“Of course, not.” She tilted her head, her eyes twinkling in the moonlight. “I was in my bed back on my very own Isle of Doon, trying to get a good night’s sleep.”
“I see.” He did, and he didn’t like it.
“Dinnae you worry about how I knew. ’Tis enough that I did.” Digging in her basket again, she produced a small earthen jar, plugged with a bit of wood. “This be anti-cat scratch unguent,” she said, her red plaid laces glowing brighter on every word. “See you that she gets it on Gubbie’s scratches.”
Callum nodded, this time accepting her gift when she thrust it into his hand. “I will, great lady.”
He’d do no such thing.
As soon as the crone left – and he knew she would – he’d pitch the foul magic-steeped jar into the sea.
“See that ye do.” Devorgilla eyed him intently. “’Tis my Yuletide gift to ye both.”
At once, a plume of red sparkles burst from her red plaid shoelaces and she clapped her hands, cackling as wind caught the sparkles, carrying them off into the night.
“I’ll be leaving now, too,” she said, gone even as her words hung in the air.
“Guidsakes.” Callum pulled a hand down over his beard, shuddered.
Then he drew back his arm and pitched the jar into the sea.
Thank Yule, Devorgilla didn’t reappear to scold him. Nor did a cackle ring beside his ear. He heard only the whistling of the sea wind, the hissing of waves, and the less appealing snores of those men who now slept between the oar-banks or in the ship’s long and narrow aisle.
Otherwise, the night was quiet.
No Highland crone anywhere to be seen – or heard, praise Odin.
Relieved, Callum raised his arms above his head and cracked his knuckles. He’d surely imagined the entire unpleasant encounter. Highland magic and meddlesome old women belonged on the tongues of storytellers and not on good, seafaring galleys in the middle of cold and dark winter nights.
That was way of it.
Chapter 14
“Acup of morning ale?”
Alanna stirred and pulled the covers over her head, not sure she’d heard the lilting Irish voice. She also wondered when her bed had turned so hard and – dear heavens – why her bedchamber was rocking, almost like the motion of a ship.
Because it was ship!
A galley, and she was on it, being sailed to a fabled cluster of isles no one believed existed.
“Mercy.” Her eyes popped open and it all came flooding back, her kidnapping that wasn’t, the late night ride across the snowy moors, and then the sea journey.
Now, in the gray light of morning, it was only too real.
“Gubbie!” She pushed up on her elbows, searching for him, seeing only the Irish beauty sitting beside her, a cup of ale in her hand.
“He is fine,” the woman said in her lovely, musical voice. “Sleeping near your feet, he is. Tucked in beneath the extra plaids Callum spread o’er you in the night.”
“Praise be.” Alanna’s pulse settled, relief sweeping her. “I worried.”
“Of course, you did.” The woman smiled, her eyes warm.
Drawing a somewhat shaky breath, Alanna felt her cat’s weight against her now, his warm bulk swelling her heart. She looked back at the woman, not wanting to move too much lest she disturb Gubbie.
“You’ve brought me morning ale.” She shifted on the oar-bank, tried not to wince when her back pinched. Clearly, she wasn’t made for sleeping on rowing benches, a bed of extra plaids or no.
But she accepted the proffered ale, took a grateful sip. “Thank you,” she said. “I am Alanna.”
