A Dark Highland Magic: Hot Highlands Romance Book 4

by Kelly Jameson

  “Oh, I think Lady likes me,” Lorcan said, flashing a masculine grin that made Mollie’s knees weak. “The ladies usually do.” Lady nudged Lorcan’s hand with her nose, letting him stroke her face, and Mollie frowned at the betrayal.

  “How is yer leg?”

  “’Tis healing nicely. Plus, I have another.”

  Mollie laughed and then remembered he was a MacDonald.

  “Speaking of legs, do ye see how she favors her back right leg?” he said. “Look. She only favors it just slightly. Ye have to look close.”

  His face nearly touched hers now. A dark shadow of whiskers grazed his square jaw, and his eyes—as blue as the Highland skies on a stormy day—were filled with concern.

  “Nay,” Mollie said.

  “Call for the Smith. I believe Lady may have a nail lose in her back shoe.”

  “I think yer wrong. I think she ate something that disagreed with her.”

  “Call for the Smith. If I’m right, ye must grant me a favor.”

  Mollie’s green eyes flashed. “I’ll nae give ye my horse, if that’s what yer after!”

  “I dunna want yer horse, Mollie. She clearly belongs to ye and only to ye. She’d probably unseat any other rider. That’s not what I’m after.”

  “Well, I’ll nae be granting ye any kind of favor, MacDonald, even if yer suspicions turn out to be true.”

  “Call me Lorcan, Mollie. ‘Tis my name.”

  Concern etched her lovely features. “Fergus!” she called.

  The Smith rambled into the barn and set a bucket down. “What is it?” Fergus asked.

  “Something’s wrong with Lady,” Mollie said. “I want to take her hunting but she’s nae herself.”

  “’Tis not a good time to go hunting, especially alone,” Lorcan said. “The Campbells have been raiding again.”

  “I do not fear the Campbells,” she said.

  “Ye should.”

  They waited as Fergus took Lady from the stall and examined her. Lady swished her tail in impatience. Fergus was a portly man but strong. A thick lock of iron-grey hair fell over his forehead and he pushed it from his round, sweating face in annoyance.

  “Well?” Mollie said.

  “She’s got a loose nail,” Fergus said. “I’ll fix her up.”

  Lorcan beamed, his eyes shining with arrogance and pride.

  “Thank ye, Fergus.”

  Fergus nodded and Mollie started to walk away. Lorcan grasped her arm. His lean, masculine fingers were warm.

  “Yer forgetting something,” Lorcan said.

  She looked up at his face, a stubborn cast to her chin.

  “I said I would ask a favor, Mollie, and ye would grant it if I was right about Lady.”

  “I ne’er said I’d grant it and yer bold to ask and….”

  “Save a dance for me tonight.”

  Her mouth gaped but she quickly recovered herself. His fingers relaxed and she yanked her arm away. “Not bloody likely, MacDonald! Ye may have won the Maclean men over with yer brutal fighting skills but the Maclean women are a different matter, especially if we’ve been insulted, not once, but twice!”

  She stormed away and he watched the provocative sway of her slim hips. So, thinking her a maid and refusing her attentions after the fight with Martainn in the courtyard had rankled her. He had been rude. But the lass couldn’t know it was because he was afraid he would like her touch—too much.

  Well, at least he’d provoked some kind of feelings from the stubborn lass.

  Chapter 31

  Kat had never seen so many people crowded into the great hall. Malcolm was always a generous host, and both villagers and clan members were in attendance tonight. People crowded benches and tables. Trenchers and mugs were filled high and iron chandeliers of candles cast a soft, shimmering light over all.

  Kat and Conall had joined Malcolm, Sorcha, and Mollie at the main table. After the meal was finished, Sorcha, adorned in a beautiful emerald gown with gold stitching, stood and waited for everyone to quiet down. “I have an announcement,” she said, casting her luminous green eyes at her husband and then back at the crowd.

  “In honor of Andrina’s bravery and Kat’s skills,” she nodded at both women, “we will institute more rigorous training and have contests of sorts. There will be sword drills and bow and arrow contests and more.”

  The men heartily clapped each other on the back and boasted about winning.

  “However, no men may compete.”

  There was surprise and laughter and Sorcha waited for it to die down. She raised her goblet of whisky. “’Tis vera good for the lasses of this clan to be able to defend themselves if the need arises, if the men are away and we are attacked. So while it will be enjoyable and instructive, ‘tis also a serious matter and one of great importance. Any lass, no matter her age, is encouraged to join in. The training and contests will take place in the Glen of the Black Rock, near the old chapel, before the first true snows. Ye’ll be encouraged to wear trews and leines, for ‘tis not easy to fire an arrow or wield a sword in skirts, and we plan to get muddied!”

  The women cheered.

  “Ye can learn to handle a sword or a bow and arrow but ye dunna have to compete in any contests unless ye wish to do so,” Sorcha said. Malcolm looked at his wife with pride.

  Several gowns had been made for Kat despite her protests, and she wore a shimmering deep blue gown trimmed with lace that plunged low, revealing the swell of her firm breasts. Conall watched her every movement with pride and hunger in his eyes.

  Mollie leaned over the table and sought Kat’s attention. “Kat, will ye teach me to wield a sword?”

  “Oh aye,” Kat said. “’Twould be my pleasure.”

  Malcolm stood and addressed the crowd, letting his eyes rest on Kat for a good, long moment. “I am vera proud of the women of this clan. But let it be kent that ye’ll not be charging into battles with the men. ‘Tis one thing to defend yerself and a castle but quite another to battle a man in savage combat. A field stinking of dead men, littered with bloody corpses, broken weapons, and spent arrows is no place for a lass. And I for one would be lost without my wife by my side.” His hazel eyes sparkled with affection as he looked at Sorcha.

  Kat frowned, thinking of the battle, thinking of Ragnar. “Where is the Glen of the Black Rock?” she asked Conall.

  “North of the castle. It is not the ruined chapel where we were married. ‘Tis an old village chapel, rarely used and in need of much repair. In fact, I think it ‘twas used as a barn once. The wide glen is an excellent site for training and drills, protected by sloping hills. There’s rarely frost, which leaves the fields black during winter.” Conall’s hazel eyes devoured Kat as the fiddler began to play wild music. “Now wife, no more talk of swords. Ye’ll dance with me.”

  He took her hand and led her onto the dance floor as Lorcan approached the main table. Mollie nearly gasped at the transformation in the man she’d seen in the stables, sweaty and dirty after sword drills. He wore a Maclean plaid, fastened with a pin made from deer bone, and stood before her tall and proud as if he’d always belonged to this clan. Mollie was nearly undone by his sophistication.

  His brows were dark, slashing crescents above his startling blue eyes. He hadn’t shaved and the graze of whiskers on his square chin was even darker than it had been in the stables. Though she thoroughly examined him with her eyes, she could not find a speck of dirt or dust on the man’s muscular frame.

  Mollie wore a gown of lavender silk, the side skirts held back with ribbon. Pearls adorned her neck and her glossy black hair was swept up. She’d asked her maid to take extra care with her appearance and Mollie had pinched her cheeks before going downstairs. She’d told herself it was certainly not because of Lorcan MacDonald. He clearly detested her, so why would he wish the favor of dancing with her?

  “Ye look radiant and bonny as ever, Lady Mollie,” he said.

  Mollie’s eyes traveled the long, lean length of him again as if she had no contr
ol over her actions and then back to his handsome face. Her cheeks became flushed for he was clearly flattered by her perusal.

  “Dance with me?” There was bold challenge in his eyes as he offered her his hand.

  Mollie hesitated but thought of how he’d known what had been ailing her horse, Lady. She’d been riding and caring for Lady for years and she hadn’t known. She couldn’t help thinking of how he’d protected his wee sister when he was a lad, taking beatings himself by members of his own clan. He protected women and animals while he carried heavy wounds in his own soul. Dancing with him once was the least she could do.

  She nodded and he swept her onto the dance floor. Despite his injured leg, he was a skilled dancer and commanded her through the steps with ease. Mollie found herself enjoying the dance, and being close to his masculine form thrilled her, no matter how much she tried to deny the thought.

  He was so skilled he maneuvered her out of the hall when the music changed and Scottish drums sounded. He took her through the courtyard and into the gardens. The night was chilly but the stars were so bright it seemed she could reach up, pluck one from the skies, and hold its diamond light in her hands.

  “Yer a skilled dancer, MacDonald,” she said, almost reluctantly.

  “Yer surprised?”

  “Aye.”

  Wind ruffled her hair and he reached up gently to caress an errant curl. He stood much too close and Mollie’s heart beat erratically in her chest.

  He placed a fingertip beneath her chin so she would look at him. “I told ye before, Mollie, call me Lorcan.” He watched her slightly parted lips. She closed them tight, refusing to obey his command.

  He sighed and raked a hand through his hair. “I see this will take effort, and I’m only too happy to give it.”

  Before she could protest he took her in his arms and his lips moved over hers, coaxing and commanding. Mollie only struggled briefly before giving in to the hot pleasure of his mouth on hers, letting him lead her as he’d done on the dance floor. His black hair was short and her traitorous hands wound their way into it, liking the silky feel of it against her fingers.

  His lips trailed down her neck, making her whole body ache with a fierce heat, and then along her collarbone before they returned to plunder her mouth. Mollie was near mindless with passion, for never had she been kissed so.

  He was hot breath, stars, and man and she’d never felt so alive. “Lorcan,” she breathed.

  “That’s better,” he said. “I like the sound of my name on yer lips. Mollie, yer so beautiful….”

  She pulled back from him, alarmed at how thoroughly he’d taken control of her senses. She remembered what he’d said in the stables, how the ladies liked him. Had he been teasing or had there been many ladies caught in his arms, seduced by his dark charms beneath a sky of shimmering stars?

  “I’ll naught be another of yer simple lady conquests to be kissed and forgotten,” she breathed.

  “Oh aye, Mollie. I ken it. Yer special and I will treat ye as such.”

  “Ye confuse me, Lorcan. Yer not who I thought ye’d be.” She wrung her hands together. “Thank ye for the dance.”

  “Mollie, I….” But she was gone, retreating inside the stone walls of the castle, leaving him alone in the gardens.

  Later, in the great hall, all crowded around the Seanachie, who told tales well into the night. Lorcan listened to stories about valiant, violent times and peace; tales about fairies living among men instead of underground; and tales of caution about venturing into forbidden places that could result in curses that could haunt a clan for generations. And of course, there was the tale of Malcolm as a young man who’d escaped being burnt at the stake by a fearful king.

  But Lorcan’s eyes were on Mollie, noting every emotion that flickered over her features and in her deep green eyes. He was haunted with hunger, remembering the feel of her kiss and wanting more, aching to hold her in his arms, to take her as a man takes a woman and make them one. He hadn’t felt this strongly about a lass before. He frowned. For it was possible Mollie might never get around to forgiving him for being a MacDonald.

  Chapter 32

  The women of the clan greatly enjoyed their outings to the Glen of the Black Rock.

  When the morning mists had blown off, old and young alike participated in weapons training as Sorcha, Kat, and Andrina led them in various exercises. There was cursing and laughter as arrows flew north of targets and bottoms landed in the mud, but each lass took the training seriously. And more and more began to participate in the skills contests.

  Sorcha was proud of Mollie, for while she had grown up knowing how to use a bow and arrow like her mother, she now demonstrated promise with a sword as well. And some of the taller, stronger women were able to heft and throw an axe with great accuracy at hay bale targets.

  Fonia often sat on one of the sloped hills, watching the women train. She knew they would welcome her but she was too old to lift anything but a cane. Besides, she preferred to sit and hear the wind sliding through the tree branches above her head. She had a view of the valley below her, the village to the north, and the castle on the rock. She came here often as she was still not used to being among people for long periods of time. She continued to sit among the birches even long after the women had trudged back to the castle, when wet dusk left everything hazed by mist. Sometimes, before the women arrived in the morning to train, Fonia would see the parties of men leaving Castle Duart on their various errands.

  She was grateful for her hut but often visited a small cave nearby where she’d spent many a night sleeping over the years. She walked through the forest now, heading that way. The path through the trees and up a gentle slope became narrow and she had to part the branches of a huge fir tree with her cane to see the cave’s entrance.

  She froze and sucked in her breath when she realized the cave wasn’t empty. Smoke spiraled from the entrance and she heard the low murmur of men’s voices. A chill raced along her bent spine, for this was Maclean land and she knew instinctively these were not Maclean men.

  A brawny man with a scraggly, tangled beard emerged from the cave. He wore no discernable plaid. He spit and then placed one finger over a nostril and blew a hearty stream of snot onto the ground, turning Fonia’s stomach. He looked around, and then his dark eyes settled directly on the patch of brush and trees where Fonia hid. But he returned to the cave, not having seen her. She let her breath out, thankful for the noise of water spilling into a nearby pool from a high burn.

  She thought she should leave and warn the villagers and the clan but first she wanted to try to hear what they were saying. If she could get close enough without giving away her presence, mayhap she could hear them better.

  She made her way around to the small pool. Though she could now see better into the entrance of the moss-covered cave she still couldn’t hear anything but their laughter. She would have to get as close as she could to the entrance.

  She inched closer and closer.

  She caught words here and there. “King James…Malcolm Maclean…warlock.”

  A cold fear enveloped her, for she knew there had been a price on Malcolm’s head for many years. When he was a young man a king had tried to burn him at the stake in Edinburgh and failed. Had these men come for Malcolm?

  She must get away at once and warn him.

  Before she could turn she heard the unmistakable sound of a sword being unsheathed behind her. She hadn’t seen the man who’d been outside the cave.

  She turned and faced him. He was dirty, brawny, and bearded, as the other man. His eyes were cruel. “Laise!” the man called, pointing his sword at Fonia’s throat. “A witch has come to us! Come see the hag whose been hiding in the brush!”

  Four men emerged from the cave. A tall, thin man with a scarred face smiled but only half his face lifted with the gesture, which was pure evil. Only one of the men wore a plaid, and it bore MacDonald colors.

  “How long have ye been watching us?” the tall man asked.


  “How long have ye been watching the Maclean castle?” Fonia countered.

  The tip of the other man’s sword dug into her flesh, drawing a rivulet of blood.

  “Do ye ken who I am?” Laise asked.

  “This cave is my home,” Fonia said. “I have lived here many years.”

  “Why do ye not live with yer clan?” Laise asked.

  “I do now. I live in the village. But sometimes I come back here. ‘Tis a peaceful place.”

  The men laughed.

  “It was a peaceful place,” Laise said. “Now? Well, ye must tell me, why did ye live alone here? And what is yer name?”

  A fat drop of her blood fell on her boot but Fonia kept silent.

  “The answer is clear, Gordan,” Laise said. “She’s a witch. Be careful, for every drop of witch blood ye spill now only makes her more powerful.”

  Laise stepped closer to Fonia. “Let me introduce myself. My name is Laise of the Marked Face.” He bowed. “I am the most skilled witch hunter in all of Scotland.”

  Fonia found the courage to laugh in his face, which got her a slap from Gordan.

  “Ye’ll show respect, hag.”

  “My name is Fonia.” She spit blood on the ground. “Ye think to capture Malcolm Maclean? Who escaped not only a king but fire as well?”

  At the mention of fire, something shifted in Laise’s eyes. “We’ll capture him, and on the King of Scotland’s orders,” he said.

  Fonia had to be brave. Malcolm had shown her kindness. Malcolm had forgiven her crimes and given her a home. She would not fail him now.

  “Well then I am only too glad to help ye,” Fonia lied. “I hate the man. He is cruel and unforgiving. Spare my life and I shall lead ye to him. ‘Twas his grandfather who banished me from the Maclean clan years ago.”

  Laise rubbed his chin in thought. His orange beard was light and patchy, threaded with grey. His eyes were grey like a valley cloaked in winter mist.

  “I say we string her up to one of these trees now,” Thomas said. “No one will miss the auld hag.” Macgrath nodded. “Aye, a good hanging is in order.”