Page 31 of Somewhere Along The Way (Mackinnon #3)
Chapter Ten
Annabella fell into a deep sleep.
She was on the moor. From out of the darkness came three horsemen of apocalyptic revelation.
The first appeared on a black horse, the second on a red horse, the third on a white horse.
When they had thundered past, she saw in the distance a fourth horse, pale as the mist, and riderless, following truly and steadily as if trying to overtake the other three.
The rider of the black horse was a sinister, evil shape robed in black; his face was hidden behind a black helmet and plume.
He carried a two-edged sword and slashed both right and left with it, leaving a trail of treachery, destruction, and death in his wake.
Behind him came the second horse, red as molten lava, the color of war.
This rider she recognized from her previous dream, and as before, his face was hidden in a swirling mist, only this mist was red—blood red.
His body was covered with yards of plaid.
As he thundered past, the sound of bagpipes saturated the air.
And then came the third horse, its rider beautiful and clothed in blinding light.
Suddenly a blackness came, flowing like thick smoke away from the black horse and cloaking the world in eerie silence as quiet as the coming of fog—a brooding darkness that surrounded like a sleepless night.
Back, back it came, a great black mist, swirling and silent as smoke from a fire, surrounding first the red horse and then the white, and the world stood still.
A horrible, evil laugh rang out like the clang of a battle ax, and the pounding of her own heart grew still.
A scream lodged in her throat as the pale horse approached; its hooves were shod with fire, and it sped into the blackness, and she knew this pale, riderless horse was death.
With a cry of grief, she watched the pale horse emerge from the blackness like a cold, penetrating wind, a figure, pale and shrouded in mist, upon its back.
And then the blackness began to fade, and when it had cleared, only the riderless white horse remained.
Annabella looked at the horse with horror, and it came to her slowly, as a cloud moves across the sun. She knew now. Someone’s death was foretold. But whose? Before her very eyes, the white horse began to shrink and shrivel until like a sigh it dissolved into nothing.
She awoke the next morning, exhausted, her heart heavy and like lead within her.
Glimpses of the vision still swirled in her head.
The vision she had seen last night had been a warning.
She was sure of it. Someone, someone she knew was going to die and she had been warned of it.
She shivered, feeling cold and alone. She looked about her.
What had looked so comfortable was nothing more than a cold room with walls of gray stone.
She felt no sense of peace, and yet no turmoil either.
What she felt was nothing—a vast emptiness as if something alive and precious had slipped out of her during the night.
There was no warmth in her life now, no warmth in the wake of her dream.
Yet she could feel it—the faintest glow of heat radiating from somewhere nearby.
She sighed and closed her eyes, feeling the touch of Ross Mackinnon’s lips as they had felt last evening when he kissed her.
That was no dream, but reality; no cold emptiness, but a saturation of warmth.
She fell back upon the bed, feeling the heat of him as it bore her back, the intensity of his warmth every place he touched her.
She could feel his rough, warm, calloused hands as they caressed her.
His touch had been surprisingly gentle. The feel of him was so real, she dared not open her eyes for fear of losing the warm comfort of it.
For a long time she lay there hoping to hold on to a memory.
Then, at long last, she released it and let it go.
She sat up abruptly. She wasn’t ready to let some unknown person die without at least trying to help.
She had to find someone to talk to, someone she could trust, someone who would see she had some value other than her worth as a bartered bride.
She could not speak of such things to her father, or her mother, either, for that matter.
She thought of Ross and dismissed him at once.
With a great, heaving sigh, she felt dejected.
There was no one she could talk to, no one with whom she felt at ease.
No one except the old duke, the Mackinnon.
With renewed vigor, Annabella leaped from the bed intending to pull the bell rope to summon her maid, then thought better of it and decided to dress herself.
Betty could be such a bother at times, always asking questions when Annabella wanted to think, or being sullen and closemouthed when she wanted to chat.
At other times she was worse than Annabella’s mother—always fussing over this and that, bossing and telling her what to wear and how to wear it—exactly like her mother.
Throwing open the doors of her wardrobe, Bella eyed the dresses inside.
She selected one that was more simple than the others, a red-and-green-plaid taffeta.
She braided her hair in a long, single plait, then looped it back and tied it with a big green bow.
Without a moment to waste, she hurried from the room.
It was still early, and if she were in luck, she could find the old duke—for he was an early riser—before her mother awoke.
She found Robert in the parlor, dusting. “Top of the morning to you, Robert,” she said. “Have you seen His Grace—the Mackinnon?” she added, not wanting him to think she was looking for her father.
“He’s taking an agreeable stroll, my lady.”
“An agreeable stroll?”
“A stroll that puts him in an agreeable mood.”
“Oh,” she said, and laughed. “Well, where would one go to take an agreeable stroll?”
“His Grace usually frequents the path that runs up the hill to the glen.”
“Thank you, Robert.”
“You are most welcome,” Robert replied, but Annabella had already departed in a swish of plaid taffeta.
The heat was strong when she set out. Spring breezes carried warmth that caressed the mossy hillside like a persuasive lover, melting snow that ran in gurgling trickles over stony havens and formed a deep tarn before spilling down a waterfall into a churning beck, only to be lured away to the duny shores of the sea, past mudflats and lobster traps and old wooden boats lying derelict when the tide was out.
Above her the sky was intensely blue, the clouds white and bunched together like fleecy sheep.
Overhead an eagle soared, but she did not pause to watch—she was too absorbed in making her way along the ancient peat path that climbed and wound its way upward, to where the air was thin and blue patches of snow still resisted the coaxing warmth of spring.
She passed barns with thatched roofs and old, abandoned crofters’ huts and a few milestones, and went on and on—hopping, stepping, and jumping now and then, and always huffing and puffing, because the moors were very rough, full of man-traps, jags, and holes.
She interrupted the hillside drink of an enormous red stag, who cautiously lifted his head as she approached, then swiftly turned and disappeared down another path.
The stag was magnificent but awesome and frightening with its thorny display of antlers.
She was sorry to have disturbed his drink, but happy that he decided to let her be and turn away.
By the time she spotted the Mackinnon just ahead, her heart was thumping against her breast like a mill clapper.
“Hullo!” she called. “Hullo, Your Grace!” The Mackinnon was sitting on a jutting boulder that afforded him a nice view of the Highland glens and the tiny loch below.
He was a bit shocked to see the lass up this far, because it was a considerable walk even for him, and he’d been taking this same hike for more than forty years.
Watching her hurry toward him, he wondered if he should scold her for being out like this all alone, but then he figured the little lass had had more than her share of scolding.
Besides, it was hard to scold a lass as bonny as this one.
And she was bonny. Not an ounce of Viking blood flowed in her Celtic veins, he vowed, for she was as small and dark haired as the ancient Gaelic-speaking Scots who had first come to the Hebrides from Ireland so long ago.
He lifted his brows in amusement when she came to a narrow beck not more than three feet wide.
She stopped on the opposite side and looked at him in silent entreaty.
He remained expressionless, wanting to see what the lass would do, knowing if he had to help her, he could do it just as well in a minute or two as he could now.
She hesitated another moment before making her decision to proceed on her own and skipped lightly over lichen-covered stones half submerged in frigid water to reach the other side.
His eyes were bright with approval. He wondered if the lass would have tried half as much in England.
A few dozen steps up the winding path brought her to the Mackinnon’s side. “I’m glad I found you, Your Grace,” she said, between gasps for breath.
“Well, sit yourself down and catch your breath before you swoon,” he said, not failing to notice the tense rigidity and expectation in her expression.