“I’ll wait to go to Dunscaith Castle until I know which way the wind blows,” Connor said, as they dragged the boat above the tide line. “Duncan and I will take Shaggy’s boat to the other side of Sleat and find out the sentiment there.”
“I still think I should go with ye,” Ian said.
Connor shook his head. “We’ll send word or come find ye in two or three days. In the meantime, talk to your father. He’ll know what the men are thinking on this part of the island.”
“I know ye can’t mean to leave your best fighting man out of this,” Alex said. “Should I come with ye or go north to hear what the folks there are saying?”
“Stay with Ian,” Connor said, the white of his teeth bright in the growing darkness. “He faces the greatest danger.”
“Verra funny.” At the thought of Sìleas, he took another swig from the jug—and choked when Alex elbowed him hard in the ribs.
“You’d best give Ian a full week,” Alex said. “Ye don’t want him leaving his poor wife wanting after such a long wait.”
The others laughed for the first time since they had heard the news about Connor’s father.
Ian, however, was not amused.
“I have no wife,” he repeated.
“Sìleas’s lands are important to the clan, especially Knock Castle,” Connor said, draping an arm across Ian’s shoulders. “It protects our lands on the eastern shore. We can’t have it falling into the hands of the MacKinnons.”
“What are ye saying?” Ian asked between clenched teeth.
“Ye know verra well my father did not force ye to wed Sìleas out of concern for the girl’s virtue. He wanted Knock Castle in the hands of his nephew.”
“Ye can’t be trying to tell me to accept Sìleas as my wife.”
Connor squeezed Ian’s shoulder. “All I’m asking is that you consider the needs of the clan.”
Ian shrugged Connor’s hand off him. “I’m telling ye now, I’ll no keep this marriage.”
“Well, if ye don’t,” Connor said, “then ye must find a man we can trust to take your place.”
“Perhaps ye should wait until you’re chieftain before ye start giving orders,” Ian snapped.
CHAPTER 3
ON THE SLEAT PENINSULA OF THE ISLE OF SKYE
The wind whipped at Sìleas’s cloak as she stood with their nearest neighbor, Gòrdan Graumach MacDonald, on a rocky outcrop overlooking the sea. The mountains of the mainland were black against the darkening sky. Despite the damp cold that penetrated her bones and the need to get home to help with supper, something held her.
“How much longer will ye give Ian?” Gòrdan asked.
Sìleas watched a boat crossing the strait, its outline barely visible in the fading light, as she considered his question.
When she didn’t answer, Gòrdan said, “ ’Tis past time you gave up on him.”
Give up on Ian? Could she do that? It was the question she asked herself every day now.
She had loved Ian for as long as she could remember. Almost from the time she could walk, she had planned to marry him. She smiled to herself, remembering how kind he had been to her, despite the teasing he got from the men and other lads for letting a wee lass half his size follow him like a lost puppy.
“Five years he’s kept ye waiting,” Gòrdan pressed. “That’s more time than any man deserves.”
“That’s true enough.” Sìleas brushed back the hair whipping across her face.
Her wedding was the worst memory of her life—and she was a woman with plenty of bad memories to choose from. There had been no time for the usual traditions that made a wedding a celebration and brought luck to a new marriage. No gifts and well-wishes from the neighbors. No washing of the bride’s feet. No ring. No carrying the bride over the threshold.
And certainly no sprinkling of the bed with holy water—not with Ian threatening to toss the priest down the stairs when he attempted to go with them up to the bedchamber.
