by Amanda Scott
Also by Amanda Scott
Series
THE BATH TRILOGY
The Bath Quadrille
Bath Charade
The Bath Eccentric’s Son
BORDER NIGHTS
Moonlight Raider
Devil’s Moon
THE BORDER TRILOGY
Border Bride
Border Fire
Border Storm
THE BORDER TRILOGY 2
Border Wedding
Border Lass
Border Moonlight
THE DANGEROUS SERIES
Dangerous Games
Dangerous Angels
Dangerous Illusions
Dangerous Lady
THE GALLOWAY TRILOGY
Tamed by a Laird
Seduced by a Rogue
Tempted by a Warrior
THE HIGHLAND SERIES
Highland Fling
Highland Secrets
Highland Treasure
Highland Spirits
THE HIGHLAND NIGHTS SERIES
The Reluctant Highlander
The Kissing Stone
THE ISLES/TEMPLARS SERIES
Highland Princess
Lord of the Isles
Prince of Danger
Lady’s Choice
Knight’s Treasure
King of Storms
LAIRDS OF THE LOCH
The Laird’s Choice
The Knight’s Temptress
The Warrior’s Bride
SCOTTISH KNIGHTS TRILOGY
Highland Master
Highland Hero
Highland Lover
THE SECRET CLAN
Abducted Heiress
Hidden Heiress
Highland Bride
Reiver’s Bride
Novels
An Affair of Honor
The Battling Bluestocking
The Bawdy Bride
The Dauntless Miss Wingrave
The Fugitive Heiress
The Indomitable Miss Hariss
The Infamous Rakes
The Kidnapped Bride
Lady Escapade
Lady Hawk’s Folly
Lord Abberley’s Nemesis
Lord Greyfalcon’s Reward
The Madcap Marchioness
Mistress of the Hunt
The Rose at Twilight
The Kissing Stone
the highland nights series
Amanda Scott
To Maggie Crawford,
editor extraordinaire, who inadvertently planted
the seed for The Kissing Stone’s secondary theme.
Thank you!
Author’s Note
I based The Kissing Stone on historical versions of an incident during the ancient feud between Clan Comyn (later Cumming/s) and the Mackintoshes of Clan Chattan. The basic plotline of the feud and its result are historical, and the major events are as accurate as I could make them, including the ending.
The following note comes from one fascinating, bestselling source on which I relied for the way we use (and abuse) intuition, and how it works:
“Intuition is usually looked upon by us thoughtful Westerners with contempt … [and] often described as emotional, unreasonable, or inexplicable. Husbands chide their wives about ‘feminine intuition’ and don’t take it seriously. We much prefer logic, the grounded, explainable, unemotional thought process that ends in a supportable conclusion. Americans worship logic, even when it’s wrong, and deny intuition, even when it’s right.
“Men, of course, have their own version. … Theirs is more viscerally named ‘a gut feeling,’ but it isn’t just a feeling. It is our most complex cognitive process and at the same time, the simplest.”
—Gavin de Becker, The Gift of Fear: Survival Signals That Protect Us from Violence (Copyright 1997, 2010, Gavin de Becker, Dell 1997)
Glossary
For readers’ convenience, the author offers the following guide:
Catriona—Ka CHREE na
Clachan—village
Fain—glad
Forbye—besides, in addition, not to mention
Gillichallum Roy—Gilli HA lum = Young Malcolm; Roy = red
Glen—valley, typically narrow and deep
Glen Mòr—the Great Glen
Hellicat—a good-for-nothing
Mo chridhe—sweetheart
Moigh—Moy (which is Loch Moy’s modern spelling)
Plaid (great kilt)—pronounced “played.” All-purpose garment from a length of wool kilted up with a belt. Wearer flings excess over his shoulder.
Stone (the)—when capitalized = the kissing stone
Strath—broad, flat valley; typically a river runs through it (Strathnairn)
Tables—early name for backgammon, played much the same way
Tail—a powerful man’s retinue, limited at the time according to rank
Tocher—dowry
Whisst—as in “Hold (haud) your whisst”: Be quiet.
Intuition (15c): n 1: quick and ready insight; 2 a: immediate apprehension or cognition; b: knowledge or conviction gained by intuition; c: the power or faculty of attaining to direct knowledge or cognition without evident rational thought and inference.
—Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary, Eleventh Edition
Prologue
Scottish Central North Highlands, Raitt Castle, November 1432
“Sir, you cannot do this! Such hangings are not only illegal but barbaric!”
Standing outside the open main gate of the castle, twenty-three-year-old William Comyn—namesake of an ancient Lord of Badenoch—clutched his fists at his slim hips in outraged fury and faced his equally furious father with more than his usual courage. Having said, for once, exactly what he thought, Will fell silent, awaiting the explosion.
A wintry chill and gloomy sky augured a thunderous outcome for the day, too.
Nearby, men had almost finished stringing the ends of four long ropes through holes in four of the iron bars that protruded high on the stone wall framing the castle’s fifteen-foot arched gateway. The other end of each rope dangled near its intended victim, waiting for Comyns to form nooses around the men’s necks and haul each one up to hang until death claimed him.
The two angry men glowering at each other were both an inch or two over six feet with the same shoulder-length light brown hair, dark hazel-green eyes, and breadth of shoulder. However, Comyn of Raitt—or Sir Gervaise Comyn de Raite, as he now insisted others address him, employing the French pronunciation with emphasis on the second syllable of his first name—was a warrior of many more years’ standing.
Descended from Norman knights, de Raite was also heavier in shoulders and thighs than his lanky youngest son, and his unbound hair and beard revealed more gray than brown. His temper being legendary, none of his sons—despite the Fates’ originally blessing him with six—had ever so blatantly challenged his authority.
He reacted just as Will had expected.
“Nowt that I do be illegal!” de Raite roared, putting his face close to Will’s. “I am the law at Raitt, from Nairn tae Lochindorb, and should be treated as such, ye impudent hellicat. What’s more, them four Mackintosh villains trespassed on my land. For that, they must hang as a warning tae other such egregious ill-doers!”
Although Will’s focus remained fixed on what was doubtless a lost cause, he knew that his father was overstating his authority, which was oft contest
ed by neighboring chiefs and chieftains, especially the Mackintoshes, from whom de Raite had seized the castle two decades ago.
“Sir,” he said, cooling his tone, “recall that after you seized Raitt from Fin of the Battles, the Regent and, later, his grace, the King ordered the Mackintosh to let you keep Raitt and commanded you both to maintain the peace hereabouts.”
“Jamie Stewart be a feckless dafty,” de Raite retorted. “He’s nobbut a puppet o’ the English King a-trying tae bring English notions tae Scotland. By such doing, he undermines the powers o’ his nobles, most notably those of our liege lord, Alexander o’ the Isles. So, I’ll ha’ nowt tae do wi’ the King.”
Having clapped eyes on the King of Scots only once, at a distance, and therefore having no set opinion of James Stewart or his notions, Will nevertheless knew right from wrong. What his father was about to do was wrong.
“That road has been a public one for centuries, sir,” he said. “You have long given safe passage to travelers there, yourself. To change that practice only to hang four Mackintosh members of the powerful Clan Chattan Confederation is wrong in the eyes of the law and of God Himself. You gave them no warning and arrested them only because they were born Mackintoshes. To what end?”
“Tae what end, ye say? I’ll tell ye what end. Did Alexander’s forces under the command o’ Donal Balloch no defeat the Mackintoshes and the royal army at Inverlochy? Did Jamie Stewart not imprison Alexander after Jamie’s victory at Lochaber, when Alexander submitted tae him at Holyrood? Aye, he did! Alexander be free now at last but be a broken man who ha’ done nowt tae reclaim his heritage!”
“All of that is true,” Will admitted. “Even so—”
“Nae, then!” de Raite interjected. “We ha’ sworn fealty tae the Lord of the Isles. It be our bounden duty tae bring down all o’ them insolent Mackintoshes and their ilk, now and for all time.”
“But—”
“Be damned tae yer prating, Will Comyn! Sakes, but ye’re no Comyn at all tae be acting as ye do. So hush your gob and get ye hence, or by the Fates, I’ll gie ye yer own head on a rope tae play wi’! We ha’ room enow above for ye, too.”
Recognizing defeat, even as his older brothers Hew and Liam grabbed him by his arms and pulled him away from their enraged sire, Will saw that their hapless victims already had nooses around their necks.
The four were proud Mackintoshes who stared stoically ahead, knowing they had done no wrong but refusing to beg for mercy. Doubtless, they also knew that Comyn de Raite made his own rules and disclaimed having done murder whenever he had committed that crime, for this was by no means his first such offense.
Although born at Raitt, Will had been home for just two years, after fostering with his granduncle in Inverness-shire for fourteen before returning at de Raite’s request. Having trained as a warrior, Will had always expected to serve some noble lord, perhaps even the Earl of Mar, Lord of the North. However, his first duty, according to his granduncle, was to his own father.
Even so, Will could not bear to watch de Raite’s victims’ final suffering.
Instead, when his brothers released him, he strode southward around the castle and up the steep hill behind it, where he could always find solace, though it did seem as if the gathering dark clouds might begin to shed tears of rain over the villainy at Raitt. Wishing he had time to hike to the nearer of the mountain’s two craggy peaks before dark, he wondered if even that would be enough time for him to stop seeing the hangings in his mind’s eye, even briefly.
Unfortunately, his fertile imagination continued to provide him with more than he wanted to see, though the storm clouds merely sprinkled a bit of rain before moving on an hour or so later.
When he returned that night, praying that darkness would hide the results of his father’s evil deed until sunrise, the rising quarter moon, to his sad relief, revealed that none of Comyn’s four victims still struggled against his noose.
Unfortunately, although their torture had ended, repercussions were likely to follow. How he wished his father were a more tolerant man, one strong enough of conscience to make peace with his enemies.
The reality, though, was that de Raite was chief of what remained of Clan Comyn and thus his liege lord, to whom he owed loyalty. Moreover, Raitt Castle was their home. Having agreed to serve there with his brothers, he had also assumed responsibilities that argued against leaving to seek his fortune elsewhere.
Chapter 1
Scottish Highlands southeast of Castle Finlagh, 25 May 1433
“When one is having an adventure that is strictly forbidden, one should be able to enjoy it,” eighteen-year-old Katy MacFinlagh muttered to herself as she inched her way up the almost perpendicular granite slope toward the formidable crag above it.
With an old gray kirtle hitched up under a belt to leave her bare legs and leather-tough feet free, she had been enjoying her adventure immensely.
Pausing for a breath and to see what she could see from her present position, with her head turned so that her right cheek pressed against the warm granite surface, she grinned at the sight of the vast landscape beyond.
She could see northward to the town of Nairn’s harbor and the Moray Firth, four miles away, their water sparkling blue in the afternoon sun. The town sat at the mouth of the winding river from which it had taken its name. Katy could even make out the tall stone tower of Nairn’s castle and could see a good portion of the river, which had its headwaters in higher mountains to the southwest.
The town, with its thousand or so inhabitants, looked smaller from where she sprawled on the peak than it did from the ramparts of Castle Finlagh, hundreds of feet below her on its own two-hundred-foot knoll above the floor of the strath.
What she could not see and had hoped to see was Raitt Castle, but she was still on the west side of the crag, and Raitt lay somewhere northeast of the ridge of hills. Six months ago the villainous Comyn of Raitt who lived there had illegally hanged four of her fellow Clan Chattan kinsmen for no more crime than taking the main road from Glen Spey to Nairn. A portion of that public right of way crossed Raitt land, to be sure, but Comyn de Raite had insisted the men were trespassing.
Katy’s father, Fin of the Battles, controlled the west slope of the ridge and the peak she was climbing. They were part of Castle Finlagh’s estate. Fin had told her that Comyn de Raite oft sent watchers to the ridgetop to spy on Castle Finlagh.
In return, her father set guards to watch for Comyns. Knowing that she would be wise to avoid meeting MacFinlagh guards or Comyn watchers alone, she had brought her mother’s wolf dogs, Eos and Argus, as her companions. By keeping to thinning bits of woodland, she had walked up the steep slope to the base of the even steeper south crag and begun carefully to climb.
Aside from the awful hangings at Raitt, the area had been peaceful for nearly eighteen months. Moreover, although the west-facing slope lacked cottages, the homes of Finlagh’s cottars, men-at-arms, other tenants, and families of those who worked in the castle occupied the woods west of Finlagh and much of the strath. Guards watched from the castle ramparts, too, and might even have seen her come up the slope, so if she ran into danger, a good scream would swiftly bring help.
That she had reached the crag’s lower portion without drawing attention was a good omen, though. Likely, neither side had sent up watchers that day.
Exhilarated to have reached the exposed granite of the crag, she and the dogs had continued swiftly and agilely around boulders and over talus and scree until she had begun climbing the inviting, albeit more precipitous, stretch twenty or thirty feet below the top, where she sprawled now against its steeply angled surface.
The route had seemed to provide the fastest way with the fewest obstacles to the peak and looked easily approachable. Its southeastern section did plunge abruptly downward, but she could avoid that danger by keeping well to its west side.
That thought m
ade her glad she had failed to persuade her twin sister to come with her. Clydia was less adventurous, though she would say more practical. She would likely insist that they avoid the smooth-looking slope altogether.
Commanding the dogs to stay and proceeding upward with caution, Katy eventually had to ease a few feet to her right to avoid a sheer upthrust looming before her. Above it, to its right, a vertical crevice between other upthrusts beckoned, offering a probable path onto the peak itself. Gripping a small knob with her left hand and leaning into the rock face, she stretched her right arm toward the crevice. Unable to reach it, she tried to shove herself upward with her right foot, only to feel it slip right out from under her as if it had struck ice.
A cry of annoyance and distress escaped her as she scrabbled with both feet and her flailing right hand for solid purchase … for any purchase.
One of the dogs—likely the male, Argus—gave a sharp bark.
“Be still, laddie,” she muttered. “I can do this.” The last thing she wanted was for anyone else to catch her in such an undignified position. Nor did she want to fall, but she knew better than to let panic disturb her concentration.
Finding only the unforgiving slickness of a highly polished sheet of granite that refused to provide traction for either foot, she pressed her right hand hard and flat against a bit of rougher stone that it had encountered.
The weight of her body continued trying to drag her downward. Her left hand was losing its tenuous grip on the knob. Her bare feet found no purchase at all.
Raising her head barely enough to recognize that such movement further endangered her, she nevertheless discerned a tiny horizontal crack a few inches above her right hand. By stretching that arm hard to its length and beyond, she managed to dig the tips of her two longest fingers into the crack.
Fighting now to hold terror at bay, knowing she could not hold herself so for long, she forced herself to concentrate on relaxing into the rock and tried to imagine a way, any way, to escape her predicament before sliding to her death.
Will Comyn, under orders from his father to earn his keep for once, was supposed to be keeping watch on the residents of Castle Finlagh, their enemies to the southwest, from the ridgetop. Instead, to ease his boredom and armed with only his dirk, Will had spent most of the day tracking a deer while it wandered and grazed. Aside from birds and some rabbits, the only other sign of life that afternoon had been a lone woman strolling through a clearing in the trees below him.
