The Firebrand by May McGoldrick Page B

at the man called Alan in alarm.
    “Tethered to a line?”
    “Aye,” he answered. “To see how long he can stay afloat. Everyone knows the servants of the de’il cannot bear the water.”
    “Servants of the devil? Gillie’s just a young boy!”
    “These men are just sailors, mistress. They have their superstitions and their old beliefs...just like everyone else.”
    “But--”
    “Wyntoun can handle them,” he said, easing his grip. “All will be well. Just wait, mistress.”
    He dropped his hand from her arm, and she moved to the small, shuttered windows at the far end of the cabin. She turned her back on him and tried to pull together the torn edges of her blouse.
    “You might want to be using this.”
    Adrianne glanced over her shoulder at the Highlander as he picked up a blanket off the single bed and held it out to her.
    “You’re soaking wet, and Wyntoun wouldn’t be too happy if you were to catch a chill before we reach Duart Castle.” He glanced at her clutching the blouse. “And I’ll have someone--nay, I’ll bring down a needle and thread from my things for you to mend that.”
    Adrianne studied more closely the confident and serious set of the man’s features. She was sure he was younger than he looked, in spite of the gray thatch of hair and the skin weathered by sun and salt air. His green eyes were so much like Wyntoun MacLean’s that she wondered for a moment if they were brothers. She took the blanket from him and wrapped it around her shoulders.
    “Why would the sailors think Gillie was a servant of the devil?”
    “His face, mistress. One look at him and they decided he’s one of...of that kind. The kind that brings bad luck.”
    “But he’s only a lad with a birth scar of sorts.”
    “He’s sure to bring bad luck, all the same, as far as sailors are concerned.”
    She tightened her hold on the blanket as the sound of shouts and activity came from above. As the ship rolled again, she sat down on the single chair.
    “This is the same nonsense I heard on Barra. Villagers not allowing him in their huts. Fishermen beating him if he got too close to their boat. Even the nuns from the chapel going wide around him if they were to meet him on the path.”
    The shipmaster shrugged and leaned against the bulkhead by the door. “I told you before, everyone knows the lad brings bad luck.”
    The ship heeled over sharply, and Adrianne knew the vessel was turning.
    “But what proof has anyone of this foolishness? Has the lad been the cause of great fires, or storms, or plague? Has there been a great flood?” She continued to frown up at him. “Has there been one sickness or death in human or animal that the lad has been responsible for?”
    Alan cocked an ear toward the open door for a moment as a loud commotion could be heard overhead. As he stepped out the threshold, Adrianne sprang to her feet, thinking to follow the Highlander on deck. An instant later, though, he was back in his place, shaking his head.
    “Well, I’ve an hour’s work getting this ship back on course. The lad’s not bringing me any luck.”
    “That’s no answer,” she persisted. “What is it that Gillie has done?”
    “‘Tis not what he has or has not done, mistress,” Alan responded calmly. “I feel badly for the lad, as well. ‘Tis just that bad luck follows him about. Things...bad things happen to people when they let the lad tarry near them. A cow stops giving milk. A net full of fish breaks. ‘Tis nothing that he does. ‘Tis just that things happen.”
    “Well, he’s been following me about for almost six months and nothing bad has happened to me.”
    The man shrugged again as the first hint of a smile threatened to appear on his weathered face. “Well, mistress, I would not call hanging in a cage from the ramparts of Kisimul a good thing.”
    “That was my own doing...and the doing of the abbess.”
    “Maybe so. Anyway, some folk are not affected by bad luck. Wyntoun is like that. He was the