Margaret Mallory - The Guardian

“None,” Alex said, the humor thin in his voice. “I’ve told ye. I’ll never marry.”

Alex’s parents had been feuding for as long as Ian could remember. Even in the Highlands, where emotions tended to run high, the violence of their animosity was renowned. Of the three sisters who were Ian’s, Alex’s, and Connor’s mothers, only Ian’s had found happiness in marriage.

At the sound of footsteps, Ian and the others reached for their belts where their dirks should have been.

“Time to leave this hellhole, lads,” Ian said in a low voice. He flattened himself against the wall by the door and nodded to the others. Plan or no, they would take the guards.

“Alexander!” A woman’s voice came out of the darkness from the other side of the iron bars, followed by the jangle of keys.

Ian drew in a deep breath of the salty air. It felt good to be sailing again. They had stolen Shaggy’s favorite galley, which went a long way toward restoring their pride. It was sleek and fast, and they were making good time in the brisk October wind. The jug of whiskey they passed kept Ian warm enough. He grew up sailing these waters. Every rock and current was as familiar to him as the mountain peaks in the distance.

Ian fixed his gaze on the darkening outline of the Isle of Skye. Despite all the trouble that awaited him there, the sight of home stirred a deep longing inside him.

And trouble there would be aplenty. They had spoken little during the long hours on the water since the Campbell woman had given them the terrible news that both their chieftain and Connor’s brother Ragnall had been killed at Flodden. It was a staggering loss to the clan.

Duncan was playing sweet, mournful tunes on the small whistle he always carried, his music reflecting both their sadness and yearning. He tucked the whistle away inside his plaid and said to Connor, “Your father was a great chieftain.”

Their chieftain had not been loved, but he was respected as a strong leader and ferocious warrior, which counted for more in the Highlands. Ian found it hard to imagine him dead.

He took a long pull from the jug. “I can’t believe we lost them both,” he said, clasping Connor’s shoulder as he passed him the whiskey. “To tell ye the truth, I didn’t think there was a man alive who could take your brother Ragnall.”

Ian knew that the loss of his brother was the harder blow for Connor. Ragnall had been fierce, hotheaded, and accepted as the successor to the chieftainship. He had also been devoted to his younger brother.

“I suspected something,” Duncan said, “for if either of them was alive Shaggy wouldn’t have risked a clan war by taking us.”

“Even with our chieftain fallen, Shaggy should expect a reprisal from our clan,” Ian said after taking another drink. “So I’m wondering why he didn’t.”

“Ian’s right,” Alex said, nodding at him. “When Shaggy said he was going to drop our lifeless bodies into the sea, he didn’t look like a worried man to me.”

“He had no extra guard posted outside the castle,” Ian said. “Something’s no right there.”

“What are ye suggesting?” Connor said.

“Ye know damn well what they’re suggesting. One of your da’s brothers is behind this,” Duncan said. “They knew we’d return as soon as news of Flodden reached us, so one of them asked Shaggy to keep an eye out for us.”

“They’re all wily, mean bastards,” Alex said. “But which of them would ye say wants the chieftainship most?”

“Hugh Dubh,” Connor said, using Hugh’s nickname, “Black Hugh,” given to him for his black heart. “Hugh never thought he got his rightful share when my grandfather died, and he’s been burning with resentment ever since. The others have made homes for themselves on the nearby islands, but not Hugh.”

“What I want to know,” Ian said, “is what Hugh promised Shaggy to make sure ye never showed your face on Skye again.”

“You’re jumping to conclusions, all of ye,” Connor said. “There’s no affection between my uncle and me, but I won’t believe he would have me murdered.”

“Hmmph,” Alex snorted. “I wouldn’t trust Hugh further than old Teàrlag could toss him.”

“I didn’t say I trusted him,” Connor said. “I wouldn’t trust any of my da’s brothers.”

“I’ll wager Hugh has already set himself up as chieftain and is living in Dunscaith Castle,” Duncan said.

Ian suspected Duncan was right. By tradition, the clan chose their leader from among the men with chieftain’s blood. With Connor’s father and brother both dead and Connor in France, that left only Connor’s uncles. If half the stories told about them were true, they were a pack of murderers, rapists, and thieves. How a man as honorable as Connor could share blood with them was a mystery. Some would say the faeries had done their mischief switching babies.

They were nearing the shore. Without needing to exchange a word, he and Duncan lowered the sail, then took up the oars with the others. They pulled together in a steady rhythm that came as naturally to Ian as breathing.

“I know you’re no ready to discuss it, Connor,” Ian said between pulls. “But sooner or later you’ll have to fight Hugh for the chieftainship.”

“You’re right,” Connor said. “I’m no ready to discuss it.”

“Ach!” Alex said. “Ye can’t mean to let that horse’s arse be our chieftain.”

“What I don’t mean to do is to cause strife within the clan,” Connor said. “After our losses at Flodden, a fight for the chieftainship would weaken us further and make us vulnerable to our enemies.”

“I agree ye need to lay low at first,” Ian said. After an absence of five years, Connor couldn’t simply walk into Dunscaith Castle and claim the chieftainship—especially if Hugh already had control of the castle. “Let the men know you’re home and see they have an alternative to Hugh. Then, when Hugh shows he puts his own interests above the clan’s—as he surely will—we’ll put ye forward as the better man to lead.”

Alex turned to Duncan, who was on the oar opposite his. “You and I are like innocent babes next to my conniving cousins.”

“All great chieftains are conniving,” Ian said with a grin. “ ’Tis a required trait.”

“Connor will need to be conniving just to stay alive,” Duncan said without a trace of humor. “Hugh has been pirating in the Western Isles for years without being caught. That means he’s clever and ruthless—and lucky as well.”

They were quiet again for a time. Connor may not be ready to admit it aloud yet, but Ian agreed with Duncan—Connor’s life was in danger on Skye.

“If you’re going to the castle, I’m going with ye,” Ian said. “Ye don’t know what awaits ye there.”

“Ye don’t know what awaits you either,” Connor said. “Ye must go home and see how your family fares.”

Ian sent up a prayer that his own father had survived the battle. He regretted that their parting had been angry—and regretted still more that he had ignored his father’s letters ordering him home. He should have fought alongside his father and clansman at Flodden. He would carry the guilt of not being there to his grave.

“And ye need to settle matters with the lass,” Connor added. “Five years is long enough to keep her waiting.”

Ian had managed to forget about the problem of Sìleas while they talked of Connor and the chieftainship—and he didn’t want to think about it now. He took another swig from the whiskey jug at his feet while they rested their oars and glided to shore. As soon as the boat scraped bottom, he and the others dropped over the side into the icy water and hauled the boat up onto the shore of Skye.

After five years gone, he was home.