Page 65 of Bride of the Wicked Laird
As they entered the crowded fair, he looked around warily for any folk not going about the business of the fair. It seemed everyone from across the island and beyond had gathered, despite the weather, to browse and purchase, or to trade livestock and produce. They passed tables groaning with pots of jams, pickles, and preserves, or tranches of bacon and hams, dried fish, bundles of seaweed. The air was filled with the cackling of chickens, pigs squealing, the lowing of cattle, as the farmers bought and sold and traded.
Finally, they came upon the tinker, his wee donkey standing patiently back, beside the small cart where Jacob had set up his wares.
Davina clapped her hands and took out the soft purse she’d won. Everard had made sure it was filled with sufficient coin for her to purchase whatever took her fancy. Although, he suspected her hankerings would be modest enough. His pleasure was in seeing the delight in her eyes as she studied the wares before her and kept the tinker busy as she went over Healer Broderick’s list.
Aileen waited as Davina held up each item for inspection, nodding with approval or shaking her head until the finalchoices were made. Maxwell stood by, his arms folded, his gaze searching the faces of the folk milling around. He was ever watchful for any sign of the MacKinnon plaid, or any strangers among the purposeful crowd.
Everard waited until Davina had finally settled on the combs and ear bobs she’d been hoping for, and a handful of ribbons of different colors.
After she’d made her purchases and filled her basket with the herbs and other items for the infirmary, she gave him a quick kiss on his cheek.
“Take care, lass.”
She smiled. “I will be safe, in good company, awaiting ye in the tavern, while ye engage wi’ yer business.” As she strolled away, arm-in-arm with Aileen, and Maxwell a step behind, Everard experienced a moment’s panic. He shook his head to dispel the creeping fear. His brother would not allow any harm to come to the precious lass.
Jacob-the-Tinker closed the lid on his handcart and stepped away to a private space beneath the spreading branches of a nearby tree.
“Have ye news?” Everard could scarcely contain his impatience. After all that had taken place with MacKinnon and his men, and following Davina’s revelations of her father’s murderous rage, he was desperate to find out if Jacob had gleaned anything further from the Priory.
Jacob looked around as if fearful of being overhead.
“What is it, lad?”
“What I learned is only fer yer ears, me laird. The nun who told me the tale was sore afraid of what she’d done. She said it was a story she’d held inside fer nine years, and it was burning a hole in her soul.”
“And she feared God’s wrath?”
Jacob snorted. “Nay. She feared the Prioress and the second in command at Iona. They had kept the secrets and forbidden her tae speak what she kent.”
Everard huffed. “Ye have me word that I’ll nae reveal where I learned the story. I’ve nae interest in causing trouble fer a wee nun. I simply wish tae hear it.” He glared at the man. “Out with it!”
Jacob began his tale.
“It seems that the night the child ye enquired after was brought to the Prioress, it was dark and late. At first the nun thought the child had already passed and was brought fer some holy ministrations.”
“But she lived.”
“Aye. The nuns nursed her back tae health.”
“But who was the lad who had brought her?”
“He was the son of the Laird MacKinnon of Mull. A lad named Tòrr. He was the child’s half-braither.”
Everard could not contain a gasp. “Half-braither?”
“Aye. According tae the lad, they shared a mother, but the laird was nay the father tae the wee lass.”
Everard scratched his head. The story was beginning to fall into place.
“The lass was tae be kept hidden from the laird’s wrath, never tae be told of her true parentage.”
Of course, this was why the MacKinnon had such a deep hatred for the wee lass. She was a constant reminder of his wife’s infidelity. Her very existence meant that his cuckolding was an ever-present torment, one that he could never erase while the child remained alive.
Everard reeled at this discovery.
Tying this news to what he’d learned from MacIver’s visit to Pabhay brought him to one looming possibility.
Murchadh Mackinnon had married the lass who loved his cousin Dùghall. Could it be that Everard’s earlier suspicion was correct? That Davina was the lost daughter Dùghall had been searching for?
