the end result. The thought cheered her up, though she still kept up her scowling at Macconnach’s back.
Fifteen feet ahead, Macconnach could feel a sullen heat directed at him from Isabel Alderton’s direction. The obvious reason for her anger toward him at the moment was that she did not like being obliged to anyone for anything.
Still, just in case there was more to it, he let Bran drop back to ride alongside her. That little pistol had not abandoned his thoughts, after all, and he was not yet certain how well she knew to handle it.
“Your father would like you to have, er, full lessons in the use of firearms.”
“I am acquainted with their use and of how to care for them, Major, thank you all the same.”
“Miss Alderton.” He was careful with his tone of voice. Isabel stared resolutely forward, squinting a tiny bit into the darkness ahead.
“Major Macconnach.”
“Having seen men cleaning and at firing drills is not quite the same as having laid hands to a working weapon.”
Isabel tried to hide her shock, wondering whether someone had ratted her out, or whether Macconnach had acquired this information on his own.
“I have used my brother’s hunting rifle a few times. It is hardly requiring of great intellect or skill.”
“Before we met, do you know, I had it sorted out what part of the old palace you lived in. Perhaps your father or brother ought to have reminded you that glass reflects sunlight.”
Blast. So he had seen her. Well, that didn’t mean she had to be contrite and accept his irritating lessons.
“And you did not tattle on me to my father; my congratulations, Major.”
“That is not what I meant. You simply have to…ought to consider that real life presents variables and chaos that years of training cannot fully prepare anyone for.”
“You mean, if what is out there is what you think it is.”
“Shall I describe for you some of the creatures I have encountered, in only ten years of service to the Crown?”
“Oh, please do, I am so clearly lacking in the ways of the world.”
“Is this attitude due to my stepping on your toes back in the village? Do you truly think still that your pretending to be ‘touched by the goddess’ would have brought the help these people need? I don’t mind your being here, that you wish to help, but if you’re going to be a fool, you might as well turn your horse and go back to your father.”
He touched his heels lightly to Bran’s flanks, and the stallion shook his head before breaking into a trot. Isabel was left to work the sting out of his words on her own. Tears sprang unbidden to her eyes; she swiped at them angrily, cursing herself.
Was she jealous that he had intervened? It was ridiculous, but in the end, she knew that was part of it. The rest of her seethed, at herself more than anything, that she did not have the ability to bring cold disdain between Macconnach and her.
If there was a truth hanging hazily in front of her at the moment, it was that he inspired strong emotion, not detachedness. Instead of being able to ignore him, the way she did with all the other popinjays, she found herself constantly moved to spar with him.
To engage, rather than to walk away. It was a curious experience for her, not to mention a thorny one, as she was not the greatest enthusiast of protracted hostilities. Debate, certainly, even animated conversation were her preferred milieu.
As she kept circling the question in her mind, however, she had to admit the central problem was indeed this inexplicable need she had to keep provoking Macconnach. And then her father, with his smug certainty that he knew the reason why!
Isabel found she was gritting her teeth so hard that her jaw was becoming painful. She breathed in and out, slowly, the manner of which she had once learned from a yogi.
Of course, it was difficult to meditate and cleanse the mind whilst on horseback. The flies hadn’t given up either, in spite of the dark. The night also brought its own special host of pests and dangers.
ॐ
Macconnach rode in silence. He needed to direct his mental energies outward anyhow, to begin to track their prey. The thought occurred to him that they were in the unenviable position of being prey as well as huntsmen.
Where to initiate a search was very unclear to him. As of yet they still had to determine what exactly it was he had sensed.
Although Colonel Arpan had offered a few notions, Macconnach had often found that until he made direct contact with a creature or spirit, he was not always able to detect its exact nature.
This limitation was the very thing that had resulted in the death of someone close to him, so many years past. Since that stormy night in his home hills, he had made it his mission to learn how to respond to the intentions of evil. That first time…he had been caught so off his guard, his powers had manifested without warning, almost like a grenade exploding prematurely. But who would have expected a kelpie to make an appearance in the midst of a crashing thunderstorm?
His best friend Dougal had seen it first.
“Gordie, look! It’s a horse, in the loch! What d’ye suppose it’s doing out here in this weather?” They two had been caught by the rain far from shelter, and were already busy trying to goad their frightened sheep into orderly movement.
Dougal had pointed off into the distance, his eyes wide with fascination. The horse had stood stock still, in spite of lighting and thunder thrashing the countryside. During the lulls, they could see a faint green haze around it.
Macconnach remembered how he could feel it. At first a tickle in his senses, it quickly became a clamoring, overwhelming feeling of ill-intent.
He’d known it was a kelpie instantly, because he’d grown up hearing all the highland tales from his sisters. And he’d known with every fibre of his being that it wanted them, to tear their flesh, and consume them.
Dougal had become enthralled by the beauty of the creature. No persuading on Macconnach’s part had discouraged his friend from gazing at it. All the sheep had long since scattered.
“I could just throw a tether on it. Take it home, like, and it’d be mine, Gordie!”
Before Macconnach had time to react, Dougal had taken to running headlong at the animal, madly, fervently, his intended tether falling abandoned on the ground in a sodden heap.
Macconnach had reacted out of pure terror, crying out a warning. Dougal had turned in confusion, as the horse began its alteration back into true form. The face of the kelpie was something of nightmares, meant to paralyze its victim in fear.
Macconnach had done just the opposite then, as he’d felt the fear working into something else, something dangerous. He had reached for his friend as the kelpie had begun to pull him into the loch.
With his roar of anger and protest had come a rock slide from an overhanging cliff. The kelpie had released Dougal and slipped back into the black waters of the loch.
No happy resolve came from its flight, however. Dougal was killed the instant a boulder struck him in the skull, leaving Macconnach to carry his friend five miles back home. The sheep had scattered.
The village had ground to a halt. They all said it had been an accident, but he could see differently, every time he left his house. Deep in their souls, every man and woman in the place, they feared him. He couldn’t even remember the first time he’d heard the word, the one that, after a fashion, was whispered wherever he went.
Dullahan.
He’d never even heard the term before. Everyone knew what the Baon-Sidhe were. There were plenty of them in his family lineage, along with all the women who had been Seers.
He had been the first male born in his family with any sense of the Sight for hundreds upon hundreds of years. And oh, his parents had tried to make him believe that it was only that: the Sight. He’d known better.
And then he’d heard that whisper. It had taken seeking out the village taleteller to finally know what was meant by it. The old man had avoided Macconnach’s eyes, guiltily, as he’d sat oi
ling and tuning his fiddle.
“Why d’ye want to know of that, lad?” As if he hadn’t known, hadn’t heard of the stories circulating about young Gordie Macconnach. Seeing the look in the boy’s eyes, Old Robbie had relented, and simply told him.
Dullahan were rare, he’d said. Nobody even knew whether they were real, not like the rest of the host of the Sidhe, who were common amongst the oldest families in Scotland. Some speculated that the Dullahan were the consorts of the Baon-Sidhe, or perhaps just their brethren.
Either way, death was their only trade. Old Robbie had known what a terrible thing it was to be saddled with such a name. The Dullahan were perhaps, uncommon, but their stories were well-known. They were escorts of the dead, in some stories, in others, the Dullahan were nothing less than Death’s Hand, walking amongst the living.
After that, Macconnach had known. He could never have stayed in his village, even if he had wanted to. His father had indulged his second son’s request to join the King’s armed forces, all the while insisting that a Laird’s son should not waste away in the lower ranks.
At first, Macconnach had fought against this, thinking that it would be better for him to simply die anonymously overseas. With some persuasion, he’d accepted that he would be more useful as an officer.
He’d led intelligence-gathering missions, venturing into the places, gradually, where other men dared not go. Two years in, he had come into contact with an older officer, Colonel Grandy, who had