Sins of a Highland Devil

by Sue-Ellen Welfonder

  James grinned and pulled her harder against him. “I wouldn’t have her any other way.”

  “What are you saying?” Catriona squirmed in his arms, twisting to peer up at him.

  “Be still—or do you no’ want me to fasten these stones around your neck again?” James reached to do just that. The deed done, he turned back to her brother.

  “There.” He tightened his arm around her. “The ambers are returned. And now”—he bent his head to kiss her, hard and swift—“I’ll be having my own prize.”

  “Dinnae make me regret it, Cameron.” Alasdair came forward to thump James’ shoulder. “You can have her, aye. If”—he glanced at Catriona—“she’ll have you.”

  James laughed. “That’s good, because I already know she will. And”—he glanced down at her, grinning—“I’d have made her mine with or without your consent.”

  “Make me yours?” Catriona touched her ambers, happiness welling inside her. Shivers of excitement raced through her, and it might have been her imagination, but she thought she felt her necklace thrumming sweetly.

  She felt so giddy she could hardly stand. But James’s arrogance did pinch her pride.

  So she broke free of his grasp and stepped back, setting her hands on her hips. “I thought I was a plague?”

  Behind her, Alasdair laughed again, his men quickly joining in.

  “You are, the saints pity me!” Before she could reply, James pulled her roughly against him, his mouth claiming hers again.

  He gripped her face in his hands, kissing her savagely until she cried out and slid her arms around his neck, clinging to him as she kissed him back with all the need and desperation inside her.

  She was dizzy when he finally tore his mouth from hers and set her from him. Blinking, she peered up at him, her heart swelling with all the hope and pleasure she never thought she’d feel.

  Ignoring Alasdair’s grin and the hoots and whistles of her kinsmen, she blinked against the stinging heat pricking the backs of her eyes. “You were frightful to me.” Her voice caught on the words and she blinked again, faster this time, for she hated tears.

  “And”—she did her best not to sniff—“you did call me a plague.”

  He leaned close, kissing her softly this time. “So I did, right enough.”

  She held his gaze, her heart thundering. “And now you think differently?”

  “No’ at all.” He looked down at her, a devilish grin curving his lips. “You’re the worst sort of pest. And I hope you’ll keep on plaguing me forever. Because”—he pulled her back into his arms—“I cannae live without you.”

  And as he kissed her again—much to the amusement of Alasdair and his men—a tall, colorfully arrayed figure watched silently from the shadows of the birch wood. Slightly transparent, for he wasn’t of this world, the man’s long fair hair shone like gold in the watery sun slipping through the canopy of trees. And those who might have seen him, if any present were so gifted, would have blinked against the brilliant blue of his tunic, the startling crimson of his fine, flowing cloak. His hand, as strong and well made now as ever, rested on the shimmering white flank of the magnificent stag standing beside him.

  He looked on as the happy pair kissed, his own heart knocking painfully. But he ignored the hurtful pangs, as he’d learned so well to do, and relished instead the strong approval soaring through him.

  And—if he didn’t wish to draw attention to himself or the enchanted beast who’d led him here—he would have lent his own whoops to the joyful cries of the MacDonald warriors.

  He’d been a warrior himself, once.

  In truth, he still was.

  Such things stayed with a man, always. Though he knew, neither his sword nor his much-loved war ax would ever again taste the thrill of battle.

  Those days were centuries gone, but his heart lived on. As did his pleasure in feasting and laughing, the joy he’d taken in being young, strong, and fearless. How he’d gloried in his journeys at sea. His exhilaration at standing at the steering oar of his high-prowed dragon-ship as she sped across the long swells, oars beating and sending up spumes of white spray to flash down her sides. And—he curled his fingers into the stag’s snowy coat—the hope he’d once vested in these rugged, mist-drenched hills, the herring-filled waters of the sea loch, and the glen’s verdant grazing land.

  He’d loved the glen fiercely, though he’d only wanted a narrow slice of the rich coastal headlands. He’d yearned for no more than a fair place to settle, a haven where he could moor his ships and keep an eye on the horizon. And where those men who followed him could raise their families and cattle and grow their crops in peace.

  He’d held such high hopes that his people would thrive here.

  He’d thought to raise sons beneath the shoulders of these great hills and take them to sea from his own sheltering shores. Above all, he’d planned to spend his nights wrapped in his beloved’s arms, keeping her safe from danger and sorrow, and loving her all their days.

  It wasn’t meant to be.

  The spinners of fate had other plans.

  But he was his own man now. As it were, all things considered. And much as he would’ve preferred to stride out from the trees and into the midst of the rowdy, jostling men, thumping backs, swigging ale, and whooping louder than any of them, he stayed where he stood.

  The warriors were breaking up now, readying to return to their home, their duty done.

  And the Cameron had just swung his bride up in his arms and was carrying her to his horse. He knew the pair would wed. The young chieftain grinned as if he held the greatest treasure.

  To be sure, he did.

  For a maid who loved a man truly, no matter his name or blood, was a prize worth more than all the world’s gold, as he knew only too well.

  If the spinners were kind, the Cameron and his lady would find happiness.

  He wished them every joy.

  And he desired himself back in Odin’s mead hall, away from this place he’d once walked in the belief a part of it would be his.

  Too many memories lingered here.

  “Do not come for me again.” He spoke to the white stag but kept his gaze on the departing warriors and the young pair. “I’ll not go with you if you do.”

  He rubbed the beast’s shoulders to soften the finality of his words, for the creature called for him often. And each time, as now, the returning only poured salt on old wounds, making them burn again as new.

  Scandia walked here.

  And each time he came, he’d seen her.

  But always through a filmy veil that looked no thicker than air but proved impenetrable when he tried to pass through it. In the early years, he’d kick at the haze, pounding his fists on the shimmering, shifting wall as he yelled in fury. But no matter what a ruckus he caused—and he was a big man who knew how to be loud—Scandia never saw or heard him. Once he’d even swung at the barrier with his war ax, and the jolt that had shot up his arm on the impact had pained him for nearly a hundred years.

  His frustration stayed with him longer.

  This time he hadn’t seen her or the wall of haze.

  And, Thor help him, that was almost worse.

  “This was the last time, Rannoch.” He glanced down at the beast, his fingers freezing in midair, for he was no longer rubbing the stag’s great shoulders.

  The creature was gone.

  Frowning, he glanced round, but the magical creature was nowhere to be seen. The only flash of white anywhere near was a shimmer of sun-sparkle glinting off one of the birches across the clearing.

  Or so he thought, until the shimmer moved and he saw that it wasn’t sun-sparkle, but the luminous skirts of Scandia’s glittering gown.

  She stood staring at him, more beautiful even than he remembered. Wind tossed her glossy black hair and tore at her pearly skirts. Her eyes were huge, startled and disbelieving. There could be no doubt that she saw him—this time—for she’d pressed a hand to her breast and tears brimmed in her eyes,
then spilled, glistening like stars as they slipped down her cheeks.

  And—his heart seized—he could see her so clearly.

  No filmy veil stood between them.

  “Scandia!” He ran from the birch wood, leaping over heather and rocks, racing across the clearing before the horrid barrier could appear, separating them. “Precious lass, I’m here! Come to me!”

  But she didn’t move, though he could see that her tears were streaming now, their silvery tracks dampening her face. She trembled, too, her entire sweet form quivering as if she’d never be still again.

  Then he reached her and pulled her into his arms, holding her close until her trembling slowed.

  “Donar!” She spoke at last, her voice a song in his heart. “I thought you were gone to me forever. That”—another great shudder wracked her—“you would turn from me if—”

  “Turn from you?” Donar pulled back to look into her eyes. “Why ever would I do that? I’ve searched for you nearly every year since…” He didn’t finish, for they both knew what had happened.

  Then—

  “By all the Valkyries!” A terrible dread swept him, letting him know why the haze wall had loomed so maddeningly between them. She’d put it there herself, however unwittingly. “Scandia, lass”—he took her face between his hands, his heart breaking—“tell me you didn’t think I’d blame you for—”

  She gulped, not looking at him. “It was my father who slaughtered your people. Even you—”

  He cupped her chin, tilting her face so she was forced to meet his gaze. “He thought you’d taken your life to avoid wedding me. He only meant to avenge you.”

  “You are not angry?” She didn’t sound convinced.

  “I want only you.” He pulled her closer, burying his face in her silky, raven tresses. “Now, and for all eternity, if you’ll still have me.”

  She shivered and caught her breath, the sound giving him hope.

  “So you still love me, too.” He wasn’t asking, he knew.

  “I do.” Her answer split him all the same. “I’ve loved you forever.”

  He grinned. Then he blinked back his own tears, quickly, before she could see.

  Viking warriors weren’t known for their soft sides.

  But just now he didn’t care.

  “Then be mine, Scandia. We’ve waited long enough.”

  She smiled back at him, her eyes bright. “Aye, we have.”

  A true Norseman again, Donar grabbed her by the waist and lifted her high in the air, twirling her round and round, and whooping with all his lung power.

  And when, at last, he could whirl no more, he did what he’d ached to do for so long.

  He pulled her to him and kissed her.

  Again and again, and masterfully, for that skill, too, stayed with a man.

  Odin be praised.

  Epilogue

  THE GLEN OF MANY LEGENDS

  AT THE BOWING STONE

  SPRING 1397

  We must circle the stone three times and then drop to one knee, begging good fortune.”

  Catriona took care to stay away from the edge of the ravine where she stood with her two closest friends. Cloud and mist swirled around them, making it difficult to see. But a strange, low humming stroked the air, and the sound thrilled the three women.

  It was the first indication that the towering jumble of broken stones before them truly was the hoary monument they’d hoped to find. They’d already climbed in vain to two other high corries. And while this one appeared no more than a deep and narrow defile, strewn with boulders, the shivering air made their efforts worthwhile.

  This gorge felt different.

  Catriona was sure that any moment the blowing mist would brighten and turn luminous with the sparkles said to hover near the enchanted standing stone. Even if—just now—the monolith looked no more sacred than an ordinary outcrop of quartz-shot granite.

  Soon all would change…

  Her pulse quickening, she touched the amber necklace at her throat and then withdrew a small leather pouch from beneath her cloak.

  “Once we’ve honored the Auld Ones, you”—she glanced at the two women beside her—“must choose your heathers. The rest—”

  “Makes my heart pound, it does.” Her good-sister, Isobel, rubbed her arms against the predawn chill. “To think we’re choosing our future husbands on the draw of a wee sprig of heather.”

  “Not all of us.” Marjory, often called Lady Norn, slipped off her shawl and swirled its warmth around Catriona’s shoulders. “One of us is very well wed and”—she smoothed the shawl’s woolen folds over Catriona’s cloak—“already increasing nicely, even if no one is yet supposed to comment on such barely there plumpness.”

  Catriona felt her cheeks color. “I’m not yet certain.”

  She was.

  But she’d been waiting for the right moment to tell James. He’d been so busy making plans with Alasdair and, more grudgingly, Kendrew to erect a memorial cairn on the field where they’d fought the trial by combat.

  “If you don’t know, I do.” Isobel’s dark gaze dipped to Catriona’s middle. She smiled then, her eyes twinkling. “I’ve seen you turn green each time Beathag sets smoked herring on the high table of a morn.”

  It was true. And at the mention of fish, Catriona had to stifle a shudder. “Then pretend you don’t notice, or you’ll have lost interest in choosing a bloom.”

  “O-o-oh, nae.” Isobel flicked her glossy black braid over one shoulder. “I want my heather.”

  “Lucky white heather, don’t forget.” Catriona loosened the ties of the leather pouch. “Unless you draw a red bloom and have to wed last.”

  Isobel’s smile didn’t fade. “The Bowing Stone is on Cameron land. It’s sure to help me pick the right sprig.” She slid a look at the third woman, a tall blonde with startling blue eyes. “Not wishing you ill fortune, Marjory.”

  “The Norse say destiny is everything.” Lady Norn shrugged good-naturedly. “I shall meet my future husband when I am meant to do so, not a moment before.”

  “And if you already know who you wish him to be?” Isobel sounded breathless. She stepped closer to the outcrop, her face almost glowing in her excitement. “What will you do then, h’mmm?”

  “I’ll wait, of course.” There was no question in Marjory’s tone. “As will he, I’m sure.”

  “Then let’s begin.” Catriona glanced at the setting moon, just visible through the whirling mist. Mist that suddenly glowed as if lit from within by tiny glimmering lights. “Look! We were right. This is the high corrie of the Bowing Stone.”

  On her words, the outcrop shivered, and before the women could blink, the jagged rocks vanished and the legendary standing stone stood in their place.

  Beautifully luminescent, the monolith speared heavenward, humming louder now, its runic-covered surface bright with the pearly sheen of ancient, much-blessed stone.

  “Hurry!” Catriona started forward. “We must go deiseal, in the direction of the sun, if we hope for the Bowing Stone’s blessing.”

  And so they went, holding hands and making three reverent circles around the benevolent stone. Tears shone on Isobel’s cheeks when at last the women halted and dropped to their knees on the cold, dew-kissed grass. Catriona and Marjory exchanged a look, already guessing who would pull the sprig of lucky white heather.

  Some things are meant to be.

  “Now, while the magic is strong.” Catriona rose, already opening her leather bag. “Who will draw first?” She offered the pouch to her friends, smiling when Marjory gave Isobel a nudge forward.

  “Oh, dear!” Isobel bit her lip, her eyes worried and her fingers shaking as she reached inside the bag. But when she withdrew the precious white heather—the only such sprig in the pouch—her face lit with a smile brighter than the sun.

  “Oh, dear!” she cried again, pressing the heather to her heart. “It is me! I shall be the next bride.” Her tears spilled freely now. “Dare I tell you who I hope to pers
uade to marry me?”

  Catriona and Marjory laughed.

  “You don’t have to tell us.” Marjory spoke for them both. “Anyone who helped tend the men after the battle would know. We all saw how you looked at my brother.

  “But I warn you”—Marjory’s smile belied her stern tone—“Kendrew is a wild one. You won’t have an easy time taming him. Though I do think you’ll not have any difficulties turning his head.”

  “Does he really dance naked on your dreagan stones?” Catriona glanced at Marjory. “I’ve always wanted to know if that tale is true.”

  Isobel blushed. “Catriona! He isn’t that crazed.”

  “He is, be prepared.” Marjory glanced at Catriona. “He does dance naked on the stones. All the stories you hear about him are true, every one.”

  “Oh, my.” Isobel’s eyes widened. But somehow, she didn’t look alarmed.

  Catriona and Marjory stepped forward together, hugging their friend. “If our blessing worked”—Catriona was the first to pull back, for the Bowing Stone had already turned again to its usual jumble of broken, lichened stone—“we’ll hope to celebrate another autumn wedding in the glen.”

  “I shall do my best.” Isobel tucked the white heather inside her bodice.

  “And I have something to help you.” Catriona lifted her hands to unfasten her amber necklace. “This”—she slipped the ambers around Isobel’s neck—“will protect you if the dreagans around Castle Nought get too restless and decide they want a bite of you.”

  “It will be my brother who’ll be after supping on her.” Marjory pulled her cloak tighter against the wind. “I’d suggest we return to Castle Haven now before all three of our brothers come looking for us.”

  But before they started down the hill, Isobel grabbed Catriona’s arm. “You know I can’t keep your necklace. I know it’s a clan heirloom and—”

  “So it is, aye.” Catriona patted her friend’s hand. “But you wear it in love and faith. James told me Gorm’s prophecy about the battle. It was that peace shall come to the glen when innocents die and gold covers the hills.