Though an eleven-year-old could hardly protect her, Ilysa felt very alone as his boat disappeared into the darkness. She brushed off her fear and walked briskly along the riverbank until she saw the glow of campfires through the mist. They were farther away than they looked. By the time she reached the edge of the enemy camp, her gown and cape were soaked up to her knees from the tall, wet grass.
Despite the cold, damp night air, her palms were sweaty as she approached it. All her life she had heard stories of the terrible things MacLeod warriors did to captured women. Her own mother had never recovered from what they had done to her. She saw a tent at the center and guessed that was where the chieftain slept. Was it possible she could simply walk through the sleeping camp to his tent?
She screamed as rough hands grabbed her from behind. Before she knew what was happening, she was jerked off her feet and her back slammed against a solid frame. She kicked and tried to bite the hand that clamped over her mouth.
"Damn it!" the man cursed when she rammed her heel into his shin.
They were making such a ruckus that several men awoke and surrounded them.
"We all want turns," one of them said, sending a wave of panic through her.
"Wait," another said. "We should find out who she is first."
Ilysa praised the saints for that one, for her captor finally removed his hand from her mouth.
"Get your hands off me," she said. "I'm a MacLeod, and I have a message for the chieftain."
"Ha, I'm sure ye do," one of the men said.
"I promise he'll be very angry if he doesn't get it," she said.
"And I'll be angry if I don't get something from you, lass," one of them said.
"I've been spying on the MacDonalds for the chieftain, and he will punish ye most severely if ye harm me." Ilysa was proud of herself for thinking of such a good lie.
"Ye know the chieftain doesn't approve of abusing women," one of the men said, which gave her hope until he added, "We'd best take her into the wood."
"I have proof!" she said quickly.
That seemed to give them pause.
"Take this to him," she said, holding out the brooch. She hoped they would not steal it, but she had no choice now but to take the risk. "You'll find that he does wish to see me."
* * *
Connor left his guard fifty yards up the river from where it split around the island. The stream was wider on the far side of the island, but the gap on the Trotternish side was narrow enough for him to leap over it. Between the darkness and the heavy mist that lay over the island, he could not see the lumpy ground beneath his feet. He suspected he was walking over ancient graves and prayed their souls were a long way away.
Though his claymore was useless against spirits, he carried it in his hand, ready to meet a more solid opponent hiding in the night mist. He had decided for once to trust in his heart, not his head, and proceed on blind faith. Still, he would be cautious. This was the perfect place to capture him, and Ilysa the perfect bait.
Questions rolled around in his head as he stole over the uneven ground. Why had Ilysa chosen this eerie place of the dead to meet? Where in the hell had she gone that she was not certain she would return before dawn? It was near midnight now, and he wondered how long he would have to wait.
The outline of the small church appeared out of the mist. The old, weathered door creaked as he pushed it open, and he heard a gasp from inside. It was a distinctly feminine sound.
"Ilysa?"
"Connor! Praise God it's you."
It was even darker inside the church, but he heard the swish of her gown as she stepped toward him. The next instant, they found each other, and she was in his arms. He clasped her tightly to him, unable to speak at first. He had feared he would never hold her again.
"I've missed ye so much," he said. It seemed impossible that she had only been gone a couple of days.
"I missed ye, too," she whispered.
"Don't leave me," he said. "I don't want us to ever be apart again."