The Devil’s Due by Boucher, Rita (free reads txt) 📗

. . .

By the time he reached the brink of the loch, Duncan barely had the patience to shed his travel-stained clothing. Clouds were rolling in from the west carried by a brisk breeze that ruffled the water with white. Without doubt there would be a storm by evening, turning the eastern pass into a muddy sluiceway, but they would likely be well beyond the mountain trail by nightfall even with a child in tow . . . or would they? He hesitated, glancing back up the path toward the castle. He shrugged.

They were likely gone. Even if he went back to warn them, the old biddy would likely ascribe the worst of motives to any recommendations that he might give. Once they were off of his property the women ceased to be any concern of his.

Their leaving was all for the best anyway. All he had wanted was to be left in peace, to be alone. Even Fred’s presence had been a grudging concession. Two women and a brat . . . he was well rid of them. No, it would be a waste of time and effort, he told himself as he fumbled with the fastenings of his worn trousers. Poised at the brink he stood, caught unaware by his reflection in the deep pool. Since La Purgatoire, Duncan had avoided any form of mirror, knowing, yet unwilling to see. Until now.

The gaunt man who gazed back at him in bewilderment was scarcely recognizable as Major Duncan MacLean. Waves of wild, dark hair fell well past the nape of his neck, a far cry from the fashionable Brutus that had once framed his face to perfection. The powerful body of Duncan’s recollections could ride, run and shoot till the day was done; wrestle any challenger’s arm to the table and drink any man under it and then while the night away with some wench. The man in the lake seemed unutterably weary, fragile as thistledown. Scarcely a spare ounce of flesh covered that bony frame.

Strength and endurance would gradually return, Duncan knew. In that respect, each day was a bit better than the last. However, some things were forever beyond recovery. Slowly the reflection’s fingers rose to part the black curtain of hair, revealing the scarred track that led from the edge of his lips to the orbit of his eye. The beard provided cover, but he had seen the extent of the damage beneath.

The image’s hand trembled as he slid off the rough patch, allowing the concealing cloth to slither to the ground. The one-eyed creature stared back in stark horror, the hollow face contorting in a grimace of pain. A low, keening moan wafted over the waters as Duncan finally accepted the bitter reality. Mercifully, the marred visage in the pool wavered, blurring with the ruffling of the breeze. He knew that he did not wish to wait until it returned to clarity.

Duncan’s dive cut the water with barely a ripple, bringing him rapidly to the icy heart of the spring-fed depths. The cold was a welcome shock, clearing his mind of any thought. He let himself drift with the tug of the current, carrying him away from shore toward the channel at the center where his mother had warned him that the water-folk played. Bred in the Highlands, she was, knowing very invisible danger. Mamma had armed him with charms and incantations against the evil forces that craved nothing more than to snatch a small boy from his mother’s arms.

The “ghoulies, ghosties and weird beasties” that Burns had written of had always been lurking in the darkness just beyond the quilts during his childhood and now he was one of their ugly number. But all of Mamma’s lurid descriptions of hants and the banshees had paled in comparison to his father. The sobs and screams that rang through Castle Eilean Kirk always had their origins in earthly sources. Despite the hordes of hell-spawned apparitions that reputedly haunted his home, the only truly tormented souls that Duncan had ever met were all too human.

His lungs began to demand air, but still he made no move toward the surface. It was a game that he had played often as a boy. He was a selkie, seeking the entrance to the fairie home at the bottom of the loch. They were waiting to welcome him down below, the water folk, for they knew that Duncan had never truly been the MacLean’s son, but the spawn of the selkie King himself. There would be feasting, singing and dancing all night when he returned to claim his kingdom. They would weave him garlands of lilies and crown him with precious stones mined from the deep.

Suspended almost motionless in the water, Duncan watched as a school of fish slipped within inches of his fingers. It was so tranquil, this silent world, more in focus to his halved vision than the one that he had left behind. What a pity he had never found that selkie portal, he thought as he looked toward the surface. The light seemed so very distant . . . hardly worth the effort to attain . . . lungs were fit to burst . . . a few seconds more might be cutting it too close . . . why bother? No one would care, with the possible exception of Fred. Give a monkey to see the man’s face when he realizes that he’s the sole heir to the MacLean fortune . . . but then I’ll be dead . . . roasting with Papa. . . So dark up there . . . the clouds must have thickened to block the sun . . . storm brewing . . . too soon . . . Kate! The girl! . . .exposed to a storm in the Hellgate.

Powerful kicks propelled him upwards as he pushed back armfuls of water. Bright spots whirled before his eyes as his air-deprived brain made foolish demands that he open