced. “Tipples? He fairly bathes in the ale. However, he is sober enough to help us repeat our vows.”

Ailis sighed, then frowned as she realized the man-at-arms who had ridden off with Alexander had not returned. “And where is Red Ian? Was there some trouble in the village?”

“Nay. Red Ian stayed at the inn to try and increase Father MacNab’s sobriety. Come, dinna be so nervous.”

“I just have a bad feeling about all of this, Alexander. A very bad feeling,” she murmured as she looked around and fixed her gaze upon a small clutch of hens in the churchyard.

When Alexander saw where she was looking, he muttered a mild curse. “I would have thought ye too clever to be unsettled by a child’s warnings and bad dreams. Ye have let them turn ye into a coward,” he added, hoping to goad her out of her hesitation. He did not like being outside of Rathmor, either, and he wanted to get their business with the priest done as quickly as possible so that they could return to the safety of his keep.

“Caution is not cowardice,” she snapped and nudged her horse toward the village. “I just practice it differently. So, since there was no sign of the enemy, let us go and see this wine-soaked man of God.”

 

Malcolm MacCordy grunted as he dragged the unconscious MacDubh man into a back room of the inn. He dropped the burly redhead down next to the unconscious priest. It was an insult that he was made to perform such menial chores, but it had one advantage he could not ignore. There was less killing. Donald or any of the others would have cut the men’s throats. Malcolm was satisfied just to tie them up and ensure that they would stay quiet.

“Hurry on with it, Malcolm,” Donald grumbled as he strode into the room and scowled at the two men Malcolm was tying together. “Ye make extra work for yourself with these acts of mercy.”

“I have no wish to get the blood of a priest on my hands.” Malcolm donned the priestly garb he had stripped from the drunken Father MacNab.

“I hadna realized ye were such a religious man.”

“I am not, but I see no wisdom in courting excommunication or worse. Are the men all placed as we had planned?”

“Aye. The trap is set. It but awaits ye to take up your place and for the prey to step inside.”

As Malcolm pulled the cowl over his head to conceal his features, he inwardly sighed. Everything was going as planned. The spy they had insinuated into Rathmor had proved well worth the coin paid to him. They had all worked so hard since the MacDubhs had taken Ailis and the children, and now their hard work was to be rewarded. Malcolm knew he should be echoing the gloating of his kinsmen. He suspected that his character was weak enough that he would be if he was to share in some way in the rewards for this act of treachery. But there would be no benefit to him, so he could afford the hint of morality, even a small, silent act or two of rebellion. Malcolm would do as his kinsmen demanded, but he would pray that the trap they set would fail. He would pray that their traps failed and that there was very little blood spilled.

He would also pray for little Ailis, he decided. At best the day would end with her escape; at worst she would end up back in Donald MacCordy’s hands. If Donald meant even half of the threats he had made, Malcolm would not wish the fate of marriage to the man on any woman. From all he had heard, the Laird of Rathmor had become a cold, cynical man, but Ailis would not be brutalized. Malcolm could not say the same for the lass’s treatment at Donald’s hands. Donald was furious, and he would undoubtedly take that anger out on his bride—a bride who now carried the taint of an enemy’s touch.

Malcolm sat in a shadowy corner and bandaged up his foot to match the priest’s. He was just resting his foot on a stool when the arrival of MacDubh and Ailis was announced. The way his kinsmen scurried out of sight reminded Malcolm a little too much of vermin rushing to the shadows after being abruptly exposed to the light. Since he was about to help them gain a victory, it was an uncomfortable insight to have. He tugged the cowl over his face a little more and swore to himself that he would work harder to break free of his kinsmen before his hands became too stained with their crimes. In an attempt to steady his nerves, he took a long drink of ale as he waited for the confrontation with MacDubh and Ailis.

 

Ailis frowned at the low, thatched-roof inn when they reined in before it. She found the name of the place a matter of concern and almost said something to Alexander as he helped her dismount. One look into Alexander’s alluring blue eyes told her that she would be wise not to comment on the inn’s being called the Red Hen. Nor the unusual number of chickens clucking about the deeply rutted road, she mused as they walked into the inn and had to shoo away a fat squawking hen right in front of the door. Complete silence on the matter was far more than she could manage, however.

“There are an awful lot of chicken signs,” she murmured as he ducked through the low door and tugged her in after him. “Are ye certain this place is safe?”

“Ailis, ye must not allow yourself to be ruled by superstition.” Alexander scolded himself as much as he did her, for he was feeling uneasy. “There sits our priest. Angus, ye should watch the door.”

“Aye, but ye watch your back. I have an ill feeling about this.” Angus scowled toward the priest. “Where is Red Ian?”

“Probably just off relieving himself. We will move quickly, Angus. I dinna mean to linger here.”

With Jaime and the second man-at-arms right behind them, Alexander took Ailis over to the priest. She found the way the man was shrouded from view by his cowl and the shadows almost as troubling as the fact that a half-devoured roasted chicken cluttered the table he sat at. One sign she could have talked herself into ignoring, but the signs had accumulated to the point of making her want to turn around and run back to Rathmor. She wondered if Alexander had guessed that, for his grip upon her hand had tightened slightly.

“I hope ye have sobered some, Father MacNab,” Alexander said. “We want no delay in the service.”

“ ‘Twill soon be done.” Malcolm held out his hand toward Ailis. “Come closer, m’child. Let me see you.”

“There isna time for all these niceties,” Alexander protested, yet released Ailis’s hand so that she could step closer to the priest.

“Patience, my son.”

Even as Ailis put her hand into the cowled man’s, she knew it was a big mistake. She gave a soft cry of alarm and tried to yank her hand back, but it was too late. The man pulled her toward him so abruptly that she fell into his lap. He wrapped his arm around her chest, entrapping her arms at her side. The thought that he was very strong for a drunken priest was just passing through her mind when she felt the touch of cold steel across her throat. As the man urged her to lean against him more firmly, she looked at him out of the corner of her eye, and her heart skipped to a brief stop.

“Malcolm,” she whispered. “Nay!”

“Aye, my bonny lassie.” He watched MacDubh, Jaime, and the man-at-arms with them. “Dinna move, laddies. She has a very wee neck and soft skin. ‘Twill be very easy to cut her throat.”

Before any of her companions could move, the room filled up with MacCordy men. Ailis groaned as she saw Donald, Duncan, and William approach. She cried out when the MacDubh man-at-arms tried to prevent his laird from being attacked or taken prisoner, and Donald callously cut him down. Jaime and Alexander were unable to act, for they were quickly surrounded by MacCordy men. Even if Jaime had been armed and could have fought beside Alexander, there were simply too many swords pointed their way. It would be a hopeless fight. Ailis could see Angus’s body slumped in the doorway. Along with a touch of grief for the man, she felt the chill of hopelessness. There would be no one to warn Barra, thus there could be little or no chance for rescue, at least not in time to help them before they were trapped at Leargan.

“So, my betrothed, ye are returned to me.” Donald stepped forward and, grasping her by the wrist, yanked her out of Malcolm’s hold. ‘”Tis a shame ye havena come back as ye left,” he said in an almost friendly tone before he backhanded her across the face.

“Nay!” bellowed Jaime as Ailis nearly fell back into Malcolm’s lap again only to have Donald pull her back his way. “Leave her be—ye will hurt the bairn!” A half-dozen men clung to Jaime to hold him in place despite his efforts to reach Ailis.

Ailis stood and rubbed her cheek as she watched Donald’s men subdue Jaime and Alexander. Although Alexander said nothing, he had gone a deadly shade of white and his eyes were like blue flames as he stared at Donald with a fury that made Ailis shiver. Only briefly did she wonder if it was her fate or that of his child which stirred such emotion. She then looked at Donald and saw that same expression of anger. Several times she had complained of being used as a pawn. Looking from Donald to Alexander and back again, she truly felt like one, and it frightened her. She cried out in fear when Donald, who still held on to her, stepped up to Jaime and pressed his dagger to her friend’s throat.

“What say ye, ye great witless oaf?” Donald demanded.

“That Ailis MacFarlane carries my bairn,” Alexander answered before Jaime could.

Donald turned on Alexander with a snarl and would have buried his dagger deep into Alexander’s chest if Duncan had not grabbed him by the wrist. Ailis felt weak-kneed with relief. She had really thought that she was about to watch Alexander murdered.

Her concern for Alexander faded quickly when Duncan glared at her, his dagger still clutched tightly in his hand. She tried to step back, but there was no fleeing from his hold. It did not help to tell herself that Donald would not hurt her too badly, that he would gain nothing from her mutilation or her death. The look in Donald’s eyes told her that he was not thinking of his gains or his losses at the moment. To her utter astonishment, Malcolm yanked her free of Donald’s grasp and put himself between her and her enraged fiancé.

“Dinna touch the lass again,” Malcolm said, drawing his own dagger as he prepared to fight his cousin.

“Ye would stand between me and this whore?” Donald was stunned by this unexpected rebellion.

“Aye, I would stand between ye and harming a lass who is with child. There is a crime I will have no part of.”

Duncan grabbed his son Donald by the arm and pulled him away from Malcolm. “We only lose if ye hurt the lass. Aye, and if ye hurt the lass while she is in the condition she is now, ye could do her serious harm. Ye canna mean to kill the lass.”

“I mean to cut the filthy MacDubh seed from her womb,” Donald said in a soft, cold voice.

“Oh, sweet Mary,” Ailis whispered as she covered her stomach with her hands and watched Duncan have a hasty and muttered argument with his son. “Alexander,” she said, but his attention was on the quarreling MacCordys.

“He has no way to help ye.” Malcolm spared her a brief glance while maintaining a close watch upon his kinsmen, including a confused William. “He will soon be dead, lass, and we both ken it. However, as long as I am able, I will stand between ye and them.”

“Why?” She tried not to think of Alexander’s impending fate, but to put all of her attention upon the fate of her child, whom she had some chance of saving. Malcolm was a strange choice of savior, she mused.

“Lass, I may stoop to many things to serve my kinsmen. Aye, and I have. They are my only means of support. Not even the fear of losing that, however, will make me raise my hand against a lass who is with child. God’s teeth, I couldna raise my hand against a lass, bairn in her belly or nay. I have never been forced to this choice before, so I canna promise ye much. I shall try to keep your hulking brute alive so that he can defend ye when I canna.”

“Can I trust ye?” Ailis wished she could look the man right in the eye, but he watched his kinsmen as he talked to her.

“What choice do ye have?” He shrugged. “Your acceptance doesna matter. I can do as I must even without your trust.”

Ailis nodded and decided that silence was a good idea. She did not want to draw any added attention to herself. That would not help her to protect herself and thus her child, and it could make it impossible to gain any chance of escape. She looked at Alexander and wished she could guess what he was thinking or feeling. He was pale, but his beautiful face held little expression.

Alexander felt as if every muscle in his body was pulled too tightly, so hard and consistently did he pull against the two men holding him. He wanted to get his hands on Donald. The urge to put his hands around the man’s thick throat was so strong that it hurt, and for the first time since his feud with the MacCordy clan had begun, it was for reasons other than his father’s death or the theft of Leargan. Alexander knew that he wanted to kill Donald because the man had insulted, threatened, and struck Ailis. That he was helpless to defend her gnawed at his soul.

Malcolm MacCordy troubled him as well, but for different reasons. Alexander was grateful that the man would not allow Ailis to be hurt, but he had to wonder why Malcolm suddenly risked the meager benefits his kinsmen doled out to him. All the possible answers to that question did not make Alexander feel any more at ease. Ailis could use all the help she could get, and he was glad that she had the wit to welcome it no matter who offered it. It did, however, trouble him that the help was coming from Malcolm. He knew it was a bad time to suffer the pangs of jealousy, but that was what he felt when he saw the darkly handsome Malcolm standing where he should be—between Ailis and harm.

“So, ye couldna leave my woman be, could ye?” accused Donald as he stood before Alexander. “Just as your rutting swine of a brother did to Mairi, so ye did to Ailis.”

“I like to think that I did it a wee bit more skillfully,” Alexander drawled, and he grunted as Donald punched him in the side of the head.

A soft gasp of pain escaped Ailis when Donald first struck Alexander. She cried out when he struck Alexander again, then again. Only Malcolm imprisoning her in his arms stopped her from rushing over to try and help Alexander, thus putting herself in easy reach of Donald’s fury. She covered her eyes so that she did not have to watch as Donald beat his prisoner into unconsciousness. When she finally did peek it was to see Alexander sprawled on the ground and Donald giving him one last kick before turning his attention on a glaring, but firmly restrained Jaime.

“Dinna touch him,” she protested, knowing it was wrong to bring attention back to herself, but unable to bear holding quiet during yet another senseless beating. “He will do naught so long as ye hold me. He will even swear to it.”

“Aye,” agreed Malcolm. “Make him swear to it. After all, we dinna want to be seen as less brave than the MacDubhs.”

“What do ye mean by that, cousin?” Donald demanded.

“Well, ‘tis clear that the MacDubhs were willing to let this brute wander about unrestrained, if weaponless. If we canna do as much . . .” He shrugged, leaving the charge of cowardice unspoken, but clearly heard by all.

“I can brave anything some stinking MacDubh can,” snarled Donald. “Aye, and more.”

When Donald made Jaime swear to be peaceful, Ailis gave a huge sign of relief and slumped a little in Malcolm’s hold. She felt guilty over sparing Jaime a beating while Alexander lay bruised and bleeding on the floor, but quickly shook that feeling away. There was nothing she could do to help Alexander. He was an enemy of long standing. Jaime was considered as no more than her bondsman, and she could speak for him.

They made Jaime pick up Alexander, and then they started out of the inn. One of the MacCordy men roughly kicked Angus’s body out of the way. As Ailis was pulled through the doorway by Malcolm, she looked back at Angus, who was sprawled on his back beside the threshold. She nearly gasped aloud when he winked at her, and she found it hard to believe that she had actually seen it. But it gave her enough hope to be brave as she was dragged back to Leargan.