Page 84 of Bride of the Wicked Laird
She gave a soft laugh as her head lolled onto his shoulder. “And Feather? Is she all right?”
Dùghall came thundering down the ladder. “Let us take her home before she succumbs tae the cold.”
Once again, the two men plied the oars, intent on returning Davina to the safety of the castle.
When they reached the slipway, Dùghall leaped out and quickly tied the mooring rope. Everard followed, with Davina in his arms.
A plaintive meow came from the darkness and a tiny figure came running to greet them. Dùghall bent to pick up the small creature and tuck her inside his jacket.
“We’re all here, safe and sound,” he proclaimed, as Everard bent to place a soft kiss on Davina’s forehead.
Together, all four of them made their way to the safety of the castle walls.
Never again would Davina fear the wrath of Murchadh MacKinnon.
EPILOGUE
One month later…
It was raining, as Everard’s birlinn glided slowly into the noost near Dùn Ara castle on the Isle of Mull, berthing alongside the heavy stone jetty.
Since the terrible final battle where Murchadh MacKinnon had met his fate, there had been a flurry of letters back and forth between the isles of Barra and Mull. Davina’s letters were brief, mostly filled with the sparest details of her life. Her handfast to Everard, her meeting with her true father, and sometimes a smile in the form of a few words of Feather’s exploits. Her half-brother’s responses from Mull had been similarly brief. The former Laird Murchadh and his untimely death were never mentioned.
There had been formal exchanges between the lairds, Everard and Tòrr, arranging this deputation, at Davina’s half-braither’s invitation. Now, at last, Davina was ready to return to the place of her childhood and meet her brother, the new laird.
How will I feel when I revisit the place of so much sadness and horror? What will it be like tae look upon the face of me half-braither? Will I see the lad I once kent, in the face of the grown man?
By the time Everard and Maxwell had secured the boat, Davina, with her faither, Laird Dùghall MacKinnon, were already ashore. Everard joined them with Maxwell a step behind. Flanked by her father, Davina walked arm-in-arm with Everard to the small group waiting at the end of the landing place.
The leader of the group, a tall lad, with raven-dark hair, wearing the great kilt in the plaid of the MacKinnons of Mull, stepped forward. His face was flushed, his eyes shining with unshed tears. As they stood before him, he bowed low from his waist.
“Me greetings tae ye and welcome tae Dùn Ara, Laird Everard MacNeil of Barra, me kinsman, Laird Dùghall MacKinnon of Pabhay, and me dearly beloved sister, Davina MacNeil of Barra.”
Everard stepped forward and dipped his head in greeting as he shook Tòrr’s outstretched hand. Davina reached out her hand for her brother to claim. “Thank ye fer yer welcome, me laird MacKinnon.”
She offered a shy smile, waiting for him to speak. He took her hand but he appeared lost for words.
Finally, after he’d studied her for several moments, Tòrr shook his head. “I can scarce believe it, me wee sister is here with me, safe after all the long years I have feared fer ye. Ye’ve grown sobeautiful, and I see so much of our mother in ye. Her hair was just as yers is, fine, and like the color of autumn. I remember her now, seeing it again in ye.”
Everard introduced his brother War Chief Maxwell MacNeil who stepped beside them and shook Laird Tòrr’s hand.
“Come now,” Tòrr said, “Ye must hasten with me into the castle before the rain drenches ye. We’ve a feast prepared and some of the members of me clan will be attending. All of them are eager tae welcome our kinsman, the Laird Dùghall”. He turned to Davina. “Some of them remember ye as a wean and wish tae see ye again and wish ye well.”
Such a welcome she had hardly dared hope for. Her heart was full. It seemed that the circumstances surrounding her birth were not of concern to her half-brother and a warm welcome was extended also to her true father. It was more than she could have ever dreamed of. All that had gone before, the sadness and the fear she’d endured and Dame Maria’s torment at the convent, faded in the face of all the warmth that now surrounded her.
And, most thrilling of all, was that the man she loved more than life itself was standing beside her.
They wound their way up the rocky path from the shore. It was a short distance to Castle Dùn Ara, seated atop a rise with a perfect view around them of the sea and land. As they walked through the portcullis into the cobbled courtyard Davina held her breath. It was suddenly all too familiar.
There were the stables, where she’d spent so much of her time when keeping out of Murchadh’s sight. But today there was nothing about them that was anything other than benign. The stable lads were lined up, ready to welcome her and her party, bowing as they passed.
Then on, up the steps to the keep where the servants waited. One figure, set slightly apart from the rest, an older lass, grey-haired, who held a kerchief to her face. Yet she couldn’t disguise the tears rolling down her cheeks.
“Why, it’s dear Claray,” Davina cried, stepping over to greet her. During Davina’s time at Dùn Ara, Claray had been a lowly member of housekeeping. Now, judging by the jangle of keys on her elaborate belt, it seemed she had risen to the position of seneschal of the castle.
Claray had always been kind, and when the young Davina had been banished from the keep, she would make sure some of the evening meal was smuggled out to her. If she was locked in her tiny bedchamber, it was always Claray who would quietly unlock the door and bring water and bannocks.
Claray looked up, her face tear-stained. She bobbed a quick curtsy. “Och, me Lady Davina, these long years since ye left Dùn Ara, I’ve thought of ye often and wondered how ye fared.”
