Maclean shouted to a few of his men that they should bring some smaller boats around to tie up Trefor’s sinking ship and keep it afloat until the breach could be repaired. “Get some pitch boiling!” he shouted, an edge to his voice that suggested he was annoyed there wasn’t already a fire on the shore and a big pot of sealant warming on it. “Lachlan! Hie yourself to the carpenter and have him bring lumber for a patch! Hurry, lad!” One young man separated himself from a cluster of spectators near the quay and took off running toward the castle.

  A wave of relief washed over Trefor, and he was then able to order his own men to keep bailing and ready themselves to patch the hole. Hot pitch could be prepared, a patch nailed over and sealed, and the ship would be saved.

  “It’ll be some days before your boats will be of use again, my friend,” said Maclean. He looked around at the sky, then to the horizon out to sea, and added, “Not to mention the prospects of the weather being anything but frozen for the foreseeable future appear mighty slim. You can see where the ice has already formed along the rocks and blocked the mouth of the harbor. If this storm doesn’t abate, you’ll be locked in until there’s a thaw.” Maclean sighed, as cheerless as Trefor felt. “I’m sorry, but it appears you’ll be trapped on my poor island for a time.”

  Trefor was inclined to agree that it was a poor island, for he was eager to present himself to the king in Ireland and had no interest in Tiree, but he kept that sentiment to himself. Instead he said, “If you can stand to have us impose on your hospitality for a while longer, I think ‘trapped’ might be too strong a word for it.”

  The laird laughed and watched the workmen scurry back and forth. “My hospitality is beyond question, lad. Stay as long as you like, and never mind the circumstance. And pay me for the repairs once you’ve come into your rewards in Ireland, whatever they may be. I’m always glad for the company of a man dedicated to Robert, particularly one related, however distantly, to the MacNeils of Barra and Cruachan. Tarry as you will, and enjoy the stay.”

  The freezing wind blustered and tossed the men’s hair around, along with the descending snow, as they watched the work. Huge flakes became a barrage of cold and wet thrown at a sharp, stinging slant. Trefor checked the security of his hat and the green silk bandanna he wore under it, ostensibly for warmth but really to cover his ears. Then he hugged himself within his coat against the icy air and stifled a sigh. Robert wasn’t going to like this delay any more than he did. Trefor could feel his opportunity with the king slip through his fingers with every moment.

  There was no rush to repair the boats, for the weather did not improve that day. In fact it worsened, and that evening Trefor found himself in the Great Hall beside his host’s fire, listening with half a mind to the castle bard tell stories of past glories of Clan Maclean. No matter where Trefor went in this century, the stories all seemed the same, though the older ones usually involved a little more magic than did tales of recent struggles and victories. A good bard could always put a new twist or slant on an old tale and make it seem fresh, and this guy had a talent. With a nimble tongue and expressive voice, he expounded on the demise of a sea monster that had lived centuries or millennia ago. But Trefor had heard it before, told as a MacNeil adventure, and his knee bounced up and down in an antsy tic. His eye wandered around the room in spite of the storyteller’s excellent efforts to keep it on himself.

  The women sat apart from the men, a custom that struck Trefor as strange since it meant they were farther from the warmth of the hearth and he didn’t think that a way to treat women. Even in his postmodern, twenty-first-century world of equal opportunity there would have been some sense of chivalry about keeping girls warm. But these guys were heavily invested in the idea of the high-ranking men taking the choicest spots, and who was Trefor to argue with his host? Certainly not him, certainly not today, as indebted to Maclean as he was.

  Most of the women had sewing in their laps and chatted amongst themselves in low voices, but some listened to the bard. Trefor noted the laird’s daughter was rapt at the story. Her mouth had dropped open, a little “O” between her lips, and he couldn’t help noticing how red they were. Around here, red lips meant health as well as beauty. No makeup. Rosy cheeks were rosy cheeks, and there was no hiding a sallow complexion. This girl was truly beautiful. Trefor indulged himself and stared.

  At a pause in the story as the bard plinked a bit on his lyre, the girl glanced at the men and caught Trefor ogling her. He looked away and his face warmed. The bard once again became the center of his attention, and Trefor frowned with the effort of concentration on the epic. The story thread was lost to him, but he struggled to find it no matter how dull it might be. All thoughts of Deirbhile were stamped out like sparks from a pine fire, with the same sense of emergency. He raised his chin, crossed his arms, and ignored the girl.

  For a while. The bard’s voice held no interest for him; it had become a low background noise to Trefor’s thoughts as he resisted the urge to look toward the women again. But the more he tried to ignore her, the more he wanted to look. As if his eyes were being drawn by a magnetic force. Finally he looked.

  He found her staring at him and he blinked, then looked away again. Had she been watching him this whole time’? Could she have seen him struggle to keep his attention away from her? Once again his cheeks flamed, and he was astonished they still could. Not since high school had he blushed like this, and it mortified him. Now, having been busted twice and with little to lose, he looked back over at her. Her eyes were still on him, and now the dimples dug into her cheeks. Her teeth were large, and the whitest he’d seen in this century. Which wasn’t saying all that much, but at least she had no gray ones up front like most folks here. And she kept them clean, another habit not common for humans except among the very rich.

  Her pale eyes sparkled with silent laughter, and Trefor didn’t know whether to smile or look away again. This wasn’t fun; she made him feel like a boy again, a period of his life he’d fought long and hard to forget. The feeling was creepy, and he looked down again at his hands. He wished he could leave the room but couldn’t risk being rude. He was stuck.

  Another glance at Deirbhile, and still she stared. But the dimples were gone. He sighed and returned his attention to the bard. Whatever had just happened, he was certain he’d ruined something. Not that he could have any clue what that might have been.

  ***

  The storm worsened, a blizzard now that dumped sheets and mounds of ice all over the north end of Tiree. Work on the ships was at a halt, and everyone in the castle and village hunkered down and hoped the firewood would hold out till a thaw. Ice in the harbor threatened the ships of both Trefor and Maclean, and crews were kept by the quay to knock loose thin ice and throw fire embers on thick. The risk of setting fire to one of the vessels was high, and Trefor kept a watch out castle arrow loops in his worry. All he needed now was for Alex’s ships to go up in flames. He sure didn’t care to have to send for help from Eilean Aonarach and explain how he couldn’t even make the trip to Ireland without mishap.

  Two days into the blizzard, at the end of the evening when darkness and quiet descended on the castle, Trefor went to his bed annoyed with himself for exhaustion over an unproductive day. No progress on getting out of there, just a lot of sitting around, listening to the boasting of his host and his host’s underlings of past wartime exploits. Never in his life had Trefor known how much energy it took to live in tedium. Tension across his shoulders made his neck sore, and he stretched and bent to work it out. He undressed by the fire, draped his clothing over the drying rack, though he hadn’t been outside and they were not wet, and hurried across the cold room to slip into the bed.

  Something moved beside him in the blankets, a shifting of what he’d thought was a lump in the mattress. He leapt up again. Heart pounding, he scrambled for his belt and the dagger hung from it, but a familiar voice from the bed made him pause.

  “Trefor, ’tis myself only.”

  Relief washed over him, and he straightened. “Morag?” The shadows in the bed on the other side of the room moved, and he could now see a person-sized shape under the wool cover.

  “Aye.” The girl sat up and rubbed her eyes. She’d been asleep, and now peered at him through a haze of slumber.

  “Where did you come from? Where have you been?” Then the real question occurred to him. “How in God’s name did you get here?” Nothing and nobody had come in or out for two days. Had she been here all along, or had she flown in on a broomstick?

  “I have ways of being places, as ye ken well enough.” She stopped rubbing her eyes and tried to organize the mass of curly red hair that spilled over her shoulders.

  It was true. He knew she could do things he only wished he could do. And he wished for one of them now. “You can leave the island if you want, right?”

  “Aye.”

  “Then help me get out of here. I need to meet Bruce’s army in Ireland.”

  Her eyes narrowed at him, and he realized how stupid his request was before she even spoke. “You yourself, or you and your knights’? Do you wish to be in Ireland without your men?”

  Trefor’s hope failed again. She could go places, and might even be able to send him somewhere, but not necessarily. Beyond that, it was another thing entirely to transport an army, and he knew she didn’t have that kind of power. Nobody did, as far as he knew. And even if the power did exist and she were to accomplish the task, there would be explanations to be made, and he was certain he didn’t want to deal with that. The prospect of being burned at the stake was at the least unappealing.

  He sighed, set aside the dirk, and slipped into bed beside her where it was warm and she was soft against his skin. One great thing about Morag was that her body fit him well. Every bump on him had a corresponding soft place on her that welcomed him without question. She was a pain in the ass in every other way, but in this she was his perfect match. Settling in next to her, he kissed her and she melded to him as if she were his other half.

  He’d missed her, and only now did he realize how much. A fire lit in his belly and warmed his groin so his mind went up in a puff of stupidity. All intelligence wafted away, and the only care he had in the world just then was to taste of delicious Morag and live inside her as long as he could stay. It was a pleasant stay, and long, for one of the things he’d been taught by the Bhrochan was control over his body. He moved fast, then slow, then quickly once again for a while, until she pled exhaustion and soreness, and he finally relented with a final rush and his own growl of nearly pained satisfaction. Propped on his elbows above her, pressed to her, panting and grinning, he wished he could go again right away. It had been far too long, and he had far too much he longed to give her.

  “Where have you been, Morag?”

  “About.”

  “Why did you leave me down that hole?” Why, indeed, had she led him to the hole to begin with’?

  “Can ye deny you needed what they gave you?”

  “You wanted me to learn the craft?” A chuckle burbled from him. “You wanted me to learn this?” Again he pressed himself between her legs, where it was now damp as well as warm.

  She giggled. “Aye, but not only this. I could have taught you how to make love to me without the help of my wee relatives.”

  “Then what?”

  “The knowing will come in handy someday. ’Tis inevitable.”

  Ah. “Fate. My destiny.”

  “Indeed. Brochan told you.”

  “He mentioned some things. I don’t believe him.”

  She didn’t reply, except to gaze into his face and utter a reflective hum.

  Trefor shifted to the side and lay beside her with his head propped on an elbow. “He didn’t tell me much.”

  “So, what’s to believe or not believe?”

  “That there’s such a thing as undeniable destiny. I believe in free will. Nobody can tell me what I’m fated for, or that I have no control over my actions.”

  “But who’s to say that what you do is not what your fate was to begin with?”

  “I am. I’m the one who chooses.”

  For a moment she gazed at him in the flickering light of the fading hearth, and he wanted to kiss her again. So he did. She responded with familiar passion, then said. “If only you understood the true power, my love.”

  That puzzled him, but he had no desire to pursue the question. He was the captain of his fate, and that was all he cared to know. He kissed her again and deep within himself found the power to enjoy her again. It didn’t matter where she’d been, or why. She was here now and he would make the most of it.

  ***

  In the morning she was gone. It was unsettling to awaken, knowing the castle was snowbound, and find her not only not in his bed but not anywhere on the premises. Nor in the village. Without appearing too much as if he were in search of someone who couldn’t possibly be there, he cruised the likely spots and didn’t find her.

  Huh.

  On a fretful climb to a vantage point in the castle, where he could observe the state of his ships, he encountered Deirbhile gazing out a glazed window in a chamber high in the keep. Trefor was surprised to see her, especially alone.

  Girls like her were never alone: they surrounded themselves with waiting ladies or friends who kept them entertained. Trefor looked around for a companion or chaperone of some kind, but there was none. He suddenly wasn’t sure whether to apologize and withdraw in haste, or to stick around and see what he could learn about her. Keeping the boredom at bay sounded like a pleasant idea, and Morag having disappeared, it seemed the laird’s daughter was his best bet for interesting conversation. He smiled and gave a slight bow. “Good afternoon, my lady.”

  “Good day to you... Sir Trefor Pawlowski, I believe?”

  She knew his name and had it correctly. He liked that. “Aye. Pawlowski.” Okay, it was his mothers maiden name, but it was the one he used among people who couldn’t know who his parents were.

  “Such an exotic name. Nearly musical. I’m Deirbhile Maclean; my father is your host.” Trefor knew that, but only nodded in acknowledgment. She continued, “You and your men seem to be in an unfortunate situation.”

  Though he agreed heartily, he said instead, “On the contrary, we are quite fortunate for this to have happened while visiting your father, whose hospitality is incomparable and whose support has saved not only my property but the king’s fighting men as well. I’m grateful for his intervention.”

  A sly light came into her eyes. “Nevertheless, you wish to embark at the earliest opportunity.”

  The tension in him showed. Damn. “I have a job to do and must go to Ireland to accomplish it.”

  “Surely you could relax and enjoy your time here when you know there is nothing to be done about the weather.”

  Trefor slipped his hands behind his back and straightened to look out the open window. It was bitch cold in this room, though a fire burned merrily in the hearth, and the wind from outside bit his cheeks and numbed his nose. All was white as far as he could see, off down the hills and rocks of the island. The village lay in a scattering of dark bits below, the houses nearly buried in snow, and the stuff descended in a relentless dump that made hissing noises as it landed on drifts. “My duty to Robert is pressing. I would hate more than anything else to disappoint the king.”

  “Terribly admirable of you, but surely there is no sense in making yourself miserable over what you cannot change.”

  That made him smile, but it wasn’t all that amusing. He’d been able to change very little in his life, and it seemed the more he tried the less success he had at it. If he was tense about this voyage, it was because so much rested on it. And he’d wasted so much time with the Bhrochan. He needed to get on with his life. “Is it so obvious?”

  “One might think you weren’t so grateful for my father’s help, or that you’re not enjoying the company.”

  Trefor hastened to reply, “Oh, you shouldn’t think that. I enjoy the company very much.” He did at that moment, in any case. Very much.

  The dimples popped into her cheeks, and they were a pleasure to see. It also struck him she was more pleased by his reply than one might have expected from a girl who didn’t know him or like him. He concluded she must like him, and that sent a warmth through his belly that stood against the chill from the window. She said, “I watch you fret over your ships, and wonder if you might be trying to melt the ice in the harbor by mere will.”

  He could have explained to her that his will had been known to prevent or encourage events, but never to undo them, but left it unsaid for fear of giving himself away as fey, the same reason he kept his ears well covered by his hair. He never cared to discuss his heritage, even with those who knew. Then there was that his mother was a descendant of Danu herself, which, were he to confess that, might be seen as bragging. He never knew how someone might react to those things and always thought it best to never let them be an issue. With a sigh, he replied. “Perhaps you’re right. I’m giving too much attention to something that will work itself out with or without my help. I should enjoy the company even more than I do.”

  “I would certainly like that.”

  Now he had to smile. That was a bold thing to hear from a girl her age. Was she hitting on him? Had she purposely sought him today to be caught out without a chaperone? “So, tell me a bit about the company I’m keeping now. What do you do for fun around here?”

  “Oh, nothing so enjoyable as fighting the Irish nobles.” Trefor chuckled, and she giggled at her own joke. “For the most part I have my embroidery, my friends, and next year I shall have my husband and his household to keep me busy.”

  Amusement fled, but Trefor kept his smile in place. She was engaged. He turned to the window again and wondered why she was rattling his cage if she was spoken for. “You have a fiancé?”

  “Of course I do. We’ve been promised to each other since we were children. I can't remember a time in my life when I wasn’t engaged to Geoffrey.”

  Now he peered at her. “It was arranged?”

 

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