came into focus. It was a huge rectangular building constructed of dingy gray stone and studded with a few small, square openings. A granite fortress, grim and nearly windowless, in the old “hall house” style of ancient castle.
Lochs, kilts, kings, and now castles.
“What's your king's name?” Her voice was a reedy whisper.
“Wait. MacColla. Charles? Charles the first.”
“Are you well, lass?”
She felt his hand on her shoulder, but she pulled away sharply. Swinging a trembling leg in front of her, Haley slid off the pony's back and buckled to the ground.
She heard muted chatter, then she registered the girl ranting a stream of unintelligible Gaelic.
Effortless Gaelic babbling all around.
And then the possibility came to her. But rather than the illuminating click of a bulb, Haley's sudden realization snuffed out the light. It was a boulder come crashing down, as if to seal her in a cramped, airless cave.
It was the phrase that did it. An obscure phrase that had been spoken to her. That nagged at her still. The name Jean had called her brother - she remembered it. And she
knew.
Fear Thollaidh nan Tighean.
Destroyer of Houses.
Alasdair MacColla.
The Alasdair MacColla.
She ran teetering for several yards before collapsing to her knees. The weathered building loomed in the distance, mocking her, an indifferent witness to her horror. The nausea that had quivered at the edges of her belly and in the back of her throat erupted full force now, and it was as if a great, violent fist punched into her gut, hauling up
everything from Haley's stomach with its clenched hand. The strain robbed her of breath, forced bile singeing into her sinuses.
The pain in her ribs made her vision waver, and a great wail escaped her. She tried to still her spasming body, tried to silence her own cries. Every movement was sheer agony.
She felt the small blip of burst blood vessels around her eyes as she retched again. And still she convulsed, as if some instinctual part of her believed she could make it all disappear by the full force of her body alone.
The violence of it made her bones creak, awoke fresh agony in her already abused ribs, and she sicked-up once more from the stabbing in her torso alone.
She had the knack of sensing MacColla near, and she felt him now, standing over her, the cool cast of his shadow on her back. Knew without thought that he was leaning down toward her.
And though her heart pounded with fear, she summoned a look of defiance. Against him, against her condition. Against the whole unreal, unfathomable, inconceivable
situation.
“No!” she shouted, as she scrambled to the side, scrubbing
the trails of her body's fluids from her face. “No.”
One of the most brutal men in Scottish history. Somehow come for her.
She saw him, looming over her, as still as the hills at theirbacks. She clawed tight to her flickering consciousness and heard Jean on the edges of it. “I warned you, Alasdair. The lass is not right.”
And this time instead of focusing Haley, giving her strength. Jean's distant words erased her. Unmoored her. Not right.
And the impermeable wall of masonry Haley had spent years stacking up and around herself became a great towering house of cards, fluttering lightly to the ground.
Chapter Nine
MacColla eased himself into the bath. The copper tub barely held him, but the water was hot and unclenched his tight muscles. He reached back to grind at the knots along the tops of his shoulders, taking pleasure in the stretch of tendons along the backs of his arms.
John had generously given them their choice of rooms, th e majority of his family currently residing in their primary home in Glassary, to the east. MacColla wasn't much for luxuries, and had chosen the smaller but warmer of the rooms offered him. The hearth was big, the window faced west, and the mattress was softer than any ground he'd used as a bed these past weeks.
And still, he was
Lochs, kilts, kings, and now castles.
“What's your king's name?” Her voice was a reedy whisper.
“Wait. MacColla. Charles? Charles the first.”
“Are you well, lass?”
She felt his hand on her shoulder, but she pulled away sharply. Swinging a trembling leg in front of her, Haley slid off the pony's back and buckled to the ground.
She heard muted chatter, then she registered the girl ranting a stream of unintelligible Gaelic.
Effortless Gaelic babbling all around.
And then the possibility came to her. But rather than the illuminating click of a bulb, Haley's sudden realization snuffed out the light. It was a boulder come crashing down, as if to seal her in a cramped, airless cave.
It was the phrase that did it. An obscure phrase that had been spoken to her. That nagged at her still. The name Jean had called her brother - she remembered it. And she
knew.
Fear Thollaidh nan Tighean.
Destroyer of Houses.
Alasdair MacColla.
The Alasdair MacColla.
She ran teetering for several yards before collapsing to her knees. The weathered building loomed in the distance, mocking her, an indifferent witness to her horror. The nausea that had quivered at the edges of her belly and in the back of her throat erupted full force now, and it was as if a great, violent fist punched into her gut, hauling up
everything from Haley's stomach with its clenched hand. The strain robbed her of breath, forced bile singeing into her sinuses.
The pain in her ribs made her vision waver, and a great wail escaped her. She tried to still her spasming body, tried to silence her own cries. Every movement was sheer agony.
She felt the small blip of burst blood vessels around her eyes as she retched again. And still she convulsed, as if some instinctual part of her believed she could make it all disappear by the full force of her body alone.
The violence of it made her bones creak, awoke fresh agony in her already abused ribs, and she sicked-up once more from the stabbing in her torso alone.
She had the knack of sensing MacColla near, and she felt him now, standing over her, the cool cast of his shadow on her back. Knew without thought that he was leaning down toward her.
And though her heart pounded with fear, she summoned a look of defiance. Against him, against her condition. Against the whole unreal, unfathomable, inconceivable
situation.
“No!” she shouted, as she scrambled to the side, scrubbing
the trails of her body's fluids from her face. “No.”
One of the most brutal men in Scottish history. Somehow come for her.
She saw him, looming over her, as still as the hills at theirbacks. She clawed tight to her flickering consciousness and heard Jean on the edges of it. “I warned you, Alasdair. The lass is not right.”
And this time instead of focusing Haley, giving her strength. Jean's distant words erased her. Unmoored her. Not right.
And the impermeable wall of masonry Haley had spent years stacking up and around herself became a great towering house of cards, fluttering lightly to the ground.
Chapter Nine
MacColla eased himself into the bath. The copper tub barely held him, but the water was hot and unclenched his tight muscles. He reached back to grind at the knots along the tops of his shoulders, taking pleasure in the stretch of tendons along the backs of his arms.
John had generously given them their choice of rooms, th e majority of his family currently residing in their primary home in Glassary, to the east. MacColla wasn't much for luxuries, and had chosen the smaller but warmer of the rooms offered him. The hearth was big, the window faced west, and the mattress was softer than any ground he'd used as a bed these past weeks.
And still, he was
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