The Chieftain (2 page)

Ilysa’s vision went dark, and she gripped the edge of the table to keep from falling. Concentrating to keep her feet under
her, she sidestepped along the table. When she reached the end of it, she turned around and half fell onto the bench that
was beside it against the wall.

From the long silence that followed Connor’s announcement, the men were as surprised as she was.

“We prodded the bull by taking Trotternish Castle. Alastair MacLeod could strike back at us at any time,” Connor said. “The
sooner I make a marriage alliance, the better.”

Soon?
Ilysa took deep breaths trying to calm herself. What was wrong with her? She had known Connor would wed eventually.

“God knows, ye need a woman,” Alex said. “How long has it been?”

When the others began making ribald remarks, Ilysa knew they had forgotten her completely and was grateful for it. Connor’s
apparent celibacy since becoming chieftain had been the subject of a good deal of speculation and gossip. The men of the castle
seemed almost as amazed by the chieftain’s failure to take any lass to his bed as the women were disappointed.

The distance to the door suddenly seemed too far. As soon as Ilysa could trust herself to walk, she forced herself to get
to her feet. She crossed the floor with her head down and bit her lip hard to keep from weeping.

Connor let them have their laugh though he had little humor for this particular subject. He took a long drink of his whiskey.
By the saints, he needed a woman.

His father and grandfather were great warriors, but the strife they caused with all their women had weakened the clan. His
grandfather’s six sons by six different women had all hated each other. After the murder and mayhem among them, only two remained
alive. Connor’s own father’s philandering had caused another round of turmoil.

Connor was determined not to follow in their footsteps in that respect. During his years in France and before, he had taken
pleasure in the company of women, as young warriors will. But when he returned to find his father and brother dead, everything
changed. He could never again do as he pleased. As chieftain, his every decision had consequences for the clan.

He could afford no missteps. Connor’s half uncle, who was called Hugh Dubh, Black Hugh, for his black heart, had nearly destroyed
the clan before Connor took the chieftainship from him. Thanks to the help of the three men sitting with Connor now, the clan
had recovered much of its strength. Relying on their swords and their wits, they had taken control of the clan’s castles and
secured most of their lands. All that remained was to reclaim the Trotternish Peninsula.

Connor would not destroy all he had built by leaving a legacy of strife and sorrow as his father and grandfather had done.
He was determined to wed only once, provided he was not widowed, and to have no children except with his wife.

“This decision of who I marry is vital to the clan’s future,” Connor said when he grew tired of his friends’ jests about his
celibacy. “We must weigh the benefits and drawbacks of each possible alliance.”

“The best match would be a daughter of the MacLeod chieftain,” Ian said. “Remember, the oldest method of subduing an enemy
is through the marriage bond.”

“And it has the distinct advantage of requiring the sacrifice of only one man,” Alex said with a twinkle in his eye.

“Alastair MacLeod will never agree to settle matters between our clans without blood,” Connor said. “Besides, his daughters
are too young.”

“The MacLeod waited even longer than you to wed,” Ian said. “Ach, he must have been well over forty.”

That was unusual, indeed. The attempt on Connor’s life had been a harsh reminder of his duty to produce heirs and made him
decide he could wait no longer to wed. In the violent world they lived in, it was important for a chieftain to have many children,
both to be assured of an heir and to have children to make marriage alliances for the clan. In fact, it was common for chieftains
to “put aside” wives who could not bear children—or who could no longer do so. Connor’s father and grandfather had not bothered
using that excuse.

“There are plenty of other chieftains with marriageable daughters,” Ian said. “The upcoming gathering is the perfect opportunity.”

So many chieftains and their sons had died in the Battle of Flodden that there was an abundance of chieftains’ daughters in
need of highborn husbands. Connor had avoided gatherings up until now for that very reason. But the time was ripe, and the
chieftains would all be at this gathering, except for the few who were still in the rebellion. The Campbell chieftain, as
the king’s Lieutenant of the Isles, had summoned them to re-pledge their loyalty.

“No matter which chieftain’s daughter I wed, I risk offending half a dozen other chieftains.” Connor rubbed his forehead.
If he had five or six siblings, he could spread alliances out like the Campbells did, marrying into clans all across the Western
Isles.

“Shaggy Maclean said he’d make a gift of that sweet galley we stole from him if ye wed one of his daughters,” Ian said, stifling
a smile.

“I don’t know that I’d want a father-in-law who is half mad and threw us in his dungeon,” Alex said. “Besides, we already
have his boat.”

“Shaggy is mad and dangerous, which is precisely the reason I’d prefer to have him fighting on our side,” Connor said, taking
the suggestion seriously. It made him uneasy that the Maclean chieftain had joined forces with Alastair MacLeod as of late.
“If Shaggy had not gotten himself on the wrong side of the Campbells, his clan would be a good choice for the alliance.”

“Ye ought to consider the qualities of the lass as well as her clan,” Duncan said. “She’ll be the mother of your children.”

“We’re proof that ye can both please yourself and serve the clan with your marriage,” Ian said.

Connor had seen these three, his closest companions, find happiness beyond all reason in their marriages. Despite their jesting,
he knew they wanted him to have a love match as well.

But Connor neither hoped for nor wanted that for himself. He had seen the consequences of an unruly, all-consuming passion
and would never trust it. Instead, he intended to have a smooth, cordial partnership with a lass whose father had enough warriors
to defeat the MacLeods.

“Pick a pretty lass who’s no afraid to argue with ye,” Alex said and winked. “A man needs a wife who stirs his blood.”

Any lass who was breathing could stir Connor’s blood. After so long without, there was not a single one he did not find overwhelmingly
appealing. He was like a man dying of thirst at sea, surrounded by water he could not drink.

“Frankly, lads, ye haven’t been much help,” Connor said, getting to his feet.

“Ask Teàrlag,” Alex said, referring to the old seer as he and Ian drifted toward the door. “She’ll give ye good advice, even
if it makes no sense at the time.”

Connor needed to get out of this room, but he stayed behind because he sensed that Duncan wished to speak with him. His head
had begun pounding the moment he entered it. Like his father and grandfather before him, Connor had used this room as his
private chamber. Even after he had stripped it of its ornate furnishings, he had felt his father’s presence too keenly—stifling
and choking him.

At his sister’s insistence, the ornate furniture was back. The chamber was hers and Duncan’s now that the two were wed and
Connor had made Duncan keeper of this castle.

Connor hobbled over to look out the arrow-slit window. As his gaze traveled along the shore, he paused at the place where
the warrior had carried his mother’s body ashore all those years ago. Whenever he remembered that bleak day of his childhood,
he thought of his brother Ragnall, who would have made a better chieftain.

But Ragnall, like his father, was dead, so the task fell to him.

“I’m honored that you’ve entrusted Dunscaith Castle to me,” Duncan said.

“There are too many ghosts for me here,” Connor said, though his personal reasons played no part in his decision. “I know
ye will keep this castle and the surrounding lands safe for our clan.”

“Have ye decided who will replace me as captain of your guard?” Duncan asked.

“I’ll never find a captain who is as loyal or as fierce a warrior as you,” Connor said, turning to grip his friend’s shoulder.
“But I’ll pick a man from among our warriors once I reach Trotternish Castle.”

“Choosing the wrong wife could make things unpleasant for ye.” Duncan paused. “But choosing the wrong captain could get ye
killed.”

A
sense of freedom washed over Connor as he sailed away from Dunscaith Castle. He would have lived the rest of his life there
if that met the needs of the clan, but praise God it did not. Every day at Dunscaith he lived in the shadow of two men—his
father, whom he had never been able to please, and his older brother, whose place he had taken.

Before heading north to the far end of the island, he directed his men to pull onto the beach below Teàrlag’s cottage, which
was perched high on a cliff overlooking the sea. The questions he meant to put to the clan’s ancient seer were private, so
he left his guard in the galley. The steps cut into the stone cliff were black and slippery with rain, and his injured leg
gave him some trouble.

He forgot Ilysa was behind him until he heard her cough.

“Careful,” he said, turning to offer his hand to her.

“Does your leg pain ye badly?” she asked.

“No,” he lied.

Teàrlag was not waiting for them at the top of the cliff, as she usually did. Perhaps the old seer was losing her gift. When
he reached her cottage, he knocked on the weathered door, then pushed it open.

“I’m no losing The Sight,” Teàrlag greeted him, glaring at him with her one good eye. “Has becoming chieftain gone to your
head, lad? Ye can’t expect an old woman to stand out in the rain waiting for ye.”

While she spoke, her cow mooed in complaint from behind the half wall that divided the cottage.

“I see you and your cow are as cheerful as ever,” Connor said, holding back a smile.

Teàrlag had two plaids wrapped around her and was so short and hunched over that he could not tell if she was standing or
sitting until she shuffled over to the table where Ilysa was unpacking the basket of food she had brought. Connor was relieved
that she looked no worse than the last time he saw her. When he handed her the jug of whiskey he’d brought, the old woman’s
wrinkled face brightened.

“There’s a good lad,” she said as she retrieved her cup from the shelf above the table.

“I’m making Trotternish Castle my home,” Connor said. “I wished to pay my respects before I go.”

“Hmmph, that’s no why ye came.” Teàrlag poured a large measure of whiskey into her cup. After she drank it down, she fixed
her good eye on him. “Ye came because ye fear I’ll be dead before ye come back.”

Connor did not bother denying it, though that was not his only reason. He sat at the table and nodded his thanks to Ilysa,
who had eased the jug out of Teàrlag’s hand and poured him a cup.

“I wish to know what ye foresee for the clan,” he said. “Do ye have any warnings I should heed to protect our people?”

“I told ye before,” she said, looking sour again. “The clan’s future depends upon ye wedding the right lass.”

Connor had only been eleven or twelve at the time, though he remembered it well enough. He and the other lads had asked her
about their future because they longed to hear about their great feats as warriors. Instead, she had disappointed them with
predictions about women.

“I did harbor some hope,” he said, “that in fifteen years ye might have gained a clearer picture regarding what lass I ought
to choose.”

“Ach, ye don’t listen,” she said. “I told ye that the lass will choose you.”

Connor’s chest was throbbing from the arrow wound, and the old seer was trying his patience. His bride would be a chieftain’s
daughter and would have no choice over the matter. Their marriage would be an alliance between two clans, agreed upon between
Connor and the lass’s father.

“I feel a vision coming,” Teàrlag called out in a strange voice.

Connor suspected Teàrlag was warming up to re-enact a vision she’d had earlier, if she was not making it up altogether. The
old woman did like to make a show of her gift.

Ilysa helped the old seer turn on her stool to face the hearth, then tossed a handful of the herbs Teàrlag used to enhance
her visions onto the fire, causing it to spit and crackle. After drawing in several deep breaths of the pungent smoke, Teàrlag
fell into an alarming fit of hacking. Connor started to get up, but Ilysa shook her head and helped the old seer turn around
to face him again.

Teàrlag laid her palms flat on the table and closed her eyes. Then she swayed from side to side on her stool while making
an unnerving humming sound. Finally, she opened her eyes and drank the draught of whiskey Ilysa had poured for her.

By the saints, how could such a wee old woman drink so much whiskey?

“’Tis just a wee nip,” Teàrlag objected.

Connor kept forgetting that the seer could read minds.

“Take care who ye trust, Connor MacDonald,” Teàrlag said, wagging a gnarled finger at him. “There are many who mean ye harm.”

He did not need a seer to tell him that. If he forgot, he had the wounds in his chest and leg to remind him.

“Ye believe ye can decide everything here,” she said, tapping the wispy gray hair at her temple. Her breathing was labored
as she came around the tiny table to stand in front of him and lay a hand on his chest. “When the time comes for ye to choose
who to put your faith in, forget what your head is telling ye and listen to your heart.”

The old seer freely mixed advice with foretelling, and Connor suspected this was the former.

“Can ye advise me which clan chieftain I should seek to make an alliance with?” Before she could chastise him again, he added,
“Then he can advise his daughter to choose me.”

“Don’t forget, ’tis no the lass’s clan—nor her father—that you’ll be sharing a bed with.” The old seer cackled and slapped
her hand on the table.

Ach, she was as bad as Alex. Connor would wed a lass who looked like a mule if it would save his clan. Still, he hoped his
bride would be fair. Surely that would make it easier to be content with only her. He was so desperate to have a woman in
his bed that he’d be happy at first with any lass who was warm and willing. But a lifetime? He did not like to think about
it.

“Look for your bride among the faeries,” Teàrlag said.

“The faeries?” What in the hell was she talking about?

Connor feared the old woman had lost her gift for foretelling, for which she was famed throughout the isles. That was a shame,
for she had helped guide MacDonald chieftains through troubled times for many, many years, and there was no one to replace
her.

“I need a word with Ilysa,” Teàrlag said.

“Ilysa?” The lass was so quiet that Connor had forgotten her again.

“Now be a good lad and wait outside,” Teàrlag said, as if he were still a boy of ten instead of her chieftain.

If anyone else called him a good lad and ordered him out, he’d have their heads. But it was hard to take offense at the old
seer’s lack of respect when she had treated his father the same. Besides, Connor was inordinately fond of her, and she had
saved his life when he’d been badly injured soon after his return to Skye. He had been so close to death that he had seen
an angel hovering over him.

“It wasn’t me who saved ye,” Teàrlag said as he leaned down to kiss her weathered cheek. “I gave ye up for dead.”

Alas, the old woman’s mind had grown confused as well. He hoped he would see her again in this life.

While he stood outside with rain dripping down the back of his neck and his chest aching, Connor wondered what the old seer
could have to say to Ilysa that he could not hear. A secret remedy for a headache or warts? No doubt, the old woman would
miss Ilysa. She took good care of Teàrlag, visiting her often and bringing her baskets of food.

For the first time, it crossed his mind to wonder why Ilysa had chosen to go to Trotternish Castle. He had given each member
of his household the choice of remaining at Dunscaith Castle, and all the others had chosen to stay. He’d probably never know
her reasons. Ilysa was a lass who kept her thoughts to herself.

“While I’m away,” Ilysa said, “Connor’s sister Moira will make certain someone brings ye provisions regularly.”

“You’re a kind lass,” Teàrlag said. “Tell me what is troubling ye?”

“Duncan doesn’t want me to go with Connor,” Ilysa said and made herself stop twisting the skirt of her gown in her hands.

“Ye never do what your brother tells ye, except when it suits ye,” the old seer said. “That’s no what’s making ye uneasy.”

“I could live here with you instead.” Ilysa glanced around the small cottage and wondered whether it would be worse to share
a bed with Teàrlag or the cow.

“Duncan is right to worry, child,” Teàrlag said. “The path before ye is full of danger, but ye must go all the same.”

“Why must I?” Ilysa asked, though she’d had the same feeling.

“It would serve no purpose to tell Connor, who’s decided I’m an old fool,” Teàrlag said, waving her hand dismissively. “But
his future is hazy in my visions. I fear he may not live to see the summer.”

Her words sent a jolt of fear through Ilysa.

“Connor must live! Our clan depends upon his survival.”
I depend upon it.

“Our young chieftain will need you to see dangers that he cannot,” the seer said. “Trust yourself, and ye may save his life.”

“Me?” Ilysa asked. “How am I to do that?”

“Ach, ye think far too little of yourself. Remember, ye carry the blood of the Sea Witch of legend, who built Dunscaith Castle
in a single night,” Teàrlag said, leaning forward and blinking her good eye. “And ye were born at midnight.”

“That doesn’t mean I have The Sight like you do,” Ilysa said.

“Hmmph, no one has the gift like I do,” Teàrlag said. “But The Sight comes to ye sometimes, doesn’t it? Ye sense things coming.”

“Perhaps,” Ilysa whispered and dropped her gaze to her hands, which were folded in her lap. “But not often, and ’tis never
clear.”

“With you, lass, The Sight is strongest where your heart is,” Teàrlag said. “That is why ye will see the danger to Connor
when no one else does.”

Ilysa turned her face away, embarrassed that Teàrlag knew how she felt about Connor.

“I’ve taught ye the spells of protection,” Teàrlag said. “But most of all, ye must trust your instincts, for that is The Sight
speaking to ye.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Ilysa said.

Was she fooling herself into believing that Connor needed her, or should she admit, at least to herself, that she was going
simply because she needed to be near him? Regardless, she listened carefully while Teàrlag told her of the places on Trotternish
where the old magic was strongest.

“There will come a time when ye must part from Connor,” Teàrlag said, patting Ilysa’s arm with her gnarly hand. “It can’t
be helped. Ye will know when.”

Ilysa already knew. When Connor took a wife, she would be gone.

“Tell me”—Ilysa paused to lick her dry lips—“will the lass Connor weds make him happy?” If so, she could bear leaving him.

“Our chieftain can only find happiness if he weds the lass who chooses him on Beltane night,” Teàrlag said.

Then two months is all I have left with him.

“But for that to happen,” the old seer said, “Connor must live to see Beltane.”