Angel of Skye Read Online Free PDF Page A

patiently, motionless.
    Finally, pulling out his sword, he speared the string of wooden prayer beads that lay on the turf. Sheathing his sword, the rider looked at them curiously and then clenched them in his fist.
    From where she stood, Fiona could not quite make out the expression on his face. The giant wheeled his horse in her direction. Now horse and rider faced her. She slid as quietly as she could behind the wide trunk of a gnarled oak. Oh, my Lord, did he see me? Her mind began to run wild. Can he hear me? She held her breath, wishing she could stop the pounding of her heart. Then she nearly laughed aloud at the silliness of the thought, considering the distance between them.
    “Are you hurt?” the rider called out, his voice echoing in the wood. “You do not need to fear me.”
    He paused, listening for a response, but getting none.
    “If you are hurt, but can get to Dunvegan Castle, go there. They will care for you.”
    He paused again, listening. Fiona could hear the hooves of the impatient horse stamping at the edge of the path. There was annoyance in the warrior’s tone when he called again. “Answer me! These woods are dangerous if you are hurt. There are all kinds of wild beasts out here.”
    There certainly are, Fiona thought, chuckling softly to herself. My thoughts exactly.
    “Now, listen,” he shouted, anger now apparent in his voice. “I am trying to help you. I don’t know why a woman would be out here roaming the woods alone at this hour, but speak, for God’s sake.”
    Once again, Fiona peered cautiously from behind the tree and watched him as he waited for a response. She smiled at his evident anger and frustration. Good, she thought. He had some nerve, riding like a madman on trails honest peasants use to earn a livelihood.
    The warlord just remained where he was for a long moment, clearly trying to make up his mind.
    “If you will not answer, then...to hell with you!” he roared, and wheeling the horse nimbly, he thundered off down the path.
    Fiona let out her breath as he disappeared into the mist. Then she stamped her foot hard in anger. “Well, Lord Macpherson, you certainly learned nothing from that!”
    Fiona moved from her hiding place in the trees and onto the deer trail she had used each morning for the past few years. Since the new laird had arrived, Fiona had spent many days watching him gallop through the countryside, the white bird or some other falcon on his arm. Always riding like a madman, always pounding his horse full speed, as if running away from, or perhaps chasing after someone. Whatever it was, though, today he was early and had caught her off guard.
    But he wasn’t entirely to blame, Fiona conceded. She was late returning from the cluster of huts deep in the forest where, four years ago, her old friend Walter and his company had taken refuge from the cruelties of Torquil MacLeod. And Father Jack, the old hermit, had been there today as well, and time always passed quickly when he began telling his tall tales.
    The Priory on the secluded Isle of Skye had been a refuge for lepers for as long as anyone remembered. The church lands used to feed them and provide them with shelter. That had all changed four years ago, when Torquil had decided that Skye would no longer be populated by disease. So for four years, Fiona had been traveling this route between the Priory and the people who hid like hunted animals, trapped on the island they now called home. Trapped by the unreasoning hate of a nobleman who thrived on the misfortunes of others. Trapped by a powerful leader whose very word had unleashed a torrent of violence on a sickly people who could neither escape nor defend themselves.
    At the thought of the injustice, Fiona’s hand went instinctively to the wooden clapper at her belt. It was useful having the clapper now. Most folk gave wide berth when they heard the lepers’ wooden warning signal. But wearing it even four months ago would have made her trips far more