Sins of a Highland Devil: Highland Warriors Book 1

by Welfonder Sue-Ellen

  He held out his hand, palm up to show the tiny peat-rat. “What poor soul deserves an infestation of rats?”

  “One who should be eaten by them and no’ just visited by them.” Grizel tightened her lips, annoyed that he’d guessed her purpose from a few teeny rat likenesses scattered across the floor.

  But – she couldn’t help it – her pride in her craft bit deep, so she moved away from the sturdy work table, freeing the view of the birch twig square piled high with the little peat-rats.

  “Behold – Sir Walter!” She dug her fingers into the mound of tiny figures and retrieved the little man. “Asleep in his room at Castle Haven” – she indicated the birch twig enclosure, returning the image to the middle of the square – “and waking to find his chamber crawling with rats.”

  “And think you young James will appreciate such an infestation?” Gorm peered at her work, his beard tips no longer riffling. But his brows had snapped together to form a fearsome iron-gray bar. “We are here to guard this sacred place and look after Camerons, not make their lives more unpleasant than necessary.”

  “Think you I have bog cotton for a brain?” Grizel snatched the peat-rat from his hand and dropped it into the twig square. “‘Tis you who have your fool head on backwards. Young James will see nary a single rat tail. My magic was cast so that only Sir Walter will see them.”

  “I’m still not for liking it.” Gorm crossed the room and sat on a three-legged stool. “We have more earnest work to do than pester a fool Lowlander who” – he rubbed his knees as he spoke – “will soon be gone from this glen, after the trial by combat.”

  “Humph!” Grizel flicked a speck of lint from her sleeve. “There be some hereabouts who deem it fitting to salt the tails of those who bring grief-”

  “I’ve already said that peace will return to the glen.” Gorm stilled his hands, his tone annoyingly patient. “Have you forgotten my words? That all will be well when innocents pay the price of blood and gold covers the glen?”

  Grizel snorted. “And the grief?”

  “No man living reaches the end of his days without knowing sorrow. If he does” – Gorm resumed his knee rubbing – “he is only half a man because he hasn’t learned that braving the worst storms brings the reward of a bright morrow. It is hardship that makes a man strong, not frivol.

  “And” – he stretched his arms above his head, clearly hinting that he wished a nap – “happiness e’er tastes finer when it’s first been seasoned with tears.”

  “You should have been a poet rather than a Maker of Dreams!” Grizel knew he spoke wise words, but stubbornness wouldn’t let her agree.

  Instead, she went to her cauldron and busily stirred her meat broth. Gorm didn’t need to see how much it peeved her that, while he’d revealed his prophecy about the battle’s outcome to James – and to her – he’d kept silent as to the meaning of his cryptic words.

  “I’m not for calling back my rats.” She stirred her meat broth with particular vigor. “Don’t be asking me, ‘cause I won’t.”

  “I want naught to do with your fool cantrips.” Gorm pushed to his feet and came to stand beside her. “Though I will be hoping you’ll spare a bit o’ your skill for someone I saw outside my cave a while ago.”

  “A visitor?” Grizel almost dropped her ladle. The Bowing Stone always let them know when anyone approached the corrie that opened into their high moor.

  As did Rannoch, unless he was distracted by one of his hinds and missed the stranger’s approach.

  Or…

  If the visitor bypassed the standing stone and its secret entry.

  And only souls no longer living could do that. Suchlike, and – Grizel’s regrettable peer envy made her bristle – other half-mythical beings like herself and Gorm.

  “It wasn’t the great Devorgilla of Doon if that’s why you’ve gone all pinch-faced.” Gorm leaned around her to sniff appreciatively of the steam rising from the meat broth.

  Straightening, he took the ladle from Grizel’s hand and dipped it into the cauldron, helping himself to a taste. “I didn’t get a good look, though I’ve a fair notion who it was. Truth is, I’ve been expecting that soul’s arrival for some good while now.”

  “And who might it be?” Grizel plucked the wooden spoon from his hand when he tried to dip it back into the broth. “I am for hearing!”

  “Mayhap I’ll also be for telling you.” Gorm snapped his fingers to conjure another long-handled spoon and, grinning triumphantly, helped himself to a second sampling of the meat broth.

  “It was” – he smacked his lips – “someone who can bring much gladness to the glen!”

  “But who?”

  “I daren’t mention the name before I’m sure.”

  “You mean you won’t be telling the name.” Grizel glared at him, sure she’d burst from annoyance.

  “I mean” – Gorm licked the back of his conjured spoon – “it would anger the Auld Ones who’ve allowed the soul to come here, if we speak the name before the soul comes to us asking for our help.”

  Grizel knew that was so.

  But she didn’t like it.

  “I believe I saw the soul myself, I did.” She lifted her chin, remembering the dark smudge she’d seen near the entrance to Gorm’s cave.

  “Then if you get a closer look, you can tell me if my suspicions are right.” Gorm’s answer wasn’t the one she’d hoped to pry out of him.

  But before she could prod further, he clicked his fingers to banish his drat spoon. Then, with the purpose of a man bent on vexing a curious woman, he marched across the room and lowered his bandy-legged self onto his heather-stuffed pallet. As deliberately, he turned onto his side and pulled the plaid covering over his head.

  His snores soon filled the cottage.

  Which was well and good.

  If he slept, he wouldn’t see Grizel slip out the door. If a soul was flitting about the high moor, desiring help, she meant to make herself available. From the sound of it, the soul’s plight better suited her skills than Gorm’s pesky truth-mutterings.

  It’d been a long time – many centuries – since she’d worked her magic twice in one day.

  So she cast one last glance at Gorm’s prone, noise-making form. Then she took her cloak off its peg by the door and hurried out into the mist.

  She wouldn’t mind finding the soul before Gorm.

  If she did, he’d have to admit her talents were greater than his own. But above all, in her heart of hearts, she couldn’t bear the thought of a soul in need.

  Especially if – from Gorm’s hints – the soul was who she thought it might be.

  That would be glorious.

  Very fine, indeed.

  * * *

  Several hours later, long after Grizel conceded defeat and returned to her still-simmering cauldron at Tigh-na-Craig, Catriona, Alasdair, and their men-at-arms rode through the heart of Mackintosh country. It was a slow journey because their horses had to pick a careful path through the maze of odd-shaped stones and outcroppings that crowded this northernmost end of the Glen of Many Legends.

  Alasdair hardly spoke, his face grim as they pressed deeper and deeper into land held by a far greater foe to MacDonalds than Clan Cameron.

  Catriona looked about with interest, having never been to this remote corner of the glen. Comparing this dark and stony place to Blackshore helped her keep her mind off James. So she sat up straighter and peered into the empty landscape.

  Not that much could be seen.

  Certainly no dreagans, though everyone knew this was where they were said to roam. But thick mist did swirl here, colder and denser than any she’d ever seen at Blackshore, nestled in the glen’s less rugged southern bounds. Mackintosh territory couldn’t be more different if it were a pebble on the moon. And the dark winds that blew mist everywhere, roared angrily. At times, whipping past them like a riled, living thing. Then racing away to rush over and around the strange rock formations many claimed were all that remained of the dre
agans’ unfortunate victims.

  Hapless souls who dared to pass through this way at times they shouldn’t have, paying the price for their folly by being fire-blasted to stone.

  Catriona drew her cloak tighter about her shoulders and shoved all thought of dreagans to the farthest reaches of her mind.

  Since visiting Castle Haven and meeting Clan Cameron’s raven-haired beauty ghost – whoever she was – she couldn’t dismiss that such things do exist.

  Perhaps even dreagans.

  But despite the cloying fog, she could tell that nothing save bare rock and jagged, naked peaks surrounded them. She could feel the cold of the stones. And the horses’ hooves rang hollowly on the broken ground, the sound echoing from the high, enclosing hills.

  She tamped down a shudder, hoping no one noticed.

  Her ambers were quiet, the stones cool against her skin. But once or twice, she thought she’d caught flickers of heat pricking her throat.

  Imagined or not, the stirrings unsettled her.

  She’d been raised on fireside tales about the Mackintoshes fierceness. How they descended from Norse Berserkers, wild and ferocious warriors who lived to fight and knew no fear, ever. They were men who served as Odin’s own, falling gladly into battle frenzy and even biting their shields when such bloodlust overcame them. Some even said they could take on the shape of an animal. Or turn themselves invisible, raging as unseen wraiths through the dark of night simply for the joy of terrifying their enemies.

  Catriona wasn’t sure how much of that might be true. Or even if the Mackintoshes did have blood ties to the Berserkers. She did know that even today, there were folk who swore Kendrew Mackintosh ate the babies and children of anyone who earned his displeasure.

  Now that she was here, riding towards that chief’s own Castle Nought, she understood how the storytellers came to spin such frightening tales.

  Mackintosh territory was harsh and barren.

  It was a place for men who thrived in thin air and chill, black wind.

  Hard men and – she was sure – women who were equally toughened. No one else could hope to dwell here. And she could have done without visiting.

  But because of James’ tidings – Alasdair had finally told her of their damaged galleys and the tall, dark-cloaked figure James had chased that fateful day in the wood – Alasdair wished to speak with Kendrew Mackintosh before they returned to Blackshore.

  Now, as they neared the soaring cliffs that supported the formidable Mackintosh stronghold, it seemed they’d made the tedious journey in vain.

  Castle Nought appeared deserted.

  Catriona craned her neck, straining to see the lofty castle through the billowing mist. From what she could make out, it did seem unnaturally still. As she’d heard, the walls were surely impregnable, hewn as they were from the living rock of the cliff. They were also thick, massive and rose to a dizzying height of at least thirty-five feet. Crenelated parapets ran the length of the walling and only the narrowest slit-windows broke the starkness.

  But no men could be seen pacing the wall-walk.

  And no matter how hard Catriona tried to see a flicker of life, nary a single candle flame shone in any of the darkened windows.

  High on the bluff, a gatehouse loomed through the mist, apparently reached by a steep path cut into the cliff-side. If there were torches to light the way, or even to illuminate the gatehouse, no one had bothered to set flame to them. Most startling of all, the guardhouse’s single arched entry lacked a sentry.

  Catriona clutched her reins, not liking the thick silence that soaked the air.

  She glanced at Alasdair, hoping he couldn’t tell that icy prickles were racing up and down her spine. “I told you we needn’t have bothered to come here. Either Kendrew and his men are sleeping or” – she suspected this was the truth – “they don’t want visitors.”

  “No Highlander turns away guests.” Alasdair scanned the cliff-face as he spoke. “If they wish to ignore us, it’ll be because of the three Mackintoshes we killed in that skirmish last summer.”

  “They were stealing our cattle!” Catriona frowned at the dark stronghold. “They could’ve run when we caught them, but they chose to stand and fight.”

  “They’re no’ fighting now!” One of the guardsmen hooted, slapping his thigh.

  “Hiding beneath their beds, more like,” another called from the rear of the column.

  “I say the bastards took flight.” One of the men urged his garron forward, trotting up alongside Catriona and Alasdair. “They’re no’ the spawn o’ Berserkers. They’re women!” He spat on the ground, and then twisted in his saddle to glance at the other guardsmen. “They feared clashing swords with us and the Camerons.”

  His comment earned a chorus of guffaws from his fellow men-at-arms.

  Alasdair said nothing.

  But Catriona saw the tense set of his shoulders. She also noticed that he’d placed a hand oh-so-casually on the hilt of his sword. Nor did she miss the swift, almost imperceptible nod he gave to three of his most trusted men, silently ordering them to ride closer, flanking her in a well-practiced defensive formation.

  Two took their places on either side of her, with one riding at the rear, while Alasdair spurred ahead of her so that she was completely surrounded.

  She wished James rode with them.

  Even if she’d bite his tongue if he ever tried to kiss her again or if she wouldn’t mind feeding his man parts to the ravens, she’d feel better if he were here, his sword drawn and ready.

  She knew he’d protect her.

  Just as she was certain that he cared for her, maybe even loved her, though – damn his eyes - he was much too thrawn to admit it.

  Someday she’d make him eat his stubbornness. At the moment, she only wished he were near.

  “Ho, Alasdair!” Egan, the youngest guard, rode up beside them then, pressing close. “Mayhap the dreagans ate them? There do be tales and” – he threw a glance at the stronghold, his eyes wide – “the gatehouse door is open. Could be the slavering beasties-”

  “There’s no such thing as a dreagan, slavering or otherwise.” Alasdair made a dismissive gesture. “But I can’t tell if the door is open.” He narrowed his eyes, peering through the mist. “Are you sure?”

  “Sure as I’m here.” Egan nodded, importantly. “My eyes are sharp, or so I’ve always been told. Thon door is full wide, opened clear on its hinges. If it isn’t, I’m lying in my bed, dreaming.”

  Impatient with their blether, Catriona clicked her tongue, sending her horse bolting from the little circle of men. She rode a few lengths ahead, only far enough to get a better view of the gatehouse.

  The guardsman spoke true.

  The door did stand open.

  “Alasdair!” She glanced back. “His eyes are good. The door is wide. I can see it from here.”

  “God’s curse!” Alasdair spurred forward to join her, his men following. “This cannae be good.” He peered up at gatehouse, concern all over him. “It bodes ill. For sure, no dreagan crawled up there to fill his belly with Mackintoshes. But” – his voice hardened – “it could be the work of the cloaked craven James and I discussed. He’ll have henchmen helping him, that’s certain.

  “And that leaves us no choice but to climb up there and see what’s amiss.” He pulled a hand down over his chin, drew a long breath. “Could be the Mackintoshes have taken themselves elsewhere, but if they haven’t…”

  “You suspect they’re up there bound, maimed, or worse.” Catriona knew his mind. “And your honor would be forever tarnished if you hadn’t gone to their rescue.”

  Alasdair’s frown proved she’d guessed rightly. “That is the way of it.”

  His men grumbled and exchanged glances. But no one argued the need to have a look. Catriona wasn’t surprised. Honor was everything to a MacDonald and theirs would be stained if they rode from Castle Nought without seeing to the rights of the place.

  Even she agreed, however grudgingly.

&
nbsp; Castle Nought didn’t please her.

  But men – even if foes – could’ve suffered grievously up there behind the stronghold’s cold, forbidding rock face and gloom.

  Women, too, she knew.

  Kendrew had a sister close to her age. Lady Marjory, Catriona recalled. A great beauty, it was said, but whose icy blue eyes could freeze a man at a hundred paces. She was rumored so daunting that she’d earned the by-name Lady Norn after the three mythic Norse maidens, the Norns, who the Northmen believed ruled the destinies of men.

  A curse and a loud thump returned Catriona to the present. She blinked to see they’d reached the base of Castle Nought’s cliffs.

  One of their men had already dismounted and stood near the stone-cut path up to Castle Nought. His face was flushed red and he was rubbing his backside. He’d clearly taken a tumble down the slippery, near vertical stair.

  “Have a care on those steps!” Alasdair swung down from his own saddle, allowing the man his dignity. But he bent a warning glance on the others. “If aught is amiss at Nought, we’ll need every hand.

  “You, Catriona, will bide here.” He turned her way, one foot already on the path’s first step. “Egan will stay with you. And two others as well. After we’ve had a look-”

  “MacDonald – I greet you!” A booming laugh came from above them where flaming torches now turned the mist red and a huge bear of a man almost filled the open door of the gatehouse. “If you’ve come to spill more Mackintosh blood, you’ll be disappointed.” Kendrew Mackintosh grinned, his teeth flashing white in the torchlight. “‘Tis your own guts that’ll slither to the ground this time, that I say you.”

  He strode to the top edge of the steps, clearly enjoying himself. Wind caught his wild mane of red hair, tossing the unruly strands about his face. And the silver Thor’s hammer pendant hung about his neck made him look like a crazed-eyed denizen of Valhalla.

  “My sword dances sweeter than a Glasgow whore, MacDonald.” He patted the great brand at his hip. “She’ll slice you in two before you can blink.”

  “You’re a madman, Mackintosh.” Alasdair glared up at him, furious. “We come in peace, from Castle Haven. James Cameron and I-”