Page 5 of Connal

“Enough.” Shaw gripped his shoulder and swung him around to face the tower. “I shall look for you.”

“’Tis naught inside the mist.” Connal had seen that much, and now staggered back toward the entry, stopping long enough to allow Shaw to circle his shoulders with his arm. The chieftain always made the move appear friendly and even affectionate while helping to keep him steady and on his feet.

“You carried her up the cliff steps?” Shaw asked as they slowly descended the tower stairs.

Connal rubbed the sweat from his eyes and took in an easier breath. “Aye.”

“In daylight?” his brother persisted. “Without once stumbling or dropping the wench?”

Connal nearly snapped at him before he realized why Shaw had asked that. The dizziness that plagued him in high places compelled him only to use the cliff ascent after sunset, when he wouldn’t be able to see how far he had climbed when he looked down.

“I needed move her from Merrick’s reach swiftly.” At the base of the stairs he shifted away from his brother and headed toward the ward. “Go and aid Fletcher.”

“I shall stand your second at dusk,” Shaw called after him.

The guards on duty bowed their heads as Connal passed, and one unlocked and opened the doors to the ward as he approached. The open-air space contained the largest of Dun Ard’s many fountains, an immense tower of golden stone with dozens of clear crystal spouts. A fine mist hung in the air over the broad stretches of speckled black and gold-veined white stones that paved the ground in undulating shapes. Some of his vassals had planted ferns and small trees from the glens in barrels set along the painted walls, which now shaded the weathered driftwood benches where the first laird would sit and watch the clouds sail overhead.

Even now he could imagine his sire’s presence, like the tiny rainbows created by the fountain’s spray and the sun.

The ward had always been a place of calm and peace for Connal, as Joana had loved it and spent much of her free time here in spring and summer. He often came here to find her in a corner, her dark head bowed and her pretty lips curved as she mended one of his leines or embroidered on fine linen. Her delight in doing such needlework when they had more than enough maids to attend to such tasks puzzled him, but he would sometimes deliberately tear a cuff or sleeve to give her more to sew.

I ken you wish me do naught more than sit on a silk cushion and dine on berries and cream all the day, his wife had once chided. Only I’d soon grow as fat and lazy as one of the keepe’s old cats.

After Joana killed herself Connal had never stepped foot in the ward if he could help it. Indeed, he’d spent the first days after her death tearing apart their bed chamber, looking for the letter he was sure she had hidden there. She would not have abandoned him without a word; only a few hours before she died she had kissed him and waved him off from the dock. He still remembered her laughing as he trotted along the side of the cargo boat to keep her in his sight.

The truth had been hidden from him, but it turned out to be something he’d never suspected.

He’d picked up a small trunk he’d found shoved in the very back of her armoire, and in a fury had smashed it onto the floor, scattering its contents everywhere. Dozens of embroidered blankets, delicately-stitched tiny smocks, and even some wee caps and stockings lay around his boots. Joana had made them herself; he’d recognized her elegant, fine stitching with one glance. All had been so small they could only fit a newborn infant, and must have taken months for her to fashion in secret.

His wife had been sewing for a bairn that she knew Connal could never give her––or perhaps someone else had. During her time on Caladh she had grown close to many of the MacMar’s vassals.

Connal stood in the ward until the sun dropped below the towers, and then forced himself to walk to the back passage that led to the forest gate. His men quickly raised the portcullis before bowing as he strode out to find Shaw waiting for him. He glanced over his brother’s fine garments and pinned tartan, noting the number of weapons he carried along with his sword.

“I’m to walk, no’ war with Merrick,” he reminded him.

The chieftain smiled broadly. “Aye, and as your second, I’m to face the fishy bastart if he ends you. For which I live in hope.” He lifted his chin toward the gate. “Duncan desires a word.”

Connal rubbed his tired eyes before he regarded the lanky figure approaching them. The descending rays of sunlight glittered in the wide silver strands veiling the healer’s dark hair, and made his twilight eyes look black. “Cannae you wait?”

The clan’s healer stopped in front of him. “Your castaway wench, she’s some bruises, but no wounds or broken bones.” As he started to turn away he added, “She says her name’s Valerie Baker. She claims she’s a teacher who came here from the twenty-first century.”

“She’s muddled from a near-drowning.” Connal made a dismissive gesture. “Give her time and sleep, and she shall come to her senses.”

“She’s no’ muddled.” Duncan held up a small rectangle with tiny writing. “Mistress Baker gave me her license of driving, whatever that may be, and bid me summon the police. From what she told me, ’twould seem they’re like the mainland magistrate’s men.”

Connal snatched the thing, and then went still as he saw the twin perfect, impossibly tiny portraits of the woman. He knew enough of Roman lettering to make out the words at the top. “Where ’tis New York State?”

“The fack if I ken.” The healer nodded at the strange object. “She claims she teaches at the school of high learning there, and fell into the water after having what she called a car accident on a bridge.” He frowned. “Mayhap she meant cart. I cannae make out half of what she speaks with that odd accent she possesses.”

“A baker who teaches high learning driving a cart over sea bridges. Aye, right.” Shaw chuckled. “She’s wholly muddled.”

“She guessed the same of me when I told her she’d landed off the coast of Scotland.” Duncan glanced back at the stronghold. “She wishes speak with you, my lord…and she wears Lady Joana’s ring.”

Shaw closed his eyes and groaned.

“I must walk.” Connal handed the object back to him, and started toward the forest.

The chieftain paced him as they made their way through the trees, but aside from a few sharp looks kept silent. Although quick-tempered and easily agitated, when matters grew dire no one, not even Nyall, had more self-control or focus than Shaw. Connal had already decided to put him before the clan as their next laird when he stepped down. Once he settled the matter of the woman with Merrick, he would call for a gathering.