“Mayhap,” Bridget agreed as servants set steaming porridge on the table in front of Shane, “but Ian says the lass has a fiery temper and can hold her own.”
“’Tis an interesting thought,” Shane said as he sat down. “How does Jillian fare?”
“Well enough,” Bridget answered, “although I think she misses Ian more than she lets on.”
“Aye. Jillian is a fine woman. His choice was a good one.” Shane looked around the room. “Does she rise early to break her fast?”
“Nae. The babe is due within a moon so we indulge her by letting her sleep in the morn. Her hands will be full enough once the bairn arrives.”
“True enough,” Shane agreed. “Do ye ken when Ian will return?”
“Verra soon, we hope. He said he’d be back before the snow fills in the passes.”
“He had best be on his way then,” Shane answered. “The boatswain said the glass was falling the whole trip north. ’Tis a bad storm that is brewing.”
“I knew ye did nae have smooth sailing. How bad do ye think it will be?”
“It dinnae bode well. ’Tis early in the year for the glass to dip so sharply.”
“Ian—” Bridget began and was interrupted by Shauna’s approach. Her sister greeted Shane warmly and then turned to Bridget.
“Have ye seen Jillian this morn?”
“Nae. Ye ken she lies abed for a wee bit.”
Shauna’s brow furrowed. “I checked her room. She isna there.”
Bridget frowned. “She isna there?”
Shauna shook her head. “Her bed has nae been slept in.”
Search parties were quickly organized. Shane made sure Bridget, Shauna and Fiona each had two able-bodied guards with them as they set out to look for Jillian. He also ordered another dozen men on horseback to ride the roads leading away from the castle, although he doubted Jillian would have just ridden off, especially in her condition.
Shane slipped inside the small chapel near the back curtain wall and paused to let the serenity of the place seep through him. The prerequisite crucifix stood on the altar at the front of the chapel, but that wasn’t what drew him. Instead, he looked to the eastern wall where a stained glass window depicted an equal-armed cross inside a square inside a circle. The design was calledRosarium Philosophorum, Latin for “The key to knowledge and the sum of all things.” It had been part of the code of the Knights Templar for nearly six hundred years, and it never failed to move him. The fact that the order still existed—albeit secretly—proved the truth to the slogan.
If necessary, he would call on his Templar brothers—Ian’s French expatriated neighbors—to aid in the search, but he did not think it would be necessary. Shane’s gaze moved to the tapestry hanging on the wall below the window.
The scene was of a battle, bodies littering the ground while the victor sat astride a huge horse, claymore lifted in one hand while the other held a banner of crimson and yellow—an unlikely tapestry for a chapel, but the man astride the horse was their first chief, Leod, son of Olaf the Black, King of the Isle of Man. More importantly, he held the Faerie Flag of the MacLeods.
Jillian was now a MacLeod. She carried the bairn of the current laird. The ancestors would come to her aid.
Shane moved a little closer, eyeing the side of the battlefield where a tree stood amid buttercups untouched by the blood and gore. Such was the balance of life.
But he wasn’t there to philosophize. Shane peered into the splash of bright yellow flowers and waited. Slowly, a faerie emerged, the auburn of her hair forming a stem while golden strands blended in with the petals. One of the green leaves lifted, gracefully shifting into a slender hand and arm, and she pointed.
Shane bowed and nodded. Then he turned and walked out of the chapel.
The Crone of the Hills would be waiting for him.
“Thank the Lord! You found her!” Bridget exclaimed less than an hour later as Shane carried an unconscious Jillian inside the castle and up the stairs to her chamber.
“Is she alive?” Fiona asked, trailing behind him.
“Of course she is,” Shauna admonished her sister. “She is terribly bruised though. Go tell cook to boil some water and have a maid fetch bandages.”
For once, their sister didn’t argue. Bridget hurriedly turned down the coverlet so Shane could lay Jillian down. She groaned feebly as the maids bustled in with supplies, followed by Mrs. Ferguson, the housekeeper.
“Och, the poor lassie,” she said and set to ordering the maids about.
