The Ravenscraig Legacy Collection: A World of Magical Highland Romance

by Allie Mackay

  “Hellfire everlasting!” he roared when no one stirred.

  The fools carousing in the window embrasures had surely heard him.

  Blessedly, the castle dogs did. Their sudden barking and his own shouts soon had men jumping from their pallets, pea sacks and ale cups flying everywhere. Throughout the hall, his warriors scrambled to their feet, grabbing swords and blinking through the shadows, their sleep-bogged eyes searching for the source of such clamor.

  Satisfied, he thrust the flaring torch into the hands of a spluttering, half-naked kinsman, then leapt up onto a trestle bench, scanning the darkness for the two men he needed most.

  “Tavish! Nils!” He jammed fisted hands on his hips as he looked round, trying to penetrate the gloom. “You!” He wheeled toward the torch-holder. “See that every torch is relit. Each candle, all the wall sconces. I need to see faces!”

  The guilt that would show him whose head needed lopping.

  But as the man hastened to do his bidding, the only souls to peer back at him were gaping and confused. Men startled from deep, innocent sleep. Nary a one looked blameworthy. They all merely gawped at him as if he’d sprouted horns and a tail.

  And lost his wits in the bargain.

  “Where is Tavish?” He glared back at them, not caring what they thought. “Nils?”

  “I am here.” Tavish emerged from one of the window alcoves, his voice raised above the dogs’ frantic barking. “Where I e’er sleep,” he added, starting forward.

  Aidan scowled at him, not missing the lout’s disheveled state, or Sinead’s bright head gleaming in the depths of the embrasure, her naked breasts and a length of bare leg revealed by the newly blazing torches.

  “If you were sleeping, I am a mewling bairn!” Aidan jumped down from the trestle bench at his friend’s approach. “Where is Nils?” He grabbed Tavish’s arm, gripping tight. “Kira’s been poisoned with monkshood!”

  Tavish’s swagger vanished immediately. “Good gods!” He stared at Aidan, eyes wide. “Monkshood? You’re sure?”

  “She lies abed still as the grave and with the damnable herb on her breath.” Letting go of Tavish’s arm, he glanced round. “Where is Nils?” he repeated, seeing the healer nowhere. “He’ll have a cure.”

  “But who would-”

  “Devil if I know! Only that someone served her tainted wine.” Aidan swept his gawking men with another glare. “I must find Nils before I-”

  “If the culprit were here, your bellowing would’ve put him to flight already.” Tavish tugged at his tunic, smoothed his rumpled plaid. “I heard your shouts before you reached the hall. Sinead-”

  “How long has she been with you?” A dark suspicion whipped through Aidan’s mind. “Did she carry wine abovestairs?”

  Tavish’s eyes rounded. “Come, man, you cannae think she had ought to do with it?”

  Aidan dragged a hand through his hair. “I dinnae know what to think. But I will hear where she was. From you or the wench herself, if need be.”

  “If you think to put a scare in her, you won’t be, dressed as you are,” Tavish declared, his gaze flicking the length of him.

  The nearly bare length of him, not that he cared.

  A hastily donned plaid and well-honed steel were more than enough. His bare hands would do the job, once he knew who bore the blame.

  Male or female.

  Putting his hands on his hips, Aidan gave Tavish a look that said so. “Where was she?”

  “With me,” Tavish owned, his gaze unwavering. “As were Maili and Evanna.”

  “All at once?” Aidan’s brows flew upward.

  Tavish shrugged. “Until a short while ago, aye. Only Sinead remained with me after-”

  “Enough.” Aidan raised a stilling hand. “Where did the other two go?”

  “Who knows?” Tavish rubbed his beard, considering. “They are lustful wenches. I saw Maili and Evanna with Mundy earlier, but I think they went to the kitchens to see to laundering Kendrew’s bloodied linens. Nils should be there, too. He was after fetching a bite to eat, having watched over Kendrew all night. He-”

  “Now you tell me!” Aidan spun on his heel, racing for the screens passage to the kitchens before his friend could finish. “Find the birthing sisters and send them abovestairs!” he called over his shoulder as he ran. “Tell them what happened.”

  He’d assume they had no hand in poisoning Kira’s wine.

  Unfortunately, when he barreled into the kitchens, skidding to a halt on the slick, stone-laid floor, he once again encountered a scene of innocence. Panting, he dragged a hand across his brow, immediately dismissing the two wee spit laddies sleeping on pallets before the double-arched hearth. Cook stood beside them, calmly stirring a fine-smelling mutton stew in his great iron cook pot, while a tired-looking graybeard scrubbed the wooden surface of the bread table, quietly conversing with a second equally ancient man who sat nearby, plucking feathers from a plump hen.

  None of them looked like evildoers.

  “Where is Nils?” he boomed, regardless.

  Cook wheeled around, his stew ladle flying from his fingers. “You’ll curdle my stew with your yelling,” he scolded, casting him an indignant glare as he stooped to swipe the spoon off the floor.

  Stalking forward, Aidan snatched the spoon from him and tossed it aside. “More than stew will go bad if I do not soon find Nils or learn who sent tainted wine to my bedchamber!”

  “Tainted wine?” Cook hitched up his belt, his considerable girth jigging even as his eyes widened. “Ne’er would I send fouled spirits to you. To anyone.”

  Aidan glowered at him. “It would seem no one has, yet my lady lies abed near death! I’ll have the heads of any bungling fools who-”

  “Heigh-ho, lad! What are you shouting about?” Nils strode out of the murk of a hidden corner. Maili the laundress trailed after him, her tumbled flaxen curls and loose bodice leaving no doubt as to what had been going on in the deep shadows of Wrath’s kitchens.

  “He’d accuse us of serving bad wine.” Cook snatched up his stew ladle a second time.

  “No’ bad wine, tainted wine.” Aidan ignored him, whirling to Nils. “Someone laced the wine with monkshood and my lady drank it.”

  The healer’s bluster evaporated. “That’s not possible. Only I have access to my herb stores.” As if to prove it, he jangled a ring of keys at his belt. “I mixed Kendrew’s sleeping draught myself. Here in the kitchens, I did, as aye. Then I locked away my medicines in yon strongbox.”

  “No one but Nils has touched those herbs.” Cook pointed his spoon in the strongbox’s direction.

  Aidan glanced at the large, dome-topped coffer. Not one, but two heavy locks held it secure.

  As long as Nils’ keys remained in his possession.

  The healer was fond of women. By his own accounts, he’d been fleeced more than once by light-fingered lassies, taking advantage of his need for a snooze after pleasure.

  Aidan looked at Maili, not surprised that she hadn’t bothered to re-lace her gown. Of Wrath’s three laundresses, she loved her craft best, baring her flesh often and freely. She enjoyed using her charms to win favors and trinkets from the most jaded, hardened men.

  Nils was anything but callous. Beneath his Nordic bluster, the healer was a lamb.

  Maili….

  Aidan narrowed his eyes at her, thinking. He wasn’t overly fond of the lass, but he was sure she craved her comforts too much to risk losing her position at Wrath.

  Cook stepped forward, his bearded chin jutting. “I say the lady simply guzzled too much wine. Aye, I doubt the wine was bad at all.”

  Aidan frowned. “I smelled the monkshood on Kira’s breath, even stronger in the wine.”

  “How much did she drink?” Nils’ brow crinkled, his face as dark as Aidan’s own.

  “I cannae say. There was a half-full cup on the table.”

  Nils drew a sharp breath. “A sip would be enough.”

  “Enough for what?” Aidan didn’t really want t
o know.

  “If she’s had more than a pinch….” Nils shook his head, not needing to say more.

  Aidan grabbed his arm, propelling him out the door. “Come!” He was running now. “Her heartbeat is steady and she yet breathes. Make haste so you can help her!”

  “Would that I could!” Nils threw him a grim look as they dashed for the stairs. “There isn’t a cure for monkshood.”

  ***

  Words filtered through the blackness enveloping Kira. Unlikely words like monks and hoods. Then Ameri-cains and tour buses. Grumblings about lairdly duty and love. Gaelic mumblings that sounded like low, softly muttered prayers, then sharp, furious bursts of anger. Heated words she couldn’t decipher, only the outrage behind them. She also caught the clucking of tongues, hurrying footsteps, and the banging of doors. Sometimes, she was certain, the soothing patter of rain. It was a strange mishmash that made no sense, sounds flaring briefly in the darkness only to blur and dim as quickly.

  Images came and went, too.

  Frightful things, mostly. A gnarled hand plucking what looked to be fat garden slugs from an earthen jar, then dangling the icky beasties above her, only to have a larger, stronger hand sweep into view, knocking the slugs from curled, ancient fingers. Two sets of bright, beady eyes peering at her through the mist, a glimpse of grizzled gray hair, or the weaving flame of a candle held too close to her face.

  A bold swirl of plaid and a glint of raven-black hair, proud, wide-set shoulders, and the silvery flash of a flourished sword, the bright red jewel in its pommel shining like a sunburst.

  And then there was the cold.

  Never had she felt so frozen. Buried under an icy avalanche of snow. A heavy, weighty drift of the white stuff that seemed to come and go, chilling her to the bone, then easing slightly, only to freeze her anew before she could gather strength to crack her leaden eyelids to see where all the snow had come from.

  Or to find out if she’d been thrust forward in time again and had accidentally landed inside a giant hotel ice machine. The kind that always seemed to be right outside her hotel room door and that made weird popping and grrr’ing noises all night. Not to mention the clatter and commotion when someone just had to fetch a bucket of ice in the middle of the night.

  Such had always been her luck when she’d chanced to travel.

  Thinking about it now, though, made her laugh.

  Or rather, she would if she could.

  Too bad for her, her mouth felt drier than a dustbin and her tongue had turned to sandpaper.

  Just as annoying, she still couldn’t seem to open her eyes.

  “Sir!” cackled a high-pitched voice just above her ear, “I do believe she’s trying to speak.”

  “No, you fool,” chimed a second voice, “‘tis laughing she is!”

  “Gods be praised!” A third voice filled the room, this one deep, rich, and very Scottish. The joy in it touched her to the soul. “Kee-rah! Sweet lass, speak to me!”

  She couldn’t do that, so she blinked. Especially when her eyes began to water and burn, hot tears damping her lashes and trickling down her cheeks.

  Bedwells didn’t cry, ever.

  But apparently she was, because not one, but two pairs of knotty old hands were suddenly dabbing cloths at her cheeks. Gentle old hands, so caring, she swallowed against the emotion welling in her throat. Unfortunately, dry as her mouth was, her swallow caused an odd rasping sound, ghastly even to her own ears.

  So awful it was almost a croak.

  No, it was worse.

  Kira grimaced. That, she could do.

  “You she-biddies are hurting her!” A second male voice boomed, some distant corner of her mind recognizing it as belonging to Nils the Viking. “I told you she didn’t need bleeding.”

  “Pah!” One of the old women sniffed. “You said she might survive the monkshood if she didn’t catch a fever. Her own chilled pea sacks prevented that, but who’s to say our leeches didn’t draw off whate’er other evils might’ve been in her?”

  “The only evil in her was the poison she drank!” a third manly voice declared.

  Mundy, the great black-bearded Irishman, if Kira wasn’t mistaken.

  But poison? She started to ask about that, but her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.

  As if sensing her discomfort, one of the knotty hands returned, this time to dab a cool wet cloth at her lips.

  “Aye, ‘tis the leeching that saved her,” the owner of the knotty hand insisted. “That, and the powder of newt we sprinkled on the hearth fire. Everyone knows powdered newt fumes cleanse the air of bad vapors.”

  “Hah!” Nils the Viking snorted. “Newt fumes do naught but make good men sneeze.”

  Knotty Hand teetered. “Be that why you haven’t done?”

  “Cease! All of you.” Aidan’s voice came again, sweet as a dream. “Away with you, the lot of you. I’ll watch o’er her alone now. It’s clear she’ll soon be waking.” Then, in a sterner, don’t-argue-with-me tone, “I’ll no’ have her frightened if she opens her eyes to see so many ugly faces peering at her. And, Tavish! Take Ferlie with you. I willnae have her upset by his whining.”

  “And your bellowing? Ferlie’s whimpers and groans are nowise as loud. She’s fond of the old beast and might be pleased to know he’s pined for her,” another deep male voice countered.

  Tavish’s own. Her champion the day she’d found herself perched atop Aidan’s gateway arch.

  She smiled, remembering, but moving her mouth made her lips crack. Even worse, she suspected they were bleeding. “Owww…” she moaned before she could stop herself.

  “See?” Aidan roared, bellowing indeed. “You’re upsetting her! Now begone, all of you!”

  A great ruckus followed. The departure, Kira assumed, of those souls at Wrath who’d cared to look in on her. From the number of trudging feet and muttered complaints as Aidan ushered them from the room, it must’ve been a goodly number.

  But only one mattered so much to her that she wanted to throw her arms around him and tell him how glad she was that he was there. How her heart had nearly burst when she’d heard his voice.

  His beautiful, melt-her-at-ten-paces Scottish burr.

  Listening to him now, she judged he was close.

  Possibly on his knees by her bedside. Hoping it, she tried to lift her arm and reach for him, feeling a great need to touch him. But her arm refused to move. Her fingers still tingled a bit. In fact, she’d done a lot of tingling if she remembered rightly.

  Just not the good kind.

  Far from it, every inch of her throbbed and ached with mind-numbing intensity. A nightmarish stiffness worse than the time she’d tried to cram a year’s worth of gym work-outs into two days. She’d ended up nearly creeping around her apartment on all fours, finding it too painful to stand and even worse to move.

  She felt that bad now.

  Having enough of it, she struggled to open her eyes, then tried even harder to raise herself on an elbow. Instead, all she managed was heaving a great, trembling sigh.

  Aidan leaned close and kissed her cheek. “Hush, sweet, and lie still,” he said, smoothing the hair from her brow. “You’ll feel better once we get some broth into you.”

  Broth?

  She tried to smile again. She knew he didn’t mean chicken noodle soup, but as long as it was hot broth, she’d feel better indeed. Even lukewarm would do. Her feet felt like a block of ice and the tips of her fingers were numb with cold.

  “I-I’m f-freezing,” she rasped, her teeth chattering.

  “You won’t be for long.” He put a hand to her forehead and she could see his relief through her lashes. “There isn’t a fever and if you’re awake now, there’s no longer a need to keep you mounded with these chilled pea sacks.”

  Her lips twitched. So that was why she’d felt buried under an avalanche. It was funny, really. But what she needed was water, not frozen peas.

  “I’m thirsty, please.” Her voice was thick again, hoarse and unintellig
ible.

  She tried to will him to understand, but the concentration only made her head throb harder.

  “Sakes, but you gave me a fright.” He shoved a hand through his hair, looking almost as haggard as she felt.

  Then, leaping to his feet, he threw back the covers and began removing the ice bags. He pitched them into a large wooden tub nearby, another cut-in-half, wine barrel-y bathing contraption, this one apparently empty.

  What really caught her eye was the flashy sword propped against a chair near the barrel. Much longer and definitely more magnificent than his usual one, its blade reflected the flames of the hearth fire. The whole length of its steel gleamed and sparkled like a well-polished mirror. An elaborately scrolled inscription was inlaid along the blade’s fuller, the blood-channel running down from the hilt. She couldn’t make out the letters. The inscription just made the sword look special.

  Magical or enchanted.

  Much like she imagined King Arthur and his knights would’ve carried.

  She squinted, trying to see it better. The cross-guard looked rather straight and plain, and the hilt was leather-wrapped and worn. As if it’d been used often, and hard. Her breath caught when she focused on the sword’s pommel. That was the real attention-getter.

  Hers anyway.

  A circular, wheel pommel, its centerpiece was an enormous blood-red gemstone. Polished smooth and brilliant, dazzling rays of bright, ruby-colored light streamed in every direction from its jeweled surface, the radiant bands dancing crazily on the room’s whitewashed walls and ceiling.

  It was definitely the sunburst blade.

  The one she’d seen whipping through the blackness as she’d slept.

  She moistened her lips, her heart pounding. Her eyes fluttered completely open.

  “I saw that sword.” She peered at it now, looking from the blade to Aidan. “You swung it – I saw you in my dreams.”

  “I raised it, aye.” He spoke after a hesitation. “Once.”

  She blinked, remembering the blade’s great sweeping arc through the quiet and darkness. A flashing, lightning-quick arc, the memory of it brought a horrible thought.