The Highland Curse (Scottish Strife Series Book 2)

by Dana D'Angelo

  “Ye are sae wet,” he rasped, his eyes closed in pure rapture. He grasped his member, and guided it until it poised at her center. This was what her servant spoke of when she tried to explain about intercourse to Adrina. At the time the maid’s explanations were wholly inadequate. But now she would gain a full understanding of what occurred between a man and a woman. And her insides quivered in anticipation of acquiring the carnal knowledge.

  But then a sudden blood-stirring bellow echoed loudly through the alder trees.

  Duncan’s eyes flew open, and he looked down at her, a shocked expression frozen on his face.

  “A stag in heat,” he said, a strangled laugh of disbelief bursting from his lips. He broke away from her. “I’m sorry, lass. That wasnae supposed tae happen.” His hand went down to cover his erection with his kilt. However his plaid did little to hide the force of his desire. When there was nothing to be done about his condition, he glanced up at her, a sheepish expression on his rugged features. “I hope ye will forgive me.”

  Adrina nodded, the reality of what had almost happened robbing her of her speech. In all respects she had every right to be angry about the near seduction, yet she wasn’t. Instead she was left feeling disappointed and wanting more.

  CHAPTER 9

  Where in the hell was Adrina?

  Fingal MacNauld let out a low growl of frustration, and slammed his fist on the table in front of him. The sudden crash disturbed the liquid in the earthen bowl, causing its contents to splash on the wooden surface. He had dipped the water out of the well, and left it to sit, absorbing the moon rays for an entire lunar cycle. But now it seemed all a waste of time and effort.

  Looking over at the small window in the far end of the chamber, he was surprised to see that the sun was starting to set. He released a long sigh. How many hours had he spent trying to figure out how to scry?

  As far as he could tell, there was no chanting or magic involved. But there were far too many thoughts racing through his mind, and he couldn’t still the chatter enough to concentrate on retrieving any divine information from the water surface.

  Grabbing the candle from the holder, Fingal walked over to the hearth, where a small fire smoldered. The fire lit only one side of the chamber, the glow barely reaching the corner where he worked. If he was going to see something in the bowl, then he needed illumination. He knew that the Druids regularly used scrying for divination, so he perceived that it wasn’t an impossible feat to master. Of course he wasn’t interested in determining the past or the future. It was only the present that mattered. If only he could fathom how to make this method work, then he would be able to glean where Adrina was hiding.

  He had to find her. There was no other option. Just leaving her to roam around in the heath proved to be too risky. There was a chance that she might appeal to a powerful clan, and convince them to investigate Dunnvie Castle. If one of the allies of Clan MacGill were to visit, Fingal would have a difficult time justifying the many changes that he implemented.

  Before Adrina had run off, everything was running smoothly, and going according to his plan. He had worked far too hard to allow a mere lass, or anyone else for that matter, to jeopardize his future. He gritted his teeth. There was no way that he would return to a life of servitude and poverty. Since he was a lad, he had notions of grandeur. And now those ideals were almost realized.

  Fingal tipped the candle to the flame, allowing the wick to catch, and then he made his way back to his workspace. But as soon as he sat back down, his frustration returned with a raging intensity. Why couldn’t he get this technique to work? He had stared into the earthen bowl for many, many hours, and what reflected back at him was his own ghastly face. Reaching behind his neck, he grabbed at the muscle, trying to massage away the tension that gathered there.

  Perhaps there was another way. The book of spells that he had found six months ago sat a little to the side, almost beckoning him to open its pages once more. But he knew that there wasn’t anything in there that would be useful for his purposes. He had gone through the grimoire a multitude of times. But what if ye missed something useful? a nagging voice inside of him asked.

  “Fine, I’ll look again,” he snarled.

  He slid the book toward him. Out of all his possessions, the grimoire was the most valuable. But being able to read its contents made it priceless. To think that his parents wanted to stop him from furthering his education. They believed that reading was a nobleman’s pursuit, and was of no use to a farmer boy. It was fortunate he met a monk at the nearby monastery who was eager to teach him how to read and write. Of course it cost him more than one pretty coin, and he was severely punished for stealing his father’s money. But it was all worth it.

  He stroked the cover of the leather-bound book. Part of the problem was that this book contained too many incantations. He flipped through the pages. Everything was written in Gaelic, and he spent many long hours studying the passages, trying to decipher the riddles and rhymes. He had successfully tried a handful of charms from the book, and even cast some with Adrina in mind. However she was unaffected by the spells, and he wondered if she was somehow protected from his wizardry.

  Resting his chin on his hand, he let out another sigh. Even now, he couldn’t find what he wanted. The book was not organized in any way that he could comprehend. There had to be some sort of incantation that would help him pinpoint Adrina’s location. But as the room became even darker, he couldn’t find anything of significance.

  Fingal pushed the grimoire away, and buried his head in his hands.

  “This is a nightmare,” he muttered angrily. Almost a sennight had passed, and there was still no sign of the MacGill brat. In truth, he wasn’t concerned about whether she died, for he never cared for her inquisitiveness, or her position in life. So if she was laying somewhere close to death, his heart would sing with joy, because then the deed was already completed for him. But as things stood, he had no idea where she was, or what had happened to her. And if she was alive somewhere, he couldn’t have her returning with aid, and interfering with her claims to the chiefdom.

  The raven in the corner made a deep, raspy brronk, startling him.

  Fingal got up and walked over to the bird who sat on a wooden perch. The light from the candle reflected off its black feathers, causing it to have a glossy appearance.

  “Sae ye want tae help, do ye?” he asked the beastie.

  It ruffled its feathers, and let out another deep, guttural croak as if to answer his question.

  He laughed and gently stroked the long, shaggy feathers along its throat. The bird was large with a slight curve on its stout beak and a small crack near its base. He couldn’t guess how old it was. All Fingal knew was that it was as hideous as him. When he was a young man, he had come across it in his travels. It appeared that some predator had mauled it. Its black wings were caked with dried blood, and it writhed on the ground in obvious pain. He had a mind to leave it for dead, but he paused. The creature was staring back at him, the beady orbs silently pleading for his help. It awed him to think that this thing wanted to live even though it was half dead. Then before he could change his mind, he unraveled his great kilt, wrapping the raven in it. In an act that amazed even himself, he nursed it back to health.

  As the days went by, he recognized that the creature possessed more intelligence than anyone he knew. He was well aware that most people considered the bird a bad omen, and when they saw the animal, people stopped in their tracks and crossed themselves. Fingal was amazed and empowered by the unease that he detected on their faces. It was then that he began the habit of carrying the raven on his shoulder at all times. The people gave him a wide berth as he carried the harmless bird, and all the while, he reveled in their fright.

  For many years, the raven was his faithful companion. Its resiliency and instinct for survival reminded him of himself. There were times that he wished that he could converse with it. But that seemed like a foolish wish — until he discovered the book
of magic a few months ago. To his surprise and delight, he found a charm that could strengthen the communication between man and animal. All of a sudden, he came to know the thoughts of the raven, and could interpret every hoarse kraaah and baritone croak that it made.

  A small gust of air entered from the opened window, causing the candle flame to flicker and the pages of the book to flutter. Fingal turned his head toward the window, and was startled to discover it had turned completely dark outside.

  “All right, pet,” he said. “Ye can watch me work.”

  Reaching for the raven, he perched it on his right shoulder. As he approached his work table, he began to detach the bird from his shoulder. But it resisted. Letting out a deep-throated croak of protest, it leaned its face forward, fixing its glassy eyes on the moon water.

  “Fine, ye can stay where ye are.” The creature shifted slightly, its weight oddly comforting.

  Fingal threaded his fingers through his sparse hair and took in a deep breath. “Ye want me tae scry again? All right,” he said, releasing the air in his lungs. As he pulled the bowl toward him, he caused the bird to flap its wings and land on the table. “There’s nay harm in looking one more time.”

  He held the bowl, his palms cupping the sides. And while he grasped it, warmth began to emanate from his hands, heating the earthen vessel.

  “Where are ye, Adrina?” he whispered into the water. “Show me where ye are, lass.”

  A heaviness descended upon him, and his thoughts began to fade into the background. He wasn’t aware how long he gazed into the black fluid, but soon he noticed that his mind was totally emptied and his vision unfocused. He felt himself merging with the invisible energy that shifted and swirled above the water. There was an unexpected prickling sensation at the top of his head, as if a thousand needles poked at him. But he didn’t feel any pain. Instead, he felt weightless, as if he had somehow become one with the divine. Soon a change occurred in the liquid. At first it rippled softly, and then his likeness, which reflected off the surface, began to shimmer and disappear.

  When the water became still again a few seconds later, he let out a loud hiss of satisfaction. There she was, her petite figure huddling over a small fire. It was as if he observed everything through a looking-glass. But there was sound as well, and he could hear the faint echo of crackling twigs. Adrina was surrounded by the forest, but an inner voice whispered that she was in a wooded area just outside of Dunnvie, coming increasingly closer to him.

  “Och, sae ye are coming home at last,” he murmured. At hearing his voice, the raven fluttered its wings and walked closer to him. Fingal looked briefly at it and smiled. “Ye just wait, my pet. I’ll have a task for ye soon enough.”

  The raven stared back at him, its intelligent, unwavering eyes glimmering in the soft light. It knew exactly what Fingal wanted.

  He chuckled and then once again, he bent his head to the dark water, eager to divine more details that would help him locate Adrina.

  But a sudden knock at the door broke his concentration, jerking him out of his trance. He cursed under his breath, and continued to stare down at the water, willing himself to return to a trance state. Unfortunately the knock at the door sounded again. This time it was louder and more insistent. And the impressions that he strove so hard to achieve vanished completely.

  Gnashing his teeth, he glared at the closed door as a string of obscenities released from his lips. The bird flew up and settled back on his shoulder. Walking over to the door, he threw it open.

  “What the hell do ye want?” he snarled. “Didnae I tell ye nae tae disturb me?”

  The servant at the door jerked back while panic leapt to his countenance.

  “I — I’m sorry tae bother ye, master,” he stammered, placing his hands to his stomach as if to protect himself from Fingal’s wrath. “’Tis about the bodies…nay one wants tae handle them for fear that the spirits of the dead will walk…”

  “Ye interrupted me because of this?” Fingal said, his temper flaring.

  The servant gulped. “I didnae want tae disturb ye, but the others willnae follow my orders. ‘Tis been almost a week, and we cannae leave the corpses hanging in the courtyard. The flies and the putrid smell will cause pestilence and —”

  Whipping out his hand, he struck the servant’s cheek, the force of the blow knocking the other man to the ground.

  “’Tis such a trivial matter,” he hissed. He could still feel the stinging in his palms as it vibrated to the rhythm of his anger. “Tell me, didnae I make myself clear about being pestered?”

  The servant was sprawled on the ground, his eyes wide while his pupils were shrunken to tiny pinpricks. He palmed his reddened cheek. “Aye, master, but I —”

  “Ye are an idiot,” Fingal snapped. “’Tis about time that I make an example of ye.”

  “Nay!” The servant’s frightened gaze darted to the raven on his shoulder. He pushed himself to his knees, and clasped his hands together in desperate prayer. “Please, master, I dinnae want tae be turned into a — a raven!”

  Fingal stared at the man who was shaking like a sheaf of wheat. At any moment, he appeared as if he would soil himself. Placing his foot on the other man’s chest, Fingal shoved him away.

  But just then a thought struck him, and he began to stroke his chin. The people were frightened of his raven, however it had never crossed his mind that they believed that he had the ability to transform a human into an animal. But the evidence was right before him. His servant’s fear was palpable, and it emanated from him in waves. And Fingal fed off of the other man’s fear, the awareness making him feel giddy with power.

  Taking the beastie and placing it at his bent forearm, he stroked the head of its silky plumage. “Who told ye that I can change people into birds?”

  “Everyone kens this,” the man said, cautiously getting up from his knees. “’Tis said that — that thing use tae be a man before ye turned it thus.”

  A bark of laughter burst from his lips. Meanwhile the blood from the servant’s features drained, and he made himself smaller by pulling his knees to his chest. Once again Fingal felt the surge of power. None of this was possible until he had discovered the old book.

  “Be gone from my sight,” he snarled, his amusement short-lived. “And when I say nae tae disturb me, take heed on what I say.”

  The servant gulped, his Adam’s apple jerking nervously up and down his throat. “Aye, of course, master. I willnae bother ye next time.” He slowly backed away, his palms outstretched and facing Fingal. “I swear it!” Then before Fingal could reply, the servant turned and ran as if hounds were set upon his heels.

  Flinging the door shut, Fingal listened to the satisfying thud.

  “Now we can get back tae work,” he said, walking to the window. Then looking down at his pet, he began to stroke its head with his fingers. “She’s in the forest yonder. Find her.” He stretched out his arm, and launched the bird into the air.

  CHAPTER 10

  “I believe that I spooked ye at the riverbank,” Adrina said. She wanted to ignore the incident all together, but something inside of her insisted that she explained her behavior. She felt a flush of heat rushing to her cheeks as her thoughts journeyed back to the intimate moment. What must he think of her?

  Duncan had placed another branch into the pit. Crouching next to the fire, he blew at the embers in an attempt to reignite the flames. She had left the campfire so abruptly that they were lucky that the fire still smoldered.

  He glanced up from his task and gave her a long look. The expression in his mesmerizing green eyes was unreadable.

  “I’m nae certain what came over me,” she continued, fixing her regard on the flames that licked eagerly at the burning logs.

  It was impossible to talk about her visions without making herself appear as if she had lost her mind. Usually when an impression appeared, it came instantly and faded just as fast. But in this case the image of Duncan was as clear as day. And that black shroud that c
overed his likeness wasn’t derived from her imagination. A shiver went through her as she recalled the darkness falling down, and spreading over the scene like a disease. She was so certain that danger had befallen him. Who would believe that she saw all this in a screen of smoke?

  The fire started to cut out, and Duncan adjusted the dried branches until the flames lit once more. When he glanced up, his was gaze serious.

  “Ye lied about your father sending ye tae Tancraig Castle, didnae ye?” he asked, ignoring her discomfort.

  Adrina bit her lip, wanting to lie to him, but she thought better of it. “I made that up,” she admitted. “But ‘twas for a good reason. My people are suffering, and I needed tae do something tae assist them.” There. That was valid enough. He didn’t need to know about her extrasensory abilities, or how she was guided to his castle.

  His eyes gleamed as if he tried to decipher whether or not she spoke the truth. Under his unwavering gaze, she shifted in her seat while an uneasy feeling churned in her stomach.

  She took a deep breath, deciding that she needed to change the topic. Men were always willing to talk about warfare and strife, and perhaps talking about combat strategies would take his attention off of her.

  He began to thread the carcass on a stick, and placed it on a makeshift spit that he had built. The game began to sizzle over the heat, releasing the fragrant smell of cooking meat.

  “Tell me, Duncan, why do ye feel that converging at Bracken Ridge is an effective strategy? Perhaps ‘tis a fool’s errand if we battle with King Harold at all. Didnae ye say that he has numerous knights at his disposal? Many highlanders will be sure tae lose their lives.” She clasped her hands together, expecting him to offer her long and passionate justification for why they needed to fight the English.

  But he surprised her by falling silent. For what seemed a long time, he stared at the steam rising from the roasting hare. All the while, a shadow played across his handsome visage, and he appeared as if he was lost in a dark and distant memory.