Kanyth (Immortal Highlander, Clan Skaraven Book 4): A Scottish Time Travel Romance

by Hazel Hunter

  Kanyth didn’t understand why until he spun around.

  Brennus caught Perrin before she fell.

  “Perrin?” Kanyth gasped.

  His brother held her limp form as he clapped a hand over the blood spreading quickly over the front of her gown.

  “Ruadri!” the chieftain called out.

  “No,” Kanyth breathed as he fell to his knees, his hands reaching for her, his arms shaking as he pulled her from the chieftain and held her cradled against him. “I took the blade. I shielded you.”

  “She stood too close,” Brennus said. “It pierced you both.”

  The shaman knelt down beside him, a cloth in his hands. “Brother, permit me.”

  “Ka,” Perrin coughed, staining her lips with flecks of blood. “Never…saw this. Sorry.”

  “I’ll forgive you,” he told her, “but only if you’re very still now, and permit Ru to tend to you.” As her eyelids fluttered he held her tightly. “Perrin, dinnae dare leave me. We defeated the giants, you and I. The forge chose you for me. You’re my mate.”

  She frowned up at him. “Wench.”

  “Aye,” Kanyth said and tried to smile down at her. “My wench.” A long, liquid sigh escaped her. “Perrin, no,” he warned her as her eyes slowly closed. “You cannae leave. You…” Her head fell against his arm.

  A hoarse shout made Kanyth look up to see Bhaltair Flen fall beside Perrin, an arrow quivering in his belly. Then came the sound of the barricades out in the great hall falling into place, and a strange laugh from the gallery overhead.

  He looked up to see the merry grin of a young lass lowering a long bow.

  “Oriana,” Bhaltair wheezed.

  The acolyte raised her glowing hands, and the mighty fires burning in the hearths roared out. The flames crawled up the tapestries and caught the legs of furnishings, setting them ablaze. Dozens more fires erupted from bundles of rags scattered through the hall.

  It was Perrin’s vision, the one he had not believed.

  “You shallnae run away again, Skaraven,” Oriana called down to Brennus. “All of your cursed clan shall burn with you.” She fluttered her fingers at Kanyth, and then skipped away.

  Brennus cursed and ran for the stairs.

  Lady Elspeth cupped her hands around her mouth. “Now,” she shouted.

  All around them men rushed to hanging ropes, and yanked on them. Then the hall became filled with torrents of water that doused the flames around them. Clouds of steam wafted up, hazing the hall as guards carried buckets of sand to extinguish the last of the blazes left burning.

  Kanyth shook his head to clear his eyes, and glanced up to see dozens of dripping, empty-bottomed black kegs swaying gently from where they hung from the rafters.

  “Mistress Perrin warned me of this,” Elspeth said as she came over to slowly kneel beside Ruadri. “She thought it mightnae come to pass, but I decided ’twould be prudent to take measures.” As the laird’s wife gazed down at Perrin’s body, the lady’s expression grew bleak. “You saved us again, lass.”

  Save her.

  Kanyth blinked against the voice in his mind.

  But how could he save her? His clan ring was…

  He eased Perrin into Ruadri’s arms before he stood and ran for the stairs. He raced to the door that led to the ramparts, and rushed out to the wall. There he bent over, ignoring the blood that dripped from his chest. He dug furiously through the reddening slush and debris, until he found the three pieces of his shattered clan ring.

  He would not let this be the end.

  As he snatched some bits of iron ore from the overturned bucket, he summoned the forge.

  “You marked her for me,” he grated. Using one glowing fingertip, he melted the iron against the cracked pieces and rejoined them. Holding the ring in his palm, he shoved it into the blood-soaked snow and took it out—misshapen but whole again. “She’s my mate, Gods damn you.”

  He didn’t breathe again until he ran into the great hall and dropped beside Perrin’s body, which Ruadri had covered with the blue and black tartan. He ripped aside the plaid and took hold of her hand, gently sliding the clan ring onto her finger.

  “Please,” Kanyth whispered, never taking his eyes from her white face. “Come back to me, wench. Come back.”

  But the ring remained as she did, still and broken. Its magic, like her, had gone from him.

  Dull defeat filled him, and he held her against his chest. Ruadri and the others spoke to him, but he could not hear them. He cared nothing for their comfort. Never again would he know ease. Perrin had saved them all, and he had failed her in every way.

  “My brave lass,” he whispered as he brought her scarred palm to his lips. He kissed it before slipping her cold hand to his still bloody chest. As she had once done, he pressed it against his skinwork. “I love you.” He lowered his head and spoke to the forge, summoning fierce heat within him. “Take me to her, I beg you. Take me.”

  But instead of the heat and flames he desired, a rosy golden light suffused the air around him. It spread out over his chest and into her arm, and then it engulfed them in white heat. He would die now, and be with her, and that gave him joy. Then he felt her trembling as she reached for him, and let out a bellow as he looked down at her through the blinding light.

  An enormous blast rocked the hall, flattening Kanyth next to Perrin’s body. He opened his eyes to see every Skaraven and McAra knocked from their feet, and then felt soft lips touch his temple. A hand bearing his glowing clan ring came up to caress his cheek. Not a single crack appeared in the stone.

  “The forge doesn’t like anyone messing with our bond thing,” Perrin said as he sat up to face her. Without looking down, he knew his chest was made whole, and not just from the wound. Smiling at him, she said, “I think we’d better mate now, and keep it happy. But I’ll still be your wench.”

  “Aye,” he said grinning, as he brushed her silken, flowing hair behind one ear. “Always.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  BRENNUS STOOD OVER the empty furrow for another long moment before he went to join Cadeyrn and Bridei. They had fashioned a framework of two poles with a long piece of tartan slung between them. On it lay Ailpin’s still form.

  “We’ll see him back to Dun Mor,” Cadeyrn said.

  Though Bridei didn’t look up at him, Brennus saw the tight set of the man’s mouth as he stared at their clansman. He gripped the woodsman’s shoulder.

  “My thanks, brother,” Brennus said lowly. “Go gently with him.”

  Bridei only nodded and then he and Cadeyrn bent to take up their burden.

  Brennus watched them go and then strode back into the hall. There he saw his brother holding Perrin, very much alive and awakened to immortality, judging by the new, generous length of her fiery golden hair. He went over to where Bhaltair Flen lay, and nudged him with his boot tip.

  “You’ve played dead long enough, old man,” he told the druid. “She escaped me.”

  Bhaltair opened his eyes to scowl up at the chieftain. “’Tis no’ what we planned.” He stood and yanked the arrow out of his belly before reaching into his robes to remove the thick mat of straw and leather he’d strapped around his middle. “Still, she didnae end the clan.” He looked over at Perrin, and bowed to her. “My thanks again for the warning, Mistress.”

  “I only wish I’d seen who was going to shoot you with the arrow, and from where,” Perrin said. “Or that Wynda would attack us.”

  The old druid looked down at the young woman who had wielded the sword. Though still in chains, she was no longer animated.

  “’Twas no’ Wynda,” he said, his upper lip curling, “but a revenant, the poor lass resurrected in body only. ’Twas the work of the bone conjurer.” He looked at Perrin. “Your gift couldnae have seen her. She was no’ alive.”

  The chieftain helped his brother and his new mate up from the floor, and surveyed them both.

  “I’m told to keep my stubborn arse out of this, so I shallnae yet call yo
u sister. My fool of a brother must declare you so before the clan, which he seems no’ wont to do. I’m happy to beat him until he does right by you, my lady.”

  “I’ve got this,” Perrin told him, and clapped her hands loudly. When all eyes gazed at her, she said, “To whom it may concern. I’m taking Kanyth as my mate.”

  Ruadri cleared his throat. “Ah, Perrin, ’tis tradition for a Pritani male to claim a mate.”

  “Really.” She marched up to the shaman. “I don’t see why. I’ve got the mark, I’ve got the ring, and since we’ve been doing it like bunnies someone has to appease the Gods and so on. I don’t think gender matters to them, do you?” The shaman quickly shook his head. “Good. Now, where was I?” She pursed her lips. “Right, the immortality thing. I’m immortal now, I guess. Who else can live with him forever? The other girls are taken, and Rowan, well, let’s just not go there. Besides, have you seen Kanyth after he’s put in a long day in the forge? Sewer workers are cleaner. Which brings up the question of whether or not I can hose him off after he’s done hammering stuff all day. Have hoses been invented yet? I should work on that.” The Skaravens all looked at each other and then her. Many sported grins now. “Anyway, the man desperately needs a mate. So, any objections to me? No? Great.” She smiled at the chieftain. “We’re good.”

  “We’ll see you at Dun Mor,” Kanyth told his brother as he hefted Perrin over his shoulder and strode from the hall.

  Ruadri came to stand beside Brennus. “No’ for some days I reckon.”

  “Aye,” Brennus agreed, gazing after them. “’Tis no’ something I’d ever thought to see. Our weapons master made a fool for love.”

  “Love makes fools of us all, Chieftain,” Bhaltair said. “Thank the Gods.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  MURDINA FELT THE ground tremble, and emerged from the cottage expecting to see the famhairean return victorious. She hoped they had brought at least one Skaraven head. She planned to plant it in the spell garden next spring and see if she could grow a warrior tree. Then she and Hendry might pluck new, fine bodies from its branches for their caraidean.

  Tri clumsily capered around her, chortling with glee. “Bury Skaraven. All dead now.” He stopped and frowned as the amber lights of many famhairean spirits appeared overhead. “Brothers. No, no, no.”

  Only half of the giants emerged from the furrows, many burned and some sporting horrible splotches of metal on their heads and chests. Dha held Hendry clamped against him, and dropped him to the ground before skulking away.

  Murdina hurried over to him. “Never say they defeated you, my love. You were to bury them all when you razed the castle.”

  “We did more than that, beauty mine,” he said smiling. Her lover turned his head as Aon shot up from the earth, a squirming female in his arms. “We acquired an ally.”

  Aon set the lass down before joining the other famhairean. The young woman frantically set about brushing the dirt from her face and clothes.

  Murdina slowly circled her. “An ally? What need we of an ally?”

  Hendry came to her side and whispered, “The lass ’twas acolyte to Bhaltair Flen.”

  Murdina froze, and in the next instant lunged for the girl’s throat. But Hendry wrapped his strong arms around her and held her tight.

  The girl smirked at Murdina. “You may call me Oriana,” she said and lifted her chin. “And ken that I have killed that old bastart.”

  “Killed?” Murdina gasped, her jaw going slack. “You?”

  “Aye,” she confirmed with a sniff. “’Tis my arrow lodged in his belly.”

  Murdina turned her shocked look on Hendry. “Tell me if ’tis true, my love. You I’ll believe.”

  “I heard him cry out and saw the castle set fire,” he said cautiously. “But you ken the old man’s cunning. I’ll no’ rest until I stand over his body, and that of every Skaraven.”

  “They’re dead, I tell you,” Oriana declared. “And by my hand.”

  Murdina turned a murderous glare on her. “For the sake of your miserable life that old druid had better no’ be dead.” She grabbed Hendry’s arm. “The old man ’twas for me, Hendry. You promised.”

  “And that he shall be, beauty mine,” he said calmly, taking her by the shoulders.

  “No’ if he’s dead,” she cried. “Oh, Hendry, you promised.”

  “Listen to me,” he said, shaking her shoulders. “Listen, my love.” Though she could barely see him through the tears that had sprung into her eyes, he drew his face close. “Oriana ’tis a bone conjurer. You’ve heard of Barra Omey?” He nodded at the lass. “’Tis she.”

  “Bone conjurer?” Murdina muttered, as some calm returned. “A resurrector of the dead?”

  Hendry nodded and smiled, as he gently wiped the teardrops from her cheeks. “You see it, do you not, beauty mine?” He held her face between his gentle hands. “Our enemy ’twill never be lost to us.”

  As Murdina caught his meaning, her eyes widened and her spirit buoyed. Of course her Hendry had seen to their revenge. “I shouldnae have doubted you, my love.” She covered his hands with her own. “Is there forgiveness left in your heart for such as me?”

  “’Tis naught to forgive,” he said, placing a light kiss on her forehead.

  When he released her, Murdina looked around at what remained of their caraidean. There would be much work to do to replenish their ranks, but Tri and Ochd were becoming quite good at the carving.

  Oriana was idly inspecting the cage that Hendry had built. At the sight of it, Murdina clutched his arm.

  “Our druidess?” she asked.

  “Likely at the Skaraven stronghold,” he confirmed, patting her hand. “But I’ve learned a thing about the Skaraven that none has kenned before.”

  Though Murdina didn’t know what he meant, she recognized the fevered excitement that gripped him. How she had missed the glad ring to his voice that always made her heart beat faster. Delight bubbled up inside her so quickly that she had to laugh.

  Yes, she would put the kettle on, and together they would see to their new guest. Ochd could make another bed, and perhaps a chair.

  Murdina smiled, linking arms with Hendry, and beckoned to the bone conjurer. “Come, Oriana or Barra or whatever you call yourself.” With a grand flourish, she motioned her toward the cottage. “We must make plans.”

  Sneak Peek

  Taran (Immortal Highlander, Clan Skaraven Book 5)

  Excerpt

  CHAPTER ONE

  WADING THROUGH THE night’s drifts in the Great Wood slowed Rowan Thomas’s gait to a shivering shuffle. Winter had white-washed the Scottish Highlands so thoroughly the world resembled an over-filled snow globe. Sunlight flung around blinding, glittery light as it ricocheted off the ice crystals furring every branch, rock and bush. Appreciating all the frosty beauty might have been easier if the biting cold hadn’t already numbed Rowan’s nose and ears.

  Dumping the two heavy, steaming buckets she carried also might have allowed her to move faster. But the fourteenth century didn’t provide heat or indoor plumbing. When Rowan wanted to bathe with something other than semi-frozen basin water she had to pay a visit to Dun Mor’s subterranean thermal spring. Because she liked being clean, lugging her own bath water to the stables where she now lived and worked had become a daily chore.

  “I had to be born a girl,” Rowan muttered as she stepped over a mound of frozen rocks. “Men never care if they’re dirty or smelly. It’s proof of their manliness. Regular clan guys probably come home every night covered with mud and blood and say to the wife, ‘Look at me, I worked hard today slaughtering the laird’s enemies with my trusty long sword. Now get me a mead.’”

  The toe of her boot hit a buried root, and she nearly fell face-first into a drift. As she jerked back water sloshed out of her buckets and soaked her trousers.

  “Great.” She set down the buckets to survey the sopping mess she’d made of herself. “I should forget the wash and see if there’s anyone the chieftain
wants butchered.”

  A tall, lean figure blocked out the sun.

  “Or maybe not,” Rowan said as she hefted the half-empty buckets and went around Taran Skaraven.

  Ever since the clan’s horse master had returned from the McAra stronghold she hadn’t spoken a single word to him. She’d begged him to let her go along with the clan, and help save her sister, but he’d forced her to stay behind. He wasn’t speaking to her either, but he hardly spoke to her anyway. She didn’t care. She could deal with the tension between them, which had grown so huge it made the air almost seethe with everything they weren’t saying to each other.

  Taran might be the most mysterious, closed-mouthed, hard-headed Skaraven in the bunch, but Rowan had her own secret now.

  Inside the stables the warm, earthy scent of hay, leather and horses wrapped around Rowan like the hug she would never get from its master. She headed for the back room where they washed up, determined to get the one thing she wanted for herself done. She put down the buckets by the threshold and took off her wet boots and the trews she’d stolen from Taran’s garment trunk. Tossing the dripping trousers over her shoulder, she emptied one bucket into the other. As she carried the full one inside, she kicked the door shut behind her.

  “Rowan.” The shadows of Taran’s boots appeared under the door’s bottom gap. “Speak to me.”

  She took a moment to gloat over the fact that he’d caved in first. Then the weird need to do whatever he asked kicked in, and she had to talk.

  “What do you want me to say?” she asked as she stripped naked, and took down a shallow tub from its shelf. “It’s freezing outside? Did you see all the new snow that fell last night? Sorry about getting your pants wet? Please, be more specific.”

  The door creaked as if Taran were leaning against it. “I ken how trying ’tis been for you, my lady.”

  “Wow, you do?” Rowan reached for a clean rag to wet and smear the slimy brown stuff that the clan used as soap. “So, you ken what it is to be snatched from the twenty-first century by crazy druids and their monsters? Or what it’s like to be dragged back to Medieval Fun World here, and be starved and beaten for weeks? Say, did your sister get you an extra-special whipping that made you wish you were dead? That would be before she decided she didn’t need you anymore, by the way.”