Highland Blazing: A Scottish Historical Highlander Romance Collection

by Raina Wilde

  She followed the sound further into the woods until the trees were so thick that even in the morning light she could barely see her hands in front of her face.

  That was when she heard it. The loud crack of wood that was much too powerful to be made by a man passing through the forest. Catríona crouched behind the nearest tree. Her heart pounded in her chest and she instantly regretted the decision to follow Greum into the strange forest. She cupped her hands over her mouth, trying to cover the sound of her breathing. What if it was the wolves that the men had been talking about frequently? She shuddered to think about herself stranded in the face of a wolf pack.

  Another crack further away made Catríona breathe a sigh of relief. She could now hear the beast as it moved up the hill behind her, every step taking it further away. When she estimated that it was a safe distance, Catríona leaned tentatively around the trunk of the tree to glance at the source of the sounds. What she saw stole her breath away.

  Standing at the top of the hill, in a small circle of morning light, was the largest bear Catríona had ever seen. Much larger than the pelt that her uncle proudly displayed on the wall of his receiving chamber. It balanced on his hind legs as it reached into the thick branches of a tree. She could not take her eyes away from the beast, its majestic beauty completely overwhelming her. Its fur, raven black, glistened in the sunlight. Cat knew that she needed to remain still until it moved on, so she took the time to enjoy watching the animal lazily go about its morning.

  It occurred to her, briefly, to hope that Greum was not near this place. Though, she reminded herself, she might not be entirely disappointed if the MacConaill men were to be eaten by the wild animal. Still, it would take away from the poetic justice of being poisoned by her own, vengeful, hand.

  When the bear had moved on, Catríona crept quietly back to the edge of the forest and sprinted back to the village. She would have to find another way to catch the MacConaills unaware.

  She next attempted to follow the Laird’s youngest son, Aiden, but he never seemed to be alone. The third brother, Kenzie, a born womanizer, was often gallivanting around the village but Catríona thought it best if she avoided him altogether. The only way to get his attention was to fall into his waiting arms, something that she was unwilling to do even for the sake of revenge.

  It was not until the second raid on the MacConaill lands, by the McKinnons, that Catríona’s plan began to take shape.

  That evening, after she had finally put her feet up to rest beside the fire, a large war horn sounded from the high castle walls. Her host ran into the room, grabbed Cat by the arm and pulled her into the cold night air at a full run. As the women and children of the town sprinted to get into the protection of the castle courtyard, the clansmen ran out toward the battle. Some had neither shoes nor weapon and yet still they headed for the battle. Catríona mourned their fate.

  When the gates closed behind them, the women of the town gathered into two groups; those with children set about comforting and entertaining their young counterparts, while the rest, Cat included, were given the task of preparing a meal for the collected horde.

  As she peeled and chopped vegetables for the stew, she got her first look at Castle MacConaill. To be fair, she admitted that it did not differ much in design from Castle Sutharlainn, except for being slightly taller to accommodate the increased height of its male inhabitants.

  To her surprise, she watched the ladies of the castle enter the courtyard to join the townsfolk who were gathered in the open space. It was not their overall appearance that surprised her, as it was to be expected that the highborn would mingle in such a time of need, rather it was one woman among them that caught Catríona’s undivided attention.

  A statuesque woman, not much older than herself, descended the stairs to join the throngs of women. Her raven black hair and large, green eyes were almost an exact replica of Greum’s. The features, though softened in their female version, remained proud, strong, and unmistakably intelligent.

  “That’s Mistress Deirdre.” A woman beside her explained after catching Catríona staring.

  “I’m sorry.” Cat shook her head. “I don’t know who that is.”

  The woman laughed, stirring the broth that was boiling over the fire. “Deirdre is the pair to Master Greum.”

  “Oh!” Catríona was shocked. “His wife?”

  “No, No.” The woman laughed even harder. “His sister.”

  “They’re twins?” Catríona gaped at the beautiful woman who was weaving through the crowd. She had not realized that The MacConaill had a daughter.

  “Aye.” The woman confirmed. “But you’ll not find two with temperaments further apart.”

  Cat waited in silence for the woman to continue.

  “Greum is kind and true, and will make a wonderful Laird. He is a fierce warrior and cares more about his clan than himself. He believes in integrity and justice, but he is quiet and oftentimes too serious. It’ll take a woman’s touch to lighten his load, someday.” Catríona dumped the vegetables into the broth and stood beside the fire, waiting to hear more. “Deirdre is loud, and has lots of energy. You’ll not see it on a night like tonight, but she’s more like to tell you what she’s thinking than any of her brothers combined. She was a handful as a bairn, and we women used to joke that she had a bit of the beast…” the woman cut herself short and cast Cat an appraising look. “Well, you know what they say. She’d have been a good son to The MacConnail, not that he needs another.”

  Before Catríona could ask what had been meant, the woman waved her away with instructions to help those who had just begun to distribute a fresh round of water.

  The night passed with aching slowness. The few men who had remained behind were irritable. Catríona watched them pace the ramparts, searching the distant night sky for any sign of their clansmen. Eventually the women gathered in small groups around the large central fire to pass the time.

  Catríona sat alone on the darkened steps of the castle, wrapped in the warmth of her fur-lined cloak. After the meal had been shared the women had begun to tell stories and reminisce about previous battles and skirmishes that their husbands, sons, or kin had engaged in. It was quickly made clear with their whispers and glances that Catríona was not meant to be part of these conversations. Though she longed for an explanation for their strange descriptions, she had decided that it was best not to press the matter. She had retreated away from the fire and left the women to their tales.

  Her head rested against a stone pillar and she had nearly fallen asleep when a voice spoke beside her.

  “You have a singular talent with the needle.” The voice spoke.

  Catríona’s head snapped up and she looked into the knowing eyes of Deirdre MacConaill.

  “Thank you, Mistress.” Catríona nodded.

  “Let’s dispense with the formalities.” Deirdre waved a hand in the air. “Call me Deirdre. You’re new to these parts and have a knowledge of the outside world that, if I might be frank, the MacConaills are known to lack. I’ve seen of your work in town. These new fashions are most interesting to my taste.” Deirdre placed her hand on Catríona’s arm. “I’d like to extend an invitation to come live in the castle, as my handmaiden, if you’d like. You could teach me the new styles and update my wardrobe, for which I would be most grateful and, let us not pretend that you were suited for village life.” She patted Catríona’s arm and laughed. “You have castle-born written all over you and the women assure me of your experience as a maid. So, after this tussle is over with, bring your things to the castle and I will ensure that you will be well provided for.”

  “Yes, of course. I would like that very much, M… Deirdre.” Catríona stumbled. Her heart soared. This was the answer to her prayers. Catríona would gain access to the entire castle and, under the guise of Deirdre’s handmaiden, all of the MacConaills. She felt a small hesitation about deceiving Deirdre. She doubted that this woman had any immediate involvement in the death of her father. No, Catr�
�ona’s revenge would come against the MacConaill men. Not the women.

  Suddenly a cheer arose from the men on the ramparts. The great gate rose and the women and children spilled from the courtyard out into the village to meet their men. Deirdre rose and hollered with glee. Without warning she grabbed Catríona’s hands and smiled with complete trust and happiness.

  “They’re safe!” She squeezed Cat’s hands as if they were already the best of friends. Deirdre ran off to find her father and her brothers while Catríona made her way slowly out into the village.

  “Moira, roll out the casks. We’ll be having a feast of tales tonight!” A rowdy middle-aged woman wearing an apron rushed toward the kitchens.

  “Do you think that wise with that seamstress near? She isn’t one of us.” a whispered response came in reply.

  Catríona hastened her steps away from the women. She could not fathom why everyone was so leery of outsiders. Was it not the MacConaill Clan that had a reputation that warned to avoid. Her experience in the village told her that these people were shockingly kind and caring and yet, somehow, there still seemed to be many secrets that Catríona simply did not understand. She needed to do better at gaining their trust, she decided, so that they would share these secrets—secrets that might be just what she needed to destroy their leaders. Catríona decided to avoid the feast tonight. She would allow the MacConaills their Feast of Tales without her, because the next time she was determined to be invited without whispers or strange descriptions barring her way.

  As the throngs of happy celebrants moved toward the great hall, Catríona pressed against the crowd to the far edge of the village. She needed space. She needed a moment to collect herself and steel her emotions against the strange surge that she was currently feeling. It occurred to Catríona that it bothered her, on a personal level, that she was being excluded from the community. She gave herself a mental shake. Sure, she had grown to care for many of them, but she would not let them worm their way into her affections and spoil her plans. Why couldn’t the townsfolk be as ruthless and brutal as their Laird? Why did she care whether or not they accepted her?

  These were her mother’s people, she told herself. That must be why she felt this small attachment. She took a deep breath and collected her nerves, the streets now empty behind her. The others may be decent, innocent people but the Laird and his sons were certainly not. She needed to remind herself of this truth. The memory of her father’s last breath flashed before her eyes and Catríona felt her resolve harden. After speaking with Deirdre she was one step closer. Maybe living within the midst of the enemy would help her to forget the kindnesses that she had received from the others.

  Catríona neared the shop in which she had been allowed to live these past weeks. Waiting outside the doorway was a great hulking figure that she could tell from a distance was Greum MacConaill. He pounded on the door before leaning against the building with a sigh, one arm clutched against his ribs. She approached him with assured steps that masked the terrible churning of her angry stomach.

  “May I help you?” the customary address had not been truly meant as an invitation.

  “Actually, yes. I was hoping so.” He pushed himself away from the wall to stand in front of her. Catríona’s mind yelled for her to retreat. How could she have hoped to defeat such a formidable creature? His shadow alone engulfed her and she found herself staring directly into his chest. Catríona craned her neck to look up into his face, which smiled down at her with what she could only guess was embarrassment. “You see, I’m in need of a little… stitching.” He shrugged his shoulders and winced.

  In the darkness Cat glanced at his kilt, which seemed to be in fine condition. She furrowed her eyebrows and stared at him once more before the reality of the situation struck her.

  She raised both hands in front of her and took a step back, shaking her head the whole while.

  “I don’t…” She felt her face flush as she imagined her needle piercing his flesh. “I can’t… I don’t sew…” Ever since the death of her father, Catríona’s stomach had never regained its ability to witness death or injury. Her back pressed against the storefront on the opposite side of the street, she had reached her limit of distance from the man.

  “What’s your name?” He asked in a soothing voice, as if he were speaking to a frightened horse.

  “Catr…” She caught herself. “Cat. Catlin.”

  “Listen, Catlin.” He took a slow step nearer to her. “The surgeon’s busy enough with the other men. As I was the only one in the condition to walk myself, he told me to see if you might be up to the task. Apparently you have some skill with the needle?”

  “My needles aren’t made for… skin.” She finished in a whisper.

  “Ah.” Greum smiled. “He thought not. And so, he sent this.” He held up a small curved needle. Catríona realized that she had one hand entirely covering her mouth. Sensing her obvious reluctance, he continued. “Just so you know, I’m not going to die from this wound but that puts me at the far end of the list for repairs. If you could just close it up it would ease my discomfort considerably.”

  Cat continued to stare at him in silence. She momentarily considered allowing him to suffer. It would be no less than he deserved.

  “I’m afraid I forgot to say, please.” He finished.

  Her mind was completely overloaded with the thought of the injury beneath his hand. Finally, Cat found herself nodding if only, she told herself, to get him to go away. She needed this man, and his bloody self, to leave as fast as possible or she was afraid that she might be sick. The truth was, though she planned on poisoning him at some point in the near future, she did not plan on staying around to watch the effects.

  Catríona unlocked the door and allowed Greum to follow her into the small space. How was it that one man could fill a room so entirely? She pointed at a chair in the corner, in which he promptly sat, and moved to stoke the fire for more light. The murky darkness was the best that she could manage at this time of night.

  “What now?” Cat was standing against the wall furthest away from Greum.

  He released a low chuckle that revealed his amusement at her fear. “How about a drink to dull the senses?”

  Cat hurried into the adjoining room and pulled a glass and a bottle of port from the shelves. She poured and handed him the cup with shaking hands. He took a deep drink and watched her over the rim of the cup. “You too.” He spoke between drinks. “I don’t need you sticking me with trembling hands.”

  This drew a nervous laugh from Catríona. She was relieved to find that her fear of the situation at hand was distracting her from the fear of the man before her. She retrieved another cup and poured a share for herself before refilling his.

  They drank in a silence only broken by Greum’s occasional requests to see if her hands had ceased their tremors. When they had stilled sufficiently, he dragged his chair into the light of the fire and sat down once more.

  “You’ll need fresh water and some clean cloth to rinse with. Also, some fresh strips for bandages.” He tossed a pouch of money on the table. “Take whatever the supplies will cost, and double for your efforts.”

  Catríona returned to the stockroom to gather the supplies with silent obedience. When she returned, Greum had removed his white shirt.

  “What are you doing?” She tried to look anywhere but at his exposed torso.

  “What did you expect?” He laughed. “You cannot sew my shirt to my skin.”

  “I know that, but…”

  He cut her off. “You have seen a man without his shirt before, haven’t you?” He was enjoying teasing her. The realization annoyed Catríona.

  “Of course I have.” She scoffed. “It’s the mess I don’t want to see.” She lied. What she really did not want to see was his massive expanse of chest. Broad, chiseled muscles were accentuated by the shadows cast from the hearth and, if she were honest with herself, Catríona could not stop staring at the masterpiece that was Greum’s body. S
he had seen a male chest before but she had never, until this very moment, seen one that made her heart race and her hands long to trace the many contours of a man’s body.

  She placed the gathered items on a low stool at Greum’s feet. With a deep breath she knelt beside him, soaked the cloth, and wiped away enough blood around his hand that she could see the full extent of the cut. It would have to be fully cleaned after the stitching, she decided. The constant stream from the site would make it impossible to clean beforehand.

  Catríona took the curved needle from Greum’s proffered hand and threaded it. She looked up into his watchful gaze and felt the strange worry that this would cause him pain. The gash was long, about the length of her hand from wrist to fingertip, and would take many stitches to close. She turned quickly, grabbed the bottle of port, and took a deep drink straight from the bottle. She handed it to her patient, who took a small sip before resting it on his knee while awaiting her ministrations.

  The first stitch was the worst. Catríona’s hand hovered with the needle for a long moment before she worked up the courage to push it through the skin. She tied a knot and allowed the thread to hang limply from Greum’s side.

  “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Greum teased, watching her battle the urge to be sick. His hand briefly grazed her cheek as he raised her chin to look at him. “I promise, it doesn’t hurt.”

  “You’re a liar.” She laughed, appreciating the distraction.

  “Well, it doesn’t hurt much.” He released a deep chuckle that Catríona found quite appealing. “Just keep going. You will not hear a complaint from me.”

  She picked the needle back up from where it hung at his side and braced herself for the rest of the task. If she worked quickly it would be over before she realized it, she told herself. Stitch after agonizing stitch Catríona worked with sheer determination. When she tied the final knot and clipped the thread she thought that there was no greater feeling in the world than to be done. A strange sense of pride washed over her followed by a small amount of gratitude to the man who had helped her through the ordeal. Perhaps she was merely giddy from the drink but Catríona felt positively buoyant.