Page 29 of The Warrior
“’Tis good we’re nearing land,” Duncan said. “We need to find help for him.”
Moira leaped to her feet. When she saw land in the distance, her heart beat fast. Seven years she had waited to see her home again.
“Is that Skye?” she asked. “It doesn’t look like I remember it.”
“The storm blew us miles off course,” Duncan said. “That is Skye, but we’re headed for the MacLeod end of the island.”
“My son is with the MacLeods,” she said
“Our being taken hostage would not help bring your son home to Dunscaith,” Duncan said.
But perhaps she could be with him. She wished she knew whether the MacLeods had Ragnall here on Skye or at their fortress on the isle of Harris.
“See that small bay?” Duncan pointed toward the shore. “It belongs to the MacCrimmons. The MacLeod chieftain gave it to them as reward for serving as the MacLeods’ hereditary pipers. That’s where I’ll try to land.”
“Won’t these MacCrimmons deliver us to the MacLeods?” she asked.
“I’m hoping they won’t since I’m kin of sorts,” he said. “My mother’s mother was a MacCrimmon.”
Why did she not know that? What else didn’t she know about him?
“All the same, let’s not tempt them by telling them ye are the MacDonald chieftain’s only sister,” Duncan said.
Not that Connor cared what happened to her.
Duncan touched the back of his fingers to Niall’s forehead. Then, using an oar in place of the broken rudder, he guided the boat toward the MacCrimmon cove. At the same time, he minded the sail and bailed with one hand. Did he think she was useless?
“Let me do that,” Moira said, snatching the bucket from him.
Duncan picked up a large wooden bowl that was floating in the bilge and began to bail with that. The land was farther away than it looked, and it seemed like they bailed for hours. Despite the cold winter mist, Moira was sweating when they finally drifted into the cove. A small crowd had gathered on the shore. The men had their blades drawn.
“Your MacCrimmon relations don’t look friendly to me,” she said.
* * *
Duncan grounded the boat and hopped over the side. As he dragged it up on shore, several men with unsheathed blades surrounded him. The women and children gathered on the beach stared at him from behind their men.
“I am the great-grandson of Duncan MacCrimmon,” Duncan said. “I have an injured man in desperate need of a healer.”
Without waiting for permission, Duncan lifted Niall’s limp body out of the boat.
A young, fair-haired woman pushed through the men and peered down at Niall. “He’s in a bad way,” she said and then turned to one of the warriors. “Take him to my cottage.”
Luck was finally with them. They had found a healer. Duncan let the MacCrimmon man take Niall from him so he could help Moira out of the boat.
“Ye must come to my cottage as well.” The young woman took Moira’s arm and gave Duncan a sour look. “Big fellow like you should be ashamed of yourself.”
By the saints, the healer thought he had done that to Moira’s face.
Moira touched her swollen jaw, as if she had forgotten her injuries. “I’m fine,” she said. “And it wasn’t him that did it.”
“Wasn’t your husband?” Duncan heard the healer say as he followed behind the two women toward a line of cottages built along the shore. “That’s a story I want to hear.”
It was odd to hear the healer mistake him for Moira’s husband. For the first time, it struck him that Moira was free. Hope was a foolish thing. He had no reason to believe Moira would have him now, or if she did, that he could keep her. Yet, despite the unremitting disasters since they were reunited, hope sparked in Duncan’s chest for the first time in seven years.
* * *
Moira sat on the edge of the bed holding a vile-smelling compress to her eye while she felt Niall’s forehead with her free hand. Praise God, his fever was down. Despite all the commotion in the little cottage, he was sound asleep. Duncan had had to hold Niall down while the healer cleaned and sewed up the wound on his leg, and the process had sapped Niall’s strength.
