“Your Aunt Isabel wrote that you may know the whereabouts of my lady wife,” Rory said to the lassie, who’d approached him with an odd mixture of diffidence and serene self-possession. “Did you overhear something the day she was abducted by her kinsmen?”
Raine studied him for a moment, unused to the full beard he’d grown while imprisoned and now kept as a constant reminder of how much he owed the Macdonalds. Then she shook her head, her long ebony braids swinging gently. “The men didn’t say where they were taking her, laird. At least, not that I heard.”
Rory sank back in the chair, frustration eating at his vitals. Fearchar, Alex, and Nina, along with his two brothers, had joined him in the upper parlor at Archnacarry while he questioned the girl.
“But dearest,” Nina said, clearly disappointed herself, “why did you tell Aunt Isabel that you knew Lady MacLean’s whereabouts?”
“I do,” the child replied, her jet eyes bright with the unflagging surety of youth. “But not because I overheard Lady Joanna’s clansmen talking.”
Lachlan, his backside braced against a table piled with books, gave her a warm smile of encouragement. With his shock of auburn waves, his classic features, and his fastidious dress, he presented a picture of urbane refinement. “Then how do you know, child?” he asked patiently.
“I saw her in a vision.”
“Christ!” Keir exclaimed, “I can’t believe it!” He sprang up from the tufted stool he’d perched on and glowered at the girl. “You wasted our time on some blasted hocus-pocus?”
Raine straightened beneath his accusing glare. Tossing her head, she folded her arms over her flat chest and met his scornful green eyes. “I didn’t waste your time, Laird MacNeil,” she said with a mutinous lift of her chin. “I never even knew you were coming.”
Rory raised his hand, cautioning his hotheaded brother. “That’s enough,” he said. “I’m sure the lassie meant well.”
“Pray, let her speak,” Isabel entreated. “My niece is fey.”
She’d entered the room unnoticed, and they turned to stare at her in surprise. The lady stood just inside the door, arms folded and hands slipped inside the wide sleeves of her mulberry wool gown. Wisps of her gray-streaked fair hair peeked out from beneath the sloping headdress; her eyes flashed with a droll humor.
Nina moved to her daughter’s side and put an arm around her narrow shoulders. “Why, Raine, you’ve never spoken of this to me.”
The hurt in Nina’s soft voice touched everyone watching. Her gentle nature enriched the lives of all she encountered. Yet there seemed to be a wall of misunderstanding between mother and daughter that all the lady’s sweetness had never breached.
Rory had heard the servants’ gossip. Hell, who hadn’t? Superstitious people whispered that Raine had been sired by a black-haired elf prince. Some were ignorant enough to claim that the lassie was part faery and possessed magical powers. He didn’t believe such blather. But like anyone who’d observed the sloe-eyed, dark-headed lass in the midst of a family of blonds, Rory felt certain whoever the child’s father was, he hadn’t been Gideon Cameron.
“Nevertheless, your daughter has the second sight, Nina,” Isabel said, her voice ringing with pride. “I suggest you listen to her, Laird MacLean.”
They really had no choice—’twas the only straw to be grasped. Rory nodded to Raine and gestured for her to step closer. Taking the lassie’s small hand, he leaned forward in the chair and spoke kindly. “You say you’ve seen my lady wife in a vision?”
Her dark eyes never wavered from his. “Lady MacLean’s being held against her will, milord,” she told him eagerly. “She is with her kinsmen in a fortress far away. I’ve seen her standing at a tower window, watching the sea and praying for you to come rescue her.”
A tiny spark of hope glimmered in Rory’s breast. Was he truly grasping at straws, or could this inexplicable child lead him to Joanna? “Can you tell me what this fortress looks like, lass?”
“The castle is on an island,” Raine said. “’Tis built on the edge of low cliffs.” She took a deep breath, bit her bottom lip in concentration, and then continued. “It lies on the tip of a promontory jutting out into the ocean. There are three sea walls, and the gatehouse is flanked by octagonal turrets.”
Rory met Alex’s eyes with a feeling of desperation. Any number of Scottish strongholds would meet that description, especially in the Isles.
Alex came and dropped to one knee beside his niece. He patted her on the back and spoke in a low, easy manner. “That’s good, lass. That’s good. Now try to picture the castle very clearly in your mind. Can you tell us anything about this particular one that makes it different from any other?”
“The keep has two square towers and two round ones, each with a bartizan,” she offered.
“Anything else?”
Bending her head, Raine pressed one finger to her mouth while she thought. Then she looked up to meet Rory’s eyes, her adolescent features animated. “Along the parapets are gargoyles in the shape of ferocious eagles, with their beaks opened as though screaming into the wind and a cluster of arrows grasped in their pointed talons.”
“Dhòmhuill,” Lachlan said, his voice sharp with exhilaration.
“Good girl!” Alex exclaimed as he hugged his niece.
Rory rose and patted Raine on the shoulder. “Thank you, lassie,” he said, his hopes soaring.
Castle Dhòmhuill on the Isle of Skye was the mighty stronghold of Angus Macdonald, chief of Clan Uisdean. Like Somerled before him, Ewen could have fled to another kinsman for protection.
“We’ll need all three ships,” Lachlan said, pushing away from the table.
“And what if the lassie’s wrong?” Keir demanded. “’Twill take a full week to load the armaments and supplies, another to sail there, and another back. That’s nearly a month that we could be using to scour the countryside.”
“I’m not wrong, Laird MacLean,” Raine insisted. “I’m not.” Her lips compressed in a tight line, she clutched his sleeve and looked up at him beseechingly.
“Trust my niece,” Isabel said. “She saw Lady MacLean before ever she came to Archnacarry. Raine described your wife’s red hair and plum-colored eyes two summers ago, when first she saw her. Neither of us knew the identity of the maid in her vision, until you brought her here.”
“Is that true, Raine?” Rory questioned in astonishment.
“’Tis true, milord.”
He crouched down before the child. “Is she well?” he asked quietly.
Raine smiled, her eyes flashing with happiness. “Lady Joanna is well,” she said. “In fact, she is more than well.”
“What do you mean, lass?”
“You will know when you find her, Laird MacLean.”
Rory looked up at his youngest brother. “Keir? Are you with us?”
Keir’s green eyes narrowed and his cheeks flexed tensely as he met Rory’s inquiring gaze. “Hell,” he replied in disgust, “I wouldn’t let you leave without me, and you damn well know it.”
“All three ships lie off Stalcaire,” Lachlan reminded his oldest brother. “You can speak to Duncan about the status of the annulment before we sail.”
Rory took Nina’s hand and met her worried eyes. “Thank you, once again, dear friend. At least now we have something to act upon.”
“My family will keep all of you in our prayers,” she replied. “I pray God you’ll bring your wife back safely home.”
The Macdonald fortress sat like a stone monolith on the basalt cliffs above the Minch. From the high tower window, Joanna watched the three galleons approach. Her throat ached from holding back tears of joy. Their sails had been spotted the previous day. Now the ships were maneuvering into place in front of Dhòmhuill’s formidable sea walls.
The Sea Dragon sliced through the waves, her sleek prow graced with a three-headed monster. From her mainmast flew a long black banner emblazoned with a ferocious Celtic sea serpent, its elongated green body slithering in the wind. On her decks, Rory MacLean, chief of Clan MacLean, scion of the Celtic-Norse sea kings of the Hebrides, and laird of Kinlochleven and all its lands and all its fiefs, studied the ramparts of Dhòmhuill with the practiced eye of a warlord trained in the fine art of the siege.
“So the man has finally come,” Lady Beatrix said from behind Joanna’s shoulder. She gazed out at the galleons and sniffed contemptuously. “’Twill do him no good.”
Standing in front of the solar’s other window, Lady Idoine peered out. Dressed in a gown of fine ruby silk, she fidgeted with the gold bracelets encircling her wrist. As long as her parents remained hidden away in the isolated castle, there’d be no chance of their contracting a marriage alliance for her, and Idoine was growing more and more discouraged every day. She’d had little to do in the past months except fuss with her cosmetics and jewelry to while away her boredom.
“Will he kill us, Mother?” Idoine asked in her high-pitched whine. “Andrew said the King’s Avenger would come with his brothers and murder us all.”
Joanna leaned against the edge of the stone casement and grasped the iron grillwork, her fingers taut and whitened. Despite her outer semblance of calm, her insides quivered with each breath she took. She fought the feeling of faintness that plagued her, refusing to give in to the fear that Rory might not be successful in his attempt to rescue her.
But he was there. Rory was alive, and he had found her.
“Don’t be foolish, child,” Beatrix told her daughter with a brittle laugh. “Dhòmhuill is impregnable. In two hundred years, no enemy has ever taken this castle.”
Joanna clutched the elf-bolt in her other hand, remembering Raine’s promise that it would protect her from danger. She prayed that her husband would be safe and that he’d forgiven her for betraying him in front of his friends. The rage she’d glimpsed in his eyes before he’d been struck from behind haunted her still. Yet if she’d refused to go with Ewen, Godfrey would have murdered Rory while he lay unconscious on the floor.
At Joanna’s shoulder, Beatrix spoke coldly. “Ewen’s already told you that the papal dispensation has been granted. You’re free to marry Andrew as we all wish. Why worry about the King’s Avenger and his contemptible brothers? They can do no more than yap at us like curs prowling around a dunghill.”
“The annulment is still being investigated,” Joanna reminded the callous woman, her gaze fastened on the scene below. “And I am still the wife of The MacLean.”
As the first ship took her position in front of a twelve-foot-thick curtain wall, the second galleon drew near. On the tip of her prow, a great hawk soared above the waves on outspread wings. The Sea Hawk rode gently on the crests, her tall sails dipping to the castle in a deadly greeting. Lachlan MacRath, chief of Clan MacRath, whose ancestors included the kings of Ireland and Norway, had come to pay a call.
“Well, at least there won’t be any more foolish attempts to sneak out of the castle.” Lady Idoine twined a wisp of frizzled hair around her finger and giggled spitefully. “Unless Joanna intends to walk straight into their cannon fire.”
But Joanna refused to be baited. She’d take no chances. Not now, after five and a half months of carefully avoiding confrontation, lest one of her cousins, in their mounting anger, become physically abusive.
High on the mainmast of the third galleon, a raven, symbol of an ancient Norse deity, flew on a blood-red flag. Keir MacNeil, chief of the MacNeils of Barra and descendant of Celtic sea raiders, maneuvered his ship alongside the others. Then the Black Raven dipped her flag in salute to her sister ships as a skiff was launched to take her captain to confer with his two brothers.
“Your disloyalty to your clan is shameful, Joanna,” Beatrix needled. “Ewen has only the best for you in mind, my dear.”
“Ewen is driven by ambition and greed,” Joanna replied, her frayed temper unraveling at last. “He’s never been concerned with the good of our clan. My cousin is willing to do anything, including murder, to get control of my inheritance.”
With a sweep of her flowing satin robe, Beatrix turned and walked to a cushioned bench beside the fireplace. Joanna could hear the smile in her voice as she sat down and picked up her embroidery. “There’s no sense in standing at the windows, girls. There’ll be lots of noise and smoke for a while, but in the end they will merely have to sail away.”
Time stretched endlessly as Dhòmhuill’s inhabitants waited in near silence. Men-at-arms were ranged along the high battlements. Arquebusiers and archers stood impatiently in battle position, while cannoneers took their places at the gun ports. ’Twas the breath-stealing quiet before the storm.
The men on the ships below were in no hurry. They were making careful calculations as they measured the range. Joanna’s husband would take utmost care that no stray cannon shell exploded against the walls of the keep, knowing that his wife would be lodged in the highest, most secure tower of the castle.
Just when it seemed that the battle would never begin, the first salvo sounded, and a cannonball struck the northernmost curtain wall. Shouts rang out along the parapets. The clatter of swords on targes, beating in cadence, filled the air, and the Macdonald war cry lifted from the throats of Joanna’s kinsmen: The Heathery Isle!
The siege of Castle Dhòmhuill had begun.