Devil Black
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Devil Black
by
Laura Strickland
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Devil Black
COPYRIGHT © 2013 by Laura Strickland
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
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Cover Art by
Tina Lynn Stout
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Publishing History
First English Tea Rose Edition, 2013
Print ISBN 978-1-61217-693-2
Digital ISBN 978-1-61217-694-9
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
For my friends of the
fanstory online writing community
with gratitude for
your encouragement and enthusiasm.
A hundred thousand thanks!
Chapter One
Central Scotland, 1608
“Do you know what they call you? The monster without conscience; the destroyer; he who ruins whatever he touches. They call you the Devil Black:
Diabhal Dubh
.”
The words hissed through the hush of midnight, competing with the voice of the wind rising outside. Dougal MacRae—the Black Devil—narrowed his eyes and propped one booted foot on the hob, reaching for comfort he did not expect to find. The wet night, foul and chill, had cast a pall upon the hour and unsettled him. He had no desire for his companion’s wild opinions, smiting his ears.
But no one had ever convinced Lachlan MacElwain to keep his opinions to himself. Lachy had been Dougal’s closest friend—his one friend, would Dougal admit it—for as long as either of them could remember, and the sole person Dougal had not succeeded in driving away. Truly, Dougal had tried. Heedlessly and persistently, he had banished whatever good feeling anyone in his world harbored for him: his sister, his raggedy slew of cousins, his father’s men at arms, and the other companions of his childhood. Aye, well, the clansmen still stood with him. Had they any choice?
“They are saying,” Lachlan went on in a tone halfway between enjoyment and condemnation, “your soul is damned and even God has washed His hands of you.”
“God?” Dougal repeated the word in a harsh tone, and snorted. “Where is He, then? Busy playing chess with the Devil, no doubt.” He inclined his head toward Lachlan. “The real Devil, I am meaning. Never doubt he exists, Lachy. And he has been far more active in my life than any God.”
“Heresy,” Lachlan muttered.
Dougal drank deep from his cup of raw whisky, savored the bite as the liquor went down his throat, and shrugged. “I say only the truth. And who are ‘they,’ who speak so ill of me?”
Lachlan raised thoughtful eyes to meet Dougal’s. Lachlan, Dougal admitted, looked mild and harmless, the bonny sort of man with whom the lassies might get up to dance at the parties to which Dougal himself no longer received invitations. Lachy’s honey-brown hair brushed the shoulders of the leather jerkin he wore, and his blue eyes looked almost serene in the dim candlelight.
“‘They,’” he said concisely, “are the neighbors you have been busy robbing these last eight years, the clans you have battled, the many women you have wronged, the very government of Scotland itself. They would hang you if they could.”
Dougal crooked a brow. “I cannot deny those charges.” Whatever else he might do, he strove always for honesty. “If these folk feel better for calling me by a foolish name, so be it.”
“Do you not care?” Lachlan asked, only partly feigning his surprise. “I recall a time when you did.”
“Long ago—almost beyond memory.” Dougal slanted his gaze so the firelight reflected from his eyes in a fiendish manner. He knew he looked the part of a Black Devil, with the dark curls spilling down his neck and eyes so deeply grey they might as well be black.
He knew, too, what the clans folk whispered—that Satan himself had marked Dougal MacRae with the scar that marred his right cheek in the shape of a claw or talon.
Dougal alone knew the true origin of that scar, and he would not tell.
“I care for naught now, Lachy,” he finished in a hard voice. “You know that.” Naught but revenge.
“They would hunt you down like a rabid fox, did your father’s reputation not still stand,” Lachy mused on, “even now, after his death.”
“Only let them try,” Dougal said carelessly. He had confidence in his ability to protect himself and his own. The keep he had inherited from his father, not far west of Stirling, and from which he terrorized much of Central Scotland, stood strong. He could take down any man who challenged him with sword or bare fists. As for the rest of it, he’d been clever enough to preserve at least a suggestion of innocence. “There is no proof.”
Lachlan drank from his cup. “Make a man angry enough, as you well know, and he will dispense with the requirement for proof. Revenge is a fine thing, Dougal, but not if it begets the desire for more revenge.”
“Bah,” Dougal said dismissively. “You tire me, Lachy. When did you become such a cautious old woman?”
“Perhaps when the King got involved. No less than five of your neighbors have applied to him for relief from you—not the least of whom, MacNab, is a particular favorite of the King’s. What will you do if James calls you to Stirling and decides to make a judgment?”
Dougal’s lips curled in an unpleasant smile. “I suppose I will need to appear before him—he is my Lord and King. Yet you know James is busy in England and comes to Stirling quite rarely.” And the King could be bought, Dougal added to himself—sometimes with stolen gold.
“He cannot ignore his subjects’ complaints forever,” Lachlan asserted uncomfortably. “And I do not think you can accuse me of being an old woman for warning you.”
“Is that what you are doing, then?” Dougal asked with mock surprise. “Warning me?”
“Aye, for my sins. I do not know why I bother.”
“Nor do I,” Dougal agreed readily, and drank again. Sometimes his very veins seemed to crave the fire in the cup. It brought forgetting and, if he was lucky, even oblivion.
Lachlan shifted in his chair uncomfortably. “Perhaps it is Meg about whom I am worried,” he admitted.
“My accursed sister?” Dougal narrowly avoided snorting. “That harridan? I assure you, Lachy, Meg can look after herself.”
“Aye, so,” Lachlan agreed, looking unhappy. “Yet, does she not concern you?”
“Only so much as she threatens to usurp my title as the black sheep of Clan MacRae. Truth be told, I curse the day she ever came home. How long has it been, now?”
“Eight months,” Lachlan supplied in a low voice.
“Eight long months since she murdered her husband and returned to the family bosom.”
“There is no proof she murdered MacDonald,” Lachlan objected, without much conviction. “Not but the bastard deserved it.”
Dougal scowled. “I do not argue that. If the rumors are correct, I might have crossed the Highland Line and settled him myself. Not that Meg needed my assistance. She poisoned him, Lachlan, and he died in agony. Never say you worry for such a creature?”
Lachlan shrugged.
Dougal went on with a hint of humor in his voice. “If I am a black devil, then she is a witch—the old sort, whose path men would do well to avoid crossing. She may live here, Lachy, but I do my very best to avoid her.”
“Perhaps that is your mistake.”
“I am certainly not going to coddle her. Might just as well coddle an adder. My sister hates me, Lachy. Far more than my neighbors do.”
Lachlan said nothing but stared at the fire moodily.
Dougal slopped more whisky into his cup. “A fine bit of drink here,” he said, after a moment. “Remind me—from whom did we steal it, again?”
“Robertson, over near Kippen,” Lachlan said gloomily. “You tied up himself and all his family before looting the place, remember? I thought his wife would succumb to apoplexy.”
Dougal laughed harshly. “Oh, aye. He has a bonny daughter, though, I recall.”
Lachlan rolled his eyes. “A daughter you saw fit to kiss and fondle before we left. You had your tongue well down her throat and your hands up her skirt.”
“Aye, and a sweet bit of female she was.” Dougal grinned wolfishly. “She enjoyed it, Lachy. Do not doubt that.”
“Perhaps you should offer for her,” Lachlan suggested a bit spitefully.
“Me?” Again Dougal crooked an eyebrow. “Why would I do that?”
“Because the King has virtually decreed it. Do not say you fail to remember the message that arrived from London last month?”
“London is a long way off.”
“Maybe so, but that letter was nothing save a veiled threat. He implied if you do not settle seriously into running your father’s estate, take a wife, and begin a family, he will have to consider confiscating your lands.”
“MacRae lands! We have held these hills since the time of Christ. No one will take them from me now.”
“He can do as he pleases—he is King.”
“On these lands, Lachy, I am king.”
Lachlan muttered, “There lies your problem, I am thinking.”
Ignoring his friend, Dougal tossed his head and laughed. “Besides, can you imagine me, with bairns? Now, there’s an unholy prospect—the Devil’s spawn!”
Lachlan scowled and said nothing. A brief silence fell, during which the fire popped and the wind heightened its wail around the stones of the keep until it sounded like droning bagpipes.
“What will you do,” Lachlan asked then, “if the King does require you to wed, if he issues a decree?”
Dougal MacRae’s teeth flashed white in an unholy smile. “Well, then, if it comes to that, I suppose I shall just have to steal myself a suitable wife.”
Chapter Two
“It is unacceptable,” Isobel Maitland said bitterly, much aggrieved. “Father, you cannot send Catherine away to marry. She is second born.”
“Fourth born, in truth,” said Gerald Maitland tersely. “Are you forgetting I had two sons? The fact that both have predeceased me does not make them any less significant.”
“I did not mean to imply that.” Isobel frowned. The wounds her father bore following the loss of his sons were raw and likely to remain so. The elder, John, had perished fighting valiantly for the Crown, and James scarcely a year later in a fall from a horse maddened by a bee sting. Isobel had watched her father sour thereafter, turning from a reasonably considerate man to one who cared little for anyone’s opinion save his own.
He now had no heirs save his two daughters, Isobel, nineteen, and Catherine, two years younger. Precedent existed for the lands to pass down the female line—the estate had, after all, come to Gerald Maitland through marriage. Isobel’s mother, a strong-minded Scottish heiress, had not lived long enough to see her daughters grown.
With that thought in mind, Isobel now spoke as perhaps wisdom dictated she should not. “Mother would not approve this marriage, not with Catherine’s heart so set against it.”
The look in her father’s blue eyes—the one feature Isobel had inherited—chilled. “Will you cite your mother’s will to me? What do you know of it, girl? For that matter, what does Catherine know about an advantageous union? She is but a child.”