When she remained silent, Faolan settled back, shifting to prop his elbows on the curved wooden armrests of the chair. Stroking his chin, he studied the woman. Haggard face, drawn skin, she looked to suffer from complete exhaustion and from the hang of her clothes hadn’t eaten in quite a while. He understood how she might want him to take the boy to the keep, especially with winter coming on. But what did she mean about this gratitude for returning the boy’s life to her? She didn’t make any sense. “Why do ye say ye’re giving me the boy in gratitude? Why don’t ye just ask that I take him to the keep? Have ye no man? Are ye widowed? Why do ye say ye are grateful?”
With a shaking breath, her head trembled to one side as she rested her hands upon her son’s shoulders. The woman stared at Faolan with a look of disbelief etched across her face. “Ye sent your wife out to my croft, mighty laird. She told us so herself.
She brought us more food than we’ve seen in many a day since my husband passed to the grave. She brought herbs that broke my son’s death fever, and willed the very life back into his eyes. She said ye told her we were doing poorly. She said ye kept up with the welfare of every member of your clan. The woman must be descended from the mother goddesses themselves. Ye have mated wisely, honored laird.”
Faolan shifted uneasily in his chair at the woman’s words. There it was again…more unanswered questions about Ciara. He rose to his feet and circled the table. With a steady hand, he lifted the boy’s chin, peering down into the lad’s face.
“How old are ye, son?” The boy’s skin appeared as delicate as parchment; his veins pulsed like pale blue rivulets tracing down the side of his face. Chapped lips trembled; his sunken eyes grew even rounder, as the shy lad whispered a hoarse reply. “Ten years, sir.”
Disturbed to discover the scrawny boy was even older than he’d first thought, Faolan’s scowl deepened as he returned to his seat behind the table. Perhaps a bit of distance between himself and the boy might calm the poor lad’s shaking.
As he returned his gaze to the worried mother’s face, Faolan folded his hands on the desk in front of him. “How long have ye been without your husband to provide for ye? Did your neighbors not offer to help?” The idea that the people of this village had allowed the helpless woman and her ailing son to nearly starve troubled Faolan’s heart. The MacKay clan always took care of their own. It was one of their greatest strengths.
The proud woman lifted her chin as her fingers tightened about her son’s shoulders. “My husband died last winter. He was a fisherman taken by a storm upon the sea. Our bit of land is several miles from here; our croft sits right upon the shore. We usually sold our fish to a village lying farther west that owes fealty to the Kincaid clan. Since we live on the border, no clan truly claims us or looks after us as their own. But my mother was a MacKay by birth. I have always claimed this clan as my own.”
Faolan motioned one of his personal guards forward and indicated the man with a nod. “This is Dougal MacKay. He will travel with ye to your croft and help ye pack your belongings. Both you and your son shall come to the keep. Mistress Sorcha can always use an extra hand in the kitchens and I’m sure once the lad has regained his health, we shall find plenty for him to do in the stables.”
As Faolan spoke, the woman shattered into tears, her shaking hands clenched to her chest. “Blessings upon ye, Laird Faolan MacKay. Blessings to ye and your wife. May ye have many healthy sons. I swear to ye, my chieftain. Ye will ne’er find two more loyal servants. I canna thank ye enough.”
For the first time since the woman had pulled him into the room, the little boy’s face relaxed and regained a bit of color. He actually managed a trembling smile and glanced up through his scraggly hair.
Dougal ushered them from the room, stooping to pick up the boy before they reached the door as he weakly staggered against his mother. Faolan watched them leave, his chin resting in his hand, his heart warmed by the new light of hope he’d seen reflected in the woman’s eyes.
He drummed his fingers on the table, not bothering to turn as he spoke to the man standing in the corner. “Angus. I know ye stand in the shadows. I can hear the shuffle of your oversized feet. I think perhaps ’tis time you and I talked and ye told me everything ye know.”
Angus lumbered forward; his hands wringing together; his eyes darting around the room as though he sought a shield from Faolan’s piercing glare. “I suppose ye’ll be wanting to hear about your wife’s day? Ye’ll be proud to know the people warmed right up to her. They welcomed her with open arms.”
“That would be a good place to start, Angus, after ye tell me where she is right now.”
Faolan leaned back in the chair and clasped his hands behind his head. He surveyed the man fidgeting in front of him as he crossed his ankles to prop his feet on the table. He stretched the stiffness from his weary body and prepared himself for the worst. He could already tell by the sheepish look on Angus’s face this wasn’t going to be good. It had been a long time since he’d gone into a rage. He was way overdue.
“I believe she’s gone to your rooms to tidy up a bit. Ye wouldna believe the muck that woman waded through to get to that woman and her boy.” Angus bit his lip. With a jerking grimace, he glanced upward as thunder rumbled in the distance. He cleared his throat and searched Faolan’s face, his face reddening as he inched his way closer to the door.
Remaining silent, Faolan steepled tensed fingers beneath his chin and fixed Angus with an unblinking stare. Faolan knew the man’s greatest weakness. If he gave Angus enough rope, he would hang himself. Angus never knew when to stop talking. All Faolan had to do was watch and wait, Angus would blurt out everything he knew.
True to his weakness, Angus stood wringing his hands in time with each of his words. “What I mean to say is…the old woman and her son live out on the farthest edge of the shore. ’Tis a wonder Lady Ciara was able to find them at all and then all them there herbs she knew to pack along and the food they would be a needin’. ’Twas as though she had looked in a scrying glass and checked for everything she should take.”
Faolan tapped his forefingers together then laced them and brought his hands to the table. He dropped his voice to a cold, dead calm as he lowered his feet to the floor. “And how do ye think Lady Ciara knew about this family, about the dire need of the boy and his mother and the means it would take to save them? Did you see her use a scrying glass or anything else a seer might use to divine such information?”
Angus opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water as he eased his way toward the outer door. “I didna see her use a bit of magic. Faolan, there’s no darkness in that woman’s heart. I swear to ye, Faolan, she just knew where to find them. She knew every need they had. Why, she truly reminded me a great deal of your mother. Ye know how your mother always knew what to do whenever there was someone in need.”
Faolan slammed both fists on the table so hard, bits of it splintered off into the floor. “My mother was a witch who was almost hunted down and burned at the stake. My father had to take his fiercest warriors to protect her from the flames! When they brought his body back to her covered with his shield, she gave up on everything she’d ever known. She saw fit to throw her body down from the cliffs and join him in his death. Are ye telling me, Angus, that I’ve married a witch? Ye know my edict regarding magic. And why did that old woman say Ciara must be descended from the mother goddesses themselves? Ye know what I’ve proclaimed about the old religions. Our clan must move away from the old beliefs. Have I not provided a priest for each of these communities and built fine kirks for them to attend?”
Had every single one of his clansmen gone insane? Had they all decided to ignore their laird? Faolan glared at Angus as the man inched his way closer to the door, a few more steps and the fool would bolt to his freedom. This mystery of his wife bordered madness. Faolan fought against the urge to throw the table across Angus’s retreating path. If Ciara were a witch, it would explain a great deal. Perhaps that was the true secret of Gordon Sinclair. Hadn’t Ciara’s mother been a witch?
Holding up his hands as he backed away, Angus stammered himself a bit of redemption. “She didna mutter any spells or call down any sort of spirits. I’m tellin’ ye, Faolan. She just…she just…just…knew where they were and what to do to help them.”
As he reached the freedom of the doorjamb, Angus relaxed and slid one foot across the threshold. With a quick salute to his chieftain, he slipped outside, smiled, and tossed his words back over his shoulder. “I’ll just go out into the stables and make sure the horses have been rubbed down after such a hard day. It looks like all the people have finished with ye so, I’ll bid ye a good e’en as well.”
Faolan snarled, lost his battle with his temper and threw the table across the room, shattering it against the wall. His fury mounting, he stomped about the room, looking for something else to destroy. His advisors and spies had failed him in every task he had assigned them. Ciara Sinclair appeared to be a lot more than she seemed. However, what that something was he had yet to find out. Or better yet who was she? And apparently, the only way he was going to find out the truth about his wife was by interrogating her himself.
ChapterSix
The sleek gray mouse perched on the side of the huge metal tub, his little pink paws clasped against his snowy chest. With the ever-increasing cold, Alec had abandoned the form of a raven for a smaller, more compact animal. As a mouse, he could snuggle somewhere unseen upon Ciara’s nice warm body underneath her clothes.
Alec grasped his long pink tail in one tiny paw using it as a pointer to direct Ciara in her ministrations. “Ye missed a spot just there underneath your chin. Ye know, if ye had levitated over that marsh ye would nay ha’ been covered with all that green slime that smells a great deal of rotted gourds.”
As she scrubbed at the indicated spot with the soapy rag, Ciara splashed him as the soap slipped out of her hand. “Oops, sorry, Alec, and how would I have explained levitation to poor Angus? The man is incapable of keeping a secret.”
