To Bewitch a Highlander (Isle of Mull #1)

Chapter Twenty Two

A morning of farewells and of tears unfolded before Ronan. He watched his men comfort their wives and children. Maids gave Aidan and the other unmarried men flowers for luck, and they blushed when they received kisses in return. He sat stiffly on his horse, gripping the reins, his knuckles white from the strain. Maids approached his side, but then scattered when they noticed the deep scowl furrowing his brow. He paid them little heed. It was Shoney who interested him.

He stared at her over the sea of villagers. She warmly returned the greetings of warriors as they passed. Ronan saw her flash Aidan a brilliant smile, but she did not spare him a glance. Her stance was as strong and enduring as the cliffs, but her true feelings were revealed by her hands, which, like his, were bound in tight fists.

The devil take her anger.

He had invited her fury last night, and he certainly didn’t blame her for being vexed with him. But how could he allow her to return to her home, unprotected and alone? At least in the village, he knew she would be safe. When he returned, he would soothe her temper and make amends—if he returned .

He shook his head. He did not doubt the power of Shoney’s gift. But he had never put much stock in prayer and did not think visions differed so greatly. He believed men made their own destiny.

“The hour grows late,” the Mackinnon shouted. “Clan MacKinnon, our king fights to defend the sovereignty of all western isles against the tyranny of King Haakon.”

The clan cheered in response.

“For Mull and for Scotland, we go to war,” the MacKinnon cried. Then he turned and looked to Ronan.

Raising his sword high in the air, Ronan sounded the battle cry of the clan. “Remember the Death of King Alpin.”

Then, as if one body, the warriors reached behind their backs, withdrew their swords in unison and repeated the cry with a deafening roar, “Remember the Death of King Alpin!”

“To the ships, lads,” the Mackinnon ordered.

The men mounted their horses and started toward the docks. Ronan rode alongside Aidan, his mind on the journey ahead, but he chanced one last glance at Shoney.

“God’s blood,” he swore. Her face had crumpled.

He spun his horse around and rode back through the lines of mounted warriors and the throng of villagers. He stopped directly in front of where she stood, leaned down and scooped her into his arms.

“I will return,” he whispered. Then he kissed her long and hard and groaned as she dug her fingers into his flesh and pulled their bodies closer. As he pulled back, he gave her a lazy smile.

“Well,” he said. “Our secret is out now.”

“Not entirely,” she reminded him.

“Ye’re my pagan queen, Shoney,” he whispered.

She stared at him as silent tears fell. Her eyes reflected the ache in her heart, and Ronan knew her vision was to blame. She already mourned his death.

“Shoney,” he whispered into her ear. “I will return.” Then he smiled and wiped the tears from her eyes. “I would not rob ye of yer chance to punish me for the way I earned yer promise to stay.” Straightaway, the hot fire he craved returned to her gaze.

“That’s right, Shoney. Stay angry with me. Yer anger will fuel yer strength.”

He kissed her again and deposited her back on the ground as the clan erupted into a new chorus of cheers, celebrating their kiss. The warriors also cheered as he rejoined their ranks—all but his father whose lips formed a grim line.

“Ye’ve made yer choice then,” Nathair said.

“Aye, father. My choice, not yers,” Ronan rejoined.

The MacKinnon shrugged. “The matter is no longer of importance...for now,” he warned.

SHONEY WATCHED AS THE men disappeared over the ridge. The quickest route to Largs was to sail south down the Sound of Mull, through the ocean around the mainland, and into the Firth of Clyde, but that would send them straight into the heart of the Norse fleet. Instead, they would sail north to Loch Linnhe where they would dock on the mainland, and then complete the forty-league journey to Largs on foot. Morna said the journey would take most of a fortnight. They should arrive just as autumn took hold of the land and sea. Then war would begin, and Ronan would die.

Shoney choked on sobs aching for release. Ronan’s manipulation of her body to secure his will left her feeling hurt, but she was also grief stricken, knowing she would never see him again. Her head began to spin, and for once in her life, she craved solitude. But everywhere she turned people stood nearby.

“Bridget, my lass, come here.” Morna took Shoney in her arms and stroked her hair. “Hush, do not fret, dear. He will return.”

“Mayhap,” Shoney whispered as tears coursed down her cheeks.

“His fate is in his own hands, Bridget, and no one’s hands could be stronger or more capable than Ronan’s. He will return to ye,” she said. Then she smiled. “Now aren’t ye one for surprises. No one knew ye were sweet on each other,” she winked. “Now wipe yer eyes. There’s work that needs doing.”

Shoney did as she was told. Morna’s faith in Ronan’s return gave her hope. Mayhap Morna and Ronan were right. Perhaps, ultimately, everyone determined their own fate. She would fight to fill her heart with faith rather than despair. To keep her mind from visiting dark places, she reconciled to throw herself into work. She wiped her eyes, tossed her long braid off her shoulder, and straightened the belt around her borrowed green tunic.

“Alright, Morna,” she said. “I am ready. Put me to work.”

“That’s my brave lass,” Morna said, smiling.

As they walked back to the village, Shoney counted twenty men walking toward the training fields.

“Why did so many warriors stay behind?” she asked.

“To guard against an attack from the south, of course. The MacLeans are just the sort to wait until only women and children stand between their thieving hearts and our full stores. The tall one there with red hair is Bhaltair. He is in command of the warriors while the others are away.”

“But women can defend their homes the same as men,” Shoney said.

“Oh, bless me. Bridget, the last time I took up a bow was never. The MacLeans are no match for our lads, but they are still trained warriors. ‘Tis best if the fighting is left to the men.”

“Why did the MacLean not answer the call of the king?” Shoney asked.

“Their loyalty lies where the least risk waits. If they thought the Norse would win, they likely would have backed King Haakon. They have chosen not to put their oar in with either King. Angus MacLean must not like the odds either way. They are cowards devoted to nothing and loyal to no one. ‘Tis wicked to castoff one’s heritage so easily.”

Shoney dropped her head. Morna’s words shamed her. What would her mother think of her now? She was Bridget MacLeod, traitor to her birth and faith, deserter of her heritage. Mother of all, her life was conflicted; she no longer knew what was right and good.

“Hurry now, Bridget. The bolls on the flax have turned brown. ‘Tis time we start the harvest.”

Shoney sped along to keep up with Morna. Perhaps she would find the answers she sought in toil, and if not, at least it would provide a distraction.

“Bridget,” someone shouted. She looked to see who called. It was the small lad who had teased Shoney and Una about the burnt bannock.

“’Tis mum,” he huffed. “The baby is on the way.”

“Morna, I have been taught much about childbirth. I know many remedies for complications, but I have never myself even witnessed a birth.”

“Ye’re always one for surprises, Bridget.” Morna chuckled. “Whoever heard of a healer that had never attended a birth?” Then she turned to the lad. “Come along. Take us to yer mum.”

“PUSH NOW, UNA. PUSH with all yer might.”

It seemed to Shoney the Mother of all had heard her prayer—she had found little time to think over the past several weeks. She had delivered two babies since Ronan’s departure and was in the midst of a third, but this little one was resisting her entry into the world. Shoney grew increasingly concerned over the well-being of the child and her mother.

Shoney threw aside a pile of rags soaked with blood. “She is bleeding out. I cannot stop it. We must help her push, or she will not survive. Morna, be ready to catch the child. Anwen, ye and I must massage her abdomen.” Shoney moved to kneel beside Una’s bulging belly.

“Lay yer hands flat right here beneath her chest and massage in a downward motion, applying pressure as ye go. Increase the pressure when her pains come again.”

While Shoney rubbed, she called to Una so that she might hear her through the mire of pain and fatigue.

“Ye must push with us, Una. Push.”

“I see its head. He is coming,” Morna cried.

“Did ye hear that, Una? Yer baby is coming.” Shoney said. Then she turned to Anwen, “As soon as her next pain begins, start again. Do not stop applying pressure until the babe arrives.” Anwen nodded. Just then, Una started to writhe against a fresh pain.

“Now,” Shoney cried.

She leaned into Una’s abdomen, firmly stroking down repeatedly. She heard the struggles of the other women as they strained in unison.

“That’s it, Una. That’s it. Oh, Bridget, he’s coming,” Morna exclaimed.

Shoney groaned from the strain, and then suddenly the tension in Una’s abdomen released. Shoney burst into tears when she saw the babe spill forth into Morna’s awaiting arms.

“He’s arrived,” Morna cried. “Ye did it, Una. At long last, he is here.” Soon the wailing cry of the new babe filled the hut, but Shoney did not look up. Una’s life was still in jeopardy.

“Anwen bring more clean rags and some dried quickgrass and mugwort oil. Mix the two into a thick salve and be quick. I will need it the moment Una releases the birthing sac.” Una managed one more push at Shoney’s request, and the sac slid from her body.

“Quickly, Morna, pass the nettle brew from the table.” Shoney poured the contents over Una’s swollen flesh. “It will ward off infection.”

“Here is the salve, Bridget.” Anwen handed her a small dish. Shoney scooped the paste and smeared where Una’s skin was torn. Shoney looked up to see Morna place the swaddled baby in her mother’s arms.

Una smiled weakly. “He is so beautiful. Is he not, Morna?”

“Aye, Una, surely he is the sweetest babe I’ve ever seen.”

Shoney moved to kneel on Una’s other side and felt her forehead. “He’s perfect, but ye’re a wee bit warm, love. I will brew a tea to cool yer fever. But first drink this broth. Ye must eat for yer milk to come.”

Una grabbed hold of Shoney’s hand and brought it to her lips. “I will call him Guthrie, but had I bore a baby girl I would have called her Bridget. Truly ye’ re an angel sent from heaven. God bless ye. And dear Morna and Anwen,” Una said, turning to the other women. “May all the saints and angels bless yer hearts.”

Shoney smiled and kissed her dear friend’s cheek, “Let little Guthrie suckle. Then ye must rest.”

“Ye should also rest, Bridget.” Morna said. “I will sit with her a while.”

“And ye, Morna, do ye ever sleep?” Shoney asked.

“Don’t ye fret about me, Bridget. There will be plenty of time for me to rest in the hereafter.” Morna pressed a kiss to Shoney’s forehead. “Go on dear, ye seem pale to me.”

“I am feeling a little lightheaded. Thank ye, Morna. Fetch me if her fever worsens.”

SHONEY AWOKE TO FIND her hut cloaked in darkness. She wondered how long she slept. She still did not feel altogether well. Pulling herself to her feet, she trudged across the ground and out the door. The village was quiet. It must have been the middle of the night.

She needed to eat something, but the idea of food made her stomach twist. Toiling day in and day out for weeks had finally taken its toll. Every day she labored with the other women to prepare for the harvest. Each day also brought new injuries and ailments. When Shoney returned in the evening to her hut, there seemed to always be someone awaiting her healing touch. It was no wonder she was exhausted. Una’s labor drained what little energy she had left. But even still, she had not actually given birth herself—it was Una alone who deserved to be so weary. Worry for Una and little Guthrie distracted her as she wondered whether they rested soundly.

Remembering Una’s brush with death caused Shoney to shudder. Gribun would cease to be the same without her beloved friend’s quick laughter and constant strength. She could not have loved Una anymore if she had been her birth sister, and to think she would have named her baby Bridget if wee Guthrie had been a little girl. Shoney groaned aloud with shame. Lies, lies, and more lies—such was the foundation of her newfound friendships.

A wave of nausea gripped her. Several deep breaths later, the feeling passed. She looked to the moon for comfort, but the sight caused her to inhale sharply. It was full like a woman ripe with child.

“Mother of all,” Shoney cried, her arms crossing to encircle her waist. She had missed her cycle but had been too busy to notice. She tried to remember back to her last bleeding, but she could not say for sure, which meant only one thing.

She turned back inside, closed the door, sunk to the ground, and sobbed. In her womb grew a babe, a babe whose mother was a fraud and whose father was fated to die.