Sins of a Highland Devil: Highland Warriors Book 1

by Welfonder Sue-Ellen

  “Though I’ll own she has a ravenous appetite.” He threw a glance at her, looking quickly back to James. “She hungers for many things. A few that are no’ good for her.”

  James felt himself flush, gently reprimanded. “I’ll no’ be pressing my attentions on her if that’s your concern.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Alasdair’s acceptance of his protestation stung. “She could tempt the devil with the crook of one finger. And I do know she favors you.”

  “I vow you mistake.” James struggled against the urge to glance at his feet. He was sure he’d felt them turn into hooves in the stirrups.

  “It scarce matters one way or the other.” Alasdair signaled his men to halt, and then swung down from his saddle. His smile flashed when he looked back at James. “You’re a Cameron. And if that isn’t a bad enough taint, chances are you’ll also be a dead man very soon.”

  “And so will you.” James jumped to ground, telling yet another lie.

  He didn’t know when or how it’d happened, but he was fairly certain that if it came to it, he wouldn’t wield his steel on Alasdair.

  To his surprise, Alasdair grinned. “I’d have words with you.” He strode forward to grip James’ arm. “There, in the trees beyond the food stalls.”

  “And the others, will they no’ wonder what we’re about?” James noted that Catriona and the guardsmen had already dismounted.

  “We are men.” Alasdair’s voice held a spark of humor. “They’ll no’ wonder if we slip away for a moment. All men do when nature calls.”

  James wasn’t so sure.

  He glanced again at the MacDonalds, his body beginning to stir when his gaze lit on Catriona. Amidst the men’s jostling and leg-stretching, she stood cool as spring rain, lightly caressing the ambers circling her neck. The stones shone in the watery morning sun, a perfect complement for her richly burnished hair.

  She caught him looking at her and dropped her hand as if the ambers burned her. Pink bloomed across her cheekbones, but then she turned away to bestow a dazzling smile on one of the guardsmen.

  James felt a rush of annoyance that almost choked him.

  But when a small group of Lowland knights strode past her and the MacDonald men-at-arms, her smile vanished, replaced at once by a look of disdain, a surge of admiration welled inside him.

  “She is bold, too much so at times.” Alasdair tugged on James arm, urging him towards the nearest cook stall. “Come now, lest she turns her eye this way again. She’s as quick-witted as she is daring and I’d no’ have her guess what I must tell you.”

  James jerked his arm from Alasdair’s grasp. “I’ll no’ be dragged anywhere.”

  He did walk with Alasdair into the trees, keeping pace with him as they moved deeper into the wood. The trees were great Caledonian pines, thick-trunked and growing closely together, their red-barked girth and the soft morning mist hiding them from curious glances. But when Alasdair made no move to pause, James stepped around in front of him.

  “We’ve gone far enough.” He folded his arms. “If we stray any farther, no one will believe we had a natural reason for nipping into the wood.”

  He’d expected Alasdair to laugh – the lout had been in high fettle all morning – but now he pulled a hand down over his face, his levity gone.

  “We can speak here, to be sure.” Alasdair’s voice was terse. “I wanted you to know that I wasn’t fooled by Catriona’s tale about Birkie. I knew the wee dog wasn’t missing. I’d seen Maili, one of our laundresses, sneaking two bowls of rib meat and watered oats up to Catriona’s bedchamber.

  “I followed Maili and” – some of the twinkle returned to Alasdair’s eyes – “I heard yipping behind the door. Birkie and his brother, Beadle, were both ensconced like fur-clad kinglets in Catriona’s antechamber, their own maid seeing to their every whim.”

  “Yet you went along with Catriona’s story?”

  “I did.” Alasdair swatted at a thread of mist sliding past them. “And at the cost of having you think she’d hoodwinked me again. I would’ve told you sooner, but there wasn’t an opportunity.”

  James waved a hand. “I ne’er thought-”

  “You did.” Alasdair’s gaze met James, good-naturedly. “It was writ all o’er your face, though I’ll no’ be holding that against you. I’d have thought the same. How could you know it served my own purpose to do as if I believed her?” He hooked his thumbs in his sword belt. “I wished to come to Castle Haven. Catriona gave me the chance.”

  He paused. “I also didn’t want Sir Walter to suspect my reason for calling.”

  “That craven! What does he have to do with it?” James felt his nape prickle.

  Alasdair rubbed the back of his own neck, looking uncomfortable. “I cannae say he’s involved, though I have suspicions. See you, one of the kitchen laddies at Blackshore came to me upset that he’d seen a monster creeping along the lochshore just before sunrise. The boy claimed the apparition was slinking around our beached galleys. “And” – his voice hardened – “those ships moored within wading distance to the shore.”

  “You think the boy saw Sir Walter?” James frowned. “He hasn’t left my hall, save to prance about thon tents like a peacock. I’ve set men on him, good men who haven’t let him from their sight.”

  “I expected no less.” Alasdair glanced over his shoulder, as if the trees and mist had ears. “Nor would Sir Walter risk such foolery. Himself. Such men have minions to do their bidding. I believe it was one of them that young Scully saw at our galleys. When I pressed the lad for a description of the monster, I knew he’d seen a man. He spoke of a tall, dark-cloaked figure.”

  “Like the man I saw here, the morning I caught Catriona in the wood.”

  “So I wondered.”

  James drew a long breath. “The boy couldn’t have erred? Perhaps he had a fearing dream or” – he didn’t believe this himself – “saw bog mist?”

  “Bog mist doesn’t gouge holes in the hulls of galleys.” Alasdair’s voice was grim. “I, too, thought the lad might’ve conjured beasties from sea haar. Or that a bard’s tale frightened him. But when I took a party of men to the lochside, we found a number of ships damaged.”

  James stared at him. “That bodes ill.”

  Alasdair nodded. “Now you see why I needed to speak with you. The man Scully saw knew what he was about. The holes were small and well-hidden between the strakes. Yet their purpose was clear.

  “Who’er the black-cloaked figure is” – he paced a few steps and then swung round – “he wanted us to board the galleys as e’er, and then-”

  “Sink beneath your feet.” James finished for him.

  “Just so.”

  “Someone means ill with this glen.”

  “Or with us.” Alasdair took a leather-wrapped flagon from beneath his plaid, pulling the wooden stopper before he handed the flask to James. “I’ll ride to speak with Kendrew Mackintosh after Catriona is safely returned to Blackshore. Perhaps the Mackintoshes have seen a dark-cloaked stranger slipping about the dreagan stones beneath Castle Nought?”

  James bit back a snort. “You think Kendrew would say if they have?”

  “We have dealings now and then. But” – Alasdair rolled his shoulders, then cracked his knuckles – “if he isn’t in a friendly mood, I’ll persuade him, whatever.”

  James tipped the flagon to his lips, welcoming the burn of the uisge beatha as the fiery Highland spirits slid down his throat.

  He thrust the flask back at Alasdair, then dragged his sleeve over his mouth before speaking.

  “Could be Kendrew is behind this?” James didn’t trust the man. “He’s e’er at mischief. Perhaps the cloaked figure is his man?”

  Alasdair shrugged. “My gut tells me otherwise.”

  James’ did, too. But he loathed Kendrew Mackintosh enough not to admit it.

  Mackintoshes were worse than MacDonalds.

  And more worrying than either foe were the icy chills racing up and down his spine, t
he tight coil of alarm snaking around his chest. Memories flooded him of the night before, the brief bliss with Catriona, and how – even now – he wanted more of her. And it wasn’t just the wonder of sinking into her tight, womanly heat, or the feel of her body naked and trembling beneath him. He’d kill a man for the pleasure of tangling his tongue with hers, sipping her breath. And he’d face an army if doing so would vanquish the dangers that would shadow her if he made her his own.

  If other perils – a dark-cloaked man or a craven like Kendrew Mackintosh – threatened her, he’d break each one in pieces.

  He shoved a hand through his hair, thinking.

  “If no’ those rock-climbing Mackintosh goat-men, then-” Trumpet blasts and the earth-shaking thunder of many approaching hooves cut him off as the air filled with cheers and shouts, the scurry of running feet. The din – and the sharp reek of sweat-drenched leather and winded, hard-ridden horses - came from the encampment beyond the trees.

  “God be good!” Alasdair froze, the flagon poised at his lips. “That can only be King Robert.” He glanced at James, then started forward, his long strides carrying him back the way they’d come.

  “We will speak of this later!” He glanced back over his shoulder.

  James hurried after him, biting his tongue.

  With the King’s arrival, the trial by combat would take place on the morrow. And if the fighting proved as fierce as he suspected, it was doubtful he and Alasdair would ever share a word again.

  How odd that the notion pained him.

  Chapter 12

  About the same time, but in the coldest, darkest part of the Glen of Many Legends, a place where black mist often swirled and impassable, stone-filled corries kept unwanted intruders at bay, Grizel stood in the middle of her tidy, thick-walled cottage, Tigh-na-Craig – House on the Rock – and sent a silent prayer to the Auld Ones, humbly thanking them for the great powers they’d vested in her.

  She resisted the temptation to laud them for their wisdom in recognizing that she, better than any other, knew how to best use such favor.

  Some opinions should be kept to oneself.

  And she knew well that such gifts as hers could be snatched away in a blink if a soul dared to be boastful. Or, Odin forefend, if one dared to misuse them. Though, admittedly, there were moments when she slipped, allowing her pride in her greatness to shine.

  Most especially when Gorm annoyed her.

  He wasn’t the only Maker of Dreams. And if, now and then, he goaded her into flaunting her superiority, the blame was entirely his own.

  But she never used her abilities to harm.

  Though, given sufficient provocation, she had been known to needle those so deserving.

  This was one of those times.

  So she patted the snowy-white braids she wore wound artfully on either side of her head and then smoothed her black skirts. She took pleasure in the clean, freshening scent of cinnamon that rose from the heavy, linen folds. The fragrance delighted her nose. For luck, she rubbed her knotty knuckles across the half-moon brooch of beaten silver that she always pinned at her shoulder.

  Satisfied, she hitched her skirts just enough to ensure that her small black boots were spotlessly clean, no bits of heather or smears of peat clinging to the soles.

  On finding no fault with her footgear – she did take care with such things – she allowed herself a deep, appreciative breath. Tigh-na-Craig was known for the earthy-sweet peat smoke that permeated the cottage’s thick, white-washed walls. And the tantalizing food smells that always hovered in the air. This morn, a rich meat broth simmered in the heavy black cauldron that hung from a chain over her cook fire. The mouthwatering aroma almost tempted Grizel to forgo her duties.

  Her diminutive stature – many likened her to a tiny, black-garbed bird - wouldn’t let anyone guess, but she was fond of her victuals. And with good reason for her skill with a ladle was nigh as formidable as her magical talents.

  But her savory meat broth would have to wait.

  Just now, more important matters needed her attention.

  Eager to begin, she straightened her back as best she could and then hobbled to the door. She cracked it just enough to make certain that her special friend and helpmate, Rannoch, still guarded the cottage’s entry. Her ancient heart warmed to see the white stag, for they’d been together beyond remembering and she loved him dearly. Also called Laoigh Feigh Ban, because of his remarkable coloring, the enchanted creature possessed powers to rival her own.

  “Ahhh, you’re a good lad,” she crooned, pleased that he hadn’t abandoned his post.

  Looking most regal, for he was a magnificent beast, he rested in front of the door, his great white body curled like a dog on the soft bed of heather and bracken that she’d prepared for him.

  Ever alert, he peered up at her from his dark, velvety eyes. Behind him, billowy curtains of gray mist drifted across the high moor where the rest of the herd grazed in step. Their red-brown bodies moved like silent shapes in the fog, barely discernible. But when Rannoch turned his proud head to gaze in their direction, Grizel knew he wasn’t drawing her attention to his hinds.

  Rannoch focused his stare on the high peaks on the far side of the grazing ground. A sacred place where, were it not for the mist, a deep cleft in the fold of one of the hills would be visible. The black-jawed crevice that opened into Gorm’s cave and where he’d now be hunched over his Pool of Truth, muttering spells of his own and scrying for the dreams he’d work with this day.

  Leastways, Grizel hoped that’s where he was.

  When Rannoch twitched his ears, she wasn’t so sure.

  She did catch a movement - a dark smudge against the swirling gray - near the rocks that guarded the entrance to Gorm’s sanctuary. He could’ve finished his dream making and decided he was for a dose.

  Gorm relished napping as much as she loved to eat.

  Grizel pursed her lips. She didn’t need Gorm’s trumpeting snores disrupting her concentration when she was about to indulge in a bit of wise woman-ish mischief.

  If the gods were kind, the dark blur had been nothing more than a shadow.

  Even so, precautions were in order.

  She peered down at Rannoch, seeing in the angle of his antlered head that he understood.

  “That be the way of it, laddie.” She eased the door wider, leaning out. “I’m trusting in you. If thon long-bearded he-goat comes loping back here before I’m done with my spelling, send him back to his cave.

  “Better yet” - she scrunched her eyes, looking off towards where she knew the cave to be – “fuddle his mind for a bit. It would serve him well to wonder if he’s gone addled, vain bugger that he is.”

  Rannoch snapped his head up even higher, antlers back now, as he bent his intelligent gaze on her. It was a look she knew well.

  The white stag wouldn’t let her down.

  And if she plied her craft with as much skill as always, a certain craven named Sir Walter would soon take his pestiferous self from the castle of her beloved Camerons and find a bed elsewhere.

  He’d plagued them long enough. Besides, his King was now in the glen and could provide a pallet in his royal tent. It’d already been decried that he’d bring his own lodgings, lest quartering in one of the glen’s three castles showed an indication of court favor.

  “We know better, eh, Rannoch?” Grizel clucked her tongue. “Thon Stewart fears sleeping beneath the roof of men he sees as wild-haired, bushy-bearded heathens. He’ll worry he might waken with his kingly throat slit.”

  As if the pagan gods agreed, the wind rose just then. Cold and mighty, it raced round the cottage like a fury, tossing the bottom fringes of the roof thatch before howling away across the moor.

  Pleased, Grizel closed the door and returned to her work table where she’d set out a small wooden bowl filled with tiny figures she’d been fashioning for days. The shapes were made of peat, oats, a few secret spelling herbs, the whole held together with newt spittle. They resembled
rats, though one had the form of a man.

  Reaching for the human figure, Grizel placed the tiny image in the center of a square of birch twigs. Then, with great glee, she cackled and began filling the enclosed space with the teeny rats.

  She was just placing a generous handful of rats in the square, merrily using them to cover Sir Walter’s miniature likeness, when the door opened quietly behind her.

  “What are you about, woman?”

  Grizel spun around, sending the peat-rats flying through the air. Gorm stood just inside the threshold, his elfin face stern. His usually merry eyes were suspicious. And his splendid, near-to-his knees beard riffled in an unseen wind, a sure sign that he was in a dangerous mood.

  Grizel glared at him, peering past his shoulder at the now-empty door stoop. Even the fine bed of heather and bracken that she’d made for her four-legged friend had vanished. Everything was gone except the rocks and whirling mist.

  “Glower all you wish, it’ll change naught.” Gorm’s beard ends fluttered wildly. “As I’ve e’er been for trying to make you see.”

  “Where be Rannoch?” Grizel thrust out her chin, ignoring the beard-riffling.

  “No’ doing the fool guarding you ordered him to do, that’s true.” Gorm shut the door and came forward, bending to snatch up one of the peat-rats as he crossed the stone-flagged floor. “Thon creature heeds me more than he does you, if ne’er you noticed.”

  “Say you.”

  “I don’t need to be a-saying it. ‘Tis true.”

  “And I’m a painted harlot at King Robert’s court.” Grizel put her hands on her hips. “Rannoch wouldn’t have let you pass unless you bribed him with a treat. What did you conjure? Tender shoots of sweet spring grass? Or the succulent tips of pine and-”

  “A basket of pine tips and a generous portion of tasty, buttery nuts, if you’d be knowing.” Gorm stepped closer, his clear blue gaze piercing. “What I would hear is the meaning of this?”