The Mammoth Book of Scottish Romance

by Trisha Telep

  “That I know,” she whispered, pressing closer still. “You’re a good man. A kind man. I do not ask you to bloody your hands. In fact, you must not. You must muffle the sound of the keys and wait. Promise me. He’s got underlings. More than you know. He’ll take me above. He likes an audience and it’s too close down here. We’ll leave this hole. But you must stay. They’ll think you still confined. Wait till the house goes quiet.”

  He pulled her hand from his lips, feeling the deep tremble in his own body. “So I should wait till you’re dead?” he asked, his voice all but lost in the darkness. “Wait till he’s taken your innocence and your life before––”

  She breathed a laugh. “I’m no innocent, Highlander. You know that as well as any. I’m a thief. A good one. In truth, I’m the best. And for that he’ll let me live.”

  “You lie. He’ll––”

  “… our guests.” Cryton’s laughing voice rang from upstairs. His footfalls thudded across the floor.

  “Lie down,” she hissed and shoved him.

  He wanted to argue, to resist, to save her. But with the sudden movement, his head spun. He slumped to the floor.

  The trap door creaked open.

  “Do you need help down there, Cryton?”

  “Not from the likes of you, Knobby,” he said, and hanging a lantern on a peg on the nearby wall, descended. “Well then …” His voice was jovial with success and stale beer. “I see you’ve waited for me, luv.”

  Swift rose to her feet, shielding her eyes against the glare of the lantern. Fear made her limbs stiff, hope made her eager. “Let me go.”

  “Of course.” He chuckled. “Of course I will, luv.”

  “Now. Before he regains his strength,” she said and jerked a nod towards the Highlander.

  Cryton’s brows rose. His perfect teeth gleamed in the lantern light. “So Snake didn’t kill him?” he asked and kicked Mackay’s heavy leg.

  She prayed he would remain still. He didn’t disappoint her. “No, he’s not dead,” she said. “But it’s not too late.”

  “Ho, I didn’t realize you were such a bloodthirsty wench.”

  “I’m not bloodthirsty. Not like him,” she said.

  “Him?” He laughed. “I think you’re lying to me, sweet Swift. He’s a man of peace. Said so hisself.”

  “And I suppose you’re daft enough to believe he won’t kill me because––”

  He struck her across the mouth. For a moment, the world went grey. She stumbled backwards, pressing shaky knuckles to her bleeding lips.

  “Does he look like a saint to you, Cryton?” she asked, forcing herself to speak past the panic. “He’s a warlord. A mercenary. He’s killed more men than you’ve robbed. Children too. And women. He told me so himself. Bragged about it.”

  “Truly?” His tone was intrigued. Thrilled even.

  “I swear it’s true. He plans to have me, to use me up and murder me.”

  “You don’t say. Why you?”

  “I stole from him.”

  “From a man of God?” He crowed with laughter. “Jesus Christ, you’re even more of a bitch than I imagined.”

  “I stole from him in his church. Shamed him. He’s obsessed. Said no other man will ever touch me.”

  “Did he now?” he asked, and kicked the Highlander again. This time he moaned. “Is that true, old man?”

  Mackay rose groggily to one elbow. “Leave her be.” His voice was little more than a growl.

  “I fear I can’t do that.” Cryton laughed. The sound was hollow and empty in the narrow space. “She’s mine,” he said, and reaching out, grabbed her by the hair.

  Pain thundered through her scalp, skittered down her neck, chasing fear before it. “Get me out of here,” she hissed, “I’ll do whatever you wish.”

  “Believe this, lass,” he snarled. “You’ll take my orders little matter what I do.”

  Swift braced herself, playing every card she held as she looked up through her lashes at him. “But how much better would it be if I were willing?” she asked and skimmed one chained hand down his chest to his crotch.

  “You want it now?”

  “Soon,” she said and squeezed. The keys were inches away, bulging in his pants’ pocket. “When we’re alone.” There was no better way to convince him to stay than to ask him to leave. That she knew.

  He pressed up against her. “I rather like the idea of him watching,” he said and reaching up, ripped her ratty gown down the front.

  She couldn’t stop the gasp of disgust that rattled from her throat as he pushed her against the wall, but covered it with as moan as she pressed her head against the stone behind her and grappled with his trousers.

  “Leave her!” the Highlander snarled, but in that instant she nipped the keys from Cryton’s pocket. It was a simple thing. A beautiful thing. For a fraction of a moment she dipped inside, then cupped him intimately with her left hand as she flicked the keys towards Mackay with her right. They sailed silently through the dimness, but her chains impeded the throw. The keys soared for an instant too long, sailing past Mackay’s outstretched fingertips to clatter like wind-swept hail against the rocky floor.

  For a moment the world went absolutely silent. Cryton turned with careful precision to stare at the keys, then, “You bitch!” he snarled and hit her.

  She stumbled back, struck the wall and crumpled, but he was already reaching for her, pulling her to her feet, hitting her again.

  She saw Mackay lurch away, grappling for the keys, but his chains snatched him up short.

  “You conniving cow!” Cryton rasped and kicked her in the ribs. Pain screamed through her.

  Mackay strained towards the keys, but Swift could no longer concern herself with his escape. She scrambled along the wall. Cryton came after her. Slavering with rage, he kicked her again. She sprawled forwards, found her hands and knees and lurched on.

  Cryton strode after her, cocky, enraged, and in that moment, the Highlander rose to his feet and lunged towards them.

  Cryton was still moving forwards as Mackay swung his arm wide. His chains whipped up and out, encircling Cryton’s neck like a loop.

  His eyes popped wide. “Sil!” His voice was warbled but loud.

  Footsteps clattered above.

  “They’ll kill you,” Cryton rasped, grimacing a smile as he grappled to free himself. “They’ll kill you, then fook her till––”

  Mackay snapped the links tight against the other’s throat. Bones cracked. Cryton jerked spasmodically, eyes bulging, then hung still, suspended by the chains.

  Mackay let him fall just as a half dozen others dropped to the floor nearby.

  One of them fired a shot. Sparks sputtered in every direction as they struck the wall and ricocheted madly.

  Swift screamed. Mackay roared in rage, wrapped his arms in his chains and heaved.

  The restraining metal rings popped from the walls just as two men leapt at him, knives drawn. Another bullet hissed past his ear. But in less than thirty seconds, the dungeon went silent.

  Seven bodies lay motionless on the floor.

  The Highlander staggered, starring dazedly at the carnage. “I’m a man of peace,” he whispered. Swift unlocked the last of her chains and stumbled towards him.

  “Highlander.”

  He turned towards her, eyes haunted. “Peace,” he said again. His voice was broken, his expression shattered, and she cupped his beloved face in her palm.

  “They would have tortured me, Highlander. Tortured and killed me as they’ve done to others.”

  “There are better ways …”

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes, sometimes. But not this time. This time your strength was necessary.”

  He shook his head, but she stilled the motion with a trembling hand. “The boys upstairs will live because of you. Tavis will live,” she said.

  He looked at her as if seeing her for the first time since Cryton’s arrival. “How many lads are there?”

  “Five at last count.”


  He winced. “I can’t care for––”

  “Six counting Tav.”

  He shook his head, seeming more himself. “I have funds to help them,” he said. “But they’ll need more than coin. They’re damaged. Broken––”

  “We’ll mend them,” she whispered.

  He lowered his eyes to hers.

  “We’ll mend us,” she whispered and kissed him.

  His Magick Touch

  Kimberly Killion

  One

  Scotland, Inner Hebrides,1587

  The bastard was finally going to kill her.

  Sorcha trembled inside her wool mantle as icy wind thrashed strands of brown hair over her face. The rope binding her wrists stung, and her battered legs ached where Hector had pushed her down the steps of the keep. But none of it compared to the fear clutching her insides. She craned her neck over her shoulder and gawked wide-eyed at the white waves pummelling the base of the cliff.

  “Ye destroyed my crops with hail, infested the clan’s meat with maggots, and set the outbuildings afire. ’Tis August, yet snow blankets my land.” Hector pressed her closer to the pebbled edge with his dark glare and intimidating size. He stood a full head taller and easily outweighed her by ten stone. “And now this.” He held up his sword arm covered with lesions of oozing pus. “Ye give me a whore’s disease!”

  “I did naught, m’lord. I swear it,” Sorcha pleaded between chattering teeth. She considered reminding him that he hadn’t come to her bed in over two years, but knew ’twas useless to defend herself. Hector had blamed her for every misfortune that befell Clan Ranald since he’d taken her to wife four years past.

  “Ye lying bitch!” He struck her hard across the face with the back of his hand.

  Sorcha twisted at the waist and landed on her knees and elbows. The pain stinging her cheek was soon forgotten when Hector kicked her in the side. She heard her rib crack just before an unbearable streak of pain shot through her very core. She couldn’t fight, couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. The coppery tinge of blood spread over her tongue as she rolled on to her stomach. She spit a string of crimson and pulled herself forwards by her bound hands.

  “Think ye I dinnae hear ye chant your spells in the old language?” Hector wrenched her back to her feet.

  If she were half the witch he accused her of being, then she might possess the power to save herself. She wished da hadn’t ousted grandmum from the clan before she taught Sorcha the Pagan ways.

  “Ye have cursed me and my clan for the last time,” he bellowed over the howling wind.

  “If ye kill me,” she panted through the pain, trying to draw upright to stare him in the eye, “my kin will avenge me.” ’Twas a false threat, but she was desperate.

  A deep throaty chortle burst from Hector’s pocked face. “Your da died before naming a tanist to reign in his stead. The MacNeils have no chieftain, no bloodline, save for a sixteen-year-old girl. And your sister will be easy to break.”

  Sorcha’s heart lodged in her throat. The horrid images of what Hector would do to her sister erupted in her mind’s eye like a nightmare. Peigi would be powerless to defend herself against Hector and his men.

  “As soon as I send ye to your Otherworld, I’ll be claiming the Isle of Barra as my own.”

  Sorcha looked to the grey sky and pleaded with the king of her gods. Thou Christ of the cross, snatch me from the snares of this evil demon so I might protect my kin.

  A bird cawed overhead, circling them. ’Twas a falcon – a white falcon. Mayhap the Goddess Cliodna had come to escort her to the afterlife.

  “Fare thee well, Sorcha of Barra. I’ll see ye in Hell.” Hector raised his foot high and drove the sole of his boot into her stomach, sending her reeling over the edge of the cliff.

  Shock numbed her insides. She wanted to hold on to something, to scream, but she could do neither. Her body seemed to fall faster than her soul, and for one breathtakingly frightening moment, she felt as though her physical being separated from her spirit.

  Through it all, she kept her eyes fixed on that white falcon following her downward to her death.

  “Heave!” Keiran of Barra bellowed the order to his kinsmen pulling on the oars as he cursed Sorcha’s grandmum for not sending him sooner. They were close, but were they close enough to save her?

  Standing at the bow of a three-masted carrack staring into thick grey mist, Keiran held fast to the magick thread connecting him to his animal spirit. Through his falcon’s eyes, he watched Laird Ranald strike Sorcha. When the poxed pig kicked her, Keiran’s fingertips dug into the wooden rail. Get up! Crawl away from him.

  His falcon, Tàiseal, cried a warning above the scene, just before the cur pushed Sorcha over the cliff’s edge.

  Keiran’s heart jumped against his ribs. “Bluidy-faugh!” He snapped his chin over his shoulder and ordered the MacNeil warriors again, “Heave! Heave!”, louder this time.

  Two heartbeats later, the bowsprit broke through the thick mist. He pushed the falcon’s aerial view from his head and watched as Sorcha disappeared into the white waves.

  Gasps issued overhead from the topmen perched like gulls in the rigging.

  “Oh, Brigid, protect her,” Keiran begged the High Mother Goddess as he unsheathed his weapons – a broadsword, two daggers, and a sgian dubh – tossing them to the deck. His entire body shook as he heeled off his deerskin boots. He couldn’t let her die. Aside from being the queen of his clan, she’d held the key to his heart since she was but ten and six.

  “Have ye lost your wits, mon?” Sileas stepped on to the prow, pulling a fur cap tighter over his bushy copper hair. “Ye cannot swim faster than they can row. Besides, you’ll freeze to death afore ye reach her.”

  “If they keep rowing, the bow will splinter on the rock. Stop the starboard rowers and turn the Cerridwen around.” Keiran pulled his plaid over his head. “Send a long boat. I’m going after her.” He stepped up on the rail and dived headlong into the frigid water.

  His eyes pinched tight. Tiny needles of ice pricked his body, seizing his muscles, but his spirit urged him on. He burst out of the water and spun in circles, searching for her, but could see naught through the mayhem of rolling foam. Tàiseal screeched overhead, and Keiran immediately tapped into the falcon’s vision.

  Sorcha clung to the edge of a rock nigh ten feet away from him. A swell broke over her, mocking her efforts to survive, but she was alive. Hope gave him the strength he needed to close the space between them. He kicked and pushed the water behind him until he could see her with his own eyes. Keiran reached for her just as another swell crashed over and pulled her beneath the surface.

  Sorcha! He dived deep, refusing to return to the surface without her. Salty brine scoured his eyes, but he dared not close them and lose sight of the dark silhouette descending into the abyss. Pressure squeezed his chest. Just as he feared he would fail, a powerful force clutched his back like a sorcerer’s claw and pushed him deeper.

  Sorcha’s hair feathered across his fingers. He kicked his feet and hooked his arm beneath her breasts. His legs burned with the added weight, but having her in his arms gave him the strength he needed to haul her back to the surface.

  Air. Sweet, cool air. He gasped for it, choked on it as he wrenched Sorcha out of the water. Holding her lifeless body against his chest, he located the long boat only feet away. Within seconds, the hands of his kinsmen grasped at him and Sorcha, heaving them over the edge of the boat.

  She lay still as stone in a bundle of sodden wool. Her dark hair coiled in a web around her face. An ashen tint darkened the skin beneath her eyes, and her lips were quickly turning blue.

  “She is dead,” Sileas announced as the others rowed them towards the Cerridwen.

  Keiran cleared the hair from her mouth, refusing to believe Sileas’s words. Her memory had kept him alive all those years he’d spent on the battlefield. She’d been his light of hope and he’d be damned if he would let that light be doused forever.

 
; He flattened his hand over her chest and used the healing technique Magda had taught him to move the water out of Sorcha’s lungs.

  She convulsed – thank the gods – and spewed salt water from her lungs like a geyser. She gasped for air, choking, coughing, gagging. Blood raced through her veins, turning the hue of her skin from pale grey back to creamy white in an instant.

  Relief swept through Keiran as did a smidgen of arrogance. He grinned at Sileas. “She is alive.”

  Sorcha opened her eyes. Her irises were not the bright blue-green he’d remembered. The colour had dulled, become distant. Confusion wrinkled her delicate brow and tore at his heart. Did she not know him?

  Shivering, she clung to him with her bound hands, clawed at his undertunic like a frightened kit, then twisted to look up at the cliff where her husband stood watching. “Help me,” she whispered, then collapsed in Keiran’s arms.

  Two

  Sorcha decided the Otherworld was blessedly warm and smelled of sweet spices and leather and brine. A gentle to and fro sway rocked her body like she was a babe in arms. She wiggled slightly, searching for injuries, but nothing hurt, save for a faint pinch in her ribs. Aye, she was definitely dead.

  She remembered falling, remembered her spirit reaching up towards the white falcon. Mayhap the goddess had taken her spirit before Sorcha’s body hit the rock, saving her from the pain of death. Regardless of how it happened, ’twas a relief to be on the other side and free of Hector’s abuse.

  She snuggled deeper into a cocoon of furs and wrapped her arms around the warm body stretched out alongside her.

  Warm body!

  Her eyes snapped open. The warm body belonged to a man – a verra naked man. Her breasts smashed against his finely chiselled chest and the hairs on his thighs tickled hers. His clean scent told her he wasn’t Hector as she briefly feared, but she knew not who he was. She tried to inch away from him, but he circled her small frame with thick-muscled arms.

  “Be still and rest, Sorcha,” he murmured in a deep husky voice then kissed the top of her head.

  She sucked in an audible breath and looked up into amber eyes flecked with gold. She recognized those eyes. “I know ye.”