The sea was darker now, its surface rolling and restless, but she lifted her chin and regarded it calmly. Men moved alongthe shore with quiet efficiency, preparing the birlinns. Ropes creaked. Sails stirred.
She walked closer to the water’s edge, the pebbles crunching beneath her boots.
Across the Sound of Sleat, the island rose beneath the heavy sky – stark and beautiful. Somewhere beyond those hills lay her sister and the life she was to begin anew. The rest, she told herself, was nonsense.
She kept thinking about the English couple and her dream.
So Laird Kenneth MacDonald, to whom he brother-in-law had asked to bring a missive, was known as The Brute of Sleat.
A ridiculous epithet, surely. The kind of thing that was born of isolation and long winters, passed from mouth to mouth until it took on a life of its own. Selene had been raised on reason, on measured judgment. She would not allow herself to be bewitched by Scottish superstition.
A fisherman nearby, busy with a net, paused when he saw her. “Ye’re bound fer Skye?” he asked bluntly.
“Yes.”
He hesitated. “Mind the Sound. Those waters have a memory fer blood.”
She shuddered at his words, but before she could ask what he meant, he had moved on.
Jake was frowning slightly but made no remark.
She drew a breath. This was merely a crossing. Nothing more.
And yet, as the wind swept in from the sound and the birlinn strained against its tether, the sea seemed to wait – patient and watchful. She removed her boots and woolen stockings, hoisted up her skirt, and stepped into the icy water to wade the few steps to the waiting dinghy. As Jake pushed the tiny craft into deeper waters, and the man at the oars began to ply the waves, Selene was aware she was poised at the edge of a life she did not yet understand.
She did not look back.
CHAPTER ONE
Scotland November 1720
Near the coast of the Isle of Skye
Standing by the rail on the big birlinn as it raced over the white-capped sea, Lady Selene Montgomery breathed deeply of the salty air. The breeze had sharpened, and she tucked a wayward strand of her rich chestnut hair behind her ear and pulled the hood of her cloak close.
She had grown awfully tired of travelling. It had been many weeks since she’d left her crumbling estate in Hertfordshire and boarded the northbound coach. It had been a slow and uncomfortable journey as the coach lumbered along the rutted and muddy stretch of road all the way to Scotland.
Her mind roamed back to her first taste of Scotland. She’d stayed for two weeks in a charming villa on the outskirts of Edinburgh with a distant relative of her brother-in-law, LairdHalvard MacLeod of Raasay. It had been new and exciting. Edinburgh and its university were alive with intellectual, philosophical discussions, and there was much talk of new discoveries in science and medicine.
But, alas, once her small party had departed from the city and entered the Highlands, things had taken a turn for the worse. The road was little more than a rough-hewn track where no coach could pass. The Highlanders were ruffians, kilt-clad giants who spoke either in a foreign language she did not understand, or some kind of garbled English that was almost as difficult to comprehend. They bore no resemblance to the elegantly dressed Scots she’d met in the city.
And she couldn’t even contemplate the terrible food they consumed.
After more than ten days on horseback, they reached the coast at Mallaig and, by the time they embarked on Halvard’s birlinn for the last leg of the journey, she was aching from the tip of her head to her toes. She could scarcely curb her impatience as they grew closer to their final destination, the Isle of Raasay.
But before she could at last be reunited with her dear younger sister, Elsie, they had to briefly break their journey so that an important missive from Laird Halvard to the Laird Kenneth MacDonald at Duntulm, could be delivered.
From there they wouldfinallysail on to Raasay. Mayhap she would be with Elsie in only two- or three-days’ time.
If I don’t go quite mad before that.
Selene lifted her head, the cold wind swirling her cloak about her. To the west, a bank of ominous clouds had gathered, darkening the sky and threatening a storm.
Jake MacLeod, Halvard’s trusted advisor, approached her. “We’re in fer a stretch of bad weather, milady. Mayhap it would be best if ye took shelter.” He pointed to the small wooden cabin at the stern. “There’s a lit brazier in there where ye could warm yer hands.”
She greeted his suggestion with a smile. “Thank you, Jake. I believe I am warm enough with my cloak and wool petticoat.” She held up her hands, “And my warm, knitted mittens.”
Jake nodded. “Very well, Lady Selene. But please, take care.”
