Preview: Highlander’s Bewitching Healer
Prologue
A Clan at War
The Fields of Clannach, Scotland, 1642
Cillian could almost feel the man’s heart beating through his chest as time slowed down. Life was the toss of a coin, and Cillian quickly flipped his sword, the blow incapacitating him but not killing him.
I hope that my mercy does not come back to haunt me.
Each death was not only a member of their Clan, but they were also a father, brother, husband, child.
More arrows twanged as they pierced the ground beside him. Then there was peace, a brief respite from the din of war, and the breathing of those who were still alive could be heard. Cillian wheeled around; Dominic was down on his knees helping a wounded soldier, others were dragging men from the middle of the battle to the outskirts, but far too many lay motionless and devoid of life.
“They’re regroupin’, and we’ve lost too many,” winced Dominic.
“But, we’ll—”
“Aye, we’ll fight,” finished Dominic before adding, “me Laird.”
Cillian wiped the sweat from his head and sat down on a small clump of dirt. “Is it all worth it?”
“They started it,” said Dominic.
Cillian could not help but laugh at that. “Aye, that they did, and it needs to be us who finish it.”
“The men are lookin’ to ye,” said Dominic.
All for a few fields. The Fields of Clannach had been MacPherson land for as long as Cillian could remember, and he often ran through the fields as a young lad, playing some war game with Dominic and the others, though how naive they were at the time in their imaginings of what war was like. Cillian knew that he would never have partaken in those childish games if he had known what he knew now.
“Ye’ve followed me this far,” shouted Cillian. He took a step on to the small mound of earth and surveyed the men around him. A few were clambering to get to the group, but there were still at least a hundred good fighters with him. A look to the far end where the rolling hills disturbed the flat green showed a more buoyant group, numbering at least double theirs.
“I ken that this seems like we are nae fightin’ over much,” continued Cillian.
“It’s nae nothin’,” shouted someone.
“Aye, this is our land!”
“Aye, that may be true, but what we’re fightin’ for is nae just this land. We’re fightin’ for so much more. We’re fightin’ for everyone, for the Clan, our children, our way of life. The Gregor Clan, misguided in their wisdom, I’m sure, are nae wantin’ this land because we have it. Nay, they want it to change how we do things. This battle is nae about givin’ up a wee bit of field; it’s about protecting what the MacPherson Clan stands for.”
There was a cheer from the men, smiles returning to faces as the belief returned. Cillian looked down at himself, clothes ragged, leg scratched up. He wanted to call it a day and be done with the injustice of it all, but he knew that he would lead from the front, something which the other Laird did not.
Cillian would not have it any other way. If he were going to take his men into battle, he would be the first one to fight. That was what had inspired the men so far, outnumbered and fading, but still protecting all that they held dear.
“Here they come,” said Dominic.
“MacPherson!” shouted Cillian.
“MacPherson!” The shout was deafening as hundreds of men came back together to clash one more time. There was desperation on everyone’s face; they knew that this was the final coming together, that most of them would not walk away from this.
Cillian led the charge, flying into battle and stopping the first man in his tracks, a large brute with a flowing red beard. The ax came down from above, threatening to split Cillian in half, but what the brute had in strength, he lacked in speed and agility. Cillian ducked and rolled, moving under the ax and coming back to his feet to the side of the man.
As Cillian looked up at the ax, moving away just in time, he could see a large black crow flying in the grey sky above.
Oh, to be a bird and have the chance to escape from all of this.
The bird sailed around in the sky, watching the battle below before flapping its wings and going off to find food. Cillian thought about staying down, giving in to the oncoming defeat, but he was better than that. The ax hit the ground one more time, this time clanking against a rock buried just below the surface, and the collision sent a shudder up the man’s arm.
The bearded warrior was tiring, and Cillian knew it, but a flash caught his eye before he could land a blow. His training told him never to take his eyes from his enemy, but his other senses were screaming. He did look, keeping the man in his peripheral vision and keeping enough space between them to dodge should the ax come close again.
“No,” the gasp escaped Cillian’s lips, lost in the noise of the battle. Dominic was on the ground, sword in hand, but not enough time to raise it. Cillian acted on instinct. He jumped back as the ax came for his stomach, hoping to take a bite. Cillian launched his own sword through the air, not at his attacker, but at the one standing over Dominic, mace raised, ready to cave in Dominic’s skull.
The sword spun through the air as Cillian dodged another swing from the ax, huffs of breath coming with each swing. The sword hit the attacker, not piercing him, but enough to knock him off balance, and the mace landed within an inch of Dominic’s head. The attacker fell on top of Dominic, and, for a moment, there was no movement.
As Cillian turned, his instincts kicked in again, and the dagger that was aimed at him was thrust toward an attacker from behind, downing the man before the short sword could do its damage. Another man went down, and Cillian’s eyes roved back toward Dominic, who was pushing up the man who had fallen on him, Dominic’s sword sticking out of his back. Cillian let out a sigh of relief at the sight and ran to help him as the battle raged around.
He was almost there when the pain shot up his leg, through his stomach, and into his shoulder. Cillian stumbled and fell face first into the dirt, the dagger flying from his hand. His head knocked against a hard patch of ground and the light danced around.
Dominic was there by his side, helping him up and shouting something unintelligible. Cillian wondered if he had been deafened, the pain pulsing loudly inside. The world came back into focus, and he tried to shout out his commands, but could only wince and scream. Dominic was pointing, not for Cillian’s benefit, but for the men around him.
“Get him off the battlefield,” Dominic ordered.
Cillian looked down at his shin, and the pain came into focus when he saw the arrow sticking out of his leg. He reached down, moving his hand away from Dominic’s. He could feel the splintered bone beneath the skin, the mangled muscle, and the ever-present pain. He had every intention of pulling the arrow out, but the pain caused him to black out as soon as he touched the arrow.
“Where’s me sword?” demanded Cillian as he came to again.
“Get him out of here, now!” shouted Dominic.
Cillian could see more of the enemy soldiers approaching, Dominic whirling around to face them and keep his Laird safe.
“Nae!” shouted Cillian. One more time, he tried to stand up, reaching out for his broadsword that lay on the ground only a few feet from him. The pain was unbearable, and the darkness came once again, blinking in and out of reality.
He darted his hand out, but he was pulled in another direction. His head moved from side to side, rolling on his neck, not quite sure what was happening, a soldier on either side of him.
Nae! Nae! Take me back!
He tried to force the words out, but he could not, or he did, but he could not hear them. The Laird of MacPherson Castle was sucked backward, pulled against his will but unable to do anything else, the blood pumping through his ears, his heart beat slowing. Then the crow. It had flown down in front of his face. He batted at it, but could not catch the bird nor move it, the flapping black wings obscuring his
vision.
Behind the creature, he could barely make out Dominic, who was on his knees, or was he the one fighting? Cillian could not be sure. Then a stab and a cry of pain, a cry that he had heard before when he and Dominic were children and his friend had fallen on a rock. The cry came again and turned into the cawing of the crow as the wings flapped faster, and the bird came straight for him.
Cillian could not move this time, could not defend himself as the crow attacked, the darkness encompassing him. He took one final breath and gave into the darkness.
Ambushed
Carsten, Scotland, 1645
The inn was rowdy, Maeve could hear it from up in her small room, but she did not want to go down even though she had a hunger in her belly. Her need to be alone overcame her need for food. Albie curled up in the corner, unperturbed by the noise and making gentle purring noises as he dreamed.
Maeve’s stomach rumbled, and she thought about brewing up her herbs into a tea to give her stomach some flavor in an attempt to fool her insides into thinking that they were being fed. If the smell had not penetrated the simple wooden door, she would not have opened it. When she did, the aroma hit her in the face. It was a moment before she noticed that Albie had snuck out.
“Albie!” hissed Maeve. She looked behind her to make sure that it was her cat and not someone else’s, and she found an empty cat-shaped space there, confirming her fears. As Maeve stepped out of her room, Albie made a run for it, persuaded by the cooking smells to go downstairs and investigate more.
“Albie, come back here!” hissed Maeve to no avail. Maeve followed him quickly, going downstairs with dreams of food in her mind. She had enough money for one more meal, perhaps two.
The inn was rowdy and noisy, but there was a more somber tone to the place. Maeve scanned the room, finding the only thing out of the ordinary were the three soldiers who sat at the table in the center of the room. She had not been out of her village much, but she had seen some soldiers pass close to the village, marching off to war, or marching back from it. The plain-tan trews and white shirts with tartan plaid were a giveaway in themselves, and the weapons laying on the table confirmed the deduction. The three of them were both rowdy and somber at the same time.
“Supper?” asked Agnes, the tavern owner, appearing from nowhere.
Maeve fingered the purse hanging inside the belt of her skirt and felt the two coins, the same two that she had stared at earlier in the evening. “Nay, nae tonight.” She had enough to get her through a couple more days and would make the decision in the morning whether to stay or to go.
“Who are the soldiers?” asked Maeve.
“Fresh from a skirmish with some bandits,” replied Agnes. “On their way back to their Castle. Well, two of them are; the one in the middle is a ghost.”
“A ghost?”
“Aye, as good as. He took a wound to the side, and he’s nae long for this world.”
Maeve looked at the three men and could see that the man in the middle had a slight sickly-green tinge to his color. All three were getting drunk, and the alcohol was obviously hitting the wounded man more.
“Givin’ him a send-off,” continued Agnes. “Bad for him, God rest his soul, but good for business.”
Maeve was not listening anymore, nor was she aware that Albie was doing the rounds, moving from table to table and person to person, picking up table scraps as he went. Maeve walked through the tables, leaving behind Agnes who was still talking, and that sent Albie into a flurry, thinking he was being chased.
“What happened to yer friend?” asked Maeve when she got to the table.
“Aye, more ale, Lass!” exclaimed one of the soldiers.
“I’m nay here to serve ye ale, Sir. I need to ken what happened to yer friend.”
“They took us by surprise,” reminisced the man.
“Aye, aye, but we havenae time,” demanded Maeve. “He was stabbed, aye? Where was he stabbed and how long ago, and why did ye nay go to the healer, Mr. Hodgkins?”
“Nothin’ to be done,” said the soldier on the other side of the table.
“Plenty to be done,” countered Maeve.
“Let me drink in peace,” said the soldier in the middle, the one with the greenish tinge.
“Another ale,” demanded the first soldier.
Maeve took a deep breath and composed herself. She ran through the events in her head before vocalizing them. “Ye were ambushed by bandits, aye. I presume that ye fought them off or killed them if ye are all still here, but ye,” she pointed to the soldier in the middle, “were stabbed in the side, the left by the way ye are favorin’ it. Ye ended up in this village, and Mr. Hodgkins said that there was nothin’ to be done, so ye ended up in here, drinkin’ yer sorrows until yer friend drops dead.”
The three soldiers looked at her in silence before the soldier on the left said, “Aye.”
“And I suppose that ye ken better?” asked the soldier on the far side.
“Aye, I do,” said Maeve. “Now, let me see the wound before ye really have to drink yerself into an early grave.” Maeve stared them down before adding, “What have ye got to lose?”
The soldier in the middle lifted up his shirt to reveal the festering wound, not even a dressing covering it. “If I had got here sooner, he might have been able to save me.”
Maeve ran from the table, Albie fleeing in fear once more, and up to her room. She rummaged through her bag and grabbed a handful of wilting herbs, along with some vials of black liquid and strips of fabric. In under a minute, she was back down at the table, the soldier in the middle still holding his shirt up.
“Agnes!” called Maeve. “Here, take these herbs and grind them into a paste for me. Add some water if ye need to. Ye! Chew on these herbs. Agnes, a flagon of water too. And ye two, give me some space to work.”
There was a lull in the inn as the two soldiers took orders from the young red-haired woman with the eager blue eyes. The soldier in the middle kept one hand on his shirt, still hoisting it up while he chewed on the herbs. Agnes was soon back with the herbal paste, and Maeve washed the wound before applying the black liquid, followed by the herb paste. The bandages went on top. The soldier would have screamed out in pain during the hasty procedure if he had not been so drunk.
“Nae more ale,” instructed Maeve. The two watching soldiers put down their cups of ale, and Maeve did not have the heart to tell them that she was talking about their friend. “And lots of rest.”
Maeve found Albie at her feet, and she picked him up, walking back upstairs to her room as the patrons watched in silence. When she got back to her room, the hunger in her belly was gone.
“Dinnae look at me like that, Albie, ye ken that I had to help the man, nae matter how good it felt.”
Albie purred and lay back down, and Maeve did the same. The sleep came more eagerly that night, and she did not wake in the morning with the sense of impending dread that had arrived the previous mornings, not knowing where her life was taking her. No, she was woken the next morning by a hammering at the door.
Maeve hastily got up and answered the door, finding one of the soldiers from the night before.
“He’s askin’ for more herbs,” said the soldier with a smile on his face. “It’s actually workin’.”
“We need to take her back to the Castle,” announced a second soldier from down the hallway.
“What, I’m nae a witch,” stammered Maeve.
“What?” asked the soldier at the door. He took one look at Maeve’s grave face and burst out laughing. “Aye, exactly the type of thing that a witch would say.” Another laugh escaped his lips. “I dinnae dabble with witches, and that’s a fact, but I ken a good healer when I meet one. We need a healer at the Castle, so we’ll be takin’ ye there as soon as our friend is strong enough to leave.”
“Do I have a choice in the matter?” asked Maeve with a smile.
“Looks like yer choice has been made,” said the soldier.
“I’m nae a witch,�
�� Maeve whispered, more to herself than anyone else.
The Laird
MacPherson Castle, Scotland
“I didnae ask which castle we are going to,” said Maeve. The past two days had been the happiest since she had left her village. The three soldiers had supplied her with more food and coin than she had ever imagined as thanks for helping their friend who was ready to leave for the Castle after two days of rest.
“MacPherson,” said Gregor. Maeve rode on the back of his horse, clinging to the muscular man, Henry and Douglas riding on either side. “It’s nae far.”
“Aye, I’ve heard of it.”
“Dinnae believe everything’ that ye hear,” said Gregor.
Maeve did not know what to make of that. In truth, she had not heard much about MacPherson Castle, even though it lay close to her village. She did not have to wait long to see it in all its glory, if glory was the right word.
The Castle was magnificent, there was no doubt about it, with walls that towered far above any that Maeve had ever seen, and as they got closer, the towering walls blocked out the sky. Yet, Maeve could also see that the roughly hewn walls were in a state of disrepair like the Castle was an old man who had not taken care of himself.
That all evaporated when they rode through the front gates. Gregor had told her that the town lay on the other side of the Castle, but he had not told her about the central courtyard. Once they were inside, he sent Henry off with Douglas to get more treatment for the latter.
“It’s bigger than me village,” gasped Maeve. She looked around at the people, the buildings, the stalls, and the busyness of it all. It was all too much to take in. There was so much to see, so much to do, and so many people to meet, and for the first time since she had left her village, Maeve broke out into a genuinely joyful smile. She could feel the bubbliness coming back, the same feeling she had had when she was growing up in the village and helping people.
Highlander’s Wicked Temptation: A Steamy Scottish Historical Romance Novel Page 21
