A Dark Highland Magic: Hot Highlands Romance Book 4

by Kelly Jameson

The girl made to pull her ragged sleeves down over the bruises but the sleeves were too short. Conall rubbed his chin. “Again, I will say it to be sure ye understand, Tamhas. She is no witch. She is a MacDonald lass who is clearly mad. Perhaps even deaf and mute for I have yet to hear her speak. What is yer name, lass?”

  She raised her chin a notch. “Ye should have killed me when ye had the chance. And ye shall ne’er ken my name.”

  “Ah, so she does speak. I will ken yer name, lass, in time.”

  “Nay, ye shall not.” She arched a delicate brow. “Yet I can think of many names for ye, Maclean.”

  Conall laughed. “She’s brave, mad, and foolish.”

  The lass stood slowly and wrapped her damp plaid about her shoulders, clearly trying not to shiver. She was small. But she was not a girl. She was a woman. Conall noted she had not eaten the bread and cheese she’d been brought. She appeared only to have emptied a mug of ale. There were tired shadows beneath her eyes and he guessed she’d slept little on the cold dungeon floor. She swayed on her feet though she tried to stand tall.

  “God’s teeth, the dungeons are no place for a lass, mad or not,” he said. “From now on she will be in my care. She will sit with me at table. She will sleep in my chamber. And Mollie, ye will help me keep an eye on her as we decide her fate.”

  “I prefer the dungeon and starving to death to sitting by the side of an honorless, reekbeeked Maclean losgann! And I willna sleep in yer bed.”

  “Well, the matter is not up to ye, lass.” He stroked his chin, rough with the dark shadow of whiskers. He ignored the fact that she’d called him a disgusting toad. “Why do ye go about dressed as a lad and fight in a man’s battle?”

  She stared at him but refused to answer.

  “I’m guessing yer kin didna ken what ye were up to, for they would never have allowed it. Must be why yer dressed as a lad.”

  She stiffened and turned away from him. “Ye ken nothing of my kin.”

  “On the contrary. I ken far too much about the cruel and honorless MacDonalds. We’ll find out who ye are,” he said, a hard edge in his voice, “and just how valuable ye are to yer clan. In the meantime, ye’ll be under my thumb and yer every move watched. So dunna think to snatch a dirk and stab it in my heart, little one. For we are Macleans. Even when ye think no one watches, we see. We see all.”

  Her body trembled though she tried to hide it. “Oh aye. I had heard ye possessed the Sight. Still, ye shall not divine my name.”

  He stepped back from the cell. “Well, then, I will call ye little Neep, for ye do resemble a small turnip freshly dug from the garden and in dire need of washing.”

  She made no reply, moving further into the shadows of the cell. “Tamhas, bring her to my bedchamber.”

  “Is that wise, Conall?” Mollie said.

  “I willna harm the lass. She willna sleep in my bed. I couldna bear being so close to a thieving, honorless MacDonald. She’ll sleep on a pallet on the floor and be appropriately restrained. I dunna wish to be killed in my sleep, after all.”

  “Aye, Conall Maclean, best ye do restrain me then, ye unchin-snouted, arse-breathed, bowfing boar-pig!”

  Mollie laughed. “She certainly isna afraid to insult ye. She’s skilled at it, too.”

  “We’ll see how wicked her tongue is after we put her to work cleaning up the stables, or better yet, the dung heap. ‘Twould be fitting work for a MacDonald, shoveling shit, and I think Tibout the Turd, as he has titled himself, will be most happy for the break.”

  “I’d rather shovel a mountain of dung than spend another moment in yer rank presence.” She emerged from the darkness, her small hands wrapping themselves around the iron bars. “Ye smell like a pile of dung, Maclean. Do ye never bathe?”

  “I smell thanks to the wound ye gave me,” he said. “The healing salve smells to high heaven but ‘tis necessary.”

  Her eyes, as they slid over him, told him a lot—they seemed to reflect whatever she felt, flashing like the sea during a storm.

  Conall walked away, trying not to smile, for he had no intention of making her shovel the dung heap. He just wanted her to think she would have to do so.

  She was a brave lass and he would not underestimate her. She was an enemy. He would not soon forget she could have killed him. In battle. He still couldn’t fathom it.

  The MacDonalds, like his own clan, had become so strong they challenged the Scottish king when it was necessary. The MacDonalds were descended from Somerled, the greatest of all Celtic warrior kings. The half Norse, half Celtic warrior had defeated the Vikings with a smaller number of men and limited weapons. Somerled had captured Viking ships and built his own, some even said ‘twas he who’d invented the rudder. So this small lass had Norse and Celtic warrior blood in her veins.

  Conall had a different plan in mind for his prisoner and a much more difficult one. He was going to earn her trust. He was going to learn all he could about the enemy and she was going to willingly tell him. He had wearied of the constant MacDonald raids when not a cattle was left standing in the field. He was determined not to see another villager’s croft burned to the ground, their clothing taken, their beds stripped of their blankets, even skeins of yarn taken from their dye pots. The homeless auld women and men, their gray hair streaked brown from their meager peat fires and their eyes hollowed by pain and grief, weighed on him. Always, they were helped by the laird and others. Always they were invited into the castle where they could be warm and have food and drink until their huts were rebuilt.

  There were also the women who sometimes paid the price when their men were away in battle, forced to lift their skirts as their enemies had their way with them. He was determined to stop it all for good. Andrina, Martainn’s bride-to-be, used to be a happy, carefree soul. Now she feared all men, even Martainn, who loved her more than himself and would never hurt her. She seemed to slip away more and more each day, the look in her eyes haunted. And of course there was the spilt blood on the battlefields that called out for revenge.

  As he’d grown into a man, Conall gained a new appreciation for his father’s and grandfather’s positions in the clan—always worrying about cattle, the weather, and people. When it came to the MacDonalds, one simply never kent which way the wind would blow.

  When his MacDonald prisoner had looked up at him with eyes so blue they were nearly violet, her stare was bold, like no stare he’d ever known. Yet it was somehow familiar. In the few moments he’d spent in her presence, his feelings had surprised him, for though she was enemy, he’d felt rage, raw and hot, when he saw the bruises on her tender flesh, and he’d felt guilt as she’d shivered in the dark of the cold dungeon with Tamhas the fool thinking her a witch.

  A wet plaid served as her blanket, and wet straw she’d had to lie upon, when he lay in a warm bed near a warm hearth. She’d refused food as well. It was so dank and cold in the dungeon, he could see her breath in ragged, little puffs when she spoke.

  She’s a MacDonald, he reminded himself. A member of a thieving, honorless clan that did not deserve his rage, guilt, or pity.

  He thought he’d seen a flash of fear in those deep blue eyes. Perhaps the lass hid her fear well, for he had no doubt she’d heard the rumors about him. The tales persisted along the coast—Conall Maclean was like his father, as tall as two men and as skilled with a sword; he could cut out a man’s heart with only a glance; he was so cruel he drank the blood of his enemies from their skulls. There were other things they said about him, too. Like his father Malcolm, he was a Seer, and had mad, queer witch blood running in his veins. His father, after all, had been burned at the stake by King James in Edinburgh only to rise from the ashes and reappear in the Highlands, a fully healed flesh-and-blood man. Yet a crowd had seen him burn. It had been quite a magic trick his father had pulled off, but others didn’t know how he did it. It was a well-kept secret, how he’d escaped, and only a handful of people in the clan knew about it.

  Thus, the usual reaction people had coming face-to
-face with Conall Maclean for the first time was fear. They worried he could see into their minds. They worried he could see their futures. They fretted he would put some sort of spell on them, turn them into ugly toads, dry up their crops, cause their animals to fall over dead in their fields. They feared him as if he were some sort of walking plague, a danger, a curse of a man with no beating heart in his chest, something other worldly. Often, he could use that fear to his advantage on the battlefield. But there were other times when it did not serve him well, when it was dangerous. He’d learned long ago if he abused that fear, if he took it too far, it would own him.

  He frowned as he returned to his bedchamber. All he wanted was a bloody night’s sleep in his warm bed. He doubted he’d get it knowing those deep blue eyes, reproachful and hateful, would be staring at him from a dark corner of his room.

  Later, when the girl had been brought up to his chamber and given one of Mollie’s nightgowns to sleep in and a pallet on the floor and blankets, shackles were placed on her wrists. She would be able to sleep somewhat comfortably near the warmth of the hearth but could not move off her pallet. He regretted the shackles but they were necessary, for the loathing in her eyes was unmistakable.

  He finally fell asleep. His dreams were filled with tiny, roaring bronze lions, the beasts’ golden tongues quivering, and clashes with Vikings and kings, a doomed love, battles, burning crofts, and grass slick with spilled blood. He also dreamt he turned and struck down the enemy behind him on the battlefield, his hands covered in blood, only to find it was a wee lass with bright blue unseeing eyes.

  Near dawn the peat shifted as it burnt in the hearth, awaking him. The candle on his bedside table had burned low. He propped himself on his elbow and in the flickering shadows found himself staring once more into eyes as blue, deep, and cold as the sea off the Sound of Mull. The room smelled of peat and wet plaid, for the lass had refused to give up her damp, stinking plaid.

  “Reekbeeked losgann,” she hissed.

  He nearly laughed. Instead, he turned his back to her, pulled his covers to his chin, and closed his eyes.

  “In the morning, we’ll both have a bath, Neep. God’s Bones, but we’ll scrub the MacDonald off of ye. Now get some sleep.”

  Chapter 5

  Kat cried out.

  There was the press of sweaty, grunting men all around her, swords and axes swinging, finding purchase, gouging and tearing at flesh, blood soaking the grass at her feet. Then he was standing there, his back to her, his face turned in profile. Forgetting herself, all her years of training, and everything she’d learned from her brothers, she panicked.

  He was tall. Even taller than she’d imagined, and in a moment he would turn, see her, and strike her down without mercy. For she’d heard Conall Maclean was fierce in battle, one of the fiercest warriors on the coast.

  She slashed at his side just as he fully turned, sword raised, surprise in his heated hazel eyes. He slipped in the slick, bloodied grass, momentarily losing his balance and pitching forward, which was fortunate for her. When he was down on an elbow, looking up at her, and still dangerous, she thumped him on the head with the butt of her sword. Dazed, he sank fully to the ground, and that’s when she’d run. Like a coward. Into the tangled brush, the branches scratching and clawing at her skin, stinging and drawing little rivulets of blood.

  She’d run blindly into hiding. Away from him. Away from those intense hazel-gold eyes. Away from the man they claimed was one of the most skilled swordsmen in all of the isles, and a man who drank his enemies’ blood from their skulls. And here she’d thought she’d be brave in battle. As brave as her brothers Ragnar and Lorcan, who had done this countless, countless times before.

  Any other man but Conall Maclean and her first battle would not have gone so miserably wrong. Her heart nearly beat out of her chest as she watched the men cut each other to pieces, as she tried to still her thoughts, as MacDonald men fell victim to the Maclean swords, one by one. Where were her brothers? It was dark, the clouds in the sky blotting out the moonlight for long periods of time.

  For the first time, it had all become real for Kat. Battle. Blood. Death. And her brothers did not know what she’d done. They did not know she’d disguised herself as a lad and fought among them, by their sides, desperate to prove her mettle, for she was excellent with a sword.

  What else did she have to live for? She’d rather face death in battle than take any more beatings from Angus, clan chief. But if she had died by Conall Maclean’s blade, bodies heaped all around and on top of her, would anyone ever have kent it? She hadn’t thought much about that. Would she have been hastily buried in this field, everyone believing she was just another fallen MacDonald lad? Her disappearance would have remained a mystery.

  She lost track of the battle as she waited in the brush. She wasn’t sure how much time had gone by when she felt the point of a blade at her back and heard a man’s voice telling her to crawl out from the brush or be run through. And then she’d been brought to him. Conall Maclean. He wasn’t dead.

  No other prisoners…only this one…the others are dead. The blonde-haired man had spoken those words but his voice had seemed hollow and far away even though he’d been standing right beside her. He’d been called Martainn, the Maclean’s second in command.

  Her brothers Ragnar and Lorcan, the only two people who had ever truly cared for her after their parents had died, and who had tried to protect her, were gone. Her blood boiled with rage. The Macleans would pay. She sobbed silently, thinking of them lying cold on the battlefield while she had survived. Because she’d been a coward.

  A beam of hot sun on her face awoke her, tearing her from the horrid dream.

  A man stood by her pallet. His hair was as dark as midnight and tied back by a leather thong. His hazel eyes were curious and his dark brows only brought out the deep gold in them. His nose was aquiline, proud, and a long scar was etched along his square jaw.

  It came back in a rush, whose eyes they were, staring down at her…and in whose room she lay on a pallet on the floor, her hands shackled as if she were some sort of animal. But for the most part, she was warm and dry.

  “Are you disappointed I still have my ears and my nose?” he said. “I ken ye tried to remove them with yer sword on the battlefield.”

  She stared at him, unable for the moment to find her tongue. She sat up as far as she was able.

  “A lass with battle bruises,” he said, “is a curious lass indeed. Only some of these bruises on yer arms are not freshly made.” He leaned down and trailed a finger gently along one of the marks. “Who gave ye these marks? Who is the monster that treated ye so?”

  She tried to jerk her hand away and regretted it as the shackles bit into her tender flesh. Conall was shirtless and wore only his trews. His chest was a vast expanse of well-honed, bronzed muscle. His big, calloused hands were the hands that were touching her arm. His commanding voice was the voice demanding to know who had treated her thusly.

  “’Tis naught much different than how ye treat me now, chained like an animal on the floor of yer bedchamber.”

  “Ye prefer the dungeon? Or my bed?”

  She thrust her chin out.

  “Who in yer own clan would treat ye so?”

  “It matters not.”

  His eyes fell on her shackles. “I dunna like the use of such things, Little Neep, but I canna have ye runnin’ me through as I sleep.” His mouth settled into a grim line. “Ye wanted to slash my face on the battlefield, perhaps give me a scar to match this one?” His hand lingered on his scarred face. “Mayhap ye even wished to kill me?” He leaned closer and she flinched.

  “Yea, the memory of the battle has come back to me. I ken what ye were about.”

  Boldly she reached out, startling him. She was just able to stretch the chain far enough to run her finger softly along the scar on his face. He did not jerk away from her touch but a muscle in his jaw twitched.

  She thought about her brothers and fresh rage assa
iled her. “My boldest hope is that it ‘twas a MacDonald who gave ye that scar that made ye so hideous to look upon.”

  “Nay. Yer the only MacDonald who’s ever gotten close enough to slash me with a sword and then thump me on the head as well. And oh, aye, I ken I’m hideous to look upon.” A smile crooked his face.

  Truthfully he was not as she expected to find him, a grotesque, witch-like creature who could see the future and who lapped up the blood of his victims from their hollowed out skulls. She’d merely sought to wound him with her words, for she’d kent many men who were vain about their looks, vainer than women. Yet he didn’t seem to care how she insulted him.

  He apparently didn’t see himself as virile, dark-visaged, and authoritative. If she’d seen him in a crowded hall of dancers, his face and his eyes would have intrigued her. And his touch, for such a battle-hardened warrior, had been gentle. She realized her hand still lingered upon his face and she snatched it away.

  He’s a Maclean, she reminded herself. My enemy. His flesh had been formed from a race of men who’d lived on these islands for hundreds of years, who’d buried their dead in caves and chambered tombs, whose crude tools and weapons of stone and bone had evolved into masterful, deadly, glinting swords.

  His face reflected a heritage of warriors, of survivors, men who had mastered the sea and these islands and who often felt their clan came before the Scottish king, a fearsome foe whose ancestors had fought Vikings and who had established their dominance through whatever means necessary.

  She wondered if he had a wife. If he had children. She had heard sundry and disturbing tales about Maclean unions—wives trying to poison their husbands and husbands trying to drown their wives for not producing heirs.

  She shivered.

  “Are ye cold?” he asked. “’Tis warm in here, but yer small. Perhaps another blanket.” Without waiting for her answer, he opened a chest and took out a fresh blanket, draping it over her. “This one doesna smell like pungent healing ointment.”