To Bewitch a Highlander (Isle of Mull series) (11 page)

“Shoney, I need to speak to you. Please let me in. Standing alone outside this place, staring into the eyes of your serpent is testing my courage like never before.”

Fear tainted his voice not deceit. She slowly opened the door and peered out. His height and breadth of shoulder blocked out the sun as she gazed into his nervous eyes. She took a deep breath and opened the door all the way. He accepted her invitation to enter but refused to sit in the chair by the fire.

“I am warm enough, thank you,” he said.

He surveyed her small quarters. She followed his gaze about the room suddenly very self-conscious. She had never seen inside the homes in the village and did not know how they compared. She was glad for the dried lavender on the ground. The flowers’ soft perfume filled the air. He paused in front of her great wooden table. He seemed to be considering the contents of the pouches and her various tools.

“You are a healer?” His voice betrayed his trepidation.

Walking over to where he stood, she pretended to busy herself with crushing some herbs and replied, “Aye, I am a healer not a witch, Ronan.”

He tensed next to her.

“Nor was my mother”, she continued. “I do believe in the strength of the gods of the earth and the heavens, but my skills are for healing. Sadly, few benefit from my knowledge.”

“Few?” his face showed his surprise. “Do you mean to say people have sought your skills?”

“Don’t look so shocked, Ronan. Women from your own clan have been visiting this hut since before the days of Tharain.”

“MacKinnon women have come here? Why?” he asked. She ignored the fact that he seemed appalled by the notion.

“MacKinnon and MacLean women visit in the night”, she replied. “They come when they cannot find help elsewhere.”

Ronan lifted a clay pot containing a pungent mix of seaweed and nettle. Shoney watched his face crinkle with distaste as the pot was returned to the table.

“That can’t be true. The MacKinnon clan cares for its own women. We too have healers.”

“No doubt, but my mother told me your religion teaches you to fear women, and so you silence them.”

“’Tis not our religion that creates fear, Bridget…”

“Shoney”, she interrupted. “My name is Shoney.” He looked as though he did not like being reminded.

“’Tis not our religion that creates fear, Shoney.” He began again. She smiled, enjoying her name on his lips. “Men are born of sin”, he continued. “We must fear our own wickedness and repent.”

“And what of women?” she asked, turning her back to him.

She moved to stand by the fire. When he did not reply she sought his gaze. His eyes glowed with amber intensity as they bore into hers, searing a path straight to her soul. Her gaze faltered as she looked at her feet.

“We love our women, Shoney,” he said in a low voice. “We protect and cherish our women.”

When she again met his gaze, she stopped breathing altogether, startled by the desire she saw in their depths. Deep warmth spread across her face.

What magic was this? Why did he have this hold over her?

He was the enemy, the descendent of King MacAlpin. She despised him and blamed him for her loneliness. Why should he not suffer the consequences for his ancestor’s choices just as she must? She should be fighting him not desiring him.

“You destroyed my people”, she said, the words bursting from her lips.

His eyes widened in disbelief, “Your people? Shoney, what is the matter with you?”

“You are a Gael, descended of King MacAlpin.” She stood with her arms akimbo, ready for battle. “Your descendants seized the throne of the Picts, our lands, our way of life. ‘Tis because of your people, Ronan, that my life is spent cloaked in solitude. I am accused of witchcraft because of you.” Her voice broke. She was losing control, but she did not care. “You are the reason why my mother died with fear in her eyes, fear for my safety, for my happiness.”

He backed away from her. “Your people?” he said. “My people? Shoney, you speak of wrongs centuries old, and I’m afraid I must mention that your knowledge of history is somewhat lacking.”

“My mother warned me never to believe your lies”, she yelled.

“The Gaels and the Picts did their share of fighting to be sure, but the Gaels did not defeat the Picts. Both peoples were forced to converge or face annihilation at the hands of the Vikings.”

“You are lying.”

“Believe me or not, but Kenneth MacAlpin was very much a Pictish king as was his son, Aed. A Gaelic king did rule temporarily after he assassinated Aed.”

“So you admit that a Gael stole the Pictish throne”, Shoney interrupted.

“Aye, but his brief reign did not mark the beginning of Scotland or the diminishment of the Picts in history—that, my dear, can be blamed on a Pictish king.”

“Your version of history is lacking in logic”, she scoffed.

“I am not finished.” He snapped, but he composed himself before continuing. “When Aed was murdered, his son, Constantine, and nephew, Dugald, were both too young to rule. They were secreted away to a Gaelic monastery in Ireland. They returned when they were grown to avenge their King and they succeeded. At least according to bloodlines, a Pictish throne was restored. But Constantine and Dugald had spent their formative years within a Gaelic monastery. They were no longer young Pictish princes. They had grown into Gaelic men. Constantine called himself King of Scotland and openly encouraged the spread of Gaelic tradition.”

“Now ‘tis your turn for telling stories”, she sneered. “What fool taught you such lies?”

“In my youth before my brother’s passing, my father sent me to the monastery on Iona to study. My story is backed by volumes of written evidence, by the markings of graves, by ratifications and agreements.”

“Writing is a privilege reserved for the powerful. My mother’s word is worth far more than the words recorded by traitors and thieves”, she replied, raising her chin defiantly.

“Shoney, listen to me”, he said. She turned away, determined to ignore him, but he continued anyway. “It has been many centuries since the days when the Picts and the Gaels were separate peoples. The past cannot be undone, especially one that happened so long ago.”

Madder than ever, Shoney railed at him, “You speak of a time centuries ago, and yet I am this very day shunned and feared by your people.”

Ronan’s voice intensified, revealing his growing frustration. “Not by reason of your Pictish blood, Shoney, for it flows in my veins too. ‘Tis your pagan idolatry the people fear.” He picked up her carving of Taranis, the god of thunder, and thrust it in her face.

“My gods are born of this land, Ronan MacKinnon. I am born of this land.” She shouted.

In a soft voice he said, “My God is of all lands, Shoney.”

She started to reply, but he closed his hand over her mouth.

“Enough of this, please, Shoney. I am no priest. My sins, I’m sure, are many, and I will not feign being holy enough to judge the soul of any man or woman.
I
have never wronged you.” Then his face reddened as he hastily added, “with the exception of the bruises on your arms, a little jostling, and a few stolen caresses, which you could hold against me for the rest of our days if you wished, but”, he smiled as he removed his hand from her mouth, “I sincerely hope you do not.”

Shoney eyed him with suspicion. “What you are asking for then is a truce”, she said.

“Aye, I suppose I am.” He took a step back and extended his hand for her to accept.

“Shoney, join me”, he said, his voice rich with formality. “Together we can end the blood wars of our ancestors with an alliance of our own. Once, a long time ago, we were sworn enemies. Now, we will be bonded in friendship.”

She turned from him suddenly weary. “I do desire to be your friend, Ronan. I’ll not deny this, but to surrender would cast me under the dark cloak of shame. A darker mantle than even that worn by the Witch of Dervaig, and what’s more, its folds would defile my mother’s rest.”

“I do not ask you to swear allegiance to Scotland or to the MacKinnon for that matter. I ask not for your surrender. We are simply establishing a peace. And Shoney”, his voice beckoned for her to meet his gaze, “there is never shame in peace.”

Her mind raced and her heart pounded. She wanted nothing more than to accept his hand and have for the first time in her life a friend, but her mother warned her about the true nature of men. At their best, she cautioned, they were capricious and quick to make vows that later went unfulfilled, and at their worst, they were foul beasts.

“I am but one of many women who have lived behind these walls, hidden by cloak and full of regret”, she said. “Do you think you are the first man to stand here with hand extended? I had a father, Ronan. So too did my mother.”

“But
I
have never stood here. Not all men are the same, Shoney. If you wish me to leave, I will. But remember, I do not seek to change you or bend your will. I only wish to be your friend.”

She searched his eyes for some sign of deception, but his gaze held only truth. Perhaps it was wrong to punish him for past crimes. Should he be blamed for the solitary lives the Dervaig women had chosen to lead, swearing never to accept Scottish rule? By taking his hand in friendship, she did not surrender the enduring struggle of her ancestors, the fight even her own mother refused to concede. It only signified a blessed release from the silence and despondency of solitude.

Very slowly, she reached out and took Ronan’s hand, resisting the desire to smile. She had never had a friend before. She blushed as the touch of his strong hand made her think of his powerful grip on her bare waist beneath the surface of her seaside pool. The heat of his touch had warmed her despite the chilly water until she melted into him. She looked from his giant hand cradling hers to his bright amber eyes and lost herself in his lazy, sideways smile. Then she cleared her throat, deciding it would be wise to look elsewhere. She took her hand back and busied herself with replenishing the fire.

“So, you said your village has healers?” she asked, trying to redirect her thoughts away from his golden skin and thickly muscled shoulders.

“Indeed”, he answered.

“And they are skilled in herbs?”

“Aye, perhaps one day you will meet and exchange knowledge.”

Shoney whirled around, “You think I might be welcomed by your clan?” she said skeptically.

“I may remind you, my dear, one day I will be laird.”

“When?” she asked.

“My father has no brothers. I am next in line. When he passes unto heaven, the…”

“No”, Shoney interrupted, “I mean to say, when will you take me to Gribun?”

He threw his head back and laughed, evidently enjoying her enthusiasm. “When the time is right, I promise you, I will take you to the village, but for now the hour grows late. I must return.”

She shook her head to object. She did not want him to leave. She wanted to talk further about visiting the village.

He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Do not fret, Shoney. I will return”, he whispered. “Never forget we are friends.”

She waved goodbye from the doorway until he disappeared over the sloping moors. Evening approached. Its dim light cast the hills a deeper shade of green, and she could hear the breaking waves against the cliffs behind her. She lingered, enjoying the warm spring air and all the while remembered Ronan’s promise to return and bring her to the village. For the first time since her mother passed she was excited about the future. Having surrendered nothing, sacrificed nothing, she had altered her destiny. Her life could no longer be mapped out as a series of lonely days until she died. She had a friend, and for the first time in her life—at least until she was gifted with a vision—she knew not what her future held.

Chapter 9

Ronan was nervous as he stood at Shoney’s door but for very different reasons than when he last paid her a visit. A fortnight had passed since she accepted his hand in friendship, but not for a moment had she been absent from his thoughts. Longing made for sleepless nights and distracted days. There was no denying that his regard for her went beyond friendship.

He took a deep breath and knocked. She did not answer. He raised his hand to knock again but stopped when he heard a song drifting on the breeze. A voice like dark honey wrapped around him. Its enchanted sound was languid and old, and even though the words were Gaelic, the song’s meaning was unfamiliar. It was a story of the gods and of war and then renewal.

He rounded the corner of the hut, following the plaintive sound, and then he saw her. Golden hair danced about her waist in tangled disarray and gleamed in the low morning sun. Despite the chill in the air, she wore only a kirtle, which revealed her arms to the shoulders. Across her face and along both arms were intricate pictures painted blue to match the summer sky. On each cheek was a large swirling circle. The same circles could be found on her arms, but there were also knots and animals. He saw a stag, birds, a seal, and fish.

He inhaled sharply at the sight of her. Never could he have imagined a woman more alluring or more forbidden. He had lied awake all night with thoughts of her silken skin and soft curves and knew she had to be his. He resolved to rescue her from the solitude she despised, to give her the life she deserved. But as her tousled hair fell back to reveal her painted profile, he knew introducing her to the clan would prove more difficult than he first imagined. If he had thought for a moment their differences were insignificant, the sight of her in all her pagan glory put that assertion to rest. Even if he could convince the clan she was a maid and the Witch was only the stuff of legend, Father Colin would certainly not consider Shoney to be a child of Christ. He suppressed a chuckle as he pictured the good Father’s reaction were he to see her painted, half-naked, and singing to the gods.

She continued to sing unaware of his presence. He longed to remain unseen, to gaze unabashedly at the sensual sway of her hips as she moved, lost in the lulling refrain, but he did not wish to intrude if unwelcome.

“Hello, Shoney”, he said.