“Take my hand, Eli,” Alaric urged, his voice commanding now.
“Dinnae panic, Alaric. Logan Ramsay is already looking over my shoulder all the time, but I’ll agree if ’twill please ye.”
“Logan wasn’t here to see us last night, was he? That would be the difference.”
She couldn’t argue that and stifled a second shudder. “Ye make a fair point.” She held out her hand, and he took it, tossing the end of his plaid over their intertwined fingers. Then he repeated some Gaelic phrases and said, “I agree to handfast to ye, Eli Ramsay, for a year and a day. Do ye agree?”
“Aye. Sure.”
He leaned over and kissed her, then pulled the plaid back, dropping her hand.
“Is he gone?”
He looked back and then smiled. “Aye, he’s gone.”
CLANS OF MULL
THE THIRD GENERATION
1316
The Anguish of the Scottish Lairds
Book 3
Maeve and Maitland were so blessed to have Grant and have come
to realize how special their dear laddie is.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Two spirits comfort Maeve after she’s kidnapped and thrown in a cellar with the bairns.
Maeve sat up, brushing her wild strands back from her face and searching for light to tell her where she was, but there was nothing but a small tallow burning somewhere down the passageway. The soft rhythmic breathing of her son calmed her immediately, so she leaned over to kiss his head, watching him smile in his sleep in reaction to her tenderness.
Her memory came back. They’d arrived at the Isle of Ulva and been led into a building. Then at the very back of the manor home, under a chest that was pushed aside, a piece of wood was lifted by one of her captors and they were hurried down a staircase that took them into what looked like a dungeon in a small castle. A cold passageway with four doors that locked, two off to each side, was not the least bit welcoming. Their abductors had shoved them into the farthest chamber, a room with four pallets, a pot to pish in, and several blankets, all disgustingly dirty. They were given one loaf of bread to share along with a pitcher of water and then the men disappeared, leaving Maeve and the children alone in the cellar, the wooden door with one small window now locked by a key on the outside.
Thank the Lord for small favors that wee Lia had the foresight to grab the two thick woolen plaids on the way out of the great hall. The two were plenty large enough to cover the fiveof them. She lay on one pallet with Grant and Sandor tucked up against her, covered with one plaid, while Lia and Tora slept on the pallet next to them, snuggled under the other clean plaid Lia had grabbed.
How long were they going to be stuck there?
Maeve had to admit that seeing how well-hidden the staircase to the cellars was had not made her feel any better. If Maitland entered, he’d never know the cellar or the staircase existed because with the chest replaced, it was so well hidden the door would never be seen. Even though Lia persisted in telling her that they would be saved, and that this all needed to happen for a reason, she couldn’t shake the fear deep in her belly.
Her worst fear could come true on the morrow. If they were headed to Coll, they’d be back on another boat in the sea, and fear would have its fingers in the deepest parts of her body.
Especially when their only path to safety might mean swimming. She couldn’t swim and neither could her son. It was possible Tora and Lia could, but probably not Sandor. Three of them would drown if forced to swim anywhere or if their boat capsized.
The tears welled in her eyes, but she did her best to keep them inside. Sleeping would be the most pleasant way for the bairns to pass the time. They’d be less afraid that way, though Sandor persisted in thinking they were on an “aventuwe,” as Tora had said.
Sandor opened his eyes, his back up against Maeve, a little beneath wee Grant. He smiled and waved, though she had no idea why.
“Who are you waving at, Sandor?” she whispered, not wishing to awaken the others.
“Gwanda. He o’er dare.” He pointed into the corner, one thumb in his mouth.
She had to give that some thought. Sandor’s grandfathers were Connor and Derric’s father; neither were dead, so who could he be seeing? “Gweetings to you, Gwamma. See Gwamma too.” He pointed to a spot next to the first place he pointed. “Her hair like you.”
What was the boy seeing? He must be dreaming and not awake yet.
