by Terry Spear
Highland Troth (Highland Talents Book 3)
DEDICATION
For Tahoe, who will be sorely missed. And for all the other amazing service dogs from Atlanta’s Canine Assistants and organizations like it.
Dear Readers,
Thank you for reading my books! I hope you enjoy this prequel to my Highland Talents series. In it, you’ll get a glimpse of young Donal MacNabb. You’ll see him as man to be reckoned with in Highland Healer. Better yet, he gets his own romance and adventure in Highland Seer.
My stories are set in the Highlands in the years following what has been called the worst defeat Scotland suffered at the hands of the English. Despite having established diplomatic relations with England and having married Henry VIII’s sister, Margaret Tudor, James IV is forced to honor the Auld Alliance when France goes to war with England. He dies in battle at Flodden Field in 1513 along with most of his nobles, clan chiefs and their heirs. For years, Scotland is ruled by Regents and falls into chaos.
Heart of Stone takes place in happier times, 11 years before that tragedy. A patron of education and the arts, James IV was Scotland’s Renaissance king. In 1496, he made education compulsory for the upper classes, which leads Donal’s older brother, Gavan MacNabb to St. Andrews and beyond, before his journey home in Heart of Stone.—Willa
www.willablair.com
Chapter 1
Scottish Highlands, Spring of 1502
Long after sunset, Gavan MacNabb rode up a small hill and paused at the crest. In a clearing below him, part shadowed, part silvered in the light spilling from the nearly full moon, lichen-robed standing stones appeared like Druids of old. They formed a jagged circle around a taller central monolith.
Then the swirling breeze carried a hint of melody sung in a lass’s sweet voice. He scanned the shadows for the source. When he found her, he forgot the stones. She sat in a patch of moon-glow, her dark blonde hair catching the light. With her back resting against the central stone, she worked on something in her lap, chanting softly. Gavan could not make out her words, but her silky voice called to him. Head erect, a deerhound crouched next to her. The hound appeared relaxed, but the set of its ears and the bright eyes told him it guarded its mistress.
After watching them for another moment, Gavan steeled himself to withdraw without disturbing them, to leave the lass and her hound to their moonlit endeavor. But at a shift in the wind, the hound’s tail thumped, and it surged to its feet.
Frowning, the lass broke off her song. “What is it, Corrie?”
Gavan had only seconds to decide to ride away or show himself. His choice was made for him when Corrie answered the lass with a soft woof, bounded straight for Gavan, then sat before his mount.
“Some guard dog ye are,” he muttered. He rode to the stone circle with a large, shaggy escort pacing at his mount’s shoulder. Scottish deerhounds were bred big and fast to chase down Highland deer, yet had such a mild temperament they were trusted around a laird’s children. They were also somewhat rare and valuable, so he didn’t wonder how the lass could be comfortable in the company of one, but how she merited one as her companion.
The lass set her work aside and stood. She watched him approach, her frown turning apprehensive as her eyes widened.
He stopped outside the circle to dismount. With a nod to the lass, he said, “Good e’en,” then waited beside his horse to see what she would do. On her feet now, she stood tall and proud. He realized her skirt must hide long legs. She was not as petite as she’d appeared when sitting by her large dog. Gavan liked both her appearance and the challenge in her gaze as she eyed him.
The hound took up position beside its mistress. The lass gave it another quizzical glance before she focused on Gavan. “I’ve never seen Corrie take to a stranger this way. Who are ye?”
Her speaking voice sounded as softly musical as her singing. Gavan’s heart beat just a little faster to hear it. But attraction didn’t cause that response. Annoyance did. He took a few steps forward, watching for her reaction. When she didn’t back away, he stopped just within the circle. He had no intention of crowding her, but so far, she seemed foolishly unworried, merely confused.
She risked much, being alone out here, especially at night. Especially with a honeyed voice like hers. Any man hearing it drifting through the night air would be helpless to resist it. And when he saw her…Gavan clenched his fists, then forced himself to relax. Though tempted to teach her greater caution, he found himself unwilling to frighten the lovely lass into running away. He kept his tension out of his voice as he told her, “I’m Gavan MacNabb. Who are ye and what are ye doing out here alone without a kinsman to guard ye?”
“I’m no’ alone. As ye see, Corrie is here to protect me.”
Gavan saw only friendly interest from the dog as he took a few steps closer. Corrie abandoned her mistress to come to him and lick his hand. His laugh held no mirth, nor did his tone as he scowled at the hound. “And a fine job she’s doing, too.”
The lass frowned at her dog, then turned the frown on him.
Gavan sighed and schooled his features. He hadn’t meant to hurt her feelings, but to make her see reason.
“Corrie!” The lass patted her side, calling the hound back. “I’ve never seen her behave this way, truly.” She touched the dog’s head, which came up to her waist. “She likes ye.” With barely a pause for breath, she added, “I’m Marsali Murray.”
Despite his annoyance at her disregard for safety, Gavan summoned a polite smile as he moved closer and took her hand. The sensation of her soft skin in his palm suddenly warmed him in a way that wasn’t polite at all. A vision of tugging her into his arms made his breath catch in his chest. Her eyes widened, telling him she’d seen the heat flare in his eyes. He allowed her to pull her hand away.
“I’m pleased to meet ye, Lady Murray.” He kept his tone genial, forcing his voice to remain neutral rather than to deepen with the unexpected yearning that washed over him. “Corrie, too,” he said, scratching the hound behind her ears to distract himself. What had just happened? He wasn’t usually prone to such impulses when first meeting a lass. He preferred to get to know them first.
The lass knit her fingers together as her shoulders inched up. “Just Marsali, please.”
That surprised him. If she was not a lady, what was she doing with the hound? “Verra well, Just-Marsali.” He took a step back in an attempt to lessen the sudden tension between them. Had she clasped her hands together to keep from reaching for him? “Why are ye here? When I topped the rise, I heard ye singing.”
He needed the distance, but it appeared she did, as well. Her shoulders had dropped when he moved away. But after she picked up the chain of flowers she’d been weaving and ran a fingertip over a few of the bell-shaped blooms, he could see tension reflected again in her stiff posture.
“’Tis a harmless thing I do.” She paused, eyeing him, as if wondering whether she dared continue. A frown marred the smooth expanse of her forehead, but only for a moment.
Her reluctance made Gavan wonder what harm a woven strand of bluebells could harbor. Was she embarrassed or uneasy to tell him? “Aye?” he prompted, curious now.
She exhaled, glancing skyward, then met his gaze. “’Tis said if under a waxing moon a maid weaves a chain of bluebells within the stone circle, the next lad she sees will be her true love.” She held up her handiwork. “’Tis no’ quite finished, so I believe ye are safe from me. Corrie tells me I am safe from ye.”
Gavan gave her his most innocent smile. “I dinna believe in such things, but if ye do…” Not in the magic, and not in the illusion of safety her dog gave her. This hound would be no match for him, despite its great size or the shaggy gray coat that made it appear even larger. Marsali probably trusted that most people were unfamiliar with the friendlier aspects of the breed. After days of travel, he looked like most people—or worse—rather than the son of a Highland laird with a keep, a kennel, and a few deerhounds of his own.
“I c
ouldna see any harm in the attempt.” She looped the garland over her shoulder. “What are ye doin’ at the stones?”
Indeed? No harm being out here alone? Gavan shrugged, trying hard not to notice how sweetly the blue flowers lay against the milky skin of her throat. Their intoxicating scent wafted over him. Some of her dark blonde hair had escaped its braid to curl alongside her face, just above one bloom. He longed to brush back the wayward strand, to reveal more of the blush he could see staining her cheek in the moonlight. Instead, he forced himself to speak. “Passing by, on my way home. Neither the heir nor the spare, I’ve been seeing some of the world.”
Her eyes lit up. Green? Or blue? He couldn’t be sure in this light.
“Ah, how I’d love to be free to do that! I’ve never been farther from my village than the loch.”
Gavan sighed, then chuckled, his pique at her foolishness evaporating in response to the wistfulness of her words. She might be a kindred spirit, with a wanderlust to equal his own, but she clearly had no means to indulge it. Few women would. Then her last word reminded him his last encounter with water happened days ago. “Loch? A chance to clean up would be welcome. I ken deerhounds are sight hunters, but likely the breeze brought my scent to her first.”
“Mayhap,” she said, wrinkling her nose, then easing the insult with a laugh. She gestured in his intended direction. “Ye’d have come to the water soon enough, had Corrie and I no’ delayed ye. ’Tis through those trees, no’ so very far.”
“Where do ye live? There must be a village nearby.”
“Aye. That way.” She pointed off to his right. “We’ve a small village and a smaller keep.”
Traveling alone, he'd learned staying off the roads after dark was prudent. He might have encountered the loch, as she said, but likely he’d have missed the village altogether. He had the strangest sensation, a hollowness in his chest, telling him he would have lived to regret not meeting Marsali.
Corrie chose that moment to pick up a stray bluebell stalk her mistress had yet to use and bring it to him. “Oh, dear,” Marsali breathed.
Gavan took the proffered flower from the dog’s mouth. Unexpected heat, as if the summer sun suddenly beat down on his bare skin, made a bead of sweat trickle down his back. On a whim, he sank to one knee, then offered the blossom to the lass. “Ye’ll need this to finish yer spell, milady.”
“I…” Marsali hesitated, looking from Gavan to the flower, to Corrie, and back again. “I…thank ye.” She reached for Gavan’s offering, then drew back her hand. “I suppose ye’ll no’ be back this way again? On yer travels, that is?”
“One never kens what is in the future. I canna say I will, nor can I say I willna.”
Her fingers curled into a loose fist.
“Does my gift no’ please ye, milady?”
She glanced moonward before taking the stalk. “Well enough. Thank ye.”
Gavan rose and sketched a half bow. “Then my work...and Corrie’s...appears to be done. But I’m reluctant to leave ye here alone. May I escort ye safely home?”
“Ye needna. As I told ye, I’m perfectly safe with Corrie by my side.”
“Lass…”
“I am. Ye must be on yer way.”
The urge to shake some sense into her suddenly became so intense Gavan took a step forward. For once, Corrie growled. Softly, just for a moment. But that warning made him wonder if perhaps Marsali, whose raised eyebrows told him her dog had surprised her, was correct and Corrie was more capable than she appeared. He studied the dog for a moment, then the lass. He could see from the set of her shoulders that she was determined to reject his help. “Very well. I wish ye safe to yer home, milady…Just-Marsali,” he added with a quick grin. “Since ye canna bear to ride with me, I’m off to find the loch. Perhaps I’ll return to find ye have changed yer mind.”
Marsali’s eyebrows dropped. “I wish ye safe travels, Gavan MacNabb.”
Something in her tone hinted at sadness, causing Gavan to pause before he swung onto his horse. But one corner of her mouth lifted as she turned to gather up the rest of her handiwork. Corrie whined, but the lass waved as he rode beyond the stones, and in moments, they passed out of his sight.
***
Watching Gavan MacNabb ride away, Marsali clutched her chain of bluebells and thought about what might have been. There went the man who, if the superstition held any truth, should love her forever. She’d lied when she told him the spell was not quite finished. She’d ended the chant just as Corrie noticed him and went bounding up the low rise where he’d paused.
She’d never really expected the spell to work. Certainly not so quickly. Had she rejected his offer of escort hoping he'd fall to his knees before her and declare his undying love to make her change her mind? She pursed her lips, then sighed. He’d left her easily enough. He could not be her one true love. She was lucky he’d seemed an honorable man. She’d seen the heat flare in his eyes and seen him control it. She was glad her boast that Corrie could protect her had never been put to the test. With her fondness for roaming outside the keep, she hoped it never would.
She lifted the bluebells to her nose and inhaled their sweet scent. In hindsight, she should consider herself lucky the spell failed. What had she been thinking? The only lads she would encounter when she returned home were ones she’d already rejected. Worse, what if one of them had stumbled upon her here—alone? What if the spell worked in reverse to make her fall for one of them? Oh dear. What if she didn’t like her one true love? She really had not thought this through.
But Gavan had appeared. A stranger. Not, as she’d wished, a handsome laird looking for his lady. Handsome, aye, with light brown hair, a pleasing manner, and a smile that could steal any maid’s heart. But he’d said he was only a younger son, and he hadn’t had any difficulty leaving her. So there couldn’t be any truth to the superstition.
She’d tried to change her future, to find a way to escape this tiny, lost corner of the world and the marriage her father planned for her and to take control of her own life. She’d failed. The first man she’d seen—a handsome, adventurous man—had turned his back on her. Chin trembling, she studied the moon and the stones. Hot tears pricked her eyes. She really had no chance at happiness, did she? She’d risked herself, risked her father’s ire by coming here.
She’d accomplished exactly nothing.
Despite her uncertainty, she’d felt...something...as Gavan handed her the bluebell stalk Corrie had given him. Not the bluebell chain she’d woven. Only a single stalk. What power could that hold? Nay, she thought, shaking her head, she was lucky the spell was ruined. Or had never worked.
“Come on, Corrie, ye silly fool.” She tangled her fingers in the hound’s rough coat. “Ye were supposed to keep me safe. Instead, ye cozied up to a stranger, possibly the one man with the power to break my heart.” She looked in the direction Gavan had gone, thought about seeing far horizons with him, and gusted out a heavy sigh. “I think he already did.” Absently, she rubbed the dog’s head. Should she follow him to the loch? Give the spell another chance to work? Surely by the time she arrived, he’d have finished his bath. He might have thought about their encounter and decided to pursue her after all. She had seen heat in his gaze, after all, if only for a moment.
But nay. He was homeward bound. They had nothing left to say. She’d failed.
She unraveled the garland she’d woven, undoing in moments what had taken an hour or more to create, scattering the stems on the ground around the central stone, dripping her tears on the fading blooms. Then she straightened and wiped her eyes. Enough. She would return to the Murray keep. And she’d never again weave bluebells into a chain hoping to change her fate.
***
Something about the encounter with the lass made Gavan long for company instead of another night camped out alone. Refreshed, and much less pungent after his dip in the chilly loch, he donned his cleanest shirt and rode back to the stones, determined, no matter Marsali’s objections, to see her s
afely home. But the lass was gone, so he headed in the direction she had indicated.
In less than a mile, he found a remote settlement—a few crofts surrounding a tower house—the small keep Marsali had mentioned. Gavan guessed travelers rarely came this way. The road through the village was barely a path. He passed a few windows lit by the hearth fires within. Which was hers? He had no way to tell, but he prayed she’d made her way safely home by now. He should have insisted on escorting her, despite her protests her hound could protect her.
The tower house was unguarded. Perhaps they lacked the manpower to post sentries. Or simply felt their isolation now protected them well enough. When he knocked, a steward answered the keep’s door, called for a lad to see to his horse, then led him upstairs to the hall to meet the local chief. Gavan saw great age in the condition of the walls, the unevenness of the stair treads. This place had been built long ago. It seemed the threat that gave it purpose no longer existed.
“Be welcome,” the man told him after the steward announced him. “I’m Ian Murray.”
And Marsali was a Murray. But not a lady of the clan. How close to the chief was the lass that she merited a deerhound for a companion? “Thank ye for yer hospitality,” Gavan replied as he looked around the room. As great halls went, this space was smaller than he was used to, but appeared to serve the same purpose. Murray men gathered along trestle tables, drinking and talking quietly. Gavan’s entrance had earned him a few glances, but once Ian greeted him, they lost interest and went back to what they were doing before he arrived.
“Sit,” Ian said, indicating a chair near the fire. “What brings ye here?”
Should he mention encountering Marsali at the stones? Would she be punished if he did? Of course she would. He could not do that to her. “I’m returning home and with at least a full day’s ride ahead of me to reach MacNabb, I grow weary of the trail.”
