Sins of a Highland Devil: Highland Warriors Book 1

by Welfonder Sue-Ellen

  “Nae, my lady.” Maili’s gaze didn’t leave the loge. “He bears those marks always.” She leaned close, her voice low. “He etches them into his skin to celebrate each man he’s killed in battle.”

  Catriona stared at her friend. “How do you know that?”

  Maili glanced at her, a pink tinge blooming on her face. “He was once in Glasgow when I accompanied our men on a supply trip. He was supping in the common room of an inn where we’d stopped for the night. And-”

  “I don’t want to hear.” Catriona shivered, remembering the man’s ferocity. “He is-”

  “… and you, Alasdair MacDonald, Lord of Blackshore?” The herald’s mention of Alasdair’s name drew Catriona’s gaze back to the loge. The Lyon Herald stood looking down on the three chieftains, his hawk-like gaze fixed on them, haughtily. “My lords” – he spoke the title as if the courtesy soured his tongue – “are you agreed to abide by the King’s terms, accepting the consequences, however they fall?”

  “We do.” The three chiefs bowed, answering as one.

  Once more, James glance flickered to her.

  Or, at least, she told herself he’d looked her way. But when she leaned over the railing, trying to make sure, he’d already glanced away.

  On the loge, the herald nodded once, curtly. Then he looked to the King, before turning to Earl David. “These men have sworn to accept and keep the King’s terms and wishes. Are you, my Lord Carrick, agreed that we may proceed?”

  Earl David inclined his head. “I am.”

  Behind him, the King also nodded, his face showing no emotion. His arms rested on the heavily-carved sides of his chair and, on his acquiescence, Queen Annabella placed her hand over his.

  Bowing to them, the Lyon herald turned again to face the crowd. He didn’t even glance at the three chieftains, still standing side by side before the platform. But the guardsman who’d whipped back the curtain with such relish moments before, now stepped forward again. This time he ushered Alasdair, James, and Kendrew away from the loge.

  “Good men, hear me!” The herald flung his arm in the air the instant the chieftains vanished behind the curtain. “By God’s will and the King’s Grace, and before all these witnesses, I hereby declare the trial by combat to commence!”

  A great roar went up from the crowd, the cheers and shouts deafening. The privileged Lowlanders in the long rows of tiered seating leapt to their feet. And along the barricades at the tourney ground’s edge, common Lowland folk and the people of the clans surged forward, pressing close to the stout wooden railing as all vied for a better view.

  “Dia!” Catriona’s heart thundered wildly, her mouth suddenly ash dry.

  Someone bumped hard against her, trying to shove between her and Geordie to get to the railing, and she whipped around to glare at the man. “Be gone,” she scolded him - a Lowland hawker by the look of him – “lest you, too, wish to feel the bite of Highland steel!”

  She whipped out her lady’s dagger, meaning to frighten him by aiming its tip at his belly, or lower, but the man gave a shriek and spun about, disappearing into the crush as quickly as he’d appeared.

  Then, even as she turned back to the railing, there was a commotion near the King’s royal loge as the three groups of warriors took the field. Alasdair, James, and Kendrew marched forward together, striding side by side as they led their warriors to the center of the tourney ground. A score of pipers pranced and strutted before them, men from each clan, bound by the scream of their pipes. The pipers blew with gusto, the skirls and wails echoing across the hills in rousing, heart-stopping challenge.

  The Auld Ones are on our side. A voice, very like the raven-haired beauty at Castle Haven, whispered the words at Catriona’s ear.

  But when she whipped around, it was Maili who hovered so near. “Look!” The laundress’s eyes were round, the color draining from her face as she pointed to the middle of the field where the pipers were retreating. They now strutted towards their respective clans, where they’d parade back and forth along the railings, rallying their clanfolk during the fighting.

  Maili’s gaze wasn’t on the pipers.

  She was pointing at the warriors. “They’re already drawing swords-”

  “They can’t be.” Catriona stared, confused. “They have to use the crossbows first.”

  Yet Alasdair, James, and all the other champions were whipping out their blades. And they made grand flourishes with them, flashing their swords from side to side or windmilling them in showy, figure-eight circles. Some men tossed their blades high in the air, letting them twirl and spin, before catching them by the hilts as they fell.

  The bright steel of the blades glinted in the pale sun and made dreadful hissing sounds as the men slashed them through the cold morning air.

  “Mother Alba save us if the King calls a breach of rules.” Catriona felt her heart knocking against her ribs. “I heard the terms when Alasdair spoke of them with his men, often enough. The rules are that the three arrows were to be loosed before any sword cut flesh.”

  “I know….” Maili pressed a hand to her throat.

  Catriona gripped the railing, leaning forward, trying to catch her brother’s eye, or James’, reminding them…. “I can’t believe Alasdair, James-”

  “The Cameron?” Maili shot her a look.

  A suspicious look.

  Catriona stood straighter, brushing her skirts. “Alasdair, James, or any of them.” She emphasized the last few words, not wanting her friend to know how James consumed her. “I can’t believe they’d risk having the King-” She broke off when she saw Alasdair and the other two chieftains exchange a quick, fierce-eyed glance.

  As one, they stilled their blades, lowering them.

  Their men did the same, the sword-twirling, tossing, and mad, quick-as-lightning lunges stopped at once. But none of the warriors put away their swords. They kept them in their hands, tips pointed downwards, but still at the ready.

  Catriona felt a thin trickle of cold sweat slip between her breasts.

  “Dear saints, Maili.” She glanced at her friend, keenly aware that her palms were damp against the cold, hard wood of the rail. “I think they’re about to attack each other.”

  But when the warriors raised their steel again, it wasn’t to swing them.

  Shouting their war cries, they all thrust their swords high in the air and then lowered them, striking the hilts and steel blades against the wood of their targes. Then they began marching, slowly circling the field as they rhythmically beat their swords on the shields. The noise was terrible and frightening, worse that the screaming pipes. A nightmarish thunder that swelled and grew, striking terror into hearts, and all the more horrible because of the portent of the shield clashing.

  When it stopped, the fighting would begin.

  The warriors weren’t breaking the King’s terms.

  They were readying themselves for battle.

  * * *

  On the field, about halfway between the royal loge and the shield beating warriors, Scandia flittered along beside the Cameron champions, shimmying brightly. But it was so hard to keep pace with the marching men. From old habit, she hitched up her filmy skirts, determined to do her best. She also slid a curious glance at the MacDonald lass as the warriors neared the MacDonald spectators.

  Scandia’s heart squeezed, aching for her.

  Catriona stood where she’d been all morning, gripping the barricade railing, surrounded by her kin. But she’d lost a good deal of her high color, and her eyes were troubled and stormy. She looked as if she knew someone were about to pull the world from under her and she agonized because she couldn’t stop them.

  Scandia pressed a hand to her breast, wishing Catriona knew she understood, sympathized.

  And she did, more than anyone knew.

  She’d flit over to her – she’d stood with the girl earlier, trying to let her know there were some here this day who meant her well – but just now Scandia needed to march with her kinsmen. Even if
her shimmying wasn’t anything like a proper marching gait, it was important to her to show support.

  She couldn’t help the men, but she could do that.

  She also cast another look in the MacDonalds’ direction, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Maker of Dreams crone, Grizel, and her enchanted white stag, Rannoch. They were about there, Scandia knew. She’d seen them several times since daybreak, though none of the tournament spectators appeared to have noticed the pair’s passing.

  Even she couldn’t see them now.

  But the last time she had, Grizel was stroking the stag’s neck and flustering into his ear. Then she’d stepped back, sending Rannoch alone into the thick of the MacDonalds lining their stretch of barricade. The MacDonalds parted for Rannoch, each man he neared stepping or jumping aside to clear the way. Though, Scandia knew, those men surely thought they were simply jostling about and had no idea they were freeing a path at Grizel’s behest.

  And for a powerfully magical creature they couldn’t see.

  Scandia had looked on excitedly, pleased when Rannoch reached the MacDonald maid and planted himself behind her and her dog.

  Then Rannoch had vanished before her eyes, too. But she was certain he was still there. That even she could no longer see him, had to mean that his magic would be particularly potent this morn.

  She dearly hoped so.

  Not just for the good of her clan and the weal of the glen, but because young James and the MacDonald maid were so passionately drawn to each other. Scandia could feel their attraction sizzle in the air each time their gazes met. And if they were close, she even sensed the rapid thunder of their hearts, the heat that would then sweep them, flooding them with awareness and quickening their pulses.

  If they touched, the strength of their desire shook her, echoing through her wispy form until her heart also pounded with the wonder of it.

  Unfortunately, like so many young lovers of feuding clans, they also thought they couldn’t find happiness. At times, they even thought they despised each other.

  But there was hope.

  The maid fretted for James. Scandia could see her clutching her charmed amber necklace, holding the stones so tightly that her knuckles gleamed white. And – Scandia thrilled – Catriona’s good wishes for James were so fervent, so desperate, that they poured out of her, vivid and shining, drenching the air around her.

  Surely the ambers’ magic wouldn’t disappoint her.

  Scandia shimmied faster, willing it so.

  The maid cared for James, and mightily.

  As he did for her, though he was much too thrawn to admit it.

  Cameron men were amongst the most stubborn in the land.

  Worse – Scandia shook her head, sadly – when dusk fell that night, if James yet walked with the living, the young pair would forget that caring.

  They’d return to thinking they reviled each other.

  Such was the way of men.

  Until – she sighed – they found themselves where she was and learned otherwise.

  Wishing she could make them understand their folly, she twinkled closer to James. She flitted as near as she dared, for the ferocious thunder of the shield beating stirred the air, making it difficult to hover near the marching warriors without being tossed and whipped about like a curl of mist. Which, she supposed, she might as well be, given that she was quite insubstantial.

  And if she used what energy she had to manifest properly, she’d surely give a good number of the champions a tremendous fright.

  A frown marred Scandia’s still-lovely brow. The last thing she wanted was to alarm anyone.

  Every warrior on the field needed his wits about him. Being known as a doom-bringer was a sad enough burden without giving truth to such a terrible by-name by shattering a man’s battle concentration.

  But James and his men were just now marching past the MacDonalds and she caught him glancing at Catriona. The maid met his gaze and their eyes locked and held, fiercely. Scandia’s breath caught for she could see the path of their connection, the dazzling-bright band that stretched between them, glittering like the sun.

  A fate-thread, it was.

  And Scandia hoped so fervently that nothing would sever it.

  Men often did so. Knowing or unknowingly, they sliced such precious ties. Or, she knew, they allowed them to fray until the thread snapped on its own.

  Scandia braced herself against the war music of the shield beating and fluttered closer to James. Near enough to see how firmly the fates had spun the shining thread tying him to Catriona. The thread looked like silken iron, the color of moonbeams.

  She trembled, much in awe.

  It would be difficult to damage such a noble bond. If it truly was spun as tightly as appeared.

  One could never be sure with such things, as she knew to her cost. Sometimes even the fate-spinners made mistakes, dropping threads that should have held firm. Scandia shivered, the cold air around her darkening for a moment.

  She was a dropped thread, she knew.

  Catriona – she suspected, watching her follow James with her gaze – would yank back her thread if it fell from her hands.

  She’d never become her family’s doom.

  Scandia hoped she would become Clan Cameron’s joy.

  Willing it so, she gathered her strength and whooshed herself higher in the air where she circled brightly over the heads of the marching warriors. She knew they couldn’t see her and would think her passing was just a cold breath of wind racing across the field.

  But it made her feel good to make such a flourish, wishing each one strength, courage, and that none among them were a dropped thread like her.

  Men should only die when it was time.

  Never a moment before.

  Chapter 15

  You have my oath, I will no’ fell your brother. James kept his gaze on Catriona as he marched past her, willing her to hear his silent vow.

  He’d shout the words if his cousin, Colin, weren’t sticking so closely to his side that the lout may well have been a prickly burr.

  Annoyed, James stepped faster. But Colin only increased his own pace, refusing to be shaken.

  Ignoring him, James focused on Catriona. If he weren’t striking his sword against his shield, he’d put his hand on his heart. Then she’d hopefully understand the assurance he’d been sending her ever since he’d strode out before the royal loge and spotted her in the crowd, staring at him with such dread in her eyes.

  But now, as then, when she caught him looking at her, the fear vanished. Instead, her chin shot up and she blasted him with such a heated glare, he wondered the grass between them didn’t catch fire.

  “She hates you, she does.” Colin long-nose proved once again how irksome he could be. “I’ve ne’er seen such loathing on a maid’s face.”

  “She’s fearful for her brother, you lackwit.”

  “Doesn’t look like fear to me.” Colin beat his shield with particular vigor. “I say she’s hoping you’ll soon be cut to ribbons.”

  “That may be.” James hoped agreement would silence Colin’s flapping tongue.

  Some men grew quiet before a battle, some drank themselves senseless, quite a few bedded as many willing wenches as they could in a night, and scores knelt in prayer. Others were beset with a desire to talk incessantly.

  Colin fell into the latter category.

  And his blether was grating on James’ nerves.

  Wishing him on the moon, James again lengthened his stride. He also gave Catriona a hard stare, knowing it was surely best if she did hate him.

  “She has a dog with her.” Colin caught up with him, still thwacking his sword against his shield.

  James struck his own targe harder than he’d intended. “I don’t care if she brought a squirrel with wings. It changes nothing.”

  Or so he thought until the crowd around her shifted and he saw Colin was right. Alasdair’s dog sat beside Catriona. The ratty-coated cur was leaning into her, cowering in terror. And t
he sight made James’ gut clench. The dog – Geordie? – was one of those animals no man could look upon without feeling something twist inside him. The dog’s frailties stirred sympathy. His fierce loyalty touched a man’s soul, humbling him. Scowling, James beat his shield harder, tearing his gaze from the bony old beast.

  Grinding his teeth, James bent an annoyed look on his cousin. “I’ll wager two pins that Alasdair ordered his sister to bring the dog to the field. The bastard’s that wily.”

  Colin shrugged. “We brought Skald.”

  “Skald isn’t real.” James prayed for patience. “He’s embroidered on a banner. And he doesn’t distract men from battle fury with frightened, milky-eyed gazes.”

  James clamped his mouth shut, determined to ignore his cousin and Alasdair’s dog. It did trouble him to know the aged beast sat trembling at the field’s edge. And it outraged him that Alasdair would stoop to such trickery. He wouldn’t have thought it of the man.

  Not that it mattered.

  He’d already sworn not to kill the MacDonald chief. But if he hadn’t, the old dog’s presence would’ve made it impossible. Just as Camerons honored and protected women – regardless of blood or clan – there wasn’t a man among them who’d inflict pain on a dog.

  What would happen this day was bad enough.

  Bile rising in his throat, he glanced across the field to where his own people pressed against the barricade. As Colin reminded him, the Banner of the Wind had been raised there, flying proudly. The streaming silk rippled in the wind, showing Skald’s snarling head. And the beast’s fiery eyes seemed to stare right at him, accusingly.

  “Hellfire and damnation!” He looked quickly away.

  Skald would chase him through eternity, tearing into his flesh and not an enemy’s, if James let himself be cut down to spare the neck of a foe.

  Skald knew no mercy.

  But – James’ chest tightened painfully – Alasdair’s Geordie wasn’t made of silk. The old dog was flesh, bone, and blood, and he loved his master as much as Hector worshipped James. Alasdair had even told him that the poor beast could no longer bark. And seeing Geordie so distressed now, proved what James had known all along.