To Bewitch a Highlander (Isle of Mull series) (7 page)

She expected him to taunt her or to strike her in return, but instead he stared with wide, somber eyes. She followed his gaze to her arms. Shoney gasped as she understood why he was transfixed. Raising a hesitant hand, he grazed the tips of his fingers across one of the bruises now lining her arms. They were a reminder of the crushing strength he used against her earlier that day, following her claim to be a MacLean.

He crouched low and scooped up her plaid. Saying nothing, he walked behind her and with adept hands he wrapped the plaid around her form. Using her own belt, he secured half the fabric at her waist. Then facing her, he crisscrossed the remainder over her chest and around her shoulders then back around her chest again and secured the folds with a pin he produced from his sporran.

He still did not speak but took her hands in his. She felt for a moment like a child. Her small hands seemed to disappear in his mighty grasp. He knelt in front of her.

“Forgive me, Bridget. I have a wicked temper, but I did not think I was capable of such cruelty.” He released a half-hearted chuckle that surprised her. “You see, I am naught but a bad joke. Earlier, I congratulated myself for the restraint I have shown since we set out to come here. There have been several occasions when I might have lost my temper, but you somehow make me feel…peaceful, even with your tantrums and foul language.” His eyes brighten from brown to amber, and she realized they revealed the intensity of his emotions.

“Look at what I have done to you.” His hands gestured to her arms.

Shoney sensed his sincerity and was moved by his words, but as Ronan continued, her sympathy turned to fury.

“You are the weaker sex. ‘Tis my duty to protect not to harm.”

“What”, she cried as she shoved him with all her might, the force knocking him back on the hard rock floor.

“You are saying all of this only because I am a woman?” she shouted, shaking her fist in his face. “A woman can be a threat as well as a man. A woman can fight with steel and fist.” She stared down at him, breathing hard. Then she offered him her hand. “You thought me a threat to your clan and so you acted.” He reached out and accepted her help to stand. “I do not want your treatment of me to be dictated by my sex but rather by my merit”, she said.

He stared at her for some time. Shoney could not tell what he was thinking. Then his full lips curved into his sideways grin, and she suddenly felt breathless and unsure of herself. With both hands, he cupped her face and tilted her head back. She could feel the warmth of his breath and smell his rich, masculine scent.

“As I said before, you are the most unusual lass I have ever known.” Then he pressed a kiss to her brow, but as his lips touched her skin a white light erupted in her mind’s eye, and she was lost to a vision.

There was a man riding hard over the moors. His black curls stuck to his face as sweat dripped from his brow. To his rear were five riders giving chase and gaining on him. He disappeared into a thick haze and one by one the riders followed. Thunder clamored with deafening force as the black-haired rider pushed on unseeing through the dense fog. Then five gleaming blades cut through the mist like veins of lightening, piercing his body. He cried out and fell, vanishing into the thick haze. As the fog lifted, his bloodied body crumbled at the foot of the Cillchriosd Standing Stone, and in the distance fled five riders with a horse in tow. The man opened his eyes. They were as blue and bright as the summer sky, and from his lips came forth a simple plea, “Shoney”, he cried
.

Shoney’s eyes snapped open as she inhaled sharply.

“Bridget, what happened? Are you hurt?” Ronan’s voice tugged at her senses, releasing Shoney from her trance.

She was fine, but somewhere out there was a man with black hair and startling blue eyes who was hurt and in desperate need of aid.

“I will be alright, Ronan, but I’m afraid I do feel a bit faint, and I am famished.”

He looked doubtful. “Why did you not answer when I called your name?” His hand went to her brow. “You do not feel feverish.”

“I am hungry and tired. Please, I really must rest.”

“Let me roll out your pallet, and you can lie down while I prepare the meat and ale.”

Shoney appeared to rest while Ronan retrieved their nourishment, but in truth her mind was racing. Often her visions were symbolic, requiring interpretation, but tonight’s vision conveyed a clear message. The man with the blue eyes needed a healer, but trapped in the belly of a stone beast above the rising ocean tides, her skills were useless. Ronan was not going to let her leave without explanation. She simply had no choice but to try to push the man from her thoughts.

“Here, let me help you sit up”, he said as he slid his broad hand underneath her back and lifted her upward to a seated position.

His hand covered a large expanse of her back, demonstrating once again his size and strength. He gave her the food and drink, which she gratefully accepted and gulped down.

“Thank you,” she said. “This is a welcomed surprise.”

“I have never brought anyone up here before. You are a welcomed surprise,” he smiled.

Shoney felt herself blush. As she reached for more meat, she brushed against his plaid. “Ronan, you are still wet. You ought to change as well.”

Shoney turned her head toward the cave wall. She waited for him to make a quip about having already seen him naked, but he refrained, which she was glad for—she had blushed enough for one night.

“I am decent”, he said.

She looked up at him and admired his tall form. His plaid slashed across his broad chest and over one of his powerful shoulders. The brawn of his torso slimmed out at his waist where his skirt began. The material fell in folds just at his knees, revealing muscular calves. The light provided by the fire revealed numerous scars that twisted his skin. They were reminders of battles fought alongside and on behalf of his kinsmen, men and women who wore the same plaid that she wore now.

The plaid
.

The man with blue eyes wore the muted green and orange of the MacKinnon plaid. The man in her vision belonged to Ronan’s clan. Perhaps he was even a close friend or relation. Guilt swept through her, twisting her stomach into tight knots. She now regretted having eaten so quickly. She could not tell Ronan that his clansmen lie beaten and likely dying on the moors. He would ask how she came by the information, and what explanation could she give?
I can see beyond what my eyes allow, but I am not a witch
. His prejudice would blind him, and he would hate her. The idea of Ronan hating her unsettled her stomach even further. She had to act fast or lose her supper.

She had only one option—to lie. But she was barely staying afloat in the sea of fabrications she spewed earlier. This new deception demanded simplicity, or else it would lead to questions that might pull her under.

A harmless lie came to her, and although weak, it seemed uncontrived. Shoney’s hand flew to her neck.

“My pendant is gone.” She scurried off her pallet and lifted it to look beneath.

“Please, Ronan, ‘tis dear to me. Help me look,” she implored as she sifted through their wet clothes, shaking them as if hoping to uncover her treasure.

“Bridget, I do not remember ever seeing a token around your neck.”

Damn him.

“I believe ‘tis something I would have noticed,” he said.

Mother of all, rot the black-haired man, but there was no turning back now.

“My father and mother fashioned a pendant for me from small white shells. ‘Tis all I have by which to remember them. I cannot go on without it.” She pinched herself to produce a few tears for good measure.

He grasped her shoulders. “Hush, Bridget. You must calm down. Your necklace is not here, of this I am certain. Nor did you have it at the pool when you ran from me. Together we will search for it in the morning.”

“No, it cannot wait until morning”, she cried. “Someone might find it first. The moon will be at its fullest tonight to light our way. It must be tonight.”

“This is madness, Bridget.”

“I will go without you, even if I risk death sliding down the rope.” She grabbed his hands. “I beseech you.”

Ronan stared at her. She could not guess at his thoughts. Then he released a slow breath and agreed to her request.

“I will go, but I do so alone, Bridget.”

She brought his hands to her lips and kissed his rough skin. “Thank you, Ronan. What you do now is truly life or death. Last night I slept beneath a standing stone not more than a league from the pool.”

“I know the place. We call it the Cillchriosd Stone,”

“Then go and be swift.”

He donned his sword and made for the entrance. “I still say this is madness, Bridget, but I know what it is to lose family. In honor of your parents and my brother, I do this.”

Then he grabbed hold of the rope and disappeared over the edge. Shoney peered down and held her breath as she watched him descend into the shadows and waves. She longed to call after him, already regretting his absence, but instead she prayed to the Mother of all that he find his kinsman before it was too late.

Chapter 4

The pale face inside the full moon looked down on Ronan with what he saw as a mocking grin. It was nightfall and he rode over the purple moors on a baffling errand for an equally baffling lass. He had never felt absurd before, but it appeared as though there was a first for everything. He should be at home with a full belly and a warm fire, yet he still could not turn from his quest. Instead, he urged his mount to ride even faster toward the Cillchriosd Stone. He did not understand what had come over him. He was not given to romantic whimsies like Aidan, and he usually did not have patience for the fairer sex. Nevertheless, shirking all responsibility and no doubt causing his father boundless vexation, he wanted nothing more than to be the man to make Bridget smile—so here he was.

He imagined her wrapped in the MacKinnon colors, likely asleep on his pallet with her long black lashes fanned out against her fair skin. Her golden hair lit by the flames of the fire he built for her, and her full lips slightly parted, waiting to be consumed by his kiss.

Damn her pendant. He wanted nothing more than to turn his horse around, ride back to the cliffs, and have his fill of her. He groaned aloud as he recalled their meeting that morning in the pool. He could still feel her slick, wet body pressed against his own. He longed to savor every curve. He wondered if he could ignite her passion as easily as he did her anger. Sweet Jesus, he had never wanted another woman as he did Bridget, Bridget MacLean. He groaned aloud as he again remembered her surname, a fact that continued to conveniently slip his mind.

His father would be furious if he knew Ronan gave shelter to a MacLean runaway. Worse yet, if he learned of Ronan’s burgeoning desire, his father’s rage would be heard all the way to Skye and rightly so. Surely, the consequence of his affection might be war, especially if she was betrothed to another. Beyond the odd cattle raid or small feud, it had been some years since the two clans had fought on the battlefield, and given the pending war with the Norse, how could he further add to the insecurities facing his clan by picking a fight with their adversaries to the south.

Violet swells of moonlit earth stretched out before him like ocean waves at twilight frozen in time. The moon was large and hung low in the sky, and as Bridget predicted, it shone brightly, illuminating his path. He could even make out the standing stone in the distance. He spurred his horse forward. He felt consumed by the urgency to find Bridget’s treasure. He wanted to make her happy. He wanted to make her his.

Jesus above, what was wrong with him?

He was acting like a love-sick maid, and it had to stop. His behavior over the past weeks had been disgraceful. He neglected his duties, consequently disrespecting his family, his position, and his clan. He could not ignore reality or pretend as though things were different—she was a MacLean, comely perhaps, but still a MacLean.

With gritted teeth, he resolved to honor his duty. He would find her pendant but would not return it to her tonight. Ronan knew that were he to enter the cave again before dawn, he would not be able to deny the heat of his desire. Images of her long, flowing hair cascading down her slender back and resting against the swell of her buttocks came unbidden to his mind. He shook the image from his head. He could never see her again. It was that simple. In the morning, he would send two of his trusted warriors to retrieve her and bring her to the outskirts of MacLean territory. It was a solution that prioritized his family and his responsibilities. And yet, regret and longing gnawed at his belly, spreading throughout his body like bracken over the hills.

He would never see Bridget again. He closed his eyes and conjured her face so that he might savor her loveliness one last time. But his musings were interrupted as his horse brayed loudly and ground its hooves deep into the earth, coming to an immediate halt. Ronan fell forward and off to the side, the muscles in his legs strained to keep him atop his mount. He leapt to the ground, grabbed the horse’s bit and stared the beast in the eye.

“What the hell happened?” he snarled.

The horse whinnied and tossed its head. Ronan released its bit and rubbed a soothing hand through its mane.

“Hush, boy. What’s the matter with you? You nearly launched me to my death.” Ronan looked around and saw that the Cillchriosd Stone was just up ahead. Then his gaze was pulled toward a dark heap on the ground not twenty strides away. Ronan narrowed his eyes and saw the MacKinnon plaid and telling black curls.

“Aidan”, Ronan cried as he hurried to kneel at his friend’s side. Aidan lied on his stomach with one knee bent as if trying to crawl forward.

“Aidan,” Ronan rolled his friend’s limp body over and saw that he was breathing.

“Thank you Jesus and Mary, you’re alive.”

No thanks to him.

If his horse had not stopped, then Aidan would have been crushed beneath the animal’s stride. Bridget had preoccupied his thoughts, proving once again the destructive nature his desire. Daydreaming was not a privilege afforded the future laird of the MacKinnon.