Celtic Blizzard Page 5

  Jamie’s voice roused her momentarily from the fog that had encompassed her brain and he said, “Ye’ still did not tell me yer’ name, lass.”

  “I’m Sinead. Sinead MacDougal.”

  Chapter 8

  MacDougal! Jamie thought the woman was a spy for the MacKenzies when she had claimed the ambush had been set by them instead of the MacDougals, but here, as she formed the last conscious word before succumbing to cold’s hand was her name. Sinead MacDougal! Bloody feckin’ hell! Just his luck! The most beautiful and intriguing woman he had ever met was a blasted MacDougal.

  Ruiri had heard the woman utter her name as he had ridden close to Jamie and he saw the blackening of his brother’s eyes at her answer. Jamie hated the MacDougals as much as Ruiri hated the Campbells and here was a MacDougal woman injured and unconscious in their clutches. If Ruiri did not know his brother as well as he did, he would have thought that Jamie would toss the MacDougal woman into the snow drifts and be done with the situation, but Ruiri knew that Jamie would never harm a woman, even if she was the worst enemy of MacCollum; even if she turned out to be a bloody MacKenzie. Ruiri wasn’t so sure that if he had a Campbell women in his clutches, that he would be able to be so chivalrous. “Please God, dunna’ ever test me so,” Ruiri prayed silently, for he knew that he would not pass the trial, if it were to come to be.

  They rode so fast that Ruiri did not have time to question what his brother intended to do. For now, there was nothing that could be done but to get to safety and to help the woman fight off the effects of the chilling cold and the arrow strike. Jamie silently assessed the woman who had practically been dropped in their laps. Why would she warn him about the MacKenzies? What sort of game was this? She clearly had put herself in danger and now she may not live as a result of her folly.

  She was strange, indeed, for not only was she dressed in the most outlandish clothing, but her speech was affected. She spoke English, but there was something definitely odd about it; almost as if it was not her native language for he had never heard it spoken in the manner her accent suggested. Jamie looked again at the woman who lay unconscious in his arms. Even with her lips bluing from cold and the suddenly pallid complexion, she was quite a beauty. He almost wished she would open her eyes again so he could see the beautiful aquamarine hue of them. Beauty, or not, though, there was one thing that was certain. She was a MacDougal and he could not abide to harbor a MacDougal.

  Jamie would need to ransom the MacDougals for the woman. Sinead! She said her name was Sinead. He liked that name. It meant God was gracious. Gracious? Was it gracious for God to send an enemy of the clan MacCollum to him? And ransom; Jamie abhorred the idea of ransoming anyone, let alone a female. It went against his sense of honor and ethics, but what else could he do? He could not keep her locked in MacCollum keep like a caged animal. A ransom would be the only thing he could do; that was unless the lass died while in his charge. Jamie did not want to think about that so he spurred his horse onward, sending clouds of snow dashing into the air. Regardless of who she was or what he had to do, Jamie sure as hell did not want Sinead MacDougal to die.

  When the keep was in sight, Jamie tried to get his mount to continue at the fastest pace he had ever dared to push the animal. He had been so focused on getting the girl to safety, that he didn’t even feel the biting sting as the icy snow continued to fall about him. His brow was furrowed with concern. The girl had stopped shivering and that was a bad sign. It meant that she was sinking into the deep sleep of death from the freezing weather.

  He was once again assailed with the thought of how he did not want Sinead to die. He did not understand why it would matter so much, and he rationalized his worry to be because he wanted information out of her. He wanted to find out what she knew and why she was sent by the MacDougal to thwart the attempt on his life. Could it have really been the MacKenzies that had laid in wait to ambush? It was more like their kind of tactic than that of the MacDougals, t’was true.

  While he had no great love for the MacDougal in any way, they were nay usually prone to backstabbing. They had always been quite forthright about their form of raiding. They had never turned the raiding into out and out bouts of murder. Aye, men died in frays sometimes, but not because they had been ambushed and tricked. Could it be possible that this MacDougal woman was telling the truth and that it had indeed been the MacKenzies after all? Yes, that was why Jamie had to keep her alive, he reasoned to himself. It mattered not that she was beautiful or for that matter that she had actually saved his life.

  Now, Jamie only hoped that the healer was in the keep or nearby. She stayed most times in her own little cottage in the woods, but when winter’s winds whipped the land, she often came to live within MacCollum walls. Jamie had grown up with the old healer practically raising him and his siblings since the death of his mother. She was like part of the family, but many times, she was not to be seen for days on end and no one ever questioned her mysterious ways. She was a powerful Seer and since she was tied to the Old Ways, the Laird and his father before him gave her free reign in the clan. No one knew how old she was and she was never questioned. Jamie prayed silently that the cold had driven her into the keep because she would know what to do with the woman. She would be able to help this strange lass that came out of the storm.

  Chapter 9

  Morag made her way to the keep. She moved slowly through the falling snow and would welcome the warmth of the ancient edifice where life teemed and she could be near her precious bairns. Long had she given up hope of ever being a mother but because of her work as a healer and chatelaine within the MacCollum clan, she had raised countless bairns and she was always glad to be with her extended family; even if they carried none of her blood. They were her chosen family and the laird, Caleb MacCollum had long made a place for her in his home. Actually, his father had started the honor by letting Morag help in the rearing of his own offspring. Like his father, Caleb was widowed at a young age; but not as young as she herself had been. When Caleb’s beautiful wife Mairgred had passed, the laird’s babes were still young enough to need mothering and Morag had stepped in to do the job.

  Caleb’s brood of lads and one pretty lass were all grown, now. The lads were strapping men and the sister, Bronwyn was growing into a beautiful rose. In fact, both Caleb and Morag named her their Highland Rose. She was old enough to be wed, and there were suitors already asking for her hand. Only, Morag knew that it was not to be any of the young swains or for that matter, the older ones, who would win the hand of her precious Rose. Nay, for she had seen it in one of her visions when the lass had become a woman. Morag sighed. It would be a rocky path for her Rose, but one that she could handle. Her intended mate was waiting in Destiny’s hold and would appear when the time was right.

  Nay, this day, her Sight had given her the definite message and so Morag knew it was time to go to the keep, where she would be needed. Morag liked to be on her own as much as she enjoyed the security of the large keep. Her home was comfortable enough. Her husband had seen to it, long ago, when they were newly wed. Even though it was too many years to count that she dwelled within it alone without Ian, the cottage still offered her solace. To this very day, she could still feel her precious Ian’s love with every stone or timber that was used to make the home they were supposed to share till they aged together. Instead, the MacKenzie had forfeited Ian’s life when she was but just a lass. The kindness of the older laird and Laird Caleb had sustained her through these many years without Ian and for that she would be eternally grateful. She did what she could and she always offered her help with love and caring as if the laird’s family was truly her own.

  Only, as a Seer and a Healer, there were times when Morag needed her solitude. Her path had been given in service to the Old Ways and for her sacrifice, she had been granted many mystical gifts; some of which only she knew about. The Solstice was upon them and it was a time when her gifts were more highly honed. Her visions were heightened and her senses were razor
sharp. Aye, she would be needed at the keep this day and so she packed her basket full of healing herbs and salves. Someone would need her help, Morag was certain of it. Her visions never lied to her. Over the years, she had learned the subtle symbolisms offered in obscure images which foretold things to come and her Gift had been revered throughout the clan.

  Not only that, she sensed the change in the energy surrounding her. There would be a new Traveler; one like herself; one who had come a great distance; one who had defied time and space. That was a secret Morag had kept for most of her life. She had not met anyone in all her days who shared that particular gift and she had longed to tell someone; anyone about it, but she could not. The only person who knew of it was her mother, but even she took Morag’s secret to her grave. If the Laird suspected it, he had not ever said so and thus Morag never spoke of it to a living soul; perhaps until now.

  When she had discovered her gift of walking through the Wheel of Time, she had really been just a child and she paid dearly for it, for Gifts handed down by the Guardians and the Ancients were not lightly given. They always came at a terrible price. Morag did not want to think about that at this moment. Now, there was someone who needed her and she would have to brave the cold, even when her old bones rebelled at the thought of stepping outside of the warmth of her cottage.

  She pulled her plaid so that it covered her hair and tucked her shawl tightly about herself. She leaned heavily upon her staff as she set out in the thickening snow. She would have to try to hurry because already it was more than ankle’s depth and the drifts hid vast dangers. Morag could not afford to get frost bite in her already arthritic bones or fall into the gathering piles of snow along the covered pathways. The wind whipped her whitened hair out from under her plaid and the old woman felt the chill bite into her flesh. It was only a few miles toward the keep and once there, she would set herself before the large hearths that stood at either side of the great hall. There would be good hot food, too. Morag’s stomach grumbled at the thought. As the onset of the Solstice was upon them, Morag fasted and prayed. It was why the visions were so distinct, but now that the Solstice was passing, Morag could end her fast and enjoy the delicious stews that were certain to be available at MacCollum keep.

  With the help of her carved staff, Morag found that she could move easier than she had expected. She had walked the route to the immense keep so many times in her life that it passed quickly for her despite the deepening snow and the howling wind. Even through the blinding white storm, Morag could make out the silhouette of the edifice of the keep looming in the distance. It perched grey amid the mountain pass against the creamy white sky. It was not much further now. She pushed herself on and she breathed a sigh. Aye, it would be good to be with her bairns again. T’was true she had not birthed them but they were like her very own babes, just the same. Thinking about how they were all grown now made Morag feel her age more deeply with each labored step.

  Morag reveled in being able to warm herself at the great hearth at MacCollum keep and to talk to Caleb for it sometimes got quite lonely in her cottage, despite her need for solitude. First, though, Morag would see what the Traveler needed. Morag sensed the visitor to be in grave danger and so she needed to hurry, else the lass would die. Morag knew the visitor from a far distant time was a woman; she could feel her spirit’s strength. Morag tried not to smile because really, the lass was in danger, but it was pointless. The Fates had spoken and the one who had fought his path for so long would now be called to reckoning and Morag found joy in her heart at the potential outcome for her dear Jamie. Och, ye’ are a silly old fool!

  Ever since her courtship with Ian, Morag always had a soft spot in her heart for love and as sure as the snow would continue to blanket the earth this night, so too would love find one of her charges. Like it or not, the Ancients had forged the Destiny and he would learn that either he embrace it, or die from the splitting of Time’s sacred Weave. Morag knew about that, too. Now Jamie would, as well, but the lesson would not come without a price. It always came with a price. It always cost the dearest. That thought wiped the smile from Morag’s weathered lips. The price was sometimes too dear to bear.

  Morag knew there would be resistance and she would lend her hand as much as she could but meddling too much was frowned upon by the Ancients. Morag knew not to overstep her bounds and anger Them, for that price could be much more terrible and she feared that she was too old to withstand the expense, should she come to test the Ancients yet again.

  Chapter 10

  When Morag got closer to the keep, she could see a flurry of activity within the outer bailey. As she trudged through the open gates, the crowd of people that had gathered near the stables seemed to part to let the Old One through and a hush fell over the cacophony of sounds upon the arrival of the Laird’s oldest son and the strange unconscious woman he held upon his horse. At the arrival of Old Morag, the group of people grew silent, almost in reverence for the old woman’s sudden presence. Aye, she had been a mainstay in the Clan for untold years, but she still commanded a certain respect due to her station as chatelaine, Healer and Seer. Many admired her, but others feared her, too. Some of the silence came from the uneasiness of those who were uncomfortable with the Gifts Morag had been given and had used throughout her long life. Some, even though they were tied to the history that made the Clan, murmured that dreaded word, witch, when they thought she would not hear it. She always did.

  As a group of younger men stumbled to step out of Morag’s path, she raised her staff slightly. Some were not certain she did not do it for added effect, but it worked to quiet anyone else who may have thought to speak. She said, “Where is she?”

  Ruiri spoke up and said, “Jamie took her inside. It does not look good, Morag.”

  Some people sucked in their breath at the familiar way Ruiri had addressed the Old One, but Ruiri was undaunted. He had known Morag his entire life and she was more like a grandmother to him than someone to be feared.

  “Take me to her, boy,” she said to the six and a half foot brawny man who was known to be called the Highland Wolf. Something about the way she addressed him made Ruiri feel every bit of the boy Morag had claimed him to be. Handing his reins over to a stable boy, he took Morag’s arm and led her into the keep. He had forgotten his own discomfort from the cold in order to help the old woman into the protection of the fortress from the churning and angry elements out of doors.

  The warmth from the two large hearths flanking both ends of the great hall provided a blast of heat against the chill that had come upon them and all who had been outside in the frigid snow were grateful for it. Ruiri was soaked through without his fly-plaid but he would get into dry clothes soon enough. Now his task was to help Morag up the stairs to Jamie’s quarters, for that was where he had taken the lass.

  Once Morag was just outside of the doorway, Ruiri, gave her the lead. He mumbled, “She looks near death, Morag. I dunna’ know if we are too late.”

  Morag whipped her head around and looked at him. There was deep sorrow in his eyes and Morag knew the look well. When Ruiri had lost his intended, it changed him. Still, despite the darkness of grief, Morag saw the man inside; the man who cared and had a heart made for love. One day, my dear boy, yer’ heart will beat again. I have seen her in dreams…she waits fer ye’, but not this day, lad. This day, t’would seem, is Jamie’s time, only if she lives.

  Morag went into the chambers. She immediately ordered a serving woman to have the hearth tended and to have some hot broth brought up to the room. Jamie spoke and said, “She is a MacDougal…but she is hurt and the cold….”

  “Lad, not everything is as it appears. She is not the daughter of yer’ enemy.”

  “How can ye’ possibly know that?”

  Morag raised an eyebrow in surprise. “How, indeed.”

  “Sorry, but ye’ just said not everything is as it appears. I mean…ye’ cannot always know….”

  Morag pinned Jamie with a frosty stare. Her silve
ry eyes glinted warning and she said, “I dunna’ always know, but today I do, else I would nay have come.”

  “She is a MacDougal by her own admission.”

  Morag just “hmphed” and set herself to examine the woman lying so still on Jamie’s big bed. The young woman had already been piled with furs and woolen blankets but she shivered unceasingly. That was a good sign. She was coming back from the grip of Death’s icy clasp.

  Not knowing what else to say, Jamie mumbled, “She was struck with an arrow but the cold staunched her blood flow.”

  “Show me.”

  Jamie moved some of the furs away from Sinead’s thigh and pointed to the rent in the odd trews the woman wore. Blood had caked heavily in the tear and Morag carefully pulled the fabric away from the wound. The clothing was very tightly fitted to the woman’s leg and so it would be hard to treat her but Morag did not want to cut the garment from the girl as it was the only thing she had brought with her. Turning to look at the people surrounding the bed with the strange girl lying in it, Morag said gruffly, “Take leave. I need to treat her wound. I dunna’ wish to embarrass her further with gawkers and lookers at her bedside.”

  As those present began to file out, Morag called, “Lad, ye’ are to stay.”

  Jamie looked confused and he asked, “Me? Why must I stay?”