Page 20 of Highlander’s Quest of Desire

"Oh, please," Bifford pleaded, all pretense of good cheer gone. "Please buy me boat. I've been up and down the Loch for three days trying to sell it off. All of us have." He swept his arm taking in all the boats Bruce could see. "We need the money to get away."

"Get away?" Bruce asked, his interest piqued. "Where?"

"Anywhere but here," Bifford said. "Me wife has family in Aberdeen. She says its nae so bad there. Big city and all; says its more as likely to go unnoticed."

"What are ye talking about, man? Speak plain."

"The English bastards!" Bifford's eyes widened, a crazed sheen making them bright. "Their garrison up on Conic Hill is the den of the Devil hisself. They come down to our towns and villages and take whatever and whomever they please. Young boys, young women, nae one is safe. Me wife and I are old, and we want to get away before we're accused of treason and put to work in their dungeons."

Bruce looked down at the man. This was why his mission was so important. The very core of Scottish society was threatened by the English menace. People no longer felt safe in their homes; they were forced to sell their property and livelihood just to live in peace. This was no way for anyone to live, under constant fear and threat of terror.

"How much for the boat, old man?"

"Eh?" Bifford looked perplexed. "But ye donnae want it."

"I just asked ye how much it was for."

"Nae, ye donnae ken, it leaks," Bifford said. "Ye'll want something better."

"D'ye want to go to Aberdeen or nae?"

"Aye."

"Then sell me the damned boat and be on yer way!" Bruce fished out all the coins in his possession and handed them to Bifford.

The old man looked at the coins in his hand with wonder as if they had been dropped into his lap from Heaven itself. "I ken nae if yer mad, or possess a golden heart, but I thank ye, kind stranger." Bifford vaulted out of the boat with the agility and dexterity of a much younger man. "Me wife will say a special prayer for ye, no doubt!" And he kissed Bruce's knuckles. "May God grant ye all ye desire!"

And it irked Bruce that he thought of Elspeth first when the man said that.

* * *

Bifford had been right. The boat did leak.

Bruce rowed toward Inchmurrin, his shoulders reveling in the activity; his wound threw up stabbing pains in protest. The duality of his body matched the battle of two halves in his mind. To trust Elspeth Buchan or not to trust Elspeth Buchan. If he trusted her, it would make his journey easier, not to mention faster because he wouldn't have to devise ways to send her off on errands. But the dream had been enough to scare him from trusting anyone.

Laird Labert's betrayal still rankled. Bruce trusted it would rankle until his wound completely healed, and a few years after that as well.

The Bishop had said that he would find the map in the ruins of Inchmurrin. But there were no old buildings on Inchmurrin. There was a hunting lodge owned and run by the English, but there were no ruins that Bruce could think of.

Mooring his leaking boat to a tree by the bank, Bruce looked back at the camp he'd left behind. His horse was grazing grass, and the fire he had lit had already died down to a small flame. He bit his lip. Would he have enough time to explore?

It made no sense to hobble his mission by constantly worrying about Elspeth finding out. She was a tiny woman compared to his hulking mass. If she were to find out how much harm could she do, he'd force her to remain silent. Picturing it pleased him. His hand on her mouth, as she stared daggers at him with those bewitching green eyes.

Bruce walked the length of the island, keeping out of the areas he suspected were populated. He gave the hunting lodge a wide berth.

What had the Bishop meant? Bruce was tired, hungry, and frustrated. Why had the Bishop not been clear with his instructions? Bruce knew why. When it came to the Honors of Scotland and the unification of the Laird's under one true king, even the walls had ears.

"The ruins of Inchmurrin? God help me, for I am lost!" Bruce wracked his brains. What could they mean? And then, like a blinding flash, it came to him. "The monastery!"

In the 7th century, a monastery had been built on Inchmurrin with a chapel dedicated to Saint Mirin. He could remember the Bishop telling him the tale of Saint Mirin and the High King of Ireland. How prayer had interceded where logic and negotiation would not. And that's exactly what had happened here. He had prayed for an answer, and it was sent to him in a flash.

"Thank ye, God, for yer Mercy and Kindness. And may I be the vessel through which Ye help others who have Thy need."

As soon as he finished his prayer, he heard his name. Someone was calling from across the water. They were frantic; their voice was near tears.

Bruce ran, his heart in his throat. At the bank, he could see the camp across the water. Elspeth was running around, her hair whipping behind her like a dark sail racing against the wind. She was calling for him.

There was no time to feel annoyed. The urgency and desperation in her voice had done something to him. He couldn't bear to stay away from her. Taking the leaking boat, he rowed back to shore, his eyes on Inchmurrin as he went farther and farther away.

"I'll be back," he promised the island. "I'll return for ye."

Once back on land, he hid the boat under some shrubs so Elspeth would not suspect he had been far. He would claim he had been foraging for food.

When he found her, she was slumped on the ground, sobbing. His heart melted. Did she care for him that much? Or was this an act? Bruce could not let her know it mattered much to him one way or the other. He couldn't allow her to have that power over him.

"What's wrong with ye?" he asked.

She looked at him as if she'd seen a ghost. And then she told him.