Sue-Ellen Welfonder - [MacLean 03] (41 page)

The baaing sheep, a drenching-wet ewe, stood beside a black-watered lochan, shaking water droplets from its oily fleece and looking more angry than frightened.

The lass, the one whose cries and thrashing had frozen Robbie’s blood, stood in the lochan, submerged to her waist, the front of her gown ripped and gaping open to reveal a set of full, magnificent breasts, gleaming wet and with sparkling beads of water dripping from her tight-budded nipples.

But it was the crescent-shaped gash in her forehead that arrested Robbie’s attention and had him tearing into the icy water, boots, plaid, sword, and all.

Bright red blood flowed copiously from the wound, discoloring to pinkish-red what surely had to be the fairest face he’d e’er laid eyes upon.

Swaying wildly in the peat-stained water, she stared at him from unseeing green eyes, her arms flailing, her mouth opened wide in a silent, ghastly scream.

“Hold, lass!” Robbie found his own voice as he plunged forward, the silty bottom of the lochan and his clothes sorely hampering him. “I will have you in a moment!”

But just as he closed the distance between them and reached for her, her oddly blank eyes rolled back into her head and she slipped beneath the surface, disappearing completely save the billowing skirts of her ruined gown, the top crown of her head, and two red-gold braids.

Nay, Robbie corrected himself as he gathered her in his arms and carried her, blessedly still breathing, out of the lochan.

Not mere red-gold, but a rare and shimmering flame-bright color.

Aye, that was it.

The lass had hair of flame.

And as he eased himself to his knees and gently lowered her to a grassy patch of delicate little flowers, yellow tormentil and buttercups, Robbie knew only one thing—he wanted her.

D
eep in the Scottish Highlands, three clans share the Glen of Many Legends. None of them do so gladly. Each clan believes they
have sole claim to the fair and fertile vale. Their possessiveness is understandable, because the glen truly is a place like
no other. Bards throughout the land will confirm that the Glen of Many Legends is just that: an enchanted place older than
time and steeped with more tales and myth than most men can recall.

Kissed by sea and wind, the vale is long and narrow, its shores wild and serrated. Deeply wooded hills edge the glen’s heart,
while softly blowing mists cloak the lofty peaks that crowd together at its end. Oddly shaped stones dot the lush grass, but
the strangeness of the ancient rocks is countered by the heather and whin that bloom so profusely from every patch of black,
peaty earth.

No one would deny the glen’s beauty.

Yet to some, the Glen of Many Legends is a place of ill fame to be avoided at all costs, especially by the dark
of the moon. Strange things have been known to happen there, and wise men tread cautiously when they must pass that way.

But the MacDonalds, Camerons, and Mackintoshes who dwell there appreciate the glen’s virtues above frightening tales that
may or may not have credence. Good Highlanders all, the clans know that any storyteller of skill is adept at embroidering
his yarns.

Highlanders are also a proud and stubborn people. And they’re known for their fierce attachment to the land. These traits
blaze hotly in the veins of the three clans of the Glen of Many Legends. Over time, their endless struggles to vanquish each
other have drenched the glen with blood and sorrow.

Peace in the glen is fragile and rare.

Most times it doesn’t exist at all. Yet somehow the clans tolerate each other, however grudgingly.

Now the precarious balance of order is about to be thrown into dispute by the death of a single woman.

A MacDonald by birth, and hereditary heiress to the MacDonalds of the Glen of Many Legends, she was a twice-widowed woman
who chose to live out her days in the serenity and solitude of a nunnery.

Sadly, she neglected to set down her last wishes in a will. This oversight would not be so dire if not for the disturbing
truths that her first husband had been a Cameron and her second, a Mackintosh.

On her passing, each clan lays claim to the dead woman.

Or, it can be more aptly said, they insist on being her rightful heirs.

Soon land-greed and coveting will once again turn the
glen’s sweet grass into a sea of running red and many good men will lose their lives. But even when the last clansman sinks
to his knees, his sword sullied and the end near, the real battle is only just beginning.

When it is done, the Glen of Many Legends will be forever changed.

As will the hearts of those who dwell there.

BLACKSHORE CASTLE

THE GLEN OF MANY LEGENDS

AUTUMN 1396

“A
battle to the death?”

Alasdair MacDonald’s deep voice rose to the smoke-blackened rafters of his great hall. Across that crowded space, his sister,
Lady Catriona, stood frozen on the threshold. Alasdair’s harsh tone held her there, but she did lift a hand to the amber necklace
at her throat. A clan heirloom believed to protect and aid MacDonalds, the precious stones warmed beneath her fingers. She
fancied they also hummed, though it was difficult to tell with her brother’s roar shaking the walls. Other kinsmen were also
shouting, but it was Alastair’s fury that echoed in her ears.

His ranting hit her like a physical blow.

Her brother was a man whose clear blue eyes always held a spark of humor. And his laughter, so rich and catching, could brighten
the darkest winter night, warming the hearts and spirits of everyone around him.

Just now he paced in the middle of his hall, his handsome face twisted in rage. His shoulder-length auburn hair—always his
pride—was untidy, looking wildly mussed, as if he’d repeatedly thrust angry fingers through the finely burnished mane.

“Sakes! This is no gesture of goodwill.” His voice hardened, thrumming with barely restrained aggression. “Whole clans cut
down. Good men murdered—and for naught, as I and my folk see it!”

Everywhere, MacDonalds grumbled and scowled.

Some shook fists in the air, others rattled swords. At least two spat on the rush-strewn floor, and a few had such fire in
their eyes it was almost a wonder that the air didn’t catch flame.

Only one man stood unaffected.

A stranger. Catriona saw him now because one of her cousins moved and torchlight caught and shone on the man’s heavily bejeweled
sword belt.

She stared at the newcomer, not caring if her jaw slipped. She did step deeper into the hall’s arched entry, though her knees
shook badly. She also forgot to shut the heavy oaken door she’d just opened wide. Cold, damp wind blew past her, whipping
her hair and gutting candles on a nearby table. A few wall torches hissed and spat, spewing ashes at her, but she hardly noticed.

What was a bit of soot on her skirts when the quiet peace of Blackshore had turned to chaos?

When Alasdair spoke of war?

As chief to their clan, he wasn’t a man to use such words lightly. And even if he were, the flush on his face and the fierce
set of his jaw revealed that something dire
had happened. The stranger—a Lowland noble by his finery—didn’t bode well either.

Men of his ilk never came to Blackshore.

The man’s haughty stance showed that he wasn’t pleased to be here now. And unlike her brother, he’d turned and was looking
right at her. His gaze flicked over her, and then he lifted one brow, almost imperceptibly.

His opinion of her was palpable.

The insolence in that slightly arched brow, a galling affront.

Annoyance stopped the knocking of her knees, and she could feel her blood heating, the hot color sweeping up her neck to scald
her cheeks.

The man looked amused.

Catriona was sure she’d seen his lips twitch.

Bristling, she pulled off her mud-splattered cloak and tossed it on a trestle bench. She took some satisfaction in seeing
the visitor’s eyes widen and then narrow critically when he saw that the lower half of her gown was as wet and soiled as her
mantle. She had, after all, just run across the narrow stone causeway that connected her clan’s isle-girt castle with the
loch shore.

She’d raced to beat the tide. But even hurrying as she had, the swift-moving current was faster. She’d been forced to hitch
up her skirts and splash through the swirling water, reaching the castle gates just before the causeway slipped beneath the
rising sea loch.

It was a mad dash that always exhilarated her. As she did every day, she’d burst into the hall, laughing and with her hair
in a wild tangle from the wind. Now she might look a fright, but her elation was gone.

“What’s happened?” She hurried forward to clutch
Alasdair’s arm, dread churning in her belly. “What’s this about clans being cut down? A battle—”

“Not a true battle.” Alasdair shot a glance at the Lowlander. “A trial by combat—”

“I see no difference.” She raised her chin, not wanting the stranger to see her worry. It was clear he’d brought this madness.
That showed in the curl of his lip, a half-sneer that revealed his disdain for Highlanders.

Alasdair noticed, too. She hadn’t missed the muscle jerking in his jaw.

She tightened her grip on him. “If men are to die, what matters the name you cast on their blood?”

Behind her, someone closed the hall door. And somewhere in the smoke-hazed shadows, one of her kinsmen snarled a particularly
vile curse. Catriona released her brother’s arm and reached again for her amber necklace. She twirled its length around her
fingers, clutching the polished gems as if they might answer her. Her own special talisman, the ambers often comforted her.

Now they didn’t.

Worse, everyone was staring at her. The Lowlander eyed her as if she were the devil’s own spawn. He surely saw her fiery-red
hair as the brand of a witch. Almost wishing she was—just so she could fire-blast him—she straightened her back and let her
eyes blaze. MacDonald pride beat through her, giving her strength and courage.

She turned to Alasdair. “You needn’t tell me this has to do with the Camerons or the Mackintoshes. I can smell their taint
in the air.”

“My sister, Lady Catriona.” He addressed the Lowlander, not her. “She sometimes forgets herself.”

“I but speak the truth. As for my appearance, I was
enjoying the day’s brisk wind—a walk in our hills.” She flicked her skirts, righting them. “Had I known we had guests”—she
met the man’s hooded gaze—“I would have returned before the tide ran.”

It was the only explanation he’d get from her.

“Lady.” The stranger inclined his head, his dark eyes unblinking. “I greet you.”

She refrained from asking
who
greeted her. His rich garments and jewels had already marked him as a fat-pursed, well-positioned noble. Not that such loftiness
counted here, deep in the Highlands, where a man’s deeds and honor mattered so much more than glitter and gold.

As if he read her mind and knew she was about to say so, her brother cleared his throat. “This, Catriona”—he indicated the
Lowlander—“is Sir Walter Lindsay, the King’s man. He’s brought tidings from court. A writ from the King, expressing his royal
will.”

Catriona bent a chilly look upon the man. The churning in her stomach became a tight, hard knot.

Somehow she managed to dip in a semblance of a curtsy. “Good sir, welcome to Blackshore Castle.” She couldn’t bring herself
to say
my lord
. “We’ve never before greeted such a noble guest to our glen.”

Sir Walter’s brow lifted. He said nothing, but a slight flaring of his nostrils showed he knew she wished she weren’t forced
to greet him now.

“It is because of the glen that he’s here.” Alasdair’s words made her heart go still. “The King wishes that—”

“What does our glen have to do with the King?” She didn’t want to know.