the vil age, but the laird has left Connor to see to you, my lady.”
Spy on her more likely, Ali thought. “I have to check on Mrs. Chisholm, but other than that I’l be staying with Mari.”
“Aye, Maureen’s time is drawin’ near. I’l leave you to get aboot my business. Remember, my lady, if you need anythin’, yer to ask Connor.” Mrs. Macpherson leveled a pointed look at her before closing the door. Leaving Ali in no doubt the older woman knew exactly what she was up to.
Chapter 6
On the short walk back from Mrs. Chisholm’s with Connor, Ali savored the warmth of sunshine on her face. With her days spent caring for the wounded, she’d had little time to take advantage of the beautiful scenery Dunvegan’s grounds provided. She inhaled the salty tang of sea air and knew if it wasn’t for Mari, shut up in her room, frightened and alone, Ali would have been unable to resist the urge to scramble over the rocky banks to the aquamarine loch where the gul s now played. The birds’ noisy serenade faded into the distance as they came closer to Dunvegan and another sound—a low, ominous chant—reverberated through the air. Ali stood at the center of the wel -worn path, straining to make out the words. “Connor, do you hear that?”
“Nay, I . . . aye, my lady.” His expression tensed. The sound seemed to be coming from the inner courtyard of the castle. “What are they saying?”
“Witch.”
A feeling of dread tightened in Ali’s chest. She grabbed the boy’s arm. “Connor, you have to get Lord MacLeod. Now!” Not waiting for a response, she took off at a run, cursing when she stumbled on the loose stones beneath her 70
slippered feet. Unable to get enough traction, she bent down and yanked off the impractical shoes. Connor was looking at her as though she’d lost her mind. “I canna’ do that. I’m to look after ye, my lady,” he said, fol owing close on her heels.
Frustrated at his unwil ingness to go against his laird’s directive, Ali bit back a curse, but she had no time to waste arguing with him. She heard the plaintive wail of a young girl and her heart pounded in her ears. Her throat tight ened, making breathing painful as she raced toward the courtyard, past the men lining the wal s. Several young children and three serving girls were gathered in a circle, hurling rocks. A faint, pitiful cry was drowned out by their abusive taunts. A short, middle-aged man in voluminous gray robes encouraged them from the sidelines.
“Why aren’t the men doing anything?” she yel ed at Connor over her shoulder.
“’Tis on account of the priest. They wil na’ stand against him,” he panted, trying to keep up with her. When a young boy bent down to retrieve more rocks, Ali saw a flash of yel ow. “Oh, dear God,” she groaned.
“Connor, you have to get Lord MacLeod,” she begged, unable to contain the sob that bubbled up in her throat.
“’Tis Mari,” he croaked. Without further pressure from Ali, he tore from the courtyard in the opposite direction.
“Stop it!” she cried, grabbing a young boy by the scruff of his neck as he resupplied his cache of ammunition. He looked up at Ali, and his mouth dropped. He released the edges of his grubby white shirt and the rocks tumbled to the ground. Ali shoved aside the children to reach Mari, who was crouched low to the ground, an arm raised to pro tect her face. Her beautiful gown was in tatters, leaving her half naked, her arms and chest smeared with dirt and blood.
“Mari,” Ali whispered, dropping to her knees beside her.
LORD OF THE ISLES
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She heard a whizzing sound, then a rock bounced off Ali’s shoulder and grazed her cheek in a stinging blow. She turned to face the crowd that seemed to have doubled in size, like a dark, sinister shadow closing in on them. Furious, she rose to her feet and stared them down.
“Throw one more of those rocks and you’l answer to your laird. Do you hear me?” Ali prayed she was right and Rory would be as angry with what they’d done as she was. There was a rhythmic thud as one by one the rocks were released from their grimy fingers.
“Nay . . . nay, they answer to no one save their Lord our God.”
Ali whirled on the speaker. The slight man was al but swal owed up by his gray robes. A thick wooden cross hung around his scrawny neck. A neck Ali was tempted to wring. His pasty white face was pul ed into a mask of hate while his black eyes blazed with self-righteous recrimination. She took a step toward him, trembling with rage. “Their God tel s them to do this?” She waved a hand at Mari. “To stone an innocent child to death?”
“She is no’ innocent. The devil’s spawn is what she is. Look at her,” he screeched, reaching for Mari. Ali put herself between them. The man was a raving lunatic, but he held sway over those gathered at her back—
a crowd she knew he could fan into an angry mob with his words. Afraid she would be unable to keep them at bay much longer, Ali backed away before turning to help Mari to her feet. She wrapped an arm around the young girl’s waist to keep her upright. The priest’s bony fingers dug into Ali’s injured shoulder and she bit back a groan of pain.
“Get your hands off me,” she growled low in her throat. Before she could stop him, he wrenched the cap from Mari’s hair. The force of the motion jerked the young girl’s head back and she whimpered in pain, a look of terror on her face.
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“Tel me ye doona’ see it now, the devil’s mark—red hair and eyes of two colors.” Spittle ran down his weak chin, and his eyes bulged.
