Taming the Highlander

by May McGoldrick

  “With Bryce gone, the priest stepped in. Fingal knew Shona, and he had no love for her. He decided it was no accident. He’d heard her threaten to hurt the child she carried, to punish Bryce,” she said. “I stayed quiet when Fingal said Shona’s death was a suicide. I said nothing when they buried her in the fields in the dark of night. I knew the truth, but remained silent. I feared for myself.”

  Wynda lifted her eyes to Conall and Bryce.

  “Innes can tell you that I’ve spoken the truth. But I’m also telling the truth when I say I’m ashamed of my silence. I was afraid. I didn’t have enough faith in my own people to believe me. So I allowed Shona . . . I allowed that child . . . to be buried . . .”

  Emotions overwhelmed her. She let go of Innes’s hand and stood up. Fighting back a flood of tears, she looked up at Bryce.

  “You are the laird. I wronged your wife and your bairn . . . and you. I’ve brought scandal to our people. I wronged the Sinclairs,” she said in a broken voice. “Your judgment, whatever it might be . . . your punishment . . . I will accept. I . . .”

  Ailein came forward and took her into her arms. Wynda could no longer hold back the tears. She cried for loved ones she again might lose.

  Innes joined her sister, and Wynda felt her touch.

  “First of all,” Bryce spoke up, drawing their attention. He stood next to his brother. “We’ll have the body of Shona and the child moved to the crypt.”

  Conall nodded in agreement.

  “What will you say to Fingal?” Wynda asked.

  “I believe after what he saw at the oratory, he will not question me,” Innes said gently. “We can tell him I know the truth, and that it was an accident. That should be enough for him.”

  Clutching the hands of the two women at her side, Wynda looked up at Bryce and Conall. “And what of my punishment?”

  Bryce looked at Conall and then back at her. “You will remain here to guide and protect the next generation of Sinclairs. Where would we be without you?”

  Chapter 30

  A hush fell over the congregation as the sound of a lone bagpipe commenced. Straining for a first glimpse of his bride, Conall squinted toward the brilliant light spilling through the open doorway. He did not have long to wait.

  Innes and her father entered the chapel, and Conall froze at the sight, unaware of anything but her and the drumming of his own heart.

  Innes’s hair hung loose beneath a jeweled coronet. Her gray eyes flashed with her love as they focused on him, and her gown of ivory, ornately embroidered with threads of gold, glittered as she crossed the threshold. The heat of a thousand suns rushed into Conall’s face as he gazed upon the beauty advancing toward him.

  Moments later, Hector Munro delivered Innes’s steady hand into Conall’s and, beaming proudly, retreated to his place with his family.

  Fingal started the prayers, then encouraged the two to exchange their vows of love and fidelity, before God and their community.

  What the Lord hath joined, let no man put asunder.

  After he thoroughly kissed his bride, the Sinclairs and Munros and other guests approached the altar, congratulating them. After the night of their betrothal and the welcome by his clan, Conall was far more at ease with the attention. And it warmed his heart to watch the Sinclair warriors, one by one, pledge to protect Innes as they welcomed her into the clan.

  When Kenna and Alexander Macpherson approached to congratulate them, Innes told them the news. “Conall and I decided yesterday. We’ll be joining you to search for Muirne MacDonnell.”

  The Macphersons had learned weeks earlier the name of the woman who supposedly possessed the last relic. It was only rumor, but it gave them a place to start looking. Even if it were correct that Muirne was the one, her exact whereabouts were unknown, except that she’d been last seen at the Shrine of the Cloak in Monyabroch. Their intention was to begin the hunt there.

  Kenna hugged Innes. “I’m very glad. Our chances of defeating that qualling blackguard will be so much better if we fight him together.”

  Sometime later, when Conall and Innes finally made their way out of the chapel into a courtyard filled with friends and family, they were greeted with the melodious sounds of pipers and pealing bells. Laughing children from the villages, dressed in new clothes and wreaths of greenery, danced around them as Bryce and Ailein joined the procession through the crowds to the Great Hall, where a sumptuous feast awaited everyone.

  As soon as all were seated at the tables and the celebrating began, Conall leaned over and kissed her lips.

  “There will be no escorting us out of the hall,” he said. “No waiting for bed linens. No busybodies outside our door.”

  “I love the fear you instill in them.”

  “And you’ll not leave this hall without me,” he whispered in her ear. “And you will not have Jinny undress and prepare you for bed. That is a duty I insist on performing for my wife.”

  She smiled mischievously. “How soon do you think we can leave? Jinny looks quite anxious to be about her duties.” She nodded toward the serving woman, who was sitting next to Duff and laughing.

  Conall turned back to Innes. “Would now be a good time?”

  Taking her hand, Conall pulled her to her feet, and the two ran from the hall to the cheers of the assembly.

  “They weren’t even surprised.” She laughed, running to keep up with him.

  “Considering our reputations, I believe they were thrilled that we allowed any of them in the chapel.”

  Reaching the West Tower, Conall swept her up into his arms and carried her to their apartments.

  “Where’s Thunder?” she asked.

  “Duff has him locked in his work area for the night.”

  They could hear the wolf scratching at the door.

  “Ignore him,” Conall said. “He has a bed, water, food. He’ll be fine.”

  He carried her up the steps to their bedchamber and kicked the door closed behind them. Depositing her gently on the bed, he kissed her slowly, his mouth lingering on hers with a tangible promise of what was to come.

  “Don’t go anywhere,” he said with a smile, crossing the room and coming back with two cups of wine.

  The candlelit chamber was adorned in a style befitting a royal couple. Everywhere Innes looked, she saw signs of Wynda and Ailein’s thoughtfulness and taste. Every table held stoneware vases of budding flowers and greenery. A multitude of dishes of every imaginable food, prepared with care, were presented with artistic flourish. Pitchers of wine sat amid a sparkling collection of crystal goblets.

  “You allowed them into your lair.”

  “It’s our lair now,” he reminded her, putting the cups aside and removing her coronet. “Just the two of us, locked away here for days.”

  “I love the thought of being locked up with you anywhere.”

  He combed his fingers into her hair, pulling her head back and gazing into her face, her eyes. And then, his lips were on hers. Suddenly she wanted to lose herself in him, drown in him. Her body arched against him, her breasts aching to be free of the tight wedding garments, aching as she pressed against his hard body, aching for his touch.

  With their mouths still locked together, Conall yanked at the laces of her gown. She helped him, loosening the garment, tugging at the bodice, fighting the confinement, until the gown dropped from her body and she stood before him wearing just her silk shift.

  She didn’t hesitate but began to help him to remove his clothes. The gold Sinclair brooch was undone. With one motion, Conall ducked out of the leather strap and the scarf of Sinclair plaid that crisscrossed his white shirt. The shirt was gone in an instant, tossed carelessly aside.

  Conall was wearing only his kilt when she remembered the special gift she had for him.

  “Wait. Wait,” she chirped, slipping around him and running to the chair where she’d hidden it. “I have something for you.”

  “Do you need to give it to me now?” he asked smiling, pulling back the covers
.

  She hurried back to the bed, climbing up and placing it on the linen sheets.

  He stared at the miniature chess set and smiled. “It’s beautiful.”

  “I had Duff carve the pieces. We can take it with us when we travel.”

  “You know how much I love chess . . . but playing it in bed?”

  “It’s not chess.”

  He stared at the set. “The same board. The same pieces. Do they move the same?”

  “They do.” Innes looked at him coyly, edging around the board closer to him. “But the rules are different.”

  “How?”

  “Let’s play. I’ll show you.” She moved a pawn on the board. “Each move is a kiss.” She leaned toward him and kissed his lips before sitting back.

  Conall’s gaze drifted over her, causing her to shiver. He made a countermove and dropped his head to kiss the curve of her breast just above the silk shift. Her breath caught in her chest.

  “I like this game,” he murmured.

  “I thought you would.” She slid the next piece across the board, leaned over, and kissed his chest, letting her mouth linger.

  He answered her move and pulled the shift off her shoulders and downward ever so slowly. When her breast was free, he kissed her nipple. She moaned with pleasure.

  “I more than like this game. I love your creativity.” He removed his kilt and sat completely naked now on the bed. “What happens if I capture a piece?”

  She looked at his body, her face ablaze, liquid heat running through her. “You’ll have to wait until you capture one. Then I’ll tell you.”

  On his next move, he pulled the shift down to her waist. He touched his lips to the faint scar beneath her breast, all that remained from the sword wound that nearly took her life. The sparks that ignited at his kiss flew through her.

  “I love your scar,” he said softly.

  Two moves later, he captured a pawn.

  “Very well,” she whispered. “And now, an erotic caress.”

  His hand started at her knee, then moved along the inside of her leg under the shift until it reached the juncture. He touched her, teased her. Innes stopped breathing.

  She could take no more of this. Pushing him onto his back, she climbed up, straddling him. As he entered her, she vaguely heard the chess set flying to the floor.

  Later, when they were both spent from their lovemaking and she was sprawled across his chest, Conall chuckled.

  “What?” she asked.

  “I never had the chance to ask what happens when you put your opponent in check, never mind checkmate.”

  She laughed. “Let’s play again and find out.”

  They peered over the end of the bed, looking for the chess set.

  A large gray wolf lay on the floor, happily chewing the pieces. He looked up, a knight protruding from his mouth.

  “Bloody hell, Thunder.”

  Author’s Note

  We’re absolutely thrilled to have presented you Innes and Conall’s story, the second installment in our Scottish Relic Trilogy. We hope you also enjoyed your brief visit with Kenna and Alexander from Much Ado About Highlanders.

  In Tempest in the Highlands, the exciting conclusion of the trilogy, unseen forces play a hand in shaping the combined destinies of the women who possess the power of the stone tablets.

  So, join us as Kenna, Alexander, Innes, Conall, and our new heroes—Miranda MacDonnell and Rob Hawkins—travel to the western islands of Scotland in a deadly race with Sir Ralph Evers to find the final spoke in the Wheel of Lugh.

  As many of our readers know, we never seem to be able to let our characters go. Often, the people you meet in our stories show up in other tales. Be sure to check the family tree on our website for connections.

  Finally, we need a favor. If you enjoyed this book, please leave a review of Taming the Highlander . . . and recommend it to your friends. You, the reader, have the power to make or break this book. We greatly appreciate your support!

  All the best!

  You can contact us at:

  www.MayMcGoldrick.com

  Read a sneak preview of the last installment of May McGoldrick’s Scottish Relic Trilogy, Tempest in the Highlands.

  Tempest in the Highlands

  Shrine of the Cloak

  Monyabroch, Scotland

  “Fire.”

  Miranda sat up in panic. On the cot beside her, her mother rocked stiffly, her eyes staring off into the smoky darkness of the hostel. The word came from Muirne MacDonnell’s lips, but she was locked in the fixed, trancelike state that Miranda had seen so many times.

  “Fire . . . burning,” Muirne whispered, unaware of the dozens of other pilgrims sleeping around them.

  Miranda touched her mother’s face. It was hot. Feverishly hot.

  “Houses burning. Churches. Smoke. Edinburgh is in flames.”

  Only a handful of the travelers in this room were MacDonnells. Regardless, Miranda couldn’t rely on any of them for help. None knew of Muirne’s visions. And how they came true.

  A single line of moonlight streamed past the edge of a shuttered window, cutting a swath across the sleeping women. But for the occasional restlessness and the soft snores, the chamber was still. Beyond the whitewashed stone walls on either side, room after room overflowed with pilgrims.

  Every spring they came to the Shrine of the Cloak. Crutches littered the floor between the sleeping travelers. Many traveled long distances. The lame, the blind, the sick, the desperate, the faithful. They all came to the shrine for help, believing one touch of the saint’s cloak would heal them.

  Miranda caressed Muirne’s face and pulled her mother against her, hoping to ease her gently from the spell. Time was an obscure element in these visions. Perhaps when she awakened, they’d know more of what she’d seen.

  Her gaze fell on an old woman sitting against the wall. Dark eyes watched them. Lips moved as she prayed her rosary.

  At eighteen, Miranda knew how dangerous it was to expose her mother to suspicion of being possessed or, worse, to charges of witchcraft. This was all explainable. She was having a nightmare, that’s all.

  Muirne clutched at her arm, her eyes wide. The next wave of the nightmare she was wrapped in, was ready to consume her. “They’re here.”

  Any further thought of explaining fled. Springing from the cot, Miranda rushed between the beds to the shuttered window. Pushing it open, she looked out past the gate at the end of the inn’s courtyard.

  Muirne was right, as always. Even from this vantage point, she saw them in the distance, coming over a hill on the river road. A seemingly endless line of torches, a glittering serpent slithering through the night toward the shrine.

  Travelers around the room stirred. A woman raised her head in the darkness a few feet away.

  “Gather your things,” Miranda cried out. “Everyone. We must go. We must all leave here now.”

  Moving between the cots, she shoved the shoulder of one, then the next, shaking them.

  “Wake up,” she shouted, going to the door and pulling it open. “Quickly. Gather your things and run to the north. We’re under attack.”

  Miranda helped an old woman to her feet.

  “Go and rouse the men,” she said to a girl. “Soldiers. English soldiers are almost upon us. They’ll burn the shrine, pillage the town. Kill us all.”

  A woman cried out from the window. “She’s right. I see them!”

  The room erupted in panic.

  Women streamed out the door and down the steps into the courtyard. From the men’s rooms came shouts as word reached them.

  A toddler wailed as people stampeded around her. Miranda lifted the child into her arms. A blind nun stumbled, pushed from behind. Miranda rushed forward, putting her body in the path of the chaos, giving her room to get back on her feet. The child’s mother found her, and the toddler dove into her embrace.

  Miranda turned around. The room was empty. She snatched their bag and cloaks and held tight to Muirne’s ar
m. “Come on, Mother. We must go now.”

  Surrounded by other pilgrims, they hurried through the village. As they went along, word spread quickly to other inns and hostels. Before they reached the northern edge of the town, crowds had begun to pour out into the muddy roads.

  Miranda and her mother reached the fields and started the climb into the hills. Folk spread out across the rising meadowland, and in the moonlight she realized that hundreds must have taken flight.

  As they reached the crest of the ridge that formed the river valley, Miranda stopped and looked back.

  Other pilgrims around them stopped and looked back, as well. The line of soldiers was already in the village. Torchbearers branched out in smaller streams, racing among the buildings. Almost immediately, the fires began to appear.

  “By the Virgin, they’re burning the shrine!” a voice cried out. “The devils are burning the shrine.”

  “Who sounded the alarm?” someone asked. “Who saw them coming?”

  The crowd grew quiet, and then a thin voice broke the silence. “Her.”

  Miranda recognized her. The old woman praying her rosary at the hostel.

  “That one.” She lifted her bony finger. “Muirne from Tarbert Castle. The wife of the MacDonnell laird, Angus. She saw it in her dream.”

  Beneath the sinking moon, faces turned to look at them.

  Miranda’s stomach tightened. A lifetime of secrecy ruined.

  Wrapping her cloak around her mother and pulling it up over her head, Miranda said nothing but turned Muirne toward the west. Together, they moved off into the darkness for the long journey home.

  The English army burned and pillaged at will. Edinburgh, the abbey at Holyroodhouse, and the king’s palace. Leith, Craigmillar, Newbattle Abbey, the Chapel of Our Lady, Preston town and castle, Hatintown with the friary and nunnery, and many others. The invaders spared no castle, town, pile, or village until they had overthrown and destroyed them . . . and at great loss of life.

  One place stood apart in the rampage. Every pilgrim at the Shrine of the Cloak escaped. The miracle was attributed to a woman with the sight. To a woman who had seen the future.