Page 87 of Sins of the Highlander

She jerked her gaze away. It started to rain, heaven weeping for the fallen.

Oh, Merciful God! This vision was different. She saw something she recognized—a scrap of Stewart plaid. She ran toward it. Her father stared unblinking into the dripping sky. A crossbow bolt protruded from his chest. She sank down beside him, rocking in agony. A soft keening escaped her throat.

Then a shout drew her gaze. A rabble had surrounded a single man. He fought like a demon, slashing and turning, but there were too many. A blade cut him, and he roared in agony. They closed in like wolves around a wounded buck. As he went down, he turned toward her, and she saw his face for a blink before they hacked him to pieces.

Rob!

The blades fell like scythes on wheat.

Someone started wailing, a wordless cry with no end.

Elspeth had no idea the screams came from her. Even once the mists of Sight faded and she was back in the Great Hall of Caisteal Dubh, she couldn’t make herself stop.

***

Mrs. Beaton and Nessa followed Rob when he carried a shrieking Elspeth up the long stairs, away from the shocked faces in the Great Hall. While he paced outside the room, Elspeth calmed a bit, crying out only at intervals as portions of the vision seeped back into her in stark clarity.

The serving women stripped her of her evening finery and put her back into her chemise for bed, murmuring softly to each other but not to Elspeth. She wasn’t offended. Their words were only muffled sounds, garbled and wavering, as if they spoke underwater. She didn’t know if she could have answered them intelligibly anyway.

Mrs. Beaton sent Nessa for a steaming cup of willow-bark tea, and supervised while Elspeth drank it. Only then did Elspeth’s heaving sobs finally subside into sniffles. Rob burst into the room, despite his housekeeper’s protest, refusing to be kept out a moment longer.

“Hush, leannán,” Rob crooned, stroking her brow. They were the first words that made sense to Elspeth’s mind. “There’s no need for tears.” He turned to the servants standing by Elspeth’s bedside. “Leave us.”

“But, my lord, ’tis not seemly for ye to—” Mrs. Beaton began.

“And it’s no’ seemly for ye to question your laird,” Rob fired back at her. “If ye canna obey a simple command, mayhap ye need to seek employment elsewhere.”

“As ye wish, my lord,” Mrs. Beaton said, tight-lipped. The serving girl, Nessa, followed her out of the chamber. When the door was open, Elspeth caught sight of Albus’s long, worried face in the corridor. He’d taken up his post as her guard once more. Her heart was eased by his presence this time.

Elspeth thought she heard the brush of a corbie’s wing making a low pass over the room. She grasped Rob’s shirt and pulled him close. “Rob?”

“Aye, love, I’m here. There’s naught to fear. None will harm ye, no’ while I breathe.”

“Oh, but they’ll harm ye,” she sobbed.

“Whist, now, no one’s going to harm me.” He cradled her head on his chest. “Where d’ye get such notions?”

She sat up straight. “Because I’ve Seen it.”

In halting words, she started to recount the details of her horrifying vision.

“I told ye I have the Sight. My Gift visited me this night, and if ye leave the castle, if ye meet Lachlan on the field of battle…” Her voice faltered.

“Then I’ll kill the blackguard.”

“Ye’ll die, Rob. Ye’ll die horribly, and I willna be able to bear it.” She pounded a fist on his chest once. “And so will my father.”

Hot tears scalded her cheeks, and she fought for breath.

“But ye’re wrong, leannán. In your vision, ye see many men dead on a field of battle. But there won’t be any battle,” he said, stroking her softly. “On the morrow, I’ll meet Drummond in single combat. Your father will be in no danger. This vision isna a true one.”

“All my visions are true,” she said woodenly. He might not be planning a battle, but one would overtake him nonetheless. The knowledge pressed against her chest, heavy as an anvil. If Rob parleyed with Drummond again, he and her father would die.

Unless she did something about it.

Chapter 30

“Father Kester, might I have a word with ye?” Mrs. Beaton cornered the young priest at his evening prayers before the altar of the chapel. Father Kester rose, crossed himself elaborately, and walked toward her. Bookish and long-winded, he didn’t even have a pleasant voice for singing the mass. Mrs. Beaton had thought him a young fool when he first came.