To Bewitch a Highlander (Isle of Mull #1)

Chapter Fifteen

F rom a distance, Ronan could see the village was not under attack. People were walking to and fro, going about their usual business. He even saw children at play. Everyone seemed oblivious to the constant clanging. Never had the bell been rung for so long. Urging his mount forward, he galloped into the village and did not wait for his horse to stop before he jumped down. He called out to all who stood by. “What danger is there?”

But no one replied.

“What is the matter with everyone,” he growled. “Why does the bell toll?”

Argyle approached him and rested his frail hand on Ronan’s shoulder. “’Tis yer mother, lad. She has taken ill with a mysterious malady. She is weak like one who has been sick for weeks or months.”

“Ye must be mistaken, for I saw my mother two evenings past. I assure ye, she was quite well. ”

“I have seen her with my own eyes, lad. She is as I say. Morna does not know what ails her nor does Father Colin. She has been bled, but her condition seems grave.”

He could not believe his mother was as ill as Argyle described. Just the night before last at supper, she had been laughing and calling out jests with their company. Argyle must be mistaken, but why would he lie? One thing he knew for certain was that he would never make sense of the matter with the endless ringing of the blasted bell. His hands flew to his ears. “Damn it, why does that bell still ring?”

“Yer father hopes the bell will draw the good Lord’s eyes so that he might look upon his daughter and heal her. The bell will ring until she is well again.”

Argyle’s words caused a shiver to creep up Ronan’s spine. He knew his father would not have made such a command if his mother’s condition was not desperate. He looked imploringly to his old friend, expecting to receive some words of comfort—perhaps there was hope—but the old man only shook his head. He backed away from Argyle, then turned and ran toward Dun Ara Castle. As he entered the small bailey, he saw Aidan.

“Ronan, at last. We’ve been scouring the moors and forest for ye,” he said loudly. Then he spoke for Ronan’s ears alone, “What took ye so long? Do ye know how hard it was to secure yer privacy in the midst of a search party?”

“I do not want to talk about that now. Tell me, Aidan, is my mother’s condition as Argyle described? ”

“I am sorry, Ronan. She is lost to fever.”

Ronan raced toward the keep as Aidan called after him. “Prepare yerself, my friend, she suffers.”

He rushed to the large doorway leading into the great hall. Then he sprinted up the stone stairs, taking three at a time. Outside his parent’s rooms sat Father Colin. The priest rose. His short hair stood straight on end from his hands pulling on the red strands with worry. A fleeting look of relief passed over his thin face as he saw Ronan, but his expression soon settled back into grim lines.

“It is good ye’ve come, Ronan. Yer father has wondered if yer presence might help. Her condition is grave, lad, but perhaps ye might bring her some peace.”

Ronan was stunned by his first view of Anwen. He froze in the doorway as a great fear crept into his heart. His kinsmen had tried to warn him, but nothing could have prepared him for the reality of his mother’s body soaked with sweat and tears and writhing in agony on his parent’s bed. He looked to his father whose haggard appearance made him seem older than his forty-nine years.

Nathair had yet to notice Ronan’s arrival. He was kneeling beside his wife, trying to still her trembling form. Ronan heard his father’s soft whispers crooning to the woman he loved. As if sensing Ronan’s presence, Nathair’s head snapped toward the door. Ronan saw a steady flow of tears drip into the MacKinnon’s beard. He rushed to kneel beside his father.

“Look to our lady, to my Anwen. Look at what has become of her. ”

Ronan took hold of his mother’s hand. “Mother, I am here now.” Her black hair, drenched with sweat, clung to hollow cheeks as pain-stricken eyes sought his own.

“Nachlan, is that ye,” she wheezed. “Nachlan, where have ye been? I’ve waited supper for ye.”

“Yer son, Nachlan, cannot be here, mother. ‘Tis me, Ronan.”

“Who are ye?” she cried. “Help me, Nachlan. Please help me. The pain is so great.”

A broad hand gripped Ronan’s shoulder. “She is lost to the fever, son. She does not know anyone. I was hoping...” Nathair choked on his words, letting them trail off.

It was clear that his father had prayed for his swift return, believing Anwen could never forget her only living son. Ronan stood, filled with resolution.

“Father Colin,” he called. “Have ye sent for the Abbot?”

“Dugald and Guthrie sail for the Isle of Iona even as we speak.”

He nodded his approval and turned toward the door. “Father, I will return presently. Remain by her side. If she becomes lucid, she will be frightened if ye’re not here.”

“Wait,” Nathair called. “Where are ye going?”

“I will be right back. I must speak with Aidan.”

“Aidan cannot help. Only the Heavenly Father can help her now.”

“There is one, father—a healer with skills that surpass our own. Aidan will sail without delay. ”

“And this healer, she will come to Mull without sending word or warning first.” Nathair ran his hand through his hair in agitation. “What if she refuses him?”

Ronan turned back and looked his father straight in the eye. “She will sail willingly with Aidan, or, at my command, he will bring her bound and gagged if need be. But, by my word, father, she will be here before nightfall tomorrow.”