Conall Sinclair grittedhis teeth as he hauled his boat through the shallows, as close to the beach as he could get her. Sweat glistened on his brow, his dark hair damp with exertion.
“Just a bit more,” he muttered under his breath, gripping the worn rope tighter in his calloused hands. With one final surge, the keel gripped the sandy bottom and he collapsed onto his backside in the damp sand, chest heaving.
He looked around. The beach stretched in both directions, empty save for gulls poking around at the water’s edge. Behind him, the beach merged seamlessly with the rugged cliffs, guarding this spot from the rest of the world. Good. This cove could only be reached by sea, which meant he was safe from prying eyes—at least for now. It was low tide and so he had a little time before the water rose and floated theMermaidagain. He would have to make sure he was ready to leave by then.
He climbed to his feet and stood at the edge of the water, eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of a ship, but the sea was empty.
“Where are ye?” he whispered to himself. “Where are ye hiding?”
There was no answer from the waves.
Sighing, he turned away and began wandering down the beach, gathering driftwood. He collected small twigs and dry logs, meticulously sorting them into two piles; one for kindling and one for fuel. As his fingers moved deftly across the wood, striking a fire and coaxing it to life, his mind drifted. Three months he had been on this mission. Three blasted months of chasing rumors like ghosts, of edging closer to his quarry only to have it dance out of reach like a deer startled by the hunter.
It was bloody infuriating. He wondered if the rest of his sword-brothers were having more luck. His comrades-in-arms would laugh their arses off if they could see him now—the great Conall Sinclair reduced to scavenging for firewood and whatever food the sea could provide.
He smiled at the irony. Once, he had dined on the finest food, worn the finest clothes, mixed in the finest circles. But it had come at a cost that he hadn’t been willing to pay. He’d choose a roaring campfire and good friends to watch his back over grand feasts and feather beds any day of the week.
His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since yesterday and then only a measly scrap of dried fish. If he remembered rightly, there was samphire growing along this cove, among the mud flats that bracketed the beach at low tide. Conall picked his way carefully across the slippery stones, navigating his way around rock pools and clumps of seaweed until the rocks began to recede, to be replaced by mud flats and pools of brackish water.
Carefully, he scanned the area and spotted shoots of the succulent green plant growing in clumps around the edges of the mud flats. He grinned triumphantly, then quickly picked the tender stalks and placed them in a sack that hung from his belt. When he thought he had enough for a half-decent meal, he turned around to retrace his steps—and jumped with a yelp.
An old woman was standing behind him. Conall stepped back in shock, but the old woman merely smiled at him kindly.
“Ah, young Conall, here ye are finally,” she said softly. She nodded towards the sack of samphire in his hand. “Got enough for two?”
Conall looked around for her companions, but the woman seemed to be alone. Where had she come from? She was smiling up at him sweetly, her cheeks rosy, her eyes sparkling.
“I...um...aye,” he replied gruffly. “Plenty for two.”
“Excellent!” the old woman cried, clapping her hands together. “Then let’s have some breakfast, eh? I dinna know about ye, but I’m starving!”
“How did ye get here?” he asked, scanning the shore for any sign of a boat.
The old woman chuckled. “Oh, I have my ways. But that isnae important right now. What is important is that we break our fast and have a chat. I have information that will be of interest to ye, young Conall.”
“How do ye know my name?”
The old woman flashed him another smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “I know many things, young man. Now come, let us eat and talk.”
Feeling a bit unnerved but also curious, Conall followed the old woman back to his makeshift campsite. She settled down on a log by the fire as Conall prepared their breakfast of samphire and some dried fish he had on hand. He kept glancing at the old woman, trying to figure out who she was and how she knew so much about him.
Finally, unable to stand the silence any longer, Conall spoke up. “Who are ye? And how do ye know me?”
The old woman chuckled again. “I know ye, my boy, because I’ve been waiting for ye.”
“Waiting for me?” Conall repeated, eyebrows raised in confusion. “For what purpose?”
The old woman took a bite of the samphire and chewed thoughtfully for a moment before answering. “For the purpose of helping ye, of course. Ye are on a mission, are ye not? A mission to stop a great evil from overtaking this land?”
Conall’s hand slid to the hilt of his sword strapped at his waist. “How do ye know about that?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous.
The old woman smiled knowingly. “I have my ways, young Conall.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m Irene, my boy. Irene MacAskill. It’s a pleasure to meet ye.”
Conall did not take her hand. “I’m not one for pleasantries,” he growled. “Explain yerself. How do ye know about my mission? And what do ye want from me?”
Irene’s smile didn’t falter. If the threat in his voice bothered her, she didn’t show it. She beamed at him like some elderly cherub, all rosy-cheeked and sparkly-eyed. And yet, there was something about her that unsettled him. Her dark gaze seemed to bore right into him and although she was tiny, barely tall enough to reach his chest, he was suddenly the one who felt small.
Irene spread her hands. “I only seek to aid ye in yer quest. I have information that may be of great use to ye.”
