The Highlander’s Tempting Touch

Chapter 31

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

A listair woke the morning after the wood-gathering expedition to sore muscles and the sound of someone tapping gently on his bedroom door. The light coming in through the windows indicated it was early morning, and Alistair hauled himself out of the bed with a grumble. He hadn’t slept nearly as long or as well as he wanted to - Niamh had been acting strangely shy and withdrawn around him, and he’d been worried.

Worried, and confused. More than once it had seemed as if she was about to kiss him, or embrace him, but each time, she’d pulled back, as if afraid or unwilling to do so.

Was it because she’d seen him at his bloodstained, brutal worst, in the aftermath of the brigand interrogation? Was she afraid of him now? She hadn’t seemed to be that night when she’d washed his hair and listened to his words, but he was at a loss to understand her actions otherwise. He’d almost confronted her about it, but he’d changed his mind at the last moment.

If Niamh truly was afraid of him now, or afraid of the danger that being his wife placed her in, then he wasn’t sure he could bear to know. Despite how much he wished it weren’t true, he knew deep within himself that he didn’t want to let her go, not even for her peace of mind or her safety. It was selfish, and it was foolish, but it was still the truth, and he had never been one to wallow in self-deception.

Another knock, quiet but firm, roused him from his thoughts. Alistair sighed, pulled on a shirt, and opened the door.

Ewan stood on the other side of it, his expression set in a near unreadable mask that made Alistair’s gut clench. That expression on his brother’s face never boded well. “What is it?”

“Scouts are back. And they said there’s something ye ought tae see.”

That was even more ominous. Alistair grimaced, then looked back at the bed. Niamh was still sleeping soundly - left alone, she’d probably not wake for another candle-mark at least. On the one hand, he was tempted to wake her, to bid her farewell. On the other, she would surely have questions. He didn’t want her to worry, if there was nothing for her to be concerned about.

In the end, the desire to protect her won. Alistair slipped back into the room long enough to gather his clothing, boots and weapons, then followed Ewan out into the front room to dress. “Did the scouts tell ye more than that?”

“Just that there were signs o’ possible trouble, and they wanted ye tae see what they’d found, afore they acted.”

His senior scouts were all experienced, sensible men. That they wanted his opinion before acting was not a good sign. It meant that, whatever they’d discovered, it was more problematic than wolves or brigands.

Alistair finished dressing, then he and Ewan made their way to the kitchen for a quick meal of cold meats and bread, washed down with scorching hot tea, before going out to the stables. The horses were already saddled and waiting for them, and within half a candle-mark of being woken, they were riding south-east, following the young scout who’d been sent to bring them the news.

They’d scarcely ridden two candle-marks before they encountered Damien McClean, the oldest and most experienced of Alistair’s active scouts. Damien saluted them with a grim nod. “Me laird.”

Alistair didn’t bother to waste time on niceties. “What did ye find?”

“Campsite, me laird. At least, it appears tae be. And nae simple brigands. Too large.” Damien was a man of few words. Without any further explanation, he turned his horse and led them further on, to a small valley surrounded by low hills. Well-guarded by the landscape, unless you knew to look for it.

Alistair dismounted and moved closer, his steps light as he crossed the trampled ground. Damien was right. The scattered stones around scorched earth indicated a campfire - no, two of them. There were holes where tents had been staked into the ground as well. Most bandits didn’t have tents - they made do with blankets or natural caves and hollows to shelter from the elements. Alistair counted at least a dozen separate tracks of men by variations in the stride and the boot-prints in the softer earth, and to one side he found rows of hoof-prints as well, where horses had been tethered on a long lead line.

The area was clean, no signs of the usual offal and meal remnants that were common in bandit camp grounds, even if it were only a resting place for a single night. Whoever had been here, they were orderly, and they’d kept quiet enough that they hadn’t been noticed before they left.

All the signs pointed to one of two things - a band of sellswords completing a task, or a group of soldiers led by a commander, in service of a laird.

They were waiting here fer the men who went after Niamh. Tae tak’ her away tae Fergus MacTavish, or tae… tae… they were waiting tae…

Alistair felt his thoughts dissolve into incoherent shards as terror and fury swept over him. “Nay… nay… it cannae…”

It had almost happened again. I… if she hadnae run, if I hadnae seen the tracks and turned back…

They were going to tak’ her away or kill her. Like Constance.

It cannae… it cannae happen again. It cannae… it cannae… it cannae…

He’d come so close to losing Niamh, just as he’d lost Constance. Just as he’d lost his father. The memories swept over him, heavy and suffocating with emotion. Alistair felt sick, the world swaying between burning fury and chilling terror in turns. He was vaguely aware of Ewan speaking, of himself pacing about the clearing, but the words made no sense. Everything hurt and burned and froze, and he couldn’t seem to get enough air. Couldn’t seem to stop moving, or gather his thoughts.

There was no room for anything save the wild, restless energy that filled him, or the emotions that drowned all the words in his mind save for a desperate, hammering cadence. It cannae happen again! It cannae! It cannae!

Something caught him round the chest, a grip like a vise. Arms clenched tight around him, and a boot to the back of the legs brought him tumbling to his knees where he couldn’t fight his way free. A low voice sounded in his ear. “Alistair, ‘tis me. Breathe. Breathe.”

The words made no sense, the voice was familiar but he couldn’t think of the name. Then the arms about him tightened further, constricting his chest. Alistair choked, then forced a breath into his aching lungs. “Again. Breathe.”

He dragged in another breath, chest heaving, muscles straining against the grip that held him. Behind him, he heard his captor sucking in a strained breath of his own, the force of his grip constricting his airway as well.

Another breath. Then another. Gradually, the fog of panic and rage began to subside. The desperate hammering thoughts receded, driven from his mind by the need to focus on pulling in one breath after another.

Slowly, the world came back into focus, and with it, his thoughts began to regain some semblance of order.

Ewan. It was his brother who was holding him, speaking quietly in his ear.

His throat ached. He must have been screaming. But Ewan would never have trapped him, unless he’d first sent the scouts away. They were alone, or close enough to it.

Och… not again.

It wasn’t the first time he’d lost control of himself like this. Or as he had with the bandit two nights before. After the death of his father and Constance, he’d had spells of paralyzing grief, burning rage, and even bone-shaking terror that he was about to lose someone else he cared for. Ewan was the only one who could stop the bouts of near-mindless emotional shattering when they happened.

Alistair focused on his breathing for a moment longer, then deliberately focused his thoughts on what had caused the shattering of his control in the first place.

They’d found a campsite. There were signs of men and horses, and it was too orderly for brigands. It must have been mercenaries, or a troop controlled by another laird.

There was no reason for such a force to be on his lands, much less to have concealed themselves and then disappeared so quickly, unless they had been part of the plan to kidnap or kill Niamh. The plan he and Ewan had foiled two days ago.

The force was therefore under the control of Fergus MacTavish, who had intended to kill or steal away his wife. His men had withdrawn when the attempt failed.

Thinking such things still enraged him, but now, now that the first raw, brutal press of emotion was past, Alistair could think of the matter - not calmly, perhaps, but sanely. He could maintain his focus now.

He took another two breaths, then tapped Ewan’s arm three times, in the signal they’d agreed upon after the first time his brother had moved to calm one of his emotional storms.

A moment’s pause, then Ewan loosened his grip and shifted his position to give Alistair a full range of movement. “Are ye well?”

“Well as I can be. Thank ye braither. But ‘tis clear these men were connected tae the men who tried tae attack Niamh before. Which means, likely as nae, they’re MacTavish men, or under his pay.” Alistair grimaced. The words hurt his throat.

Ewan handed him a waterskin, and he drank, grateful for the coolness that eased the raw ache that burned from his chest to the back of his tongue. “What should we dae?”

“Nae much we can dae. The sellsword gave us a name, but ‘twould nae be enough fer us tae have sanction tae attack. Nae that we have the men nor resources tae dae so. As it is, all we have is a dying man’s word and indications, nay proof that Fergus was involved.”

“But ye ken he is.”

Alistair scowled. “Aye. I ken he is. But until he makes a mistake, I cannae act on it. ‘Tis like everything else he’s done tae this clan - he provokes and harries us, but never leaves traces by which we might seek retaliation without invitin’ censure or losin’ men we cannae afford tae lose.”

Ewan cursed. Alistair would have done the same, save that he felt far too spent from his outburst to do so. Such explosions of emotion were always exhausting.

Finally, his brother finished venting his own ire. Alistair handed him the waterskin, and Ewan drank deeply, then sighed. “What now?”

“Now we increase the patrols, especially on the border tae MacTavish lands. And we go back tae the castle, alert the Council, and continue tae prepare fer Samhain.”

Ewan opened his mouth with an expression that suggested he wanted to protest. Then he closed it with a huff. “I’d say ‘tis folly tae continue with Samhain plans, but the folk will be uneasy enough. Tae cancel the celebration o’ Samhain would create tae much unease, and too many rumors.”

Alistair nodded grimly. “I’ll nae let the blackguard win - neither by stealing me wife, nor by throwin’ me clan intae disarray and fear.”

“Best we were returning tae the castle then.” Ewan reattached the skin to his saddle, then peered closely at Alistair’s face. “Are ye recovered enough tae ride?”

It was a fair question. Alistair studied his hands. They weren’t shaking, the way they did sometimes in the aftermath of his outbursts. He felt weary, but not to the point that he couldn’t stay in his saddle. “I’m well enough.”

Together, they mounted and began the ride back to the castle. Alistair let Ewan take the lead. His thoughts were too full for him to pay proper attention to the path they needed to follow.

Fergus MacTavish was clearly planning something. But what were his intentions, and what did he hope to gain by his actions? Was he planning to try and drive Alistair mad with grief, or simply make him look incompetent and steal his clan’s confidence in him as a laird?

Whatever his goals, Alistair needed to unravel his plans, and soon. Otherwise, there was an uncomfortably good chance that his rival might succeed.

The knowledge sat uncomfortably in his gut, but so did the thought that circled his mind, unrelenting no matter how he tried to push it aside.

I’ll have tae tell Niamh. I dinnae wish tae, but telling her the truth and making sure she kens tae be on her guard is the only way tae keep her safe. She needs tae ken what Fergus MacTavish has done, and what he’s capable o’ beyond petty actions tae harm the clan.

‘Tis the only way, if I wish tae keep her from leavin’ me, or from bein’ too lost tae MacTavish’s machinations as Constance was.

Niamh woke to the maids setting up the morning meal, and no sign of her husband. She frowned. “Where is Laird MacDuff?”

“Beggin yer pardon, me lady, but the laird left early with his brother, master Ewan. They took a meal in the kitchen, then rode out, candle-marks ago.”

Niamh swallowed her disappointment. She’d come to look forward to their meals alone together. However, if Alistair was out with Ewan, it meant she didn’t need to come up with an excuse for her absence. She could simply leave, and no one would be the wiser, save the guards at the western gate.

She ate her meal and dressed warmly. After a moment’s thought, she went to the kitchen and requested a selection of sweet treats to bring as a gift. She might have included a flagon of mead or a bottle of wine, but she had no idea what the witch’s preferences were. Besides, she didn’t want to arouse too many suspicions.

Once she was ready, she made her way to the gate, armed with a basket in her arms, a set of shears and a story about wanting to clip some fresh herbs for a new sachet for her pillow. Outside the gate, she made a show of looking for herbs as she made her way west. Only when she was sure the guards were no longer paying attention did she lift her head and increase her pace, her steps purposeful as she made her way down the path.

It was a candle-mark or so before she reached the place where the path began to climb upward. Upon seeing it, Niamh understood why Catriona had said a horse would never be able to traverse the path. It was littered with stones of varying sizes, and narrow and twisting. It would be far too easy for a horse to pick up a stone or stumble.

After a moment to catch her breath, Niamh gathered herself and began the upward trek.

She hadn’t gotten far when she reached the trees, the shadows of their branches adding to the difficulty of the trail. By the time she was perhaps a quarter of the way up, Niamh’s shoulders were tight with the effort of keeping her footing, and her lower legs were feeling somewhat strained.

By the time she reached the place where the path finally turned level again, her brow was coated with sweat, despite the coolness of the day, it took a moment for her to catch her breath. Once she’d rested, she continued on.

She was beginning to fear she’d gone astray somehow when the trees opened to reveal a large clearing. In the middle was a good-sized cottage, well-maintained. At the door to the cottage was a woman, and she smiled as Niamh came into view. “Welcome, Niamh Cameron MacDuff.”

Niamh stopped, startled by the greeting as much as she was by the woman herself. It was clear by her words that this must be the witch, Sorcha, but she was nothing like Niamh had expected.

She had expected an elderly crone dressed in worn, homespun clothing, with gray hair, gnarled hands, and perhaps a hooked nose and warts.

In reality, Sorcha was a woman somewhere between her age and Alistair’s, with midnight black hair that gleamed almost blue in the sunlight. Her skin was pale and unblemished, almost luminous, as if one could see the magic glowing within her. Her frame was as slim and supple as a willow branch, clothed in simple dark robes ornamented with embroidered flowers, and a simple woven leather belt, from which hung talismans of bird feathers and other items.

Her eyes were a deep, gleaming blue, like a loch under starlight, shimmering with a power and a passion unlike any Niamh had ever seen. The touch of Sorcha’s eyes made Niamh feel as if she was being seen and known more completely than anyone had ever seen or known her before. It was mesmerizing, terrifying, and comforting all at the same time.

She swallowed hard. “Ye… ye are the Lady Sorcha?”

“Just Sorcha, lass. I am Sorcha MacBeth. And ye should come inside. ‘Tis nae so cold as winter will be, but ‘tis chilled enough fer a Lowland flower like ye tae catch a cold, and ye dinnae wish fer that.” Sorcha turned and disappeared into the cottage, leaving Niamh no choice but to follow, unless she wished to give up her quest for answers.

Hesitantly, she stepped inside the cottage. Inside, the rafters were festooned with herbs, which filled the air with a number of heady scents. To one side, shelves were heavy under the weight of bottles and jars, some of which contained herbs, others recognizable medicines, and still others with mixtures that Niamh had no desire to inquire too closely about.

Niamh caught Sorcha watching her and flushed. “I… me apologies. I… I brought ye some sweet biscuits and scones…”

“They’ll go well with the tea then.” Sorcha nodded to a sturdy wooden table near the fire, then turned to a pot in the ashes. She opened it, sniffed, then smiled and poured out two cups of the dark, steaming brew. “Here. Drink this.”

Niamh stared at the mug Sorcha handed her, wondering if it was some sort of potion, and what it would do. Sorcha sat down across from her, a knowing smile on her face. After a moment, she laughed, the sound like chiming bells. “Och, lass, ‘tis just tea. Nay reason fer ye tae stare at it as if I’ve served ye viper’s venom.”

Niamh watched as the witch - or was she perhaps a sorceress? - sipped from her own cup. They’d been poured from the same pot, so it should have been safe enough. She sipped.

The tea was delicious, herbal and fragrant, and it warmed her and soothed her aching muscles all at once. With a second sip, she found she could identify most of the herbs Sorcha had used, and the knowledge relaxed her still further. “Thank ye.”

“And thank ye for the biscuits.” Sorcha took one and bit gracefully into it. “’Tis been a long time since I have had such a treat.”

They sat for a moment in silence, enjoying the tea, before Sorcha set down her mug and gave Niamh a long, searching stare. “Ye have questions. Ye may ask them, and I’ll answer them as willingly and fully as I might.”

“Ye… I… I thought…”

“That I’d wish tae hold me secrets, or demand a trade?” Sorcha raised an eyebrow. “And why should I? I make me living in the dispensing and use o’ the knowledge I’ve gained through me skills, and I’ve nae need tae keep secrets, nor any desire tae keep confidences that are nay concern o’ mine, or that might prove troublesome tae others.”

Niamh swallowed hard. She had many questions, but one was first and foremost on her mind. “Why did ye curse me husband, Alistair MacDuff?”

Sorcha’s gentle expression twisted into a mask of rage, tinted heavily with grief. “Because he was the fool that got me sister killed.”

Niamh winced at her vehemence, even as she tried to comprehend the meaning behind it. “Yer… sister?”

Sorcha tipped her head, her expression smoothing over into calm once more as if the anger had never been there, though Niamh could still see it shimmering in her eyes. “How much dae ye ken about the woman whose ring ye wear as a marriage token?”

Niamh glanced at the ring in question. “I ken… it belonged tae Alistair’s first betrothed. Her name was Constance, and I ken she’s dead. But nay more than that.”

“I see.” Sorcha tapped one nail against her mug. “Then there’s a story ye need tae be told, and if Alistair isnae brave enough tae tell it himself, then I shall. Better that, than ye wander in ignorance.” She took a swallow of tea, then met Niamh’s gaze. “The first thing ye need tae ken is that the lass’s full name was Constance MacBeth, and she was me sister, and the last o’ me kin who I had any fond ties tae.”

Niamh swallowed hard. She could feel the hurt and loneliness in that statement. “Ye were close.”

“Close as two siblings could be. Many o’ the clan fear me gifts, and with reason - I am well skilled in both magic and herblore, mysticism and more. But Constance never minded. She was as true tae our sisterhood and our bond as her name suggested, and even when she fell in love with Alistair MacDuff, she refused tae set our kinship aside. I loved her as I’ve loved nay other, and never will love again. Were it nay that I wished her happiness, I’d have driven Alistair away. But she loved him true, and I couldnae stand between them, fer her sake.”

Niamh felt tears pricking at her eyes. “I… I understand, I think. I dinnae have sisters, but…”

“But ye’ve someone in yer life whom ye cherish, even though ye ken nae many would approve.” Sorcha gave her a searching glance. “Perhaps ye have some sense o’ it.”

She took another sip of tea. “In any case, Constance and Alistair loved each other, and I thought she would be happy with him. But ‘twas nae tae be. She had gone tae visit some kinfolk. Alistair should have gone with her, but he didnae. He and his faither were busy with the border wars and guarding the clan. He should have gone tae escort her when he heard there was trouble abroad, but he didnae. He asked his faither tae go in his stead.”

Niamh sat, spellbound by the tale. “And… something happened?”

“Fergus MacTavish happened, with a band o’ his men. A band o’ bloodthirsty murderers. They overtook Constance and the old Laird MacDuff on the road back tae MacDuff Castle. Alistair learned o’ the attack, but he arrived too late. Too late fer his faither or me sister.”

“I see.”

“’Tis worse. He didnae bring the healer, fer fear o’ her bein’ needed. Had he done… Constance might or might nae have survived her wounds, but certain sure, she’d have died in less pain. What those mad dogs did tae her…” Sorcha’s hands shook with rage, and she set the mug down to curl them into fists. “I couldnae have saved her - I was too distant. But he might have, had he only put her life and safety afore his own, and his precious clan.”

The way Sorcha spat the words, it was clear she meant Alistair. “So ye cursed him?”

“I gave him a chance. A chance tae avenge her, tae claim Laird MacTavish’s head in payment o’ Constance’s life. But he said ‘twould cause too much strife, too much harm tae the clan. I dinnae care if his words were cowardice or truth – ‘twas for Constance’s death and his failure tae avenge her, all in the name o’ ‘peace’, that I cursed him.”

Niamh wasn’t sure she agreed with Sorcha’s choice. However, she understood it. She could imagine something of what the other woman must have felt, especially when she recalled the rage she’d felt, and the anguish, when Alistair had threatened Grace.

She took a deep breath, then asked her next question. “What…what is the curse?”

“That the next woman Alistair MacDuff decides tae love - she will be his doom. If he cannae place her life above all else - himself, his clan, his kin - if he cannae love her more than all o’ those, then the day her life is endangered, his is forfeit. The next woman he loves will claim his life, either in truth, or, in claiming a devotion great enough that she is the center o’ it, nay trouble can touch her without leavin’ him dead on the floor first.”

It wasn’t the sort of curse she’d expected. And yet, it made sense. “’Tis a curse that he cannae claim he loves another, unless he is willing tae dae everything tae ensure she doesnae share yer sister’s fate.”

“Aye.” Sorcha nodded. “I couldnae save me sister, but I’ll nae let Alistair MacDuff fail another the same way.” A small, sad, knowing smile creased the beautiful face. “Ye came tae save yer husband from what ye feared was a terrible curse, and ye’re brave tae have done so, but the fact that ye have makes me all the more unwillin’ tae free him.”

Sorcha reached across to place a hand on Niamh’s. “Curse it is, but this spell protects ye from his failings. Dae ye understand?”

Niamh nodded. “I dae. But… I dinnae think Alistair loves me.”

Another knowing smile. “Time will tell. But dinnae tak’ it lightly that he wed ye, or that he’s kind tae ye, in the face o’ what his clan demands.”

Startled, Niamh looked up. What she saw in Sorcha’s face made her cheeks heat. “Ye ken…”

“I ken the secret ye keep, ye and Laird MacDuff. Ye may keep yer counsel on that, fer I understand the reason o’ it. However, if ye’re uncertain, and ye’ve a desire tae change yer decision - seek out yer cousin, and the woman who helps ye weave yer Samhain dress. They’ll give ye aid.”

Catriona and Moira? Well, Catriona was a healer, and Moira was wise and kind.

She wanted to ask more, but Sorcha rose. “Fer yer other questions, the answers are best found elsewhere. And ye’ll be wanting tae get home afore yer husband does.”

That was true. Niamh drank the last of her tea and rose. “Thank you fer explaining things tae me. And fer welcoming me. I ken… it cannae be easy.”

“’Tis nae. But ye’re more pleasant company than most.” To Niamh’s surprise Sorcha came around the table and kissed her brow. “For luck and courage lass. And if the darkness seeks ye, remember well, ‘tis nae just yer hair that holds the spirit o’ fire. Yer eyes are a window tae who ye are, and yers are the color o’ earth and life and strength - ye’ve more than ye ken o’ the last two.” She caressed Niamh’s auburn locks with a gentle hand. “Now go, and go safely.”

Unable to do anything else, or think of anything to say, Niamh bid her hostess a quiet farewell and left, her thoughts occupied by everything Sorcha had told her.

And on how to best broach the subject with her husband.