“Since nearly every poor crofter betwixt here and London has a chicken or two, that seems a poor warning to me.”
“The lass is but five years old. She hasna learned to be exact yet. Also, I didna have time to carefully question her. I certainly didna want to talk about it much within the hearing of so many of your people.”
“Such caution is wasted. All of Rathmor is whispering about it.” Alexander shook his head, irritated at how quickly the tale had spread and how nothing he had tried to do had stilled it.
That was exactly what Ailis did not want, and she cursed. “Well, if we continue to be careful and to hide her moments of vision, the talk should soon ease. Soon people will, more or less, forget.”
“Do ye really believe that?”
“I hope that is what will happen. ‘Twould be best, safer, for little Sibeal, and that is what is important.”
“Then mayhaps ye should cease feeding the child’s fancies, cease treating these things as real.”
Ailis sighed and shook her head. She was able to muster some patience for Alexander’s attitude, for she understood it. She had also tried to argue away the truth. Her understanding was being stretched to its fullest limits, however. He could just be quiet and watch Sibeal, listen to the child, and then decide without the constant arguing. It was as if Alexander wanted to make her agree that it was all nonsense, too, and he should know that she was not about to do that.
“Ye keep pulling me into this argument,” she said. “I have no wish to participate in it. Sibeal is what she is. I canna explain it, and I willna deny it. If ye have trouble with it, then ye must sort that out by yourself.”
“Ye canna expect a man to react reasonably or with awe to a warning about chickens.”
“Nay, but she will get better. She will learn to explain about what she has seen, to give more precise warnings.”
“She will learn, eh? She will get herself killed is what she will do.”
There was just enough intensity in his voice to cause her to look at him in some surprise. Ailis could see that look of discomfort and even that hint of fear that had been there from the moment he had been told of Sibeal’s gift, but there was more. He was deeply concerned about Sibeal. Alexander might fight the truth for a long time yet, but he understood that many others did and would believe, and he understood what could happen.
“Nay, we must see that she learns what is needed to prevent that,” Ailis said. “And I think one shouldna be so quick to discard all that she says. Mayhaps she doesna have the sight; mayhaps she just sees and hears clues that we dinna. Mayhaps she just reads signs, all signs, far better than most people. Whatever she has, she hasna been wrong yet—not in sensing danger or in guessing the true nature of people.”
Alexander slowly nodded. That the child might have a true gift at reading signs and interpreting the odd overheard piece of information was something he could believe in. It was far more palatable then his niece having the sight, visions, dreams, or premonitions. It was also far less dangerous for them all. Alexander just wished he could believe it wholeheartedly, but he realized that he had already begun to grant credence to the talk of Sibeal’s gift.
“Do ye believe that we should be proceeding with some added caution, then?” he asked.
“We are proceeding with as much caution as we can. The only way we could be more cautious is to return to Rathmor and stay there.”
“Nay, we will go on to the priest.”
Ailis nodded but inwardly cursed Alexander’s stubborn nature. If he was being driven by love, she might have been less condemning, but he was prompted by duty and honor. There were times when she was sorely tempted to suggest that he put his honor and duty in a very dark and uncomfortable place, but she bit back the words. Both were good for a man to possess. She just wished that this time they were not all tangled up with her marriage.
She kept battling the temptation to refuse to marry him. It would be interesting to see what he would do. Her main fear was that she would never reach the man’s well-armored heart. She did not demand much, just some softness, some caring, yet there was only the occasional glimpse of such emotion in Alexander. Her own emotions were so tangled that she was not sure she could trust her own judgment about those occasional glimpses. Simple common sense kept her from retreating, though. She needed a husband, and for all his faults, the Laird of Rathmor would not beat her, would be a good father, and would provide well. After having faced the prospect of wedding Donald MacCordy, Ailis could see the worth of such small blessings.
“Alexander?” When he looked at her, Ailis took a deep breath and asked, “Once we have spoken vows before this priest, I shall be a MacDubh. Will that be enough to make ye cease blaming me for being a MacFarlane?”
“Ye will always have MacFarlane blood in your veins.”
He rode off to the head of his small band, and Ailis cursed. The man apparently took some perverse pleasure in hurting her, although she prayed that he did realize how successful he had been. She worked very hard at concealing her pain.
Then she frowned at his broad back as she silently repeated his response in her mind. He had not really answered her, she thought with a start. His reply had been a simple recitation of a fact. Alexander had never actually said whether or not he would blame her for crimes committed by people of that blood, just that she had such kinsmen. Ailis thought it over and over, but it still came out the same—he had not answered her. It infuriated her. She had to fight the temptation to ride up to him and keep asking the question until she got a real answer. What she would do, she decided, was to listen far more carefully and be less quick to hear some insult behind his words. Ailis suspected that she might discover yet another ploy to hold her at some distance.
“Well? Where is this priest?” Ailis asked as Alexander and Angus rode up to where she and the others waited on the outskirts of a little village.
“At the inn,” Alexander replied as he reined in beside her.
“The inn? ‘Tis a strange place for a priest to await a wedding party. Especially when there is a fine wee church close at hand.” She pointed to the little stone church on their right.
“The inn is where he hurt his foot. He fell as he left the place late one evening.”
“Oh, nay, nay. Are ye about to tell me that the man tipples?”
Alexander grimaced. “Tipples? He fairly bathes in the ale. However, he is sober enough to help us repeat our vows.”
