The Summer Star: One Legend, Three Enchanting Novellas (Legends of Scotland Book 2)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  “Come on, runt!” Fergus yelled back at her as they headed toward the starlit inn. “We haven’t got all night.”

  She heard Doug mutter, “I told ye this was a mistake.”

  “Shite, Cristy!” Morris jeered. “Ye won’t even catch a calf at that speed.”

  Hamish grumbled, “She’ll probably go for the bull and break her neck.”

  “I’m comin’,” she insisted, hobbling forward. “I’m just…I’m savin’ it for tonight.”

  Archibald, the oldest, shook his head. “We shouldn’t have brought her. I’ve got a bad feelin’ about this.”

  Cristy raised a determined chin as they gathered outside the inn. “I can do it. I’ll show ye.”

  “Sure ye will,” Morris sneered.

  “I will,” Cristy insisted.

  “If ye don’t get a coo,” Hamish threatened, “that’s it. No more taggin’ along like ye’re one of us.”

  His words crushed her. But she’d learned to hide that kind of pain long ago. The pain of not belonging.

  He was right. She wasn’t one of them. But after the death of her parents seven years ago, her uncle and her cousins were all she had. If she lost them…

  She gulped back her fear.

  She couldn’t afford to fail. So she forced a cocky smile to her lips. With a confidence she didn’t feel, she said, “I’ll do it. Ye just watch me.”

  Rolling his eyes, Fergus pushed open the door of the inn, and they all crowded inside.

  Last to enter, Cristy closed the door behind her and tossed back the hood of her brown arisaid, dragging out her long black braid. A merry fire crackled on the hearth. A handful of patrons sat at tables, laughing and drinking foamy cups of ale. Her cousins were quick to claim the largest table against the wall.

  Before she could slide onto the bench beside Archibald, Hamish flipped a silver coin onto the table in front of her. “Be a good lass, and fetch us all ales.”

  They unbuckled the wooden cups from their belts and set them on the table in front of her.

  Cristy snapped up the coin, took the five cups by their handles, and headed across the room to the bar, where the tavern wench was pulling ale.

  She set the coin and the cups on the bar, adding her own.

  When the woman turned toward her, Cristy gave a little gasp. She was the most beautiful lady Cristy had ever seen. Her skin glowed like a candle, and the tresses framing her face shone like spun gold. Her lips curved up as if she kept some delicious secret, and her eyes sparkled like the surface of a stream, in varying shades of blue, green, and silver. It was hard to say how old she was. She looked both as fresh as a newborn babe and as worldly as an ancient sage.

  Obviously, Cristy’s cousins hadn’t seen the breathtaking wench. If they had, they’d have fallen all over themselves for the privilege of speaking to her.

  “Good even,” the woman said. Even her voice was beautiful, like the soft, melodic tones of a harp. “I’m Brighde, at your service. What will ye—” She broke off abruptly. Black lightning flashed in her gaze, then vanished as quickly as it had struck. She was staring at Cristy’s bruise. “Where did ye get that?”

  Cristy raised her fingers to her cheek. She’d all but forgotten about her injury. She supposed she should have kept her face hidden so as not to trouble anyone.

  “’Tis naught,” she said with a shrug. “Just an acci-”

  But Brighde suddenly seized her wrist and pulled her forward. “Let me see.”

  Cristy scowled. How dare the woman grab her? And why was she making such a great fuss? It was only a black eye, after all.

  She tried to pull away, but Brighde was having none of it. The woman lifted Cristy’s chin to take a closer look. Then her eyes softened to the color of fog.

  Cristy wished she wouldn’t look at her like that, with kindness and pity. It made her uncomfortable. She squirmed out of Brighde’s grasp, avoiding the woman’s eyes. “Six ales, please.”

  With a nod, Brighde set out a tray and began to fill the cups from the tap. As she did, she dispensed an unwelcome bit of advice along with the ale. “Ye shouldn’t let them treat ye like that, orderin’ ye about like a servant.”

  Cristy blinked. What concern was it of a tavern wench’s how her cousins treated her? Unsure what to say, she smirked and shrugged. “They’re kin.”

  “Did one o’ them give ye that mark?” she asked, nodding at Cristy’s eye.

  “Nay,” Cristy said defensively.

  Brighde began filling the second cup. “But ‘twas a man. A man with a hot temper, aye?”

  Cristy frowned. She owed the woman no explanation. But somehow the words came tumbling out before she could stop them. “’Twas only my uncle. I tripped and spilled pottage on him.”

  Brighde placed the full cup on the tray, arching her perfect brows. “He clouted you—for an accident?”

  “I suppose so.” It did sound wrong when she said it like that. But Brighde didn’t know the situation. And Cristy didn’t feel like explaining that she’d always been a clumsy fool.

  Brighde was silent a long while as she filled three more cups. “So what are ye and your lads up to this even?”

  “Cristy!” Morris yelled. “What’s takin’ ye so bloody long?”

  “Comin’!” she shouted back. Then, because she was impatient with Brighde—who seemed to be taking her time and sticking her nose where it didn’t belong—Cristy snapped, “I don’t think ‘tis any o’ your bloody concern what I’m doin’ this even.”

  Instead of the shocked gasp Cristy expected, Brighde glanced up at her with a curious smile on her lips. “Well, they haven’t crushed all your spirit yet, have they?”

  Cristy furrowed her brows. What was that supposed to mean?

  “Ye know, lass, it doesn’t have to be like this,” Brighde said, placing the last cup before her.

  “Like what?”

  She leaned forward to whisper, “Tryin’ so hard to belong.”

  A queer tingling started at the back of Cristy’s neck. Brighde’s glittering eyes seemed to change color, shifting from green to blue and back again. Cristy felt as if the woman was reaching inside her mind, inside her soul, reading her thoughts and heart.

  “Change is on the horizon,” Brighde told her, penetrating deep into her eyes. “Your stars are about to transform. Fate hangs in the balance. Your fate.”

  Cristy had no idea what the woman was talking about, but something about Brighde’s words and the way she was staring made her shiver.

  Brighde reached out then and seized Cristy’s hand, placing it between both of hers. Cristy gasped. The woman’s palms were charged with some mysterious current, like the crackle of static in the north wind that preceded a shock. But Cristy couldn’t pull away.

  She knew she should be afraid. She could feel Brighde’s strength, her will, her force. And yet, gazing into the woman’s exquisite and kindly face, she felt no fear.

  “The star has chosen ye,” Brighde softly intoned. “The rest is in your hands. ‘Tis up to ye whether ye seize the day…” As if making her point, she released Cristy’s hand, “Or let it escape through your fingers.”

  Cristy glanced at her hand, half expecting it to be transformed into something else.

  With a gentle smile, Brighde placed the mugs full of ale on the tray and handed it to her. “Your future beckons,” she murmured. “Follow it, and ye may change your fate.”

  “Cristy!” shouted Hamish. “Move your arse!”

  She winced. “Comin’!”

  She turned to thank Brighde for the ales. But the woman had already moved away and was attending to a pair of gape-jawed drunks.

  Cristy picked her cautious way to the table. She didn’t want to trip over her own feet again.

  “What took ye so bloody long?” Archibald demanded, passing out the ales. He added in a mutter, “’Twill be midnight by the time we get to Macintosh’s.”

  He didn’t expect an answer, and she didn’t give him one. But as the lads gulped
their ale, elbowed each other, and made ribald remarks about the toothsome tavern wench they’d finally noticed behind the bar, Cristy was lost in her thoughts.

  Even after they left the inn for the long walk to the Macintosh holding, she couldn’t get the curious woman’s words out of her head.

  What had Brighde meant?

  What future was she talking about?

  Was she some kind of seer?

  Or was she only mad?

  They continued along the road by the long-lasting light of summer until they reached the narrow burn that divided the two properties—her uncle’s and Macintosh’s. From there, they’d leave the main road so as not to be spotted. It was still a long hike over heather-covered braes and through soggy bogs to reach the place near the tower house where the cattle bedded down for the night.

  But if what Brighde had said was true—if Cristy’s fate would change tonight—she didn’t intend to let anything, even her twisted ankle, prevent her from making the journey.

  Chapter 2

  “Where are ye goin’, Da?” wee Colin asked as Brochan buckled on his sword over his white leine and black trews. The lad’s brows were furrowed, and his five-year-old eyes looked fretful.

  Brochan hunkered down and clasped the lad’s wee shoulder.

  “Nowhere. Just out to the fields. Now I’m countin’ on ye lads to keep watch while I’m gone.” He reached over to squeeze Cambel’s shoulder as well. Then he glanced up and gave his man, Rauf, a wink.

  Cambel didn’t look convinced. He glanced at Brochan’s sword. “How long will ye be gone, Da?”

  “Och, not long at all.”

  Brochan exchanged a meaningful look with Rauf. He hoped he wouldn’t be long. If they returned, he was determined to catch the damned reivers tonight.

  He was convinced now the tavern wench was right. It was reivers who’d taken his cows. The nasty thieves had already stolen five of them in as many days. Tonight he would stand watch over the herd. If the villains tried to strike again, he’d be ready for them.

  “Why can’t I come, Da?” Colin asked, his green eyes serious. “I’ll be careful around the coos.”

  “Me too,” Cambel chimed in. “And I’m not afraid o’ the dark.”

  Brochan smiled and ruffled the twins’ unruly auburn hair that looked so like their mother’s. “Ye’re two brave lads, that’s for sure. But I need ye here. After all, ye can’t expect Rauf to watch o’er the keep all by himself.”

  “That’s right,” Rauf said, lowering his gray brows to give them a stern frown. “’Tis up to us to guard the house.”

  Rauf’s wife, Mabel, called out from where she was tending the fire. “I’m countin’ on ye braw lads to keep me safe.”

  Brochan grinned at that. Keep her safe indeed. Mabel was as big as a tree, as strong as an ox, and as unyielding as iron. If required, she could probably roust the entire English army from the tower house.

  In fact, once she heard about Brochan’s intentions to waylay the reivers, Mabel had offered to go after the good-for-naught knaves herself. But Brochan wasn’t about to let her tangle with outlaws. She was too valuable as a cook and a nursemaid to his sons to be risking her life over such nonsense.

  Brochan was grateful Rauf and Mabel had come with him to this new holding. The loyal servants had been with him since the lads were born. He didn’t know what he’d do without them.

  This battle with the reivers, however, was Brochan’s. He was fairly sure that reiving his cattle was his unfriendly neighbors’ attempt to chase him off.

  It wouldn’t work. He was determined to stay. He’d come too far and surrendered too much to go back now. He wouldn’t let a few hostile neighbors frighten him away, especially since he had no intention of returning to the place where he’d met and married his beloved wife. There were too many painful reminders of her there.

  It was best he make a fresh start. On this sizeable plot of land with its grassy, rolling braes and its thick forests, its lovely winding burn and its crumbling-but-reparable tower house, he could raise his sons in peace—far away from their mother’s kin, who, though they never spoke of it aloud, silently blamed the twins for her death.

  Brochan gave Cambel and Colin a kiss on the brow. How anyone could blame his two precious sons for anything so tragic, he didn’t know.

  “Ye do what Rauf tells ye now,” he reminded them.

  The lads nodded. Brochan straightened, adjusting his sword belt. He wore his sword out of habit. He doubted he’d need a weapon. The reivers were likely just a couple of lads up to mischief.

  They would quickly learn that Brochan Macintosh was not a man to sit idly by while his cattle were picked off. A stern word from him about the foolishness of stealing from one’s neighbor and the return of his cows should set the matter to rights.

  The evening air was mild and pleasant. The sky was still not fully dark as he headed down the steep slope of the motte toward the glen where the cows usually spent the night. The dark green pines of the forest were etched in jagged silhouettes against the violet sky. Stars were just emerging, sprinkled like salt across the heavens. Thistles of starlit purple studded the grass like gems.

  The crickets stopped chirping as he hiked across the spongy loam. In the well-grazed pasture, he could make out the rough, dark shapes of horned black cows slumbering on the sod.

  Angling across the brae, he found a good vantage point where he could hide in a clump of tall heather and view the whole glen. He settled onto his seat on the damp ground, rested his arms on his raised knees, and narrowed his eyes at the herd below.

  The crickets gradually resumed their singing. Now and then a cow would stir, raising its shaggy head and lowering it again. Brochan sat as still as stone while the moon slowly moved across the sky.

  As always, when he was alone and unoccupied, memories of his wife seeped into his thoughts. Even after five years, he missed her. He hated to admit it was getting harder and harder to remember her face. But the features their sons had inherited from her—her reddish-brown hair, her freckled nose, her stubborn chin—haunted him. It was a blessing the lads had been born with green eyes like Brochan’s, for he didn’t think he could endure seeing his wife’s merry sky-blue eyes every day.

  He still wasn’t past blaming himself for her death. Recalling her pale and shivering body as she delivered their second twin with her last breath, he felt crushing guilt, even though he’d done everything he could to save her life. Everything except stay away from her bed in the first place.

  He swallowed the lump in his throat. It was too late for regrets now. She was gone, and he’d never find another like her. He had to do the best he could for their sons on his own.

  As he surveyed the great glen that was now part of his holding, his eye caught on a curious star he hadn’t seen before above the distant brae. It was lower than the others. And though it appeared motionless in the sky, a long stream of light trailed after it like a tail.

  A comet, he realized in wonder. He hadn’t seen a comet since he was a lad. He’d never seen one so vivid nor so close to the earth. Now he wished he had brought Colin and Cambel out to the field with him.

  He narrowed his eyes. If it was like the comet he’d seen before, it would appear every night for several days as it slowly crossed the heavens. He’d be sure to show it to his sons tomorrow night then, just as his father had done for him all those years ago.

  Most people believed that comets were a portent of things to come. Some thought they brought bad luck. Some thought they were harbingers of good fortune.

  Brochan figured they were no more than an interesting feature in the night sky that men could only partly understand, like falling stars or eclipses. Still, if the comet wished to bring him good luck, he’d be grateful for the return of his cattle.

  His eyes shifted suddenly as they caught movement coming from the edge of the woods. He stiffened. He could make out the shadowy shapes of six cloaked figures stealing out of the forest, not forty yards away.
<
br />   Brochan moved his hand to the hilt of his sword. Maybe it was good he’d brought it after all. Never had he imagined he’d have to deal with an entire army of reivers.

  At the edge of the trees, they all stopped, all but the smallest one. That one continued to slowly advance. The reiver had chosen his target carefully. The lone cow was at a little distance from the rest of the herd, at a good distance from the bull, and she had no calf with her.

  In the same way the reiver meant to separate the cow from the herd to make it easier to capture, Brochan could separate the lad from the rest of his companions. If he could steal down the brae without being spotted, he could easily grab the thief and use him as leverage to quell the rest of his fellows.

  The reiver clearly knew what he was doing. He took his time, letting the cows adjust to his presence, and headed in a straight line toward his target. Though Brochan couldn’t make out the words, he could hear the lad’s low, soothing murmurs as he calmed the cattle.

  Slowly, Brochan eased up from the ground, creeping forward through the heather, keeping his eyes trained on his prey.

  Then a curious thing happened. The reiver stopped abruptly, went silent, and straightened.

  Brochan realized the lad was staring at the sky.

  He’d seen the star.

  Brochan glanced toward the other reivers. They were pointing at the comet and jostling each other, as though arguing over it.

  Finally, one of them hissed at the lone reiver in the moonlight, beckoning him.

  But the reiver stood frozen in the field, awestruck.

  While they were thus distracted, Brochan made his swift way down the rise.

  He was no more than twenty yards away when the tallest reiver spotted him. The lad cursed and shoved at his companions, and the lot of them retreated under the trees.

  All of them but the reiver in the field, who paid no heed to their calls or Brochan’s presence. The lad lingered in the moonlight, transfixed by the comet, as Brochan crept closer and closer.

  Cristy stared, struck dumb by the vision in the heavens.

  What was that? A star? Or something else?