Darkest Highlander

by Donna Grant

  How Lucan, Quinn, Hayden, and Galen coped with the knowledge that one day their wives—the women who had captured their hearts—would be gone, Broc didn’t know.

  He couldn’t fathom it. And didn’t want to try.

  It was his need for Sonya, the ache in his chest to have her near that reminded him of his curse. A curse that had begun when he was just a lad. Any female not related to him by family had died by either sickness or some freak accident.

  His grandmother had told him it was something he had done in another life that he was paying for now. All Broc knew was that he would spend his life alone instead of risking a woman’s life.

  Broc looked at Sonya resting so peacefully. If there ever was a woman who he could imagine having by his side to share his days—and his nights—it was Sonya.

  Beautiful, beguiling Sonya.

  The one woman he couldn’t allow himself to have.

  * * *

  Deirdre drummed her long fingernails on the stone table as she sat and contemplated the last few months. The stones, her stones, gave her the comfort and solace she needed. She had stayed in her mountain too long, however. Soon she would have to leave Cairn Toul.

  For the first time in over two hundred years she was going to venture into the world. She had her revenge to dole out, and what better way than to see her enemies suffering before her very eyes.

  Oh, she could use her black magic, but it was time Scotland knew who she was. And just what power she held. For too long she had allowed the insignificant humans to continue their existence without knowing of her.

  That was all about to change.

  Soon word would spread from Scotland to England and then into France and across the rest of Europe. She had spent too long trying to bring the MacLeods into her fold when she should have dominated Britain.

  It would have only been a matter of time before she had found the MacLeods and forced them to align with her. But she had been blinded with her need for Quinn, a need that had nearly cost her everything.

  The child of the prophecy would have to wait. She had to build up her army once more. Many of her Warriors had died, but the gods inside them weren’t gone—they merely found the next man in the bloodline.

  All Deirdre had to do was find the strongest fighter, the bravest warrior of those clans and she could once more have her Warriors.

  It would take time, but after living a thousand years, what was another few? While her wyrran searched for the Druids who continued to hide, Deirdre would seek out the clans for her next Warriors while taking vengeance on the MacLeods and anyone loyal to them.

  It was going to be glorious and bloody. Once the MacLeods were imprisoned and the Druids dead, she was going to tear down MacLeod Castle stone by stone. There would be nothing left standing to give anyone hope.

  And when she was finished with the MacLeods, everyone would realize there was no use fighting her.

  She would win, and if it meant killing the Warriors and starting again, she would do it.

  “Mistress.”

  Deirdre stiffened and looked at Dunmore over her shoulder. He was the only mortal in her mountain, the only mortal she had allowed to be close. He had been useful, and her promise of immortality and wealth had kept him loyal.

  But Dunmore was aging. Already his dark hair was streaked with gray. There were lines around his eyes, and he wasn’t as strong as he used to be. If things weren’t so chaotic, Deirdre would kill him. But, unfortunately, she still needed Dunmore. For a bit longer.

  “I’ve returned with Druids,” he said and lowered his gaze to the floor.

  With the tiniest of thoughts, Deirdre’s white hair, which hung to the floor, twitched. It was a weapon she used to defeat many men. Her hair could flay the skin off a person or choke the life out of anyone.

  “How many?” Deirdre asked as she rose and turned to face Dunmore. She ran her hands over his wide shoulders. There was still muscle there, still strength.

  “Fourteen, mistress.”

  Deirdre was impressed. She, of course, wouldn’t tell Dunmore that, however. “So few?”

  “They are the Druids who lived on Loch Awe. The ones who ran from MacLeod Castle,” he said and turned his head to watch her as she continued to walk around him.

  Deirdre stopped in front of him and raised a brow. “The artifact? Tell me you brought Reaghan with the others.”

  “I wish I could, mistress. I saw the artifact, but one of the MacClures delivered a mortal wound to her.”

  Deirdre hissed as anger surged within her. The need to hit something, to see blood pool at her feet surged through her. “What happened?”

  “The spear severed her spine.”

  “There is a healer at MacLeod Castle.”

  Dunmore swallowed and lowered his gaze. “I doona believe they reached her in time.”

  Deirdre brushed past Dunmore and stalked out of her chamber. She could hear the terrified screams of the Druids as her wyrran put them in the dungeons. That fear was just what she needed to calm the rage burning inside her at the loss of Reaghan. “Bring a Druid to the ritual chamber. Now.”

  She didn’t wait to see if the wyrran who always followed her obeyed. She knew they would. She had created them, and they were loyal only to her.

  Deirdre strode into the chamber and looked at the two empty spots that had once held Druids prisoner. Her magic had created the black flames which kept Lavena alive for hundreds of years. It had also given Isla’s sister more power to her magic in which to aid Deirdre.

  The other spot had contained Marcail in the blue flames. Those flames would have killed Marcail—should have killed Marcail. But the MacLeods and the other Warriors had freed her, and somehow managed to keep her alive.

  Deirdre didn’t know who the mie at MacLeod Castle was with such magic. But she was going to find out.

  Deirdre heard the soft whimper of the Druid being hauled down the corridor to her. She turned and looked at the large stone table in the center of the ritual chamber. It was stained red with the blood of the many Druids she had killed there. Druids whose magic she had taken.

  Dunmore had followed her and now stood at the entrance of the chamber as the wyrran half dragged, half carried the woman into the room. Deirdre merely watched as her wyrran tossed the mie onto the table and fastened the straps to her wrists and ankles.

  Once the wyrran finished, Deirdre patted them on the head and stepped to the table. She looked down at the mie. She was young with sandy-blond hair and plain brown eyes.

  “What are you going to do to me?” the Druid asked.

  Deirdre smiled and ran the tip of one long fingernail along the mie’s cheek. “I’m going to drain your blood. Slowly, painfully. Then I’m going to take your magic.”

  The Druid actually laughed through her tears.

  Deirdre’s rage spiked until she studied the Druid. There was magic within the mie, but it was so slight, there was no use trying to obtain it.

  “You claim to be a Druid when you have so little magic? How dare you?” Deirdre demanded.

  The young mie sniffed and blinked through her tears. Deirdre saw the courage and silently applauded her, though it would do the Druid little good.

  “None from Loch Awe have much magic. You will get nothing from us.”

  Deirdre didn’t like being denied. Anything. She wouldn’t be deprived of the magic she required. “Oh, I will get your magic, you foolish mie. I will get it, but you will suffer unimaginable agony in the process.”

  As soon as the words left Deirdre’s mouth, she lifted her hands over the Druid’s prone body. The mie screamed as Deirdre’s vengeful black magic lashed out.

  This was the ceremonial chamber, the place where Deirdre would cut the Druids so their blood could pool in the valleys carved into the stone before filling the four goblets placed at each corner.

  But she was too full of fury for a ceremony. She wanted blood, and the screams of the mie helped to soothe her wrath.

  Deirdre used he
r magic to control her hair and brought it up to use as a weapon. Again and again her hair slashed across the mie’s skin like a blade, leaving trails of blood in its wake.

  By the time the Druid stopped screaming, Deirdre’s white hair was coated dark red.

  A smile played upon Deirdre’s lips as she closed her eyes and began the ancient chant taught to her by her mother, a chant which called forth the black magic and diabhul, Satan.

  Deirdre opened her eyes to see the dark smoke surround the mie and snuff out the last bit of life in her body as it claimed her soul.

  “I am yours!” Deirdre screamed as she plunged a dagger through the smoke into the mie’s stomach.

  The smoke vanished, but the ritual wasn’t over. Deirdre went from corner to corner and lifted the goblets to her lips so she could drain them of the mie’s blood.

  Within the blood held the Druid’s meager magic, but it was still magic and it would strengthen Deirdre.

  As the magic mixed with hers, the wind began to howl around her, whipping her skirts about her legs and lifting the long white strands of her hair about her. She felt her power grow, felt her magic building as it always did when she took the magic of another Druid.

  Even the little crumb of magic she had just taken bolstered her. By the time she was finished with the Druids in her dungeons, she would be ready for her vengeance.

  “Get me another Druid, Dunmore,” she called, and began to unbuckle the straps holding the dead mie.

  She rolled the woman off the table and waited impatiently for the next Druid. Druid after Druid died on the sacrificial table to help strengthen her. Deirdre listened to none of their crying and pleas for mercy.

  Until the last Druid was brought into the chamber.

  “Please,” the mie begged.

  Deirdre stared at the older woman. Deep grooves of age and the hardship of life lined the woman’s sagging skin. Her hair was gray and wiry as it stuck out at odd angles from her braid, which had come loose.

  “Please what?” Deirdre demanded. “Do you think I will spare you as I did your friends?”

  The woman glanced at the dead bodies and pushed against the wyrran’s hold. She didn’t appear to notice when the wyrran’s claws dug into her skin and blood dripped from the wounds.

  “Well?” Deirdre prompted. The killing of Druids always put her in a better mood. It was the only reason she toyed with the woman now.

  “I was in MacLeod Castle for days. I can give you information.”

  Now Deirdre was intrigued. “In exchange for what?”

  “Life,” the woman answered without hesitation. “I don’t want to die.”

  “How many more years do you think you have?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  Deirdre crossed her arms over her chest and realized all the Druids she’d killed would’ve had information about the occupants of MacLeod Castle. She should have gotten it before she killed them, but when her fury took hold, she never thought clearly.

  Which is why she made sure to keep a tight rein on her anger.

  “Speak,” Deirdre commanded. “Tell me what you know.”

  “And you will spare me?”

  “Depends on what details you impart.”

  The woman licked her lips. “There are twelve Warriors at the castle.”

  “That information I’m already privy to.”

  “There are six Druids at the castle, including three of our own who wouldn’t leave.”

  “They were wiser than you. Who are the three?”

  “Fiona, who is mother to wee Braden, and Reaghan.”

  Deirdre smiled. “Ah, Reaghan. The artifact you all protected so diligently?”

  The woman slowly nodded. “Aye.”

  “I’ve been told she was dealt a mortal blow during the battle.”

  “Nay,” the mie said with wide eyes.

  Deirdre shrugged. “I will discover soon enough if Reaghan is dead. I learned a great deal about her while I occupied Mairi’s mind.”

  The Druid’s body began to tremble. “You were the cause of our elder spouting such hateful things.”

  “I was very convincing, was I not? Mairi’s mind had weakened in her old age. If she’d had more magic, she might have been able to put up a little fight. It was almost too easy the way I was able to take over her mind and body.”

  The mie simply stared at Deirdre, as if only now realizing how dangerous Deirdre really was.

  “Anyone else?” Deirdre asked.

  “A man.”

  “Who?”

  The woman’s chin shook as tears gathered and spilled down her face. “His name was Monro. Malcolm Monro.”

  Deirdre closed her eyes. Malcolm was supposed to have been killed by her Warriors. Now she knew what happened to the Warriors she sent after the mortal. What she didn’t know was who had saved Malcolm from the death she had ordered. But she would find out.

  “Put her on the table,” Deirdre ordered her wyrran.

  The woman screamed and tried to jerk away, but she was no match for the strength of the wyrran. Besides, Deirdre had never told her she would be spared.

  Once the woman was secured, Deirdre looked to the wyrran nearest her. “I want wyrran sent out separately to scout for Druids and any Warriors who might still be alive. They are to stay hidden, unseen by all. When they find a Druid or Warrior, they are to report back to me immediately. Especially if they find Broc.”

  The wyrran bowed his yellow head before he turned and raced out of the chamber. Deirdre turned to the woman, who was now a sobbing wretch.

  “Now. Shall we begin?”

  SEVEN

  Sonya smoothed her hand down the pale blue gown she had donned and reached for the comb. Her hand still ached, so braiding her thick hair was going to be impossible.

  She had awoken to find herself alone. Yet, she hadn’t feared Broc had left. She knew he hadn’t. He took his duties too seriously, and returning her to the castle was a priority.

  A soft knock sounded, startling her. The door opened and Broc stepped inside. He closed the door behind him and leaned against it.

  “Did you sleep well?” he asked.

  Sonya turned her face away lest he see her embarrassment. She had dreamed of nothing but him all night. His lips on hers, his body pressed against her, his arms holding her tight. She had woken needy and aching. If he had been in the chamber, she wasn’t sure what she would have done. All she had known was that she needed him with a hunger that went to her very soul.

  “I did,” she answered. “And you?”

  “You know we doona need to sleep every night.”

  That got her attention. She ran her fingers along the small table as she walked around it. “So you stayed awake all night?”

  “I kept watch.”

  “That’s two nights you’ve not slept. You must sleep sometime.”

  He shrugged nonchalantly. “I’ll rest when I need it.”

  Sonya blew out an exasperated breath and leaned against the wall. “So, what now? Is this where you try and talk me into returning with you?”

  “This is where I try to convince you that MacLeod Castle is where you need to be.”

  “And if you cannot?”

  His lips tilted in a lopsided grin. “Then I will continue to try and persuade you to my way of thinking.”

  She wanted to smile at him, to carry on as if everything was as it had been before the battle. But she couldn’t. “What use am I to anyone if I don’t have magic?”

  “But you do,” he argued. “I feel it.”

  There was such sincerity in his dark, compelling eyes that she believed him. How could she not? Broc would never lie about her magic. “All right. Then what use am I to anyone if I cannot use my magic?”

  “You will use your magic again. Maybe once at MacLeod Castle with the other Druids you can discover what has happened.”

  Sonya looked at her injured hand. So much had changed in so little time. How could someone be so content in life and in
the space of a heartbeat have everything crash around her?

  “Did you no’ tell Fallon the trees warned you to stay at MacLeod Castle?” Broc asked.

  She nodded, unable to deny it. She didn’t care why Fallon had told Broc. Obviously the eldest MacLeod brother had thought Broc needed to know.

  Sonya swallowed and lifted her gaze to Broc. “I don’t know why they wanted me at the castle, only that they said that’s where I need to be.”

  “And you’ve always trusted them.”

  It was a statement, not a question. “Aye.”

  “Why question them now?”

  Sonya smiled ruefully. “I’m not. I’m questioning myself.”

  He exhaled sharply and pushed off the door to slowly pace the confines of the chamber. “It’s because of what I said to you, is it no’? It’s about you finding me with Anice and learning that I knew her.”

  “It’s partly why I ran, aye.” There was no use hiding that information now. Broc already knew anyway. “Coupled with the fact I couldn’t heal Reaghan when she was dying. If it wasn’t for the spell she’d put on herself, she would be dead now.”

  “But she is alive.” He stopped before her, daring her to deny his words.

  Sonya had to tilt her head back to continue looking in his fathomless eyes. “A few days ago I knew who I was. I knew what I was. I knew the power of the magic inside me and all I could do. And then…”

  She trailed off, unable to finish as she recalled the raw, heartbreaking agony she had felt when she could no longer call up her magic.

  “And then Anice died,” Broc concluded. “I know I hurt you by no’ telling you the truth. I know I should have, but Anice wouldna know if she hadna stumbled upon me all those years ago.”

  Sonya had never been envious of her sister until she had seen her in Broc’s arms. Not even knowing her sister was dead could halt the jealousy. It had been the complete suffering in Broc’s voice and in his face which tore apart Sonya’s heart.

  “If it had been me instead of my sister who found you, would you have spoken to me as you did Anice?”

  He stared at her, the muscle in his jaw jumping. “Nay.”

  “I see.”

  “You doona, Sonya.”