To Bewitch a Highlander

by Lily Baldwin

  “God’s blood”, Ronan swore.

  “What now?” Dugald asked.

  “’Tis nothing”, he replied. “Only, I am tired of waiting.”

  “That makes two of us”, Guthrie grinned.

  Ronan’s smile concealed his true frustration, which had forced the oath from his lips in the first place. He could not question the MacLeans without putting Bridget at risk, and he refused to jeopardize her safety regardless of her crimes. Only one thing was certain—there was never a lost necklace. Bridget had lied, but he would find no answers tonight. He would have to bide his time until he could return to the cave.

  He smirked, thinking of her high above the surface of the tossing seas, his mind eased by another certainty—Bridget wasn’t going anywhere. At that moment, she was likely asleep on his pallet. Her slim waist and the flare of her hips outlined beneath his plaid. He closed his eyes as her slender but ripe figure came to mind. He imagined her parted lips, and his touch enticing her breaths to quicken as she issued forth a plea for more.

  He shook his head, trying desperately to remove the tantalizing images of her sleek curves from his mind. He needed to steel himself against her allure to ensure he did not place his physical hunger for her above his need for answers—a challenge that would demand all of his strength.

  Chapter 6

  Shoney paced up and down the length of the cave. Three nights passed since Ronan left, and as the sun dipped low in the sky, signaling the arrival of darkness, she resolved to spend another night trapped in her gateless prison alone.

  Why had he not returned?

  The Cillchriosd Stone was only an hour’s ride from the cave. What if Ronan had been attacked as well? What if he lay bleeding beside his friend who was sure to be dead by now? Her eyes opened wide with fear. If he was dead, she would be trapped inside the cave until death released her. The only alternative, to scramble down the rope, would likely end with her lifeless body being pushed by waves against the cliff face again and again until the tides swept her out to sea.

  She shook her head. She must not surrender her mind to false imaginings. Ronan would return, and as soon as her feet touched firm earth, she’d escape from her self-proclaimed guardian and finally go home.

  She stood at the opening of the cave and watched the sun set behind the water. Sundown brought her only source of pleasure over the past four days. The shafts of light from the muted orb reached across the water, swaying and rippling. It was the oldest and most sacred dance. The sky blazed gold and dusky pink, lighting everything it touched with flames of color. The skin on her arms glowed as though she were a gilded statue. Everything illuminated by the sun’s blush was to her at that moment connected as if one being.

  She thanked the Mother of all for conceiving such splendor, and she whispered a prayer for her dear mother. Dusk faded into twilight. She glanced down to the distant waters below, and in the waning light, she could just trace the full length of the rope with her eyes.

  As the shadows crept forth to enclose the cave in darkness, her mind returned again to the last time she saw Ronan. She glimpsed the flexing and shifting of the thick muscles in his arms, shoulders, and back as he descended into the encroaching fog. Mist began to entwine its wispy fingers around his body, obscuring his features, yet his stare penetrated the shadows, holding her gaze. She blushed, thinking of his piercing eyes burning a pathway through the mysteries of her person to the place of private within that only she knew. She had felt spellbound, unwittingly inviting in the enemy to warm and gain comfort beside her soul’s own fire.

  Her vulnerability to his presence was too acute to deny and too sweet to forget, but she had to try. She pondered too long on those last fleeting moments when she should have been devising a way to escape. Despite knowing better, she found herself returning to the near kiss they almost shared…to the warmth radiating from his torso as he enfolded her in his plaid while riding through the chilly surf…to the moment when his hard, slick body pressed against her naked skin in the pool where he forged a trail of searing kisses across her throat and chest.

  Mother of all, she needed to clear her head. But how could she in this prison? Her confinement was clearly to blame for the singular direction of her thoughts. Memories of Ronan distracted her from facing the critical possibility that her days were numbered.

  She turned back into the cave, time to make the fire before the last light faded. Already the stack of peat at the rear hid in the shadows. She struck the flint stones until sparks leapt onto the dried moss. The wiry grasses turned orange with heat as they crackled into flame. Soon she coaxed a small fire into a warm blaze, which whisked away the chill brought on by the cool evening, reminding her of summer’s warmth and abundance. She envisioned the verdant green of the moors kissed with patches of heather, lavender, and plump thistle; countless herbs to gather and dry; and fresh salves to mix. Summertime would soon settle on Mull, but to enjoy all of its lushness, first she had to escape. She expelled a long breath and began once again to pace the length of the cave. Back and forth she treaded. Soon the hard stone would wear beneath her feet, leaving a mark to prove she’d been there even when her bones had turned to dust.

  Despite how she tried, she could find no method of escape, no safe method anyway. She did not have the strength to descend the full length of rope. This required the arms of a practiced warrior. But being undisciplined, she lacked a true warrior’s strength. She needed Ronan’s heavily muscled chest and shoulders to make the climb. He bore her weight up the cliff side with the ease of the wind carrying the meadowsweet seed. She closed her eyes and allowed her mind to take her back to that moment. Her head rested on his chest. She curled her fingers into the golden hairs that clung wetly to every swell of muscle. She inhaled his scent. It was like nothing she ever smelled before—warm, spicy, and intoxicating. Despite her fear, she longed to bury her face in the crook of his neck and unabashedly inhale over and over again.

  Ronan was the first and only man she had ever seen face to face. She always wondered what a man really looked like but never had she conceived fine features and a sensual sideways smile, nor could she have imagined her own intense response to maleness. Were all men like Ronan? She stopped mid tread and released a frustrated cry. Mother of all, why did he torment her mind?

  He bewitched her, casting a spell that stole her thoughts, her breath, even her will. She had inhaled his scent and its fingers gripped her senses, taking hold of her mind and the deep pit of her stomach. Her entire being was under assault, and they called her witch. She needed to steel herself against the onslaught of his presence so that when he returned she could fight the magic, if he returned.

  A shiver coursed down her spine as she again considered the prospect of abandonment, suspended above rocks and waves, but then a new terror shook her, leaving a frustrating sadness in its wake. What if she never saw Ronan again?

  Clearly, her entombing was chipping away at her sanity. He was arrogant, pushy, and without doubt dangerous. She could not wait to be rid of him and return to her peaceful life alone.

  Alone.

  The word echoed in her mind. That was it. She detested solitude so much even Ronan’s company seemed favorable. Her lonely existence was punishment for a crime she did not commit. She closed her eyes and steadied her breathing. She was descended from warriors. She knew how to wield a sword and hit her target with an arrow. She refused to discount her own strength.

  Walking to the entrance of the cave, she stared down into the abyss below. She closed her eyes and breathed in the salty air. The wind picked up, causing the tangled tendrils of her hair to lick her face and catch in the breeze. Closing her eyes, she smiled as soft feminine voices, carried on the wind, seeped into her ears—whispers of her kinfolk, which spoke of fortitude and the price of freedom.

  Her chin lifted, determination coursing through her veins. Her plan of last resort just became her next move. She would not perish trapped in a cave. She marched over to an extra plaid and gra
bbed up its length. Then she folded it lengthwise and knotted the fabric into a large loop. With an equally resolute stride, she walked the short distance back to the opening and took hold of the rope around which she firmly tied the ends of the plaid. Then she pulled the loop over her head and down her hips until it rested beneath the curve of her bottom. She sat into the make-shift harness, testing the strength of her knot. It appeared solid. Shoney’s eyes darted from the misty darkness below to the inviting warmth of the well-lit cave. Doubt began to take hold as her fingers shook with fear, but she found her warrior’s spirit, sounded her battle cry and slid from the entrance.

  The knot held. A crazed laugh slipped from her lips as she breathed great sighs of relief. The victory was short lived. She began to feel the strain of supporting her weight, despite the aid of her harness.

  She resisted the impulse to look down to the lethal rocks below; the sight of which she knew was capable of stealing the last of her courage. With one hand grasping the rope, she used the other to loosen the knot of the harness. She held her breath as she gently tugged the fabric. She needed to achieve a delicate balance. The rope should pass through the knot but not untie altogether. With the knot of the harness loosened, she shimmied down a short length of the rope and then secured the knot once more. She smiled. It worked. She repeated the process, each time pulling the knot further down the rope.

  Despite her triumph, she fought to remain calm as she continued to progress. Her arms were weary. Her palms blistered and burned, doing battle with the coarse fibers. She dared peek down for the first time and sighed with relief. Suspended in the air halfway from the water’s surface and clear of the rocks, she was out of immediate harm. Upon realizing her proximity to freedom, she felt her energy renew. She hastened her pace, scooting further down the rope. Her burning palms screamed for her to stop, but still she pushed on. She was too close to give up now.

  “Is my little viper, escaping?”

  She froze not daring to breathe. She felt the rope pull taut and sway as he began his ascent.

  “Are you racing back to the arms of your betrothed, or are you late meeting your clansmen to discuss your newest attack?” He sneered.

  What was he talking about?

  She tried to pull herself up the rope—why—she did not know. ‘Tis not as if she could climb to safety. There was only one place to go, back into the infernal cave.

  Her efforts produced little result as her tired arms protested her exertions by shooting sharp pains from her shoulders to her fingertips. She made one last attempt to raise her body, but she didn’t budge. Then his arm reached over her head, grabbing the rope, and in one swift and seemingly effortless move, they were face to face, their noses just a breath apart.

  “I told you not to lie to me,” He growled.

  Chapter 7

  She stood before him. Her stance could only be described as defiant. He expected her to be humble, even afraid of what would happen now that she had been found out. Instead, she held herself like a queen. And aided by the soft glow of the fire, her hair shone like spun gold, lending her a regal beauty as if she were clothed in bejeweled satin rather than homespun wool.

  “Hellfire”, he swore.

  Once again, he allowed himself to be distracted by her appeal. He straightened his shoulders, resolved to remain focused. Any surprise she still harbored at being caught attempting escape was well hidden. She stood poised for a fight, but he wasn’t going to give her what she expected.

  He walked to the rear of the cave and grabbed a thick cut of peat, which he tossed on the fire. Then taking a few strips of dried meat, he reclined by the flames and nonchalantly said, “I found your pendant.”

  He stared at her, waiting for her reply.

  “Oh,” she said.

  “Yes. I found it around the neck of my clansman who had been beaten nigh to death.”

  She swallowed slowly and wilted. The warrior faded and the vulnerable maid emerged. He removed his dirk from its sheath and started to clean his nails with the tip, giving the task all of his attention.

  “We caught up with the men responsible”, he slowly raised his head and met her gaze. “It was the MacLeans. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

  Her lips moved as though she wanted to speak, but she did not utter a word. He had accomplished the impossible. She was rendered speechless.

  “If you wish to refrain from commenting on the attack suffered by my friend, then perhaps you may have something to say about the attack on my village.”

  Her eyes widened with what looked like disbelief but Ronan knew better. He could smell her fear. She exhausted her store of lies and now resembled a small prey backed into the corner, which made him the predator. He sprang to his feet. She retreated until her back pressed against the hard rock of the cave. He surrounded her with his large frame.

  “Bridget MacLean, you are in league with your clansmen against the MacKinnon.”

  “No”, she said, shaking her head.

  “You were behind the attack on my village”, he snarled.

  Her voice was barely a whisper. “No, Ronan, I swear I do not know of what you speak.”

  “Do you expect me to believe you when you’ve done naught but lie to me since our paths first crossed,” he shouted. “Admit you have lied to me, damn it.”

  “Yes”, she shouted, “yes, I lied to you.”

  He stared at her but did not speak. He knew she needed no more prodding. Her breaths quickened, and her head jerked left and right as though searching for a secret passage way to safety. He cupped her chin and forced her to meet his gaze.

  “The truth”, he said.

  Her voice was a whisper, “I have lied, Ronan, but ‘tis not what you think.”

  “Are you going to ply me with your forked tongue again?” he sneered. “A viper even when pressed, I see. Do you even know the meaning of truth, honor?”

  Instantly, her grey eyes deepened to hard steel as they narrowed with accusing intent. “Do not speak to me of honor, Ronan, descendent of King MacAlpin, false heir to the throne.” She pressed a finger into his chest. “Your people are the true vipers and thieves.”

  “What are you talking about?” he said, more confused than ever.

  She was mad.

  “Although I do not understand why he is pertinent to our conversation since he has been dead for centuries, but King MacAlpin ruled the lands that would become Scotland, including those owned by the MacLeans. He was your king too.”

  “He was never King to my people”, she said through gritted teeth. “I am neither MacLean nor MacKinnon. I am Shoney, daughter of Brethia, descendent of Tharain and of Oengus, King of the Picts.”

  He stared at her with wide eyes, his mouth slightly agape. Then he burst out laughing.

  “You expect me to believe Tharain is dead and you are now the Witch of Dervaig.”

  “I am not a witch”, she shouted and pushed past him.

  He reached out and grabbed a fist full of plaid and pulled her back to face him.

  “Tharain is not dead”, he spat. “I saw her only weeks ago. She has no daughter, and even if she did, you are too young to be born of that old hag, witch or not.”

  She screamed with rage and came at him with fists flying. He had to admit a few of her blows were well placed and stung for all that she weighed no more than a bag of wool. He managed to pin her arms at her sides.

  “I’m sorry if my words offended you, lass, but you must have known I would see through this new farce of yours.”

  She gulped for breaths but managed to spit out, “Tharain was my ancestor not my mother and died long ago. My mother was Brethia, beautiful and brave. She wore the tattered cloak of her ancestors and made herself the crone, just as her mother did, as did all of our forebears. ‘Tis nothing more than a disguise.”

  Madness. Her story was pure madness, but was she so in doubt of his sanity to think he would believe her tale?

  “I am impressed with the ingenuity
of your lies, but this is absurd”, he said. She carried on, not heeding his words.

  “My mother concealed me, kept me hidden away to protect me from the cruelty of the clan. She carried on the tradition of the cloak to ensure every Gael remained afraid.” Tears of fury gathered in her eyes and began a slow course down her cheeks.

  “She gave you what you wanted”, she shouted. “You wanted a witch. She gave you a witch.”

  He had to concede she was a damn convincing liar. The tears and rage added a compelling force of indignant sincerity, but despite the absorbing performance and the beauty of the actress, he reached his limits. The one character flaw he abhorred most was deceitfulness.

  “So to review, Tharain is dead, and I have never seen you before because your mother, who is the Witch of Dervaig, has kept you hidden all this time”, he said dryly.

  “No”, she answered.

  “No, your mother is not the Witch?”

  “My mother is dead. She died three years ago. I am the Witch of Dervaig.”

  “You are telling me for the past three years, you have lit the pit fires in the Witch’s hut, and your cloaked figure has been seen hunched over, shuffling across the moors?”

  “Yes. Is there something the matter with your ears? I am the Witch of Dervaig.”

  Ronan took her hand and began to lead her to the cave entrance. If she wanted to play this game, then he would oblige her. “Well then come along, my dear. I shall walk you home.”

  ***

  In her gateless prison above the sea she dreamt of her return home, a trip she expected to make on her own, alone. The reality could not have been farther from the dream. She was not alone, a fact made even more real by the tightening of Ronan’s hand around her waist. She puzzled over his motivation for riding out to her home when he clearly did not believe her, which was another baffling point, because at least the truth was plausible. The clan believed the Witch of Dervaig had haunted the moors for centuries, and the price of her longevity—her soul. A fanciful legend blinded him to the truth. Perhaps, he was not as shrewd as she first thought, or his conviction of belief might be a testimony to her forbears’ mastery of concealment. They hid their offspring well and never, ever revealed their true identities.