A Dark Highland Magic: Hot Highlands Romance Book 4

by Kelly Jameson

  “Spare the small lad,” he said. “There’s been enough bloodshed. We are not MacDonalds with no mercy in our souls to strike down the defenseless. There would be no honor in running him through now. Ye ken it, Martainn. We are victorious. Put him with the other prisoners.”

  “Ye really dunna remember,” Martainn said. “There are no other prisoners. They’re all dead.”

  A strangled sound escaped the youth’s mouth.

  “I wasna really going to run ye through, lad, as yer defenseless now,” Martainn said. “That’s not the Maclean way. It’s more the MacDonald way. I just wanted to give ye a scare.”

  The lad gave an unexpected, arrogant laugh but said nothing. Conall arched a dark brow.

  “Our strategy and positioning was excellent,” Martainn said. “Not one could run away. The MacDonalds will think twice before stealing our cattle again and having their way with our women.”

  Conall nodded. He and his men had known about a hidden, ancient causeway some said was built by the Romans. They’d gained it and had blocked any exit from the island, except across the river. They had a second force waiting there, just in case any man tried to cross where it was most shallow. Their enemy fought hard but had nowhere to turn because of the lochans, quagmires and marshes. The edge of the river leading to the lochans abutted trees and mosses on the firm ground where the Macleans were spread out.

  “The lad is your responsibility for now,” Conall said. “He could prove useful as a hostage. See he is not harmed by the others. He will accompany us back to the keep. There’s plenty of room in the Maclean dungeons.” Conall frowned. “The horses still wait where we left them, on the drier ground rising out of the marshlands?”

  “Yea,” Martainn said, his face and blonde mane of hair blood-spattered from battle. One of his eyes was nearly swollen shut.

  “Ye look like ye took quite a beating yerself,” Conall said.

  A grin split Martainn’s face. “Yea, but I’m still standing.”

  Conall nodded. He’d always been impressed with Martainn’s bravery and endurance in battles. They’d been as brothers since they were wee lads. “We will leave for home soon. Give our prisoner some ale and something to eat. A well-fed prisoner is opt to be more cooperative.” He looked at the lad’s small, dirty, bare feet and wondered just how young he was. Was this his first battle? Maybe not, for the lad’s tied hands did not tremble. Perhaps he possessed some kind of extraordinary courage. “And find him a pair of brogans for the trek back.”

  Martainn seemed to hesitate. “Are ye sure? This is the lad who gave ye that wound in yer side. I saw him thump ye on the head afterward with the butt of his broadsword, before he ran away in fear. Probably why I found him later, crouching in the brush. He probably thought he’d killed ye.”

  Conall was surprised. “Takes more than a thump on the head to kill me. I have a vera hard head.” He wondered how the lad had managed to sneak up on him. If the lad had been taller and stronger, Conall might very well be dead now. He sighed. “It changes nothing.”

  Martainn nodded and he and the lad disappeared into the darkness. With some difficulty, Conall rose and moved closer to one of the fires. He studied the mountain rims in the distance. Even though it was summer, they were already crowned with caps of snow. He was glad for the warmth of the fire in the early morning chill. Because of the watery terrain around them, every man was spattered with spider webs of mud and soaked to the bone.

  As he stared into the dancing flames and listened to the low murmur of conversation around him, he thought about the vision he’d had as a lad, the battle in the bloody bay and the Macleans huddled in the cave. The vision had later come to pass, but Conall smiled at the memory now because shortly after the vision, when he was a lad, he’d gone to the cave and placed a store of weapons there, just in case there was such a battle one day.

  By so doing, he had changed the future, or that future, and some of the Macleans had survived because of those weapons. The MacDonalds had thought the men cornered in the cave were cold, wet, weaponless, and hopeless, but when they’d smoked them out of the cave, they’d emerged swinging swords, axes, and dirks. In the years that followed that battle, a legend swept the Highlands: people liked to tell the tale that fairies had aided the Maclean clan and supplied the weapons. That it was…magic.

  Someone passed Conall a horn of ale and he drank greedily. A man was never more thirsty than after battle.

  Conall still had visions but not nearly as often. As he’d grown from lad to man, he’d learned some important things: the past belonged in the past, a MacDonald could never be trusted, and a life lived in fear was no life at all.

  Yet at times, he longed for a familiar place with oak panels and tapestries on the walls, for his chamber with a fire blazing in the hearth and his wide oak bed plump with soft coverlets. He longed for deep and dreamless sleep, where he would not see men cut down in battle or other strange things he could not interpret.

  Chapter 3

  The rain ceased as the Macleans’ horses trudged up the steep hill toward Duart castle but the fierce north wind continued to blow. The wind was appropriate, for when it came from the north, it signified strength, endings, and separations. A trumpeter heralded the men’s return and the notes of the instrument wobbled over the air.

  “Is the trumpeter rat-arsed again?” Martainn said, chuckling.

  “Perhaps he should spend more time practicing his trumpet and less time with his whisky,” Conall said.

  “Aye, not likely to happen as ye ken he is the whisky maker’s son!” Martainn replied.

  They had spent a long day traveling and now the Maclean men returned under cover of night to the castle, which sat like a great, black fist atop a sheer crag overlooking the sea on a spur of land that stretched into the Sound of Mull. The castle walls were rumored to be ten feet thick, fourteen feet in some places, and because it sat so high on the rock, it was less vulnerable to any warships foolish enough to try to invade the Sound. It wasn’t likely any ships would get too close, as on a clear day one could see for miles. A strange ship would be noted and dealt with.

  Conall scanned the horizon and the familiar purple blocks of ragged mountaintop and said a silent prayer of thanks to be home, for he was always grateful to return from battle. Over the years, many others were not so lucky. He glanced at their small hooded MacDonald prisoner and frowned.

  The lad sat in front of Martainn with his hands tied. The sad-looking brogans Martainn had found for the lad’s feet were far too big for him; with the plodding of the horse, they flopped about like a hooked fish on sand. No doubt the brogans were taken from a MacDonald who would not be needing them anymore.

  Their prisoner had not uttered a single word since he was captured. It made Conall think of Andrina, the woman Martainn had planned to marry. She had been so savagely attacked during a raid she had not spoken for months and now lived in terror of her own shadow. Conall sighed. Once the lad was in the Maclean dungeons for a few days, mayhap he would finally speak. Conall knew MacDonald men were responsible for harming Andrina, but who had planned the raids? That man was living on borrowed time. Martainn had sworn vengeance, for Andrina had suffered horribly at the hands of the brutes.

  When the horses were in the stables and cared for, the men settled in the great hall and the single prisoner was taken below without fanfare. There were cheers and tears from the women. Whisky flowed as food was served. The men slaked their hunger and quenched their thirst and recounted, in excruciating and sometimes inflated detail, their bravery in battle. The fire blazing in the hearth was a comfort, as was the warm welcome home, but Conall longed only for his great oaken bed.

  He spoke with his mother Sorcha and his sister Mollie, who both hugged him fiercely. His father Malcolm had not yet returned from his business in Ireland. Conall then excused himself and climbed the narrow spiral staircase to the second floor, retiring to his bedchamber and shutting the world out.

  He removed his boots and
his mud-spattered clothing and climbed into bed. His wound no longer bled but it was still tender and would be for some time.

  He’d barely closed his eyes when a knock sounded. “’Tis Glynmyne. I’m here to attend to yer wound.”

  “Och, but there is no need,” Conall said. “’Tis already bandaged.”

  “I must insist.”

  “Bloody hell, come in then.”

  Glynmyne was a small, stubborn man who was quite talented as a healer. As he removed the bandage and examined the wound, his angular features seemed to relax a little. “Martainn told me ‘twas not a deep wound but I wanted to see for myself. Ye should not have retired without seeing me first.”

  “As I said, it was bandaged at the battle site. ‘Tis not my first wound. I ken when a wound is serious and when it’s more of a festering nuisance.”

  “Hmmmm.” Glynmyne continued to study the long, thin slash along his side.

  “Well?” Conall said.

  “’Tis not a deep wound.”

  “So I will live.” A small smile ghosted Conall’s lips for he had suffered much worse wounds. He bore many a battle scar, even one on his face. Once Glynmyne’s father, also a healer of sorts, had bled a wound of Conall’s and Conall had been near death. He’d vowed never to let any healer do that again.

  Glynmyne frowned. “Thanks be to God ‘twas not an axe or ye might be lying below ground and not in yer warm bed. Or ye might be missing a significant part of yer hide!”

  “The wound was given me by the small prisoner in our dungeons. He probably isn’t strong enough to wield an axe, fortunate for me.” Conall rubbed his head. “He also gave me a nice thump on the noggin’ that had me seein’ stars and fish swimming in lochs that weren’t really lochs.”

  ”Ye let him live.”

  “We’re not savages like the MacDonalds,” Conall said. “He is worth more to us alive than dead. Besides, he’s just a lad, and a brave one at that.”

  “Yer Da will be proud of yer victory and yer mercy when he returns home. Mercy well and thoughtfully placed is mercy someday rewarded, when ye least expect it.”

  Conall felt the scar on his right cheek, thinking of the battle where he’d earned it. It had been his first. “I remember the stories I heard as a lad, about foreign soldiers hundreds of years ago. They punished them for any injury to their face that could not be covered with hair or beard. In Ireland, such a wound could even disqualify a king. It was thought to be a divine message he was no longer fit to rule his people. A mark of…inadequacy.”

  “Yea, punishment for an injury received while bravely fightin’ a battle was an ignorant practice that,” Glynmyne said. “’Tis punishment enough to live through a battle and to not only wear the scars but to dream of it for years afterward!” He had set some bowls and tools and jars on the table by the bed and mixed up some sort of paste.

  “God’s teeth, that stinks!” Conall said.

  “It canna be helped, as ye well ken. Anyway, yer elders told ye those stories to put the fear of God in ye to try to protect yer faces. Even so, the lasses dunna seem to mind a brave and battle-scarred hero. In fact, they seem to prefer such a battled-tested and dangerous man.”

  “Yea, but they also say ne’er trust a man who’s had an ear or a nose lopped off in battle,” Conall said. “The lasses dunna find those sorts of wounds nearly as attractive. For those men smell funny and they canna hear.” Conall laughed at the retelling of one of his father’s old jokes. Then he frowned, remembering the recent battle in a flash. The MacDonald lad had been going for his face. He must’ve settled for slashing at his side. Perhaps Conall’s height had saved him from another disfiguring scar on his face, or the loss of an ear, or the tip of his nose. He decided he would speak to the prisoner himself, in the morning, and decide on an appropriate punishment.

  Glynmyne finished dressing the wound with the foul-smelling paste and then wrapped it with a fresh cloth.

  “I thank ye, Glynmyne, for making me stink.”

  “’Tis no trouble at all. And ye already stank.” He smiled. “Good night, Conall.” He left, shutting the door.

  A maid had been in earlier, for the fire in the hearth blazed. Conall watched the flames twist and dance in seeming tempo with his racing thoughts. The rain returned with a vengeance, lashing against the old stones of the castle. The wind hissed and howled. Then it seemed to die down, even to whisper, There are difficult times ahead for the Highlands.

  Conall chided himself for his fancies as his eyes fell on the miniature bronze toy lion sitting proudly by the hearth, a remnant of his childhood. It had been a gift from his father and he had spent many hours playing with it when he was a wee lad. The Scottish king’s royal magician, Enguarrand, and his son Jehanne, had given it to his father years ago. Conall had been fascinated with the tiny mechanical beast as a child; its tiny tail could beat the ground and its mouth could roar. Its small tongue even quivered. Mollie had one, too. It seemed a magical thing.

  He closed his eyes. Soon he was fast asleep. But not for long. A loud, persistent knocking awoke him again.

  “Fie, away with you!”

  “’Tis me, Mollie.”

  Conall flung back his coverlet and left the warmth of his bed. He shrugged on a dry pair of trews and opened the door. Mollie stood there breathless, her deep green eyes sparkling with intrigue.

  “God’s Hounds, ye stink!” she said.

  “Sister, tell me, why do ye interrupt my sleep?”

  “Oh dearest brother, ye ken I wouldna interrupt yer sleep unless it was vera important, for yer in sore need of it!”

  Conall laughed. “I dunna deny it.”

  “Ye must come to the dungeons at once.”

  “Has the prisoner escaped?”

  “Nay.”

  “Has the prisoner taken sick?”

  “Nay.”

  “Just tell me what’s happened.”

  She shook her mane of tumbling black curls. She had not taken time to braid her hair. Mollie had never been one to attempt to sleep in a cap either. He’d heard her and his mother arguing about it many a time when she was a wee lass—no cap could contain her curls and it always slid off in the middle of the night. Mollie said caps were useless things that only auld ladies held dear. She also thought it a shame that once a lass married, she hid her hair beneath a white kerchief.

  “Dearest brother, ye have to see this to believe it—see it with yer own two eyes.”

  Conall grunted. “I’m going back to my nice, warm bed. I will see whatever it is come morning.”

  “Oh nay, dear brother, ye must see this now!” She grabbed his hand and tried to move the bulwark of his big body without success.

  “Och, fine! Let me put a shirt on.”

  Mollie tapped her boot on the stones.

  “God love ye, lass, but patience is not one of yer virtues,” he said, taking his time to gingerly slip his linen shirt over his head, for his wound throbbed.

  When they had descended below stairs together, Conall lifted a lit torch from the wall. The passageway to the dungeons was dark, fetid, and damp.

  When they approached the dungeon cell that contained their prisoner, Tamhas the guard, a small, muscular man, put his finger to his lips, motioning them to be quiet. There was fear in his dark eyes, which were like glass. He pointed to the interior of the cell as Conall held the torch high.

  Conall looked in the cell and then back at Mollie. “What is the meaning of this?” he whispered, keeping his voice low.

  “I told ye, ye had to see it with yer own eyes,” she whispered back.

  “Who else has seen this?”

  “Only yerself and Mollie,” Tamhas said, mumbling a clumsy prayer of protection. “I dozed off and when I awoke, this is the sight that greeted me.” His voice trembled. “’Tis just not possible. I canna see how….”

  Chapter 4

  “’Tis surely the work of a witch,” Tamhas whispered. “In all my years guardin’ the dungeons, I ne’er saw the likes of i
t.”

  “What?” Conall snapped.

  “I said, ‘tis surely the work of a…of a witch….”

  Conall frowned, his deep hazel eyes troubled. “Dunna use that word, ever,” he said, thinking of how they had almost burned his father at the stake at Edinburgh Castle because they did not understand his gifts. “’Tis a dangerous word,” he hissed. “Only fools let it slip from their lips!”

  Tamhas frowned, his mouth quivering. “But her hair, there are hints of fire in it!”

  “Hints of red in a lass’s hair does not make a witch,” Conall said. “Good God, do ye ken how many witches there would be in Scotland if it were so?”

  Conall studied the small form curled atop a grimy plaid on the dungeon floor. The prisoner came awake, sat up, blinked, and looked around, trying to cover up with the plaid, but it was too late. A pair of the bluest eyes Conall had ever seen stared at him with defiance. A long braid previously hidden by the hood she’d created with her plaid fell over her shoulder; the light of the torch reflected the shimmering silk of her dark auburn hair. She wore a ragged tunic and trews and the brogans that were far too big for her feet.

  “That is no witch,” Conall said. “So Tamhas, dunna start rumors and spread fear that could get our prisoner strung up to a tree and hung by the neck. Or pinned to the ground with a stake in her heart. She is simply a lass who disguised herself as a lad and went charging into a man’s battle. Not a lad who changed himself into a lass with some sort of witch’s spell while ye slept.”

  “But look at her arms, her wrists. There are…marks.”

  Conall looked at the blue and purple marks and felt unexpected rage. His eyes narrowed. “Tamhas, those are not marks of evil. They are battle bruises. I would ken the difference.” He met those defiant blue eyes again. “This was not yer first battle, eh?” he said.