Page 15 of Fallen
Of late, Duncan had become not only a danger to himself, but to the MacKinnon clan. Ross Campbell had been her only ally here—and just hours before she’d helped him flee Dunan, he’d agreed to support her if she ever made a move against her brother.
Campbell was no good to her now though. She didn’t even know if he still lived. And with his absence, she was truly alone here.
She could ask Carr Broderick for help, but the man was an unknown quantity. It appeared his loyalty to her brother was unshakable. She couldn’t confide in him.
“I shall go and inform the servants then,” Drew said, injecting a brisk note into her voice. She needed to get ahold of herself. Fear of the sickness wouldn’t help any of them. The number of cases inside Dunan village was rising sharply with each passing day—it had only been a matter of time before someone within the broch fell ill.
And now that it had happened, they’d have to deal with it.
“Very good, milady,” Broderick replied. The usual impassive mask the man wore had slipped back into place. You would never have thought the news about the sickness had alarmed him. Drew admired the man’s self-control, his strength.
Watching him turn and stride off down the hallway in search of her brother, Drew inhaled slowly and wiped her damp palms upon the skirts of her kirtle.
Aye, they’d all have to be strong in the face of what lay ahead.
Carr Broderick was sweating as he stood before MacKinnon—a chill sweat that made his skin crawl. Dread ran its cold fingertip down his spine, causing his pulse to slow. Yet he kept his reaction to Lady Drew’s news hidden under a mask it had taken him years to master.
He wasn’t the only one shaken by news that the sickness had entered the broch. In all the time he’d served the MacKinnons, he’d never seen Lady Drew scared. Yet, the pallor upon her lovely face, the alarm in those iron-grey eyes, had made him want to reach for her, enfold her in his arms.
Something he would never do.
Lady Drew was likely to scratch his eyes out if he ever attempted such a thing.
Nonetheless, he’d noted the slight tremor of her body, the way her throat had bobbed as she swallowed. She was alarmed, and she was right to be. The devil had entered their home. How many of them would survive his visit?
A scowl split Duncan MacKinnon’s forehead once Broderick had delivered his news. The clan-chief sat before the hearth, a goblet of wine in hand, his wolfhound, Bran, curled at his feet.
“If the maid is ill, I don’t want her in my broch,” he growled, his voice slurring slightly. It was still an hour or two till the noon meal, yet MacKinnon was clearly not on his first sup of wine. Ever since Lady Leanna’s disappearance, MacKinnon seemed always to have a goblet of wine in hand—a habit that had turned his already mercurial temper into something even more dangerous.
Carr chose his words very carefully around the clan-chief these days.
“But the healer is attending her,” he ventured. “Surely, it’s dangerous to move the lass?”
“Get her out of my broch,” MacKinnon ground out. He rose unsteadily to his feet, stepped over his sleeping hound, and stumbled to the sideboard, where he helped himself to another goblet of wine. “And burn her bedding … that is my final word. Don’t argue with me, Broderick.”
Silence filled the clan-chief’s solar. The window was open, revealing a monochrome sky beyond. A breeze, chill for this time of year, blew inside causing the lump of peat in the hearth to glow bright red. However, the draft couldn’t mask the stale odor of wine and sweat that emanated from the clan-chief.
Carr studied MacKinnon as he returned to his place by the hearth and sank back down in his chair. Of late, his master’s state-of-mind had started to concern him. MacKinnon had always liked to drink, but there was a recklessness to his behavior in the past days, a bleakness in his gaze that worried Carr.
Ross was the clever one,he mused.He got out while he could.
No one here knew that he’d caught up with Ross Campbell and Lady Leanna in Knock, a fishing village on Skye’s south coast, where they’d been about to board a merchant’s birlinn. He’d confronted Ross, but had let him leave all the same.
Today, he wished he’d gone with him.
He wondered what MacKinnon would do if he knew. Most likely lunge for his dirk before plunging it into Carr’s belly. If the clan-chief ever discovered what he had done, his life would be forfeit.
“How long are ye going to stand there, gawping at me?” MacKinnon eventually growled. “Instead of bothering me with ill news, how about some good tidings instead?” He swirled the wine in his goblet, his grey eyes narrowing as he fixed Carr with a glare. “How goes the search for Craeg the Bastard?”
Carr returned the clan-chief’s stare. “I have half the Dunan Guard out searching for him now, MacKinnon,” he replied. “We have redoubled our efforts, especially along the borders and coast. He may be trying to leave Skye.”
A muscle ticked on MacKinnon’s jaw at this admission. Of course, as much as his half-brother had caused him trouble over the years, the clan-chief didn’t want him to move on. Instead, he wanted the man caught.
A heavy sensation settled upon Carr then, like two large hands had just fastened over his shoulders and were pushing him into the floor. He would never admit as much to MacKinnon, but he held out little hope of finding the outlaw leader, or his band of followers. In all the years they had caused strife here, MacKinnon had only been able to get close to them a couple of times.
They were ghosts, appearing and disappearing at will.
Some of the folk of this land actually believed that the outlaws were Fair Folk who disappeared into fairy mounds at dusk. However, Carr knew better. He’d seen the village hidden deep within that lost valley. After the skirmish with the band a month earlier, he’d searched the ruins of the camp, and had been surprised to see how settled they’d been there. He’d discovered a forge, store huts full of food, and fields full of crops on the southern slopes of the valley.
