Highland Mist (2 page)

Old rushes full of bones and urine coated the floor. The women’s clothing was tattered and torn, barely hanging on to their bodies. Unlike the soldiers, whose clothing was dirty but not shabby. Candle wax hadn’t been cleaned from the floor or the rushlights. All in all it was a disgusting place to step foot in, and he was immensely grateful that his mother had run such a clean castle.

His eyes ran back around the hall, this time looking more thoroughly at the men. Most were in groups, giving him and his men a wary eye, but a few stood alone. Conall was a man to take advantages when they came his way. Now was one of those times.

He grabbed a goblet of ale and made his way toward a lad who lounged against the wall. As he approached, he noticed the lad’s youth and hid his smile at how easily he would gain information.

The lad looked up and immediately greeted him. “Laird MacInnes.”

“You know me?” Conall asked, and watched him closely.

“Aye,” he answered, and visibly swallowed. “A clan knows everything of their neighbors.”

“So you know of my sister Iona and her disappearance?”

“Nay,” the young lad answered quickly—a little too quickly—and lowered his head.

He’s lying
.

His unwanted power recoiled at the lie issued from the lad. Conall wanted to bellow his fury. He tamped it down and prodded further, softening his voice. “Surely you have. As you said, you know everything of my clan.”

The lad raised his troubled eyes and bit his lip. “I remember it being said she’d disappeared.”

“But you know nothing else?”

“Nay. I must get to the stables to…ah…they need me,” he finished lamely, and ran off.

Conall seethed with unbridled rage. There would be no truce talk now that he knew the MacNeils had something to do with Iona’s disappearance. Now they would talk of revenge and battle.

Although he hated to admit it, his powers came in handy in times like these. He took several deep breaths before he was calm enough to return to his men to tell them of his findings. Just as he turned, a flash of light grabbed his attention.

Swords. Drawn swords at that.

This wasn’t a peace talk. It was a trap. He whistled and threw down his goblet. In seconds his men’s swords were drawn. A blur of MacNeil plaid surrounded him. He raised his sword and looked his enemy in the eye, promising each a long and painful death.

The sounds of metal against metal clashed around him as his men fought. Out the corner of his eye he spotted Angus as he threw a brute of a man over his shoulder before plunging his sword in the soldier. In a glance he noted that all his men were surrounded and fighting valiantly.

With a diving roll, he ducked a deadly swing of a sword and came up ready to see his sword stained with blood. His blood cried for revenge, demanded revenge. Revenge for Iona. Maybe once his family was avenged then the helplessness that filled him would leave.

The five soldiers who surrounded him didn’t make a move. Conall studied each until he found just the man he sought. The soldier had a wary look in his eye. He nearly laughed when he winked at the soldier and saw his face turn red. The soldier raced at him, sword swinging wildly. With a swift downward arc of his own blade, Conall ended the man’s life.

The other four rushed him at once. He blocked a killing blow that left his arm feeling as though it were on fire, but he ignored the biting pain. In quick succession he sent two more soldiers to their deaths and turned to face the last two.

One of them backed away, and Conall turned his full attention on the remaining man. The soldier ran at him. Conall easily sidestepped and brought his claymore down to slice the back of the soldier’s knee. The man crumpled, screaming in pain, his sword and the battle forgotten.

Conall then found himself facedown on the floor, a heavy weight on his back, pinning him down. He spotted an arm and quickly rolled the weight off. One glance told him the soldier was dead. He sat up and found Angus standing above him.

“I cannot believe me eyes. What are you doing on the ground when there’s a fight, man?” Angus asked with a twinkle in his eye.

Conall rolled his eyes and gained his feet as more MacNeil soldiers charged. His sword was drenched in blood when he saw a man who wore no plaid but a leather jerkin and breeches stumble over a dead body while fighting a MacNeil. The soldier raised his arms, about to end the stranger’s life. Conall wasn’t about to let the man die, not when he was fighting MacNeils.

With a downward slice, Conall killed the soldier he had been fighting and leapt over several more before he thrust his sword between the stranger and the MacNeil soldier.

The soldier’s sword clanged into his. He smiled at the surprise on the soldier’s face before he twisted his arms up and around. The soldier’s sword flew from his hand and, finding himself suddenly bereft of a weapon, he turned and scurried away. Conall laughed and turned to the stranger.

“You saved my life,” the stranger said, his black eyes guarded.

“I’m Conall MacInnes. And you are?” he prompted.

“Gregor.”

Conall ignored the fact Gregor hadn’t offered his surname and held out his arm to help him to his feet. “Good luck to you. I needs find the MacNeil.”

“I know who can tell you.”

He looked at Gregor. “Who?”

“Her,” Gregor said, and pointed to the top of the stairs.

Instead of wondering how Gregor knew of the lass, he simply stared. For the first time in his life he was speechless. Standing atop the stairs was a lass so beautiful she put sunsets to shame. Waves of dark hair flowed over her shoulders nearly to her waist. She was a tiny thing, but there was no denying she was a woman by her lush curves and ample breasts. Though the blue gown that clung to her nice shape was in better repair than the servants, it was still worn and faded.

He licked his lips as his eyes raked over her delectable body once more before he raised his gaze. Lips perfectly formed, full but not too wide, parted slightly as she raised her stubborn little chin. Her angelic oval face held no expression, but her big almond-shaped eyes were riveted on him.

“Who is she?” he asked Gregor.

“MacNeil’s daughter.”

* * * * *

Glenna stared down at the battle, her mind frozen by the sight of the black-headed giant in the bold green and blue MacInnes plaid, swinging his claymore with one arm as if it weighed no more than a feather. The muscles flexing in his arms and bare back bespoke hours of training, and his quickness for a man of his size was almost uncanny.

His wide, brawny shoulders shoved men aside as though they were nothing more than weeds needing thrown out. Because he didn’t wear a shirt beneath his kilt she was able to see the hard planes of his stomach and the tapering of his waist. Long, muscular legs supported him as he pivoted and steeled himself for a blow.

But it was his face she longed to see more closely.

When his eyes met hers, she knew he would forever change her life. This man had her soul in the palm of his hands without even knowing it. He had to be the man Iona had spoken of.

Some unknown force kept her rooted where she stood and her eyes on the MacInnes laird. Even when he ran up the stairs to her she waited instead of dashing away, waited instead of killing him as her father bid.

He reached her and his silver orbs burned into her, his square jaw hard and unyielding, and hair as black as pitch tied at his nape. “You’re the MacNeil’s daughter?”

His deep, husky voice poured over her like water. “Aye.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know.” It wasn’t a lie. She didn’t know. MacNeil had fled after ordering her to kill the intruders. She hadn’t even had time to ask him exactly how she, a mere woman, was supposed to kill trained warriors.

It wasn’t the first time she had been ashamed of her father and she doubted it would be her last. After all, a laird should stay with his soldiers, not flee.

Two other men joined the MacInnes laird, one without a plaid and another with a bushy red beard. Red beard asked, “Is she lying, Conall?”

Conall
. A good, strong name that suited this Highland warrior, as did his gray eyes, high cheekbones and chiseled features.

“She’s speaking true, Angus,” he answered without taking his eyes from her.

Of course she spoke the truth. The urge to roll her eyes at the idea of her lying was strong, but she dared not show them any emotion. She had learned that the hard way from MacNeil.

“What’s your name, lass?”

The laird took a step toward her. The mere size of him would intimidate the bravest man, and she was far from brave. She swallowed, her mouth now dry, and tried to keep her expression blank. “Glenna.”

“Well, Glenna, be a good lass and point me in the direction of your coward father.”

She knew this was her one and only chance to escape from her father successfully. So she tamped down her growing fear, and hurriedly said, “There’s only one way to get him. Take me.”

Those striking silver eyes narrowed on her and he took a step closer. “Why? Why would you willingly give yourself to the enemy to be used as bait?”

To be free
she yearned to scream. Instead, she said, “You want revenge. He wants me. It’s the only solution.”

After several heartbeats of watching him look her over, he held out his hand. “You’ve sealed your fate, lass.”

Oh aye
, she thought, and looked at Conall. It was the brief message she had been given by her only friend Iona that there would be a man to claim her who made it easy to hand herself over to him.

A man who would free her.

Those had been Iona’s words, and it had been those few words that had kept Glenna going through each day. Surprisingly, it hadn’t taken as long as Glenna had expected. Less than two months, actually, and she had been prepared to wait years.

She followed Conall and walked among her dead kinsmen. Hatred for the MacInnes’ men should have seeped into her heart, but instead there was nothing. An empty, numb void resided in her chest thanks to her father and the clan that had shown her their loathing. With Conall in the lead and Angus and the unknown stranger behind her, she was hidden from view. Conall kept a hand clasped around her arm as if he feared she would run.

If he only knew how desperately I yearn to be free of this he wouldn’t bother
, she thought.

While they waited she counted the MacInnes’ men and all forty still stood, though most had wounds that would need tending. A low whistle sounded from Conall, signaling his men it was time to leave.

One by one they crept from the hall. She looked around the near-empty bailey and heard the call go up for more MacNeil soldiers. Panic seized her heart, and she wondered if she would be free from her prison.

That one glance was all she was given as Conall roughly hauled her up behind him at the same time he nudged his horse. Before she knew it, she was out the MacNeil gates for only the second time in her life.

“I’m free,” she whispered into the wind, and grabbed hold of a rock-solid abdomen as the horse raced from the castle.

The men splintered into different groups to confuse the MacNeil soldiers. Soon they stopped and hid behind trees, waiting for the rest of the MacInnes’ men to catch up. Conall dismounted and reached to help her down. His gaze held her immobile as he slowly lowered her to the ground. Big, strong hands engulfed her and made her feel even smaller than she actually was. She hated being so short, but it had been her lot in life, and being next to this giant made her feel as small as a flea.

Of all the things she should be thinking about, this wasn’t one of them. She began to turn away and spotted the blood on his arm. “You’re hurt,” she said, embarrassed that it came out so breathless.

He looked down at his arm and shrugged. “Don’t fash yourself. It’s but a small wound.” He dug in his sporran and tugged out a piece of cloth.

“You should tend to it now.”

He wrapped the cloth around the cut on his lower arm. “I’ll have it tended to when we reach my home.”

She helped him tie off the bandage and stepped back. “You’ve touched me more in this short time than anyone in my entire life,” she said as she rubbed his horse’s neck.

“People touch each other every day,” Angus said, and moved closer to them.

Glenna didn’t say more. All her life she had been treated differently, and she needed them to think she was as normal as they were. She was saved from having to explain by the arrival of the stranger.

“Ah Gregor,” Conall called. “Come meet my friend and clansmen Angus MacDuff.”

Glenna got her first good look at Gregor. His blond hair flowed freely to his shoulders except for two small braids that hung next to his face, and his stance was that of a man who feared nothing. But his black eyes guarded much. She watched him saunter to Conall and noted they were similar in shape and both clearly over six feet in height.

Angus and Gregor clasped hands and Conall told of how he had come upon Gregor.

“What were you doing there anyway?” Angus asked. “The MacNeils aren’t known for their kindness.”