The Highlander Series 7-Book Bundle

by Karen Marie Moning

  “What kind of choices?” Gwen asked, stepping into the kitchen.

  “Know ye aught about bakin’, Gwen?” Nell withdrew her hands from the dough.

  Gwen nibbled her lip uncertainly. “Not really, but I’m game to try.” Is that what Nell meant about choices? Were they going to offer her a job in the kitchen? A dismal vision of herself cooking for Drustan and his wife made her scowl.

  “Ye’ve two fine hands and, if ye dinna mind, I could start on the lamb. Just poke ’em in there and knead. Wash up first.”

  Gwen washed and dried her hands before poking tentatively at the mound. Once she’d sunk her hands in it, she decided it was rather fun. Sort of like Play-Doh, which of course she’d not been allowed to have. No Silly Putty either. Her Sunday comics (neatly removed from the paper before she ever got to it) had consisted of her father’s witty drawings of black holes sucking up all the Democrats who preferred to fund the environment over the Department of Defense’s obscenely expensive research projects.

  “That’s it, lass,” Nell encouraged, watching her. She skewered a large roast on a spit. “Now, do ye wish to talk about it?”

  “About what?” Gwen asked uncertainly.

  “What happened the night ye arrived. If ye dinna wish to, I willna pry, but I’ve a willin’ ear and a shoulder if yer needin’ it.”

  Gwen’s hands stilled deep in the dough and she was silent a long moment, thinking. “How long have you been here, Nell?”

  “Nigh on twelve years,” Nell answered proudly.

  “And have you ever noticed anything…er, unusual about Drustan? Or any of the MacKeltars,” she added, wondering how much Nell knew. A part of her longed to confide in Nell; there was no question in her mind how loyal the housekeeper was to her men. Still, it would be safer to acquire more information before revealing any.

  Nell finished basting the roast, then slid it above the fire before answering. Wiping her hands on a cloth, she regarded Gwen levelly. “Be ye meanin’ their magic ways?” she said bluntly.

  Magic. That was exactly what Drustan’s unusual intelligence and command of cosmology would seem to a sixteenth-century woman. Heavens, it was exactly what it seemed to her. Although she knew there was a scientific theory behind his use of the stones, she couldn’t begin to comprehend how he’d done it. “Yes, that’s what I mean. Like the voice Drustan can use—”

  “Ye’ve heard it?” Nell said, surprised, making a mental note to pass that tidbit on to Silvan. “The one that sounds like many voices?”

  “Yes.”

  “He dinna use it on ye, did he?” Nell frowned.

  “No. Well, once, sort of, when he asked me to leave him alone for a little while.” And that other time, she thought, remembering what he’d said after they’d made love, but telling Nell about that would definitely be overdisclosing.

  “I’m surprised. They’re overcautious of that spell. Most often they use the healin’ and protectin’ spells.”

  Gwen gawked.

  “If ye’ve heard Drustan use the voice, ye shouldna be too surprised. Druids have many unusual abilities.” Nell let it slip casually.

  Druids! The mythical alchemists and astronomers, who’d studied the sacred geometry of the ancients! They’d really existed? “I thought Druidry died out long ago.”

  Nell shook her head. “ ‘Tis what Druids wish people to believe, but nay. The MacKeltar descend from the oldest line of Druids who served the Tuatha de Danaan.”

  “The fairy?” Gwen squeaked, remembering that Drustan had claimed they were one and the same.

  “Aye, the fae. But the fae have long gone elsewhere and now the Druids nurture the land. They tend the soil and beckon the seasons with their rituals. They honor the old ways. They scour the land after storms and heal the wee creatures harmed by the tempest. They protect the villages, and legends tell that if a grave threat should e’er come against the land, they have powers most scarce dare not whisper of.”

  “Oh, God,” Gwen murmured, as the pieces began to slip into place. A Druid. Possessed of alchemy and sacred mathematics and magic.

  There’s no such thing as magic, the scientist protested.

  Right, there’s no such thing as time travel either, she retorted acerbically. Whatever it was, he had knowledge beyond her comprehension. Druids existed, and the man who’d taken her virginity was one.

  “Tell me, lass, knowing he’s a Druid, do ye still have a fondness for Drustan MacKeltar?”

  Gwen nodded without hesitation.

  Nell wiped her hands on her apron and propped them at her waist. “Three times now that man has been betrothed, and three times the woman has abandoned him before the formal vows. Did ye know that?”

  Gwen’s jaw dropped. “This is his fourth betrothal?”

  “Aye,” Nell said. “But ’tis not because he’s not a fine man,” she said defensively. “ ‘Tis because the lasses fear him. And much though he wishes otherwise, I suspect Anya Elliott will be no different. The lass has been sheltered all her young life.” Her lip curled disdainfully. “Och, but he’s arranged things quite tidily this time. In the past, he handfasted first, and each of the three, after passin’ time at Castle Keltar, upon overseeing or overhearing somethin’ that fashed ’em, packed up and left with scarce a farewell. And as braw and rich in coin and land as that man is—well, let me tell you it’s left him fair uncertain of his charms. Imagine that!”

  “Impossible to imagine,” Gwen agreed, wide-eyed. Suddenly, quite a few things made sense. She’d wondered why Drustan hadn’t told her the full truth while they were in her century. Now she knew. Her brilliant, powerful warrior had been afraid that she would leave him. He couldn’t have known that she was one of few people who might have understood him—after all, she’d concealed the extent of her intelligence from him. In the past few years of working at Allstate, it had become instinctive. One didn’t rhapsodize about quarks and neutrons and black holes during happy hour at Applebee’s with insurance adjusters.

  Three failed betrothals also explained why Drustan was so aggressively determined to wed his fourth betrothed. The Drustan she’d come to know was not a man to accept failure, and he’d made it clear that he was a man for marrying and wanted children.

  “This time he’s arranged to wed in a Christian ceremony, and Anya will be here but a fortnight afore the wedding. I fear he will succeed in hiding his nature until after the vows. Then she willna be able to leave him. But”—she paused and sighed—“like as not, it willna prevent her from despising him later in the marriage.”

  “Has it occurred to him that it’s not nice to trick a woman like that?” Gwen said, grasping at straws. Maybe she could berate him for his underhanded tactics and guilt him into calling off the betrothal. Then again, she thought, maybe she could be underhanded, and once Anya arrived she could trick him into revealing some of his “magic” in front of his fiancée, to drive her the same route the first three had gone. Dirty pool, but all in the name of love, and that had to count for something, didn’t it?

  “I suspect he’s preferrin’ to believe he’s not trickin’ her but hoping that she’ll one day grow to care for him. Or mayhap he thinks he can hide forever.”

  Gwen poked at the dough for a time. “How long has he known her?” she finally asked. Does he love her very much? was the question coiled on the tip of her tongue.

  “He’s ne’er met the lass,” Nell said flatly. “The marriage was arranged between Drustan and the Elliott through messengers bearing the bride offer.”

  “He’s never met her?” Gwen shouted. Her heart took wing; feelings of guilt about trying to break up the betrothal went up in a puff of smoke. He hadn’t neglected to mention Anya because he loved Anya; he’d not mentioned her because he’d not even met her! It wasn’t as if she was trying to break up a real relationship!

  Nell smiled faintly. “Och, ye’ve much feelin’ for him. ’Tis plain to see.”

  Feeling suddenly euphoric, Gwen said pertly, “Speaking of feelin
g that’s plain to see, what about you and Silvan?”

  Nell’s smile faded instantly and her expression grew shuttered. “There is naught betwixt me and that canny old badger.”

  “Well, there may not be on your end, but there certainly is on his.”

  “Where do ye get yer daft ideas?” Nell snapped, leaping into a flurry of activity, banging pots and moving dishes. “Let me finish that bread, for ’tis plain that it’ll be the morrow before ye’ve got it properly kneaded.”

  Gwen was unfazed. Nell’s reaction told her everything. “He peeked down your bodice when you took his mug.”

  “He did no such thing!”

  “He did. And trust me, he didn’t like mine a tenth as much. Nell, Silvan has deep feelings for you.”

  Nell paused in her frantic kneading and bit her lip. When she looked at Gwen, her eyes were pained. “Dinna be sayin’ such things,” she said quietly.

  “In twelve years haven’t you and Silvan ever—”

  “Nay.”

  “But you care for him, don’t you?”

  Nell blew out a slow breath. “I loved a laird once. It cost me my babes and nearly my life.”

  “What happened? I don’t mean to pry…” Gwen trailed off uncertainly.

  “What happened? Ye truly wish to know what happened?” Nell’s voice rose. She punched the mound of dough several times before kneading furiously.

  “Er…yes,” Gwen said warily.

  “I was a fool, ’tis what happened. I loved a laird who had a wife of his own, though there was no love betwixt them. An arranged match, it was, made on land and alliances. I resisted him for years, but the day my mam died, thick in grievin’, I weakened. ’Twas not what I believed proper, but och, how I loved that man.” She drew a deep breath and closed her eyes. “I suspect my mother dyin’ made me realize we dinna have forever.”

  How true, Gwen thought. She certainly hadn’t had forever. She’d always thought she and her parents would mend fences; she’d never dreamed they wouldn’t live another twenty, thirty, even forty more years.

  “We were discreet; still, his lady learned of our involvement. She shrieked and raged, but she’d given him no heirs, and by then I’d given him two sons.” A shadow crossed her features. “Then one afternoon he was killed while hunting. That very eve, she took my children and set her kin upon me. They left me for dead near Balanoch.”

  “Oh, Nell,” Gwen breathed, her eyes misting.

  “I lost what would have been our third child in the dust. ’Twas Silvan who found me. Ne’er will I forget starin’ up at the sun, waitin’ to die, wishin’ to die, only to see him”—a bittersweet smile curved her lip—“like a fierce angel, standin’ o’er me. He took me in and stood by my bed and demanded that I live, in such a voice that I feared to die and defy him.” Her smile deepened. “He tended me himself, for weeks….”

  “What about your children?” Gwen asked hesitantly.

  Nell shook her head. “As she’d had none, she claimed them as her own. ’Tis said she’s barren, and my son will one day be laird, as his only heir.”

  “You’ve never seen them again?”

  “Nay, but occasionally I hear bits of gossip. My Jamie is fostered outside of Edinburgh. Mayhap when she’s no longer alive I’ll see them again, but they willna know me. They were but one and two when I was driven out. They believe she’s their true mam.”

  “Didn’t Silvan try to get them back for you?”

  “And I could give them what?” Nell snapped. Then she sighed and muttered, “I never told him what happened. And that bletherin’ fool has not once asked. In twelve years! Imagine that.”

  “Maybe he was afraid to pry once you’d healed,” Gwen suggested. “He might not have wanted to bring up painful memories. Maybe he’s been waiting for you to bring it up.”

  “Mayhap,” Nell said stiffly, blowing a wisp of hair from her face, “ye put a rosy hue on things that arena so rosy. Go on with ye, now,” she said crossly. “There are some things ’tis too late for. Dinna fash yerself over me. I’ve passed many a peaceful day here. If ye wish to give me happier ones, fall in love with one o’ those lads and give me bairn to cuddle again.”

  “Um…what if it’s Drustan?” Gwen said nervously. “Would you think I was terrible if I tried to make him care about me before he marries his fiancée?”

  Nell cocked her head and met Gwen’s gaze levelly. “I suspect I have a few special gowns I could alter for ye, lass. He’s overfond of purple, did ye know that?”

  Gwen beamed.

  “Now go,” Nell shooed her, flipping a cloth at her.

  She started to walk out, then turned back abruptly, squeezed Nell’s shoulder, and kissed her floured cheek. Then she dashed hastily off, embarrassed by her impulsive display of affection.

  Nell blinked and smiled, eyeing the empty corridor. Aye, she was going to like the lass a lot. She and Silvan had been worrying for months about Drustan wedding the Elliott lass. Neither of them held much hope for the match. They both sensed the quiet desperation in Drustan and knew he was plunging blindly into something that was bound to become a fankle. Duty weighed on him; he needed heirs. Anya Elliott was ten and five, and Drustan MacKeltar would patently terrify the child. Oh, he might get a bairn or two off her, but he’d pay for it with a lifetime of misery. As would the unsuspecting Anya. Drustan needed an educated lass, a lass with fire and mettle and curiosity.

  Yestreen, Silvan had asked a favor of her (not looking at her, of course, as if noticing her hair earlier had been an unforgivable sin), and she had done her part as he’d requested. Gwen Cassidy now knew Drustan was a Druid.

  She could scarce wait to tell Silvan how Gwen had reacted—with an open mind and heart—just as Silvan had predicted. She’d glimpsed no signs of madness in the lass—och, she was odd, but that didn’t make a person mad, or the eccentric Silvan would be maddest of all.

  Her smile faded at the thought of Silvan, as she recalled what Gwen had said about him having feelings for her.

  Might it be? She and Silvan scarcely spoke but for conversation about the lads, the crops, or the weather. Long ago she’d once thought he’d been interested, but he’d retreated and she’d tried to forget.

  She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully and glanced down at her bosom. It was still fluffable.

  Had he truly glanced down her bodice? She was never comfortable looking at him when she was standing close. The man could peek anywhere he wanted and she’d not notice.

  Mayhap, she mused, while stitching Gwen some tempting fashions, she might deepen the bodice of her new gown that was nearly finished.

  Silvan was waiting on the terrace, at a table centered in a puddle of sunshine, beneath rustling oaks.

  Gwen took the seat opposite him and glanced about with delight. “It’s so beautiful here,” she said with a contented sigh. A brilliant yellow butterfly swooped the board, lingering a moment before fluttering off again.

  “Aye, our mountain is the finest in all of Alba,” Silvan said proudly, as he finished setting up the pieces.

  When he was done, Gwen turned the heavy board around, reversing it.

  He glanced askance at her.

  “I have to be black. I don’t like to go first,” she explained, fingering the ebony figurines. An honest-to-God medieval chess set, she thought wonderingly. It would be worth a fortune in her time. The pieces were fashioned of ebony wood and ivory tusk. The rooks were solemn little men, the bishops had long beards and wise little faces. The knights were kilt-clad warriors on prancing destriers, the royalty wore flowing robes trimmed with fur and stood several inches above the rest. The board itself was fashioned of alternating squares of ivory and ebony. The surrounding perimeter was a solid rectangle of ebony, carved with a complex design of Celtic knotwork that represented infinity. How on earth had the twenty-first century gotten the idea that medieval men were ignorant? she wondered. She was beginning to suspect that perhaps they were more in tune with the world than her century would eve
r be.

  Silvan pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. “Why do I think I might be in for a time of it?”

  “Why do I think you might be able to give as good as you get?” she countered.

  “How long have you been playing?”

  “All my life. You?”

  “All my life. Which has been considerably longer than yours,” he said dryly as he moved a pawn with swift certainty.

  Two games later—one win to Silvan, one to Gwen—they were into a more interesting variation. Normal chess was too much of a draw between them, so Gwen had proposed they play progressive chess, wherein pawns didn’t “queen” but rather increased in power with each square they advanced. In progressive chess, a pawn on the fifth rank had the power of play of a knight, on the sixth a bishop, seventh a rook, and on the eighth a queen.

  When she declared checkmate, with her two queens, a bishop, and three knights, he clapped his hands and saluted her.

  “And Drustan thinks you’re a bampot,” he murmured, smiling.

  “He told you that?” she asked, feeling wounded. “Forget it,” she added hastily. “It doesn’t matter. Just tell me this: Do you know of anyone who might wish your clan harm, Silvan?”

  “None. ’Tis a peaceful land, and the Keltar know no enemies.”

  “No clans who wish to conquer you?”

  “Ha,” Silvan scoffed. “None that would dare try.”

  “How about…um…the king?” she grasped at straws.

  Silvan rolled his eyes. “Nay. James likes me. I performed magic tricks for the boy-king when last I was in Edinburgh. His council seeks no battle in our Highlands.

  “Maybe Drustan angered someone’s husband?” she pried none-too-subtly.

  “Drustan doesn’t tup married wenches, m’dear.”

  She smiled, pleased by that bit of knowledge.

  “Or maidens,” he said pointedly.

  She scowled. “Can I tell you my whole story?”

  “Nay.” At her wounded expression he added, “Words cost nothing, they buy nothing. Actions speak truth. You neatly trounced me at progressive chess. Were I to suspect you of aught, it wouldn’t be to think you mad but to believe you some sort of Druid yourself. Mayhap come to spy upon us—”