Lionel nodded slowly. “Och, lad. I see there is some sense in yer madness. If they believe ye’re already wed, ye’ll be saved the possibility of dishonoring a lass ye refuse tae wed.”
“Exactly. I wish ye tae explain this sudden change of our plans tae the others. I dinnae wish tae cause any suspicion when we arrive at the castle.”
Lionel nodded his acquiescence and Edmund knew he could be relied on to ensure there were no wagging tongues among the crew.
They were joined by the birlinn’s master, Jacob Anderson, and the sail-maker, Peter McGregere, just as Annora emerged from the corridor, her face shining and clean.
Her skin was fair and creamy with only one or two faint freckles on her pert nose, her cheeks blooming pink. Her lips, red and lush, tempted a kiss.
He introduced her to the others as “Me lady wife, Annora,” refraining from mentioning her full name.
The men’s eyes registered surprise but they each bowed from the waist and greeted her politely. Lionel’s eyes met his and he gave an almost imperceptible nod.
After they’d broken their fast, Lionel and the others escorted Annora outside while Edmund went to settle his account with Davie. He was able to purchase a fine ivory comb which the landlord asserted had been left behind by a wealthy guest who had never bothered to claim it. He was pleased to present it to Annora.
She smiled as he handed it to her, yet she looked troubled.
“I’m afeared those pirates may still be moored in the bay.”
He proffered his elbow and she hooked a hand over his arm. “Dinnae fash, ye’ve all the crew tae protect ye and every last one of them is a sworn enemy of the pirates.”
Despite his reassurances her unease grew and, as they approached the shore, she tightened her grip on his arm and moved closer.
“Ye declared there was tae be nay touching, lass,” he chided.
“This is nae the same,” she said crossly. “Ye’re nae making love tae me but offering yer arm fer protection.”
He gave a small laugh. “Ah. I see. There is a difference.” He found himself amused by her naïveté´.
Fortunately, when they arrived at the cove, his was the sole birlinn at the mooring. Beside him, he felt her limbs loosen and heard her sigh of relief.
They made haste loading the barrels of wine and the sheep’s cheese they were taking with them as gifts for the MacNeacails. When it was time to board, he carried her in his arms and waded to the small craft that would take them to the ship. This was, of course, not making love to her, but simply holding her warmly and softly against him in a helpful manner to keep her dry.
Again, he found her innocence amusing, yet, as he held her, he could not help enjoying touching her. As she settled into a sheltered spot in the prow, he offered a cushion and his heavy, fur-lined woolen cloak for warmth. He left her hunkered against the wind, teasing out the snarls and tangles of her hair.
A watery sun was shining through the clouds as they made their way north, their sails filled with a brisk, chilly, breeze. The scent of rain was in the air.
Edmund’s shirt and jacket were still damp from his foray into the waves the previous evening when he’d rescued Annora. He shivered a little as he took his place at the helm.
They would arrive at their destination – Scorrybreac, the seat of the MacNeacail Clan – before dusk, and he would soon have the first view of what he now knew was his birthplace.
He was still unsure of what to make of the letter he’d received a month ago from the Elder Tormod MacNeacail, head of the Clan Council and the man who was leading the clan following the death of their laird, Baldur.
Ever since receiving his message, Edmund had been slowly coming to terms with his own hazy past. His earliest memories were arriving with his mother as a wean, confused and lost, to be raised in the MacKinnon castle on the Isle of Mull. He was told naught about his birth or where he came from. Yet, as he’d grown, he’d made a good life for himself at Dùn Ara. He had trained as a warrior and had risen to become war leader of the MacKinnons, and advisor to his closest friend, the new Laird Tòrr.
Whatever he’d known of Edmund Sinclair, had been shattered. The message had shockingly named him as the son of Laird Baldur of the MacNeacails, born out of wedlock.
Now, following Baldur’s death without a legitimate son, Tormod’s letter begged Edmund to return to the Isle of Skye and claim his birthright to the lairdship.
After reading the letter he’d screwed it into a ball and flung it away from himself. He’d burned as he’d paced the halls at Dùn Ara, his jaw painfully clenched, his hands curled into fists, his stomach roiling. He’d no intention of returning to the place where he’d been shunned by a father who’d never acknowledged him.
He'd written a reply to Tormod that was filled with bitterness and rage at having been abandoned, to spend his life as an outcast.
But then, after talking long into the night with Tòrr, he’d come to a more peaceful place in his heart where he could deal with the unsettling news without such fierce pain.
He wouldjourney to Scorrybreac. He wouldfind out who he was and where he came from.
He’d torn up the letter he’d written. In its place he’d composed a measured, calm, response, informing Tormod that, as he had business on Skye, he would be able to meet with the Council.
