A tiny, black-garbed woman with a wizened face, a whir of white-gray hair, and bright blue eyes, what truly set her apart were the red plaid laces she used to tie her black boots. And, perhaps, how spry she was, considering her formidable age. Years, possibly even centuries, that no wise man would risk mentioning.
Often referred to as simply Herself, Devorgilla commanded respect.
Here, in the heart of the Black Stag’s lair, Duncan’s own privy solar in his beloved loch-girt stronghold, Eilean Creag, that posed a problem.
Duncan ruled his territory with an iron hand.
Just now, he didn’t care for how the orange-red glow from his peat fire edged the cailleach. The lurid, flickering light gave her an otherworldly air that didn’t sit at all well with him. It also displeased him that he was certain she knew and had taken advantage.
Hadn’t she hobbled right to the hearth upon entering the room?
So Duncan frowned, something he did well.
If she thought to bedevil him with her witchy ways, he’d treat her to his infamous scowls.
In careful measure, of course.
“You have journeyed here in vain, great lady.” He used the title he knew she expected, not wishing to grieve her more than was necessary. “My lands are at peace.”
“That they are, indeed,” came a deep Sassunach voice from across the room. “Nor have there been any troublesome stirrings at my own Balkenzie Castle. I keep southern Kintail secured for you.”
“As well you should.” His mood worsening, Duncan looked sharply at the tall, scar-faced knight who’d claimed the solar’s best chair.
It was Duncan’s own, crafted of heavy black oak and richly carved. Sir Marmaduke Strongbow, Duncan’s longtime friend and brother-in-law by marriage, sprawled there now, his long legs stretched before him, his usual air of imperturbability so annoying that Duncan’s head began to ache. How typical that the lout would choose the same afternoon as Devorgilla to darken his door.
Duncan almost believed his friend also possessed crafty powers.
He just hoped Sir Marmaduke wouldn’t mention his patrols along a certain glen.
“I’ve seen no cause for concern up near the Glen of Winds either,” the fiend said, doing just that. “Even so, we should heed Devorgilla’s warning.”
Duncan glared at him.
Sir Marmaduke lifted his wine cup, sipped with irritating deliberation.
“He is a wise man, your friend.” The crone preened, sounding smug.
“No man would dare set foot in the Glen of Winds.” Duncan was certain. He made sure his mien and stance said so. Having positioned himself at one of the solar’s window embrasures, he kept his legs braced apart, his arms folded, as he met the crone’s piercing blue gaze.
He also took care not to glance at his lady wife, Linnet. She’d been silent until now, setting the room’s only table with platters of oatcakes and cheese, a few ewers of fine Rhenish wine. He knew without looking that Linnet believed the crone.
He did, too, though he wasn’t of a mind to say so.
He’d learned long ago that wherever Devorgilla appeared, trouble soon followed. Sometimes he suspected she conjured the mayhem, taking pleasure in spreading mischief. He wouldn’t put anything past her.
He also appreciated the peace that had settled over Kintail in recent years.
Quiet days he meant to maintain.
For sure, a dark wind was coming. But it wasn’t a war-band or a horde of unholy ghoulies. He made certain that every man, woman, and child, in his territory slept safely. The blackness descending was his temper and only his grudging respect for the cailleach kept it at bay.
“‘Twas the Glen of Winds I saw in my cauldron’s steam.” The crone swelled her chest, her thin shoulders squaring. “It rose before me clear as day, a narrow, steep-sided defile with jumbles of broken rock, thick heather, gorse, and bog myrtle. It was a wild and inaccessible place, unmistakable. The dark winds came from everywhere, black mists whirling about me, my ears aching from the screams and howls-”
“To be sure, you heard wailing.” He had her now. “A banshee dwells there, as all men know. Nothing stirs in that benighted place except her cries and the souls of the doomed.” He didn’t say his clan spread the rumors. If she was as wise as she loved to boast, she knew.
If his Sassunach friend or his lady wife revealed the glen’s secret, there’d be hell to pay.
He flashed a look at them both.
Sir Marmaduke had helped himself to a handful of oatcakes and was calmly enjoying one, not at all looking as if the greatest cailleach in the land had just proclaimed doom and destruction was about to befall their beloved Kintail.
His lovely wife, still so desirable with her thick braid of glossy red-gold hair, and the fine heathery scent that aye wafted about her, was just stepping back into the solar, carrying a jeweled flagon of Duncan’s best uisge beatha. Fiery Highland spirits he agreed would be most welcome before Devorgilla took her leave.
What wasn’t welcome was catching the look Linnet cast at the crone.
“Did you see aught else?” his wife wanted to know, speaking in a way Duncan didn’t like.
He knew the tone well.
It meant she, too, had seen something.
As the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, she was gifted – or cursed – with the second sight; a talent that still had the power to rattle him to the bones, however long they’d been married.
She poured a small cup of uisge beatha and took it to the cailleach. “Anything at all?”
“There do be more, aye.” Devorgilla accepted the libation, slid another pointed look at Duncan as she sipped. “Your men patrol the hills about the glen,” she said, proving as always that she knew things she shouldn’t. “You’d best have a word with them. They should be aware that a ne’er before wickedness approaches.”
“I will strengthen their number.” Duncan nodded, agreeing to keep the peace, secretly resenting an old woman telling him what to do.
Any foulness that thought to enter Kintail was aye met with the sharp edge of a sword, the drawn steel of many blades, all of them expertly wielded.
Such was enough.
“The men who watch that area are my best warriors.” Duncan unfolded his arms and reached to rub the back of his neck, which was beginning to pain him.
He turned slightly, glancing out the embrasure’s arched window. It was a fine afternoon and Loch Duich shone like blue glass in the cold autumn sun. Beyond, for Eilean Creag claimed an island in the loch, the great hills of Kintail stretched on and on, dressed now in shades of burnished red and gold. But a thick mist was gathering on the higher peaks and the swirling blue-gray mass gave him a chill. The Glen of Winds was hidden deep inside those rugged, trackless heights. And on such days, especially so close to gloaming, the wee defile would disappear beneath the fog.
No man would know the glen existed.
And that was why it’d been chosen as the refuge of one of his most precious kinswomen.
Duncan’s scowl returned, along with a cold, unpleasant tightness in his gut. Turning away from the window, he hooked his thumbs in his sword belt and addressed the tiny, black-garbed cailleach.
“Sir Marmaduke often rides with the men who guard the Glen of Winds.” He glanced at the Sassunach, letting a curt nod acknowledge his friend’s renown and experience. “Only a fool would challenge such a patrol. Nor will they allow any man to cross into the glen.”
“So I knew!” Devorgilla wagged a finger. “See you, there is one man they must give entry, a great warrior whose fame is almost as great as your own.
“And his,” she added, giving Sir Marmaduke a bright, twinkly-eyed smile.
Duncan waited, not swayed by her flattery.
“Who is this paragon?” He didn’t know why he asked, for Devorgilla ever answered in riddles.
“He is the man who will repel the dark winds,” she returned, proving him right.
Duncan glared back at her, his a
nger rising. “There is a treasure in that glen.” He wasn’t about to say more. “If I dinnae ken who to trust, no stranger will enter the Glen of Winds.”
“He won’t be a stranger when your men see him.” The crone persisted in speaking riddles.
“If he’s not known to me, he’s an outsider.” Duncan wouldn’t risk his kin. “My men will have orders to run him through with a spear.”
“I believe I know who he is.” Linnet appeared at his side, slid her arm gently through his. “I have seen him,” she admitted, leaning into him softly as she always did, calming him as no one else could. “It happened in my herbarium, only moments before Devorgilla arrived.
“There wasn’t time to tell you.” She looked up at him, the truth in her eyes. A rich brown, but flecked with gold, they were still the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen. They were also expressive, and never ever lied. She used them now to hold his gaze. “I have never before seen this man and I cannot say his name, but a fine silvery light edged him, letting me know he is good.”
“That be him!” Devorgilla beamed. “Had silver shining all round him, he did.”
“Saints, Maria, and Joseph!” Duncan stepped away from his wife, roared his favorite curse. Scowling at Devorgilla, he shoved his hands through his hair. “You would have me tell my guards to look for a man who is good and walks about wreathed in silver?”
Sure his men would hold him for addled, he pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. He drew a long breath, hoped that when he looked again, he’d find himself in his bed, this entire misbegotten day naught but an unpleasant dream.
“Perhaps the man is a knight?” Sir Marmaduke’s voice rose from across the solar, shattering the possibility. “Knights wear mail, could appear to shine like silver.”
“Is that so?” Duncan glowered at him.
Devorgilla smiled at the Sassunach, bobbed her grizzled head. “He surely is a knight, and a much honored one,” she trilled, her eyes lighting. “But the silver ringing him is his goodness, no’ a coat of mail.”
“Then he’d best don one because my men will fall upon him when he appears.” Duncan strode over to the table and snatched up the uisge beatha flagon, pouring himself a large measure and tossing it down in one long swig.
Dragging the back of his hand across his mouth, he turned back to the others. “Your champion is a dead man, Devorgilla. Lest you-”
“Aye, that he may be.” She threw a glance at Linnet, then looked again at Duncan. “Whether he’s dead or no’, isn’t how your men will recognize him.”
Duncan spoke through gritted teeth. “Then how will they?”
Devorgilla jutted her chin. “He carries a broken sword.”
“Then he can be no great warrior.” That Duncan knew.
“Ah, but he once was,” Devorgilla informed him, again wagging her finger. “The rent blade is his penance. He seeks the Glen of Winds to cast off his shame.” She lowered her hand, glancing round at them all. “Regrettably, he isn’t the only soul heading there.
“But he is the one who shall save your treasure,” she finished, looking pleased.
“I see.” Duncan did, leastways he hoped so.
He might have a temper, but he wasn’t a fool.
He understood something of broken warriors. Great men who’d made poor choices and sought redemption. Once, many long moons ago, he’d belonged to their number. If Devorgilla and his lady wife were sure this faceless fighter was worthy, he wouldn’t harass him.
As for the rest…
He’d take measures to safeguard kith and kin, as always.
Satisfied, he smoothed his proud MacKenzie plaid and gave the cailleach his word. “My men will be instructed to allow this warrior passage across our lands, even into the Glen of Winds.”
He glanced at Sir Marmaduke, satisfied when his friend inclined his head.
“It is agreed, the man with a broken sword is welcome in Kintail.” Duncan waited for any final arguments.
When none came, he nodded. “So be it.”
THE TAMING OF MAIRI MACKENZIE
CHAPTER ONE
Dunwynde Broch
The Glen of Winds
Mairi MacKenzie knew the moment a stranger entered the glen. She felt a shifting in the air, a ripple down her spine. So she stilled before the broch’s central fire, and quietly set aside the long wooden ladle she’d just lifted off her table. Tending her cook-pot could wait, her dinner mattered less than her safety. She might not possess the gift so many believed she had, an ability to bring the dead back to life, but she was fond of living.
Necessity had taught her caution, honing her senses.
She’d heard the telltale crunch of a horse’s hooves on pebbled stone. She’d also caught the creak of saddle leather, the jingle of a harness. Her fine-tuned ears picked up the sounds through chinks in the walls of the half-ruinous broch that served as her home.
A rough shelter, to be sure. Even so, Dunwynde guarded her well, its age-smoothed stones protecting her through the long, endless-seeming moons since she’d left everything she’d known to become the banshee of this fearsome defile.
A mythic terror few would risk troubling.
Now…
Someone had breached her sanctuary, and the knowledge alarmed her greatly.
She shivered, the cold coming from within. Then she stepped away from her cauldron of thick, simmering stew, and crossed the broch’s circular main room to the low lintelled entry. A heavy length of hide hung there, as good a door as needed in this benighted place, so shunned by men. Behind her, peat haze hung in the air, the earthy-sweet scent not soothing her as on most days. For the first time she could remember, the chill wind that aye raced through the glen, struck ill-ease into her heart, even prickling her skin.
There could be no reason for anyone to visit Dunwynde.
For someone to seek her was even more unsettling.
She didn’t want to seek a new hideaway.
She’d been so grateful to have found succor here, regaining the calm and quietude that had been stolen from her when she’d been chased from her cottage at Drumbell village. Branded the devil’s own mistress, she’d fled to her clan chieftain, Duncan MacKenzie, the Black Stag of Kintail. A good and strong leader, he’d settled her at Dunwynde, vowing that no harm would come to her within its ancient embrace. She even felt a bond to the broch’s earliest dwellers, sensing they’d welcomed her to the strange, tower-like structure they’d built so long ago. She also liked the glen’s wildness, its rugged splendor a balm to her soul.
She didn’t care if folk thought her a banshee.
Not if such a guise kept her peace.
Hoping it wasn’t about to be broken, she gripped the edge of the door-flap, easing the leather aside. The glen stretched long and narrow before her, its sides tall and sheer, the ground rock-strewn and hemmed with birches. Mist rolled everywhere, making it difficult to see the track that twisted down from the windswept pass so high above her. If anyone rode there, spray from several plunging cataracts and the mist hid the intruder from view.
Even so, she reached for the short sword propped by the door. She raised it defensively, her heart thumping hard in her chest at the rustling of autumn-brittle leaves, the snap of a twig.
She saw no one.
Yet she knew someone approached.
Mairi bit her lip, wary. She hadn’t imagined the noise. As if the gods wished to send another warning, the crunch of footsteps on stone came again. Not a horse’s step this time, but the unmistakable tread of a man. He was closer now, coming through the mist-drenched glen, and making for Dunwynde.
Tightening her grip on the sword, Mairi prepared to swing if she must.
She hoped she needn’t.
Her heart thundered, disbelief warring with her dread.
The Black Stag, as her chieftain was known, sent frequent patrols along the perimeters of her tiny, rockbound refuge. His men were hand-picked, fierce, and battle-hardened. One of them, her chieftain�
�s captain of the guard, Sir Marmaduke Strongbow, had once been hailed as one of the realm’s greatest swordsmen. He was still revered, his fame undimmed. Such champions would never allow anyone to disturb her. Whoever approached, must’ve gained entry by stealth. Like as not, a poor misguided soul hoping she could cast miracles.
Or her enemy had found her, a threat she couldn’t ignore.
Hatred and envy were powerful emotions and she’d roused both in a truly formidable foe.
Sorcha Bell’s face flashed across her mind, the healer’s angry, twisted mien letting Mairi’s courage swell, her own fury steeling her backbone. Her heart still pounded, and her mouth had gone dry, but she stood taller. Unafraid, she hooked back the door’s leather curtain and stepped outside, into the half-light.
She saw the sword before she saw the man.
Shining brightly in the gloom, the weapon’s blade revealed that no one need fear its swing.
The sword was broken, more than half of its proud length missing.
Before she could wonder why, the mist parted and the man wearing the rent sword strode into view. He was tall, powerfully built, and clearly a warrior, though his proud features were merely grim-set, not aggressive. Mist whirled around him and Mairi would’ve sworn each tendril sparkled, but it was only the sheen of his mail shirt, and perhaps the glint of the silver Thor’s hammer hanging at his neck. His arm rings also shone brightly, the number of them indicating his status as a fighting man of great skill.
The plaid slung boldly over his shoulder told her he was a Highlander, while his dark good looks would’ve trapped her breath in her chest if she still allowed herself to acknowledge the passion that once ran so hotly in her blood. Even so, she couldn’t deny the jolt of awareness that hit her when his gaze locked on hers.
Once, long ago, she’d have embraced such a powerful attraction, the natural urge to touch, taste, and melt into his warrior body, the intimacy exciting not just her flesh but searing her soul.
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