Sins of a Highland Devil

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  It was done.

  Whatever came now, the three clans of the glen would decide their future on their own.

  Chapter Sixteen

  God’s mercy! That was as good a battle as any I’ve ever seen.”

  Earl David came hurrying across the blood-slicked ground to where James, Alasdair, and Kendrew held their weapons aloft, the blades touching. The smile splitting David’s handsome face made James want to sweep his brand around and take off the young prince’s head. Instead, he quelled the itch in his sword hand and raised his voice so that all men near—and some not so near—could hear him.

  “It was the King’s writ, lord. No’ true warring.” He bent a long stare on the prince. “And now our duty to the crown is served. It is done.”

  “And boldly, I say!” Earl David’s grin widened, his eyes alive with excitement.

  Jostling spectators pressed near, the sight of them making a muscle twitch in James’s jaw. On and on they came, groups of Lowland nobles from the King’s entourage, and commoners who’d left their tiered seats to race onto the field, eager to get a closer look at the steaming redness of Highland blood.

  Just now they gave their prince cheering accord, clearly of a mind with him that the men of the glen had fought hard and well.

  James squashed his contempt. All around them, the reek of slaughter was so powerful that the stench may well have been standing beside him, a living thing. Solid, terrible, and tainting the air.

  “Never have I seen such boldness,” Earl David enthused again, his eyes still shining. “So much hacking and stabbing, the clashing of swords…”

  Several paces behind the prince, the guards in his escort said nothing. Big, hard-faced men in well-polished mail coats and bristling with arms, they stood silent. Their cold-eyed arrogance spoke louder than any words, their rigid stances showing disdain.

  James ignored them.

  It was the prince’s glee that filled him with murderous rage. “All warriors are bold when faced with steel—if they are men! We have honor, lord.” James looked straight into the prince’s eyes. His tone was harsh, proud. “That is what you saw this day. That above all.”

  James secretly excluded Kendrew and his madmen from the ranks of the valorous. Men who ran around in wolf pelts and howled like demons deserved no such praise. But that opinion was his business and no one else’s.

  Not even the son of a king.

  Against outsiders, Highlanders did stick together. That was just survival, however much the tradition could sour one’s belly at times.

  His own gut roiling now, he exchanged a look with Alasdair and Kendrew. Then he stepped back swiftly to slash his sword downward, plunging it into the ground. The other two chieftains did the same, thrusting their weapons into the glistening red grass so near to James’s blade that the two swords and the ax raged from the earth as one.

  “We are again our own arbiters.” James turned to the prince, meeting his gaze squarely. “The Glen of Many Legends is ours, as ever it was.”

  Something, perhaps the devil inside him, made him put a hand to his sword’s empty scabbard. His brand might be half buried in the ground, but his dirk—well honed and sharp enough to split a hair—still hung close by, within an easy and threatening hand grip.

  The royal guardsmen noticed, edging nearer, their own hands dropping to the swords strapped low at their sides.

  Alasdair and Kendrew moved to stand with him. Kendrew did so somewhat grudgingly, though he did turn one of his evil grins on the prince.

  Oblivious, Earl David bobbed his bright head. “Aye, you shall be your own arbiters. You may retain your own Highland rule. And you will not be banished from your hills.” He paused, some of the lightness disappearing from his tone. “So long as you honor and obey the King.”

  “We have ne’er done otherwise.” James looked at him, anger still burning in his veins. “Your father agrees to such terms? He will take his men and their followers and leave the glen? Allow us our peace?”

  “To be sure. He was much impressed.” Earl David glanced over his shoulder toward the royal loge, but the masses of spectators blocked the canopied platform from view. “His scribes are inking charters now, all you need to hold your own sway here.”

  “Charters?” James glanced at the other two chieftains. Alasdair’s brows snapped down, and Kendrew raised his arms over his head, loudly cracking his knuckles.

  “There is a grant for this glen.” James flashed Kendrew a warning glare. “It is the ancient charter that, years ago, passed into the hands of Lady Edina, tied by blood or marriage to us all.”

  Earl David didn’t appear to hear him, his gaze flicking over the carnage on the field. He seemed particularly interested in a slain MacDonald who’d been pinned to the ground, his spine pierced by a sword.

  James stared at the prince, repelled.

  Here, surrounded by a sea of blood, Earl David’s clean, tidy hair and gleaming coat of mail made him look like a vision from another world. His fascination with the fallen was offensive. Bodies of the dead and dying covered the trampled grass, their reddened swords, axes, and shields strewn around them. Wounded men writhed in agony, though some lay quiet, their eyes deep pools of unblinking horror.

  But if the prince noticed their agony, he gave no sign.

  Instead, he glanced round, seeming unaffected by the thick, hot stench of battle, delighted by the gore.

  Beaming again, he turned back to the three chieftains. “Bards will sing of this day for years to come.” He glanced at his escort as if seeking agreement. “Highland men know how to fight!”

  “Nae, lord”—Catriona appeared then, pushing her way through the wall of tightly packed spectators—“our men know how to die. They do so when they must, and always unafraid.”

  She started forward, Geordie trailing after her. The dog’s tail hung low and he quivered badly—until he spotted Alasdair and ran to him as quickly as his stiff legs would carry him. The old dog barked and then jumped all over his master, swishing his tail and slathering Alasdair with kisses.

  “Catriona!” Alasdair called to her, his cry almost drowned by Geordie’s excited barking.

  Or so James thought until he realized the voice had been his.

  He turned away from Alasdair so the lout wouldn’t see his face coloring. The fool had dropped to his knees, hugging his dog, but James didn’t want to take any chances.

  Alasdair was almost better at reading him than Colin, and—James knew—the perceptive bugger would take one look at his burning cheeks and know exactly why he’d called out Catriona’s name.

  James frowned, hoping anyone else would mistake his flush for anger.

  Catriona glowed like a balefire, two slashes of pink staining her cheekbones, bright and vivid. His heart thumped as he watched her approach. She strode across the red-drenched grass like an avenging fury and looking so maddeningly beautiful, she took his breath.

  He could almost see a flaming sword in her hand, wings of fire rising from her shoulders, so terrible—and glorious—did she look in her outrage.

  Something very near to a smile tugged at his lips, but the icy blue glare she’d pinned on Earl David was so magnificent, so wondrous to behold, that he didn’t want to risk banishing it by distracting her.

  To his right—he caught the frenzied movement— Kendrew spluttered and snatched at the torn edges of his kilt, yanking them together. James clamped his jaw, resentfully allowing Kendrew a jot more honor than he would have cared to give the wild-eyed bastard.

  “Ho, James!” Colin burst through the throng then, hot on Catriona’s heels. “I tried to head her off, I swear I did.” He hurried forward, his face, plaid, all of him, streaming red, though—relief sluiced James—none of the blood appeared to be Colin’s own.

  As always in battle, Colin emerged unscathed.

  But his dark eyes glinted with annoyance—irritation tinged with more than a touch of amusement as he skirted or leapt over the fallen, trying to keep pace with Catr
iona.

  “I warned her that the field was no place for a lady.” Colin paused near the prince’s guard, panting. “She ran on, daring me to stop her.”

  James scarce heard his cousin’s words.

  He couldn’t take his gaze off Catriona. The sight of her sent raw desire whipping through him. Searing awareness scalded him, tightening his loins and making his pulse thunder in his ears. She held him captive, dazzling him so thoroughly that everything else slipped away to nothingness and he saw only her.

  “Highland men are proud and fearless.” She looked at Earl David, but James knew her words were meant for him. “They are the hardest fighters in the land. They’re also known to let their honor”—she took a breath, her eyes sparking—“drive them to commit acts of great foolishness.”

  Her outburst brought hoots and sniggers from the crowd.

  Earl David’s appreciative gaze traveled over her. “And Highland women—how are they?”

  “We stand by our men, always.” She shot James a look of pure challenge. “Even when they’d deny they need us!”

  James held her gaze, taking some satisfaction when his stare caused her flush to deepen. He narrowed his eyes at her, hoping to make her acknowledge his triumph.

  But she jerked her gaze away and marched closer, sweeping past the prince’s guard, six tall men in well-polished armor and helmets, their long-bladed swords glinting brightly. Holding her skirts high, she stepped briskly, displaying crimson splashes on her legs, red smears that reached to her knees. The fierce sheen to her eyes showed how much it’d cost her to wade through the slaughter.

  Her braids had come undone and her hair spilled over her shoulders, tumbling to her hips. Her amber necklace shone with a brilliance that hurt his eyes, and her breasts rose and fell with her agitation as she drew up before the prince.

  “I will tell you of Highland women, lord.” She’d stopped beside a fallen Berserker whose belly had been split wide, and she looked down at the man for a long moment before she spoke again. “We do not sit behind palace walls, listening to minstrels strum their lutes and praise our beauty while our men are bleeding. We do not sip wine and nibble on cream pastries as we wait for word of a battle.

  “Truth is”—her voice thrummed with pride—“we’d fight alongside our men if they’d allow us. As is, we take the field after they redden the ground. We tend the wounded and comfort the dying, not that such heroes truly die.”

  She glanced again at the slain Berserker. “Our fallen become legends. We remember their valor in song and—”

  “My lady, I have seen their bravery—and yours!” Earl David looked amused. He threw a glance at his tight-lipped guardsmen. “Your champions could teach some of the men in my father’s army to fight. And you”—he turned back to her, his tone speculative—“might give our court ladies a few much needed lessons in spirit.”

  He paused, rubbing his royal chin. “Perhaps—”

  Geordie barked, cutting him off.

  “My sister is to wed soon.” Alasdair pushed to his feet, keeping his good hand resting on Geordie’s head. “She is betrothed to Lore MacShade, chief of an allied sept.”

  “I am—” Catriona clamped her lips, her eyes flashing furiously.

  “Ah, well. That is a shame.” Earl David lost interest.

  James was all ears.

  He’d never heard of a betrothal between Catriona and a MacShade chieftain. But that didn’t mean such an arrangement didn’t exist.

  The man’s name was familiar.

  And just the sound of it soured his gizzard.

  Scowling, he curled his hands around his sword belt, gripping so hard he winced. Or he would have done, if he didn’t want to show such weakness.

  But it was hard not to grimace.

  Every muscle in his body screamed, and his arm blazed from having held his blade pointed at the clouds for so long. He ignored the cut above his ankle, blocking his mind to the fiery bursts of pain shooting up his leg. The warm, sticky fug of blood in his cuaran, drenching the shoe’s leather and quelling between his toes.

  Alasdair and Kendrew bore worse gashes.

  And he’d be damned if he’d be the first to attract Catriona’s professed nurturing skills. Most especially not when—and the notion scalded him—she belonged to an arse named Lore.

  Sir Walter strode into view at that moment, worsening his spleen. Several other courtiers accompanied him, each one more richly dressed than the other. Sir Walter, the most glittering of them all, held documents in his hand. Fresh red seals dangled from the parchments, the crimson wax gleaming like blood in the pale morning sun.

  “The charters, lord.” Sir Walter handed the scrolls to Earl David.

  Sir Walter then turned to the three chieftains. “Sirs”—he nodded curtly—“King Robert sends his felicitations. With due regard for his queen’s sensibilities, having witnessed such an affray, he’s ordered an immediate departure from the glen. The charters grant you each—”

  “We do not require parchments.” James strode up to him, speaking into his face. “The land is ours, whatever. Our ancestors won it by sword centuries ago, and we retook it this day with our blood.”

  “You will accept the charters, and gladly.” Sir Walter eyed him contemptuously. “The rules stated that the glen would be awarded to the clan of the last man standing at the end of the trial. You—”

  “We’re all standing—as you see!” James glared at him. “Blood was spilled, much blood.” He swept out his arm, indicating the field, then toward Alasdair’s limp left arm and Kendrew’s bloodied kilt.

  He didn’t mention the gash above his ankle, knowing the bastard had seen. “It is enough, more than that!”

  “So the King agreed.” Sir Walter spoke the words as if they choked him. “And so”—he nodded at Earl David, who stepped forward with the parchments—“he’s shown you the grace of granting each of you the title to your own portion of the glen. From this day onward, the lands are yours, lest you break his peace by returning to—”

  Kendrew roared, thrusting between them. “The battle was for the whole of the glen, no’ pieces of it!”

  “Lady Edina’s grant held all the land.” Alasdair stayed with Geordie, but his words were harsh, ringing. “The glen was ne’er meant to be divided.”

  Sir Walter shrugged. “Then perhaps you wish to fight on?” There was malice in his words, a hint of triumph. “Earl David can act in his father’s stead, burning two of the charters in favor of the remaining champion.”

  “I will do nothing the like.” Earl David turned to James, pressing one of the scrolls into his hands. “They are all champions, I say! They shall hold their lands as ever they’ve done before this day. My father has decided the matter. So long as no unrest…”

  James gripped the scroll, knowing he’d burn it as soon as he returned to his hall. He barely heard the rest of the prince’s oh-so-convivial words, though he did catch Kendrew’s mutterings and Alasdair’s cold silence as they, too, had the parchments foisted upon them.

  Frowning, he tightened his fingers even more, feeling the charter’s heavy wax seal pressing into his palm.

  His fury would surely melt it, or so he hoped.

  He turned his head to look at Catriona, half expecting her to whip up her skirts and grab her lady’s dagger, using its lethal blade to slash the charters to shreds.

  But she no longer stood beside the fallen Berserker.

  She’d gone out onto the field and was moving about among the slain, an armful of bloodied swords and axes clutched against her side.

  James’s heart split when he saw.

  Sir Walter sneered. “Look there, lord!” He grabbed Earl David’s arm, pointing. “If the chiefs will fight no more, their women are game. See her gathering arms—”

  “Thon lady isn’t collecting steel for a fight.” Kendrew glowered at Sir Walter. “She’s—”

  “She’s picking up weapons to place them in the hands of the fallen.” James glared at Kendrew,
annoyed that he’d dared to speak for Catriona. “It’s a courtesy to the slain, allowing them to die in honor if they’d lost their sword as they fell.”

  “Or their ax,” Kendrew snarled at James.

  “That, too, aye.” James kept his eye on Catriona, watching her until she disappeared behind a particularly high mound of bodies.

  Then he turned on his heel and strode away, the prince’s excited exclamations about heroic Highland women grating on his ears.

  But he’d barely pushed through the worst of the milling crowd of spectators when he stopped short. Something lurched in his chest, and relief swept him, swift and hot.

  He went taut, also recognizing a damnably frightening burst of elation.

  He remembered where he’d heard of Lore.

  The bastard didn’t exist.

  He was the scale-backed, claw-handed monster in a tale told to children of the glen when they misbehaved. A once-bonny laird whose every dark deed made him uglier until he turned into a shade, a night beast so horrible he couldn’t bear to glimpse himself and so only roamed in darkness.

  Have a care, laddie, mothers would warn, lest you wish to turn as ugly as Lore.

  James tipped back his head and stared up at the heavens, stifling a grin, because this field of the dead was no place for smiles.

  But he couldn’t stop the gladness spearing him.

  Catriona wasn’t betrothed.

  And—his lips did twitch a bit then—Alasdair was one clever bastard.

  Lore MacShade, indeed.

  James let out a long breath. Then he shoved both hands through his hair. He shouldn’t care at all that Catriona was free. And even if he wasn’t worried about turning into a shade, he wouldn’t be surprised if lightning struck him for lusting after Catriona now, this hour.

  But he did.

  He couldn’t put her from his mind.

  The taste and touch of her haunted him. He burned to hold her in his arms again, quenching his need for her, making her his.