The Devil of Dunakin Castle (Highland Isles)

by McCollum, Heather

  Keir pulled back as they neared a stony cliff face. He and Brodie had ridden around it to avoid the caves cut underneath where animals likely slumbered. There, backed against a thick tree, was a cloaked woman. The cliff blocked some of the wind, and Keir could pick out three gray shapes in the snow, advancing toward her. Wolves. Hungry, no doubt.

  He leaped down and drew his sword. The woman’s face jerked toward him, and she screamed again. “Shite,” she yelled through the scarf, covering her mouth.

  Keir could see only wide, lash-framed eyes staring at him, full of panic. “Stay back!” he yelled and stepped between her and the wolves. He swung his blade through the frost-filled air, and it sang with the wind.

  “Don’t kill them,” the woman called from behind. “They have a cave on the backside of this rock, with babies in it. Cubs, pups, whatever they’re called.”

  Bloody hell. The woman had walked into a den of wolves protecting their pups. He sheathed his sword and threw his arms out wide. He frightened grown warriors; perhaps he could frighten hungry wolves. He growled, showed his teeth and stomped forward. One of the wolves immediately withdrew, dodging to disappear around the corner, but the other two snapped back, apparently not impressed. While one growled at him, the other began to circle behind him, realizing that the woman was the weakest and easily culled.

  Cogadh snorted and reared up on his hind legs, helping with intimidation. The wolves didn’t seem to care, but the woman screamed again. She grabbed onto Keir’s back, pressing against him, and a weaker man would have ended up face down in the snow. Backing slowly, Keir kept the advancing beasts before him. “Ye’re going in the tree,” he said over the wind.

  “What?” the woman asked, but there wasn’t time to explain. With a swift glance over his shoulder, he turned and lifted the woman onto a branch above his head. Snow tumbled off the branch, momentarily blinding him as she scrambled. Her boots kicked, and fighting the slippery branches, she stood to balance on the thick extension.

  A growl broke through the shrill of the tempest, and fire bit into Keir’s thigh. “Mo chreach!” He swung his fist backward, making contact with the wolf’s snout. It released his leg, shaking its massive head. It hunched down to spring at him. “Don’t make me kill ye,” he said low and slipped his sword free. The familiar feel of it, heavy in his hand, overrode the deep ache from the bite.

  Cogadh, the smell of blood familiar to him, shrieked into the wind as he charged forward, his forelegs stomping down in force. The second wolf turned in time to gnash his teeth against the horse’s leg. Cogadh, a born warrior, raised his front legs, bringing them down on the wolf’s back end.

  With a yelp, the animal rolled and sprung up, limping as he trotted in retreat around the corner of the cliff. Keir yelled and sliced the air with his sword before the remaining wolf’s face.

  “Watch out,” the woman called and—

  Crack! Something hit the back of Keir’s head. “Sard!” he cursed and looked down to see a dagger in the snow, a throbbing in his head now joining with the throbbing in his thigh. Luckily, the wolf was losing its courage as Keir’s horse continued to stamp and paw the ground next to him. With one last glance, the beast dodged out into the continuing blizzard, hopefully to burrow back into its cozy den.

  Keir turned to the tree. The branch creaked overhead with the woman balanced on it, clinging to the trunk. “I’m sorry. I meant to hit the wolf.” Wind gusted against them, blowing the woman’s skirts about her legs as the branch swayed, creaking. “You were bit,” she yelled down. “I’m a healer.”

  A healer? Was she from Kilchoan or Aros? He wouldn’t have left her stranded in a tree regardless, but if she could be of help to his nephew, he wasn’t going anywhere without her. Keir stood below. Perhaps good fortune had called him to her. “Sit on the branch and lower down.” The woman continued to cling to the tree. “Let go,” he said.

  “I will. I am,” she said. “I’m just…I hate this. Cold, wolves, being up in a tree.”

  “Sit, woman,” he said.

  With painstakingly slow movements, she bent down, still gripping the thick trunk, until she sat on the limb. “I’m… I think I’ll fall,” she said as the limb shook and cracked in the wind.

  He moved under her. “I’ll catch ye.”

  A gust blew up over the rock wall, slicing down to hit the tree as the woman slid out farther away from the trunk, preparing to drop down. “Good Lord,” she yelled as the branch let out a snap and crack, breaking. Pain shattered the white scene before Keir as the heavy limb slammed the side of his head. His last thought of the woman with large, blue eyes was that good fortune had absolutely nothing to do with her. Then all went black.

  …

  Snow shot up Grace’s skirts, wetting her wool stockings, as she landed in a heap under the tree. Gasping, she pushed up off the man who’d come to her rescue. “Good God,” she yelled as she saw the blood trickling from his scalp. Yanking off her gloves, her freezing fingers dug against his collar to find the pulse in his neck. She dropped her head in relief at the heavy thudding she felt below his skin. Still alive.

  Wind gusted against her, throwing her hair out like thin whips to sting her eyes, eyes that swam with tears. Pushing off his chest, her gaze swiveled around. Horse with blood dripping down a leg. A stranger unconscious and bleeding beneath her. Blizzard blowing like white death. Wolves not too far away. Good God, what was she going to do? “Shite, shite, shite,” she cursed as tears caught in her scarf, turning to salty ice against her skin. She pulled it from her mouth and chin to suck in gulps of cold air. Small pinpricks of light flashed in her periphery, and heavy sobs broke from her with the rushing of her shallow breaths flooding her ears. She blinked. Oh God. We will all die.

  The horse neighed and walked over, holding its one leg up. His large body hovered close, over them as if shielding them from the frantic wind. Grace lifted her hand to touch its warm side. She’d always loved animals and had been a wonderful horsewoman in England. She glanced toward the direction the wolf had skulked off. It would smell the blood.

  She had to do something, and passing out to die numbly was not an option. Grace shoved her glove back on. She inhaled, counting to four and exhaled counting out. The sgian dubh. Where was it? Grace churned through the feathery snow under the tree until she found her dagger. Running back to the man and horse, she used the knife to cut the bottom of her linen smock under her skirt, ripping it until a long strip came off. She dropped back next to the man’s leg. The wolf had bitten his thigh, so she jerked up his kilt, exposing his powerful legs and—

  “Oh, good Lord,” she said, feeling her cheeks warm even though they were frozen. No time for polite sensibilities with him turning the snow red under his leg. She plucked the plaid from the puncture wounds that swelled with blood. She pressed clean snow on it until it turned into a macabre version of the snow cream dessert her mother used to make when she and Ava were children.

  “Bloody hell, oh God.” She continued to curse in whispers, occasionally passing the sign of the cross before her when unholy words about God’s ballocks issued forth in her near panic. Wiping the snow off the Highlander’s muscular thigh, she wrapped his leg tightly and tied it off. Moving up to his head, she ran her fingers through his thick hair and felt the stickiness of blood where the limb had hit him. Scalp wounds always bled profusely. She cleaned it with the heaping snow and cut off more of her smock to bind it.

  Rising and whirling around, she saw the poor horse standing with bowed head. “Your turn,” she said. Wipe, wash, cut smock, and bind. She ran her hands along the noble creature to his head. With a flick of the billets on each side of the saddle, she loosened the girth and guided the saddle off the horse’s back, dropping it into the snow. There was a blanket under the saddle, which she pulled forward to cover more of the horse’s head.

  Breathing heavily, Grace focused on each task at hand while the white swirled around them. Lost, alone, and injured, if she allowed herself to think furthe
r than the circle of need around the three of them, she’d lose her mind to hysterics. Warriors were trained to prepare for disaster, not gentle ladies from English drawing rooms. Although, how could anyone prepare for this day? If she wasn’t certain they were all going to die out in this freezing Hell, she’d have laughed. She’d wanted adventure, and by God she’d found one. And damnation, it was going to kill her.

  Grabbing another blanket tied to the saddle, she lowered it over the man. Recalling the advice Thomas had given her, she trudged to an evergreen, its limbs heavy with snow. Using her sgian dubh, she sawed at several bushy evergreen boughs. Panting, her arms shaking with the effort, she dragged them back and jumped away as the horse lowered to the ground next to him.

  “Oh, no, no,” she said, leaping up to fix the blanket back over the animal. Stepping back around, she squatted at the man’s side and pushed against him, trying to roll his heavy frame toward the horse. “I…have…to…get…these under you,” she said, her teeth gritted as her heels dug in behind her. “Sard it all!” she yelled, using the flame of anger to give her something besides fear to hold onto.

  Grace shoved the pine boughs up against the man’s side and laid two over the horse’s back. She cut a few more, dragged them back, and laid them over the man, who was now completely covered with the blanket, snow, and evergreens. Yes! She’d done what Thomas had explained, well, most of it. And the horse would help keep the man warm. Hands on her hips, she turned in a tight circle and let her arms drop back down. Now what?

  She had absolutely no idea which way to go. She’d wandered through the storm for nearly an hour before trying to duck into the cave where she’d come face-to-face with an immature wolf. Adorable in its youth, its parents were anything but. Now, as she struggled against the buffeting wind and snow that stung her eyes, she realized that her efforts for rescuing anyone were at an end. There was nothing else she could do. Gloved hands pressed to the side of her head, Grace looked down at the lumps of man and horse. At least she’d be warmer up against them, under the boughs and blanket and accumulating snow.

  She looked out at the white where she could hardly see to the evergreen. There was no choice. Grace dropped to her knees, digging in the snow to find the edge of the wool blanket. Shaking flakes from her clothes, she lifted it and crawled underneath. The horse lay against one side of the stranger, a massive boulder of warm flesh. It was either lay half in the cold or on top of the man, so she wiggled her way across him, fixing the edge of the wool blanket to block the wind. Body heat filled the space, and the wool and boughs muted the bite of the gale. Grace worked the scarf away from her face for easier breathing, arching her back where she pressed over the massive body under her. In the dimness of the crude tent, she stared at the stranger, studying him for the first time.

  Dark lashes lay against his skin that she guessed would be tanned from the sun. The shadow of a beard coated a strong, square jaw. His lips were the perfect shape, adding to the overall ruggedly handsome look. The strength and courage he’d shown in saving her, the compassion for not slaughtering the wolves and thus dooming the wolf pups, combined with his handsome face and thick, dark hair that fell in waves to his broad shoulders… “Good God,” she whispered. “I’m in love with you already.” She huffed at her ridiculous declaration. The cold was numbing her mind.

  His chest filled with an inhale, lifting her under the shelter, and she braced her legs over his to stop from rolling off. Grace watched, unmoving, as the man’s eyes blinked open.

  “Oh,” she whispered and inhaled past the fear tightening her throat. “Hello.” He stared up at her, a crease forming between his brows.

  “I am dead,” he said. “Finally.”

  Finally? Did he wish to die?

  His lips rubbed together, and she felt him shift, his gaze connected to hers. Before she could utter anything, his hand came up to cup her cheek. “And ye are my reward.”

  Chapter Three

  Disoriented, Keir gave in to the desire that woke his aching body. He guided the angel before him, her wide eyes and smooth skin shadowed in the dimness. Her lips were cold but soft as he met them. He caught her gasp in his mouth but pressed on, lifting his other arm to hug her against his body. The pangs of pain shot through his thigh as she shifted against it, and the throbbing in his head made him pause. She’d slanted her mouth against his, returning his kiss, but when he stopped for the space of a heartbeat, she reared back.

  Ice slammed against the side of his face. “Mhac na galla,” he yelled and wiped the snow from his cheek. The angel had hit him.

  “I know enough Gaelic to know what that means,” she yelled back, rolling off his body, her leg hitting his thigh. He grunted, the pain clearing more of his mind.

  “What the bloody hell is all this?” He turned his head from one side to the other, and his arms came up to throw off the heaviness overtop of the two of them.

  “You’re ruining our shelter,” she said. “And there’s a bloody blizzard still going on.”

  The heavily clothed woman rose, throwing the blanket, snow, and what looked like branches down over his face. “There’s a tree on me,” he called up through the layers. He remembered the branch breaking, knocking him out, but this seemed to be a pine. Och. Beaten by a dead tree limb. If Brodie found out, Keir would never hear the end of it.

  The woman cursed again, but the rest of her words were caught in the wind. Keir pushed up on his elbows and realized Cogadh was lying beside him. “Shite,” he said and threw off the blanket and tree limbs. “Cogadh,” he yelled, rising despite his leg.

  “He’s lame,” she said. “I wrapped the wound on his right hock.”

  Keir rubbed a gloved hand along his horse’s side under the wool blanket, feeling his friend’s strong breaths.

  “He’s well enough for now,” the woman yelled over the wind. “But we all need to find shelter.”

  Keir turned, sitting against Cogadh in the snow. The lass stood, white swirling around her, making her look like a small snow goddess come to earth. The lowering sun, blocked by the thick clouds, obscured her coloring, but her long hair whipped out from around her hood. The fur-lined cloak framed a heart-shaped face and large eyes. Brave and fierce, ignoring the gales shoving against her, molding her clothes to her body, she frowned. She wasn’t afraid of him, didn’t look like she was afraid of anything. Although, when he’d first found her screaming, she had been terrified.

  “Either we cover back up and let your steed keep us alive with his body heat,” she called, “or we find our way back to Kilchoan.”

  “Ye’re from Kilchoan?” Pushing up, he stood closer to hear her words before the tempest snatched them away.

  “From Aros on Mull. I am trying to find the apothecary for a friend ill at Kilchoan, but I am lost.”

  Keir looked to the rock wall that he and Brodie had ridden around. Snow blew over the top, dropping into growing drifts. “There is a cabin close,” he said, shaking the wool blanket free of snow and pine. He pushed the boughs off his horse and leaned down to peer into his face. “Up, friend.”

  Cogadh flicked his ears, snorting out warm steam into the frosty air. Using muscle and a rocking motion, he rose, his strong chest working to hold his weight. He lifted his back leg where the lass had tied a bandage. Keir rubbed the thick binding on his head. Where had she found wrappings?

  “Come,” he called as he led his steed by the bridle. He stepped around the snow-covered lump he assumed was the saddle. He’d return for it later.

  A healer from Aros? Could she be the one he sought? Once Brodie tracked them down, they could return to Dunakin Castle when the storm ceased. Blast this snow. Foul weather and illness were the only enemies Keir couldn’t slay.

  “Do you know where you’re going? How can you even see?” she asked. Her breath came in loud rasps through her scarf.

  “I just traveled this way,” he answered.

  The pain in his leg ached, but he’d endured worse…however, never from an animal b
ite. Hopefully the lass had something for fever.

  Heads bent into the wind, Keir looped his arm through the woman’s to keep them together. Several times he helped her find her footing as they floundered up a hill, battered by the driving snow, which felt like ice daggers slicing his bare face. They rounded a dense strand of trees, and the rough sides of the small cabin came into view.

  “Praise be,” the woman called, relief so heavy it sounded like a sob.

  He pushed open the door, sword out, but nothing stirred in the darkness. Abandoned and sturdy, a palace in this freezing world of ice.

  The woman passed him, stepping barely inside the door, and Keir led Cogadh into the shelter.

  “There are no stables?” she asked, unwinding the scarf from her face.

  “He helped save your life, and he’s injured.”

  “Of course. It’s just…” She held out an arm to the small room. “I don’t see any hay for the floor.”

  “He can shite without hay under him,” Keir said, shutting the door firmly against the wind.

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” she mumbled and slapped the snow off her skirts.

  Dropping his outer cloak on a wooden chair that looked barely able to withstand its weight, he went to the small hearth made of round stones. A searing pain mixed with the deep ache in his thigh. He grunted as he knelt.

  “I’ll do that,” the woman said. “You need to lie down on that…moldy lump that’s supposed to be a bed.” She grabbed his arm, attempting to lift him. Startled by the contact, Keir let her lead him to the bed. When was the last time a woman had been concerned about his welfare, or had even touched him without clawing at him with desire? Ten years ago. The last time his mother had hugged him.

  “I have flint in my satchel,” she said, turning from him, her shoulders straight. He couldn’t see much of her, but he was fairly certain there was a wee lass under all the layers. One with soft lips and the face of an angel. The memory of her pressed overtop of him made him wonder if the rest of her was fashioned more for sin than angelic endeavors.