Page 41 of Only a Highlander Will Do

Tormod made his way to the solar, hoping to find Alastair, but the room was empty. He eyed a chair by the hearth, pondering if he should continue his search or simply wait for Alastair to appear. Making his way to the chair, he decided to wait. His brother would return any moment, he was certain.

In the meanwhile, he would sit here and allow himself a few moments of rest. His eyelids drifted closed. Behind his eyelids he saw a bright burst of orange and yellow. Probably the flames in the fire dancing as they consumed the logs someone else had tossed inside. Even as the colours of the fire reached out to Tormod, he shivered and the edges of his mind faded as he fell into a dream.

The smell of burning wood filled his senses, and the pop and hiss of the fire came to his ears. The brightness before him intensified and yet separated until he could see both the night sky filled with a thousand stars and a roaring bonfire like the one they usually built to celebrate Samhain. In his mind’s eye an image appeared. Nay, two. The blurred edges of the figures lessened and Tormod could see his brothers, Alastair and Orrick, standing before a burning pyre.

The savoury smell of roasted venison merged with the sweet scent of apples and the heady aroma of freshly made ale. All around him people danced as Callum played a lively tune on his mandolin.

Fiona appeared suddenly, standing before the fire dressed in all black. Why would she be wearing widow’s weeds when he was right there beside her? Except that he wasn’t. His body was stretched out in front of the fire on the grass. A bright red stain covered his white muslin shirt, and a dagger still protruded from his chest.

Tormod came awake with a start. The images of the vision faded from his mind, but not the tension it had created. The sound of his heartbeat pounded in his ears. Had his dream foretold his own death at the hands of the MacDonalds? Or was he so tired that fanciful imaginings had started to intrude from his thoughts to his dreams?

“Tormod?”

At the sound of his name he turned to see Alastair standing beside him, looking down with grave concern etched on his brow.

“I was waiting for you to return. I need to talk to you about—”

“You look terrible, Brother. When was the last time you slept?”

Tormod straightened in the chair and pushed his hand through his hair. “A few moments ago.”

“Whatever happened when you closed your eyes, it wasn’t sleeping. You cried out like I haven’t heard since you were a child.”

“I died in my dream.”

The furrow in Alastair’s brow eased. “All men dream of dying before a battle.”

“Not me,” Tormod said. “Not until today.”

Alastair’s lips curled up in smile. “That is because until a few days ago, you didn’t have a reason to live. Marriage changes a man.”

A heaviness settled in Tormod’s stomach. Was that all this overwhelming sense of doom was? Just his fears playing themselves out in his dreams? “I hope you are right. And I certainly expect a funeral with far more fanfare than burning my body in the Samhain bonfire.”

Alastair laughed. “We’ll have a wake like no other when you are old and grey, and after you’ve sired a dozen sons and daughters.”

The sound of his brother’s voice warmed Tormod’s spirit. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“On my honour.” Alastair placed his hand over his heart. “But only if you go abovestairs and get some real sleep.”

Tormod stood, intending to leave. “I must go back and check on Fiona.”

Alastair stayed him with a hand. “Gwendolyn is with Fiona. You rest. Now. That’s an order from your laird.”

Tormod knew when he was defeated, so instead of arguing, he nodded and headed for the closest bed. Hopefully, he would find slumber this time instead of dreams that made him doubt his own longevity.

Chapter Fifteen

Fiona fought her way through the darkness once more and opened her eyes. The flesh at her neck felt raw and the rest of her body felt bruised. But she was comfortable, lying in a warm bed back at Dunvegan.

Then her earlier conversation with Tormod came back to her. He was going to war with the MacDonalds. Fiona tried to sit up but found she had little strength to do so.

“You’re awake.” It was Gwendolyn’s voice, low and melodious. She came to sit at the bedside and gazed down at Fiona with concern. “We’ve all been so worried about you. Can I help you sit and perhaps get you to take some broth to help you rebuild your strength?”

Fiona tried to nod, but that sent a jolt of pain through her throat, and simply said “aye” instead.

Gwendolyn tucked several pillows behind Fiona’s back until she was sitting upright enough to take the teacup her friend offered. The rich aroma of chicken broth woke up Fiona’s senses and she brought the cup to her lips to sip the heated liquid.

Fiona winced. Though the broth was not hot, it felt like it burned all the way down her throat. But once she got past the initial pain, the remainder of the cup went down much easier. When her thoughts were clearer, she sat forward under her own power. “Where are Mrs Bagley, Higgins, and Ginny? They didn’t . . . They aren’t . . .”