A Dark Highland Magic: Hot Highlands Romance Book 4

by Kelly Jameson

  Laise continued to rub his chin in thought. “Nay,” he finally said. “The old hag could prove useful. Do ye ken where the Maclean is now?”

  “I ken they’ve been feuding with the Campbell clan. And I ken how to use a seeing stone to find the Maclean.”

  “Do ye speak the old Gaelic?” Laise asked.

  “Nay,” Fonia lied, for she knew surely the MacDonald man spoke it.

  Laise looked at the man with the MacDonald plaid. “So far ‘tis been useless to have ye along, Alaxsander MacDonald.”

  “Ne’er ye fear,” he said, hate shining from his dark eyes. “I will prove my worth.”

  “Well, I dunna wish to stumble into a bloody Campbell-Maclean feud,” Laise said. “Is there a secret way into the Maclean castle, hag?”

  “I dunna ken. I’ve ne’er been inside the castle.” She lied easily, her main goal to protect the Macleans. But she had to convince these men otherwise, even if it meant her life would be lost.

  “How many men are away from the castle? Have ye any idea?”

  “Some of the warriors.”

  “So the castle is not well guarded?” Laise asked.

  “Perhaps not,” Fonia said, thinking of the brave women who could now chop these men down with axes or swords and fire arrows into their hides if need be.

  “I think the hag lies with every breath she takes,” Gordan said. “I should slit her throat.”

  “Do ye have a seeing stone?” Laise said.

  Fonia nodded and pulled a stone from her skirts. It was an ordinary stone; she carried it simply because she liked it. “If I use the stone before sunrise, it willna lead us astray. But I will need to walk a circle around ye. And then, on the doorstep of my cave, I will peer through my fingers and judge what I see. I have used the stone before to find things that were lost.”

  Laise nodded. “Use yer stone. Ye’ll tell us what ye see and ye’ll go with us to find the Maclean.” He looked at Macgrath. “Gather the horses from where we’ve hidden them.” Macgrath nodded and disappeared into the brush.

  “We waste time when we could surprise the unguarded women at Duart castle,” Alaxsander said.

  “Yer being paid to translate Gaelic, not to question my orders,” Laise said. “King James put me in charge and ye’d do best to remember it. Besides, we dunna ken how many men are away from the castle and how many have stayed behind.”

  Alaxsander’s lips thinned into a sneer but he said nothing.

  “If ye lie, witch, we’ll throw ye in a barrel of burning tar,” Thomas said. “Then we’ll hang ye. It will be a pleasure.”

  “I hope we do find the Maclean,” Fonia said. “’As I said, ‘twas his grandfather who banished me all those years ago for a crime I did not commit. Malcolm now merely tolerates my presence in the village. He’s a cruel man. He’s kicked me more than once when I visited the village cemetery.” She almost laughed out loud at her ridiculous lies.

  “Kicking a woman isn’t a crime,” Gordan said. “Most women deserve it.”

  Fonia held her tongue though it was difficult.

  “We’ll find Malcolm,” Laise said. “And ye’ll help, witch.”

  Fonia walked in a circle around the men and then stood at the entrance of the cave, peering through the small hole in the stone.

  “What do ye see?” Laise asked.

  Alaxsander scoffed. “Not a bloody thing, I’ll wager; it’s a common stone and the old hag lies.”

  “I see Malcolm and a small party of men…northwest of here.”

  For now, it was enough. They tied her hands and feet and she was thrown on the back of a horse, behind Laise. Gordan hefted her cane through the air; it sailed into the pool and sank as he laughed.

  Despite having the wind knocked out of her old lungs and the pain of the ropes cutting into her wrinkled flesh, Fonia smiled. She would lead them on a merry chase, giving the men time to get back to Duart. And if she failed, the women were ready. With any luck, Fonia would lead Laise and his cutthroats straight to the Glen of the Black Rock and into a throng of armed, brave women.

  She might die as a result, but she was willing to give her life for her clan, for Malcolm. Fonia had nothing now to do with this world, but she could be an instrument of good to others.

  Chapter 33

  Fonia made sure to lead Laise and his men as far as possible from where she knew Malcolm’s party to truly be.

  They proceeded in silence along hazardous paths at the top of a far-reaching cliff that overhung the western side of a deep loch. Fonia could turn her head enough to see the herbage on the cliff sides glittering like liquid emerald over a sea of molten silver.

  Soon it would be dark. She directed them into a defile between two craggy mountains that trickled with a thousand rills. As they advanced, the vale gradually narrowed. At last they were shut within an immense chasm where a dark river flowed along amid mountain bases mingled with cliffs. Fonia knew this place as a glen of weathered stones. She also knew Malcolm and his men were nowhere near it.

  “The hag lies,” Gordan said. “Malcolm and his men are not here. We should kill her now. Why do we wait?”

  “We have not yet reached them,” Fonia said. “I feel they are close now.”

  Laise slid off the horse. “My arse hurts from all this riding. We’ll camp here. If the hag lives through the night, we’ll travel on in the morning. Besides, my stomach aches like bloody hell.” He pulled his trousers down right there and moaned, letting his bowels go. “Must’ve been that stringy rabbit ye cooked, Gordan.”

  They left Fonia on the horse, on her stomach, with hands and feet tied, while they built a fire. Later, when they ate and quenched their thirst, they offered her no food or ale.

  It was the time of year when cattle were slaughtered before winter and northern winds licked the rocks with the promise of ice.

  Finally, Laise lifted her from the horse and placed her on the ground, none too gently. “Lie down and sleep, hag.”

  She was given no blanket. They didn’t know she was used to harsh conditions; she was used to lying awake long into the night, listening and watching.

  “Please, ye dunna need to keep my hands and feet tied. I canna walk without the use of my cane. There is nowhere for me to go. And, dunna forget, I hate Malcolm Maclean as much if not more than ye do.”

  “Untie her hands and feet, Macgrath,” Laise said. “She cannot go far, and if she tries, we’ll be upon her and we’ll hang her or slit her throat. Mayhap build a bigger fire and burn her withered bones to ash.”

  Her hands and feet untied, Fonia lay in the cool grass.

  The men seemed to dismiss her presence. Laise talked of how he would bring Malcolm to King James and perhaps his son Conall too. He talked of how they would burn them in the town square. The men drank ale until they all lay snoring.

  They had readily believed Fonia helpless without her cane.

  In the dark of dawn, when bulky clouds swept their shadows along the valley floor, Fonia stood. She approached Laise’s horse. The animal knew her scent now and did not whinny or shy away. With some difficulty she managed to mount the horse.

  “Bitch! What do ye?”

  Thomas had awoken. As she pressed her legs against the horse’s sides and rode away, Thomas was up and running after her. He was a big man and managed to slash her arm deeply with his sharp dagger before he fell. But she was free.

  She rode away, looking over her shoulder, watching as they mounted the other horses. She soon left the grassy field tucked up between two mountains and guarded by rock behind, but she knew if she wasn’t careful they would catch her.

  She knew these mountains and woods like the back of her hand. She knew a shorter way to the Glen of the Black Rock. She was losing blood but she couldn’t take the time to stop and tend to her wound.

  When she finally rode into the Glen of the Black Rock, she was exhausted and weakened by loss of blood. The Maclean women were training. Fonia realized with a start that it was All Hallow’s Eve
because the women had blackened their faces like children did, to disguise themselves as evil spirits. It was an old tradition. Turnips lay piled on the side of the field, so perhaps the women planned to carve them into lanterns later for a bit of fun.

  Bloodied and weary, Fonia fell from the horse into Sorcha’s arms. She told them all that had happened. “Laise the Witch Hunter and his men may be close behind me. They seek to capture Malcolm and Conall and return them to the king in Edinburgh for a witch trial. They claim the Scottish King himself ordered his capture. They want to see them burned at the stake!”

  Sorcha searched the hills.

  “How many?”

  “There are five, including Alaxsander MacDonald. They hired him as a translator who speaks the old language, on King James’ recommendation. Laise of the Marked Face claims to be a witch hunter sent by King James himself.”

  Sorcha took action, sending the oldest and the youngest women home. A group of the strongest and most skilled women remained.

  “We must tend to yer wound, Fonia,” Sorcha said.

  “There is no time. ‘Tis too late anyway. Leave me here, on this field, where they can find me. They are determined to kill me. They’ve wanted to kill me since they found me. Hide in the patch of birch on the edge of the field. Send them to hell with yer arrows. Dunna waste time arguing. My life is nearly gone now. I’ve lost too much blood. I am old. They will be here soon.”

  “Yer one of the bravest women I’ve ever met,” Sorcha said. “Ye have our clan’s everlasting gratitude. We willna forget ye or what ye’ve done for us.”

  The women barely had enough time to hide themselves in the strand of birch and brush before a lone man came galloping toward Fonia. It was the big man, Thomas. He had a chest as wide as a barrel, bulging muscles eager to do harm, and dark, cruel eyes. His horse was not well-cared-for but strong, and foaming at the mouth.

  Fonia lay on the ground, feeling faint from loss of blood now. She listened to the wind rocking the birches as Thomas slid from the horse and unsheathed his sword. She smiled, comforting herself by thinking of all the tiny babes she’d brought into the world safely, all the tiny babes she’d rocked in her arms.

  “Why do ye smile, auld woman?” he snarled. “For now ye shall die by my sword.”

  Fonia lay still as he searched her watery eyes for fear and found none.

  “Did ye hear me, hag? I said now ye’ll die!”

  In the clutch of birches, Sorcha whispered to the women. “Arrows nocked.”

  Laise and the other three men appeared at the top of the glen. They walked alongside their horses and did not hurry as they watched. Nor did they draw their swords or dirks. They thought Fonia alone. And they had decided earlier it did not matter which one of them killed Fonia, as long as they caught her and made her pay for her lies. She was just an old woman after all; they need not waste more time or effort than was necessary on her death.

  Thomas raised his sword above Fonia’s bony chest. “’Tis almost a shame ye’ll die by my blade. ‘Twould be much more satisfying to burn ye in a barrel full of tar or hang ye by yer old, skinny neck.”

  “’Tis easy to kill defenseless old hags, Thomas, isn’t it? But warrior queens descended from Scathach the Celtic Goddess of the Dead are another matter, eh?”

  Fonia heard a flight of arrows hiss into the air and relished the flicker of fear and confusion in Thomas’ dark eyes. The sound of the arrows flying through the air was one of the most beautiful sounds she’d ever heard. One arrow skidded along the grass next to her but two others found their mark, ripping into his broad chest and throat. Surprise was the last thing she saw in his cruel eyes as he fell to the ground, blood spurting from his wounds.

  Fonia, with one last act of strength, sat up and whistled, pointing to Laise and the other three men, who had dropped their weapons at the sight of women with blackened faces emerging from the trees, women armed with swords and axes and bows and arrows. Laise, Gordan, and Macgrath ran toward the old chapel, using their horses as shields as long as they could while Alaxsander MacDonald scrambled into the woods on the opposite side of the field.

  As Fonia closed her eyes, the warrior yells of the Maclean women and the keening whispers of their arrows thudding into the wood of the chapel was a great comfort. She thought she saw the spirit of Scathach, an ancient legendary warrior woman whose fortress, the Castle of Shadows, had stood on the Isle of Skye long, long ago, beckoning to her.

  Chapter 34

  At some point in the distant past, the old chapel in the field had been repaired, but that was long ago and half of the roof on one side was near collapse. The walls were full of rot. A handful of moss-covered gravestones tilted in a cemetery choked by thistles and thorn.

  Inside, Laise, Gordan, and Macgrath sought something to use as protection. There were no benches; they were long gone. There was even evidence someone had once used the building as a barn, for the straw on the ground sprouted black spots. Mushrooms, Laise thought distractedly.

  The men heard the sound of many arrows thumping into the chapel walls. Some of the arrows had been lit with fire and flames had started to crawl about the walls.

  Through a square that used to be a window they could see the strange shadow women running toward them, their hair streaming behind them.

  “God will protect us,” Laise said, his eyes glazed. “God talks to me, ye ken.”

  Macgrath snorted. “If God talks to ye, he makes vera odd choices!”

  Laise listened, as he had when he was a boy. He waited for the voice of God to instruct him, but he didn’t hear it. He watched, mesmerized by the flames and frozen in fear. He felt like he had when he was a wee lad and his mother had begun to beat him for his weaknesses, for getting sick. He felt alone; he remembered the screaming pain and the blood and the sounds of cows being slaughtered below his bedroom window. His mother was a big woman and her knuckles were hard.

  “Are they women or are they banshees?” Gordan asked, his voice cracking with fear.

  The last of the light ducked and weaved between headstones and darkness rolled over the glen like the incoming tide. “The sight of banshees means death!” Gordan screamed. “Mayhap they are the restless dead, come for us!”

  “Mama?” Laise mumbled. “Mama? Please, Mama. Don’t push me into the flames!”

  In the darkness, through the chapel window opening, the women, with their swords and axes and their arrows at the ready and their pointed bows silhouetted in shadow, looked like creatures from another realm, like giant spiders with spindly legs and sharp fangs.

  Macgrath and Gordan jumped into the dangling rafters, vainly trying to protect themselves from a shaft of arrows. Laise removed his jeweled dirk from his sleeve. “I dunna fear the spider’s bite,” he said. “I can send ye all to hell with this dirk, which was blessed at Iona. And when I’m done sending ye all to hell, I’ll kill Malcolm the warlock and his son Conall!”

  The answer to his bold boast was the deep twang of a bow cord as one of Sorcha’s arrows struck him in the throat, going clear out the other side of his neck, nearly ripping his head from his shoulders. The noise was like an axe severing flesh. There was the tearing of muscle and bone, a grunt and gurgle, and Laise fell forward. Macgrath’s and Gordan’s bodies were soon riddled with arrows too, and they fell dead from the rafters to the floor, taking part of the roof with them.

  Sorcha saw the twinkle of the jeweled dirk on the floor and quickly retrieved it.

  Outside again, Sorcha and the women watched the old chapel and the bodies in it burn, a fitting end for the witch hunter and his murdering men who had preyed upon the weak and innocent. The women vowed they would capture Alaxsander MacDonald too; they’d seen him, with the flash of his plaid, scurry into the woods.

  It was not long before tongues of red flame licked the sky, climbing ever higher, the molten brightness almost like a sunrise. As the crumbling chapel and the bodies of the witch hunters were consumed, the women carried Fonia’s body home for a
proper burial. Their way was lit by the moon. As they walked they sang, their voices weaving spells in the darkness, surging and rising in unison. For once, there was no lash of rain.

  Kat had a sudden chill. “Where’s Mollie? And where’s Andrina?”

  “Mollie?” Sorcha called frantically. But Mollie was not among the throng of women now. Nor was Andrina.

  Chapter 35

  The men returned to Duart Castle as the women came up the slope. Upon learning what had happened in the glen, and that Mollie and Andrina were missing, Malcolm, Conall, and Martainn prepared to search the woods.

  “I’m going too,” Lorcan said. He didn’t wait for permission as he ran outside and saddled Mollie’s horse, Lady. Soon the sound of hooves echoed in the courtyard as the party of men left.

  “Lady,” he said to the horse, “find our lady before ‘tis too late.”

  He was at the Glen of the Black Rocks in no time, guiding the horse toward the woods where Mollie and Andrina might have gone. Horse and man were one.

  Lorcan had to go slower in the woods, the horse making its way carefully. He listened for every sound. He cursed Mollie for being so foolhardy as to go after Alaxsander MacDonald. He knew Alaxsander. He was a cruel man who stole cattle and forced himself on women. He was ten years older than Lorcan and had clearly enjoyed beating Lorcan when he was a lad trying to protect his sister Kat.

  Lorcan prayed, prayed harder than he ever had in his entire life. The moon was bright. Lady pricked her ears and picked up her pace. Martainn’s horse was close behind his.

  Lorcan emerged in a small clearing with a thundering waterfall. And his breath caught in his throat.

  Mollie lay still on the grass, her black hair streaming about her. Her bow and arrow had been knocked to the side; there was blood on her bruised face and arms. Lorcan leaned close and felt a faint pulse of breath on his cheek. He felt Mollie’s body for wounds; she had a gash on her arm. He tore off a strip of his shirt and tied it around her arm to staunch the flow of blood. There was no sign of Andrina as Martainn thundered into the clearing and jumped off his horse, frantic.