Lady of the Mountain

by Lyn Armstrong

  Slowly, Mary leaned over and placed her soft lips on Rhiannon’s mouth, her plump breasts pressing against hers. Rhiannon opened her lips and allowed Mary’s tongue to dance with hers. The sexual energy from her companion seeped into her skin, filling her body with arousal. The erotic feeling was intoxicating. One she enjoyed since their curious youth. Hidden from prying eyes, they would explore each other’s bodies, and Rhiannon found that sexual energy fueled her powers beyond anything she had ever experienced. A forbidden obsession they enjoyed many times.

  Mary’s hand cupped one of Rhiannon’s breasts, her finger gliding along the edge of her low-cut gown, heating the skin beneath.

  “We have not done this in a while,” Mary said in a low tone, her sweet breath wisped across her face.

  “Aye, I have been occupied.”

  “With what, pray tell?” she asked, her eyes changing from lust to irritation.

  Rhiannon shifted her gaze away from her friend’s probing eyes. She did not want anyone to know what she was doing with her days. It was bad enough she had to hide from her family, but it was worse hiding the truth from Mary.

  “Mother has me engaged with duties.”

  “Duties?” Mary arched an eyebrow and lightly flicked Rhiannon’s nipple as if punishing her for lying. “Since when do you care about duty?”

  A shock of pleasure coursed to her groin, making her deliciously moist. She enjoyed the familiar sensations, the comfort of another woman’s body. However, Rhiannon licked her lips nervously. She did want to tell her secret. The pressure of keeping it to herself was toiling on her conscious. “Pledge to me you will never repeat this to anyone.”

  Mary nodded, her eyes glistening. “Aye, I pledge.”

  She unlaced Rhiannon’s corset and shifted the loose chemise fabric over her breasts, allowing the breeze and sunlight touch her sensitive nipples. Mary’s pink tongue darted out and lapped at an erect bud.

  The ache between Rhiannon’s legs increased and she rubbed her inner thighs together. Gathering her thoughts, she continued, “I… I have…” She looked away. “Never mind.”

  Mary jolted up. “You have been practicing the dark arts?”

  “I did not say that,” Rhiannon’s words rushed out.

  “You did not have to.”

  Rhiannon looked at the blue sky and rubbed her forehead. A bad feeling entered her chest. She should not have said anything. The old gypsy warned her to keep their rituals a secret, even from her closest friend.

  Mary smiled. “You are a bad lass,” she crooned in a seductive tone and then kissed her again, her tongue dancing with hers. “I like your evil side.”

  Her friend’s words sliced through her core.

  “I am not evil,” Rhiannon pushed her away, no longer aroused. “I am just… curious.”

  “Curious about the forbidden? How unlike you,” she replied sarcastically.

  “I can handle the dark arts and I will prove it.”

  Mary laughed. “Prove it to yourself or to your mother?”

  The sound of horses’ hooves interrupted Rhiannon’s retort. Frowning, she causally laced up her gown while Mary undid hers, exposing her voluptuous breasts.

  Rhiannon sat upright. “What are you doing?”

  “I do not know about you, but I feel like having a man between my thighs.”

  Two castle guards halted near Rhiannon’s horse, their faces relieved to find their charges safe and sound. Master Rob, the youngest son of the sheriff scowled down at them, his bulky form seated stiffly on his horse. “Milady, you must not leave our company. If your father found out we had lost you…” The guard stop mid-sentence. His eyes bulged as he watched Mary walk forward, her full breasts swayed as she slowly undressed, a smile of encouragement on her face.

  Mary and Rhiannon had always loved to entice men from their duties. A couple of years earlier, they seduced a traveling monk. Since then, they would join in making love with a few select soldiers. Rhiannon’s personal guards knew her sexual appetite and indulged her tastes, but today, she did not feel like joining. Mary’s cryptic words about her being evil whooshed over her like the icy highland wind. She took a deep breath, thoughts of her forbidden powers weighing heavily on her. If her family knew she practiced the dark arts with the old gypsy, they would bind her powers and lock her in her chamber for the rest of the season.

  She rubbed her forehead again, her heart heavy. She grew tired of hiding who she was.

  From her clan, from the world.

  She longed for someone to accept both the good and evil side of her nature. To accept all of her. However, she did not blame them. Truth be told, she was afraid of herself, along with everyone else. Afraid of the evil power that coursed through her veins. Would she one day turn into someone that could not be controlled? Someone who would hurt her family, her people?

  Absently, she watched the guards swing from their saddles and quickly undress. Master Seamus, a tall soldier of twenty-four walked toward her, his erection boldly posturing. She shook her head and he stopped mid-stride, his face fallen. Turning around he joined Mary and Rob on the ground. Both men ran their tongues over her friend’s body. She writhed on the thick grass, her breathing labored, eyes closed.

  Violet energy deepened in color around the three. The light swirled in a cocoon and Rhiannon held out her hand, its power calling to her as if it were a living creature. The energy floated over to her and gathered around her hand like a warm glove, sizzling every inch of her skin while it climbed up her arm, saturating her soul. The pleasure they gained moved through her being. Even though she sat far away, she experienced the same sensations. Touching, smelling, tasting the threesome in the throes of passion.

  Mary opened her lips and took Rob’s member into her mouth while Seamus kneeled between her legs and slowly pressed his cock inside her. Their moans traveled over to Rhiannon, luring her to join them.

  She rose and had begun to walk toward them when a sudden storm swept over the land. Black clouds thundered overhead as wind picked up dead leaves from the ground. Apprehension etched on the guards’ faces and they quickly stopped what they were doing and donned their armor and clothes.

  Sighing, Rhiannon went to her horse and climbed up on the saddle.

  “Damn your mother and her emotional powers!” Mary said as she quickly dressed.

  Rhiannon lead her horse over to her friend. “We must return to the keep. Judging by the storm, she is obviously vexed with me again.”

  The sweet aroma of heather mingled with the familiar horse scent filled Lord Lachlan Fairbairn with a sense of peace. Even though he came from Scotland’s lowlands, he loved the rough and rugged countryside of the highlands. The craggy mountains, endless glens and challenging moorlands—the grand wilderness resonated within his taut chest. Although he appreciated the grandeur of the mountainous landscape, it was hard to enjoy the solitude when the nasally sound of Master Grigor Livingstone droned on over the leagues from Stirling Castle. Even thirty of Lachlan’s men traveling behind them could not drown out his incessant talking. Like himself, he was a Commission of Justiciary, sanctioned by King James VI. They had the authority to bring witches to trail. However, that was where the similarities ended. Lachlan looked over at the bony man sitting on top of a warhorse that was too big for him. Grigor had sunken cheeks and gray eyes, a hooknose and thin lips. His body seemed to be lost in a fur coat while his head held a blue velvet cap with a limp feather dangling to the side of his face. He had a feeble appearance, but his viciousness was renowned throughout the land.

  “Master Grigor,” Lachlan interrupted his tirade on peasants. “Why is it that you requested to come with me on this investigation? Surely, there were other commissions you could have taken.”

  His beady eyes narrowed at Lachlan. “You may be called the witch hunter, but I have more convictions than you. Since the accused is from a particular noble clan, I thought you needed someone with more… experience.”

  Lachlan took a deep breath, resisting
the need to smack Grigor’s smug smile from his face. He tightened his fingers around the reins. “I am called the witch hunter because I am an excellent tracker and no one can hide from me. Nonetheless, I do not torture the accused for confessions. So far, all of the witches have been nothing more than luckless souls with vengeful and ignorant neighbors that falsely incriminate them. When I find proof of witchcraft, that person will be sent to trail.”

  Grigor scoffed at him. “That is why I accompany you, milord. To make sure you gain the proof you need.”

  “Think I am a fool? You came to gain the proof you need. I know His Majesty has offered you something in return for the conviction of a noble witch. What is it? Gold, title—”

  “Land,” Grigor returned with a knowing grin.

  “What land?” Lachlan asked even though he unfortunately knew the answer.

  “Baird’s Glen.”

  Lachlan swore under his breath. The king had promised him the same land. He studied Grigor intently.

  Grigor continued, “Whoever returns the witch to Stirling Castle with a confession or proof will be granted the best land in the northern highlands.”

  Lachlan felt sick to his stomach. Everything he ever wanted was within grasp and now he had Grigor fighting for the same goal. He could not live on his cruel father’s graces any longer. The son of seven brothers meant he inherited nothing but a name and distain from the earl. Owning land in the highlands was everything Lachlan dreamed of, everything he sacrificed to gain the king’s favor.

  How far would Grigor go to obtain Baird’s Glen?

  “There will be no torture,” he warned. “His majesty wants this case handled delicately, yet thoroughly. The Roberts and Campbell clans are strong allies of the king. An accusation cannot be stated until there is evidence of witchcraft. All we have is a rumor. We must use tact and discretion.”

  Grigor’s eyebrows slashed across his face and he tightened his lips. “Tact and discretion? A witch is a witch, whether they be commoner or aristocrat. If they deal with the devil, I will see them hanged and burned,” Grigor said, malice lacing his words.

  Lachlan shook his head. If it was not for the king’s command to take Grigor with him, he would have had the man bound and gagged and left behind in the last tavern. He smiled at the vision of the skinny man squirming on the cot, his red face furious.

  A crack of thunder boomed above them and Lachlan jerked his gaze up. The skies had been blue with only a few clouds marring the horizon. Suddenly, a black cloud rolled in with incredible speed. He had never seen a storm so swift.

  “’Tis witchcraft,” Grigor exclaimed, the feather in his hat flickered in the blustery wind.

  His men muttered among themselves, their horses restless beneath them.

  Lachlan did not want to leap to conclusions, but it was hard to explain the unusual weather. “Keep moving forward,” he shouted over the wind.

  They crested a hill to find a magnificent castle built on the side of a mountain, its battlements expanding around a village, protecting the people from the hostile weather. Lachlan pulled his cloak up around his neck.

  “Look down there!” Grigor pointed to the valley below.

  Four people galloped across the field, heading toward the castle. Two men wore green tunics, the tartan of the Roberts guards and the two ladies wore regal gowns that flowed over the horse’s rumps. One had auburn hair, her features determined and unwavering, trying to keep abreast with the lady in front.

  However, it was the young feminine leader who mesmerized Lachlan. Her blond braid swung in the wind, whipping around her shoulders. Her face glowed with a satisfied smile as if she relished the freedom of a reckless ride. Her pale blue gown did nothing to hide the curves while her body moved in rhythm to the horse’s gait. Her laughter drifted up to them on the rise and Lachlan could not resist a smile. He was not used to seeing such wildness in a woman, such passion for life.

  She whipped her hand around and pulled something from her hair, the braid fell apart, allowing her golden tresses liberty in the wind.

  “She must be a witch!” Grigor accused. “No God-fearing lady would tempt the devil in such a way.”

  Lachlan frowned, but did not pull his gaze from her.

  “Look at her hair, unbound and free.” Grigor nudged his mount forward. “I dare say that is Lady Rhiannon Campbell. I have heard of her legendary beauty. She has the looks of an angel but the temperament of a devil.” He twisted to face Lachlan. “I am certain she is the one we are to investigate. Perhaps she summoned the storm to…”

  “Enough!” Lachlan glared at Grigor. “Let us at least talk to the lass before condemning her.”

  “And if she does not confess under scrutiny?”

  “Sooner or later, she will use magick—a witch cannot help it,” Lachlan said.

  “Whoever gains a confession or proof first, will own Baird’s Glen.” Grigor finished Lachlan’s line of thought.

  He returned his focus back to Lady Rhiannon. The gates opened, allowing the young group to disappear beyond the fortified walls.

  Witch or no, Baird’s Glen was going to be his.

  Also Available from Resplendence Publishing:

  The Last Celtic Witch by Lyn Armstrong:

  “As charming and magical as Celtic legend itself, a truly enjoyable read and wonderful debut!”

  Heather Graham

  New York Times Bestselling Author

  A painful death… a prophecy foretold.

  Pursued by evil forces for her powers, recluse Adela MacAye foresees her own agonizing death. She must seek the chosen one to produce an heir and pass on her Celtic powers. To fail would be the end of good magick, plunging the world into darkness.

  Conjuring a fertility spell she is led to a sensual chieftain who is betrothed to the sorceress that hunts her. Time is running out as fate and the future pursue her.

  Plagued by enemies and undermined by sabotage, handsome Laird Phillip Roberts must save his clan from bloody feud by making an alliance through marriage… a marriage he does not want. After a night of white-hot sensual delights with the alluring witch, his heart commands he break the pledge of peace. With treachery around every corner, will he be too late to save… The Last Celtic Witch?

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  Book One of the Desires of the Lamp Tales

  With no love life to speak of, BBW Anya Bartholomew lives only for her job. This dedication has paid off. As a successful advertising agent, she has risen in the ranks of her firm to be the top moneymaker.

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  Fiery Ember by Celia Kyle

  Ember Ellason is a darned good secretary. True, she’d like to be more, but since her father’s passing, her step-mother has taken over as CEO of Ellason Advertising, and Clementine Ellason feels Ember is only good enough to fetch coffee… barely. But when Clementine and her horrid daughters fail to show up for the meeting with the biggest client they could ever land, Ember saves the day by impersonating her step-mother.

  Paul Ashe needs a new ad campaign and he’s found the perfect company with the perfect proposal in Ellason Advertising. Too bad his body is a little too interested in the voluptuous CEO with her fiery red hair and blazing green eyes. Then he can’t seem to find the elusive woman after their first intimate tryst, and is left with only a pair of panties to remember her by.

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