Highland Sword Read online

  By the time Archibald Drummond arrived at Perth, Wemys was gone. No one knew where he’d disappeared to or when he’d return. Morrigan never knew if her father told her grandparents what was done to her. Or what had caused their twelve-year-old granddaughter to run away in the middle of night. Or why was it that he was angry enough never to speak to them, or go back there, or say their names ever again.

  “He never fixed it. He couldn’t. How could he take away my pain? My fear? After he came back, his solution was for us to forget it. To pretend it never happened. He thought I’d heal with time. We moved. And we moved again. That’s how we ended up in Wurzburg.”

  Isabella caressed her back. She kissed her brow. “Six years I was married to your father, and he never told me. But I’m here for you now.”

  They stood together, wrapped in silence and each other’s arms, for a long time.

  “What do you want to happen now?” Isabella asked finally.

  Morrigan realized the heaviness was beginning to lift off her. The fist squeezing her heart was beginning to ease slightly. She knew Isabella understood that no one could make the past go away. No one could fix it, as Archibald had intended to do. Morrigan needed help, but the decision of what to do had to be hers.

  “I want Wemys to suffer.”

  “He is.”

  “I want him to die slowly and painfully.”

  “He will. There is no escape for him.”

  “I think I know why he wants to speak to me.”

  “Knowing that death is imminent triggers regrets in many people,” Isabella said, wiping the tears from under Morrigan’s eyes. “They want to be forgiven for the sins and the crimes they’ve committed.”

  “I won’t forgive him,” she said passionately. “Never. And I don’t care to hear why he did it. Or why he felt he had the right.”

  “Never think you need to see him or speak to him. Just say the words and I’ll have him moved back to the village.”

  Morrigan shook her head. “He’s dying. That’s enough.”

  “There must be something I can do for you.”

  There was. Morrigan had already thought about it. “I’d like you to make a deal for me.”

  “What kind of deal? With whom?”

  “With Wemys,” Morrigan told her. “I want you to tell him that I am not playing his game. Whatever is left to his miserable life, he can spend it alone, stewing in his fears of what lies ahead for him. I’ll not spend it at his bedside, listening to him drone on and on. He gets only one visit from me. One.”

  “Are you sure?” Isabella’s brow was furrowed with concern. “You don’t need to do this.”

  “But I do. I can’t let the Chattan brothers hang because that horrible man isn’t willing to reveal information he has,” Morrigan told her. “The deal I am asking you to make is that he give Mr. Grant the information he needs first. Those are my terms. I’ll not speak to him unless he helps.”

  “And if he agrees?” Isabella asked, still sounding unsure. “You’re willing to see him?”

  “I will,” Morrigan decided. “I’ll meet with him. But, devil take me, I’ll never forgive him.”

  On Hallow-Mass Eve …

  The Lady she sat in St. Swithin’s Chair,

  The dew of the night has damped her hair:

  Her cheek was pale—but resolved and high

  Was the word of her lip and the glance of her eye.

  She muttered the spell of Swithin bold,

  When his naked foot traced the midnight world,

  When he stopped the Hag as she rode the night,

  And bade her descend, and her promise plight.

  He that dare sit on St. Swithin’s Chair,

  When the Night-Hag wings the troubled air,

  Questions three, when he speaks the spell,

  He may ask, and she must tell.

  Sir Walter Scott

  from “St. Swithin’s Chair”

  CHAPTER 18

  AIDAN

  Aidan thought about Morrigan every day that he was gone. Over and over, he recalled their conversation, skirmishes, arguments, her rejections. No, not rejections … evasions. Memories lingered of the night in the library, the day she looked after the bruise on his eye in the stairwell, the moment when he nearly kissed her. He also could not forget how upset she’d been the last time they met at the top of the old tower … when he asked her to speak to Wemys.

  She told him she couldn’t. But at least she’d asked Isabella to speak to the scoundrel on her behalf. Some kind of agreement had been reached. He didn’t know the details. Still, the morning he and Sebastian left Dalmagavie, Aidan had the name he needed. He owed her and was grateful for what she’d done.

  Even as he continually mulled over all of that, Aidan tried to imagine what their relationship would be once he returned. Were they only friends? Had Morrigan thought about him at all while he was gone?

  For him, the nine days away felt like nine weeks. Nine months. But the weariness of travel lifted off Aidan’s shoulders the moment he laid eyes on her. No tam, no coat, she wore a dark green dress and a ribbon of the same color binding her hair in the back. The eve of Samhain was upon them, and the weather was unusually warm for the end of October.

  She was standing in front of the kirk. A crowd of young people, most of them children, were gathered there, listening to storytellers. Near the market cross, a huge bonfire crackled and blazed, sending sparks high into the black night sky.

  Samhain was the fire festival, celebrated here for as long as people lived in these Highlands. The long nights of winter had a connection with the world of the dead, and the power and light of the fires were needed to drive back the darkness. Two young lasses walked by him carrying their tumpshie lanterns—hollowed-out turnips with skull faces carved into them, illuminated from the inside with candles. On the hilltops and the craggy ridges of the mountains around Dalmigavie, a string of huge bonfires burned, visible for miles.

  To celebrate the end of the growing season, the village market cross was the center for crafting displays and games of skill and courting rituals for the young and unmarried.

  But Aidan had no time or interest in any of this. He had eyes only for Morrigan.

  He approached but said nothing to draw her attention. Two women by the fire were attempting to best each other in their storytelling performance. Morrigan’s hands were resting on the shoulders of Niall Campbell’s nieces. Aidan had met the children before.

  One of the women was spinning slowly, crying out in a singsong voice. “Samhain is the night of the Great Sabbat for the witches. But tell no one, do ye hear?”

  Nervous giggles could be heard from their audience, and Aidan moved closer to them. He halted a step or two away, where he could see and hear her and yet not intrude.

  “On this night, the witches of the wood gather to celebrate their auld ways and cast their spells.”

  A smile stretched across Morrigan’s face as the girls pushed closer against her skirts, trying to get away from the women weaving through the audience and pretending to reach for them.

  “Look to the sky.”

  All eyes turned upward to where the storyteller was pointing.

  “They’re flying through the air.”

  “Cover yer head, bairnies!”

  “Look to the fields. Did ye see her?”

  “There she goes! Quick as the wind, riding a black cat.”

  The women went back and forth, calling out with cries and whispers. The children gasped every time something else was evoked.

  “A witch on a raven. There, by the kirk tower. Did ye see her?”

  Heads bobbed.

  Another woman strode in from the shadows, and the storytellers backed away with a cowering bow to her. Her hair was grey, and she wore a simple black robe. Her eyes flashed in the light of the torches and the fire.

  “I am a MacDonald of Glen Coe, we of the tragic folk. Have ye heard? We have a witch who abides in the cave by the twisted oak on the bank
s of our woeful river.”

  Murmurs of awe rippled through the children.

  “What’s her name?” Catriona wanted to know, feeling brave and inching away from the safety of Morrigan’s arm.

  “Sidiethe.” She pointed a long, bony finger at the five-year-old. “Ye see her only when the sun has dipped behind the wooded hill or just ’afore the break of day. A water witch, she is, with skin so fair and locks of flaming red.”

  Briana tugged on her sister’s red hair and giggled.

  “Sidiethe wears a dress so white, it seems to glow and a cape the color of midnight.”

  The child turned to Morrigan. “I want a white dress and a cape like that.”

  She laughed and whispered something in her ear that made Catriona clap her hands.

  The woman glided along the edge of the audience, her voice rising in pitch. “Our witch sits on the banks of our tumbling river, her long hair trailing in the passing waters, singing her mournful songs.”

  “I like to sing,” Catriona shouted boldly.

  The storyteller turned and cut through the crowd to her. Suddenly, she didn’t seem like an old storyteller, but the witch herself.

  “Do ye ever hear weeping out yer window in the night?”

  The child backed up and hid her face in Morrigan’s skirt.

  “Sidiethe weeps by the waters ’afore someone dies. The night ’afore the great death at Glen Coe, the MacDonald clan chief heard her. He made his way to the icy river. There Sidiethe crouched, washing a bloody scarf, moaning and crying her heart out.”

  The storyteller’s gaze was fixed on a far-off hill where a fire blazed. She wrapped her arms tightly around her body.

  “When the MacDonald blinked his eye, she was gone. But her weeping echoed off the hills and down the glen.”

  “Did someone die?” a child asked, her voice trembling.

  “Aye,” the storyteller replied. “I’ll tell you all. It started with a letter and a far-off king…”

  Aidan was familiar with the actual history. South of Fort William, the Massacre of Glencoe took place about hundred thirty years ago. After the end of a three-year Jacobite uprising, more than thirty people were killed by forces of the earl of Argyll, who was angry that the MacDonalds of Glen Coe had not been prompt in pledging allegiance with him to the new British monarch.

  Morrigan took the girls’ hands and turned to lead them away. The story had suddenly become too serious for their young ears. Aidan decided that Morrigan probably knew the history too. The threesome nearly bumped into him.

  “Mr. Grant.” Morrigan stopped short, startled.

  “Miss Drummond.”

  The smile on her face was the welcome Aidan had hoped for. She seemed happy and carefree and radiant. They exchanged a bow and curtsy.

  “When did you get back?”

  “This afternoon.”

  “Was your trip successful?”

  He didn’t want to talk about the chase that had taken him to Aberdeen, where it ended in futility. Not now. He and Sebastian followed the trail of government agent Wemys had identified all the way to the port town, only to find out that he’d boarded a vessel for the Cape colony a fortnight earlier. So Aidan was back to where he started.

  Right now, he only wanted the smile to remain on Morrigan’s face. He definitely didn’t want her to think that her attempt to help him had come to nothing.

  “It was as expected,” he answered finally.

  “How is your brother?”

  “I tried to get rid of him on our travels. Unfortunately, the man couldn’t be cast off, no matter how hard I tried. He’s…” Aidan glanced around at the boisterous groups of people moving hither and yon. “Here somewhere. We may find him telling stories about us to his own audience of rapt listeners.”

  “That would certainly be too frightening for small ears.” She bit her bottom lip and nodded toward the two girls, who were listening to every word he said.

  “Miss Briana. Miss Catriona.” He bowed with a flourish to the children. “How lovely to see you. Is this your first Samhain celebration in the Highlands?”

  The girls curtsied and nodded, beaming up at him.

  “What have you seen so far?”

  “The storytellers. But I didn’t really like that one.” Catriona pointed to the woman from Glen Coe.

  “I heard some of what she was saying. I’ll need to bolt my door and shutter my window tonight.” He made a face, and the little girl nodded soberly.

  “Morrigan is watching us while our mother walks with Mr. Gordon to get her fortune from a woman teller,” the older child announced.

  This was news to the little one.

  “Fort … teller?” Catriona asked. “What fort?”

  “Not fort,” Briana responded, swinging around the front of Morrigan and looking at her sister as if she were a total embarrassment. She motioned with her arm. “Fortune. Teller. There is a fortune teller over by the kirk.”

  “What does he do?” she persisted, craning her neck toward the church.

  “He gives her money.” Hand on hip, the seven-year-old leaned into the face of her sister and drawled the word. “Fortune?”

  Morrigan cocked an eyebrow at Aidan. These two took what they heard quite literally. The girls tugged on her hand, and the group started walking.

  “May I join you?”

  Morrigan’s nod was seconded by “Yes!” from each of the girls. Delighted, he fell in beside them. Aidan’s gaze lingered on Morrigan’s face as she laughed at something one of them whispered to her. She was happy, serene, obviously at home with these two. All her reserve was gone. She was quite different from the woman he usually saw—tense, alert, constantly on her guard.

  Aidan realized this was the first time he was witnessing a maternal side to her.

  Images immediately formed in his mind, adding to recent thoughts of what his life might be like with Morrigan beside him. While he was traveling, he’d found himself pondering that topic over and over. One thing he was sure of, whatever he’d imagined before as an ideal wife and partner had changed.

  The raised voices of the children snapped his attention back to the present. They were discussing where they should go next. Each of them appeared to be passionate and determined to have their way.

  “Bonfire!”

  “Apples!”

  “Bonfire!” Catriona tugged to the right.

  “Apples!” Briana wished to go left.

  “We have a man of the law with us,” Morrigan interjected. “Perhaps Mr. Grant can settle this.”

  Two bright-eyed lasses were looking up at him expectantly. Equally strong-willed, one of them was bound to be disappointed if she didn’t get her way.

  “Very well,” he said sternly. “Present your cases.”

  They stared at him as if he were speaking in a foreign tongue.

  “You might consider keeping their ages in mind,” Morrigan reminded him gently.

  He got down on one knee and addressed Briana first. “Would you like to tell me why we should go to apple … apple…”

  “Apple dooking,” Morrigan clarified for him.

  “Of course. How could I forget? Why should we go there first, rather than second?” he asked.

  “Because I’m hungry for an apple now.”

  How could he refuse a child this adorable? The sad, serious face. The deep sigh. Quite dramatic. One would think her life depended on her having an apple at this very moment.

  “A very reasonable request. Though we must consider whether dunking our heads into a barrel of water for an apple is a good first choice of activities.” Still on his knee, he turned to Catriona. “And why do you think we should go to the bonfire first and not second?”

  “Because it’s warm now. It’ll be cold later.”

  “So we should go the bonfire while it’s warm?” He knew a troublesome witness when he saw one.

  Catriona put her hand to her mouth and whispered, “We need to go now, or we won’t see them.”


  He suddenly realized where this might be going, but he had to ask. “See whom?”

  Catriona lifted her head and spoke to Morrigan. “You don’t get naked when it gets cold, do you?”

  “I … what?” Morrigan sputtered, seemingly lost for words.

  Aidan looked up as well, interested in her answer. He was quite happy he’d followed this line of questioning.

  “Auld Jean says this is the night when women take off their clothes and dance naked around the bonfire.” She lowered her voice and whispered to Aidan, “You can’t dance with her, though.”

  “No?” He put on his most disheartened look.

  Catriona shook her head. “But if we go now, you can watch from the trees. Like Tam o Shambler.”

  God bless Robbie Burns, Aidan thought, slowly pushing to his feet. He was definitely in favor of going to the bonfire first. “Clearly, I’m bound for that line of trees. What do you say, Miss Grant?”

  Morrigan had nothing to say, but the glare he was receiving said plenty.

  No final decision by him needed to be made, however, for at that moment, the children shrieked with pleasure.

  “Look, Old Napoleon is here.” Catriona broke free.

  “Fetch your weapon,” the older girl shouted, running after her sister.

  He glanced at Morrigan and saw her glare had softened into a smile.

  Old Napoleon, the object of the girls’ excitement, turned out to be their Uncle Niall, who was coming across the market square with Maisie. Campbell caught and lifted them, one in each arm, and their giggles rang out.

  “It’s an old game. They play Waterloo,” Morrigan explained, coming to stand beside him. “Niall is Old Napoleon, and the girls get to kill him. Of course he comes back to life in time for the next battle.”

  “Leave it to the former lieutenant to play war games with children.”

  “And what kind of game will you play with your children?” she teased, her eyes dancing mischievously.

  “I’ll read to them.”

  “I agree books are excellent, but that won’t fill all their free time.”