The Mirror & The Magic

by Coral Smith Saxe

  That must be it, she decided. They were history buffs who simply took it all a step further. She glanced at Niall's shirt, rough-woven and dirt-streaked. Okay, so maybe they took it more than a step further. But at least it was something she could understand. Maybe taking her captive was all in sport, a part of their annual games. She took a bit of hope. They might be crazy, but they hadn't harmed her so far. Maybe as soon as she met their chief and explained their mistake, they'd release her, maybe even joke about it with her.

  She didn't let herself think about the alternatives.

  They climbed the rocky hills like nimble mountain goats. Julia kept in shape, but she had been confined to planes, trains, and rooms for weeks and hadn't been able to do her usual workouts. She panted as she struggled to keep up, and gasped with relief when they stopped to drink at a fast-running stream.

  "I'm takin' the bond away from your mouth so ye can drink," Niall told her. "If ye scream or cry out to your fellows, wherever they may be, ye'll force me to kill ye. Do ye understand, lass?"

  She gulped and nodded. His eyes told her he meant it. He would kill her. But she was desperately thirsty. She hoped he wasn't toying with her.

  He removed the gag, his keen eyes never leaving hers. She licked her lips and held out her hands. "I can't drink without my hands," she said.

  "Ye'll have to. I willna untie ye." He motioned to Tommy. The younger man scooped up some of the clear, running water in his cupped hands and timidly offered it to Julia. She cringed at the dark nails and callused palms, but she was too thirsty to refuse. She drank, some of the icy water dribbling down her chin. "Thank you," she murmured.

  "Ye're welcome," Tommy said, pulling his hands back quickly and wiping them on his chest.

  Niall tied her gag once more. Then he pulled another coarse rag out of the small pack he carried. "From here on, ye'll have to go blindfolded. Ye may know yer way to the village already, but Darach'd have ma skin if I were to show ye the way."

  She shot him an outraged look and shook her head in protest. Then, seeing his determination, she gave him her most pleading stare.

  He shook his head. "It's nae use, lass. Ye've called the tune and it's time to pay the piper."

  The rough cloth came around her eyes. Her fear became a solid lump in her stomach, a freezing about her heart. All she had left were her ears and her nose, and the smell of the old rag didn't do wonders for her olfactory sense, at that. To top it off, they spun her about, as if preparing her for a game of blind man's bluff. Still, she willed herself to stay alert, to listen for sounds of water or birds, or to hear the silence that closed around them when they came into the sheltered eaves of the forest.

  After what seemed hours, her feet landed on level ground. She didn't have to sniff very hard to make out smoke from a wood fire, animal dung, and the cool scent of grass. Chickens clucked and squawked, dogs barked somewhere nearby. Civilization, she thought, relieved. She wasn't going to be abandoned, dead, in the woods.

  ''Here we go. Over the threshold," Niall said, tightening his grip on her elbow.

  She stepped onto a stone floor and heard the shuffling of the men's boots around her. Big, rough hands shepherded her ahead. She inhaled the scents of dust and mildew, stale cooking odors, more smoke. A house, she thought with hope. A place where people cooked and ate and slept. Something she could understand, something they had in common.

  "Here she is, Darach," she heard Niall say as they came to a halt in a room that echoed with the sounds of his voice. "Just as we thought. We caught her spyin' at last."

  A deep sigh came from in front of her. Julia strained to hear more. She felt someone removing the blindfold from her eyes. She blinked and stared at the man before her.

  Good God, she thought to herself. I've been kidnapped by Conan the Barbarian.

  Chapter Two

  Darach MacStruan ran a hand over his eyes and swore under his breath. Damn, but he didn't want to deal with this.

  He looked at the woman who stood before him, bound and gagged and dressed in those outlandish breeches and long tunic. He'd sent his men out to find fresh meat and they'd brought back the Moreston witch. Or so they thought.

  But no one had ever seen the evil one who had caused so much harm to his people. She was little more than a rumor, though her deeds had been real enough. Was this woman she?

  This one was bold enough; that was a fact. With her legs encased in those soft breeches and her torso outlined in pleasing detail by her woolen tunic, it was clear that she wasn't some modest wee milkmaid. And her eyesabove her gag, her snapping, light brown eyes had sent him a message that she was not daunted by his men or their swords. Or by him, the chief of the MacStruans. She could well be a witch.

  But would a witch have been so easily caught? Would she not have used her magic in an instant to harm his kinsmen and ensure her freedom? According to Niall, she hadn't seemed to resist above a slap and a sharp word or two.

  If she wasn't the witch of Clan Moreston, who the devil was she?

  He shifted uneasily in his chair. Her cap had fallen to the floor and her deep ebony hair had come loose around her face. The silken sheen of those dark tresses was without compare to any he'd seen before. And her skin, unmarred by age, disease, or misfortune, was a pale ivory miracle. Her form, even beneath such odd clothing, promised soft, satin pleasures. Pleasures that he'd long denied himself.

  Yet something else about her spoke to him. Something that he could not put a name to. Had he met her before? Had she been in Edinburgh, perhaps at the court, when he was a lad? She reminded him of someone, and yet she couldn't be more strange to him if she'd had green hair and three legs. That much he knew. That bothered him the most about her. Suddenly he didn't want to order the punishment he knew was expected of him.

  But his men awaited his word, looking at him with expectant eyes. he was chief. He knew his duty.

  Niall cleared his throat. "Darach."

  "Aye."

  "Ye'll be wantin' to see what she was carryin' in the pouches of her breeches. And in her bag. Show 'im, Tommy."

  Tommy came forward and laid the objects on the table in front of Darach. "Potions, Darach. And a talisman. They're sma', but I'll warrant they're as powerful as the devil."

  Darach scowled at the table. He fingered the items. Odd lettering marked them all. The comfits or lozenges were wrapped in the finest glass or crystal he'd ever seen, so delicate it crinkled like stiff cloth. The tiny tube was full of red and white lozenges, soft and shiny. Tommy was right: they had to be some sort of potion. Poison, perhaps? Or did they serve some other magical purpose? A brush, a key of some sort, a silver hand mirror, and other items he couldn't name completed the inventory. Odd stuff, indeed.

  He looked up at the woman, pondering. He nodded to Niall. "Take off her gag. Let her speak."

  She still stood proud once her gag was removed. He saw wide, soft lips of rich rose red with pearly teeth peeking out between them. By God, the Morestons had sired one of the veriest beauties in all Christendom. Even now, his body grew warm at the sight of her tongue moistening her lips, which were dry from her gag.

  He shook off the sensation. He wasn't a boy to be led about by his body's whims. This woman posed a serious threat to his home and his people, whether a witch or merely a Moreston spy.

  "What have you to say, woman?" he asked.

  "I say where am I? And who are you? And what right do you have to kidnap an ordinary tourist and drag her off into the wilds? Is this your idea of"

  "Whisht!" Darach held up his hand. "Gods, woman, does your tongue work at both ends?"

  A tint of roses came into her cheeks, and her expressive eyes flashed. "Look, mister, you're in enough trouble for bringing me here," she said, pointing straight at his chest. "Don't compound your mistake by insulting me."

  The men around her gasped and took a step back. Darach only stared at the daring young woman. To speak with such boldness to a clan chief, a man twice her size and armed, into the bargain, sh
owed either great courage or plain idiocy. He wondered which applied in her case.

  "Mistress Moreston, you've"

  "That's not my name."

  "Oh? And what do you call yourself?"

  "My name is Addison. Julia Addison. And you're going to be in big trouble with the American consulate."

  "Am I, indeed?" He pondered her words. Many of them made no sense, and her accent topped even the French for sheer oddity. She might not be an idiot, but was she mad?

  He studied her again. Could eyes so clear and intelligent belong to a madwoman? She didn't look like a raver. Perhaps her peculiarity was all an act. Damn! He didn't need this right now. Not with the Morestons nipping at their sides like wolves.

  "Whoever ye claim to be," he said at last, "ye must know that the penalty for trespassing on MacStruan land is death."

  Her face paled. So she possessed enough sense to fear her own demise, he mused.

  "Death?" she squeaked. "Wouldn't a fine and time served be sufficient? After all, I wasn't actually trespassing. I was running away from a guy who was trying to kill me"

  "Kill ye?" He scowled. "Seems ye're made for trouble, mistress. Have ye no husband to keep ye home safe?"

  "I'm not a mistress. I'm a Ms.," she said impatiently. "As for trouble, you can't scare me. There's no law in England that allows the death penalty for trespassing."

  "Ye aren't in England," he drawled.

  "Well, in Scotland, then. Great Britain. It's all the same."

  There was another gasp from the men around her. This one threatened to remove all the available oxygen from the room. She looked around her in puzzled defiance.

  "Lass, you're sadly addled," Darach said. "Ye don't even ken where ye are." He rose from his chair. "I'll spare ye for now. I won't kill a witless thing that knows no better."

  "Then I'll be going"

  "Nay, ye will not. I may show mercy but I'm no' a fool. Ye're to stay right here until we've learned more about ye and where ye come from. If ye've played us false, it won't go easy wi' ye."

  She stared at him, outrage and fear snapping in her eyes. "And by what authority can you make me a prisoner here?"

  He came to stand over her. "I am the MacStruan."

  "So? I am the Addison," she retorted.

  "Ye're chief of your clan?"

  "No, I'm just a plain, ordinary American citizen. But that means I don't fall under your clan laws."

  He shrugged. "Perhaps not. But ye'll be stayin', all the same. Until someone comes to ransom ye."

  "Ransom me? Then this is a kidnapping." She gave a short laugh. "Well, the joke's on you, Chief MacStruan, because there's no money in my family. You won't get a penny."

  "Then ye'll be stayin'." He motioned to Dugan and Niall. "Take her to the cell. See that she has food and drink. I'll not have her sayin' she was mistreated at the hands of the MacStruan."

  "Aye, Darach," Niall replied. They moved to take her arms and lead her from the room.

  "But you can't! Damn it! Let go of me!" She twisted about to face Darach, her face aglow with righteous anger. "You've made a career-limiting move here, mister," she snapped. "You'd best kiss your sorry tush good-bye because when my lawyers and the U.S. government get through with you, you'll be living in a refrigerator box and diving through Dumpsters for the rest of your natural born days!"

  He only nodded to the two who held her. Then he turned away as Niall and Dugan hustled her, protesting, out of the hall.

  Alasdair, Darach's younger brother, spoke first. "D'ye think she's as mad as she seems, Darach?"

  Ross nudged him. "Ye heard her, man. Ravin'. No other word for it."

  Darach nodded. "So it would seem. But I won't lay odds on it yet. She could be a crackbrained wanderer or the most cunning of spies. Time will tell." He sat down in his chair once more. "Liam, fetch paper and pen. When Niall comes back, I want to send a message to the Earl of Atholl."

  "D'ye think she's the witch?" Ross asked, nodding toward the stairs. "Everybody knows the witch is the real power behind the Moreston himself."

  Darach shrugged. "As I said, time will tell. Right now I have a more pressing matter to pursue. That of savin' our lands."

  Julia sat down on the cot in the corner of the cell and stared at the walls. Five paces long by six paces wide, the room featured a sole, narrow window about ten feet above the floor and set deep into the smooth stone wall. A fat candle burned on a bracket near the door, adding a bit more light to the cool, darkened room. Other than these, the walls were bare, the floor was bare, and the door was barred from the outside.

  How had she gotten into such a mess? she wondered. First that stupid gangland killing and her flight from the United States. Then a trek across several European countries, trying to throw her pursuers off her trail. Now she had been abducted by wild men and locked away in a cell that rivaled something out of a Monty Python moviefor the crime of trespassing, yet! As if she had had time to watch for NO TRESPASSING signs while she was ducking gunfire and fleeing for her life!

  She rose and walked about the cell, chafing her wrists where the bonds had been tied. At least she was free to walk and talk and see, she thought with gratitude. And she hadn't been mistreated. Not seriously, anyway.

  But she was locked up, a prisoner. God, but she hated that! She'd already spent enough time in near incarceration at the inn in Kinloch village. And here she was again, confined against her will. She'd never been a sit-still-and-calmly-wait kind of person. She needed motion and action; she needed to be on the road to something or doing something. Being locked up was tantamount to torture, to her.

  Mercy, that Darach person had said. Ha! If locking her up in a dank, chilly dungeon was his idea of mercy, she didn't dare imagine what he might consider to be punishment. Who the hell did he think he was? When she got out of this place, she'd remember his name and his face, all right.

  She conjured up the image of him as she circled the cell. Conan the Barbarian had been her first impression. And he was built like one: towering, massively muscled, wrapped in one of those big plaid blankets, his long, powerful legs encased in fur-trimmed boots. His hair was not red, like the rest of the men she'd seen, but deep brown and flowing to his shoulders. Heavy dark brows glowered over intensely clear blue eyes. Wide lips frowned beneath a strong, straight nose as he'd stood, feet planted, hands on hips. The epitome of lunkheaded power.

  But his voice. That deep, dark voice reminded Julia of the finest dark chocolate liqueur, his Scots accent adding a soft spice to the blend. She'd been incensed by what he'd said, but utterly fascinated by the voice that had spoken those outrageous words. And he was well spoken, though his speech sounded somewhat quaint. Not a complete lunkhead, perhaps. What was he doing living up here in the Highlands like a wild animal? What must his wife be like? That is, if he had a wife . . .

  She shook herself. This was not the time to speculate on her captor's marital status. She was in trouble and she alone was responsible for extricating herself from the mess. Lord knew that once she had fled New York to avoid the wrath of Monty Gilette and his goons, no one else she knew could come to her aid. Not even if they could find her in Brigadoon or MacStruanville or wherever she'd landed.

  She licked her lips, her mouth still dry from the gag and from the long hike with only the bit of water she'd been given. She looked around and recalled that they'd taken her fanny-pack. She couldn't even get a breath mint or an aspirin, if she needed one. Good grief! How was she toto?

  She looked wildly around the room, then stooped and peered under the bed. ''Thank God." She sighed as she saw what she assumed was a chamber pot beneath the cot. It was primitive, but it was there. She wondered how she'd manage to wash, or even to brush her hair, since they'd confiscated her pack and all its contents. Her hand mirror was in there, the small, antique silver one her mother had left her. She wished she had it now. She could use something that was comfortingly familiar in this strange, strange place.

  She drew a long breath and exh
aled slowly. She was stuck here, no doubt about it. But she wouldn't give up. She wouldn't be a prisoner for long. Not as long as she still had breath.

  She paced along the walls, testing the stonework and looking for anything she could use as a tool. She'd seen characters in prison movies make their escape with the help of a paper clip or a bit of a bedspring. She just had to keep looking. Unfortunately the floor of the cell yielded nothing but dust, and the cot was strung with leather straps.

  She sat down on the cot once more. No matter. She wasn't about to give up. She would watch and wait and take her chance to escape when the time came.

  And if Conan the MacStruan or whoever he was tried to stop her, she'd take a piece of him with her.

  Edana stirred the basin with a small rock-crystal wand. The water, which had been carried to her by hand from the snows of the highest peaks, shimmered and shivered before her watchful eyes.

  "And what is my love doing today?" she murmured to the waters.

  Ever so gently, she sprinkled a fine powder into the basin. The tiny granules sank and dissolved, changing the water to an iridescent lavender. She stirred once more and chanted over the waters, raising her hands to implore the heavens reflected in the basin.

  At last a vision began to form.

  A tall man stood on a hilltop, his long hair rippling behind him in the breeze. At his side hung a mighty sword and at his feet stood an enormous, woolly hound.

  "Alone again, my love?" Edana whispered, pulling her own fiery tresses back out of the way of the water. "It won't be long, sweet. Before long you'll know your true love and you'll never be alone again. Is that not so, Servant?" The waters swirled once more, disturbing the image of the man. A reedy voice bubbled up from the depths of the basin. "It isss e'en so, mistressss," came the answer.