The Devil of Dunakin Castle (Highland Isles)

by McCollum, Heather

  Ye will do your duty, Devil of Dunakin. Dara is a traitor. His brother’s words echoed in his ear, sending ice through his body, ice that only Grace’s tender touch could melt. But if she witnessed this act, she’d never touch him again, and he couldn’t blame her for condemning him.

  Rab’s haunting words faded as the thud of hoofbeats broke through. Keir opened the door, his sword raised, and his breath hitched. Grace. Couldn’t Brodie follow a single bloody order?

  He stood in silence as she nearly fell from Cogadh’s tall back. Magairlean! She’d ridden his warhorse bareback.

  Keir’s frown nearly broke as she cursed her way across the yard to him, her fists swinging. “Leave? You want me to leave without even saying good-bye? After last night, all night, and this morning?” She punctuated her words with wild gestures. Grace’s cheeks were red, her bosom heaving. She was angry and glorious.

  “Aye,” he answered.

  She waited, but he didn’t say anything else. “Aye?” she yelled. “That’s all I get?” Stepping forward she poked him in the chest with her finger. He wore black leather, the devil’s suit, and barely felt her attack. “Dara is innocent,” she yelled.

  “Ye don’t know that, and Rab has decided.”

  “Rab is mad, and you know it.” She grabbed his leather vest in her fists. “You are not a killer, Keir. You don’t have a legacy of murder like Aonghus Mackinnon. Break away from the Devil of Dunakin. In truth, this isn’t even your clan.”

  Her words struck him hard. “Brodie told ye,” he said low, but she ignored him.

  “Even if he were your father, you don’t need to follow his dictates. He’s dead.”

  Keir inhaled through his nostrils, filling his lungs before they could freeze with his next words. “Aye, he’s dead, and I became the Devil of Dunakin the day I killed Aonghus Mackinnon.”

  Grace stared up at him, her gaze shifting along his features. He could almost see the truth surfacing in her eyes. “He killed your mother, didn’t he?” she said. “When he found out you and Dara weren’t his children.” Her eyes narrowed as if she were deciphering small script. “You were there, and you tried to stop him and killed him because of it.”

  Memories flashed to the surface like dead fish floating up from the depths, exposed by the sun. He’d never talked of that night ten years ago, not even to Brodie. Only Rab knew some of the truth. But something in Grace’s strong face made his lips part.

  “She was gentle and kind,” he said. “And perfectly miserable married to a cruel man.” He stepped to the cold hearth. “This was the only place she was happy, a sanctuary where she would escape Dunakin with my real father, Graham MacLeod. This cottage was his before Aonghus killed him.”

  Grace kept silent, and the words continued to tumble from his mouth. “Dara and I are bastards. When Aonghus found out, he sentenced our mother to death. I was ordered to execute her.”

  “Good God,” she whispered.

  “I could hear him yelling in their bedchamber at Dunakin, and when I went in, he ordered me to kill her right there.” He forced the words out. “Finish her off.”

  Grace touched his arm, but he wouldn’t look at her. “You didn’t kill her,” Grace said. “No matter what everyone thinks. You loved her. Still do.”

  He raked a hand through his hair. “Aonghus lunged for her when I wouldn’t. His sword was drawn… I grabbed his thick neck and gutted him. He died cursing my name.”

  Several heartbeats passed before Grace’s words broke the silence. “And your mother?”

  Keir glanced up at the sky, which was a lighter shade than his mother’s eyes. “Her wounds were great. I held her while she died.”

  “But you let everyone think you’d done your duty,” Grace said. He listened for the condemnation that he felt, but he didn’t hear it. No pity, no judgment. Just a statement.

  “When I came out, covered in blood, Rab announced that I’d executed both for treasonous acts against Dunakin and that he was taking the chiefdom.”

  Grace’s pretty cheeks rounded, and she let the air out in a puff. “Damnation,” she whispered. “That’s bloody awful.”

  Her words were like knives, but he pushed past the pain. “I am damned, and ye need to continue on your journey.”

  “What? No,” she said, her brows gathering. “You need to tell Rab that you won’t kill your sister, whether she’s guilty or not. And she’s not, by the way. I can tell, like I can tell that you are not damned and not a killer in your heart.”

  With two clicks of Keir’s tongue, Cogadh trotted toward him. He looked one last time at the beautiful woman whom he realized he loved, loved too much to withstand the look in her eyes after he completed his duty to his clan and chief. “Ye do not know people like ye think, Grace Ellington. Go home.” He swung up onto the saddle pad. He turned the horse toward Dunakin. “I will send Brodie to fetch ye here.”

  “And where will Dara’s cross be etched on your skin, Keir?” she asked. “Not with the hundreds you’ve killed. You will etch her over your heart, because killing her will surely skewer it.”

  Without looking at her, he leaned forward. Cogadh leaped into a gallop, leaving Keir’s heart standing before his mother’s cottage, hating him as much as he hated himself.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Grace’s heart sank into her stomach as she watched Keir gallop away. The vital organ felt as heavy as the boulders that rose from the Highland landscape like giants’ knobby bones. She wobbled. Any second she would fall to the dirt in desolate defeat. Bracing her hands on her knees, she forced herself to breathe as tears gathered in her eyes. She watched them as they dropped out to dot the dirt beneath her, physical evidence of her pain.

  She thought of the promise she’d made to the picture kept lovingly on Keir’s mantel. The poor woman had lived in secret and fear her whole life, protecting her children as best she could and seeking out love here at this small cottage on the border.

  Grace slowly walked her hands up her legs, pressing palms against her thighs for support until she stood straight. If she waited until Brodie came to drag her home, Margaret Mackinnon’s three children would suffer. Dara would die, Rab would be responsible for ordering the death of his half sister, and Keir would never be able to wash Dara’s blood from his hands. Grace couldn’t let it happen.

  “I need help,” she whispered. Her mind flitted to the people she’d met at Dunakin, searching for someone strong, someone who might love Keir enough to help her save him. “Fiona,” she said. She wasn’t his grandmother by blood, since his father was a MacLeod, and she was Aonghus Mackinnon’s mother, but she seemed to care for Dara. Would she help Grace save her and Keir?

  Grace gathered her skirts and ran toward the path she’d ridden along to find the cottage. “Ballocks,” she cursed as her ankle twisted slightly on the edge of a rock, but she kept going, holding her skirts high to see the ground. If she’d known she’d be running through the woods, she’d have worn boots instead of slippers. Pebbles and twigs poked through the thin soles, bruising her feet. She ran and ran, stopping periodically for breath and to search for landmarks. Over the rushing in her ears, she heard the thud of hooves ahead, and Grace dodged behind a thick oak in time to avoid Brodie’s gaze. Her lips grazed the rough bark as she sucked in gulps of air and prayed for him not to turn around.

  When the thuds faded, Grace pushed away from the tree. Hands out before her, to slap away the branches determined to rake her eyes, she charged down the hillside, breaking out at the edge of the forest. Just as she had when riding on Little Warrior, she gulped a last breath of untainted air and tipped her gaze to the ground. Concentrating on her footfalls along the uneven ground, she ran between the torches holding the rotting heads. There was no time for shock. She needed to reach Fiona.

  Off to the left, she could see the wide river flowing beside the castle, on its journey to the ocean. A small island sat in the middle of the river, a circle with a narrow bridge on one side. “Oh God,” she breathed at t
he crack of hammers hitting pegs. The execution platform.

  With renewed determination, Grace raced into the village. “Fiona!” she yelled as she ran along the path between the thatched cottages. “Fiona Mackinnon!” A door opened, and a man peeked out. He pointed toward the cottage on the far end. “Thank you,” Grace called, running to pound on the door.

  It flew open, but Grace was too out of breath to say anything. Fiona stared, her eyes hard. She looked behind Grace and yanked her forward into her cottage, slamming the door. “Find your breath, lass,” she said. “And tell me ye are here to save my granddaughter.”

  Grace plopped into a chair. “And Keir.”

  “Aye.” She shook her head. “Rab is as insane as my son, Aonghus, I fear. The deaths of his wife and bairn have addled his head.”

  “What can I do?” Grace asked, still gasping for breath. “Brodie’s hunting for me to carry me back to Aros. No one else will stand up to the bloody Devil of Dunakin.”

  Fiona took Grace’s hands. Her fingers felt hot against Grace’s frigid skin. “Ye can.”

  “I tried. Keir wouldn’t listen to me.” Grace felt panic press tears in her eyes until Fiona’s image swam before her.

  “Ye must stop the Devil of Dunakin, not Keir,” Fiona said, bringing her a cup of light ale. For the first time ever, Grace wished it was whisky, strong whisky.

  “How can I do that?”

  “The Devil of Dunakin will be killed by an angel, ending the long line of Mackinnon devils,” Fiona answered, nodding. “He calls you an angel. Ye must pierce his heart.”

  Grace pressed upward out of her seat. “I’m not killing him or anyone.”

  Fiona frowned at her as if she were being stubborn. “Not Keir,” she snapped. “Ye will kill the Devil of Dunakin.”

  Fiona was as insane as her grandson. Grace stared after her as the woman rushed to a wardrobe, throwing it open and rummaging in the bottom. “Ye will wear my warrior clothes.”

  “What?” Grace asked, her mouth hanging open.

  Fiona turned around, a smile cracking her nearly permanent frown. She held up a suit made of bleached doeskin with a white linen shirt. Three straps with buckles encircled the waist, and the breeches tapered to the ankle. A broad collar rose up to lay flat against the breast up to the neck. “Put it on. I have white boots to go with it.”

  “What?” Grace said again, staring aghast at the costume.

  “Is that all ye can say?” Fiona snapped, throwing the boots out from the wardrobe to clunk against the floorboards. “Put the damn things on.”

  Grace worked her fingers into her bodice laces, loosening them. She kicked off her muddied shoes. “I don’t think they will fit.” She’d never tried to stuff her legs and hips into such tight clothing.

  Fiona gestured toward the costume. “Leather stretches. And ye look about the size I was when I wore it decades ago.”

  “In battle?” Grace asked, sitting on the bed to shimmy the trousers up her legs. Her heart beat fast, but she persisted, yanking the pliable leather.

  “Aye.” Fiona threw the linen shirt over Grace’s head and tied the bodice into place.

  “I am not brave enough for battle,” Grace whispered.

  Fiona’s hands landed on Grace’s shoulder. She stared directly into her eyes. “Ye need to learn the circle of caim.”

  “Wh—” Grace stopped herself from saying the word again. “I’m not familiar with ‘cime’.”

  “The word is said kie-em,” Fiona said, stepping back to draw a circle around herself with one extended finger moving through the air. “Caim. ’Tis Gaelic for sanctuary, or an invisible circle of protection drawn about yourself to remind you that you are safe and loved, even in the darkest of moments. ’Tis what makes a warrior brave.”

  Grace exhaled and, with Fiona’s encouraging nod, she drew a circle around herself. “Caim,” she repeated, stressing the two syllables, for she needed all the bravery she could find.

  …

  Where will you etch your sister’s cross? Grace’s words flew at Keir like poison-tipped arrows, and he could do nothing to dodge them. Rab had judged her guilty, and she could be. Dara had certainly had ample opportunity. She’d handed out the cups at the table. After her initial plea of innocence, Dara had kept her lips clamped shut. Maybe her guilt wouldn’t allow her to speak. Or her pride. Their mother had done the same thing when Aonghus had accused her of adultery, and she’d admitted to her crime. Keir would never have put his mother to death, so how could he put Dara to death?

  “Damnation.” He tugged his black leather mask into place, walking toward the river where the entire clan stood silently. Wearing the costume of the Dunakin Devil, he strode over the foot-wide bridge to the execution island. Blazing torches lit the scene where Dara stood on the platform next to…Brodie? Bloody hell! He should be miles away with Grace. Was she with the villagers now? Watching him stalk toward his sister, an unforgivable monster?

  Brodie and Dara stood before a thick tree stump, set for her to place her neck. As he walked closer, she sneered. “Aonghus Mackinnon would be proud of ye, Devil.”

  Her words hit him like a blow, but he shoved the ache away, his gaze turning to Brodie. “Why the bloody hell are ye here?”

  Brodie’s mouth puckered with frustration. He shook his head. “I am always by the Devil of Dunakin.”

  “Your damned henchman can join ye in Hell,” Dara said.

  Rab stood from his seat next to Lachlan on the far side of the river. “For your crimes against me, my son, and the Devil of Dunakin, ye, Dara Macleod MacInnes, shall die for your sins.” Stripping her of his father’s name, Rab was letting everyone know she was a bastard.

  The wind blew dead leaves about the bottom of the scaffold as if nature itself felt the icy hand of condemnation against Keir’s nape. Bare to show the dark etchings on his skin, chill bumps rose. Keir’s breath rushed in his ears, and he stepped to stand before Rab. Reasonable judgment to accompany strength and strategic prowess… Grace’s words about leadership beat through the conditioning of many brutal years. There hadn’t been a chance to weigh Dara’s true guilt. Rab was not showing the reasonable judgment of a good leader, and Grace was right. Keir did have a choice.

  “Commence the execution,” Rab yelled, his lips pulled back in grim determination.

  Keir stood before his chief and brother, his fist tight around his sword. “Rab Mackinnon, as your brother and chief advisor, I ask once more that you consider the lack of proof against Dara. Normond MacInnes may have acted completely on his own, and ye will be condemning an innocent woman. I ask ye to show your wisdom and sound judgment.”

  Rab’s eyes narrowed, and he stepped to the edge of the river. The two brothers faced each other over the surging current. “Does the Devil dare to question my decision and rule before the clan?” Rab’s words seethed from between clenched teeth. Wildness lurked in his gaze.

  “Nay,” Keir said, his battle stance tall and full of strength. Familiar heat surged through his body at the promise of war. “But I, Keir Macleod, do.” Keir reached his arm over his head to grab the back of his mask.

  “Stop!”

  The familiar voice reached Keir’s ears, shooting like burning lightning through him. He dropped his hand, leaving his mask in place, and turned, his eyes falling on Grace, standing on the other side of the river beside the narrow bridge. But she wasn’t dressed like Grace. Clothed in white, she stood like an Amazon warrior woman holding a short sword. Tight-fitting trousers of pale leather curved along her hips and thighs, tapering down her perfectly shaped legs, which Keir had feasted upon the night before. Buckles of brass cinched her trim waist, accenting her full breasts. Tall boots, made of the same doeskin, rose up her legs to an inch past her knees.

  She wore a face shield similar to his own but out of white leather. It curved upward, leaving only her eyes open, and a drape of white material covered her hair. Like Joan of Arc leading an invisible army behind her, Grace stood, a cross between a warrior
and…an angel in white.

  …

  Grace glanced below the edge of the dark, flowing river that surrounded the flame-lit island. Forcing an inhale, she looked across to Dara, who stood on a platform with Brodie. But her focus swept to the man hidden behind the black mask, standing across the river from Rab.

  “Who the bloody hell are ye?” Rab yelled, where he stood at the water’s edge.

  “Grace Ellington,” she called. Her heart pounded in her chest, making a tremor run through her limbs. She inhaled, filling her lungs. Slow breaths would help the tingling recede in her chin. She placed one boot on the thin plank that ran across the river. “I have come to stop the Devil of Dunakin from killing an innocent woman,” she yelled. “And losing his soul.”

  “Good bloody hell,” Dara said from her spot on the platform. She didn’t sound confident. Neither was Grace, but she wasn’t turning back now. Not when the man she loved stood there, ready to forfeit his compassion and honor to follow the order of an insane tyrant. Love? Yes, this was certainly love. To risk humiliation before a crowd, drowning in a freezing river, and confronting the deadliest man of whom she’d ever heard… Love was the only explanation for this insanity.

  Grace stared down at the rushing water. She could hear her sadistic brother’s taunts, teasing her that he would hold her under the water again. She swallowed hard. God save her! If she swooned now, she’d surely drown. She could turn back, run, and hide somewhere, wait for Brodie to come find her and take her back to Aros to…cry in shame forever. The thought of retreat twisted her gut harder than the fear of the water.

  Grace let the tip of her sword lower as she took even breaths. Caim. Caim, a circle of protection. She recited the word, summoning any power she could from the ancient belief that it could keep her safe.

  With slow movements, Grace raised her empty gloved hand, drawing an invisible circle above her, encompassing her entire frame. She imagined it draping down as a column of protective light and stepped forward. Caim. Caim. Caim. Love is stronger than fear.