Page 12 of Bride of the Wicked Laird (Sparks and Tartans: The MacKinnon Clan’s Romance #11)

CHAPTER TWELVE

T hey set off not long after Maxwell and Aileen, in a tiny sailboat that made Davina gasp when she saw it. She unthinkingly clutched Everard’s arm.

“I was expecting yer birlinn.”

“Dinna fash, lass.” He patted the hand that was holding tight to his arm. “I’ve sailed across the bay ever since I was a wee lad. ‘Tis nay far and we’ll be on the water fer only a few minutes.”

She shook her head. “’Tis any water that makes me afraid. I’m averse even tae the water splashes over me face when I am bathin’.” She fought down the panic that was rising in her chest and raised her gaze to meet his. “It makes nay sense, me laird. I dinnae doubt yer competence and I thank ye fer yer concern.”

He held her trembling hand as she stepped into the tiny craft. The feel of his strong hand was reassuring, and she breathed in and out slowly, keeping her steady as she scrambled onto the little board where she could sit.

“Keep yer gaze fixed on the shore and we’ll be there in a trice.”

She turned her head to take in the row of whitewashed houses visible on the shore. It seemed a great distance away, but as Everard hauled up the sail, she found her attention diverted to the rippling muscles on his mighty arms. His hair was caught by the breeze and she observed his chiseled profile and the elegant curve of his neck as he looked up, his strong legs bracing on the timber floor.

It was quite a discovery to make. The pleasure of observing the Laird MacNeil quite overrode her fear of being on the water.

Keeping her eyes on his back as he plied the oars, she hardly realized they had already reached the sandy shore. It was slightly apart from the village, edged with grasses and colorful wildflowers.

Everard stepped out of the boat and reached for her. Placing his hands around her waist, he lifted her onto the sand a few feet away, then turned to pull the flat-bottomed craft further up the beach.

“This is wonderful,” Davina twirled, charmed by the myriad flowers woven among the grasses on the path. Yellow buttercups, white daisies, the soft pink drift of yarrow and the blue harebells.

Everard chuckled. “Come lass, there’s much more tae see.”

Crestfallen, Davina hung her head. “I’m sorry, me laird.”

He shook his head. “Nae need tae apologize. Ye’ve aught tae apologize fer.”

Stepping along the path, she sighed deeply. In the convent she’d been told so many times to say sorry for any imagined slight, usually paired with a sharp sting from Dame Maria’s small whip. Now ‘sorry’ came easily, with little thought. No one had ever told her there was no need, until the laird, just now. She smiled. The sun was shining, and the water gleamed silver and blue, and she had managed to cross the bay.

There was not far to walk as the village clung to the shore in a series of cheerful, whitewashed, stone fishermen’s and crofters’ cottages. They soon reached the center of the village where the market was already in full swing. It was impossible for Davina to keep her enthusiasm from bursting forth in delighted little oohs and ahs that seemed to cause Everard to chuckle.

“Ye may find me pleasure amusing, me laird, but this is such a rare treat fer me. Ye must remember that the nuns at Iona would never be allowed the joy of such earthly pleasures.”

“Forgive me. I am nae laughing at ye but enjoying the markets through yer eyes. I’ve kent this all me life and now I see it anew wi’ fresh eyes.”

She smiled at the idea as she looked around, taking in the jumble of sights and sounds. Farmers with pigs and chickens for sale, their wives with arrays of woolen knitted goods, scarves, and hats, warm socks and fingerless mittens. Others had set up their wares on tables piled high with carrots and turnips. Jars of golden honey sat alongside bowls of apples and pears, dried apricots and raisins.

And then there was the tinker. Davina had never laid eyes on such a fellow and she had to stop herself from rudely staring at him.

He was a youngish man, although it was difficult to tell his age because his face was wrinkled, but his hair gleamed a dark brown. Clad in a green knitted jacket that covered his britches and reached all the way to his grey leather boots, he was sprightly, not groaning like a grey-hair. His goods were laid out, temptingly, in a small timber handcart. He called to the people passing by: “Medicines fer what ails ye. Herbs and oils tae flavor yer cooking. Ribbons and bows, bolts of fabrics fer the ladies.”

He glanced up at Everard who was studying him with interest. “Can I help ye, me lord? I have good sharp tools here, scissors and the like.” He turned to Davina. “Mayhap yer lady would care fer some ribbons, fer that pretty hair of hers.”

Davina felt her cheeks burning, but she was growing used to compliments and she managed to smile in response to his flattery.

“D’ye wish tae buy any of the tinker’s goods?” Everard enquired.

She shook her head. “I… I dinnae have coin tae pay.”

“If there’s aught ye would care fer, I will buy it fer ye.”

“Oh, nay.” She was taken aback by Everard’s offer. “I couldnae accept any further kindness from ye, me laird.”

“Nonsense. It would give me great pleasure tae set yer bonny eyes sparkling. New ribbons? Fabric fer a new gown?”

She shook her head. “I would care fer a selection of his herbs and some of the salves and one or two of those,” she said, pointing to several small glass bottles of potions. “Oh, and a new steel needle and some thread fer Seamstress Jonnet.

“Is there nae aught else ye wish fer? Something fer yerself?”

She shook her head, although she couldn’t resist a longing glance at the ribbons and bolts of fabric.

“Well, that may be. But I wish tae see ye bedecked in ribbons and mayhap a new gown.” He turned to the tinker and within a few moments several packets had been filled with assorted ribbons, and the man was cutting a length of green wool fabric.”

“Hush,” Everard raised a hand as she went to speak. “This is a treat fer meself. I shall enjoy the sight of ye in yer new gown and the dancing ribbons woven through yer braids.”

Davina’s cheeks were burning. Totally lost for words, she could hardly breathe. She could only look on in astonishment as the fabric was packaged and tied with string. Gifts. For her. She could scarce believe it. Casting her mind back, she had no memory of ever having received even the smallest gift before today.

Everard passed the collection of parcels to Davina. “Mayhap ye could carry these in yer basket while ye investigate a little further, but please stay within me sight. If can ye excuse me now, I have some business I need tae discuss wi’ Jacob here, our tinker-man.”

She understood there was something private the laird wished to discuss, so she nodded, smiling, and wandered further along the row of tables and handcarts where many goods were displayed: rough wool for spinning, spun wool for knitting, hand knitted garments, pottery mugs and jugs, bowls and platters, along with all the assorted farm produce.

Her head was spinning from it all and when she came to a small bench along the path, she lowered her basket and sat down. She was fanning herself with her hand, not used to such warm sun on her face, when she was approached by a kind-looking older man. He was tall and slim, his hair and beard grey, although there was a youthfulness in the way he stood, shoulders straight, his head high.

“Are ye well, m’dear? Ye seem a little out of sorts.” He spoke in a refined voice, similar to Everard’s, and his clothes, although worn, were of fine quality. Yet, the sight of his plaid and its colors of soft brown and earthy green sparked a hazy sense of recollection. The thought was fleeting and she paid it no heed. The man’s words were kindly.

“Thank ye, fer yer kindness. I am just a trifle overwhelmed by all the goods on display.”

“Would ye care tae join me? I am on me way tae the tavern tae purchase some ale. I would welcome some company.”

She glanced over at Everard who was strolling along the path away from the market, in deep conversation with the tinker. He’d hardly miss her if she stopped for a cup of ale. To reassure herself, she observed the crowd. Surely naught could befall her surrounded by so many folk. Many people were entering the tavern. Besides, she was thirsty.

“I would be grateful fer a cup of ale.”

The tavern was close by and the man held the door for her to enter. There were only two seats remaining, near the doorway. The place was buzzing with peasants, farmers, fishermen, and here and there, a finely dressed lady or man.

She squeezed into the seat at the small table and the man seated himself in the chair, his long legs angled toward the door.

“Forgive me rudeness, mistress. Me name is Dùghall MacKinnon and I am from the Island of Pabhay.”

There, again, was that hazy, fleeting, moment of recollection, but it was gone before it could form itself into a memory. Yet the sensation was sufficient to arouse Davina’s curiosity.

“Have I met ye before?”

Dùghall MacKinnon shook his head. “Nay. I’ve never laid eyes on yer pretty countenance before today.” An almost wistful expression passed over his face. “More’s the pity.”

Davina considered this last remark to be rather odd, but before she could question his meaning, the landlord bustled up with two cups of ale for them, and lodged a bow to Davina’s companion before turning on his heel.

So, I am correct in thinking him a man of substance.

“Dare I ask yer name, lass?”

“I am Mistress Davina. Beyond that I cannae say, so ye will need be content with calling me Davina.

He lifted his ale. “Tae Mistress Davina. Slàinte Mhath.”

She smiled and lifted her cup. “Tae ye, Dùghall MacKinnon.”

As she spoke the words, a feeling coursed through her veins. She felt safe with this man, yet for all she knew he couldn’t be trusted. Despite being surrounded by the milling throng at the market, she felt a sudden chill and rose to her feet.

“I should nae have strayed out of sight of me… er… companion. He’ll be concerned fer me if he cannae find me.”

Dùghall rose, shaking his head. “I dinnae wish tae cause any concern, lass. Let me accompany ye tae find yer companion.”

Collecting her basket from under the chair, she was suddenly fearful, wishing to avoid a confrontation between Dùghall MacKinnon and Everard. “I thank ye fer the ale, but I must go.” With that she dashed out of the tavern. She’d only gone a few steps when she came face-to-face with Everard, his face like thunder.

“Where have ye been lass? I asked ye nae tae stray from sight.”

“Forgive me, me laird. Me head was awhirl from the hot sun and all the busy goings-on and a kindly gentleman offered tae buy me an ale.”

Everard groaned loudly, running his long fingers through his already untidy hair. “By all the saints, lass. Have ye nae sense? Did ye nae think of the danger ye might be in from a strange man?”

She pshawed at that, her eyes flashing. Daes he believe me a fool ?

“Of course I thought of the possibility of danger. But I kent ye were close by and I was surrounded by folk who I am certain would nae allow harm tae come tae a lass in their midst.” She huffed indignantly. “Besides, the man seemed like someone of noble birth. Nothing like the rough lads who hunted me on the Isle of Mull.”

Everard growled. “And what was the name of this nobleman ye met at the market in Barra?”

“His name was Dùghall MacKinnon, he comes from the Island of Pabhay. I ken it seems odd, now that ye mention it, fer a nobleman tae be passing by the market in such a tiny place, yet he seemed nay threat.”

Everard seized her arm. “I dinnae ken anyone of that name.” He looked down, and their eyes met. She saw nothing but concern in his eyes. No anger or cruelty, but genuine caring.

“Please forgive me fer causing ye concern,” she mumbled. “I understand t’was foolish of me tae trust a stranger.”

Everard heaved in a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Never mind, lass. I’m pleased tae have found ye safe and well.”

Looking around, Davina caught a glimpse of the man, his tall form disappearing into the crowd. “There he is, me laird. That tall man wi’ the grey hair.”

Everard swiveled, his eyes searching the crowd, but by now the man was gone. “I would like tae find him and ask what he is daing here.”

“He is gone. I dinnae wish tae think on him any further.”

Everard grunted his assent, yet his eyes still searched the crowd.

“Come. Let’s be away from here. ‘Tis but a short walk out of the village and we’ll be at the home of me braither and Aileen.”

Although it was not a great distance, Davina was dragging her feet by the time they arrived at the impressive stone house. She made an effort to keep up with Everard’s long strides, but eventually she fell behind.

He waited for her to catch up. “Mayhap ye’re nae yet strong after yer illness.”

She shook her head. “I am tired.”

Aileen and Maxwell welcomed them warmly and they sat together in the garden while one of the servants brought them refreshing rosewater and lemon drinks sweetened with honey.

While they enjoyed the pleasant garden and the shimmering sunlight in the leafy setting, the servants served them cheese, nuts, bannocks with butter and jam and strawberries. After they’d finished their meal, Everard mentioned that he’d had conversation with the tinker.

Maxwell nodded. “Ah, I am pleased tae hear that.”

Davina’s curiosity had been aroused and she wondered what possible business could Everard have with the tinker. Perhaps something as simple as tools he was missing and wished to purchase. When no more was said, she allowed the thought to fade.

Everard leaned back and folded his arms. “Have either of ye heard the name Dùghall MacKinnon?”