Box Set - Knights of Passion (7 Novels)

by Catherine Kean, Anna Markland, Elizabeth Rose, Laurel ODonnell, Barbara Devlin, SueEllen Welfonder, Amy Jarecki

  He was heading for Dunwynde.

  He’d gone only a few paces when Gare burst from the trees, charging after him. Mairi clapped a hand to her mouth, looking on in horror as Gare flew into the brute, roaring a challenge as they both slammed to the ground.

  Mairi ran outside just as the assailant’s sword flew from his hand. Gare leapt off him with lightning speed, snatching the blade and swinging it in a fast down-slashing arc that could’ve disemboweled an ox. Equally fast, the big man jumped to his feet, bellowing as he yanked a huge double-bladed war ax from a sling across his back.

  Troll was frantic, running circles around her, barking loudly.

  Mairi pressed her hands to her face and stared at the two men, scarce feeling the wind and rain.

  “So she’s returned to her whoring ways!” The big man tossed the ax into the air, smirking as he caught the spinning weapon by its haft. He flicked a glance over Gare, clearly assessing his strength and skill as he demonstrated his own prowess by twirling the ax in an array of dizzyingly fast curves. “Shame to carve up a good warrior and noble,” he taunted Gare, not looking sorry at all. “I’ll be glad for your dog. I’m in need of one!”

  He pointed the ax at Troll. “Thon battle dogs are well-loved in my folk’s northern home!”

  Not blinking, Gare tossed his sword high into the air, catching its hilt with the same ease as the assailant and his Norse ax. “That is good,” he returned the challenge. “You may search for such a dog tonight - in the mead halls of Valhalla!”

  “Nae.” The man shook his head, his gaze flicking to Gare’s hammer amulet. “You will tell the gods that Sorcha’s man, Brude, yet serves her well. I’ll claim my mead another day!”

  The taunt made, Brude roared and charged, his ax whistling in the air, ready to rain blows on Gare. Mairi felt the blood drain from her, terror washing over her in waves, chilling her like a hail of sheeting ice. The wind buffeted her and the rain drenched her, but she couldn’t move, fear and dread freezing her where she stood.

  When Brude raised his arm for a hacking blow to Gare’s neck, she yelled, “Nae! He can have me! Stop now, please!” I can’t bear it!

  She dashed toward them, running, only to fall to her knees when Troll hurled himself at her and knocked her down. Snarling in caution, not a threat, he sat on her spread skirts, making clear he meant to guard her well.

  Gare and his opponent ignored her. Their gazes were locked, the red haze of fury on their faces. Sword and ax looked bloodied, but Mairi couldn’t tell for sure because of the rain and the blowing mist, which was thickening. She did hear the crash and clash of steel, the insults and grunts of the fight.

  Then Brude lunged, his ax slamming into Gare’s sword. The blow caused Gare to stagger, but he recovered quickly. Yelling, he scythed his sword in such a rage-filled arc that the blade cut through Brude’s thick-hided bearskin and nearly severed his arm. Howling, the big man swayed and dropped to his knees, the ax slipping from his fingers. He toppled over, his blood pooling with the rain on the drenched ground.

  He’d bleed out at speed, Mairi knew.

  Shuddering, she reached to curl her fingers through Troll’s rough fur.

  “A man ne’er hurts a lady,” Gare snarled, pressing the tip of his sword into the thickness of Brude’s bone-hung beard. “I will tell Sorcha that you serve her no more.” He nudged the long-handled ax close to the brute’s hand. “Take your ax, go with your Valkyries. I’ll no’ be the reason any Norseman cannae enter Valhalla.”

  And so when Brude’s fingers curled around the haft’s wood, Gare nodded once.

  “I will tell the gods that you fought well, whate’er I think of you,” he promised, his voice strong and clear. “No Norseman should die without a weapon in his hand. And you no longer pose a threat to any woman.”

  Then, as Mairi watched, still too shaken to move, Gare grabbed a handful of deer grass, using it to clean the blood from his borrowed blade.

  “The bastard is dead,” he called over his shoulder to her. “He can harm you no more.”

  “Ahhh, but I can,” came a dread voice behind her, just as the cold steel of a dirk’s blade pressed hard against her throat. “Didn’t think I’d find you, eh?”

  Mairi’s heart plummeted, her innards icing. She didn’t need to know who’d spoken. She’d recognize the deceptively soft, eternally evil voice anywhere, anytime. There could only be one person as vile and dangerous as her nemesis.

  The devil’s own handmaiden.

  Sorcha Bell.

  ***

  Much later, in the smallest, darkest hours of the night, but on the far side of Kintail, light from a brace of almost gutted candles cast shadows up and down the white-washed walls of Eilean Creag Castle’s most sumptuous tower bedchamber.

  Quarters to the laird and his lady, the room held all the comforts a besotted husband lavishes on his much-loved wife. At the moment, Duncan MacKenzie slept deeply. His snores were light, his sleep undisturbed by the wind rattling the window shutters, the ceaseless rain drumming on his roof. He also wasn’t aware of the sharp tang of brine and wet rock permeating the air.

  For sure, he didn’t know about the bees.

  His wife, Lady Linnet, knew all about them.

  She couldn’t see them, but she knew why they’d wakened her with their buzzing. Somewhere beyond her capability to see them, they swarmed about the shadowy chamber, their drone increasing in volume, as did her dread.

  The bees were heralds, come to warn of an impending vision.

  Even after all these years, she didn’t greet them gladly.

  Knowing it was pretty much pointless, she went into one of the room’s deep-set window embrasures and threw open the shutters, rain and wind or nae. Sometimes brisk air helped, keeping her from slipping too deeply into the images the gods chose to show her.

  Now and then she suspected Duncan’s powerful presence held the visions at bay. He wasn’t at all fond of them. She’d noticed that whenever he was near, she was bothered less frequently.

  This night he slept soundly, only the half width of the room away from her.

  Which meant the vision’s message was dire.

  “Duncan, my love…” She glanced at him, sprawled naked across the covers as always when in their bed. Chill, wet air and moonlight spilled through the window, limning the room – and him - in a shimmering silver glow.

  He truly was magnificent.

  More so now than ever, which she just might tell him, and would if the bees’ buzzing wasn’t increasing so rapidly.

  But it was.

  All she could do was slump onto one of the embrasure’s window seats and wait. It was already clear that the moonlight bathing the room with such silvery luminosity wasn’t cast by the moon.

  The silvery shaft coming through the window now speared across the chamber to merge with the light and shadows thrown on the wall by the brace of candles.

  Where they met, an image was taking shape, weaving and pulsing on the wall until a silver sword appeared – hovering over the stag’s head tapestry that hung above their bed!

  Linnet could only stare, unable to do aught else.

  But she knew who carried the sword, for its blade was broken.

  Sir Gare MacTaggert.

  What she didn’t know was why the sword was growing.

  As she watched, the blade’s steel elongated, stretching longer and shining brighter until a full-length, undamaged sword hung in the air, dazzling her.

  The image’s brilliance hurt her eyes, but looking away from any vision risked losing the image and its message. And this one was clear.

  Beautifully, wonderfully so.

  Mairi had captivated the once-great knight.

  She’d freed him of whatever penance he’d placed upon himself, perhaps even enjoying a bit of romance in the Glen of Winds before he returned to his duties. Obligations that she knew would see him soon wed.

  She wouldn’t consider more – doing so risked offending the gods that gave he
r such images.

  The old ways must be accepted as they came. Any tampering or imposing of your own wishes bode ill, perhaps even reversing any good that might have come.

  It was enough to see that Mairi had made the broken knight whole again.

  Or so she thought until a red drop fell from the ceiling and trickled down the sword. Another drop followed, soon joined by more. Again and again the red rain plopped on the blade, rolling its length, catching on the hilt, and then dripping to the floor.

  Linnet’s eyes rounded, horror sluicing her.

  The need to look away screamed inside her, but she remained frozen, unable to speak or even move. By now the entire sword was bloodied, its glistening red bringing the sharp, metallic bite of blood.

  Fresh blood, newly spilled.

  Linnet pressed a hand to her mouth, chilled.

  She hoped she wouldn’t be shown whose blood it was. But then she blinked, felt less light-headed, and the droning bees were silent, the image gone.

  She was free once again.

  Her husband still slumbered peacefully. Rain still drummed on the roof, the wind still howled. She could hear the slapping of waves on the rocks beneath the tower. It was a night like any other in her husband’s proud isle-girt stronghold, so close to the Isle of Skye.

  Peace reigned at Eilean Creag Castle.

  But something was very wrong at Dunwynde.

  Duncan would be furious, claiming he wasn’t surprised in the least. But he’d also gather his men and ride for the glen at first light.

  Linnet just hoped they wouldn’t be too late.

  THE TAMING OF MAIRI MACKENZIE

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Leave her be!” Gare roared, his blood icing at the nightmare beneath the cold, cloud-hazed moon.

  Rain lashed down and winds howled, the whirling mist making it hard to see. But he did: Mairi kneeling on the sodden ground, held there by a hag who could only be Sorcha Bell, a withered old woman with spiteful eyes. She’d gripped Mairi’s hair, pulling her head back, and pressing a dirk against Mairi’s throat.

  “Gare!” Mairi stared at him, her eyes wide. “She has a dagger!”

  “No’ much longer.” Gare closed the space between them, cold anger tightening his chest.

  Troll circled the women, growling. Rain glistened on his rough pelt and he seemed to have doubled his size. His eyes shone fiercely, his unblinking gaze on Sorcha. He’d bared his teeth, showing his large fangs so that he looked more like a wolf than a dog.

  But he was well trained.

  He wouldn’t attack unless commanded.

  “Drop the blade, Sorcha.” Gare towered over them. “Now, or Troll will tear you apart. He’d savage you, and then call on his friends in the Netherworld to sharpen their teeth on you until your bones are ground to dust.”

  “I know you,” she sneered, her gaze flicking over him. “I’ve seen you at cattle markets. You’re the man with the broken sword.”

  “I carry a blade now.” Gare lifted his borrowed sword, gave her his hardest look. “You just saw it in use. I’ve no’ taste to wield it again, no’ on a shriveled auld woman in a reeking deerskin cloak.

  “But I will.” He slid a look at Troll, nodding almost infinitesimally – a signal that had Troll on Sorcha in a beat, his great paws on her shoulders his face only a breath from hers. “You cannae win.”

  Sorcha sniffed. “I have the old ones’ blessings. Your dog may snarl and bark, but he’ll be too fearful for more. Dogs respect dark powers.

  “And you, Sir Broken Sword,” she jeered, “will not want to risk Mairi’s neck. If your dog moves again, so does my blade.”

  “Indeed?” Gare drew a finger slowly down the side of his nose, a signal that brought a lightning-quick lunge from Troll. He gripped Sorcha’s wrist, shaking her arm so that she dropped the dagger.

  “Gare!” Mairi leapt to her feet and threw herself into his arms, holding tight.

  “You are safe now, lady.” He pulled her to him, tightening his arms around her. “She will be gone anon, have no fear.”

  “But you’ve vowed to not…” She pressed her head to his shoulder, not finishing.

  It didn’t matter.

  He knew what she meant, and she was right.

  He’d made an oath he couldn’t break, whatever Sorcha’s sins.

  “I didnae say I’d kill her, only that she’ll be leaving us. And she will.” He brought her hand to his lips, kissing her fingers. “Sorcha!” he turned back to the hag, raised his voice above the wind. “I do no’ make war on women, ever. You attack innocents. That cannae go unpunished.”

  “Mairi MacKenzie was born wild.” Sorcha glared venom at them, shook back her whir of tightly curled red-gray hair. “There isn’t an innocent bone in her body.”

  “You will return to Drumbell and make it your lifelong ambition to undo the wrong you’ve done her.” Gare’s temper flared. He struggled to speak levelly. “Folk will hear the truth from you and I’ll know if that isn’t so.” He looked hard into her cold, resentful eyes. “If I must come for you, there will be no place in Scotland for you to hide.

  “Go now, before the itch in my sword hand speaks faster.” He stepped back, placing himself before Mairi, shielding her.

  “Wait…” Mairi came round him to fix Sorcha with a look. “See that my cottage and garden are given to the young thatcher and his new wife. They are staying with his parents and need a decent home to start their lives.”

  Sorcha’s lips thinned. “I fancied your wee hovel for a new herbarium.”

  “You heard the lady.” Gare slid his arm around Mairi drawing her close. “See it is done, as she wishes. I will hear if you fail her.”

  “Humph!” Sorcha spit, and then spun around, scuttling away into the rain and mist.

  She was gone in a blink.

  Mairi stood shivering, Troll keeping guard beside her. She looked miserable. Dripping wet, flushed, her hair a tangled mess. Her eyes glistened in the darkness. Her drenched clothes clung to her, revealing as much as naked skin. Gare swallowed, need unfurling inside him. Never had he seen a more desirable woman, and never had he wanted one so badly.

  But there was only one thing he could give her.

  “Come, lady,” he said, placing his hand at the small of her back and guiding her to the broch. “You need a bath to warm you and then you will sleep. We’ll leave for Eilean Creag at first light.”

  She stopped, looking up at him. “We?”

  “Aye.” His mind was set. “You can stay here no longer.”

  They’d reached Dunwynde and she glanced at him as he pulled aside the door’s curtain so she could enter the broch’s smoky warmth.

  “Sorcha will heed your threats.” She pulled off her dripping cloak, spread it near the fire to dry. “She is a coward.”

  “So she is,” Gare agreed, wishing she wasn’t more. “Sadly, she is also a tongue-wagger. She will no’ cross me, for sure. She saw what I did to her man.

  “But she knows where you are.” Gare fastened the door hanging, turned to face her. “One mention of the Glen of Winds and other ill-wishers could appear on your doorstep,” he said, going to the back of the broch to fetch her large wooden bathing tub.

  “That could be,” she agreed, but something flickered in her eyes as she watched him boil water for her bath.

  He wasn’t sure, but he thought it was a look of hope.

  Before it could grow, he braced himself to say words that would spear his heart.

  A truth he knew she didn’t want to hear.

  “Your place is with your people.” His gut clenched, everything in him warring against what he must do. “Duncan MacKenzie will keep you safe – we have discussed this. Few lairds care for their own as he does. All know it and no man, or woman, would dare cross him.”

  “That is so.” She’d slipped into the deeper shadows, was stripping off her wet clothes behind the plaid she’d hung for privacy. “I should have stayed at Eilean Creag when I first sought his prote
ction.”

  Gare nodded, busying himself with lining her wash tub with a large linen cloth, then searching her shelf for the small jar of rose-scented soap she favored. When her bath was ready, he’d bury Brude. Mairi shouldn’t be confronted with such a sight when they left Dunwynde at daybreak.

  The task would also spare him from the temptation of having her wet and naked before him. Her warm, welcoming self, and her lush, ripe curves only paces away, yet as unattainable as the stars.

  “The Black Stag and his family will welcome me.” Mairi emerged from behind the plaid hanging, a large linen drying cloth wrapped around her.

  She stood near the fire, watching as he filled the tub with heated water. “He has aye said his door is always open to kin, a place aye at his table.”

  Gare’s chest tightened with a pain he never wanted to feel again. “Then all will be well on the morrow.”

  Nae, it wouldn’t.

  Leaving Kintail without Mairi would gut him, creating an ache he’d carry forever.

  He craved her, relishing the softness and warmth of her in his arms, the honeyed taste of her kiss, the silkiness of her hair. She’d also won him with her compassion, strength, and kindness. Truth was, he’d come to love her.

  The sharp pain gathering in his chest at the thought of saying goodbye, proved it.

  Walking away might serve the greater good of the Scottish realm, and secure the continued weal of his people at Blackrock. But it would destroy him.

  All this he knew. Yet what choice did he have?

  Not one that he could see.

  ***

  A short while later, Mairi was sure the broch’s dim lighting was playing tricks on her. Or the blessedly warm water of her bath had lulled her into a dream state.

  How else could she explain the lovely young woman standing before her, backlit by the glow of the peat fire. She wore a man’s steel-linked armor and held a plumed helmet. One hand rested on her heart, and her gaze was on Mairi, her eyes beseeching.

  She shone with a light that came from within and Mairi knew who she was.

  Lady Gwendolyn Berry, the ill-fated English noblewoman Gare had unknowingly struck down at the battle of Neville’s Cross five years before.