Highland Mist

Highland Mist

Donna Grant

Prologue

Sinclair Castle, Highlands of Scotland

February 3, 1607

Being a man was never easy. Being a Druid as well as laird was even harder, yet Duncan Sinclair had managed to do both, as well being husband and father. The latter two gave him the most joy though.

He turned his head away from the hearth to his wife laying in bed, holding their newly born daughter, the last of the three spoken of in the prophecy, a prophecy that could alter the course of the future.

Duncan rose from his chair before the fire and walked to the bed. He rested his hand on the babe’s head.

“Don’t think about it now,” Catriona said softly, so as not to wake the babe.

“It’s all I can think about. The fate of the world rests on their shoulders, Cat.”

Catriona chuckled, her green eyes crinkling at the corners. “You worry overmuch, husband. We have our third daughter after years of thinking I would have no more children. We are Druids. We will raise them as they should be and help them to learn and harness their powers.”

Duncan groaned. “Powers. The Fae must know what they are doing to give our children those kinds of powers.”

The babe stirred and gave a small cry. “She has strong lungs, just like her father,” Catriona said as she rocked the infant.

“What should we name her? Moira and Fiona will want to know first thing in the morning.”

“How about—”

Duncan held up his hand to quiet his wife. “I thought I heard something.”

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the door to the chamber crashed open.

“
You
,” Duncan hissed. He ran to his sword at the end of the bed and quickly palmed it.

Alistair MacNeil sauntered into the chamber with six men at his back. “So it’s true. The brat was born on Imbolc just as the prophecy foretold.”

“You will die for daring to come into my home,” Duncan ground out. He raised his sword and lunged at MacNeil.

MacNeil quickly stepped away. “A fool I am not, Sinclair. I’m no match for you.”

Out the corner of his eye, Duncan saw Catriona leave the bed and huddle in the corner with their daughter in her arms. He would not let harm come to them.

“You and your men are nothing,” he said to MacNeil.

Laughter followed his words. “Do you really believe I only brought six men with me? I came to kill your daughters, Sinclair. I brought my entire army.”

Duncan took a step toward MacNeil only to have a soldier step in his path.

Duncan easily blocked a downward swing from the man’s sword. MacNeil smiled as he watched Sinclair fight. It was turning out just as he planned. And it was time to add a little something.

“By the way, Sinclair, did you know there is a traitor in your midst? It’s a pity you’ll never know who it is.” He chuckled when Sinclair growled low in his throat. It was just the reaction he wanted.

“Don’t worry,” MacNeil continued. “Your family will soon be joining you in Hell with all the other pagans.”

At his nod, his men rushed to surround Sinclair, who merely raised a blond brow and beckoned them to charge. MacNeil grudgingly gave Sinclair credit. The man fought valiantly even against such odds.

To his surprise, Sinclair cut down two of his men in the space of a heartbeat and wounded another, further proof, in MacNeil’s mind, that the man wasn’t mortal but was in league with some demon, or the devil himself, to have such strength.

The last soldier would soon be defeated, and he couldn’t take the chance of fighting against Sinclair’s superior skills. MacNeil saw his chance when Sinclair pivoted after blocking a blow. In one smooth movement, he stuck his sword into Sinclair’s back and twisted the blade.

An ear-piercing scream rent the air as Sinclair’s sword clattered to the floor and his body crumpled, unseeing eyes staring at his wife.

“Murderer,” Catriona screamed.

MacNeil turned and stared at the woman standing before him, her raven hair streaming around her while her green eyes blazed with fury. It was a pity she was a pagan for she could have given him good, strong sons.

He sheathed his sword and walked toward her, stopping inches away, his fingers brushing the dagger hidden up his sleeve. The infant’s cries at being left in the corner echoed inside the chamber.

“I’m only ridding Scotland of your kind, Catriona,” he said before he slit her throat.

Her green eyes widened in astonishment before they closed and she fell beside her husband. He stared at the couple, their blood pooling and mixing together.

“Get the infant,” he commanded his remaining soldier.

MacNeil left the chamber and smiled at how easily they had taken the castle. The fighting had all but stopped, and the sounds of his men celebrating their victory could now be heard.

There was only one task left.

His men crowded outside the nursery chamber and parted as he neared. Inside, he spotted the two young girls lying in the middle of the floor, their lifeless bodies covered in blood.

“Were they the only children?” he asked.

“Aye, laird.”

MacNeil sighed with relief. It was done. No more prophecy hanging over his head like an axe ready to fall. Or so he thought, until he heard the infant wail, reminding him there was one more life to take.

Yet a thought took root. With her sisters dead, was she a threat? He could raise her as his own and use her Druid skills and supposed powers to his advantage. Without the threat of the prophecy he would be free to pillage at will, but how much more powerful would he be with the power of the Druids by his side? No clan in Scotland would stand a chance against him.

“Come. Our work here is done,” he said.

“And the babe?” one of his soldiers asked.

“Bring her.”

Chapter One

Highlands of Scotland

April 1625

Conall MacInnes no more wanted to enter the gates of MacNeil castle than he wanted to gnaw off his own hand, but for the sake of his clan he was doing just that.

“It’s a good time to ask them about Iona,” Angus said as they rode through the gates.

Conall looked at his friend. “Aye. I’d thought of that.”

The mere mention of his sister brought a spasm of pain. It had been nearly a year since her disappearance and no trace had ever been found. No thanks to the Druids he kept hidden. He pushed aside his thoughts and concentrated on the task at hand.

Angus grunted as they dismounted, his giant form standing taller than any man, Conall included. “I don’t know if forty of our men are enough to bring into this pit of Hell.”

“It’s a peace talk. I couldn’t very well bring an army,” Conall stated, though he wished he had brought more. He looked up and spotted Alisdair MacNeil’s lanky form walk toward them.

MacNeil kept his gray hair shorn to his neck. His light brown beard was full and graying slightly, but he still carried himself like a young warrior. His command over his clan showed when men bowed their heads and women refused to meet his eyes as he passed.

Not exactly what Conall would call a good leader if everyone feared him, but then again, MacNeil was known in the Highlands as a butcher who didn’t know the meaning of mercy.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t take my offering seriously. Many say you’re too young and foolish to come,” MacNeil said once he had reached them. His hazel eyes roamed over Conall’s men as if sizing them up for battle.

It was on the tip of Conall’s tongue to say he didn’t take the offer seriously. “Lairds will do much to keep their clan safe and happy.”

“Even to one such as me?”

Conall could literally feel Angus readying himself for a fight. “Aye, MacNeil, even to one such as you.”

“But I have to wonder,” he said, and paced in front of Conall. “Why? All the others have refused and challenged me on the battlefield.”

“I’ve battled many a clan, but I want peace for mine. And if the price for such is to have a truce with you, then so be it.”

“You aren’t afraid of me?”

Conall saw the surprise on MacNeil’s gaunt face. “Nay, I’m not.”

“My soldiers outnumber your clan, but still you say such words.”

“Loyalty is what counts. It wouldn’t matter if you had ten thousand soldiers if none are loyal to you.”

MacNeil nodded thoughtfully and clapped him on the shoulder. “Come and drink with me. We’ve the finest ale around. And while we drink we can talk of peace.”

Conall followed slowly. His gut told him something wasn’t right. He took in the state of MacNeil’s bailey. It was filthy, no children ran around playing or women talking in groups. The people wouldn’t meet his eyes, but the soldiers dared him to make a wrong move.

Brutality hummed from them. Conall knew it would be a miracle if they left here unscathed, for the laird may want a truce, but the soldiers did not. The quiet stillness of the bailey unsettled Conall. He was used to the chatter and sounds of everyday life at his home, not the silence of a graveyard.

He saw his men glance around warily. None were fools. The MacNeils had proven themselves time and again as the enemy, why should today be any different? It most likely wasn’t, but he had to think of his vow to his mother to bring Iona home. In order to bring her home he had to put aside his personal feelings.

“We’re here for peace between our clans,” Conall reminded his men and himself. “Regardless of what the soldiers try, ignore them unless I tell you otherwise.”

They entered the bleak hall to find it full of soldiers and a few women serving mead, but the MacNeil himself was nowhere to be seen. Conall’s guard immediately went up as he surveyed the filthy state of the castle and its inhabitants.