Castles, Kilts and Caresses

by Carmen Caine

  “Damn,” she swore as her hand found something strong to grasp, but it was not a rock. It was a large foot.

  There was no time for her to react. He reached down, snatched her up and threw her over his shoulder. She screamed in protest and pounded her fists into his back.

  “Fool,” he hissed.

  He shifted her in his arms so that he cradled her and clamped one of his giant hands across her mouth.

  “Be silent, or we are both doomed,” he whispered. Then he sprinted away, keeping close to the coastline.

  Terror mounted in her mind. There must have been something terrible after them to instill fear in a man as large and capable as Ronan, but she was constrained against his chest with no view of what lay behind. Then he released her mouth and positioned her back over his shoulder, vexing her to no end that he could lift her as though she weighed no more than a sack of wool. It was a humiliating, not to mention jarring, way to be carried, but at least now she could have a look at what gave chase.

  She mustered her courage and raised her head to glance behind, but all she saw was her hut fading in the distance. She was confused. There was nothing there. But then she realized what had evoked such terror in her brave, oversized warrior: He was fleeing from the Witch of Dervaig. She fought to keep from bursting with laughter. To think the very thing from which he fled was at that moment draped over his shoulder like a sack of grain.

  When the hut was no longer in sight, Ronan stopped and put her down. “You foolish girl,” he scolded. “You almost wandered right into the Witch’s lair.” Shoney pinched herself to maintain an impassive expression. The Witch’s Lair—it was just so absurd.

  “Whatever do you mean?” she said as she did her best to feign wide-eyed innocence.

  “Back there was the hut of the Witch of Dervaig. How is it you have not heard of her?”

  “Oh, of course I have. Oh dear, was that really her hut? I had no idea,” she said.

  He released her and took a step back. “Enough talk. I want you to tell me who are you. I want a name.”

  Shoney’s mind raced. She knew she could not tell him the truth. Her Pictish name might incite too many questions, but what name would he believe? She could clearly not claim to be a MacKinnon, but she needed a Gaelic name.

  “I am Bridget, Bridget MacLean.”

  Ronan released a rush of air, “You are a MacLean.”

  He closed what little gap separated them and grabbed her upper arms, lifting her in the air until her eyes were level with his.

  “Why are you on Mackinnon soil?” he sneered, “to lure the future chieftain on a fool’s chase for weeks? Is my village right now under attack while I hunt the MacLean’s prettiest whore?”

  With each question his grip tightened, and his voice rose. Shoney knew she had chosen the wrong lie. She winced in pain as his hands squeezed her arms with such ferocity she felt that in a matter of seconds she would hear them snap likes twigs. She had to placate him somehow; the throbbing was so great that it brought stinging tears to her eyes.

  “No one knows I’m here.” She uttered the words through gritted teeth against the pain. “I ran away.”

  He shook her, and she cried out.

  “Do not lie to me, girl. I will give you no mercy if you lie to me.”

  “No MacLean knows where I am. I swear to you.” It wasn’t a lie. No one on the island knew where she was or that she even existed, except the one man about to break her arms.

  When he did not release her, she yelled, “I swear it.”

  He loosened his grip and put her back on the ground. She rubbed at her arms, trying to soothe the ache that remained. She glared up at him.

  “Are all men as cruel as you?” She asked.

  He appeared confused by her question and rightfully so. He of course had no idea that he was the first man she had ever met.

  “Tell me who you are,” he demanded.

  He showed no remorse for his cruel mistreatment of her now tender arms, and he no doubt would continue his demand for answers until satisfied. As she tried to remember everything her mother taught her of clan life, she began to weave what sounded like a wild tale even to her own ears. She explained that following the untimely death of her parents, her uncle arranged for

  her to wed an old man infamous for his cruel treatment of women.

  “You and he would likely become fast friends if ever you met,” She scowled at him as she continued to rub her arms.

  “So you ran away from your clan to escape marriage. Why did you not go to the council and tell them of your fear. You can refuse a marriage arranged by an uncle. The council would have the final word on the matter if your parents are deceased.”

  She was not expecting her story to be so quickly dismissed. She really knew very little about clan custom.

  “Well, you see…I…I did go to the council as you said, but they ruled in favor of my uncle. So I had no choice but to run away.” She held her breath, waiting for him to once again prove how isolated and ignorant she was.

  “Your council’s decision only proves the worthlessness of MacLean stock.”

  Shoney tried to appear offended, but like her mother before her, she cared very little about the merits of either clan or the reasons for their feuding. All she cared about was escaping without any further injury.

  “I am sorry for your fate, lass.” His hand gently caressed her cheek, and she was amazed that his touch could be so harsh one moment and so very gentle the next. “’Tis a shame that one so beautiful should be given to a man as loathsome as you described, but there is naught else that can be done. You must return.”

  “Return. You wish that I return—to what, pray tell, disgrace.”

  She did not expect him to send her back, or rather forth, to unknown lands. She refused to leave her home to keep up with this farce. After all, this land had been tied to her family long before his had even glimpsed it from their vessels, but none of that mattered at the moment. She need not win the war today, only the battle. All she had to do was get away. Let him believe she would “return” to MacLean territory. Then she could make good her escape and go home. She hung her head as if in defeat.

  “I will yield and accept my fate.”

  “Be brave, lass. If he is as old as you say, he will be dead soon. Mayhap he is even too old to consummate the marriage bed.”

  She felt her face grow hot with embarrassment. She knew enough about what went on between a man and a woman, although she had never truly understood until today.

  “Come on then. Let us walk while I decide what to do with you until I can take you to the border of our lands.”

  “What,” she said unable to hide her surprise, but she continued in a more composed tone. “What I mean to say is that won’t be necessary. Surely, you must have responsibilities you are neglecting. I know my way.”

  She started to head in a southerly direction. She knew not where the MacKinnon lands ended and the MacLean’s began, but she did know the MacLeans inhabited the southern part of Mull.

  “You will not make the journey alone. You are fortunate to have made it once unspoiled.”

  “Unspoiled?”

  “Yes, unspoiled—not raped or beaten or murdered. You appear to have nothing but the cloths on your back so I can only assume that you encountered some trouble since you have been here. Were you attacked in the woods? Tinkers and miscreants, those banished from both our clans, were recently hiding in the forest.”

  He was right, of course. If she had run away, she would have packed some belongings, and an attack did seem like the most logical way to explain why she was empty-handed.

  “Ah... Indeed,” she lied, “I was attacked, and they took my supplies. ‘Tis a wonder that I survived.”

  “And your bow?” he asked.

  “They took that as well, the bastards,” she sneered.

  “Are the MacLean men so useless they need their women to do the hunting,” he scoffed.

  Once again, he managed to r
aise her ire, though not in the way he intended. The MacLean men could rot for all she cared, but she clenched her fists against his insinuation that a woman had no business wielding a bow.

  “My mother thought it wise for a woman to be able to defend herself or her home if need be. She taught me how to fight,” Shoney said as she lifted her head with pride. “Like my mother before me, I am skilled in all weaponry, including steel. I believe you have a mark on your neck which proves my claim.”

  Ronan’s hand casually brushed the nick. He glanced at his fingers, and then showed Shoney the smearing of blood on their tips.

  “You are unlike any lass I have ever met. That much I will give you. But I do not care how skilled you are with a dirk. You are small, even for a woman. You are in no position to defend yourself,” he said.

  “I have done fine on my own so far,” she snapped.

  “How can you make such a claim when you stand before me unarmed?”

  His arms crossed over his wide chest, and he straightened to his full height as he peered at her down his nose. She craned her neck to meet his gaze. Until then, she had thought that his eyes were plain brown, but the sun revealed flecks of gold and ocher, making them gleam like amber flames. Then her eyes dropped to his full lips and she remembered how soft they felt on her skin.

  “I forbid you to go anywhere alone, especially to the wood again,” he said.

  The blatant arrogance of his words made her forget his kiss. How dare he forbid her from anything. Doubtless, he was used to obedience, but if he thought she was going to be a dulcet lamb, awaiting the command of her shepherd, he was going to be sorely disappointed. She began to voice her indigent protest but then changed her mind. She had to remain calm and not appear vexed. Let him believe her to be compliant so that she could be rid of him. He was dangerous and confusing. His touch was capable of both harm and stirring wildness deep inside of her, both of which she would prefer to avoid.

  “I think you are wise, Ronan. Rest assured, I will not seek shelter in the wood again.”

  She ducked under his arm and advanced out into the moors away from the cliffs. He did not make a grab for her, and so she quickened her pace to a near run in order to put as much ground between them as possible. She expected at any moment to feel the biting clamp of his grip on her arms, but his touch never came, and she never looked back.

  After a while when the cliffs and she hoped, Ronan, seemed far behind, she allowed her pace to slow as she finally risked a glimpse around. She was alone. At long last she was free. Releasing a sigh of relief, she resisted the desire to collapse to the ground as her quaking knees revealed just how nervous she had been. She vowed at that moment never to set eyes on Ronan again. A little voice inside her head reminded her she had made the same vow the last time she encountered him, but she decided to ignore it as she turned on her heel back toward the coast. The cloak and her home by the cliffs waited to conceal her once more, and Ronan was not going to stop her.

  Ronan.

  She could not wipe his image from her thoughts no matter how hard she tried. Everywhere she looked she saw amber brown eyes. The touch of his full lips pressing into the hollow of her neck lingered. Mother of all, what was wrong with her? She could not have enjoyed looking at him or being touched by him. He was a descendant of King MacAlpin. Then she remembered how his striking features were transformed when she told him she was a MacLean. His lips tightened into a hard sneer and his eyes narrowed, becoming hate-filled slits, and the brute force he applied to her arms demonstrated a cruelty within. Imagine what he would have done if he knew who she really was, if she had stood before him in defiance and revealed her true identity.

  She stopped walking and lengthened her back, adopting a strong stance. With a defiant tilt of her chin, she declared to the rolling moors, “I am neither MacLean nor Mackinnon. I am Shoney, daughter of Brethia, great-great-granddaughter of Tharain, descendant of Oengus, King of the Picts.”

  Shame settled its burdensome weight on her shoulders. She regretted not having the courage to declare her true identity. What would he have done to her? He most likely would have dropped her on the ground in disgust and fled like a coward.

  Then she froze. She heard a rhythmic drumming in the distance growing louder and louder with each passing second. She issued forth no sound or breath as she stood watching, waiting for the source of the recurrent pounding to reveal itself. She did not have to wonder long. A large, white stallion crested over a distant hill, and on its back sat a rider with telling ease. His golden brown hair, which shone in the sunlight, and his broad shoulders were all too familiar to her now.

  “Damn him.”

  Shoney launched into a sprint, looking for a place to hide, but the open moors made no offer of tree or bush for which to conceal herself. Not that it mattered—she would need a fortress to escape him now. He spotted her, and she could hear the horse’s hooves pummeling the earth. She glimpsed behind as she scampered up a slope. Ronan, hunched low in his saddle, charged toward her with full force.

  Did he intend to run her down?

  The horse’s pounding stride shook the ground beneath her feet and made her heart quake with fear. She looked back and gasped as she stared into the horse’s black eyes. She flung her arms in front of her face and screamed as the horse bore down upon her, but instead of hearing her bones crunch and feeling the agony of her limbs being mangled and ripped askew, she was flying.

  His arms wrapped securely around her waist as he lifted her through the air and across his lap.

  “You almost killed me, you bastard,” she shouted. “Let me go, damn you.”

  He slowed his horse and chuckled, apparently enjoying her loss of temper.

  “What are you laughing at?”

  “You, my dear. You are walking in the opposite direction of your kin. Can you not judge the land to distinguish the coast from what lays inshore? I have never known anyone with a worse sense for travel, and you expect to make it beyond Benmore Mountain, which by the way is south of here.”

  Mother of all, he was like a disease for which she could find no cure. All she wanted to do was go home, feed her empty belly, and count the blessings of her simple life. Instead, she was back in his inescapable grip, atop a giant steed, heading somewhere other than the warmth and safety of her stone hut.

  “Where are you taking me? You said before you could not take me to the border just yet.”

  “You will see,” he answered.

  “Why are you are unable to take me…er…home now?”

  “The pending war, of course,” he said, looking down at her like she was thicker than stone, “between the Scots and the Norse.”

  She knew naught of what he spoke and was too tired to pretend. Let him think she was dimwitted. She did not care.

  “’Tis, a shame your clan keeps women so ignorant. These are your lands too—the lands of our fathers and sons but also our mothers and daughters.”

  Shoney turned her head, looked Ronan straight in the eye and said, “You are right, Ronan. This land is mine.”

  She faced forward once again and smiled. She told the future chieftain of the Clan MacKinnon the lands they rode over belonged to her. He could not understand the significance of her words, yet she still felt victorious.

  They rode back toward the cliffs. Ronan dismounted behind her and took hold of the reins. Then he walked his horse with Shoney still in the saddle down a steep ravine. As they ascended, she glimpsed ocean waves colliding with sheer cliff walls further down the coast and it brought to mind a question.

  “How is it possible you were waiting for me on top of the cliffs when I ran from you at the pool? I had the shorter route.” Then her eyes widened as she answered her own question. “You didn’t…”

  “Climb the cliff face,” he said, finishing her statement. “All MacKinnon men climb to strengthen our arms for battle. Our swords are made of iron and steel and are not as slight as you, my dear.”

  He was so powerful. If only she h
ad half his strength, she would not hide from the world; instead, she would confront the chieftain himself and challenge him for the rights to her land. She released a sigh. Daydreams only made one’s soul long for the impossible. Her future stretched out before her as fixed and predictable as the cycle of the moon. She would always be feared and loathed, and if ever valued for her wisdom and gifts, it would only be in secret. She must learn to accept her fate.

  They reached the shoreline and Ronan pulled himself behind her. With a quick flick of the reins, they were galloping through the waves. The surf splashed against the horse’s legs, spraying the icy water across Shoney and wetting her skirts. The sun was beginning to set, and the wind that whipped her hair about her face and cut through her tunic held the crispness of nightfall, causing her to shiver.

  “Hold tight to the mane,” he said as his hands withdrew from her waist.

  The absence of his embrace allowed the chill to nip at her back and shoulders. She scooted backward in her seat, seeking the hot comfort of his body.

  “Hold on, lass,” he chuckled.

  He reached around her waist, spreading his fingers wide across her stomach and pressed her against his rigid chest. She felt his warm breath on her neck as he encircled them both within the thick folds of his plaid. Warmth penetrated her core. She nestled deeper and inhaled the scent of his skin. Everything about him was undeniably male including the rich musky aroma invading her senses. Too long had she been denied the comfort of another’s touch. Her mother used to rock her to sleep as a child. And when Shoney grew too large to cradle, her mother stroked her hair as Shoney rested her head in her lap. She did not need protection. She could take care of herself, but it felt so good not to be alone.

  She shook her head, remembering with whom she rode. She could not lose sight of her goal to be rid of him. He was capable of harm and could not be trusted. Besides, if he knew who she really was, he would fling her into the water and ride away. She scowled as she imagined his daft priest burning his plaid because of its proximity to her pagan flesh.