Page 17 of Rebellion's Fire

“Military oddities,” said Cailean mac Gilleon. “And shepherds who imagine they’re smarter than he is.”

“I may be stupid,” Sigurd retorted, “but I’m not a spy.”

“We both are,” Cailean said wryly. “Sort of. But mainly, in case you haven’t guessed, we’re here to protect the people from the lady’s husband.”

Chapter Five

Christian woke withthe astonishing knowledge that she was home. And somehow, the opposite of a flower that thrives only in southern sunshine, she felt as if she were blooming in this northern land. In the last two days, despite her own fear and the fighting and death that she’d witnessed, she’d felt morealivethan she had in years. Her whole being seemed to thrum with excitement, with hope.

The scenes of yesterday’s adventures played out again in her mind. Adam MacHeth glowered through too many of them, smiled in one or two. Yes, he was strange and dangerous, and he’d used Christian for his own ends quite shamelessly. Yet for some reason, he didn’t seem to mean her ill.

Or did he?“I’ll come back for you…”

Even his meeting with his brother had been odd. Their conversation had implied a fairly long parting, and yet Christian was sure the attacks on her and on William had been undertaken in partnership. Their manner to each other had given nothing away, no joyful reunion or bitter reproaches, just a vaguely friendly banter as if they’d parted earlier that morning.

Donald hadn’t even been surprised to find his brother on the roof. Although perhaps briefly distracted by the understandable fear of losing his fighting hand and bleeding to death, he’d expected it. There was no disunity there to be exploited.

Disunity wastheirweakness, hers and William’s. Their sole joint aim was land of their own. Christian’s task now was to foster that, to make it work. To keep it. To stop William from destroying it. Against the odds, the MacHeths had allowed them in, but if yesterday had proven anything, it was that the MacHeths could eject them again whenever they chose. That wasn’t comfortable, and in any case, William’s ambition would not be satisfied for long with this tiny estate. He wanted the earldom, but he needed men to take it from the MacHeths, who held it de facto, whatever the law said.

Christian rose from bed, too excited to shiver, and opened her clothes chest to find a less mud- and blood-stained gown than yesterday’s. Dressed and masked—she’d grown to like the tool she’d made to defy her husband, because it made her feel like someone else, like anyone she wanted to be—she sallied forth to explore in the rain.

Servants scurried around the yard, giving the yawning soldiers wandering out of the main hall a wide berth. They cast Christian long, curious looks as she walked past them. Most gazes seemed to be directed at the region of her mask, which pleased her. It really was an excellent distraction. She wished she’d thought of it years before.

The gates were closed and guarded, but although the men there anxiously offered her an escort—which she refused—without orders to the contrary, they obediently let her through when bidden.

The sea was closer than she remembered. Her heart lifted all over again as she walked down the hill past the field where oats were just beginning to grow in the warmth of spring, and over a well-worn path to the sea.

Tirebeck, on the widest part of the Cromarty Firth, was shielded by two curving headlands, the sheltered little bay well hidden from casual attention. The Norsemen had found it, of course, long before living memory. And the King of Scots could find it, too, if he chose.

As she strode along the sandy beach, gazing across the firth to the land they called the Black Isle—so strange what she could remember now—and at the fishing boats making their way back into the shore, half-formed memories flashed and hovered in Christian’s mind. A background to her growing realization of the strategic importance of the place. Ships could land here, attack from the sea, bring thousands of soldiers to force the MacHeths to the pitched battles they avoided because the royal forces would always be superior. In loyal hands, Tirebeck was a useful asset to the King of Scots. In MacHeth hands, it had made secret landings impossible.

So why had they let William have it? Just because he’d taken Donald? If that hadn’t happened, if Donald had won, if William had died, what then would have happened to Christian? Would she still have been accepted as lady here, just because of her birth?

In truth, she wasn’t quite sure of how her father had come to leave. Flames flared in Christian’s memory, as they often did. Her hand lifted involuntarily to the left side of her face, rubbed the ugly skin through her mask.

Had they been burned out? It was hardly an unusual form of attack, only who would have done such a thing? Her mother had never spoken of it, and until after she’d died, Christian had never thought to ask.

And why would her father have fled south with his family rather than seek revenge? Perhaps he’d sought redress from David, King of Scots, since Malcolm MacHeth must already have been in prison and his sons too young to rule in Ross.

Whatever, it hadn’t worked. She was sure her father had died early in their exile. He must have, for she couldn’t really remember him anywhere but here. Her mother had then married Ranulf, a Norman knight in King David’s service, who’d returned south to England when he’d inherited better lands there. He’d cared for Christian when her mother had died. She’d loved him well enough, but he had too many daughters of his own to provide for, and Christian, disfigured and virtually landless, had been sold to the first knight who showed any interest.

Only after her wedding had she discovered that Ranulf had made her claim to Tirebeck sound far more real than it actually was. Almost worse, William had only seen her in profile, first through a window and then across a crowded hall. A poor and ambitious man, he’d seized the bait, and they were both still paying the price.

She must have been looking grim, because a group of women passing her with nets of fish across their backs cast her wary glances.

Smoothing her brow, she greeted them in Gaelic and got polite if reserved responses. The oldest of the women paused as if she wanted to speak further, so Christian stopped and waited.

“Are we safe here, lady?” the old woman asked bluntly.

“I believe so,” Christian replied. “I pray so.”

Though hardly a ringing assertion, it seemed to be enough. Safety was never guaranteed. The old woman nodded with a toothless smile and passed on. Christian turned and walked with them for a little, asked them their names and where they lived. They answered willingly enough, without the hostility Eua had shown—but then Christian wasn’t displacing them from their homes.

When she introduced herself, they all smiled. The old woman, whose name was Eta, actually cackled. “Bless you, lady, we know that. I remember you as a tiny baby.”

Christian gave a half smile. “Do you?” A hundred questions that she’d failed to ask of her mother, about how and why they’d left, surged up. But she couldn’t ask those. She had to be the all-powerful lady with all the answers for these people, not the vulnerable child seeking help. She contented herself with, “You must remember the fire at the hall, then.”

“I remember them both,” old Eta said.

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