Page 27 of Taming the Highland Beauty

Gwendolyn sighed. “You are right, even though it feels wrong to plan a party in the midst of all this chaos.”

Alastair kissed her forehead. “As laird and lady, it is our responsibility to protect our people and give them hope for the future.”

“Agreed,” she said, her face brightening. “Planning the celebration will keep me busy, but my mind will still worry about Gille and Callum.”

Alastair knew that feeling well. He had been trying to keep his mind off not only the scouting party he’d sent into the woods but also the others he had sent to track the English soldiers’ movements. At least the villagers had been easily placated by Marcus’s generous financial support and by Alastair’s explanation of the dangers the English posed to their way of life. They needed the protection of Clan MacLeod to have any future in this country at all.

*

The first whispers of dawn crept across Dunvegan village, a gentle caress of light against the sleeping land. Gille was up and ready to go, eager to put their search behind them. Even so, she paused to watch the sun come up, igniting the sky with hues of pink and orange. She was not certain how many more sunrises as a fairy her future would hold, so she intended to enjoy every one of them to the fullest.

She memorised the nuanced colours of dawn, committing them to memory as she drew in a deep breath of fresh morning air. Perhaps even as a tree, she had to be aware of any dawn to come? This morning, she could smell the earthy aroma of peat, the scent of damp earth, the slight tang of the sea air beyond the forest, and the comforting smell of freshly baked bread.

Then the scent of sandalwood came to her as Callum stood beside her. The animosity between them over what to do with the pelt had vanished with the morning light. “Are you ready to find Lottie’s pelt?”

“Will we find it today?” she asked, optimistically.

“We must believe we can and will succeed.”

She turned to face him. “I do.”

Declan exited his cottage then, with his daughter at his side. “We’re ready when ye are.”

“Then lead the way,” Callum said, taking Gille’s hand in his.

The group of four made their way to several beech trees with hollowed-out bases as the light increased. Yet none of the trees yielded the treasure they desired. By midday, the weight of their mission and the increasing desperation grew heavy in Gille’s chest.

As they pressed on, the sun began its descent, casting long shadows over the ravaged land. And still, the beech tree remained elusive. Despair was beginning to gnaw at Gille. Her memory of the forest and the trees was no longer reliable in this labyrinth of shadows.

Callum, sensing her distress, squeezed her hand reassuringly. “We will find it, Gille,” he promised, his voice steady. “I know we will.”

Then, a flicker of recognition ignited in her eyes. A distant memory surfaced, a fragment of a familiar shape. It was a long shot but hope flared. She pointed towards a blackened, twisted, form in the distance. “There,” she breathed, her voice barely audible.

Gille’s heart pounded in her chest. As they moved towards the tree, her hopes grew. The shape was undeniably that of a beech tree. The base was charred and cracked, but the upper part, miraculously, seemed less affected by the fire.

“Is this it?” Callum asked softly beside her. “Is this the one?”

With trembling hands, Gille reached out and touched the rough bark. A surge of Lady Janet’s memory flooded her senses—the feel of the soft moss, the shape of the peculiar knot. She traced the contours of the tree, her fingers finding every nuance of the burnt surface when suddenly her fingers found a hollow. With renewed vigour, she dug into the charred wood, her nails biting into the resistant material.

Finally, her fingers brushed against something soft. With a cry of triumph, she pulled it free. It was a bundle, wrapped in thick leather, lightly charred. As she unwrapped it, her breath caught in her throat. It was the sealskin, its rich grey fur still soft to the touch, despite the ordeal it had endured.

Gille thanked the tree for keeping the pelt safe then turned to Callum. “We did it!” A sense of relief swamped her.

“I’m pleased my stupidity did nae destroy the pelt. I’m so sorry tae have caused ye so much trouble,” Declan said.

Gille’s gaze dropped once more to the pelt in her hands. The sealskin was exactly as she had seen in Lady Janet’s memory, and a reminder of what a parent would do to save their child. She looked up and smiled at Declan, noting the remorse that etched lines around his mouth and eyes. “We all make mistakes, Declan. I have made many in my life.”

“Yer very kind, m’lady,” Declan said, pulling his daughter close to his side. “If there is anythin’ else I can do tae help, ye have only tae ask.”

Gille glanced up, noting that the first stars were beginning to appear, casting a magic glow over the ravaged forest. They had accomplished the first part of their quest, but now they only had two more days to negotiate with the selkies for the song they truly had no certainty would set her free or not. Gille swallowed roughly. She had to believe the song was the answer with all her heart, mind, and soul.

Callum reached for her hand, wrapping her cold fingers in his warmer ones. “We have to try,” he said as if reading her thoughts.

She nodded, then heard a faint rustling in the undergrowth that had survived the fire. Gille felt Callum’s sudden tension merge with her own before he instinctively reached to touch the sword at his side. He lowered to a squat, ready to strike whatever danger loomed.

A figure emerged from the shadows, a small dark shape against the night sky. It was a wild boar with long tusks, its eyes glowing with an eerie light.

Though her heart pounded in her chest, Gille stayed Callum by placing her hand over his hilt. The male creature did not look like it wanted to attack. Perhaps it was injured as the fawn had been. Slowly, she reached out a hand, palm open. The boar hesitated; its ears pricked forward. Then, with a cautious step, it approached her, its wiry tail tentatively twitching. The rusty-brown boar looked healthy. Perhaps the animal had a different reason for approaching them as the guardian of the tree that held a special treasure.