“I hope the birthing went well?” Isabel inquired politely.
“Yes, thank you, but I’m sorry to have missed your arrival.”
Isabel made a dismissive gesture with her free hand. “A babe is much more important. What did she have?”
Margaret smiled. “A girl.”
“I hope to meet her one day,” she remarked. “And Christina as well. How many sisters and brothers do you have?”
“Only one other. My youngest sister Flora. But she resides with her mother.” Margaret gave her a hesitant look. “Are you finding Dunvegan to your liking? I know you have just come from court,” she continued with a far-off look in her eye. “I doubt I’ll ever have the chance to travel to Edinburgh.”
“Whyever not? I would be happy to escort you to court and make the proper introductions. Queen Anne would be most happy to meet you, I’m sure. She is wonderful; I know you would like her. And of course I shall tell you all about my time at court whenever you wish. But I know you are busy with your duties, so you must tell me when it’s convenient.”
Margaret squirmed a bit in her seat, as if the fact that she was still chatelaine made her uncomfortable. “I’ve been very busy of late, but I’ll certainly find the time to hear about your stay at court. It sounds so exciting. But I could never show myself there…with the way I look and all.”
Isabel heard the deep sorrow and shame in Margaret’s softly lilting voice. She took hold of Margaret’s tiny other hand and said with complete sincerity, “You are lovely, Margaret. If you want to go to court, you should. Don’t let the unkindness of others dissuade you from living your life with purpose. There are many cruel people at court, but I think you’ll find there are many more who are good and compassionate.”
“You are kind, Isabel, but I have not the strength to bear the inevitable gossip.”
There was such sadness in her that Isabel could not resist trying to find some way to help. Her uncle was to blame for the shame that must have turned Margaret into this wounded fey creature. She sensed a kindred spirit in the young woman and thought perhaps she could right a wrong while she was here. It was the least she could do, since she would be making an enemy of Margaret’s brother.
Her mind was made up. She wanted to help Margaret find the strength that Isabel could sense was buried within her. Isabel did not wish to examine her own motives. If she did, she would probably recognize the guilt she assumed for the actions of her uncle. And for her relationship with him.
“The women who are inclined to gossip will always find something to gossip about. I don’t know if they even realize how hurtful it can be, especially to someone unfamiliar with life at court. When I first arrived at court, they laughed at my rough Highland manners. I seemed to always say the wrong thing, as I was used to speaking my mind when at home with only a father and three brothers. Not the most appropriate behavior for a woman, I assure you. Then the next new person arrived and they forgot about me.”
Margaret looked at her with a mixture of admiration and awe.
Isabel chuckled. “I don’t mean to suggest that I was immune to the gossip. I admit I was hurt initially, but that’s because I didn’t anticipate that I would be so different from the other ladies at court. I felt rejected, but I soon realized they weren’t rejecting me personally but merely finding something interesting to talk about. But you’ll know what to expect and will not be as unprepared as I was.”
“I don’t know. You make it sound so simple, yet I am not at all brave, Isabel.”
Neither am I, Isabel thought. Instead she said, “Don’t worry. If you want to go to court, we will find a way. I’m sure that with the two of us working together, we will be able to devise a plan of attack.”
Isabel’s confidence must have been contagious because Margaret smiled.
From his seat on her right, Rory observed the conversation between Isabel and Margaret. He was concerned about Margaret’s reaction to Isabel. His first instinct was to protect his sister from the pain of her memories that seeing a MacDonald was sure to evoke, but he knew they would have to meet eventually so he forced himself not to interfere.
Isabel’s kindness was immediately apparent. He noticed the way she looked Margaret directly in the eye and unconsciously touched her hand, not shying away as most did from Margaret’s injury. Not many had offered their friendship since Margaret’s return; his sister’s disfigurement made people nervous and uncomfortable. It infuriated him, but he could not force people to treat her as before. Fear and superstition were powerful forces. He felt the tightness in his shoulders dissipate, not realizing how tense he’d been while observing the two women.
Rory couldn’t hear their discussion, but he was amazed after only a few minutes to see a carefree smile transform Margaret’s face. He was flabbergasted. Margaret hadn’t smiled like that in two years. By all appearances, they seemed to be fast friends. It warmed him to see his sister relaxed and enjoying herself; it had been far too long.
“Did you speak with Margaret about your ideas for our chamber, Isabel?” he asked, more curious than he wanted to admit about what they were discussing.
“Not yet. Margaret and I were discussing court.”
“The latest fashion?” he asked, a sardonic reference to her dress.
Isabel blushed, realized he was teasing her, then shook her head and laughed. “No, only that I think Margaret would enjoy it.”
Rory stiffened. The thought of his shattered sister set free among the vicious ladies of court made his protective instincts flare. What could Isabel be thinking to encourage Margaret’s hopes like that? His sister was incredibly fragile as it was; court would destroy her. Not wanting to hurt his sister’s feelings, however, he quickly turned the subject. “Aye, but my sister is needed at Dunvegan. I could not spare her.” He smiled encouragingly to Margaret. “Wasn’t there something you wanted to ask Margaret about my solar?”
Isabel gave him a small questioning frown, then turned to Margaret. “I just wanted to make a few wee changes to our room,” she corrected, “but I wanted to ask your permission before I do so. We can discuss it another time if you wish.”
Margaret looked to Rory for approval, and he nodded. “What did you have in mind?” she asked.
“Just a few things to make the room more comfortable, perhaps a few soft pillows, some bed hangings”—Isabel shrugged—“Things like that.”
Margaret was immediately ensnared. Rory was amazed how the topic of decoration could inspire such fervor in the female mind. “Rory’s room is entirely too austere,” she agreed. “I’ve been trying to change things for years. But he’ll hear nothing of it.”
Rory crossed his arms over his chest. “That’s the way I like it. Plain and simple.”
Both women made faces. Margaret met his gaze. “Yes, well, you are handfasted now. You will have to adjust.”
Rory couldn’t believe it. His timid little sister had just stood up to him. It was…wonderful.
Margaret continued, “What colors were you thinking?”
“Hmm. Maybe soft roses and lavenders with floral fabric, laces, and needlepoint, what do you think?”
God’s wounds, it sounded like Margaret’s frilly boudoir.
Both women took one look at his expression and burst into laughter.
Rory started to frown until he caught the mischievous twinkle in Isabel’s eye. Surprisingly, he didn’t mind their teasing at all. Some of Margaret’s spirit that had been eviscerated from two years ago was returning after only minutes in Isabel’s company.
Her spirited playfulness was infectious, and he found himself smiling.
Rory thought of the sweet but timid Campbell lass who would be his bride and couldn’t help comparing her with another. Would she embrace his sister and bring a smile to her face?
Watching Rory with Margaret offered Isabel a side of him that she had never seen. That Rory cared deeply for his sister was obvious. It impressed her that this hard, formidable warrior could also be gentle an
d considerate.
A sharp pang of longing hit her square in the chest. Isabel yearned for her own brothers to look at her the same way. Given the lengths she had gone to to evoke such feelings from them, that Rory showed his love for Margaret so readily was yet another attribute in his favor. This man had so many layers, and the more she peeled away, the more there was to admire.
A buzz of anticipation rippled through the hall, abruptly ending their conversation. The night’s entertainment was set to begin. A bearish white-haired man rose from the trestle table below the dais and moved purposefully across the room to stand before the fire. He was dressed in a simple long plaid, but it was his knee-length beard that drew Isabel’s attention. It was thick and fluffy, as pure white as freshly fallen snow. He raised his grizzled, pawlike hands and loudly cleared his throat to quiet the room. Eoin Og O’Muireaghsain, seannachie of the MacLeods, began to speak in a strong, melodious voice that reverberated throughout the crowded hall, in sharp contrast with his aged appearance.
“This night, our chief has requested the story of how the great Bratach Shi, the Fairy Flag of the MacLeod, was brought to the clan.”
Isabel blanched. Her heart quickened as she realized the subject matter of this night’s entertainment. Rory couldn’t know. It’s only a coincidence, she told herself, trying to calm the rising panic. But her palms grew damp from being clenched so tight. She forced herself not to look around and see if anyone was watching her reaction, but she could feel the weight of Rory’s eyes on her.
“A long, long time ago, not long after the time of Leod, a handsome young chief fell in love with a beautiful fairy princess—one of the bean sidhe. The couple wished to marry and sought permission from the princess’s father, the king of the fairies. Much to their surprise, the king was against the match. For he knew that in the end, to marry a mortal man would cause his beloved daughter infinite unhappiness, for unlike the princess, the young chief would eventually grow old and die.
“Darkness and unhappiness shadowed Skye, for theirs was the truest unrequited love. The weeping of the princess filled the loch, threatening to flood the land, until the king at last capitulated. The princess could handfast with the MacLeod. But there was one condition. She had to promise to return to her people in one year and a day. The couple was so happy to be together, they readily agreed to the king’s condition.”
Isabel had not heard the enchanting tale before, but she was finding it extremely difficult to relax. She glanced furtively around the room, grateful that no one seemed to notice her turmoil. The clan appeared enthralled by the story even though they had surely heard the tale countless times. Afraid that he would somehow notice her anxiety, Isabel dared not look at Rory.
“The people rejoiced with the happiness of the couple, and before the year was out a cherished son was born. But the joy of the birth of the child was tempered with the knowledge that soon the princess must return to her people and leave her beloved husband and precious son forever.
“As they knew it would, the day for her departure to the land of the fairies arrived. The fairy princess and the chief were brokenhearted but knew that they must honor their promise. For once given, the word of the MacLeod was absolute and could not be broken. At her leavetaking, the princess sought a promise from her husband. He must vow to never let their son be alone, for the fairy princess could not bear to hear the crying of her precious child. At last, with a desperate, bittersweet kiss intended to last a lifetime, the princess left her beloved husband and son behind, fading into the mist over the bridge that we now call the Fairy Bridge in memory of their parting, returning sorrowfully to the fairy folk.”
The seannachie paused dramatically. Silence filled the hall. He motioned for a goblet and ever so slowly took a seemingly endless gulp of ale. The hall was heavy with the dull drumming sound of silence. He looked like a druid from another time, with swirls of smoke from the peat fires spinning mystically over his head. He wiped his mouth with the back of his furry hand and looked carefully about the room to ensure that his audience was listening.
They were.
“The pain of the chief was immeasurable. His beloved wife was lost to him forever. But he consoled himself with the fact that at least he had his son. He kept his promise to his wife, and the child was never left alone. Never, that is, until the night of the celebration of the chief’s day of birth. That night, a great feast was held to cheer the despondent chief. The pipers filled the air with the magic of their music, and the chief at last allowed himself to dance and sing. But, alas, the joyful sounds drew the attention of the nursemaid whose duty it was to watch over the child. She left the wee bairn unattended, and he began to cry. Far, far away in the land of the fairy folk, the princess heard the pitiful wailings of her child and her heart was struck with an intolerable pain. She rushed to her child and comforted him with whispered words of magic. The princess wrapped him securely in her shawl and gently kissed his tears, singing him sweet fairy songs to calm his crying. The words she sang, her fairy charm, are still sung to the MacLeod’s heirs to this day.
“Later, when the nursemaid finally returned, she found the child sleeping peacefully wrapped in a fine ethereal crimson-and-yellow swath of fabric.
“Many years later, the boy told his father what had happened that night—the night his mother returned to Dunvegan and left her shawl, the Bratach Shi, for her son. The princess bestowed the Fairy Flag upon her child to protect the clan. If the MacLeods were ever in great jeopardy, the flag must be unfurled and waved three times, and the knights of the fairies would appear to their defense. But as we know is always true with the fairies, there were conditions. If anyone other than a MacLeod should touch the flag, that person would immediately perish. And most important of all, the magic of the flag would work only three times. So it should be used only in the direst of circumstances.”
His voice had dropped to barely a whisper, but his words were heard by all. The seannachie had spun a web of magic of his own throughout the hall. Isabel scooted forward in her seat, anxiously awaiting the rest.
“The flag is kept in a secret place known only to the chief, safely tucked away in a locked box but ready to be unfurled if the clan should ever again need its fairy magic. There is but one unfurling left in the flag, for its powers were needed twice in the time of Alasdair Crotach—once to save the clan from sure defeat at the hands of Clan Donald and again to save the clan from starvation. But I will save those tales for another night.”
Disappointed groans echoed throughout the great hall, and not just from the wee lads and lassies. But in the tradition of all great bards, Eoin Og O’Muireaghsain left his audience wanting. Regal as a king, he slowly returned to his seat, basking proudly in the thunderous applause.
Isabel was moved, held spellbound by the charming tale of lost love and maternal protection by the fairy princess for her child. The story touched a chord in the heart of the girl who had lost her own mother at birth and the woman who yearned for the romantic love of troubadours. Looking around the room at the happy, cheering faces of the MacLeod clansmen, Isabel could see that she was not the only one affected by the tale. The MacLeods treasured the famous Fairy Flag, and she could see from their proud faces that they believed in its magic.
She knew that in the end it did not matter whether the flag really possessed fairy magic. The MacLeods believed in its magic, and faith could be every bit as powerful as truth. Her uncle wanted that power—whether to wield for the MacDonalds or simply to destroy the MacLeods. It did not matter. The MacLeods would not have a talisman to rally around, and that would be enough for their ultimate ruin and destruction. Of course, it wouldn’t hurt if she also managed to locate a secret entrance to their stronghold.
Guiltily, she lowered her gaze from the cheering clansmen. She felt almost as if she were violating a private moment—intruding on a sacred ritual. Now that she better understood the origins of the flag, Isabel was filled with a sense of dread. She would be the instrument of the
ir destruction. And she realized there was yet another complication, as if locating the flag and fleeing the castle without being caught weren’t enough. She also had to avoid death.
Chancing a sideways glance at the powerful man seated next to her, Isabel knew that if the flag didn’t kill her, Rory well could.
Chapter 9
Perhaps the dress had served its purpose after all, Isabel thought as she caught sight of the discarded gown still lying in a heap on the floor of their bedchamber. Though it had not exactly elicited the reaction she’d hoped for, it had elicited a reaction. And as the night had drawn on, she had detected a subtle thawing in Rory. For the first time, their conversation had been relaxed and at times even playful. He was no less imposing than before, but not quite so remote. She’d been enjoying herself with both Rory and his sister.
The story of the Fairy Flag, however, had jarred her back to reality. If the tale spun by the seannachie was to be believed, she knew where the flag was kept: a locked box in a secret location safeguarded by Rory. Now all she had to do was get Rory to tell her where he kept the box, retrieve it, find the secret entrance, and leave. Simple.
She scoffed. The man intended to send her home in eleven months, but would he confide the clan’s most precious secrets? Not likely. But she had to try. The only other choice was to return home to face defeat and the destruction of her clan at the hands of the Mackenzies. In other words, she had no choice.
She dared not think of what Rory would do if he discovered her subterfuge. How would he deal with a traitor? Would she be killed? Maimed? Imprisoned? She didn’t think so. Even in the beginning, when he had been so remote and cold, she had not sensed ruthlessness in his character, and less so now. He did not seem the type to enjoy violence toward women. In fact, he showed his love for his sister quite openly, something most men in his position would be reluctant to do for fear of being thought weak. Perhaps he would be able to forgive her? She laughed scornfully. Highlanders did not forgive—it was not in their vocabulary. No, he was a proud man, and what she intended would be a blow to his pride. He would never forgive her.