The Highlander’s Tempting Touch

Chapter 38

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

S amhain Night was always confusing. Children, and sometimes adults, going guising. Clan folk dancing, drinking and offering up prayers by the light of the bonfires. There were always people coming and going, in such a whirlwind of activity that it was impossible for anyone to keep track of everyone. As laird, Alistair was often dragged into the midst of the revelry, and thus it took some time for him to realize that over a candle-mark had passed, and Niamh still had not returned to his side.

His first action was to make his way to the bonfire he’d seen her claim for her ritual. Perhaps she’d gotten caught up in her thoughts and her prayers, as sometimes happened. But when he circled the bonfire, there was no sign of her.

Unease prickled in his gut. He forced it down, then searched out Catriona, who was assisting in one of the children’s games near the food tables. “Have ye seen aught o’ Niamh?”

Catriona blinked at him, surprised. “I havenae. I thought she was accompanyin’ ye taenight.”

“She was, but she slipped away fer a private ritual o’ her own, and she hasnae come back.” Alistair swallowed hard.

Catriona’s expression mirrored his concern as she tipped her head in thought. “Perhaps taenight’s revelry was too stressful for her? She has been feelin’ a wee bit unwell o’ late? Mayhap somethin’ in the air upset her stomach, or gave her a headache?”

“Mayhap. I would have thought she’d come tae ye, or at least dae me the courtesy of lettin’ me ken she was planning tae leave.”

“If she thought ‘twas some temporary ailment, such as a bout o’ sickness, she might have expected tae come back, and thought she would return afore now.”

“Mayhap. But…” Alistair shook his head. Catriona’s explanation was a sensible one, a sound one. However, it did nothing to ease the growing sense of concern that was slowly tying knots in his guts. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Very wrong.

He caught a passing maid, preparing to carry empty serving plates back to the kitchens. “Deliver those tae the cook, then go and see if Lady Niamh has gone tae our chambers, her private rooms, or the healer’s cottage. Then come back and tell me what ye’ve discovered.”

“Aye, me laird.” The maid hurried away, and Alistair exhaled hard, praying with every fiber of his being that she would come back and tell him that Niamh had just been wearied, or emotionally overwrought, and was resting.

The seconds passed with agonizing slowness. Catriona pressed a cup of cider into his hand and he drank it, but it did little to help the growing tension within him. Ewan appeared at his side a short time later. “Ye look as if ye expect someone tae set fire tae yer kilt. Is there something ye’ve heard that I’ve nae?”

“Nae aught I’ve heard. But Niamh went tae perform a ritual o’ her own, and she hasnae returned tae me.”

Ewan grimaced in sympathy. “Ye cannae think…”

“I dinnae ken what tae think. Fer all I ken, the smell o’ roasted meat made her feel ill again. Or the exertion o’ dancing overwhelmed her.” Alistair growled. “And that’s all I hope ‘tis.”

Ewan nodded and fell silent, accepting his own cup of cider from Catriona as the three of them waited.

The maid returned, and Alistair read the answer in her face even before she spoke. “Me laird, I looked fer the lady as ye asked, but I didnae see any sign o’ her anywhere.”

Alistair cursed, softly and as vehemently as he dared, on a night when curses were likely to be heard by the dead, and therefore often more potent. “Come with me.”

He and Ewan went to the bonfire where he’d last seen Niamh. The two of them circled around it, searching, until finally Ewan stooped and grabbed something from the ground. He held it out.

It was a black ribbon. A ribbon that Alistair had last seen braided through Niamh’s hair.

Heat washed over him, then cold, then rage. He felt the world waver, as it had before, and fought to keep hold of his senses.

A hand on his arm, and a dull pressure he didn’t remember feeling before. Alistair blinked to clear his hazed vision and focused his eyes on the source of the pressure. It was an armband of woven leather circling his bicep.

Niamh’s armband, which she’d given to him as a Samhain blessing gift. The sight of it made his heart ache, but it also steadied him.

“She’s been tak’n.” The words hurt to say, but they needed to be spoken.

“We’ll get her back.” Ewan nodded.

Alistair turned to the crowd of revelers. “Have the servants and a token force o’ guards remain for the rest o’ the celebration. ‘Twill dae nay good tae cause distress fer the clan now. Gather the rest o’ the men and come with me.”

Ewan blinked. Then he shook his head. “And go where? We dinnae ken where she’s been tak’n or by who.”

“It has tae be MacTavish. He’s the only one bold enough.” Alistair snarled out the words.

“Ye dinnae ken that, and if ye tak’ soldiers ontae his land without kenning, then ye’ll spark a bloodbath.” Ewan caught his shoulders. “Think Alistair, o’ how many times we’ve sought compensation fer the raids, only for him tae claim they were mere bandits. And fer all ye ken, it might be bandits, seizing an opportunity in the chaos of Samhain tae fill their coffers and larders. It might even be…” He stopped, but Alistair could guess what he was thinking.

“It might be her .” The MacBeth witch, who had never forgiven him for the death of her sister, and cursed him to be doomed by the next woman he loved. It would not be beyond Sorcha’s powers to command the Fair Folk or other powers to spirit Niamh away, particularly on this night.

Even if Sorcha had not taken Niamh, she had the powers to determine who had, and where she had been taken. Alistair clenched his jaw. “Find me a horse. I will ride tae see her.”

Ewan stumbled to a stop, alarm on his features. “Alistair… she hates ye.” He swallowed. “I’ll go. I’ll ask her…”

“Nae. I’ll go. There’s nae telling if she’s involved or nae, but she’d spit in both our eyes and curse us both if I sent ye.”

“She willnae answer ye, nor relent if she’s the one who stole yer bride. Nae without demanding a stiff price.”

Alistair nodded. “I ken.” His hand reached across to touch the braided leather Niamh had given him such a short time before. “It daesnae matter.”

“Alistair…”

“It daesnae matter. Unless ‘tis Niamh’s life or yers, or one o’ Catriona’s family, there’s nae price I wouldnae pay tae get Niamh back.”

“And if the price is yer life?” Ewan’s words were sharp and biting.

“Then Clan MacDuff will have ye as a laird, and I’ll ask ye tae care of me wife with the respect and honor she deserves.” Ewan started to protest again, but Alistiar shook his head. “There’s nay point in arguing with me.”

Ewan grimaced. Then, slowly, he nodded. “All right. I’ll tell the Elders and the Council, as well as the captains o’ the warriors, and we’ll be ready when ye return.”

Alistair slipped his rank torc into his pocket, then made his way toward the castle. Slipping inside unnoticed was easy, now that he wasn’t immediately recognizable as the laird, and with the shadows of the dancing bonfires to aid him. The knowledge made his stomach churn.

We made it too easy fer someone tae sneak in among the clan folk. I should have insisted we stay inside the walls.

Alistair shook his head. There was no time for regrets. He had to find out where Niamh was, and then he had to get her back.

Within half a candle-mark of discovering Niamh’s disappearance, he was on the westward road, riding for the witch’s cottage with all the speed he dared use. Within the same time, he tethered his horse at the base of the steep wooded hills where Sorcha made her home, and was scrambling up the inclined path, almost running in his haste to find answers.

He stumbled into the clearing, his chest heaving and sweat stinging in his eyes, to find Sorcha standing like a statue in the moonlight, her eyes sharp and brilliant as diamonds. And just as cold. She looked regal and terrifying in her purple and black dress. “A bold move, tae disturb me on this night o’ all nights, Laird MacDuff.”

“I ken it. And I’d nae disturb ye on this night or any other, was me need nae dire.” He gulped in air and forced himself to remain calm. “Me wife, Niamh, has been tak’n. I want tae get her back, afore she comes tae harm.”

“And ye think I have her?” Sorcha snorted. “I’ve nay need tae steal yer wife away. If I had wished tae tak’ her from ye, I would have done that when she came tae speak tae me over a seven-day ago.”

“I ken.” In truth, he’d never truly thought Sorcha would steal Niamh away. What purpose would it serve? She had no need to stoop to such measures, not when she had the curse she’d placed on him. “But ye have ways tae ken who has her and where.”

“Aye. I have. But why would I lend them tae yer needs?” Her voice was icy, and Alistair fought not to flinch.

“Nae mine. Niamh’s. She’s done naught tae harm or offend ye, so far as I ken. She doesnae deserve tae endure yer wrath.” He swallowed hard. “I ken ye hate me fer yer sister’s fate. If ye want me life as the price o’ saving Niamh’s, I’ll surrender it tae ye.”

Sapphire bright blue eyes, deep as the ocean, held his, as if peering into his soul. Alistair let her look. Whatever she saw, she would know he was sincere.

Sorcha sucked in a breath, then tilted her gaze up to the stars, contemplating something he had neither the gifts nor the training to understand. Then she held out her hand. “Give me the band about yer arm.”

He would rather have given her something else, but it was not his place to try and divine a witch’s secrets, or her methods. He removed it and handed it over.

Sorcha took a silver blade of a design he didn’t recognize, and delicately trimmed the ends of the ties. She held them in her hand, breathed on them, then cast them into the smaller bonfire that blazed nearby.

The flames roared higher, twisting into shapes he didn’t recognize or understand. He watched Sorcha instead, half afraid that watching the fire might be considered an effort to learn secrets that were not his to know.

Then he heard Sorcha gasp, a sound that mingled surprise and concern. She passed her hands over the fire, through the smoke, in a pattern only she would recognize, her voice rising in a chant in a language that he had never heard before.

Moments later, she whirled to face him, her raven hair swirling about her like a cloak of night. “Fergus MacTavish has her, and his men are tak’ng her tae his stronghold in the northeast. Ye willnae catch the riders who stole her, fer they are swift as the wind. But ride hard with a handful o’ yer most trusted, and ye may be able tae reclaim her.”

She moved toward the fire again, casting in herbs, watching the smoke. “I will cast the spells tae give ye fair passage, and tae cloud his mind and keep him from killing her. Even at this distance, I can do that much, but nae more.”

“Then ‘twill be enough.”

“Aye. And a price I have fer ye. If all goes well, and ye bring yer lady home, then ye will offer yer life tae me blade, in payment for the two I have given ye this night.”

Alistair blinked. “Two?”

Sorcha smiled, the expression sharp as a blade caressed by the winter wind. “Yer lady’s illness is nae matter of ill-cooked food or too much smoke, nor any ailment caused by the season’s change. She carries yer child, Laird MacDuff, new formed but strong. She will ken soon, if she doesnae already, the precious life she bears.”

A child. His child. “We…”

“I ken.” She shook her head at him. “Stop wasting time, or ye may nae be able tae save them.” She lifted her chin and held his gaze. “Yer oath, tae pay what is demanded.”

Alistair felt his stomach churning, but he nodded. “Ye have me word.”

“Then ye will have me power flying afore ye.” Sorcha tossed the armband back to him, then pointed at the path. “Go, Laird MacDuff, and pray, if ye truly love this lass, that the next time I see ye, ‘tis with a dagger tae yer heart.”

As if a dagger to the heart would hurt any more than knowing that Niamh was in the hands of Fergus MacTavish. “Aye.”

There was nothing more to be said, though he made a note to ensure that one of the older, braver castle women should bring her a basket of smoked meat, wines and baked goods, as an offering of gratitude from the clan.

Alistair turned and left. As soon as his foot fell upon the path, he began to run, heedless of the risk of falling.

Niamh was in the hands of Fergus MacTavish, and Alistair was determined that she’d bear the captivity for not one breath longer than she had to.

Let Sorcha take his life. He’d expected death ever since she’d cursed him. As long as Niamh and the bairn - their child - came home safe and unharmed, then he couldn’t care less.