“Mid-day. He wanted his payment.”
“For what? And why would he come to you?” He moved to stand in front of her, and noticed for the first time fine lines around her eyes and mouth.
She swallowed before speaking. “I brought him here.”
His anger now had to vie with shock. “In God’s name, why?”
Her shrug unsettled the plaid so it hung down her back. “I wanted to experience magic.” She grimaced. “Ah dinna ken the trouble he would cause.”
Fear stabbed at Bane, like the minute before a battle when he felt on the brink of a precipice. “What trouble?”
“McGowan said there were two witches in our midst, but that I needn’t worry as he knew what to do about them.” She searched Bane’s face. “The horrible man refused to tell me who, but he said you would know.”
Understanding burst over him like oil poured from a parapet, followed by a dread that far surpassed the moments before a battle. “Mother, have you seen Kenzie or her mother?”
“Nay. Maggie told me they had gone to the village to care for the cooper’s son.”
“Mother, rouse the captain from his bed. Have him assemble the men and meet me at the village.”
McGowan wouldn’t . . . His people couldn’t . . . They were his people. He’d help them to see reason. He crossed the great hall at a run. Part of him hoped he had guessed wrong. At the stable he threw a saddle on his already lathered horse and galloped out. Superstition thrived in his village and there was only one solution he’d heard for witchcraft.
Death.
She’d been brave when the villagers came to get them. She’d been brave when the stakes came into sight, standing like lone sentinels in the center of the moor, mist spreading like smoke at their feet. But Kenzie’s bravery crumbled as they led her over the collection of dried peat and wood that would be her funeral pyre.
It was all too real. She turned and tried to flee, but McGowan blocked her path. “Now, lass, it’s been decided.” He brushed her hair back from her face with a tenderness that belied the malicious twist of his lips. “Too bad. I never tire of looking at your eyes.”
He turned to the silent villagers who had gathered like specters in the swirling white of the early morn. “She refuses to confess her guilt.” With rough movements, he lashed her to the stake, stepped down to the ground, and faced his audience. In a pious voice he canted, “May God have mercy on her soul.”
“Mama?” She peered over to where her mother had been lashed to her own stake. Suddenly Kenzie was five again and the woman on the stake didn’t have grey hair that straggled around her shoulders, or matted blood on her forehead. Instead she was the beautiful woman who had always protected her. Her mother had been right not to trust, and now, because of her daughter, her life would be cut short. Guilt vied with fear and anger as she looked out over the crowd.
Tears spilled from Kenzie’s eyes, and she yanked at her bindings till her wrists burned. She glared at the silent villagers, some of whom crossed themselves at her notice. “I am no’ a witch, and neither is my mother.”
At McGowan’s nod, a thin man came forward with a torch and set aflame the grasses tucked between the logs at her feet. He repeated the process in several places. The crackle warned her that the wood had indeed started to burn.
Bane. It seemed odd that she should still think of him with love, in spite of what he’d done. Yet, she couldn’t regret yesterday morn. At least for her, that had been real.
She closed her eyes, imagining Bane’s kiss as the man with the torch approached her mother’s stake. Too soon, Kenzie felt the heat through the soles of her boots. With her eyes squeezed shut she lifted her feet to avoid the flames licking at her toes and tried to concentrate on the look of desire in Bane’s eyes when she’d removed her shift.
Bane yanked back on Night’s reins and stared in horror at the end of the meadow. Anger and fear warred within him, making his palms slick against the leather.
Kenzie and her mother were lashed to stakes. Flames and smoke obscured his view, and he couldn’t tell what damage had already been done by the fire. His gut tightened. If Kenzie suffered any injury, the witch pricker was going to wish he’d never heard of the Mackays.
His fingers clamped into fists, and with a yell he urged his mount forward, galloping onto the moor. Cries went up as he thundered through the villagers like a black devil, then reined in behind the stakes.
He threw himself off the horse, rushing toward the flames. Smoke obscured his vision. He kicked several burning logs out of the way before he could reach her. She didn’t appear to be moving. What if . . . ? No. His jaw set. He couldn’t—wouldn’t lose her.
Using his dirk, he slashed at her bindings, catching her before she fell forward into the flames. Trying to be gentle, but moving quickly, he laid her on the moss between the stakes and repeated the process for her mother, who had not yet succumbed to the smoke.
No one stopped him, but he could hear raised voices as he returned to where Kenzie lay and carefully removed her scorched boots. Her shift had gone black with soot, but the flesh on her feet, while reddened, didn’t appear to be blistered.
She coughed and struggled to take several deep breaths, then blinked up at him as if she couldn’t quite believe he was there. “Bane?”
How could one word carry hope and pain at the same time? “Aye, lass, I’m here.”
He helped her to her feet as some of the villagers surrounded them.
McGowan broke through the ring and faced the crofters. “Can you not see, he’s one of them!” McGowan pointed to Bane’s hand. “Why else would the ring he wears appear at his birth? I’ve heard it was given to the family for their use of magic.”
Bane clenched his jaw. His mother should not have shared the family history with McGowan. He scanned the villagers. It would be three against twenty-five or thirty. He may be their laird, but if McGowan cast him in the role of devil, they’d never listen. He rested his hand on his sword. Not the best of odds. “Each of you has heard me say there is no magic in the world.” At several nods from the crofters, he continued.
“I was wrong.”
His statement was met with shocked expressions and a little fear. Did they think Kenzie had cast a spell over him? His lips curled up. Then again, perhaps she had.
Bane searched the crowd for the village smithy. “Anton, would you say you make the finest swords in the Highlands?”
Everyone turned to Anton, whose face had gone red. “Aye, that’s what’s said.”
He singled out a broad-faced, plump woman. “Fiona, do you not weave the finest plaids this side of Aberdeen?”
She smiled and glanced away. “If you say so, Laird.”
He studied the rest of the crowd. “Do any of you believe they are in league with the devil?” With his palms face up, he indicated each in turn. “They use the same materials as their neighbors, yet they produce finer goods.”
Several women gasped and people started to move away from the two in question.
“Margaret, do you not have the loveliest voice in the village? Arden, can you not find the best peat bogs?” He shook his head. “All these gifts are magic of a sort.” He turned to Kenzie. “Lady McLeod’s gift is with animals and her mother’s with plants. Are those any less natural than your abilities? Aren’t we stronger for these gifts?”
A voice called out to him. “But she didn’t bleed.”
McGowan smirked. “‘Tis true. Everyone saw the witch felt no pain, nor did she bleed.”
Murmurs started.
Bane clenched his jaw as they cast questioning glances at Kenzie and her mother.
Kenzie moved closer and turned her arm over for Bane to see. Pale flesh showed where the sleeve had been torn, but no mark marred the pearly whiteness. “McGowan stuck me with a needle,
but though it appeared to go into my arm, I’d not felt any pain.” She lowered her hoarse voice to barely a whisper. “I think he does something with the needles. If you could search his pouch . . .”
Trickery was in keeping with what he knew of the man. “McGowan, there is something I wish to discuss, but it is for your ears alone.”
The witch pricker sauntered forward, a triumphant smile on his lips. “What will you offer for the woman’s life? You realize that on my word, the villagers will bind her again.” He raised his eyebrows. “She’s a convicted witch, and even in the Highlands they burn witches. Your men, when they arrive, would not interfere.” A sneer entered his voice. “Only my say so will save her life.”
Bane waved the man closer, until they stood but a foot or two apart. “You’ll never win.” He said it so softly that McGowan was forced to lean forward to catch the utterance, but in that moment Bane snatched the pouch from McGowan’s waist, snapping the leather thongs.
A roar went up, but Bane had drawn his sword and now held the point under McGowan’s chin. It was all he could do not to thrust upward. He threw the bag to Kenzie. “What do you find, lass?”
Kenzie drew not one, but two needles from the pouch. Each appeared to be identical from where he stood.
McGowan’s face lost its color as he tried to jerk out of Bane’s grasp. “Anton, what think you of the needles?”
The smithy came forward and examined them. “They are of quality workmanship, but not truly the same. One has a ridge at the joining of the needle.”
Bane glanced at Kenzie’s soot blackened face. “Test them on her.”
“But Laird, I don’t want to—”
“Do it.”
The smithy moved forward, and gently raised the sleeve of Kenzie’s shift. Bane hated to put her through this, but he needed to prove McGowan wrong. “Well?”
The first needle pressed against her arm caused her to jerk from the smithy’s grasp, leaving a red mark in its wake. He repeated the process with the second needle, but this one entered her flesh without a flinch from Kenzie.
A gasp came from the villagers. With the points out, Anton held them up for Bane to see. “The second needle has a shelf under the dragon’s tail. When I press down”—he used his fingertip—“the needle slips inside the tail.”
Anger erupted like the crash of the sea upon stone. The villagers shouted for the witch pricker’s death. Amidst the chaos, his men arrived. No longer arrogant, McGowan’s gaze kept darting around, as if expecting danger from every quarter.
“Listen.” Bane’s shout rose above the crackling of flames, stamping horses, and outraged voices. “I’ll not have this day marred by the taking of a life—even one as worthless as McGowan.” He lowered his sword. “I have asked Kenzie McLeod to be my wife.”
“Nay.” A panicked shriek sounded from the back of the crowd. All heads turned to Maggie, who started to back away from the hostile stares. Before she could go far, two of the villagers grabbed her and forced her to the front next to McGowan.
Bane sheathed his sword and stared at McGowan. “You are no longer welcome on Mackay lands. My men will take you to our borders.” He took the needles from Kenzie and ground them under the heel of his boot. “I would suggest you never return. My leniency would not be extended a second time.”
His gaze focused on Maggie. She was a member of his clan, but he could not allow her vicious tongue and manipulative ways to infect his people. “You will be taken with McGowan to our borders.”
He lowered his gaze to where Kenzie touched his arm. “Laird, I know what it’s like to be without a home or a clan.” She glanced at Maggie. “Don’t do this to her.”
Kenzie’s violet eyes held compassion. Yet another reason for him to love her. He’d been lying to himself when he’d thought he wanted her out of duty. He wanted her for the balance she brought to his life. Without her, the world lacked color and became a burden.
Maggie’s voice cut like a hot blade across his thoughts. “I’ll not remain if you are to wed her.” She straightened and glared at Kenzie. “The witch has captured your soul.” With a snap of her skirts, she stomped off to where Bane’s men waited on horseback. McGowan followed, flanked by his men.
Captured his soul? No, she’d captured his heart.
After his men had left, Bane stared at the grouping of crofters and their families. Most looked ashamed and couldn’t hold his gaze. He could call each one by name. These people mattered, not because they were his duty, but because they knew him and inspired the best in him.
Bane smiled down at his smoke-blackened betrothed and she took his hand. Without her, he might never have seen that he belonged to these people and this place. It didn’t matter what he was born into, as long as people accepted him for who he was.
Anton approached Kenzie and smiled. “You’ll make a fine Mackay.”
Tears spilled from her eyes, sending streaks through the soot on her cheeks. The rest of the village moved forward to congratulate them as the two stakes, consumed by fire, fell into the embers below.
Epilogue
Kenzie crossed the threshold of the cottage and clapped her hands. How much the place had changed. The bed now had an overstuffed feather mattress, heather and herbs were scattered across the floor, and the table had been set with linens. A sumptuous meal of meat pies, wine, and cheese had been laid in preparation for the wedded couple.
With a laugh, she plopped down on the bed, causing a whooshing sound as the mattress came up to engulf her. She grinned up at Bane. Her husband. She’d never tire of that amazing fact. Even in his finest clothes, he managed to appear untamed, like the wildcats on the moor.
With a raised eyebrow, he closed the door. “Well now, lass, ‘tis glad I am I rescued you from the flames.”
Kenzie tried to sound innocent. “And why would that be?”
He gave her a look that heated every part of her. It was a look of promise, a look of desire—a look of love. He came to stand in front of her, his ceremonial sporran hanging just at eye level. If he were naked, she’d be staring at . . . Heat rose in her cheeks. Were wives supposed to think about that part of their husbands?
She rolled sideways, then stood and walked a short distance, her stomach fluttering. “I think the witches would be pleased we married at the alcove in the garden.”
“Aye.” He came up behind her, his warm breath stirring the hair at her nape, just before he skimmed the base of her neck with his lips.
A shudder passed over her, but it had nothing to do with fear. Languid warmth spread throughout her body, settling low and causing a maelstrom of desire.
His arms encircled her. He tucked her head below his chin and whispered in her ear. “You’ve bewitched me. I dinna like to think what my life was like before you.”
Kenzie stared down at his clasped hands, which now bore two rings, a wedding ring that matched her own, and the witch’s ring. The heavy golden eagles matched the proud independence of her husband. She ran her index finger over the clan ring. “It suits you.”
“Does it, now? For years I resented what this bit of gold and stones implied. That I had no choices in my life.”
“And now?” She turned in his arms, very aware of his steady regard. His gaze made her legs feel like they could no longer support her. She reached out, placing her palms against his plaid, noting the rapid beat of his heart that matched her own.
“We all have choices. ‘Tis what you do with them that matters.” He leaned in and kissed the corner of her mouth, working his way down her neck.
“Really, and where might you have learned that?” Her train of thought kept slipping as his lips nipped and nuzzled.
He reached up, brushed his knuckles against her cheek, then smiled at her. “From my wife.”
“Mmmmm? Wise man.” A rustle of wings drew their
attention and Kenzie stepped back. Wee John flew through the open window and perched on her shoulder. The bird sidled closer and nudged her cheek with its beak. It seemed to Kenzie that the finch wanted to wish them well in their new life.
Bane’s eyes held wonder as he extended his finger toward the bird. Wee John cocked his head, giving Bane a quizzical expression, then hopped onto the new perch.
Their gazes met over the preening bird, and Bane’s lips turned up in a wolfish grin. “I have no doubt, my love, that life with you will be pure magic.”
Wandering Heart
Meggan Connors
Chapter 1
Ohio
August 1865
Cameron Mackay watched as smoke curled lazily from the chimney of the house in front of him. He’d been here for a long time. Though the sun had been high when he had arrived, the gloaming had set in, and fireflies had begun their nightly dance as the muggy heat of day eased into twilight.
His brother was inside that house.
He’d seen Duncan from a distance. He’d meant to approach him earlier, meant to saunter on up to him all swagger and bluster, act as if nothing was amiss between them, and say his peace. He meant to do a lot of things he couldn’t bring himself to do.
All this time, watching the house, and he couldn’t think of a single thing he could say that would fix all that had passed between them over the last five years of war.
He and Duncan had been thick as thieves once, but the war had changed that, as it had changed so many things. His brother had joined the First Virginia Cavalry to protect their land and their legacy, while he’d run off and joined the other side. The family land had always been the foremost concern for all of the Mackays, more important than country or politics. When their grandfather had been driven from Scotland, he’d vowed the Mackays would never lose their land again.
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