Sins of a Highland Devil

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  James folded his arms, waiting.

  From the corner of her eye, Catriona saw Alasdair clench his hand and pound the table, keeping rhythm with their fist-banging tablemates.

  “Nor”—James lifted his voice—“would our souls be ripped by the men we’d lose when we’d take arms against any Lewismen of rank and wealth, seizing their goods and lands, in the name of our King!

  “To be sure, we’d grieve the loss of braw kinsmen. But warriors ne’er draw steel without knowing they might no’ live to greet the morrow.”

  He pulled a small leather pouch from beneath his plaid, carefully untying the drawstring before he raised his arm, displaying the little bag. “This, my friends”—he dangled the pouch from his fingers—“would be the greater tragedy. Placing such valiant souls to rest in strange, unloved soil, not their own.”

  Upending the bag, he let the rich peat-black earth pour onto his palm. As the hall fell silent, he closed his fingers around the peat and thrust his fist in the air.

  “Men will soon die so that those of us remaining must ne’er set our feet on distant soil. On that day our swords will spare no one. Our foes will wield their blades with equal purpose, and rightly.” He glanced at Catriona, his face dark and unreadable. “For we’ll all be fighting so that none of us must e’er turn our backs on the only sustenance that nurtures us, heart, body, and soul.”

  “Ottar! Ottar!” Men cheered, many jumping to their feet.

  James clutched his fist to his chest, thumping his heart, roughly. “We are this glen we’ve called our own since before time counting. We’re hewn from the rock of these hills, taking our strength from the land. Just as we breathe life into the very wind here, each blade of grass and sprig of heather. The glen would be a different place without us, empty and desolate and weeping.”

  Catriona’s heart swelled. A fierce heat burned at the back of her throat, but she kept her chin lifted and swallowed against the discomfort. She doubted James would glance at her again, but if he did, she didn’t want him to see how much his fervor moved her.

  He was still speaking, his voice rising on each word. “… as we would weep inconsolably if we were to be torn from this place where we belong.”

  Then he lowered his arm, letting the soil spill from his hand. “So I challenge you, men of my race. In the name of Ottar and before the Banner of the Wind, live by the honor that was breathed into you at birth.

  “If you cannot”—he whipped out his sword, offering it hilt first to any takers—“run me through now because I have failed as a chieftain.”

  Silence descended, not a single man moving.

  “Here is the way of it, by God!” The big-bellied kinsman who’d argued earlier shouldered his way through the hall to clamber onto the dais. “We have honor!” He grabbed the sword and flipped it, pressing the hilt into James’s hands. “I’ll be the first to break the head of any who dares to sully our good name.”

  James nodded and sheathed his steel. Then he clapped the man on the shoulder, turned, and strode from the dais. He moved through the throng, clearly intending to have a word with every man.

  Magnificent, isn’t he? Isobel put a light hand on Catriona’s arm, her soft voice clear despite the tumult in the hall.

  Catriona glanced at her, certain she hadn’t noticed her slipping into the seat beside her. But she was there now, smiling as she watched James wind through the cheering crowd. His dog, Hector, was at his side. The aging beast trailed along with his stiff-legged gait, stopping now and again to raise his head, importantly. The dog looked proud—and so dear, with one ear tucked inside out—that Catriona’s heart tumbled in her chest.

  She liked the dog.

  He’d spent much of the evening beneath the table, his great bulk resting on her feet. She’d welcomed his warmth. And she would’ve appreciated that comfort now. Shivering, for a cold draught stirred out of nowhere, she turned to see if someone had opened a shutter.

  No one had.

  But her jaw slipped when she spied Isobel sitting at the other end of the high table, speaking with her brother Hugh. Catriona’s blood chilled, for the raven-haired beauty appeared quite settled. As if she hadn’t left her accustomed place in hours.

  Yet a moment ago, she’d rested her hand on Catriona’s arm.

  And she’d spoken…

  Catriona’s heart began a wild, hard knocking as she spun around to see if the seat next to her was occupied.

  It wasn’t.

  Indeed, it wasn’t there at all.

  Hers was the last chair at the table. And nothing stirred beside her except a breath of icy air.

  Chapter Nine

  You’re heading in the wrong direction, my lady.”

  Catriona froze near the arched door to a darkened antechamber. But instead of peering into the room’s shadowed depths, she looked up to find Colin stepping before her, blocking her path.

  “Am I?” She held his gaze, refusing to squirm. The amusement in his eyes made it clear that he knew she was aware that this corner of Castle Haven’s great hall wasn’t anywhere near the necessary place she’d used as her excuse to leave the high table.

  “The place you seek is yon, inside the main stair tower.” He tipped his head toward the other side of the hall. Or”—he smiled, dimples flashing—“were you searching for something else?”

  “I must’ve gone the wrong way.” Catriona itched to whisk past him, continuing on her business. Nor did she wish to respond to his question.

  His words were too smooth, his deep voice richly timbred and teasing.

  He looked down at her, his silky blue-black hair—so like James’s—skimming his shoulders, his mouth still curved in a wicked smile. Which wasn’t surprising, as Colin Cameron was known as a rogue of supposedly insatiable sensual appetite, rumored so skilled at seduction that he could charm the blush from autumn leaves.

  But his dark good looks and dashing airs only struck her as a pale reflection of James.

  And thinking of him brought a fresh rush of hot color to her face.

  Never had a man affected her so strongly.

  She slid a quick glance at the hall, her gaze immediately drawn to him. His long, confident strides were taking him toward the massive double-arched hearth as he made his way through the throng. Men crowded him, talking and laughing, their bearded faces shining with pride. James’s power and strength glowed like a flame inside him as he accepted the back slaps and good words of his clan.

  Catriona shivered beneath her shawl, but not from the cold. Her attraction to him flared like a fever in her veins and made her heart trip, beating much too light and fast than was good for her.

  She took a deep, calming breath and turned back to his cousin. “There’s quite a stir in your hall this night. The ruckus must’ve caused me to take a wrong turn.”

  Colin looked bemused. “A simple enough mistake, to be sure.”

  “Ummm.” She gave a noncommittal half shrug. She’d known exactly where she was going. Or, better said, what she’d been doing.

  Her error had been leaving her seat.

  She should’ve known she wouldn’t find a comely, raven-haired woman who bore a striking resemblance to Isobel. No such soul existed. And she’d felt foolish for attempting to spot one even before she’d started her surreptitious, peek-into-every-corner circuit of the great hall.

  But she’d had to try.

  The alternative—that she’d been visited by a bogle—was something she didn’t want to consider. Not that she had anything against ghosts. She didn’t. Nor would she be surprised if the soft-voiced lovely had been one. Everyone born and bred in these hills knew better than to doubt the existence of spirits, haints, and their like.

  She just didn’t care to meet a Cameron ghost.

  Along with believing in the old gods, monsters, and other magical creatures, Highlanders held grudges.

  It wasn’t that she feared tangling with an angry, long-dead Cameron. She just didn’t want to attract the attentions of
one and have her night rest disrupted if such a being sought to pester her.

  She did enjoy her sleep.

  What she didn’t like was the way Colin’s eyes glinted as he watched her.

  Something told her he was as perceptive as her all-seeing brother.

  Worse, she saw now that he held the Banner of the Wind looped over one arm. The silky folds dipped halfway down his side, revealing the head and shoulders of the standard’s magnificent black dog centerpiece. In the flickering glow of the brazier—and so close before her—the embroidered beast’s snarl appeared more ferocious than when James unfurled the banner on the dais.

  She drew herself up, trying not to notice.

  She did feel a spurt of annoyance that a few cleverly plied wisps of thread could breathe such vivid life into a beast of cloth.

  I mended the rip beneath his eye…

  Catriona gasped. The softly spoken words hushed past her ear, so close. She glanced behind her but saw nothing except a faint luminance near a shuttered window set deep into the hall’s smoke-darkened wall. Cold, silvery light that was surely moonglow slipping in through the shutter slats.

  When she looked again, it was gone.

  Colin hadn’t budged.

  “The beast looks real, eh?” He grinned, stroking the dog’s silken withers. “There are some who believe he is. They say that, at times, he can be seen prowling through the keep or…

  “Visitors awake to find him standing at the foot of their bed. See you”—he leaned close, his eyes glittering—“Skald, for that is his name, doesn’t care for strangers.”

  “Then I’ll be on my way before my presence annoys him.” Catriona smiled. She didn’t comment on the appropriateness of the Norse word for a court poet as the name for a beast associated with such tall tales.

  “Before I go…” She hesitated. “Does Skald have a stitched tear beneath his eye?”

  Colin’s smugness vanished. “How would you know of the mend? The banner’s been locked in a chest in James’s bedchamber for years. There are men who ne’er set eyes upon the standard until this night.

  “There is”—he glanced down at the reams of silk draped over his arm—“a small repair beneath Skald’s left eye. The tear happened centuries ago and, according to clan tradition, the damage was stitched by Ottar the Fire-worshipper’s wife, the lady Astrid.”

  Pah!

  A blast of cold air swept in through the shutter slats, swirling around them. The coals in the brazier snapped and hissed, the chill wind even guttering several candles on a nearby table. Gooseflesh rose on Catriona’s nape and shivered along her arms. She could almost see the raven-haired beauty shimmering beside her, indignant.

  For sure, she’d heard her.

  Colin didn’t seem to have noticed. “See here.” He lifted a handful of silk, indicating Skald’s jewel-like eye. “The repair is so finely stitched it’s nigh impossible to tell the banner was e’er torn.”

  He frowned. “You couldn’t have known.”

  “I have good eyes.” Catriona smiled.

  The icy draught rippled the air, fluttering her shawl until she felt a light touch on her arm as frosty fingertips brushed her sleeve, seeking attention.

  Those stitches are so tiny because my skilled needle plied them.

  Lady Astrid had naught to do with the repair.

  ’Twas my hand…

  Catriona started. The words rang in her ears, hushed but unmistakable.

  She recognized the voice.

  And as the cold air hovered at her side, chilling her so thoroughly she’d soon be coated in ice, she also knew what she had to say.

  She took a deep breath. “I heard about the tear, somewhere.” She scrambled for an explanation. “A bard or a wandering friar, I can’t recall. But I do remember someone other than Lady Astrid being praised for mending the banner so beautifully.”

  Colin blinked. “Any Cameron will say otherwise. Lady Astrid was renowned for her stitchwork and is believed to have worked on many of the castle’s finest wall hangings. Though it scarce matters after all this time.”

  He looked at her, the twinkle in his eye belying his earnest tone. “What I’m concerned about is that James will have my head on a pike if I don’t see the banner safely back into its strongbox.

  “May I escort you to the stair tower on my way to his chamber?” He held out his arm, grinning. “Skald is less likely to leap from the banner and pounce on you if I’m at your side.”

  “I’m sure he’s vicious.” Catriona glanced at the silken beast. “But I’ll take my chances.”

  She knew who’d pounce as soon as they stepped into the dim passage.

  It wouldn’t be an embroidered dog.

  And wasn’t she running after trouble by wishing that it wasn’t Colin who was so eager to slip away into the shadows with her?

  Had James been the one to offer his arm, she wouldn’t have refused.

  She’d have grabbed his hand and pulled him straight into the darkness.

  … at times, he can be seen prowling through the keep or…

  Colin’s words taunted Catriona as she hurried along the passage to the main stair tower. She already regretted taking this route. The poorly lit corridor did skirt the hall, shielding her from curious glances. But it was also filled with the skitter of tiny creatures flitting across the stone-flagged floor. Equally unsettling, the shadows felt heavy with unseen menace.

  Sure of it, she quickened her step.

  Squeak!

  “Agh!” She jumped as high-pitched chittering revealed the nature of the wee beasties scurrying about in the darkness. She glanced over her shoulder, seeing nothing. But she did touch a hand to her amber necklace, taking strength from the polished stones.

  She didn’t fear mice. Her concern was not to step on one, hurting him.

  But if anything besides mice stirred here, the ambers would protect her. The gemstones guarded MacDonald women all down the ages. Even so, she wished she’d again slipped along the edge of the crowded hall. The cold, dank corridor held some of the deepest shadows she’d ever seen. Quite a few of the torches had burned out. And those yet flickering gave off little more than smoky, feeble light.

  An unpleasant haze that smelled almost sulfuric.

  Wishing she hadn’t noticed, she drew her shawl closer about her shoulders.

  Her footsteps echoed in the gloom, the eeriness making the possibility of Skald lurking in the darkness all too believable. Every few steps, she caught rustlings behind her, or somewhere. It was difficult to tell. But the stirrings sounded larger than mice.

  And ominous enough to make her curl her fingers around her ambers. A tiny pulsing came from deep inside them, each stone warming against her skin.

  Her heart began to gallop.

  This wasn’t the time for the stones to alert her of imminent danger.

  Yet the ambers almost scorched her fingers, their heat burning her neck. Clan tradition forbade her to let go of the waking stones. To do so before the necklace cooled of its own will brought misfortune.

  She did look back to the entrance to the passage, a hidden door Colin had revealed by pulling back a rather splendid wall tapestry. He’d promised the secret corridor would allow her to quickly reach the stair tower.

  Except…

  She felt as if she’d been marching for hours.

  Tamping down her ill ease, she hurried on. Then—

  The ambers cooled abruptly, slipping like water from her fingers as an icy draught blew along the passage, whipping her skirts. Chills sped along her nerves, her heart pounding, when something large and black rushed across the darkness ahead of her.

  It might have been Skald.

  She could almost hear his growl beneath the whistle of the wind.

  Hoping she was wrong, she hitched her skirts and stepped faster until she reached the vaulted dimness of the main stair tower.

  There, she drew to a sudden halt.

  A huge shape, dark and threatening, loomed in the en
try to the curving stair. And it wasn’t Skald, the snarling banner beast.

  It was the devil.

  James Cameron.

  And he looked so shockingly handsome she nearly swooned.

  She did stare, her heart flipping. “You.”

  “Aye.” Amusement flashed in his eyes. “I’m myself, true enough.”

  He slid his gaze over her in a slow, daring manner and she took a step backward, knowing he was so much more than just himself.

  He was irresistible.

  And being alone with him in this empty corner of his castle was dangerous. Torchlight fell across his raven hair but cast shadows over the proud lines of his face. The contrast suited him, making him look like he stood on the edge of light and darkness. He was a fallen angel come to tempt her. And she wanted to succumb. She drew a breath, sure she’d never seen a more beautiful man. Pure masculine power rolled off every inch of him, and his tall, broad-shouldered presence made her hot and shivery.

  His magnificence overwhelmed her, sending desire racing through her.

  “What are you doing here?” She held his gaze, quivers of sensation making her tremble. “You were in the hall, with your men.”

  “So I was.” He pushed away from the wall he’d been leaning against, the move predatory. “And now I’m here.”

  “Aren’t you needed elsewhere?” She lifted her chin, her physical awareness of him so strong that if she didn’t feign a bit of coolness, she’d cut out her heart and offer it to him on her outstretched hands. But his scent—dark, heady, and oh-so-rousing—drifted to her across the space between them, teasing her senses.

  She felt dizzy, lightheaded with the need for him to come closer. “I—” She had trouble speaking, tingling anticipation flooding her when his gaze dropped to her lips. “I thought you’d be in the hall until the small hours.”

  “You thought wrong.” He took a step forward, his eyes not leaving her face. “We have unfinished business. Or”—his voice deepened—“have you forgotten?”