Page 8 of Duncan

Even as she knew the fall would not end the healer, it had given her a perverse sense of pleasure to watch him land. Duncan MacMar had always been such a lordly hairsplitter, his manner so lofty he hardly seemed like the other clansmen. Indeed, she sometimes wondered if he possessed any mortal blood at all. To see his long legs and arms flailing as he plummeted, unable to save himself, had been most gratifying.

Now you ken what ’tis, made helpless like me.

“I need go home,” she muttered as she finally retreated from the cliff, and walked through the shadowy gardens. Her arms itched, but with her thin skin if she scratched them she’d likely draw blood. “Aye, ’tis a good notion. I shall work hard at the farm and fret no more over that facking web-fingered sea-swiller.”

“Is that you, Meg?” Lady Valerie, the woman from the future who had first arrived on Caladh, appeared on the path ahead of her. With her soft blonde curls and elegant blue silk gown she seemed every inch the laird’s wife. “Goodness, what are you doing out here? Brochan has been looking for you—he said you promised him a dance.”

Would the nosy ken-all ever leave me in peace? She wondered idly, and then realized she’d wrapped her fingers around the dagger she carried in her apron pocket.

“Meg?” The other woman frowned as she peered at her. “Are you all right? You look very pale.”

Lady Valerie seemed to care for her, much as the stepmother Meg only distantly remembered. She certainly hadn’t done anything that deserved sinking a blade into her heart—she had only grabbed her dagger because she had been startled, that was all. She should reassure the laird’s wife before she ran off to hide.

“’Tis the moonlight, my lady.” She sniffed. “As for a promise to the cook, never did I offer such. Great lummox’s so clumsy, he’d smash both my feet.” She gestured casually back toward the cliff stairs. “Duncan’s found a strange female who swam in from the bay. From her garb I reckon she’s another castaway like you and the other ladies.”

Valerie looked astounded. “Another one, really? I’d better go back.” She turned and hurried toward the stronghold.

Meg retreated to the shadows again, and followed the outside curtain wall until she reached the back gate. The guards smiled at her as they raised the portcullis, and she waved as she passed under it. They did not know the crazed thoughts careening inside her head, thank the Gods. Was she going mad, then? Nothing else could explain the change that had come over her this past moon. She kept her pace slow as she followed the trail to the wide glen beyond Dun Ard. Only when she was out of sight of the watchers did she run for the hills, ignoring the tall grasses as they lashed her skin like thousands of thin whips.

The thing that had been growing inside her twisted and scratched, wanting her to do something more than simply run.

By the time she reached the slopes, Meg should have been out of breath, but instead her body seemed to glow with heat and power. Her fingers itched, and when she stopped and lifted her hands she saw blood rimming all of her fingernails. As she turned her hands over, glistening red crescents marred her palms, shocking her. She’d never harmed herself like this, nor touched a blade in Lady Valerie’s presence. She had never once in her life behaved like a crazed loon.

Except when I go near the water, Meg thought, tired and sick. Then my skin crawls as if ’twere an ocean of snot, and awakens the thing inside my belly.

Weary now, she made her way to the small cave she’d found some days past when she’d needed to escape the watchful eyes of the laird’s wife and the MacMar. She’d stolen some linens, food and drink from the stronghold, and now lay on the bed she’d made in the back of the cave, grimacing as the willow branches under the linens creaked. She eyed the jug of pear juice she’d filched from the kitchens, but the knots tightening in her throat meant she’d only puke it back up. Nor did she hunger for the food she’d squirreled away.

Meg didn’t know what she wanted. She wished to believe she was sick, perhaps dying, but the itching had always been with her, and had only grown stronger since her greedy bastart of a sire had sold her and her younger sisters to slavers.

She closed her eyes, and of course the ungodly stunning face of Merrick appeared in her head. Tall, golden-haired and jewel-eyed, the Finfolk king had long tormented her with his many charms. She’d pretended to despise him for as long as she could, and then he had confessed his love, and offered her his heart. He didn’t care that she was Érieann, or that she had been sold for money like livestock. He didn’t even look down on her for serving as a chambermaid.

Merrick had plenty of his own reasons not to care for her. He was a true monarch, born to the throne, and had always been expected to mate with a female of noble blood among his kind. Among the Finfolk, females with bright red hair were considered such bad luck that they refused to mate with any mortal female with such coloring. The king was not even human, and before any mortal woman could wed him he was obliged to use his magic to change her into one of his own kind, which condemned his wife to be bound to live underwater for eternity.

Meg pressed the heels of her hands against her burning eyes. Yet try as she might she could not forget their last meeting, at which Merrick had torn at her own bruised, sullen heart with his passionate pleading.

If I dinnae kiss you, I’ll die. If you dinnae come to me, I’ll die. If you dinnae permit me change you, I’ll die. If you dinnae love me, I’ll die.

She uncorked the jug and took a long drink from it, gasping in surprise at the fiery bite of Brochan’s special spiced perry. Tasting like heaven on the tongue before burning its way to hell down the throat, the cook’s spirit was highly prized by the clan. She recalled tasting it once at the laird’s first wedding to Lady Joana, and coughing with watery eyes after one sip. This time the perry seemed to soothe the thing clawing and writhing in her, until it finally went still. She wished she could talk with anyone about what was happening to her, but the only woman she had truly trusted had died to protect the clan.

You should confide in Duncan, lass, Lady Joana had long ago advised her. She had believed Meg’s symptoms came from her female monthly troubles. He may ken a cure for the cramping.

On that day Meg had gone to the infirmary to do just that, finding it empty. She’d waited there for a few moments, until a thumping sound made her glance at the healer’s locked black cabinet where he kept the odd enchanted things that washed up on the shores of Caladh. As the door shook again, more thumps and thuds sounded, and tiny beams of green and blue light came through the sides and center seam of the doors. She’d turned and fled, and never again spoke of her affliction to anyone.

The strong spirit must have put to sleep whatever wound up inside her during such spells. If she drank whenever it plagued her, could that stop them altogether? She took another big swallow from the jug, tears spilling down her cheeks as she endured the burn of the spirit.

“Margret, come out and speak with me.”

The sound of Shaw MacMar’s voice made her drop the jug, which fell over and spilled a puddle onto the dirt. As she righted it, she thought of what she could say and do in this situation, and wondered if he’d believe her. She’d always had a friendly understanding with the most dangerous man on the island, but there was another part of him that only looked on her as it lusted for her blood and death.

Dinnae make them wait.

Meg rose and walked out to where the chieftain stood barefoot with only a pair of old trews covering the lower half of his body. Strange black tattoos, inked on him by Pritani slavers that had captured him as a lad, moved restlessly on his arm, shoulder and chest. The demon spirit that had been forced into Shaw through the enchanted ink enabled the chieftain to move like black water, and gave him incredible powers that no mortal or immortal could challenge. Although he made his brothers uneasy, and terrified the clan’s vassals, Meg took comfort in his presence on the island.

If I go mad, he shall surely end me before I may slay anyone.

“What do you here, Chieftain?” She leaned against the side of the cave’s entry, tucking her hands under her arms to hide the tiny wounds on her palms. “Surely your lady saves her next dance for you.”

Reminding him of Julianne Scott was a deliberate prod; Shaw had been saved again and again by the towering blonde woman, who had come from the future with him after rescuing him in her time. Although both had faced many trials since her arrival, they had become one of the most devoted couples on Caladh. Julianne had even somehow managed to somewhat tame the chieftain’s demonic beast.