Highland Treasure
Page 1
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Eternal Press/Damnation Books LLC
www.eternalpress.ca
Copyright ©2010 by Mary McCall
First published in 2010-08-07, 2010
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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
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CONTENTS
Dedicated:
The Legend
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
About the Author:
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Highland
Treasur
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By
Mary McCal
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Eternal Press
A division of Damnation Books, LLC.
P.O. Box 3931
Santa Rosa, CA 95402-9998
www.eternalpress.biz
Highland Treasure
by Mary McCall
Digital ISBN: 978-1-61572-155-9
Print ISBN: 978-1-61572-156-6
Cover art by: Amanda Kelsey
Edited by: Pamela Hopkins
Copyedited by: Erin Cramer
Production and Layout by: Ally Robertson
Copyright 2010 Mary McCall
Printed in the United States of America
Worldwide Electronic & Digital Rights
1st North American and UK Print Rights
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced , scanned or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotes for use in reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Dedicated:
With love and devotion to my mother Minnie. Thank you for life, faith and inspiration
You are my real-life heroine.
Author's Note:
While Scottish Highland clans did not possess registered tartans until well into the seventeenth century, the Celtic tribes were known for their intricately woven checkered fabrics. Many tribes/clans could be distinguished from others according to the local vegetation and plants used to dye threads for their cloth as far as the fifth century. The MacPhersons were noted for the blues woven into their fabric as early as the twelfth century. The Highland Gaelic word for their blankets was plaide. I admit to literary license in using the plaid as a clan distinction prior to the time of tartan registrations.
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Acknowledgements:
This work of love has been inspired and influenced by numerous people, and I cannot possibly list them all. Much gratitude is extended to Judith Hogsett, my original critique partner extraordinaire. The wonderful knowledge of Jody Allen and Sharron Gunn, my new critique partner, proved invaluable assets in research. Gratitude is extended to Debra Dixon, Patricia Potter, Carolyn MacSparren, Vicky Henzi and Elizabeth Sinclair—published authors who generously shared founts of invaluable knowledge, time and advice. Endless praise to Eliza Knight, Nicole North and Kris Kennedy, who provided precious insight, inspiration and a cyber butt-kick to help me get back into my creative flow when I returned to writing after an unfortunate encounter with a drunk driver. Romance Writers of America, Hearts through History Romance Writers, Celtic Hearts Romance Writers, River City Romance Writers and The Golden Network are dynamic groups and have proven their value and support on a daily basis. Much appreciation goes to my colleague Cheryl Talley, Behavioral Health Administrator at Delta Medical Center, who encouraged me to pursue my dreams. And lastly, I would be remiss not to mention the wenches at the JGBB, whose comments from readers’ perspectives have kept me on track.
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[Back to Table of Contents]
The Legend
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Once upon a time, near the uppermost shores of Caledonia, there lived a fierce tribe of Celtic warriors led by the King of Fire, Ri Tuaithe Kai...
The young woman washed ashore at his feet and wouldn't rouse.
Ri Tuaithe Kai gazed northward as the bow of the approaching ship submerged beneath the torrential surf that crashed beyond the reef. Cries from passengers went unheeded by the gods and soon ceased as the raging sea dragged the poor souls into her unforgiving clutches.
What miracle of fate allowed this lass to escape a watery grave? Ri Tuaithe Kai pushed her onto her back and gasped. The serpentine medallion suspended from a thin leather cord around her neck marked her as a member of the house of Goraidh, the great Druid priest of the northern isle who claimed Ri Tuaithe Kai as an enemy.
The ways of the times and tribal loyalty dictated he should leave the lass to her fate. If he helped this young woman, and she died, Goraidh would surely unleash his powers on Ri Tuaithe Kai's tribe. Not a prospect the mighty King of Fire sought. Of course, if the lass lived, he would gain a strong ally.
There was no help for it. She would freeze to death if he left her behind. And damn if his one weakness wasn't a woman in need of protection. Ri Tuaithe Kai sighed, then hefted the young woman over his shoulder and carried her home.
"What have ye there?” his wife Siubhan asked, looking up from a cauldron suspended over a fire in the center of the longhouse. Her long brown hair was pulled back with a leather cord, while a sheen of perspiration filmed her brow, fatigue drawing he
r features. Heavy with child, she straightened and pressed a hand against the ache in the small of her back.
He lowered his burden onto a pallet near the wall and approached the fire to warm his hands. “A lass washed ashore after the sea claimed the ship that carried her. She is near dead. Do what you can for her."
Ri Tuaithe Kai's son Artair approached the drenched creature, her long hair matted in lines across a ghostly pale face. Her sweet lips were blue and taut from the freezing waters, not the rosy hue they should have been. Long blonde lashes screened dark circles beneath her eyes. The signs of illness could not hide the loveliness of her face.
Artair sighed. “She is beautiful."
Upon approaching the woman, Siubhan gasped and frowned at her husband. “Her talisman bears the sign of Goraidh. Do you think to bring his wrath on our people if she lives not?"
Ri Tuaithe Kai grunted. “Tend the lass, wife. The gods shall decide our fate."
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Two moons later, Goraidh stepped onto the shore that had caught his daughter. Of average height and thin of frame, he held a staff topped with a golden serpent. The snake's ruby eyes reflected red rays about the beach as he offered a hand to his wife. A great priestess in her own right, Inghinn accepted his assistance. Despite her diminutive frame, she stood regally beside her husband.
Fierce warrior though the King of Fire was, he suppressed the impulse to follow his clansmen who had taken a step back from the powerful aura emanating from the pair. ‘Twas said, between Goraidh and Inghinn, they could harness all the forces of nature and command the Fates.
"I come to claim what is mine,” the priest intoned. “Do you honor the truce you offered, Ri Tuaithe Kai?"
The King of Fire stood tall, arms folded across his chest. “Aye, you are welcome to break your journey and claim your kin, Goraidh. You and yours are under my protection according to our code of hospitality."
Siubhan cleared her throat and poked her husband's back.
He sighed. “My wife wishes me to tell you that your daughter does not wish to wed the prince across the waters. Another claims her heart."
A stern frown furrowed Gorhaid's leathered features. “What treachery is this? Who else could she wish?"
Ri Tuaithe Kai knew his next words would either mean the destruction of his tribe, or peace with the powerful priest. “My son."
Goraidh raised his chin to an indignant angle. “'Twould mean war with the prince across the water."
Ri Tuaithe Kai shrugged. “Then I suppose the only thing for me to do will be to fight him beside you...since we will be kin."
A calculated gleam lit the priest's gray eyes. “Then I suppo—"
"Wait!” Inghinn interrupted and glared at Ri Tuaithe Kai through flashing crystalline-blue eyes. “I shall hear my daughter's wishes from her own lips."
The King of Fire nodded. “Roanaid, come greet your parents."
Graceful and lithe, Roanaid approached her parents with Artair at her side. Her straight moon-white hair fell to her hips, reflecting the sun. “Ri Tuaithe Kai speaks the truth, Father. I wish to wed his son and no other."
"By my honor,” Artair said, “I will protect her life with my own."
Goraidh scrutinized the young warrior for several moments. His silence weighed heavy on the tribesmen present until he finally nodded. “Then so you shall wed,” the priest declared. He faced his host. “Ri Tuaithe Kai, you saved my daughter's life. For this service you shall be rewarded. Beginning with the child in your wife's womb, and in every generation to come, a girl child shall be born to your tribe whose intuition shall be keen. She will have the ability to draw pain from others, and her healing powers shall be great. She shall walk and converse with wild creatures and live life with great passion. She shall be a fierce and strong warrior and a loyal defender of those she loves. Her presence will bring good fortune to those with whom she abides. No matter where she roams in life, fate shall return her to this land, for only here will she find her soul mate and destiny."
"You honor us.” Ri Tuaithe Kai nodded to the mighty priest.
"Too much!” Inghinn snapped.
"Now, wife,” Goraid said soothingly, “he returned our daughter."
"Only to take her away again,” she countered harshly.
"The Gift is bestowed,” he said sternly. “You may not take it back."
"I shall not take back The Gift for, as you say, he saved Raonaid. Instead, I shall add a thorn to the rose. I shall bestow a gift of my own. One that shall mark every woman in this tribe."
"I do not like that light in your eyes, Inghinn. What gift do you bestow?
"Surely you know, husband.” Crystalline-blue eyes twinkled as she said, “I give all the women of this tribe a most wonderful gift. I give them mischief that their mates may never grow bored."
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Thus, the legend began. And this wonder continued through the ages, blessing the descendants of Ri Tuaithe Kai. In his land, men still seek women bearing The Gift, hoping destiny deigns them to be mated to such a one. The land wherein Ri Tuaithe Kai dwelled became known as the Highlands of Scotland. His tribe became known as one of the fiercest clans of all.
The MacKays.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter One
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England, March, 1081
The muscles bunched in the nape of Lady Hope Nevilles's neck as her extra sense signaled impending danger. She snagged a limb in a giant oak with the long, braided lash of her whip and nimbly climbed into the foliage above, hiding from view.
Who in perdition was coming? She would surely lose the trail of the deer she tracked and have to begin her hunt anew.
From her camouflaged perch overlooking the Great North Trail, she cast her gaze northward and muttered one of the many unladylike curses she had learned from her father. Morag, her father's man, cantered in her direction on a sorrel mare.
As the soldier neared, the dirt etched into the creases of his craggy face enhanced the evil set of his jaw. Greasy dark hair was plastered against his sweaty brow. She crinkled her nose as her flesh crawled with disgust. Her father had told that piece of vermin he could have her if he could catch her. Hope snorted. Both men were daft. She would never allow any man to gain control over her again.
A chilly breeze swept over her, fluttering the glossy young leaves. She huddled into her rabbit-pelt blanket and clenched her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering. Zounds! ‘Twas supposed to be spring. She didn't need this wind or the storm clouds gathering in the north.
She could be safe and cozy in her cave if she didn't have to snare game for her father's table. ‘Twas the only way she could keep the brute from hunting her. The Good Lord knew she longed for the courage to flee these familiar woods. A chance to live free from constant fear of capture and torture. A chance to belong...somewhere.
The bundle in Morag's lap caught Hope's eyes, and she almost choked on a gasp. Those muted red, blue and green hues signaled that the checkered cloth belonged to The Roarin’ MacPherson.
Her heart skittered as conflicting emotions of outrage and fear warred in her soul. She would never forget the first time she saw that plaid. Nor was The MacPherson likely to forget the ambush that soaked his colors with the blood of his clansmen. Did her father seek to bring the rage of The Lion upon their English countryside after all the grief he had already caused the Highlander?
Pounding hooves approached from the opposite direction as her father rode into view. The two men met on the path almost directly beneath her hideout.
"Ho, Morag.” The baron's coal-black eyes glittered with his usual malice as he reined in his midnight-black steed. Only a red stripe down the length of his left arm and a red tassel at the tip of his scabbard broke the black of his attire—garments that Hope thought reflected the evil within his soul. “From the plaid, I assume your mission met with success."
"Aye, Baron, and ‘twas easy.” Morag twisted his lips into a grin and flipped back the edge o
f the blanket, exposing a sleeping boy. “The slut who is to wed The MacPherson handed him over."
The baron raised a brow. “She refused coin?"
Morag chuckled, revealing decayed, broken teeth. “The bitch spread her thighs and gave me the ride of my life for taking him."
Amusement crossed Baron Nevilles's swarthy features. “Keep the coins I gave you for the exchange. You bloody well earned them if you had to dip into a cursed heathen.” He caressed the boy's cheek with the tip of a short leather whip. “How long before he wakes?"
Morag shrugged. “Probably another half day. He will be sluggish for a while. I dosed him several times a day for the journey."
"Let us return to the donjon.” The baron's upper lip curled into a sneer. “Tonight I intend a celebration of pain as I initiate my enemy's son into the world of passion and pleasure."
Her father's gloating laughter faded as the men cantered away. All of Hope's hatred against her sire rose with a suffocating force, sending a sickening wave of rage through her belly until she felt as if a demon was prodding her to kill. The demon had festered within her before, and she exercised every speck of control she could muster to prevent the urge to recklessly challenge her nemesis. One day her skill would equal or exceed his. Then her father would pay for every malicious act perpetrated against those who could not defend themselves. Aye, his death would be painful and slow.
Hope heard a cawing sound overhead and exhaled as a giant brown eagle swooped in and landed on her shoulder. She blew on his neck and caressed his feathered chest with her forehead. “Ah, Harry, my friend, I am glad to see you."
Harry warbled, wrapped a huge wing around her head, and nuzzled her cheek.
Hope stroked the eagle's chest and narrowed her eyes. “Aye, I recognized the blanket too. We must find Diable. My cursed father has caused Clan MacPherson too much grief. I'll not allow this. And ‘twould appear the Good Lord has sent me the sign I asked for. When darkness falls, we take the boy and leave for the Highlands. I pray the Good Lord's angels go with us and guard us well."
Harry warbled and fluttered his wings.
"Aye, my fierce warrior. I would rather not bait The Roarin’ MacPherson either.” Hope looked toward the thunderclouds darkening the northern sky. “I have a feeling lion-bait is a game I could never win."