“I think if ’tis a girl,” Fia said to them all once the weans were quieted, “we should name her Joy.”
If you enjoyed this book,
try these others by Laurin Wittig...
Kilmartin Glen
The Devil of Kilmartin
The Legacy of MacLeod
Charming the Shrew
Daring the Highlander
Guardians of the Targe
Highlander Betrayed
Highlander Avenged
About Laurin
Laurin writes bestselling and award-winning Scottish medieval romances and lives in southeastern Virginia. She was indoctrinated into her Scottish heritage at birth when her parents chose her oddly spelled name from a plethora of Scottish family names. At ten, Laurin attended her first MacGregor clan gathering with her grandparents, and her first ceilidh (kay-lee), a Scottish party, where she danced to the bagpipes with the hereditary chieftain of the clan. At eleven, she visited Scotland for the first time and it has inhabited her imagination ever since.
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The Outcast
Glynnis Campbell
Dedication
For wounded warriors and incurable nerds everywhere...
I love you just the way you are.
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to:
Tanya and Laurin for taking a wary Hobbit on a special journey,
Lauren Royal for being a genius and a cheerleader,
my sister Jewels of Historical Romance for their loving support,
The Crown Jewels--best street team on the planet,
Charlie Hunnam and Amy Acker for inspiration,
and my husband Rich for fun-filled geeky discussions
Chapter One
Keirfield, Scotland
Late November, 1542
Biera blew out a frosty breath and narrowed her one good eye at the cottage door.
Never had she felt so full of doubt. For hundreds of years the wise old crone had served as the Guardian of the Winter Stone. She'd borne the honorable burden of passing the treasure from Keeper to Keeper all through the ages. And she'd never failed to find the right Keeper for the precious relic.
But this time, something felt wrong.
Still, the rare round crystal in the wooden claw of her staff glowed with soft assurance, illuminating the snowflakes falling gently in the dark around her. She lifted the staff for a third time to rap on the door.
Finally she heard a shuffling scrape from within the cottage. After a long moment, the door creaked open a few inches.
Through the crack, a scruffy blond-headed giant frowned down at her with groggy, bloodshot eyes of gray. She could smell the whisky on him.
She frowned back. His hair was the wrong color. His eyes were the wrong shade.
Also wrong were the features of the second head that suddenly jutted out just below his—grizzled gray hair with brown eyes. Worse, they belonged to a gigantic slobbering deerhound.
She grimaced.
There wasn't much time. The new queen was about to be born—the old king about to die. The Scottish army had just suffered a harrowing defeat at the Battle of Solway Moss. The fate of all Scotland resided in the Winter Stone. Putting it into the right hands was crucial.
Biera tightened her grip on the staff and lifted a hopeful brow. “Anyone else livin' here?”
Lachlan squeezed his eyes shut. A moment ago, he'd been asleep and dreaming. Before that, he'd been drunk. 'Twas hard to tell anymore what was real and what wasn't. But when he opened his eyes again, the old crone was still there.
“God's bones, woman,” he growled. “What are ye doin' out on a night like this? Ye'll catch your death o'—”
“Time's a-wastin',” she interjected, dismissing him with an irritated wave of her hand. “Aye or nae? Is there another livin' here?”
Lachlan Mar wasn't in the habit of receiving visitors ever, let alone at this ungodly hour. Hell, he wasn't even dressed. He'd managed to slip a linen shirt over his head, and he'd pulled on his trews, but he hadn't bothered lacing them, and he didn't know where his doublet had gone.
He sighed. He knew he shouldn't have answered the door. Anyone who'd wander the woods alone on a snowy winter's eve had to be daft.
What had she asked him—whether anyone else lived here?
Someone else had lived here, but no more. Margaret had fled less than a fortnight after Lachlan came home from the war.
“A couple o' mice maybe,” he grunted, half hoping to scare the woman off.
'Twas against his nature to let people into his cottage. 'Twas his refuge, his escape, a place he could drink away his troubles and hide from his past.
But the old woman didn't look like she was leaving any time soon.
And as indifferent as he wanted to be, 'twas also against his nature to let people freeze to death on his threshold.
He rested his forehead against the edge of the door. 'Twould only be till morn, he supposed. He'd let her warm her bones by the fire and then send her on her way at daylight. And that would be that.
Besides, 'twasn't as if she'd mock his...deformity. A one-eyed woman could hardly make a fuss over a one-legged man.
He took hold of Campbell's collar to keep the hound from charging and opened the door wider.
Her gaze immediately flew to his crutch and his abbreviated leg, and she gasped.
“Ye're crippled?” she bluntly exclaimed, then continued in a mutter, “Nae, that canna be right. Ye dinna have the right features. And ye're sotted to boot. Somethin's gone awry.”
He clenched his jaw, tamping down the urge to tell her those were rather bold words coming from a withered, one-eyed old crone. At least she wasn't throwing rocks at him like the village lads used to...before he'd acquired his fearsome deerhound.
Finally sighing in surrender, he tried to coax her forward with a nod of his head. “Come in out o' the cold, grandmother, ere the frost cracks your frail bones.”
A keen twinkle appeared in her eye then, and she let out a soft cackle. “These frail bones have withstood a thousand fierce winters. 'Twould take more than a wee bit o' snow to pierce my hide.”
She was definitely daft, he decided. She looked ancient, aye, but a thousand winters? She couldn't be more than seventy years old. And no one could long endure the cold of a Scottish winter without the benefit of shelter. He was shivering just from the flurry of snowflakes that had swept in through the door. Even his hound had known enough to come in for the night.
Lachlan perused the crone slowly from the top of her woolen hood to the tips of her snow-covered boots as she studied him in return. Then he noticed the wooden staff she was holding. The claw at the top of it held a frosty white crystal in the shape of a perfect sphere. 'Twas glowing with a strange light.
At first he thought it must be his imagination. Sometimes when he'd been drinking, he saw things that weren't real. Maybe the old woman wasn't real either.
Then she made a grab for his arm, nearly knocking the crutch out from under him, dispelling that notion.
“Give me your hand,” she commanded.
Stunned by her suddenly forceful manner, he froze.
“Your hand!” she insisted.
He unfurled his fist, and she tipped the staff toward him. The claw released, dropping the heavy, round crystal into his palm. It was cold and polished smooth, a milky white stone almost as large as a hen's egg.
Her eye snapped as she asked him, “Will ye be the one to take the Winter Stone to its rightful Keeper?”
He scowled. What was the woman blathering about? Winter Stone? Rightful Keeper? That sounded suspiciously like it might involve a journey. Was she jesting? On one leg, Lachlan could scarcely walk to the spring and back, let alone embark on a journey to deliver some trinket for her.
“Will ye?�
� she demanded, shaking his arm roughly. For a wee woman, she was certainly strong. Perhaps madness did that to a person. “Answer me!” she spat, her gaze ferocious.
The corners of his mouth turned down. He supposed he wouldn't be able to pry his arm from her grip until he gave her an answer. He grumbled, “Aye. Why not? I'll take it.”
“To its rightful heir? The one with dark hair and bright green eyes?”
“Aye. Fine.” That should assuage the mad crone.
The old woman seized his hand then and peered closely at the stone. It seemed to throw off a curious rosy shimmer as she did so. Apparently satisfied by what she'd glimpsed, she nodded and grunted and closed his fingers around the stone.
“Then I'll be off,” she stated. “'Tis in your hands now. Keep it safe. 'Tisn't a thing to take lightly. The Winter Stone has the power to change your fate.”
“My fate, ach, o' course, I see,” he said to placate her. Then he turned aside for a moment to pull Campbell out of the way. “Now that that's settled, be a good lass. Come in and warm yourself by the—”
When he turned back, she was gone, vanished like mist in the snowy night. If not for the milky round stone in his palm, he might have believed he'd imagined the whole encounter.
He called out loudly. He even sent Campbell to search for her, not relishing the idea of finding a dead woman in front of his cottage on the morrow. But the deerhound came ambling back with his head lowered in guilt, unable to find her.
“That's all right, lad.” Lachlan scratched the hound behind his ears. “Ye did your best.” He squinted into the dark night, but 'twas impossible to see more than a few yards. “God willin', she'll find her way to shelter.” Under his breath, he added, “Or we'll be thawin' her carcass out come morn.” With that unsavory thought, he tossed the round stone out the door and into the snow.
Campbell immediately raced outside after it.
“Nae, lad!”
His command had no effect. The hound spent several moments nosing around in the snow until he found the bauble, picked it up, and came trotting back to the cottage, depositing it on the flagstone floor before Lachlan.
Lachlan gave him a rueful smile. He supposed the poor pup was starved for play. A man with a missing leg was not the ideal companion for a hound accustomed to running down deer.
Maybe he should be kind to the faithful beast and hand him over to someone who could exercise him properly...someone who was still useful...someone with two legs.
A familiar sharp twinge seized his heart, taking him by surprise. After three months, he thought he'd be used to his infirmity, used to the frustration and hopelessness. But his wounds still ached. The real pain of his useless existence gnawed at him daily, just like the false pain of his missing limb.
He sniffed sharply, then picked up the stone and tossed it once in his palm. It looked changed somehow, its rosy glow darkened to a muddy shade. But change his fate? Nothing could do that. With a bitter oath, he cast the thing away, back into the frozen night.
Before he could stop the hound, Campbell bounded out the door and after it again.
Lachlan shook his head at the fool dog. Maybe the thick-furred hound could stand the cold, but he was beginning to shiver, standing in the open doorway in nothing but his trews and his linen shirt. And Campbell would doubtless bring half the snowdrifts back into the cottage with him when he returned.
The hound again brought the stone between his teeth, his panting making fog in the chill air. He lowered his head and set his treasure gently on the floor once more.
“'Tisn't a game, lad,” Lachlan explained, retrieving the stone. “Sit.” The hound obeyed. “Stay.” He gave the hound a stern look, and then heaved the stone as far as he could one last time.
To his astonishment, the normally obedient deerhound leaped up and out the doorway, pushing aside the door when Lachlan tried to close it, almost upending his master in the process.
“Campbell!” Lachlan shouted. “What the devil?”
He didn't know what had gotten into the dog. Campbell always followed his master's commands. He was a faithful beast and served Lachlan well, hunting down game to keep them both fed.
But it seemed as if a strange wind had blown in with the snowstorm, disturbing the natural order of things. What else could explain a midnight visit from a one-eyed crone, her curious glowing crystal, the woman's sudden disappearance, and now his disobedient dog? Something unusual was definitely in the air.
“Campbell!” he called again. He'd thrown the stone a good distance, and he feared his persistent hound might freeze himself looking for it.
But just about the time he'd decided he was going to have to grab his cloak and limp after the dog, Campbell trotted up proudly with his prize, thoughtfully shaking the snow off of his fur before he entered the cottage.
Lachlan smirked. “Fine.” He bent to pick up the stone. He would have sworn it glinted green for an instant before he closed his hand around it and shut the door against the swirling snowflakes. “We'll leave it here then.” He hobbled over to the hearth and set the piece on the stone mantel, where it seemed to wink at him. He frowned. “Just don't expect it to change your fate, lad,” he said, giving the hound a scratch on his damp head. “I'm afraid ye're stuck with me.”
Campbell looked satisfied with that. He circled three times and settled down before the dwindling fire.
Lachlan couldn't settle down so easily. He poked at the coals, adding another log and stirring the fire back to life, igniting his own whirling thoughts as well.
As mad as the crone had seemed, he was haunted by her promise. He wished he could change his fate. Indeed, he wished he'd died along with his brothers three months ago at Haddon Rig.
That wish brought back painful memories, memories he'd fought hard to suppress. But tonight, with the world a bleak, frozen, isolated place, they hit him full-force. His throat ached with grief as angry tears welled in his eyes.
The words came to him as they always did.
He should be dead.
His brothers were dead—all four of them. They'd been killed on that bloody battlefield, slain by English blades, their bodies trampled beneath English horses. Lachlan had promised his father he'd look out for them, and he'd failed.
Why had he been spared? Why hadn't he died in glorious battle with them instead of suffering a grievous wound and living in lonely exile as half a man?
Children feared him. Men pitied him. And women? They recoiled from him, as his dear Margaret had, sickened by his hideous disfigurement.
This wasn't surviving. 'Twas punishment.
He should be dead.
He lowered himself onto his bed and stared into the harsh flames. There was only one way to cope with these fits of melancholy that turned him from the brave soldier he'd once been into the weepy, self-pitying wretch he was now.
He eyed the jack of whisky he'd left on the table. There was enough left to bring him drunken oblivion, maybe enough to make him forget for one night the horrific Battle of Haddon Rig.
Chapter Two
Alisoune Hay's heart pounded painfully. They were coming after her. She wheezed through her burning lungs, cursing her tight stomacher, and squinted in the bright morning sunlight as she floundered through the thick fallen snow. Her satchel flopped against her thigh as she hoisted her sodden skirts up with one hand and held her spectacles onto her nose with the other.
She could hear the irate shouts of the townsfolk as they pursued her. Some of them were calling her witch. Some were calling her blasphemer. And some of them were calling her things she pretended not to hear.
'Twasn't the first time she'd earned the disapproval of an entire town. As her parents had oft remarked, Alisoune's mouth was even bigger than her brain. And that was saying something.
Usually the people in the towns she passed through dismissed her opinions as the brash ravings of an impertinent young lass. But this time they'd taken her more seriously. This time, according to the awful red-haire
d priest who'd instigated the hasty proceedings against her, she'd spoken against common wisdom, God's will, and the very nature of the known world.
But that had been precisely her point. The world was not known. In fact, science had barely scratched the surface of the vast realm of knowledge. How could man possibly pretend to know everything about the universe?
She suddenly stumbled over her dark green skirts and fell face-down into the snow. She heard a shout behind her and felt an instant of panic as the ground blurred in her vision. Patting feverishly about with her hand, she finally located her fallen spectacles and perched them again on her nose. They were wet and covered with snowflakes, but at least she could see.
Scrambling to her feet, she surged forward. She hadn't expected the crowd to follow her so far. And by their growing rage, it seemed they intended to do something more dire than merely run her out of town.
Now that her parents had gone to France and left the business to Alisoune, she had no one to placate the townsfolk and assuage their anger. She'd already tried to explain herself in a reasonable fashion and even resorted to offering the priest money to withdraw his claim. But that had only gotten her into more trouble.
“Burn the witch!” she heard in the distance.
Her breath caught, and she tried to slog faster through the snow, despite the cold, throbbing ache in her chest. They couldn't be serious. Burn her?
What could she do? Where could she go? She quickly cataloged her options.
She had no horse, no cart. There was no church nearby for sanctuary. There wasn't even a troupe of players or a group of pilgrims to vanish into, which was her usual mode of safe transportation from town to town.
The Winter Stone: One Legend, Three Enchanting Novellas Page 19
