Sins of a Highland Devil: Highland Warriors Book 1

by Welfonder Sue-Ellen

  “Well?” He arched a brow, waiting.

  “Word is” – Colin rubbed the back of his neck – “their chief, Kendrew, has every man at Castle Nought training in the lists. Some say he’s even barred the gate with a chain, just so nary a man can escape if his sword arm tires. He wants victory, that one.”

  “Bah!” James almost choked. “The Mackintoshes are naught but a pack of shrieking women. If Kendrew locked his gate with a chain, I’m for thinking he did so to keep out the dreagans thon clan fears so greatly. No’ to keep his soft-sworded, scared-of-their-own-shadow warriors inside!

  “Or” – he really liked this idea – “to keep the loons from tumbling down the cliff some horned and furry he-goat Mackintosh forebear was fool enough to choose as a site for their wretched stronghold.”

  “I’ve heard the odd stone formations around Castle Nought do turn into dreagans at night.” Isobel spoke from her chair by the fire. “And some say they built where they did, with the walls of their keep rising so seamlessly from the cliffs, so that they can best guard the high mountain pass above their keep.” She smoothed her skirts. “Indeed, as we’ve never succeeded in using the pass without grief, perhaps they aren’t such dafties, after all?”

  James’ eyes rounded. He was sure he could feel steam shooting out his ears.

  “Since when have you become a champion for that ill-famed race of cloven-footed rock climbers?” He glared at her. “And there’s no such thing as a dreagan. There aren’t any such beasts hereabouts. And” – he leaned toward her, hoping he looked menacing – “you’ll no’ be seeing any in the benighted corner of the glen claimed by Kendrew Mackintosh and his flock of whiny women.”

  “Cook says he saw one once.” Her voice was smug.

  “Then he was either drunk or dreaming.” James folded his arms. Any moment his head was going to burst. His temples were pounding with a vengeance.

  “Ah, well.” Isobel smiled sweetly. “You will have the right of it. The dreagans said to lurk near Castle Nought are surely no more real than our own Lady Scandia, Doom of the Camerons.”

  She gave a delicate shiver. “I can’t recall having ever glimpsed her either.”

  “Be glad you haven’t.” He blurted the words before he could stop himself.

  “You’ve seen her?” Colin eyes bulged, his brows hovering near his hairline. “The ghost?”

  “Nae, I haven’t.” James felt heat flood his face. “Bogles are the same bog mist as dreagans. Castle Haven’s gray lady is nothing but-” he stopped when a blast of cold, wet wind blew open the shutters and gusted into the room, flapping tapestries and guttering candles. Colin’s hand-torch went out with a great belching of smoke and ash. The sparks floated through the air, glowing and hissing.

  Everyone stared.

  Hector began to howl.

  “Good lad. It’s only the wind.” James reached down to pat the dog’s bony shoulders and then strode across the room to close the shutters.

  He was just re-latching them when a loud bang sounded behind him. The noise was suspiciously like the slamming of his strongbox lid.

  “Hah!” Colin’s voice rose above the echoes of the crash. “I should have known.”

  James stood frozen, his hands on the icy-wet iron of the shutter latch. His bed, a massive four-postered monstrosity, sheltered the chest from wind. The lid couldn’t slam shut on its own.

  He’d braced it open.

  Unless….

  Whirling around, he saw Colin and Isobel staring at the coffer. But it wasn’t the iron-bound strongbox that had their jaws dropping.

  It was the length of red and gold silk spilling out from beneath the chest’s now-closed lid to pool on the rush-strewn floor.

  The clan banner.

  An ancient standard, its silken red furls decorated with gleaming yellow bars and, at its heart, emblazoned with the embroidered likeness of a snarling black dog.

  Known as the Banner of the Wind, it was the clan’s most prized possession.

  In the darkest days of clan legend, when Ottar the Fire-worshipper and his warriors had searched along coasts and throughout the hills for a meet place to gather food, breed, and build a dwelling place, they’d used the proud standard to help them make the decision.

  And now the glorious banner lay tangled on the floor rushes.

  The rushes might be fresh and strewn with dried heather and sweet-smelling herbs, but the floor was still an unworthy resting place for the relic.

  And the chest’s heavy, humpbacked lid was crushing stitches that had been sewn hundreds of years before, in the very morning of the world.

  “Damnation!” James sprinted across the room, raising the lid before the weight of iron and wood could damage the precious cloth.

  He scooped the treasure off the floor and into his arms. His heart raced, the old tales swirling in his blood, quickening his pulse. For tradition held that, during his quest for land, Ottar the Fire-worshipper dreamed that the gods would wrest the banner from the hands of their standard bearer so that wind could carry the banner away, planting its pole in the spot where the great Clan Cameron was destined to build their home.

  And so it had been.

  James clutched the banner to his chest, his gaze sliding to where Colin and Isobel stood watching him, each with wide, round eyes.

  Any other time, the fabled Banner of the Wind would fill him with clan pride and exaltation. But now, the relic lifted every fine hair on his body, including some hairs he didn’t know he had.

  Because of its great age, the standard was kept in a soft linen pouch. And that cloth bag was then tucked inside a protective wrapping of oiled sheepskin. James’ strongbox was the treasure’s final defense and – he was sure – he’d only just thrust his hands inside the chest when Colin and Isobel stormed into the room.

  He hadn’t removed the banner.

  And wondering who might have done so – especially moments after Isobel had uttered Scandia’s name – turned his knees to jelly.

  “So you were seeking divine aid.” Colin appeared at his elbow.

  “I was not.” James began folding the banner, not trusting himself to meet his cousin’s eye lest the long-nose see that he’d lied.

  He did hope to use the standard’s rallying power.

  But he wasn’t of a mood to hear Colin’s hooting if he admitted that it wasn’t any divine power he was counting on. He was putting his faith in the old gods who’d led Ottar the Fire-worshipper to the beloved clan lands where Castle Haven stood this day.

  Those were the powers he wanted at his side.

  Hoping they’d guide him as well, he tucked the folded banner beneath his arm. “I told you what I intend to do this e’en.” He turned, meeting Colin’s gaze. “If you have wax in your ears or have forgotten already” – he laid a hand over the bundle of gleaming red-and-yellow silk – “I mean to take this down to the great hall and-”

  “He’s going to use the Banner of the Wind to talk sense into our kinsmen.” Isobel’s face lit with pride. “I want to be there to hear him.”

  “Then come.” James started forward, a thrill already coursing through him as the Banner of the Wind began to weave its ancient magic.

  He was out the door and halfway to the stair tower when he heard Colin’s muttering and knew his cousin and his sister were hurrying after him. He also caught the slower clack-clackety-clack of Hector’s toenails on the cold stone floor of the corridor, proving that the dog didn’t want to miss the excitement.

  And if he’d looked over his shoulder – which, fortunately, he didn’t – he might have seen a fourth figure hastening along in their wake.

  A slender, dark-haired figure, graceful and lovely, and whose lightly slippered feet didn’t touch the floor.

  Scandia, Doom of the Camerons, was just as eager as everyone else to hear what James had to say.

  Her life, as it were, might depend on it.

  * * *

  Shimmying with anticipation, Lady Scandia, Doom of th
e Camerons, let herself whoosh past the little party and paused by the arched entrance to the great hall. She tried to stand still, but found it so difficult. Such was the nature of her ghostly state that she sometimes quivered when excited. So she did her best not to flutter and peered back down the corridor. Soon, James and the others would catch up with her. And she couldn’t wait to see what would then transpire.

  There was already a stir in the hall.

  Grumbles, mutterings, and dark looks the likes of which she hadn’t seen since her own day. And as those troubles had led to such disaster – her own sad demise – much depended on how James handled the brewing dissent.

  That he’d fetched the Banner of the Wind said he meant action.

  He was prepared.

  But - she cast a glance into the crowded, smoke-hazed hall - certain unexpected matters would still surprise him.

  Unfortunately, one problem wouldn’t catch him unawares. Sir Walter must have ears as sharp as Scandia’s own because he stalked from the shadows the moment James and his entourage burst into view.

  “Cameron! I greet you!” He planted himself in front of James, clearly bent on causing havoc. “We’ve wondered when you’d leave your bed. Indeed” – he surveyed James from cold, dark eyes – “I was almost of a mind to send someone to tell you there is no need to join us.”

  He flicked a speck of lint off his sleeve. “If the snarling of your men is any indication, they’d rather toss your King and his Lowland rabble into a bog before they’ll take to the field in a fair trial by combat.

  “And if they stoop to such villainy” – he met James’ gaze again, his own triumphant – “the lot of you will be packed off to the Isle of Lewis before-”

  “Say you, Sir Walter. I say you err.” James spoke so resolutely, and his eyes glinted so dangerously, that Scandia shimmied almost uncontrollably.

  She drifted closer to the two men, careful to keep one hand pressed to her breast to still the rapid beating of her heart. She’d taken measures to stay unseen, but there was always a risk someone might note a flurry in the air if she failed to contain her glee.

  The dog, Hector, was already eyeing her curiously.

  It wouldn’t do if the others noticed he’d seen something unusual and became distracted.

  The young laird, especially, would need all his wits presently.

  So Scandia took a deep breath and stood patiently, hovering as unobtrusively as she could. She also bit her lip, some of her elation dimming because this was – or once had been - her beloved home. It grieved her to float through its walls as something unusual.

  But there could be no changing what she was, so she let her own Cameron pride sweep her and turned her attention back to young James.

  “Truth to tell….” James now stood toe-to-toe with the Lowlander. “You mistake on two counts. One, Cameron men ne’er take to their beds lest they have a warm and comely reason for doing so.”

  “That’s the way of it, by God!” Colin swaggered up to them, his tone daring Sir Walter to argue. “Though I’ll add we like those reasons well made and” – he sketched a shapely form in the air – “eager to please.”

  The nobleman glowered at him, his mouth thinning. His narrow, hawkish face soured as if he’d smelled something unpleasant.

  It was all Scandia could do not to giggle. But, she remembered with sorrow, it’d been so long since she’d laughed. She wasn’t sure she still knew how.

  She did allow herself a quick twirl.

  It did her heart good to see two braw Cameron warriors at their magnificent best. With their colorful plaids slung boldly over their shoulders, swords at their hips, and fire in their eye, they were simply glorious.

  Indignation suited them.

  Sir Walter’s pinch-faced umbrage only made him look like an irate vole. “A man’s prowess in bed says nothing of his valor in the field.” His sneer darkened the air, spoiling Scandia’s brief pleasure. Hector’s hackles rose as the dog took a step toward him, growling.

  “There will be no room for beasts on board the King’s galleys.” Sir Walter spoke with relish, his voice ringing. “They shall be dealt with before you leave, each mangy cur banished like so much windblown smoke. The whelps, too, make no mistake.”

  Hector showed yellow teeth, his snarls low in his throat now.

  Sir Walter raised a hand, snapping his fingers. “So quickly, and they’re gone.”

  James put back his shoulders, his eyes narrowing. “Have a care when you speak of our animals, Lindsay. Their lives are more dear to us than” - he paused, letting his gaze rake the Lowlander – “some who go on two feet.”

  He cocked a meaningful brow then, all cordiality.

  “No’ that you need trouble yourself.” His tone said the opposite. “Though….”

  He shifted the bundle of silk in his arms. “Perhaps you should hear our war cry. It is Chlanna nan con thigibh a so’s gheibh sibh feoil and means, ‘Sons of the hounds, come here and get flesh.’”

  “That’s heathen babble.” Sir Walter didn’t bother to hide his scorn.

  “Nae, good sir” – James’ voice hardened – “it is a warning to all who vex us that we feed the flesh of our enemies to our dogs.”

  Scandia almost spun in a circle at his daring. She did shimmer brightly, ripples of pleasure tingling clear down to her toes.

  Sir Walter clamped his jaw. His face took on a purplish hue.

  Lady Isobel, who reminded Scandia so much of herself, turned quickly aside, touching her fingers to her lips to smother a smile.

  “Further” – James placed a hand on Hector’s gray-tufted head when the dog came to lean against his legs – “the only souls, man or beast, that you’ll see leaving here will be your own. After we of this glen do what we must to meet our Sovereign’s wishes. Highlandmen are aye loyal. We are so to our King and to our land.

  “Be assured I speak as well for Alasdair MacDonald and Kendrew Mackintosh.” He sounded so certain, his words making Scandia glide nearer. “They, too, would sooner draw their last breath, dying here of a sword-drink than face a life beyond these hills.”

  Scandia shivered for she knew he spoke true.

  “And that, Sir Walter” – he paused, his dark eyes glittering fiercely in the dimness – “is what you and those like you e’er forget. To a Highlander, there is no life away from our home glen. There is only nothingness and sorrow that would kill us more surely and in a much more painful way than any bite of steel.”

  “Then you’re all heroic fools.” Sir Walter was vehement. He slid a glance over his shoulder at the noisy hall. The trestle benches were crowded, the aisles thronged with milling clansmen and scrounging dogs. Everywhere heads swiveled and turned as men stared, many arguing. Some pounded the tables with balled fists while others simply ate or quaffed their ale, grim-faced.

  One sat apart at the high table, his expression even more stony than the others.

  And with good reason….

  Scandia bit her lip, waiting.

  Sir Walter turned back to James, looking annoyed. His ire set another whirl of icy air whipping around the great, arched entry. And although no one else noticed, the frigid gust caught Scandia’s wispy form, casting her into the deeper shadows. When the wind settled, she shook out her filmy skirts and brushed at her sleeves. She also combed her fingers through her hair, trying to tidy the mussed strands.

  Not that anyone could see her, but still….

  Her composure regained, she turned again to James and his foe. Sir Walter had retreated and now stood on the far side of the entry, near to the hall. He’d curled his hands around his gem-encrusted sword belt and had swelled his chest to an unlikely degree. Looking much like a puffed-up peacock, he fixed James with an arrogant stare.

  James glared back at him, his grip on the Banner of the Wind, white-knuckled.

  “You’re all tartan-draped madmen.” Sir Walter spoke down his nose, the words edged with disdain. “Heathery hills, glens, and sword-drinks! Even the
MacDonald speaks the same fiery nonsense. Though how the man” – he threw another significant look at the chaos behind him – “can sit at your table, eating your meat and drinking your wine, when the two of you-”

  “Alastair?” James stared at him, his brows arcing. “He is here?”

  “Him, and no other.” Sir Walter stepped aside with a flourish, giving James an unobstructed view of the torch-lit hall. “Or is the flame-haired man at your high table an imposter?”

  James scanned the hall, his eyes widening when he spotted the other chieftain. “It is him, by God! And he’ll have no good reason for being here.”

  But even as he said the words, his gaze snapped away from Alasdair.

  His entire focus belonged to the flame-haired woman sitting next to the rival chieftain. She inclined her head ever so slightly, a faint smile touching her lips. Something flickered in her eyes, almost a challenge. When her gaze met and held James’, Scandia was sure tiny sparks ignited between them. Even across the vastness of the hall.

  She felt them like tiny pinpricks of fire in the soft haze that always surrounded her.

  The maid took James’ breath.

  Scandia had never seen him make such moony eyes at any female.

  Which, given the maid’s vibrant beauty, was more than understandable. Scandia eyed the girl critically, noting her charms. Torchlight fell across her face, calling attention to her creamy, flawless skin and burnishing her red-gold braids. Thick and glossy, the plaits fell to her hips. Her eyes sparkled like sapphires. And although she’d draped a tartan shawl around her shoulders, its folds only emphasized the fine swell of her breasts.

  She was undoubtedly a lady, but one who knew her worth and was aware of how easily she could tempt a man with her high good looks and provocative glances.

  In life – her real, earthly one – Scandia would have prickled with envy.

  Poor James didn’t stand a chance.

  Scandia fluttered nearer to him, concerned. Her sharp ghostly senses picked up the rush of his blood, the loud thundering of his heart.

  Her own began to beat wildly, the excitement almost too much for her.