And that was a problem.
He believed in meddlesome, supposedly magical Highland crones even less than enchanted trees and fairies. He especially didn’t care for tiny old women who appeared out of nowhere and tied their boots with red plaid shoelaces.
But there she was, in all her terrifying glory. As always, garbed in black except for the red plaid laces and – Odin’s balls! – instead of drawing her cloak’s hood up over her grizzled, white-haired head, she wore a horned helm.
“’Tis for Yule.” She cackled, lifted a knotty-knuckled hand to the ridiculous headgear. “Shall we celebrate with my own fine heather ale?”
Callum closed his eyes and wished her gone, but when he looked again, she was still there. Fumbling in the huge basket hooked on her arm. And then, as he knew she would, she pulled out two brimming cups of ale.
Callum ignored the cup she offered him. “How did you get here?”
“Och!” Her bright blue eyes twinkled. “The same way I get anywhere. I just-”
“Have done.” Callum raised a hand. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
“Nae bother.” She peered up at him, smiling. “I’ll just say there do be advantages to my like, even if such as you dinnae believe in us.”
“Great lady…” he began, using the title he knew she expected, not wanting to land as a lobster creeping along the seabed beneath the ship. “I believe in-”
“Swords, honor, and righting wrongs,” she cut in, proving her canniness.
Callum frowned. “You aren’t here to tell me that.”
“True enough.” She lifted one of the ale cups to her lips for a long swig. “I’ve brought ye a Yuletide gift.”
“I’ve nae need of gifts.” Callum crossed his arms – or tried. Somehow the second ale cup was in his hand, the froth spilling down his wrist. “Holy gods!” He jumped, tossing the cup into the sea. “Dinnae do that again.”
Devorgilla only chuckled.
Callum took a deep breath, hoped he was dreaming.
“Nae, you’re no’ asleep, laddie.” Devorgilla drained her ale cup, then chuckled again when the empty cup disappeared. “You be wide awake, as ye should be, sailing this ship, eh?”
“Aye, and that’s a good reason for you to leave.” Callum hoped to Asgard his words wouldn’t anger her. “We’ll be nearing the Skerries with the rising sun and I need my wits about me.”
“You also need what I’ve brought ye,” she said, patting her basket. “Thon lassie sleeping behind her sailcloth back there needs it, too. That’s why I’m here.”
“Lady Alanna has all she needs.” Callum hooked his thumbs in his sword belt, not wanting to speak of the lass. “She’ll be fine on Skerray until she can be safely returned to her home.”
Devorgilla glanced down the ship’s aisle to where moonlight shone on the sailcloth. “Ye have the rights of it, ye do,” she said, sounding amused. “She’ll be going back to Seacliffe, for sure.”
“Then there isn’t a problem, is there?”
“No’ with her return home.”
“Then what?”
“’Tis about her cat.” The crone turned back to him. “Gubbie scratched her in the night.”
Callum blinked, wondered if the great Devorgilla of Doon was losing her magic. “That cat worships her. He would ne’er scratch her.”
“Och, no’ a-purpose.” She hobbled closer, gripped his arm. “Remember when ye hit a rough patch o’ water a while back? How your ship pitched and rolled?”
Callum nodded.
“Aye, well.” The crone peered up at him. “Cats aren’t fond of the like. Gubbie has ne’er been at sea, has he? He took a fright and scrambled over her as she slept, his claws scratched her right bad.”
“How do you know that? Were you here then, too?”
