by Lily Baldwin
To Bewitch a Highlander is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Lily Baldwin
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Tiger Lily Collaborative Publishing, LLC
eBook ISBN 978-0-615-79021-3
Print ISBN 978-0615790398
Cover design: Tiger Lily Collaborative Publishing, LLC
†The Celtic Gift of Nature © 2004, Collected by Alexander Carmichael, Floris Books: 79
Dedication
This book is dedicated to my beloved husband whose unwavering faith gave me the confidence to push forward. To my daughter who holds me accountable to my dreams. And to my mom and dad—simply, the best parents in the world.
And to Aunt Lou.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my family and friends for your endless support and to my amazing team of editors: Joey, Kenzie, Heather, Nonni, Jill, Christina, and Dale. Thank you to Alan Barnett for bringing your outstanding talent to the audio edition. And a special thanks to Jan and Fred.
Chapter 1
Isle of Mull, Scotland
1263
Ronan motioned for the small band of warriors behind him to halt.
“We are on a fool’s hunt, Ronan,” Aidan whispered.
Ronan cast Aidan a scowl that would have sent most men to their knees. Aidan stood his ground, but nodded to let Ronan know he understood the warning. On the battlefield, Aidan was one of Ronan’s fiercest warriors, but away from the fray, he was easily bored and distracted. More often than not, it was women who distracted and later bored him, but, evidently, their latest mission lacked enough dangerous enticements to hold his interest. Tedium, however, was no excuse for carelessness. Aidan was beginning to try Ronan’s limited patience. If his complaints continued, Ronan would personally tie him to a tree and use him as bait to ensnare the trespassers.
Ronan signaled for the men to split up, but motioned for Aidan to follow him. The last thing he wanted at that moment was to endure any more of Aidan’s nagging, but the only way to ensure he stayed out of trouble was to keep him close.
“Ronan, ‘tis barely spring”, Aidan whispered. “The MacLean is an idiot to be sure, but he’s not daft enough to think he might conceal his warriors in the forest this time of year.”
“Enough”, Ronan growled. He had to think, a simple task made harder owing to Aidan’s incessant prattling in his ear.
Despite hours of searching they had uncovered no sign of the enemy. He hated to admit it, but Aidan was right. Springtime arrived on the wings of migrating birds, but despite the warm breeze, the trees had yet to fill with leaves. Madness alone would have informed a command to lead the MacLeans into the wood with nothing better than bramble and bare limbs behind which to seek cover, and although they were no account thieves, their chieftain was not entirely deprived of sense. Surely, the brigand, Angus MacLean, knew better. Then again, Angus was aware the MacKinnon clan had twice the warriors and stores, but he was still foolhardy enough to order the occasional raid. No, danger was not imminent, but this in no way excused Aidan’s reckless behavior.
“The cottars saw a flash of the MacLean tartan through the trees. Our laird ordered us to flush them out. Instead of griping over being pulled away from Anna’s skirts, why don’t you keep alert and find me a few MacLeans. Then we can go home.”
“Get down”, Aidan hissed as he dove to the ground.
Ronan did not hesitate. He lunged behind a tree, but as he peered around the trunk he saw nothing to warrant an alarm. He raised a quizzical brow at Aidan.
“’Tis the Witch”, he whispered, pointing toward a copse of trees.
Amid a slender cluster of birch trees adjacent the forest road stood the Witch of Dervaig. The folds of her tattered and filth covered robes, draped over her bent and crooked form, sent shivers up his spine. The hood of her cloak, always pulled low over her face, surely concealed hideous deformities and festering boils. Ronan exhaled with relief as she hobbled out onto the road.
“I dreamt as a lad that she captured me here in the wood”, Aidan said. “I struggled to break away from her hold as her hood fell back, revealing a wart covered, twisted nose and an evil toothless grin,” he grimaced with disgust.
“We’ve naught to fear. She is gone now”, Ronan said as he stood, but he shivered as a chill swept through him, no doubt caused by the icy current of her black heart.
“God’s blood”, Aidan swore, “why does she not die already? Is she to haunt our island for another three hundred years?”
“The devil owns her soul. She may plague Mull for all eternity”, Ronan replied. “Forget the Witch. We’ve work to do.”
“What now?” Aidan asked.
Ronan expelled a long breath. “I’m beginning to agree with you, Aidan. This is a great waste of time. But the laird is not interested in our opinions. Judgments do not safeguard our stores. ‘Tis done with the lives of men. We cannot return to Gribun until every patch of forest is searched.”
“You’re beginning to sound like your father”, Aidan said, “which of course means my future is grim. When you become chieftain one day all my fun ends.”
“Why?” Ronan asked, “You won’t be laird.”
“No, but I will be your second.”
“Saints preserve us, Aidan, if you are ever my second”, Ronan scoffed.
“Jest if you wish, but you trust no one as well as me.”
“Aye, I trust you all right. I trust you will be the first to complain.”
Ronan made light of Aidan’s claim, but it struck truth. He had many fine warriors under his command, but Aidan was his oldest friend. His loyalty never wavered, and he understood better than anyone how to calm Ronan’s ire once it raged out of control. Although during times of peace, Aidan drove him to temper more than anyone else.
“What say you to splitting up? We’ll cover more ground”, Aidan suggested.
Ronan hesitated at first but then agreed. He was as anxious to return home as his friend but for different reasons. There was no maid waiting for him back at Gribun but rather a mountain of duties, which promised to keep him busy until he arrived in the hereafter. He looked to Aidan who was awaiting his command.
“Cut across the road, but first make sure the hag is not lingering nearby. Follow the river. Stay low and alert. If you find nothing by the time the sun is low in the sky, meet me near the forest edge on the north side.”
Aidan started to walk toward the road, but Ronan grabbed hold of his arm and said, “I know you think this mission is a heap of dung, but do not be careless.”
Aidan nodded his consent. Ronan’s eyes narrowed as his stare penetrated his friend’s perpetually jaunty gaze.
“Aidan, you are a MacKinnon warrior, and your people depend on you.”
“I will be thorough and cautious. I assure you, Ronan.”
“Go, my friend, and fear not, war with the Norse is at hand. You will be back on the battlefield soon enough.”
“I’m counting on it. ‘Tis the only way I am going to escape Anna’s skirts without marriage”, Aidan said with a wink and dashed through the trees.
Ronan watched him peer beyond a tall oak to first check for the Witch. He signaled the road was clear, and then he was gone.
He wondered what it would be like to have his biggest concern be whether to marry his latest conquest. He shook his head as he turned and headed deeper into the thicket. The brambles, although bereft of leaves, possessed sharp spines, but he paid little heed to the pricks that snagged his exposed calves and t
ugged at the plaid hanging just below his knees as he scouted his surroundings.
A branch snapped behind him. Someone or something was approaching. He dropped to one knee and reached behind his shoulder to grasp the hilt of his sword from the scabbard strapped to his back. The nearby trees and bramble were still, and he heard naught but his own breathing.
He waited, poised and listening. His patience was rewarded as the rustle of twig and branch renewed and drew closer. Then a red deer became visible through the bramble. It was tall with proud antlers. And although lean from the winter months, its meat would be a welcome addition to their stores. Wet leaves newly released from their snowy grave clung to its hooves as it moved cautiously through the forest. Ronan grinned at his luck. He was hunched downwind from his prey, and, as yet, he had not been detected. At least something would come of their trek into the wood.
He cursed the absence of his bow, and his sword would be useless against the speed of a deer, but the sizable dirk tied to his thigh beneath his plaid might prove sufficient. If he could just get close enough, the stag would be his with one throw. Ronan looked around at the bare trees and cursed under his breath. He was the largest of the MacKinnons but for Dugald. Someone else should have been given this opportunity, someone smaller. Even Dugald, who somehow managed to maneuver his bulk like a man half his size, was better suited for the job.
Ronan stole between the trees, keeping the deer in sight as he did his best to stay low and sidle through the bushes for extra coverage.
“God’s blood”, he swore as he squeezed through a particularly tight cluster.
Ordinarily, he found his great height and breadth to be an advantage. On the battlefield, his size instilled immediate fear. As the future laird of the MacKinnon, it encouraged the cooperation of his men as did his rather infamous temper, but seldom were they unruly. The MacKinnons were indeed a loving and loyal clan, to each other and to Nathair, Ronan’s father. He was a fair and competent laird but formidable when necessary.
Following at a distance, he watched the deer walk toward the shallow ravine at the forest’s center. It must have been drawn to the sweet grass, which grew in the space between where the tree line ended and the abyss began. He grinned. The buck was unknowingly walking into the perfect trap. Once at the edge, it would have no place to run but down giving him a clean shot. The deer advanced further. It was almost to the ravine. He silently cut to the edge and tucked himself behind one of the larger trees. Down he peered, observing the depth to be shallower than he remembered. It was nigh the length of three men to the bottom. The fall would not kill someone, but the jagged rocks littering the ravine floor might.
The buck cleared the tree line and began nibbling the tender grasses. Its nose and eyes showed the feast complete deference, but its ears bristled, ever alert for danger’s approach. He was a prize to be sure. Reaching his hand beneath the pleats of his kilt, he eased his dirk from its narrow scabbard. Already the sun dipped behind the trees. He needed to hurry. It was almost time to meet his men. He shifted his grip so the point of the blade was pressed between his thumb and forefinger. He eased his arm back, took aim, and started to launch the dirk, but the steel never left his fingertips. A movement to his left captured his attention. In an instant, his gaze shifted and he redirected his deadly aim toward the unknown distraction. But when he saw what snaked his concentration away from the stag he froze not believing his own eyes.
Not ten strides away stood a slip of a girl with radiant golden hair, which shone even in the dim forest light. The string of a narrow and intricately carved bow was pulled taught against her cheek, arrow at the ready, aimed at his prize. And as far as he could tell, she did not realize he was there.
She had to be one of the fair folk, but he didn’t know whether she was a threat. As though she sensed his gaze, her head turned, and their eyes met. Then with lightning speed, the girl shifted her weapon, and he stared at the lethal tip of her arrow and into wide eyes, which glinted like steel swords. He jerked back, his footing lost. Twisting to the side, he tried to regain his balance, but the ground at the edge crumbled beneath his weight, pulling him over the brink. As he fell, his eyes connected once more with the now terror-filled gaze of the girl who screamed as he plunged downward. He landed with a thud, and a sharp pain cut through his skull as the world turned black.
Chapter 2
Shoney raced through the woods with her heart pounding in her ears and her mind spinning with terror. She did not know what scared her more, the prospect of the giant gaining consciousness and chasing her down or the approaching darkness. She should have returned home earlier, but all she had to show after a full day’s hunt were a couple scrawny pheasants and a red grouse; then she spotted the stag.
She shot a quick glance back to check if he followed, but the darkness obscured the forest. An advantage Shoney knew he would welcome. Not for a moment did she believe he was afraid of the dark. Even now, he might be trailing just behind her, like a wolf stalking a panicked fawn that had lost its mother. As longing for her mother’s protective embrace filled her heart, she realized it was an apt description. Her mother, Brethia, had died three years before, leaving Shoney with a wound impossible to heal. Without her, she was alone in the world—hated, feared, and alone.
Shoney glimpsed light ahead and surged forward to hasten her passing from the gloom of the wood onto the open moors where her way would be lit by the final efforts of the setting sun. When she at last cleared the trees, she knelt straightaway to the ground and readied her bow. If only she had her sword. Her eyes scanned the tree line and the surrounding hills, which were painted with the violets of dusk. As far as she could tell, she was alone. Even so, she held her breath, expecting the giant to launch out of the woods and attack.
After several peaceful moments passed, she lowered her weapon. He did not give chase and likely remained on the ravine floor in forced slumber. Now she need only contend with the approaching shadows, but despite how she longed to race home to safety, she dare not run without the coverage of the trees. Too many clansfolk could spy her crossing the open moors. She stood up and twisted her strong, young back to the left and then hunched her shoulders. The wind blew her hair across her face, and she swore loudly, remembering to pull the hood of her cloak down low past her brow to mask her true identity from the villagers.
“Who’s afraid of the Witch of Dervaig?” she sneered, “everyone.”
She stooped over once more and hobbled off toward home. Concealed beneath the folds of her cloak, nightfall did not frighten her as much: it was always dark under the cloak. Besides, her mind churned with images of deep brown eyes and wide shoulders, which also proved a good distraction from her fear.
He had seen her.
No one had ever seen her before. The villagers knew her only as the crippled and terrifying Witch of Dervaig. She grimaced as she imagined her mother’s fury. Brethia never ceased warning her about the wicked prejudice of the Gaels and was forever reminding her that their only protection from the clan was concealment under the Witch’s cloak. But he had taken her by surprise. One moment, she was aiming her arrow at the heart of a stag, the next she was staring at a man—an enormous man. Before her mother died, she warned Shoney about men in particular, paying special attention to their salacious appetites for young women.
“Fool”, she spat.
Why did she not flee the forest when they first spotted her near the road? She almost laughed out loud when the giant and his companion dove for cover as they hid from the Witch of Dervaig. Little did they know it was not a toothless hag concealing her gruesome facade beneath the dark folds, but rather a young woman more frightened of them than they could ever be of a wrinkled old witch. She overheard his name. It was Ronan, but she could not remember the little one’s name.
“Mother of all”, she swore. What did their names matter?
She cursed again; her mind was racing and fixating on the most trivial points. She had to face the magnitude of her mistake
s. She should not have risked lingering in the wood when she knew there were men nearby, and she never, ever should have chanced removing her hood. No buck was worth discovery, even one as grand as that which had been in her sights.
“Damn him”, she swore as she lamented the wealth of meat and the fine pelt lost because of their chance meeting.
Finally, she glimpsed her home outlined against the twilight. Situated near the cliffs on the western edge of the island, her hut stood just beyond the Dervaig Stones. Centuries before, the stones towered above the earth, in a long line. The women of Shoney’s descent worshiped amid the tall stones, but war and weathering brought about the collapse of many. The alignment’s former glory lived on in stories passed from generation to generation. To Shoney they were sisters asleep on an earthly bed, and the power of the stones remained undiminished in her heart.
She shivered as the last light vanished and darkness fully ascended. Her pulse began to race as she tried to limp faster, but her foot caught on a jutting rock, and she stumbled, landing on the game birds, which hung from her belt.
Mother of all, could this day just end?
Hobbling passed the Dervaig Stones, her resolve and strength began to return. Darkness had always been her weakness, even when her mother was alive. Tomorrow she would pray again to the goddess of shadows for courage to face her fear.
She opened the heavy wooden door and passed into her small stone hut. The oversized entrance, better suited for a large abode, was fashioned with intimidation in mind. Dragons and other fierce animals were carved into the surface, and in the center was the head of a serpent baring sharp fangs. It was one of many devices the women of Shoney’s descent used over the years to stave off harassment from the clan. Feeling the weight of it and hearing the loud thud as it closed behind her gave Shoney the reassurance needed to rid her mind of the last dwindling notions of terror. She swept the heavy folds of the Witch’s cloak off her shoulders and breathed a sigh of relief as she hung it on a peg and turned away. It would be ignored until she ventured out again.
