Tempest in the Highlands (The Scottish Relic Trilogy)

by May McGoldrick

  It made her smile that he could be playful regardless of their situation. “I’m serious. You have to turn around.”

  He stood up. “I’m going to gather more wood so that it can dry out. You take it off by the time I get back, or I’ll happily do it for you.”

  Miranda watched Hawk move toward the pool. As soon as his back was turned, she stood, pulled up her shirt, and started unbinding her breasts. It felt like heaven to peel away the last cold, constricting layer of woolen cloth. She sighed with relief and massaged her breasts as the last of the material pooled around her feet. She’d lowered her shirt and shaken out the binding cloth by the time he came back to the fire.

  Hawk stared at the long piece of cloth as he dropped the wood by the fire. His eyes lingered on her shirt. She looked down and saw her breasts showing through the wet tunic. She crossed her arms over her chest.

  “From the look of the light coming in,” he said, glancing up, “it’s getting dark outside. We’ll stay here tonight, see how much the water drops at low tide, and decide on the best way out in the morning.”

  “I am far from ready to go into that water again.” She looked up as well. It did seem to be getting darker. After so long in that shaft, she’d lost track of time.

  “And with any luck, your enormous friend doesn’t know another way in here.”

  Rubbing her arms and shivering with the cold, she sat near the fire and drew her knees into her chest. The breeches and shirt were still wet, and stuck to her skin.

  Miranda was surprised when Hawk came and sat right next to her. Their hips touched. His legs stretched out toward the fire before them. She stared at his bare feet. Everything about this man fascinated her, even the shape of his toes. A dusting of hair covered the top of each foot and spread up to where his ankles disappeared into his breeches.

  “Was that the third time or the fourth?” he asked. “Or was it the fifth time?”

  Miranda looked into his face, knowing exactly what he was talking about—how many times she’d saved his life. She shrugged and tried to gather herself into a tighter ball. “That’s what people do. They help each other. You’ve been doing the same thing for me since we washed ashore.”

  “You somehow have the upper hand.”

  “We’ve been lucky.” Miranda knew she had to convince him that everything she did was accidental. She motioned to the water. “Left to myself, I would have drowned in that waterway.”

  “And left to yourself, you may still catch your death from all the time we’ve been in the water.”

  He slipped an arm around her, and Miranda was shocked when he lifted her easily onto his lap.

  “What are you doing?” She tried to edge off him. He wouldn’t let her, but instead gathered her closer.

  “Sharing body heat. It’s what people do.”

  As she tried to extricate herself, she took hold of his hands and waited for the vision to come. She wanted to know what was coming for Hawk, what danger awaited them next.

  The image that flooded her mind stunned her and ignited the longing deep inside. His hands were roaming all over the skin of a naked body that straddled him. He was kissing the breasts, tasting them. Her fingers guided his head from one breast to the other. She was the woman in his arms.

  As Miranda’s vision cleared, she was looking into his eyes. Their faces were so close. She saw her own reflection in the black centers of those hazel eyes. She had a choice. She knew what she should do. She could change that future. She could force herself to get off his lap now, and that event would change.

  She recalled what her life had been up to now. Years of devotion to her mother and always being on guard against her father. There was never time for romantic fantasies. Even as a child, Miranda had served as caregiver and messenger. She didn’t live for herself. She danced to the harsh, discordant music of her home life. Maybe more accurately, she responded to the ongoing trauma of her parents’ lives.

  And now, here was Hawk. Her palms flattened against his chest, feeling the strong heart within. She admired the cords of muscle in his neck, the broad shoulders. The tips of her fingers traced the lines of his jaw, touched his lips. He was beautiful.

  For whatever short time they had together, she could experience life unlike anything she had ever dreamed. She could remain here on his lap and allow that future to play out.

  “You have magic in you,” he said quietly.

  Miranda’s heart skipped a beat. She looked into his eyes. The intensity of the way he studied her was unsettling.

  “And you’re using that magic on me,” he continued.

  “What do you mean?”

  He caressed her cheek, looked down at her shirt and back at her face. His lips brushed against hers, tasting, sampling, and as she was ready for him to deepen the kiss, he pulled back.

  “I’m not trying to frighten you again, but I’d like to peel those wet clothes off of you and run my mouth all over your body. I’d like to taste you here.” He touched her lips. “And here.” He touched the tip of her breasts over the tunic. “And here.” She gasped when his hand touched her very center over the breeches. “I’d like to bury myself deep inside of you. And I believe you would let me.”

  Miranda’s breath caught in her chest. Her heart was drumming madly in her chest. The heat had spread through her body, and she was afraid it might consume her then and there.

  “But I won’t,” he murmured. “Because I’ll be damned if I hurt you or do something that you might regret.”

  She blinked, relieved and disappointed at the same time. What she saw was not what would be, but only what could be. She also realized that it was not just her actions that altered things. Like a river changing its course, their future was quite fluid.

  The sea was as flat as a pond on a summer morning, and still the boat with the four oarsmen and the sailor at the helm could make no headway.

  Kenna watched the first mate of the Peregrine shout down at the men to keep the boat pointed toward the land in the distance, but nothing was working.

  “What’s wrong?” Kenna asked her husband. “Why can’t they move forward?”

  “The tide, maybe, though it doesn’t seem likely. Or a crosscurrent running between that land and us. Difficult to say.”

  The two ships sat coupled together, side by side, and sailors were moving back and forth from one vessel to the other. The splintered masts and twisted lines were gone, cut away and replaced by temporary spars and rigging. Small sails hung limp in the dead air, ready to catch the slightest breeze.

  That morning, when the fog thinned enough that they saw land in the distance, the first mate of the Peregrine decided to send a boat. If their lost captain had made it to land, he swore, they’d find him.

  “Could that be an island?” Conall Sinclair asked, coming to stand beside his wife Innes and watching the futile attempts of the sailors.

  Alexander nodded. “It must be. That storm blew us to the north and west, so it can’t be Ireland. It could be Uist or Barra, but I don’t think so. Maybe if the bloody fog would really lift, we’d get a better view of the place.”

  Kenna watched the oarsmen putting their backs into it. They were less than an arrowshot away, and they were making no headway.

  “Those are strong men. Have you ever seen anything like it?” Conall asked.

  “Never. Nothing like this,” Alexander admitted. “They look like they’re butting their heads against an invisible wall. I don’t understand it.”

  Kenna saw the troubled expression on Innes’s face. When it came to the history of the relics and the mystical powers that they each held, Innes was the expert. She had inherited the Chronicle of Lugh, and as the one who could read the past, she carried a great deal of knowledge.

  “Is this similar to anything that you might have run across?” Kenna asked.

  Before Innes could answer, they saw the boat give up and turn back. Innes looked from the oarsmen in the returning boat to the island in the distance. It appeared t
hat the fog was continuing to thin out, and the land mass was growing more distinct.

  “I feel that I’ve seen this,” Innes whispered. “That I’ve already been here.”

  They watched the oarsmen draw alongside the ship.

  “We couldn’t stay the blasted course,” the helmsman shouted. “We got only so far, and we couldn’t move us past.”

  The Peregrine’s first mate cursed the men roundly.

  “A peak with two horns and an eye,” Conall announced as the land ahead became more distinct.

  “By the devil,” Alexander cursed. His gaze, too, was locked on the island. “I know that place. Sailors call it the Isle of the Dead.”

  Kenna saw her friend grow visibly paler. She reached over and took her hand. The fingers were ice cold.

  “And they’re right,” Innes said, drawing their eyes to her. “It’s in the Chronicle of Lugh.”

  Chapter 17

  Rob recalled the saying: Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind. He was still adjusting to it, but he realized that when it came to Miranda, he himself was walking proof that love could look with both.

  He’d never been so taken with a woman. Here he was, fighting with himself to do what he saw as best for her, and ignoring his own desires as a man. And the lightning with which he’d been struck had come out of a clear blue sky. How did that happen?

  He looped a short silky tendril of golden hair around his finger as Miranda slept, nestled against his side and using his arm as a pillow.

  Love looks not . . . ? Love?

  That’s what it was; there was no denying it. What he was feeling was more than just care or concern. It was more than friendship. Why, he’d never had a friend who was a woman. But he did now. Miranda was that . . . and more.

  He loved her. When had he ever admitted that about any woman, even to himself? Never. And as their time together ran through his mind and he looked for a rational explanation, the floodgates opened and so many reasons poured out.

  She’d repeatedly endangered her own life to save his. She had wit and humor. And compassion and self-sacrifice. She had understated beauty that shone through. How she’d ever hidden it was a mystery to him now. And that passion—like liquid fire, right beneath the surface, ready to erupt through her veneer of feminine decorum and consume them both. She wanted him as much as he wanted her. He was certain of it.

  Rob thought back to when the two of them passed through the tunnel into this cave. The falling tide provided many pockets of air along the top. He knew they’d make it, but he was not the one fighting the panic of small spaces. Seeing her struggle shook him to the core. When she was choking in the passageway, her pain became his. At that moment, everything changed. He would have done anything to allay her fears and take her suffering onto himself.

  Miranda made a sound of distress in her sleep and moved closer to his side. Rob caressed her back.

  Looking at the embers of the dying fire, he found himself thinking of the future. Their future.

  The fact that she had no mother or father—no clan that she needed to return to—made it easier for them to plan. But Rob would not do what William Hawkins had done to his mother. He wouldn’t marry and set her up in England amongst strangers while he pursued his own ambitions. Rob knew Miranda could sail; he would keep her with him.

  “Four pieces. They fit together to make the whole?” she said. Her arm and leg muscles were jumping in her sleep.

  Rob kissed her brow. She was warm, even hot. He hoped it wasn’t fever. They had to get off this island. They would get off, he told himself.

  Her body lurched and she sat up suddenly. Her eyes stared across the water into the darkness beyond.

  “Don’t hurt him. Please let him go.”

  “Miranda,” Rob said gently, raising himself and watching her troubled expression. “It’s just a nightmare.”

  “Nay! Why?” she cried out, tears rushed down her face. “Why kill him? How could you? Why did you do it?”

  Her eyes were open, but she wasn’t seeing. She was in a trance. He tried to gather her in his arms, but she pushed him away.

  “Take it. Just take it,” she yelled, reaching for her belt and undoing the pouch that she wore there.

  “Wake up, Miranda.”

  She shook a piece of stone out of the pouch. It fell onto Rob’s lap. “I give it to you. You say it’s the last of the relics. It’s yours! But don’t kill him, too. Let him live. You have what you want.” She was pleading hysterically, and then she screamed. “Don’t!”

  “Miranda.” Rob shook her.

  She sobbed as if she’d just witnessed a murder. Tears poured down her face. “You . . . you killed Hawk. Why? I gave you what you wanted, but you killed him.”

  Rob gathered her in his arms. She tried to fight him, but he was stronger. He held her and whispered nonsense in her ear.

  It was some time before the shuddering lessened.

  “Wake up, love,” he said. “I’m right here. Open your eyes.”

  Her eyes were red and swollen from the tears, but Rob realized that she was awake. She was finally seeing him.

  “It was just a nightmare,” he whispered, trying to reassure her.

  Fresh tears splashed onto her cheeks. She shook her head. “Nay. Evers killed my brother . . . and then he killed you, Hawk. You’re going to die.”

  Miranda had seen Hawk die before, both in dreams and in touching his hand. But nothing had been like this. Nothing felt this real. Never had she smelled the blood and tasted the fear as she did now, watching a vicious murderer coldly kill two people she cared about. When Evers pointed to a young man wearing leather and told her he was her brother Gavin, it was real. When Hawk knelt helplessly with his hands tied behind his back, it was real.

  And when Evers cut their throats—first one and then the other—it was real.

  Then he came for her.

  Miranda forced herself to control her sobs while Hawk gathered her in his arms, caressing her hair, kissing her cheeks and her forehead.

  “You were sleeping. Dreams are nonsense. There is no truth in what you saw.”

  Hawk didn’t know the power Evers wielded. Power over the dead. In her vision, spirits followed the Englishman’s every command. Hawk couldn’t kill them; they were already dead. That was how he’d been captured, fighting to protect her. He wasn’t prepared for their attack and was defenseless against them.

  “He’s coming here . . . to this island. He wants the stone.”

  “Who is coming here?” he asked, lifting her face to look into her eyes.

  “Evers. I’d never seen him, but he told me who he was in my vision. He already has three pieces of the relic, and he wants mine. I never knew there were others that fit with the one I have.” She explained as quickly as she could while the images were still alive in her mind. “My fragment is the only one that he’s missing. And he killed Gavin and you . . . even after I gave it to him. He’s a monster!”

  Hawk caressed her face. “You’re only half awake. You’re confusing a nightmare with reality. Nothing of what you saw is true.”

  Miranda had to tell him. This was his only chance. He had to know the truth to protect himself. She reached for the pouch at her belt. It wasn’t there. Yanking herself out of his arms, she looked around her in panic.

  “Is this what you’re looking for?” He held out the pouch and the fragment of the tablet.

  Miranda stared at his open palm. She knew there was no power in the stone until she was dead. Still, this was the time to choose. Could she trust him with the secret that her mother had not seen fit to share with her own husband during two decades of marriage? Or should she keep it to herself and try on her own to defeat Evers and the future that she’d envisioned?

  He put the pouch and the stone in her hand. “From what I could piece together, you were trying to exchange my life for this in your dream.”

  Rob Hawkins and Angus MacDonnell were nothing alike. And Muirne had foretold that her fate was
entwined with Hawk’s. She’d advised her to wait for him.

  Miranda made her decision.

  “This is what Evers was searching for when he came to Tarbert Castle,” she told him. “This piece of stone that belonged to my mother is now mine. That’s why he’s after me.”

  He looked from her palm to her face and back to the stone.

  “This is nothing more than a stone with a few carvings on it. How could it drive a man to kill so many? To sacrifice an army for it? To give up his whole life?”

  “Because there is power in it.” She offered it to him.

  He took it again and held it up to the light, studying the patterns. Then he gave it back to her.

  “What kind of power?”

  “My mother could see into the future. In visions and in touching a person’s hand, she was able to see what was to happen, either immediately or in the years to come,” she explained. “The gift came to her with this stone. And now I’m the keeper of it.”

  His skepticism showed when he glanced at her before turning and feeding sticks into the fire. She recalled Hawk’s declaration that he believed only what his eyes could see and nothing more. She tried to see herself through his eyes. To him, she was having no vision; she was simply having a nightmare.

  “It’s true, Hawk.”

  He took a moment before answering. When he did, his voice was gentle. “I know you believe in these kinds of things—there are many people who do—but I believe it’s often difficult to distinguish between a dream and waking life.”

  “I know that the power my mother possessed is the reason Evers came looking for her. That’s why he killed those people at Tarbert Castle.”

  “A mad dog doesn’t need the promise of magic to kill. I was sent after him because Evers has gone mad in his bloody quest for land and power.”

  He didn’t believe anything Miranda said. How crazy would she sound if she told him about Evers raising an army of the dead? She even questioned that herself. Perhaps those parts of her vision meant something else.

  Miranda stared at the fragment of stone in her hand, trying to think of something that might convince him to believe her.