The Chieftain (8 page)

O
n the ridge above them, Connor saw the outline of five warriors, clearly visible in the moonlight. Barely breathing, he glanced
at the row of children flattened against the side of the hill and prayed they would keep silent.

Through the tall grass, Connor watched the five warriors, willing them to leave. They were close enough that he could make
out their voices in the quiet night.

“The MacDonald chieftain was supposed to be here,” one of them said. “Our reward will be great if we’re the ones who find
him.”

The MacLeods knew he would be here. As Connor had suspected, one of his own had given him up. But which one?

Connor held his breath as the men turned north and followed the path in the direction of Trotternish Castle. He waited several
long minutes after they disappeared before rising to his hands and knees for a better look.

“Are they gone?” Malcom asked.

“Hush!” Connor ordered when he heard the low rumble of the warriors’ voices above him. “They’re returning.”

A short time later, the MacLeod warriors were once again standing above them.

“We should look down this hill,” one of them said.

Connor tensed. Malcom was not a trained warrior, which meant Connor would have to take all five MacLeods himself.

“Ach, no, let’s go back to the boat,” another of the men said. “I have a jug of whiskey and a warm lass waiting for me at
home.”

Connor prayed the others would listen to him.

“We’ll leave after we look down here,” the first man said.

Connor heard the familiar swish of their claymores swinging through the tall grass as the five men walked down the hill. After
signaling to the family to stay low, he ran across the side of the hill in a low crouch. He had to move fast to circle behind
the men before they stumbled upon the family’s hiding spot.

When he reached the path, he scooped up a handful of stones and climbed a large tree. As soon as he was out of sight in the
branches, he hurled the stones, sending them bouncing up the path. Then he climbed out onto a thick limb that hung over the
path and waited. If he did not hear the men coming toward him soon, he would have to shout to draw their attention. He smiled
when he heard running feet.

He let the first three warriors pass and dropped on the last two, driving his dirk into one and then the other in quick succession.
Before the others turned around to see what happened, Connor had his claymore in his hands. Three at once could be difficult.
He was pleased when one charged him. With a swift stroke, he blocked the attacker’s sword, then swung in a circle and drove
his blade deep into the man’s side.

The remaining two used their advantage and acted in concert, one coming at him from his left and the other from his right.
Connor picked up the sword of one of the fallen men and fought them back using both swords. More MacLeod warriors could come
looking for these at any moment. Damn, he needed to end this quickly.

He dove to the side as one of the men swung at him, and the blade glanced off his arm instead of piercing his chest. As he
came up, Connor pulled the dirk from his boot. His opponent’s arm was still extended with the force of his swing when Connor
sank his dirk between the man’s exposed ribs.

The last warrior charged at him with a roar before Connor could recover and block the attack with his claymore. He felt the
wind of the man’s sword on his back as he dropped to the ground. Before he could get up, his opponent raised his blade over
his head and brought it down with all his force. Connor managed to roll to the side in time to avoid being split in two, but
the blade caught his thigh.

Connor was on his feet again, and he had only one opponent left. When he could, Connor showed mercy. But this was not one
of those times. He swung his great two-handed sword in deadly, rhythmic arcs, forcing his opponent back and back again.

Finally, the MacLeod warrior swung with all his might into Connor’s injured leg. Connor had anticipated the move and jumped
over the blade. When his opponent’s sword met with no resistance, the force of his swing threw him off balance long enough
for Connor to deal him a deathblow and end it.

As he leaned on his sword to get his breath back, Connor noticed that the family had crept out of their hiding place and were
watching from the tall grass. He signaled for them to stay where they were and started dragging the dead bodies off the path.
If the other MacLeod warriors came this way and found their comrades, they would be far more vigilant in their search.

“Just keep your children quiet and off the path,” Connor told Malcom when he offered to help.

By the time he had dragged the five dead MacLeods into the bushes, his head was spinning.

“I must return to the castle, but ye should be safe if ye stay hidden,” he told the family. “Don’t go back to the cottage
until it’s daylight and ye can be sure that they’ve sailed away.”

“Let me take care of your wounds before ye go,” the woman said.

Connor only now realized that his sleeve was soaked with blood. He remembered being struck in the leg as well. That would
explain why he was light-headed.

“Help me bind them, and I’ll be on my way,” he said.

Using Connor’s dirk, she cut two strips from the bottom of her skirts. She tied the first around his arm while he tied the
second strip around the gash on his thigh.

“’Tis a long way to the castle, and the path is overgrown and difficult to follow in the dark,” Malcom said. “I’d better take
ye.”

“I’ll manage,” Connor said. “Stay with your wife and children.”

“Mind ye don’t enter the faery glen,” Malcom said. “The path circles around it. Don’t be tempted to cut through it to make
your journey shorter.”

Faeries were the least of his worries.

“If ye do find yourself in the glen, ye must have a token to leave for the faeries,” the wife said. She reached into her pocket
and brought out a stone that glittered in the moonlight. “Sometimes a gift will appease them, though ye can never tell with
faeries.”

Connor did not want to insult her, so he thanked her and put the stone in the leather bag tied to his belt. He had miles to
travel, and he was anxious to be on his way.

“I see now why they say ye are the hope of our clan,” the woman said. “May God watch over ye. We need hope.”

C
onnor walked for what seemed like hours. He was grateful for the quiet of the night, even if the sense of peacefulness was
false. He needed the time to think, and for once he was not accompanied by his guard. As chieftain, he was always surrounded,
and yet always alone.

Which of his men had betrayed him? He considered each man who had come with him and dismissed each in turn. And yet, the traitor
had to be someone who knew their destination.

After a couple of hours, Connor grew too light-headed to think anymore. He kept walking. Twice he lost the path and had to
retrace his steps. Ahead of him, he saw the outline of odd, conical-shaped hills.

He stumbled ahead. As he drew closer, the night fog that lay between the strange hills transformed the moonlight into a soft
glow. Above the mist, the tops of the hills had rows of ridges along their sides like ripples on the surface of water.

His mind was working slowly, but he had the uneasy feeling that he was forgetting something important. Something the woman
with all the children had told him. The bindings on his arm and leg had loosened as he walked, and he was aware, in a distant
way as if it were happening to someone else, that he was losing too much blood.

He sat down to tighten the bindings and dropped his head between his knees while he gathered his strength to do it. Then,
forcing himself to stay alert, he retied the strip on his arm, using his teeth and one hand. Next, he unfastened the blood-soaked
strip on his thigh and pulled that binding into a tight knot. With that done, he decided he could let himself rest for a moment
before he got to his feet again.

Connor awoke shivering and realized he must have dozed off. With an effort, he lifted his head. The moon had not traveled
far across the sky, so he could not have been asleep for long. He told himself he must get up and return to the castle before
daylight. If the MacLeods—perhaps assisted by one of his own men—were searching for him, it would be safer to travel under
cover of darkness.

His mind was thick and slow, but eventually it came to him that he was sitting in the midst of the faery glen. Though he had
never been here before, the conical hills were just as they had been described to him. Strangely, the realization did not
alarm him in the least.

Connor turned his head and saw the flickering light of a small fire through the mist. Friend or foe? A distinctly feminine
form crossed in front of the fire. Whether she was a faery or a human, he did not know.

Was he imagining her? Connor blinked several times, but she was still there. Her slender, alluring shape was draped in a translucent,
gossamer cloth, just like an angel. Or a faery.

As he watched, she began to dance around the fire, swaying with the grace of a bird dipping and soaring through the sky. Each
time she passed on his side of the fire, he could see her lithe, supple shape through the thin cloth of her robe. She appeared
to wear nothing at all underneath it.

There was something so beguiling about the faery lass’s movements that Connor did not consider leaving. Since childhood he
had heard tales of enchantments wrought by faeries, but if this was one, he did not care.

She sang in a high, sweet voice. Though Connor was too far away to make out the words, the sound filled his heart with longing.
Everything about her entranced him: the tips of her small breasts beneath the thin fabric, the graceful swing of her robe,
and the long, fair hair that tumbled down her back like a shimmering waterfall.

Desire swept through him. Whether she was a faery or an apparition, he wished with all his heart he could have one magical
night with her. He longed to sweep his hand along the graceful lines of her body, to cup her breasts, to feel her hair slide
over his skin. One enchanted night with this faery lass that he could hold on to and remember after she returned to her world
and left him in his, where he was the hope of his clan and must always, always put duty first.

Connor sucked in his breath as sparks flew from her fingers. What would it be like to touch this ethereal, magical lass? To
run kisses along her swanlike neck? To bury his face in her hair…to feel her breasts pressed against his bare chest…to feel
the sparks from her fingertips on his skin…

His eyelids grew heavy as he watched the slow sway of her body and listened to the sweet melody of her voice. He was not sure
if he was awake or dreaming as he lay her down on his plaid and she wrapped her slender legs around him while he kissed her
deeply. If he was dreaming, he did not want to wake.

The feather-light fabric slid sensuously over Ilysa’s skin as she dipped and whirled in slow, arcing movements around the
fire. At first, she felt self-conscious dancing with her hair loose and nothing on beneath the thin gown, but no one else
would venture into the faery glen and see her. Ilysa had braved coming to this special place to enhance the potency of her
spell. After seeing the black danger around Connor in her vision, she understood that no simple charm could guard against
it. Teàrlag, who knew such things, said that the faery glen retained the power of the old magic.

Ilysa had never before attempted the fire dance, which called upon the power of the faeries, but Teàrlag had told her what
to do. She concentrated on her movements, which, like her dress, were meant to flatter the faeries by emulating them.

The old seer claimed to have received the gown, which was made from cloth that had lain outside on three successive full moons,
as a gift from the faeries when she was a young lass. Ilysa found it easier to imagine that the gown had been made by faeries
than to imagine Teàrlag had ever been young.

As she swayed and twirled, Ilysa forgot herself and became lost in the freedom of the dance. Instead of the quiet, constrained
lass no one noticed, she was a beautiful and beguiling faery princess. The power of the spell coursed through her as she sang
the words.

As she dipped and whirled, she sprinkled the special herb mixture into the fire with both hands, causing it to snap and shoot
sparks into the darkness. This, too, was to please the faeries, who were known to like anything that sparkled or shone.

When she finished the dance, Ilysa collapsed onto the ground and stared into the fire. Doing the fire dance once would afford
Connor a strong measure of protection. But to gain the full power of the spell, she must do it a second time, also on a full
moon.

She had done everything just as Teàrlag had instructed. Still, she decided to add one more measure of protection and got to
her feet. She had seen her mother do this many times in the years her brother, Connor, Ian, and Alex were in France—and the
four of them had come home safely. It was a simple spell, just a charm really. The only important part was to make the circle
in the right direction.

Ilysa moved around the fire left to right,
deiseal
, the direction that brought good fortune, dragging a stick along the ground.

“Protect him, heal him, bring him home.”

She kept the image of Connor in her mind while she chanted the words over and over and made the circle, once, twice, thrice.

Weary and chilled to the bone, she put out the fire and wrapped her heavy cloak about her. She would have to hurry to make
it back to the castle before the household woke.

With an expertise born of years of practice, she coiled her hair and tied a kerchief over it. Though it was the same one she
always wore, the cloth felt rough beneath her fingers. The feather-light robe against her skin was the only reminder that,
for a little while, she had been a beautiful faery princess.

Connor awoke to the gray light of predawn feeling stiff and wet from the rain that had fallen in the night while he slept.
He glanced about him at the odd, conical hills, trying to recall where he was and how he got here.

Ahh, the faery glen. He had stumbled upon it last night on his way back to the castle after the attack…Connor sat bolt-upright
as he remembered the faery lass.

She was gone. As he stared at the empty place between the hills where he had seen her dance, a sense of loss weighed down
on his chest. Had he truly seen her? He shook his head. His dreams of making love to her had been so vivid that he could almost
taste her on his lips.

For long minutes, he sat unmoving, hoping she would reappear. But no, she had disappeared with the night mist, like a dream
or a faery in an old tale.

Connor was not a man given to fancy, but she had seemed so real that he was having a hard time convincing himself he had imagined
her. Though it made no sense, he had felt drawn to her with all his being. He had felt lust for many women, of course. But
this was a deeper kind of desire, the kind he feared was unquenchable. He felt as if he had glimpsed the only lass who could
complete him. Was this faery magic she had worked on him?

Connor cursed himself. He had not been prone to such foolishness since he was a wee lad—not since the day his mother left.
Catriona had captured all their hearts and made every day magical, but the magic died with her.

If his mother taught him anything, it was to be cautious when it came to women—especially the ones who could weave magic around
men’s hearts. Connor wanted a wife who, unlike his mother, was dependable and trustworthy—the kind of woman who did not leave.

Still, he was a man. Lust and yearning filled him as the image of the faery lass danced through his memory again. Though he
had not been able to make out the features of her face in the night, he knew they would be as delicate and lovely as her graceful
form.

Wanting was a useless waste of time. Though he was chieftain—or rather, because he was chieftain—Connor was not a man who
could have what he wanted. Every choice he made, everything he did, must be in pursuit of restoring his clan and protecting
his people.

And right now, that meant walking the remaining miles back to the castle on a wounded leg. When he got up, he was surprised
to find he felt better for his night in the cold and rain. His head was clear again.

The coming dawn tinted the clouds pink as he walked through the wet grass between the odd hills. He remembered the glittering
stone in his pouch and limped over to where he had seen—or imagined he had seen—the lass dancing.

When he saw the remains of a fire, he crouched down to touch the circle of rocks around it. The rain made it impossible to
tell if the fire was from last night, but it was strange that someone had built a fire in the faery glen at all. As the sun
broke over the hill, the slanting rays caused the wet grass to sparkle. Connor smiled, thinking of sparks flying from the
faery lass’s fingertips.

Was any of it real?

He took the glittering stone from his pouch and set it on a log near the fire, his thanks for the graceful beauty, whether
real or imagined.