Across a Dark Highland Shore (Hot Highlands Romance Book 2) (5 page)

“Later, when the boys grew into men, ‘twas the opposite. Logan became more animated and ambitious and Leith more serious and subdued, more apt to study things before acting. Both were deadly on the battlefield. Anyway, lass, each twin had an uncanny ability to know what the other was thinking. It was a great loss. For the entire clan.”

“So if Leith knows how to get what he wants, why does this Lady Katherine resist? Does he wish her hand in marriage now?”

“Aye, he wants to continue to explore peace between the clans. But she’ll no’ consent to marriage with him.”

“Why?”

“Because she hates him, lass. She’s afraid of him in a way she wasna afraid of Logan.”

“Is it because The Black Wolf’s face is scarred?”

“I’ve already said too much, lass. And a word to the wise—dunna call him the Black Wolf and
ne’er
talk about his face.”

4

Stable boys emerged to help with the horses.

Isobel shivered as Ranulph helped her down from his horse and escorted her into the great hall of the keep, where many eyes fell on her small form with curiosity, including Leith’s.

Ranulph guided Isobel toward the great hearth, and Isobel, after the long ride in the freezing snow, was thankful for the heat of the sputtering fire in the damp, dank hall. The fireplace was enormous; its great lintel seemed to be formed from a single slab of stone.

The room was also massive, decorated with antlers and shields, graceful tapestries filling the walls, the silken threads reflecting the firelight. Crossed swords and lances hung above the massive fireplace along with the Maclean coat-of-arms, which contained the images of eagles, a salmon, the hand and cross, a mountain and a full-rigged birlinn with the motto “Virtue mine honor.”

Isobel’s eyes slid warily over Leith’s impressive form, remembering that his ancestors had battled Vikings.

Women, men, and children continued to stare at her. She was sure she was a sight—cold and filthy, her glorious golden hair shorn off by Bothen. Now it did not even reach her shoulders. Her hair was prone to wave and curl, and absently, she ran her fingers through what was left of it, trying to free some of the tangles. She had a sudden and welcome memory from her childhood of her mother admonishing her for never wearing her nightcap to prevent the tangles. She did wear it, though. It just always slipped off when she slept. The memory almost made her smile.

Several well-gowned ladies with jewels glittering at their necks and ribbons woven into the shiny tresses of their hair pinched their nostrils shut. “Fuich, fuich!” they whispered.

Isobel
did
smell, mostly of tar, smoke, and rotten rushes, but it wasn’t her fault.

Leith settled himself at the great oak table, which was draped with a white table cloth. Servants began to bring delectable dishes out from the kitchen and set them down before him on the green sanap that ran along the white tablecloth. Ale flagons were placed about.

Leith sipped whisky from an enameled cup and leaned back in an ornately carved chair, one arm slung across the back of it, surveying the crowd. Tired shadows danced beneath his amber eyes. “’Twas as I saw it in my dream,” he said. “We arrived just as the MacKinnons were about to set fire to the witch-child.”

Murmurs swept through the crowd. Leith motioned for another cup of whisky as his intense gaze fell on Isobel and he sat forward. Again, she wasna sure what she saw in his eyes—hate, disgust, fear, loathing, curiosity? There was definitely pain. That was not something he could hide.

“The MacKinnon who would have set fire to a member of his own clan, a child no less, is dead by my arrow. Our clan has suffered much tragedy of late. Though enemy, the witch-child with the Sight is going to help us change that. While she is our guest, no one is to harm her. She will act as an advisor to me and indeed will have a place of honor akin to my war councilor.”

“So we have two enemies within our midst?” a man shouted. He was older, his shoulders a bit stooped, with grey hair and a grey beard. “Lady Katherine, a Campbell, and now this MacKinnon witch? Is it wise?”

“The path to peace does no’ always move in a straight line,” Leith said. “I will hear no more dissent on the matter.”

There were louder gasps from the crowd, followed by incredulous whispers. A muscular man with red-gold hair and ice-blue eyes took up a position next to Leith. He was nearly as tall as Leith. “Truly?” he asked. “The witch will be as highly prized as myself, my laird? I am yer war councilor and she is but a peasant….”

“Errol, do ye have quarrel with my decision? Do ye doubt my sanity in bringing her here?”

“Nay, ne’er, my laird.” Errol sat down next to Leith. He crossed his arms over his wide chest. “It will be as ye say. But I dunna think Logan would have….”

Leith pounded a fist on the table and everyone jumped. “
I am no’ Logan!
Logan may have done things differently. But he is no’ here. I am laird now. And like Lady Katherine, the witch-child is under my protection. Should anyone think to treat her differently or think to treat her harshly, they will be dealt with swiftly and harshly themselves.”

“By ye, or by the witch?” a man said and laughed.

“Think ye this is a funny matter, Osgar?”

Osgar cleared his throat and frowned. “Nay, my laird.” He buried his head in his cup of ale.             

Isobel curled and flexed her fingers in front of the fire, trying to restore feeling to them as Leith stood up, towering over everyone on the raised dais. He braced his large hands on the table.

“Logan is gone. My brother…is gone. Would that I could change that. But I canna. We have to accept it. We all miss him.” He frowned. “Instead of a joyous wedding, we attended a funeral. These are trying times for everyone. These are trying times for the Highlands. We will go on. We will rebuild. I will no’ lead ye astray. And, with the witch-child’s help, we will discover the traitor in our midst. For surely there is one. Logan’s death was no accident. We all know it. I believe the dream I received about the witch-child was a message from Logan.”

Once more, murmurs swept the crowd. “The vile deed will no’ go unpunished, I promise ye that.” He paused and glanced at Isobel. “With the witch-child’s help, we will win battles, land, and hearts. Come spring, there will be a wedding and something to celebrate. I saw it in my dream.”

A low, feminine laugh sounded, and a sea of faces turned toward the great stairs. A richly dressed woman stood on the bottom stair, one of the most beautiful women Isobel had ever seen. Judging by her dress, she was in mourning. Her thick, dark hair, chestnut brown with shining strands of red, was piled elegantly on her head and held gold ribbons. Deep amber stones flashed at her graceful throat. She had luminous dark eyes, which also flashed—with irritation and disgust.

The gown that adorned her slender figure was a shimmering black shade that caught the fire in her hair. It had a long, slender shape. There was beautiful wide trim on the sleeves and above the hemline, and twisted gold piping on the scooped neckline, shoulders, and sleeve ends. A small, bejeweled dagger hung in a sheath from a belt at her waist.

“Is it wise to bring a MacKinnon witch across your doorstep on the New Year, Leith? ‘Tis bold, and ‘twould seem most unlucky.” She did not give him time to answer. “Regardless, ye foolishly think to use the witch-child to win hearts. Well, ye willna win
this
one. There will be no wedding in the spring. As soon as this horrid winter ends and travel is once again possible for ladies, I will take my servants and be gone from this hellish keep, where only sad memories of what could have been reside. Our clans will go on hating each other, as is only natural. There is only one man who could have changed that, and ‘twas your brother, Logan.” 

Leith’s jaw tensed as his eyes traveled leisurely over her womanly form, lingering on her breasts and the ample swell of her hips. “Yer free to leave whene’er ye like, Lady Katherine. But with bands of blood-thirsty reivers about, it wouldna be wise. And I think e’en ye can see the folly of no’ considering what a match between us would bring to our clans. If there is no wedding….”

She laughed, the sound hollow in the cavernous room. “Ye stand to lose the coveted peace ye would gain by my hand, Leith, the peace that would’ve come naturally had I married Logan. But if I married ye, Leith, our union would have naught to do with love, as it would have with Logan. I have
never
loved a man like I loved Logan and since I canna marry him, I vow to marry no man. Ye are no’ Logan.”

“Nay, I am no’ Logan. I dunna speak of love, Lady Katherine. I dunna heap lavish praises on ye day and night, I dunna bow down to yer beauty every day. I dunna promise ye the stars. I dunna ask ye to love me. Look at my face.” He smiled wickedly while he traced the scar on his cheek with his fingers. “I am no’ handsome and perfect as Logan was. I am honest and practical. Only fools marry for love, Lady Katherine. So I will no’ pretend to be Logan.

“I am my own man, a man with many faults. Yet ye, with yer misplaced pride and stubborn refusal to consider my offer, unromantic as it may be, risk escalating the feuding between our clans. Many more lives may be thus lost in battle. And we may soon be at war with England. The last thing we want is Macleans and Campbells continuing to kill each other. Our union, and the sons you would bear me, could bring years of peace.”

Lady Katherine’s eyes rounded. “The
sons
I would bear ye?”

“These are matters for private discussion between us. As long as ye are here, the peace has a chance to continue to exist. Will ye no’ think of yer own people, Lady Katherine?” Now it was Leith who did not give her a chance to answer. He looked at Isobel. “Have ye anything to say about this, witch-child?”

Isobel looked into his rugged face, noted the tense set of his jaw, that the scar was white with anger. “Aye Maclean. I do. I thank ye for my life, but like love, the Sight is no’ something that can be forced at will, e’en by yer obviously fierce will. What if my visions are of no value to ye? What if ye dunna like what I see in yer future, or in Lady Katherine’s?”

Men and women alike were aghast at the way she boldly addressed their laird, and Lady Katherine eyed her with interest.

“If ye cease to be of value to the Maclean clan, then we’ll return ye to yer own bloodthirsty and dishonorable clan!” a man yelled. “Yeah, ye’ll be sent back to the MacKinnon pigs!” another shouted.

Isobel held her chin high though she fair trembled at the thought of being delivered back into the hands of Glynis and Forba. Glynis’ hate would know no bounds now. Surely she would blame Isobel for her lover Bothen’s death. And Forba would be no less distressed. They’d cared naught that Isobel was to writhe and die in flames but could not abide Bothen’s death, a murderer and poisoner of women. Though if they’d listened to Isobel in the first place, and if they’d put a halt to the attempt to burn her, their lover Bothen would yet live. She had warned them all.

“Understand this,” Leith said, his strong voice carrying across the hall, “the witch-child will ne’er be returned to those prideless pigs, to the place she once called home. That word is hollow and meaningless for her now. She is, as of this moment, brought into our clan, as one of us, where she will be treated with dignity and care. The Maclean keep is now her home.” Leith looked around the crowded hall. “Does anyone object?” 

No one spoke. Leith was intimidating as he stood nearly motionless, tension radiating from his tall form. His stance was confident and unforgiving, and his eyes missed nothing around him. He was a ruthless warrior, bred from generations of warriors, and Isobel silently reminded herself of that.

“No one objects,” he said. “That is wise. Maida, see that the child is washed and given fresh clothing and that Cook sends up food and ale. She is to be settled in Logan’s room and given a guard for as long as I deem it necessary. Dugald, ye will guard her room this eve. Some of ye may leave this hall tonight and think on the witch and forget my words, and that would be a grave mistake.”

A large woman with a round, red face approached Isobel. She carried a small torch, and instinctively Isobel backed away from it.

Strands of silvery hair escaped from beneath the woman’s white cap. The dark eyes in her weathered face were not unsympathetic. Her brown tunic was sturdy and practical, and judging by her dress and chafed hands, she was responsible for many chores.

Ranulph clapped his hands together. “’Tis a shame Dugald that ye’ll be guarding the witch this eve while I’ll be finding comfort and warmth in the arms of a lusty wench!”

Leith cut his eyes to Ranulph. “Ye’ll be sharing the duty with Dugald, but no’ tonight. So best get yer wenching in while ye can.” Ranulph stopped clapping mid-air and began to sulk.

“So I am to be yer prisoner then, Maclean?” Isobel asked. “My fate is in yer hands?”

Leith crossed his muscular arms over his broad chest and his long plaid rippled behind him with the movement. “Aye, child. As laird, I have the right of pit and gallows. I can imprison or hang any man or woman who displeases me. People live and die because of me. I am, however, a fair chieftain. I dunna burn witches.”

While he was talking, Lady Katherine made her way to the great table, every male eye following the alluring sway of her hips. She sat down in a carved chair next to Errol and began to talk quietly with him, sharing a smile before they fell silent. Servants immediately brought food and ale, which she impatiently waved away. It was clear the attention of the men was focused on her and that she expected it to be no other way.

Isobel noted how Leith’s eyes briefly burned with intense emotion as they fell upon his war councilor and Lady Katherine, how his jaw hardened and tensed. Errol was oblivious to his laird’s displeasure, his eyes silently devouring Lady Katherine’s bosom as he leaned back in his chair.

Isobel spoke quietly but her words were firm. “Maclean, people live because of me, too.” The crowd turned their attention back to her.

“They live because I heal them. People who should’ve died but lived to play their pipes again or birth another babe or fight one more battle. I have no title. I have no home now. There is no one to call family or friend, though plenty to call foe. I am
nothing,
but people live because of me. I am a healer, I seek peace, and yet my own clan called me witch and tied me to wood, and flame was to be my reward.” She turned her small back to him, suddenly exhausted from the events of the last two days, trembling, tears threatening to spill from her eyes.