by Tarah Scott
Fierce blood, easily heated, for he claimed descent from a long line of fearless Norsemen as well as the ancient chiefs of the great Clan Donald, a race of men famed and respected throughout the Hebrides and beyond. A powerful man who believed that Highlanders were the equal of all men and better than most, he cut an imposing figure against the glittering waters stretching out below him.
Topping six foot four and favoring rough Highland garb, he was a giant among men, turning heads and inspiring awe wherever he went. Just now, with his dark, wind-tossed hair gleaming as bright as the great sword strapped at his side and his eyes blazing, the very air seemed to catch flame and part before him. Certainly, on a fair day, few were the men bold enough to challenge him. On a day such as this, only a fool would dare.
Aidan of Wrath had a reputation for turning savage. Especially when those he loved were threatened.
And this morn, he wanted blood.
More specifically, his cousin, Conan Dearg’s blood.
“A pox on the craven!” He whipped around to glare at his good cousin, Tavish. “I’ll see the bastard’s tender parts fed to the wolves. As for you” – he flashed a glance at the tight-lipped, bushy-bearded courier standing a few feet away, against the parapet wall - “if you won’t tell us your name, then I’d hear if you knew what is writ on this parchment?”
Aidan took a step toward him, his fingers clenching around the damning missive.
“Well?”
The courier thrust out his jaw, his eyes cold and shuttered.
“Perhaps a reminder is in order?” Aidan’s voice came as icy as the man’s expression. “See you, this missive is scrawled with words that would have meant my death. My own, and every man, woman, and child in my clan.”
Had the scroll been delivered to its intended recipient and not, by mistake, to him.
Anger scoring his breath, he let his gaze sweep across the choppy seas to the steep cliffs of nearby Wrath Isle, its glistening black buttresses spray-washed with plume. He fisted his hands, his eyes narrowed on the long, white-crested combers breaking on the rocks.
He would not be broken so easily.
This time Conan Dearg had gone too far.
He swung back to courier. “How many of my cousin’s men knew of this plot?”
“Does it matter?” The man spoke at last, arrogance rolling off him. “Hearing their names changes naught. All in these Isles know you’ve sworn ne’er to spill a kinsman’s blood.”
“He speaks true.” Tavish gripped his arm, speaking low. “Conan Dearg is your cousin, as am I. He-”
“Conan Dearg severed all ties with this house when he sought to arrange our murder.” Aidan scrunched the parchment in his hand, its rolled surface seeming almost alive. Evil. “To think he planned to slit our throats as we sat at his table, guests at a feast held in our honor.”
He stood firm, legs apart and shoulders back, the edge of his plaid snapping in the wind. “I cannae let it bide, Tavish. No’ this time.”
“We can put him out on Wrath Isle. His man, too, if he refuses to speak.” Tavish glanced at the nearby islet’s jagged cliff-face. “With the tide rips and reefs surrounding the isle, they’d ne’er escape. It’d be the closest place to hell a soul could find in these parts.”
Aidan shook his head. He knew Wrath Isle, a sea-lashed hellhole as wicked-looking this fair morn as on a cold afternoon of dense gray mist. But the isle’s brooding appearance deceived. With cunning, a man could survive there.
It wasn’t the place for Conan Dearg.
He drew a long breath, hot bile rising in his throat.
“He’d not find much foraging on the isle.” Tavish spit over the parapet wall, the gesture more than eloquent. “No women either.”
Aidan shot him a look, his frown deepening.
Conan the Red’s handsome face flashed before him, his dazzling smile as false as the day was long. Not lacking in stature, charm, or arrogance, he was a man to turn female heads and win hearts.
Men, too, fell easy prey to his swagger and jaunty airs.
Foolish men.
As he, too, had been. But no more.
Fury tightening his chest, he turned back to the courier. “I ask you again – how many of my cousin’s men knew of this perfidy?”
The man rubbed the back of his neck, his face belligerent.
He said nothing.
Aidan crackled his knuckles. “Perhaps some time in my water pit will loosen your tongue? ‘Tis an old, disused well, its shaft open to the tides. Greater men than you have spilled their secrets after a night in its briny depths.”
“I’ll see you in hell first.” Steel flashing, the man whipped a dirk from the cowled neck of his cloak and lunged. “Give my regards to the dev-”
“Greet him yourself!” Aidan seized the man’s wrist, hurling him over the parapet wall before the dirk even fell from his fingers.
Snatching it up, he tossed it after him, not bothering to look where man or knife landed. In the sea or on the rocks, the result was the same.
Beside him, Tavish coughed. “And Conan Dearg?”
Aidan dusted his hands on his plaid. “Have a party of warriors set out at once. Send them to his castle. To the ends of the earth if need be. I want him found and brought here alive.”
“Alive?” Tavish’s eyes widened.
“So I have said,” Aidan confirmed. “Out of deference to our kinship – and my oath – I’ll no’ end his life. That he can decide on his own, whene’er he tires of the comforts of my dungeon and a diet of salt beef and soured water.”
“Salt beef and soured water?” Tavish echoed again, comprehension spreading across his features. “No man can live long on suchlike. If he doesn’t die of hunger, his thirst will drive him mad.”
“Aye, that will be the way of it.” Aidan nodded, feeling not a shimmer of remorse.
“And” – he took Tavish’s arm, leading him from the battlements - “we’ll have a feast to mark the craven’s capture, the thwarting of his plan. See you that Cook makes preparations.”
Tavish gave a curt nod as they stepped into the shadows of the stair tower. “It will be done.”
“Indeed, it shall,” Aidan agreed.
The moment he slid the bolt on Conan Dearg’s cell, he’d treat his clan to the most raucous celebration Castle Wrath had ever seen. A lavish fest sparing no delicacies or merrymaking revels. With free-flowing ale and women equally generous with their charms, he’d make it a night to remember.
Always.
Second Prologue
The Isle of Skye
Many Centuries Later…
Only a few months after her eighteenth birthday and in the unlikely environs of a crowded tour bus, Kira Bedwell fell in love.
With Scotland.
Passionately, irrevocably, never-look-back in love.
Not as one might expect with a strapping, kilt-wearing hunky, all dimpled smiles and twinkling eyes. A powerfully-built Celtic giant able to melt a woman at twenty paces just by reciting the alphabet in his rich, buttery-smooth burr.
O-o-oh no. That would have made things too simple.
Kira –Always Take the Hard Way- Bedwell had fallen in love with the land.
Well, the land and a few choice secret fantasies. Delicious fantasies that set her heart to pounding and made her toes curl. The kind of things that would have made her parents regret every dime they’d doled out for her graduation trip to Scotland.
Land of her dreams.
A place to stir and kindle female desires if ever there was one. Hers had been simmering for as long as she could remember – the tartan-clad fantasies sparked by the colorful tales spun by one-time Scottish neighbors. The MacIvers had moved elsewhere, but the magic of her stories stayed with Kira, as did her dreams of misty hills, heathery moors, and bold, sword-swinging men.
Frowning, she crossed her legs and stared out the window, the image of a braw, wild-maned Highlander striking out across that untamed, heather-covered land a bit too v
ivid for comfort.
She moistened her lips, determining to ignore the nervous flutter in her belly. Prickly little flickers of giddiness that whipped through her each time she imagined such a man looming up out of the mist to ravish her. Her pulse escalated and she needed a few slow deep breaths to compose herself. Amazing, what the thought of a hot-eyed, handsome man in full Highland regalia could do to a girl.
Especially if such a man is bent on making a woman his.
Trying not to appear jittery, she smoothed a hand through her shoulder-length auburn hair, pretending concern with the tortoise shell clip that never failed to slip as soon as she fastened it.
In truth, neither preoccupation with a hairclip nor all the willpower in the world could shield her.
What red-blooded woman could resist a Highlander with a wolfish smile and a tongue so honeyed his every word slid through her like a dream?
Kira sighed. Truth was, she wouldn’t mind such a fate at all.
Indeed, she’d welcome it.
She just hadn’t been so lucky.
The only kilties she’d encountered so far on her holiday coach tour through the Scottish Highlands were men over sixty. Each one ancient even if they did speak with deep, bone-melting burrs. She recrossed her legs, her frustration minimal but definitely there. Not a one of the over-sixty gallants had even had cute knees.
Forget sexy calves.
As for filling out their kilts ….
Pathetic.
Kira frowned again and shifted on her seat. A fine window seat, and one she wasn’t about to relinquish. Not after she’d refused to leave the bus at the last three photo stops just to keep someone from snatching it from her.
After all, this was Eilean a’Cheo, the Isle of the Mist. Better known as Skye, and one of the highlights of the tour. A rapidly vanishing highlight as today was the tour’s only full day on the misty isle and she didn’t want to miss a single moment.
Not a heartbeat.
Not one precious glimpse out her hard-won window.
A strange sense of nostalgia and romance welling inside her again, she twisted away from the potato-chip-munching woman beside her and pressed her forehead against the window glass. Who needed paprika chips and diet soda when you could devour the expanse of Eilean a’Cheo?
They were driving north, along the cliff-hugging, single-tracked road through the heart of Trotternish, a landscape of rock, sea and brilliant blue sky almost too glorious to behold.
Indeed, wolfing junk food in the face of such encircling, natural beauty should be illegal.
She knew better.
She appreciated the view.
The glistening bays of rocks and shingle, the black-faced sheep grazing the greenest pastures she’d ever seen. Shining seas of deepest blue and dark rugged coastline. Cliffs, caves, and ruined croft houses, the fire-blackened stones squeezing her heart.
Kira blinked. Unexpected emotion pricked at her eyes, threatening to water them. She touched her fingers to the glass, wishing she could feel the chill spring air, escape the coach tour and run through the bracken and faded heather, not stopping until she collapsed on the grass beside a sparkling, tumbling burn.
The woman next to her touched her elbow then, offering potato chips. Kira ignored her, making only a noncommittal mmmph. She’d eat later, when they stopped at Kilt Rock for a picnic lunch.
For now, she only wanted to drink in the glorious panorama. She was branding the vistas onto her memory, securing them there so they could be recalled at will when the tour ended and she returned to Pennsylvania, leaving her new love behind.
The MacIvers had been right. They’d sworn that no one could set foot in their homeland without losing their heart to Scotland’s mist and castles. The wild skirl of pipes and vibrant flashes of plaid. She’d certainly fallen hard. Crazy in love as her sisters would say.
Crazy in love with Scotland.
And crazily annoyed by the constant drone of the tour guide’s voice.
A deep and pleasing Highland voice that she would’ve found appealing if the speaker hadn’t been such a bore. She glanced at him, then quickly away. That he seemed to be the only kilted Scotsman close to her age only made it worse.
Rosy cheeked, red-haired, and pudgy, he bore a rather strong resemblance to a giant tartan-draped teddy bear.
Leaning back against the seat, Kira blew out a frustrated breath. If she’d harbored any illusions about romance on this tour, Wee Hughie MacSporran wasn’t her man.
“…ancient seat of the MacDonalds of Skye, Castle Wrath stands empty, its once formidable walls crumbled and silent.” The guide’s voice rolled on, at last saying something that caught her attention.
She sat up, perking her ears.
Castle Wrath sounded interesting.
She could go for crumbled walls. Especially if they were silent, she decided, trying not to notice that her seatmate was opening a second bag of potato chips.
“Some say Castle Wrath is haunted,” Wee Hughie went on, seemingly oblivious to crackling potato chip bags. In fact, his chest swelled a bit as he looked round to see the effect of his tale. “To be sure, its walls are bloodstained, each stone a reminder of the past. The turbulent history of the ancient warrior chiefs who once dwelt there.”
Pausing, he pointed out the ruin on its cliff, clearly pleased by the tour-goers’ indrawn breaths. Their appreciative ooohs and ahhhs.
Kira ooohed, too.
She couldn’t help herself. Etched starkly against sea and sky, Castle Wrath, or what was left of it, looked just as dark and brooding as Wee Hughie described it.
Shivering suddenly, she rubbed her arms and nestled deeper into her jacket. She’d seen a lot of castle ruins since arriving in Scotland, but this one had her catching her breath.
It was different.
Romantic.
In a spookily delicious sort of way.
She shivered again, a whole rash of chills spilling down her spine. The solitary ruin exerted a pull on her that defied explanation.
Tearing away her gaze, she turned back to the guide, for once not wanting to miss a word he had to say.
“Castle Wrath was originally a Pictish fort,” he told the group. “A dun. This first stronghold was seized by invading Norsemen until they, in turn, were dislodged by the Lords of the Isles.” He looked around again, pitching his voice for impact. “These early MacDonalds were fierce and powerful. Their sway along Scotland’s western coast was absolute.”
He paused, his hands clenching the green vinyl satchel that Kira knew held his scribblings on Scottish history and lore.
Looking ready to impart that knowledge, he cleared his throat. “Deep grooves in the rock of the castle’s landing beach attest to the MacDonalds’ prowess at sea, for the grooves are believed to have been caused by the keels of countless MacDonald galleys being drawn unto the shore. These fearless men were the ones who raised the new castle and it is their ghosts whose footfalls, knocks, and curses can be heard-”
“Have you seen our guide’s beanstalk?”
Kira blinked. “Beanstalk?”
She looked at her seatmate, certain she’d misunderstood.
But the woman nodded, her gaze on Wee Hughie. “It’s quite impressive.”
Kira could feel her jaw drop. True, she hadn’t seen that many naked men, but she’d seen enough to know that Wee Hughie’s beanstalk was the only part of his anatomy that lived up to his name. She’d caught a glimpse of his Highland pride when some of the tour goers photographed him at Bannockburn. Striking a pose beside the famous statue of King Robert the Bruce, he’d looked regal enough until an inopportune gust of wind revealed what a true Scotsman wears –or doesn’t wear- beneath his kilt.
A wind-blast that proved Wee Hughie MacSporran to be anything but impressive.
Wincing at the memory, she shot a glance at him. “I didn’t think he was all that-”
“He’s descended from the MacDonalds, Lords of the Isles,” Kira’s seatmate enthused, poking her
arm for emphasis. “From the great Somerled himself. I know genealogists back home who’d sell the farm for such illustrious forebears.” She paused to press a hand to her breast and sigh. “He carries a diagram of his lineage in that green satchel. It goes back two thousand years.”
“Oh.” Kira hoped the other woman hadn’t guessed her mistake. She’d forgotten the guide’s ancestral pedigree. His supposed claim to noble roots.
Kira didn’t believe a word he said.
Any descendent of Robert Bruce and other historical greats would surely be dashing and bold, with dark flashing eyes full of heat and passion. Beautiful in a wild, savage way. Sinfully sexy. Well-muscled rather than well-fleshed, and definitely well-hung.
She squirmed on the seat, certain her cheeks were brightening.
Sure, too, that she wouldn’t be picnicking at Kilt Rock with full-of-himself MacSporran and the tour group. As if drawn by a force impossible to resist, she stared through the bus window at the ruin perched so precariously on the cliff-top. Bold men, mighty and strong, had called the romantic pile of stones their own and if their echoes still lingered there, she was of a mind to find them.
Or at least enjoy her packed lunch surrounded by the solitude.
Away from potato chip munchers and preening peacocks.
The bus could return for her later. If she could persuade the driver to indulge her.
Determination urging her on, she approached him a short while later during the obligatory roadside photo stop. A pleasant enough man about her father’s age, he turned when he sensed her hovering, his smile fading at the lunch packet clutched in her hand.
“My regrets, lass, but there won’t be time for you to eat that here.” He shook his head. “Not if we’re to make the craft and art shops on our way to Kilt Rock.”
“I’m not interested in arts and crafts.” Kira plunged forward before she lost her courage. “I’d rather picnic here than at Kilt Rock.”
“Here?” The bus driver’s brows shot upward. He eyed the clumpy grass at the roadside, the peaty little burn not far from where they stood. “Do you have any idea how many sheep pats are scattered hereabouts? Och, nae, here’s no place for a lunch stop.”
