Highland Dragon

by Kimberly Killion

  “I’ll meet ye in the hall, m’laird.” She quietly left her solar.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “God’s teeth, son! King James makes ye an offer ye cannae refuse. I fear the peasant has bewitched ye to the point ye cannae think rationally.” The insult freely tossed came from Calin’s uncle Kerk. Deft fingers combed through graying temples in an obvious attempt to ease the tension writhing his brain.

  “Your tongue is disrespectful, Uncle. Dinnae forget I am laird now. I am nay longer requesting your approval, so much as soliciting your aid,” Calin responded, his tone obstinate.

  Akira’s patience had swelled, peaked, and snapped hours prior. She’d pushed back every cuticle of every fingernail and now worried if she didn’t relieve herself soon, that part of her would burst as well. Fidgeting, she sat alone at the low table and continued to listen to the men quibble. Not a single subject had been rectified in over three hours of debate, and they sounded like a gaggle of cackling hens. Kendrick had ceased trying to make Calin’s council see reason and was now drowning himself in spirits.Three of the five prune-faced elders sitting behind the high table on the raised dais had held council status within the clan for decades. Gordon, the youngest of these five, voiced his convictions often and without qualms. His opinion didn’t favor Akira’s marriage to Calin. The eldest dozed in and out of sleep. Drool seeped from the corner of his mouth into an unkempt white beard and from time to time, he sat upright and hollered, “Aye.”

  Calin and his uncle Kerk squabbled mindlessly and the verbal battle had reached a blockade.

  “Ye’ve a greater purpose now,” Kerk continued. “A union with Catriona would be advantageous to the greater good o’

  Scotland. Your decision to defy King James will not go unpunished for any of us living on MacLeod soil. Have ye nay reverence for your kin? All will suffer from your selfish tirade.”

  Calin slammed his fist onto the alabaster council table. The jarring noise reverberated off the stone walls and flipped Akira’s innards upside down. She peeked up at her husband and saw the anger in his stance—narrowed eyes, fisted hands, legs wide and locked. She’d never seen him so full of rage.

  “Selfish tirade? I’ve lived my entire life with a single goal driving me through my mundane existence. To protect the livelihood of this clan.”

  “Ye dinnae crave the alliance for the protection of your people,” Kerk retorted. One bushy brow rose over his accusing dark eyes. “Ye seek the alliance to avenge your father’s death. Our feud with our neighbor is not over land, and ye weel know it.

  ’Tis blood. The blood o’ my brother. Have ye so quickly forgotten Laird Kinnon murdered your father?”

  Akira’s breath caught in her throat. The Beast killed Calin’s father? She shot Kendrick a questioning scowl. He looked away.

  “I’ve not forgotten and dinnae accuse me of doing so.” Calin peered at her from the corner of his eye. She sensed he hadn’t wanted the secrets of his father’s death divulged in such a manner, but her gut told her to trust her husband.

  “Then appease your king and marry Catriona. Keep Akira as your leman, if ye so desire.”

  Akira choked on the acidic repulsion filling her throat. Kerk’s suggestion was utter madness. Just as she thought the words, Calin acted on them. He lunged across the table, knocking pewter goblets to the floor. Both hands clutched Kerk’s throat while he asked his saints for stoicism.

  Unable to watch the men behave like their barbarian ancestors, Akira bolted upright from her chair. “Cease!”

  The five elders sitting at the high table studied her as if she’d fallen from the sky. Even Dougall snapped awake and wiped the slobber from his chin. Had they even known she was still there? Calin’s cheeks were red with fury and his uncle Kerk’s face had gone pallid beneath the clutches of her husband’s rigid fingers.

  “I’ve a proposition for ye. Unhand your uncle, m’laird, and hear me.” Trying to control the uneven cadence of her pounding heart, Akira smoothed her kirtle and clasped her hands to keep them from trembling. Calin was wrong. His refusal to annul their marriage put too many lives in jeopardy, including his own. She couldn’t bear the penalty. Akira swallowed hard.

  “Your arrogance has hindered your memories, m’lords. Might I remind ye King James brought down the Lord o’ the Isles less than a decade ago. Ye would be acting self-righteous to believe ye can ignore his requisition. I dinnae wish to defy him, causing the ruination of life as we know it. King James seeks peace, as do I. If ye will agree to send your warriors to my brother’s aid and rid Clan Kinnon of their laird, I’ll agree to the annulment and return to Kinnon soil.”

  “Aye.” Six voices voted.

  “Nay,” Calin declined in unison.

  Akira bowed her head and accepted the vote while her heart cleaved in two. “Your council has spoken, m’laird. Ye must respect their decision.”

  Akira held herself tall and departed the hall, but the moment she passed beneath the archway, she ran for the solitude of her solar as quickly as her brogues would carry her. Tears soaked the blue and green sash she wore so proudly.

  “Ye should be ashamed o’ yourselves.” Calin’s aunt Wanda rounded the entranceway and seated every man with a piercing gaze. Dark-red fiery tresses framed the ire burning in her cheeks. Calin sensed the wrath she was about to unleash would topple the devil’s battalion. Though unaware of how long she’d listened to their deliberations, he could only hope she sided with him. He needed an ally.

  “That woman”—she pointed at the empty archway—“is the Lady o’ Cànwyck Castle and ye treat her with no more reverence than a pocked beggar. She has displayed more courage and nobility in two months’ time than any one o’ ye has delivered in a decade.” Wanda filled her lungs with air, glared at Uncle Kerk, and redirected her long finger at him. “And ye. It galls me to call ye husband. Ye may as weel have branded her a whore. I’ve the mind to take a blade to your bollocks and have Mattie cook them slowly over the spit. Ye’ve nay use for them. Ye have displayed nay courage in the titles ye bear. Nay loyalty to your kinswomen.”

  Wanda crossed her arms over her breast and paced in front of the high table of gawping men. “Did any of ye know our Elsbeth had a husband when she came here?” Wanda didn’t give them time to answer. “Nay. Ye cared not a wit to inquire. Ye married her off to a mon who lays with her sister. The same whore ye’ve all probably bedded down with. Including ye.”

  Uncle Kerk’s adam’s apple slid up and down while his eyes rounded. “Darling, ye—”

  “Dinnae darling me, ye addleheaded arse. Think ye King James is a force to be reckoned with. Wait till your women hear o’ your decision. Ye will all wish ye had unsheathed your swords for m’lady’s place here with us. The children adore her, and she has bonded our kinswomen over the making of a quilt. A quilt I wager none of ye has laid eyes on. Weel, I for one think it is beautiful, and it represents the one thing ye auld fools have neglected—devotion.” Her eyes narrowed yet further. “Ye are worthless men. Ye think with your cocks and not with your minds. Weel, I hope your cocks keep ye warm at night, for your kinswomen will not.” Aunt Wanda ended her tirade with one final comment. “I trust by morn the brilliant leaders of Clan MacLeod will see the error in choosing the path your King James has conveniently laid for ye. Otherwise, I’ll gather the women. Fare ye weel… darling. ” The word oozed off her tongue, just before she twirled out of the hall with dignified grace. Calin was aghast. Women held more power in the tips of their wee fingers than any warlord he’d ever known. A tinge of hope rekindled behind his breastbone.

  Kerk appeared ill, his face ashen, his hands cupped over his groin.

  Kendrick grinned, and Calin was thankful for his presence.

  “Weel. What say ye to that, Uncle?” Calin crossed his arms and gloated as if he’d just defeated England single-handedly. He always did like Aunt Wanda.

  “’Tis horseshite,” Uncle Kerk grumbled. “Women. They’ll be the death o’ Scotland.”

&n
bsp; “Aye. Horseshite indeed,” Calin agreed. “But your lady wife has ye by the—”

  “Dinnae say it,” Uncle Kerk bit off his words. “I suspect we must find a way to keep your lassie part of our kin. Else, we find our bollocks skewered over the spit, as my darling wife so delicately explained. What do ye propose, son?” Kerk passed a flagon of whisky to one of the elders.

  “We issue a plea for military aid to every MacLeod warrior in Scotland—from the Outer Hebrides to the few scattered over the Lowlands. Laird Kinnon’s militia is not a force to be taken lightly, but some of the men who walk among him are rebellious. We can have five warriors to his every one within a fortnight, and Logan Donald’s kinsmen are eager to lend aid now. We’ve only to light the torch and The Beast will have his war.”

  “And the king? How do ye intend to appease him?”

  “I am nay concerned with King James’ threat. The Highland Lords will rally against the crown on a dare, and this time I will take up my sword without guilt to fight with the royalists.”

  Uncle Kerk nodded once, the look of determination in his eyes reflected the warrior Calin knew still lived inside him. Their deliberations continued until the pink light of dawn peeked through the stained-glass window of Saint Aidan. Too many warriors sacrificed their lives over the years to the ongoing feud between their clans. The council didn’t intend to lunge into a war with The Beast’s army haphazardly. Though Kendrick spent years building the rebellion, the majority of Laird Kinnon’s warriors still pledged fealty to The Beast and an even bigger disadvantage would be Laird Kinnon’s Lowland kin. Because Laird Kinnon had not fought alongside the royalist against the crown, he would have the king’s support if he sought it. Uncle Kerk rubbed both eyes with one hand. “We will summon military tacticians on the morrow and begin warfare strategies upon their arrival. Grant the blacksmith a staff for artillery preparation. The hunters will need to prepare for a militia of nigh five hundred men. A warrior cannae fight on an empty stomach.”

  “Unless ye’ve the mind to fill their bellies with raw meat, our wives will need to employ the aid of our kinswomen to offer suitable hospitality,” Calin offered, anxious to conclude their session.

  His uncle blew a snort of air, half chuckle, half dread. “Our women will need to be placated. This battle I fear may be the most difficult of all.” Kerk stood and stretched his back. “We rest now. Go to your wife, son. We will reconvene midday.”

  Calin didn’t argue. His lids were heavy and his body frail with exhaustion. He hadn’t slept in three days. Crawling the stairwell of the west wing, he heard the cock crow.

  The door to his solar squeaked open.

  The curtains had not been drawn around the bed. Akira lay in the middle of the mattress, her raven hair spread atop the bolster, and the fan of her black lashes splayed over her cheek. He took a step closer and looked past her bare shoulder peeking out from beneath the coverlet. Clutched tightly in both hands beneath her chin was the blue and green sash Akira had worn since the day of their wedding.

  He freed himself of his garments and slipped beneath the covers. Her smooth, milky skin felt like silk against his worn hands.

  She turned into him, her eyes awake, alert, and filled with worry.

  He kissed her and tasted her tears. He wanted to tell her she had nothing to fear, but mostly he wanted her to understand how much she meant to him.

  “I’m not giving ye up, my love. We are going to war.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “’Tis a wealth o’ tellin’ ye blather about, wench.” Laird Kinnon exhaled between rotting teeth. The smell of his repugnant breath cut through the icy air and made Catriona’s gut quiver. One filthy hand scratched his grimy beard, while the other did the same beneath his plaid. The Scot displayed the manners of a goat and his acrid stench ate through her nostrils like poison.

  Catriona wouldn’t have sought aid from Laird Kinnon if Wanda MacLeod hadn’t ruined a decision weighing heavily in her favor. Calin’s new wife possessed the ability to rapt people at will. The witch held Calin and his kin under the influence of black magic and Catriona needed a stronger ally to eliminate the peasant. Then she would never have to return to England or her father again. Catriona envisioned herself at Calin’s side after the bitch burned for heresy. Then all would be as before. The butcher’s son proved ever loyal to her and most informative. Not only did she know when and how Calin intended to attack, but also his intent to have her apprehended and sent to King James for crimes against kin and country. With little choice, she had fled to the foothills with Ian and his brother. But the abandoned cot-house filled with animal feces and infestation were not accommodations suitable to her tastes. A sennight later, Catriona convinced her lovers to escort her onto Kinnon soil. The accommodations had not improved.

  Now, Ian and his brother occupied a small chamber beneath the Kinnon keep where they had been stripped and chained to the stone floor. Catriona found herself at the mercy of Laird Kinnon and his mercenaries. Pitch torches flickered along the dank walls of the grotto and the rhythmic patter of rodents played a horrid tune in her ears. The leather straps binding her wrists behind her back made her fingers numb, and Catriona feared she’d made a grave mistake. A chair, like none she’d ever seen, sat in the center of the antechamber. Sharp iron spikes protruded from every surface and the brown discoloration of aged blood painted the metal. Blades, axes, saws, metal hooks—all hung from brackets in the stone walls. When Laird Kinnon retrieved an iron claw from the selection of torture mechanisms, terror spiraled up her spine. She backed away from him and into the solid chest of a guard.

  “I vow what I speak is the truth. The MacLeod plans to attack your fortress come the next full moon.” Looking into Laird Kinnon’s black eyes, Catriona repeated the information in an effort to divert his attentions from the device in his gloved hand.

  “The MacLeod has tried to plunder my holdings afore and has always failed. I dinnae fear his militia. With the information ye’ve so eagerly provided, my warriors will crush him before he crosses Loch Ceardach.” Laird Kinnon stroked her cheek with the cold steel of the iron claw.

  “The MacLeod is powered by a force stronger than your warriors can conquer. He uses the sorcery of a heretic. A witch. One of your clan. She has the mark of Satan upon her flesh and her powers are fierce. You’ll not reign the victor in your battle against him. Without the witch, you will fail.” For the first time since entering the antechamber, Catriona saw a spark of interest in Laird Kinnon’s eyes.

  “A witch, ye say?”

  “Yes. A master in her craft. She leaves the MacLeod stronghold every morn to practice her trade. Only I know her daily regimen.” With this lie, Catriona felt a warm bead of sweat trickle over her frigid skin.

  “Weel, out with it, lass. Dinnae let those bonnie fine lips quit blatherin’ just when ye’ve somethin’ interesting to finally say.”

  Catriona’s opportunity to escape had arrived. “I will divulge that information as soon as my escorts are released, and we are safe from your stronghold.”

  Laird Kinnon’s nostrils flared. Plumes of gray swirled beneath his nose like brewing storm clouds. “Your escorts will be executed by nightfall. Ye are in nay position to barter with me, bitch. Ye will tell me what I wish to know. Now!”

  Laird Kinnon used the cat-like claw to slice through the laces of her bodice. The sentry dug his fingers into her shoulders, pinning her in place. Laird Kinnon’s foul hand curved over her stomach and slid beneath the drawstring of her skirt. His palm pressed against her mound while his fingers screwed their way inside her.

  She inhaled a quick scream at the abrupt contact.

  The tilt of his wrist brought Catriona to her toes. “Speak or I’ll feed ye to my warriors.”

  She knew the ways of men. Her father offered her favors freely to hordes of English nobility, but Laird Kinnon instilled a fear in her she’d never known. A fear so revolting she tasted the bile on the back of her tongue. “I will not be threatened by y
our primitive tactics. I am the daughter of the Crown Prince of Malaga. You will suffer the wrath of King Henry if you brutalize me.”

  “Your king strikes nay fear in me.” Laird Kinnon ripped his hand from her skirt only to grope at her breasts. He then forced her to her knees by her throat. “Tell me what ye know of the witch.”

  “Free me, and I will take you to her.”

  Catriona blew a sigh of relief when Laird Kinnon sidestepped away from her and tossed the iron claw to the floor. She would lead him to Akira, then return to Calin. A moment of calm flushed beneath her cold skin.

  “’Tis to your good fortune I have nay taste for English whores,” he said mildly then ordered his sentries. “Use whatever tactics ye need to find me the witch, then execute her escorts and chain lady English till her information holds true.”

  “Nay! I’ll take you to her!” Catriona screamed, while the two warriors lifted her beneath the arms and then strapped her to a wooden table.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Just five more, Isobel.” Akira applied pressure against her sister’s foot while bending her left leg back and forth. Isobel’s heavy breathing told Akira her sister’s physical endurance was near spent this morning.

  “Please cease, Akira,” Isobel whispered behind closed lids.

  Easing Isobel’s leg atop the feather tick, Akira stepped to Isobel’s side and wiped the sheen of sweat from her temple.

  “Your legs are getting stronger every day.” Akira smiled down at her lying atop the healer’s bed and wished she could take away her sister’s pain.

  “Andrew, come and work Isobel’s toes until the healer returns for your lesson.” Akira directed her young guard to his daily regimen.

  “I dinnae wish to be a healer like Isobel. I’m a warrior and protector.” Andrew’s face fell in a defiant frown, but he crossed the earthen floor of the healer’s cot-house to do as instructed.