by Donna Grant
He cursed himself for ten kinds of fool. He might not be able to die, but she certainly could. He lengthened one of his claws and sliced her gown down the middle. After he pulled it off her, he tossed it aside and hurried to remove her wet stockings.
His hands shook as they came in contact with her skin, just as silky as he had imagined it to be. He left her chemise in place and reached for a blanket. It took every ounce of his control not to rip her thin chemise from her and drink his fill of her luscious curves.
As he began to spread the blanket over her, he spotted her fisted hand and a strip of leather hanging from her grasp. It must have been what she was after on the cliff. He frowned as he felt the pull of something. It took but a moment for him to recognize it as magic.
“Just who are you?” he murmured.
DANGEROUS
HIGHLANDER
DONNA GRANT
St. Martin’s Paperbacks
NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
DANGEROUS HIGHLANDER
COPYRIGHT © 2010 by Donna Grant.
Excerpt from Forbidden Highlander copyright © 2010 by Donna Grant.
All rights reserved.
For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
ISBN: 978-0-312-38122-6
Printed in the United States of America
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / January 2010
St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
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For Mom and Dad,
you always told me I could be anything I wanted to be.
Thank you—for everything. I love you!
For my husband whose faith in me has never faltered.
You’re my real–life hero.
I wouldn’t be here without you, sexy.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This series wouldn’t be here without thanks to many people.
Thank you to my husband for being willing to sit in the restaurant on our date nights (and any other time—especially right when he’s falling asleep at night) and discuss my ideas. Thank you to my wonderful children for understanding when my music is on and I’m typing that I’m in my “zone.” Huge thanks to my parents for picking up the kids from school when I needed to finish a scene.
To my brilliant editor, Monique Patterson. Thank you for all the support, encouragement, and fabulous editorial input and vision. To the best editorial assistant out there—Holly, you’re awesome. Thanks also to everyone at St. Martin’s working behind the scenes to get this book on the shelves.
Thank you to agent Roberta Brown for being the first to see the potential in this series and helping to get it sold.
To my extraordinary agent, Irene Goodman, for having such passion and belief in me.
To the other great Dangerous Authors for being so supportive. I’m lucky to be involved with such a wonderful group of writers.
To Lisa Renee Jones for her invaluable advice. To Georgia Tribell, Mary O’Connor, and Robin T. Popp, just for being there.
THE BEGINNING
There once was a land of legend, of lore. A land filled with magic and hope. Though the Celtic tribes warred with one another, all of that came to an end with the arrival of Rome to their shores.
The mighty kingdom of Rome, intent on ruling the world, slowly worked its way across Britain. Until it reached the highlands and encountered a foe like none other. Despite their victories, nothing the Celts did could make Rome leave their precious land.
With no other recourse, the Celts turned to their trusted advisors and allies, the Druids.
Respected and revered, the Druids were like any society. Their magic came in the purest form from the earth, but there were ones who wanted more—more power, more control . . . more of everything.
Inevitably, the Druids split into two sects. The mie stayed true to their magic and continued to heal the sick and offer their knowledge to clan leaders. The drough, however, chose human sacrifices and black magic to grow their power.
It was the drough who had the answers for the Celts.
The mie cautioned the tribal leaders against using black magic, but the Celts knew their hold against the Romans was waning. So the Celts allowed their greatest warriors to step forward and the drough to cast their spells and call up the gods long buried in Hell—gods that once ruled the earth with brutal tactics and violent ends.
But they were the only ones who could defeat Rome.
The gods, freed at last, eagerly answered the Druids’ call and bound themselves into each clan’s fiercest warrior. Those warriors, with the aid of the gods inside them, attacked every Roman they encountered. Battle after battle ensued, until, finally, Rome abandoned Britain.
Yet the gods were still thirsty for blood, still hungry for battle. With the Romans gone, the warriors turned on one another . . . and anyone who got in their way. The rivers and land ran red with the blood of the Celts as death permeated the air.
The drough, finding their magic useless, joined forces with the mie. Yet nothing the two sects did could put the gods back in their prison in Hell. The gods refused to relinquish their hold on the warriors, growing stronger with each heartbeat, each kill, until the warriors were no longer the men they had once been.
A gathering of Druids was called. It was unlike anything that had occurred since before the split. Magic pulsed over the land as they put aside their differences and struggled to find a way to help the Celts. But no amount of magic the Druids called up freed the warriors.
Unable to send the gods back, the Druids combined magic and black magic to create a spell that bound the gods, in effect freezing them inside their hosts. The warriors returned to the men they once were and resumed their lives having no memory of the atrocities they had committed.
Yet, inside each warrior, the gods waited. With every generation the gods moved from warrior to warrior, passing down and forever a part of the family’s bloodline.
And so the Warriors were born.
The Druids, knowing what they had created, knowing what would happen in the future, stayed near the Warriors. Forever keeping watch. Even when the Druids’ faith, the very thing they were, caused them to hide for fear of being killed, they had no choice but to watch. All of mankind was at risk.
The true story of Rome’s departing from Britain was forgotten. It passed into legend and myth amongst the Celts with each retelling of the story. Only the Druids knew the truth.
Then one drough found hidden scrolls. More power hungry than any drough before her, Deirdre set out to unbind the gods and control them. Thereby giving her the army she needed to rule the world and become a goddess before whom all men would tremble.
The scrolls, however, only listed one tribe—the MacLeods.
Deirdre turned her eye to the MacLeod clan. There she would begin. . . .
CHAPTER ONE
West Highlands of Scotland
Spring 1603
“Ye’ve gone daft, ye have.”
Cara adjusted the basket on her arm. The brisk wind from the sea pulled tendrils from her braid to fly haphazardly into her eyes. She tucked them behind her ear and smiled at Angus. He had only one tooth left in his mouth, and what little hair he had stood on end, waving about in the vicious sea wind. “I’ll be fine, Angus. The best mushrooms in all
of Scotland are within walking distance.”
“Ye stay away from that castle, lass. ’Tis full of ghosts it be. And monsters.” He shook a gnarled finger at her, his white, fluffy brows furrowed deep in his wrinkled forehead.
He needn’t remind her. Everyone in clan MacClure knew of MacLeod Castle. For centuries the stories of how the entire MacLeod clan had been massacred had been passed down from generation to generation. Tales of ghosts that roamed the land and castle were also told to frighten young children.
But it did more than scare the bairns. Even adults swore they saw movement in the shadows of MacLeod Castle.
No one dared venture near the old ruins for fear of being eaten alive. It didn’t help that strange, furious sounds, almost like howls, could be heard emanating from the ancient fortress in the dead of night.
Cara inhaled deeply and turned her head to look at the castle. It stood dark and foreboding against the ominous clouds coming their way. Grass, bright green in the warming weather, surrounded the stones that protruded from the landscape while the dark blue sea set a fantastic backdrop to the castle. The castle itself had two connected towers that had at one time served as the gate house. The gate had burned in the slaughter, leaving nothing left.
The castle wall that was easily twelve feet thick still stood, its stones blackened by the fire, with many of the sawtoothed merlons and crenels broken and crumbling. There were six round towers that stretched to the sky, leaving only one with the ceiling intact.
Cara had wanted to look inside the bailey and castle but had never been brave enough. Her fear of the dark, and the creatures that lurked in it, kept her out of the stronghold.
“They are simply stones turned to rubble,” she said to Angus. “There are no ghosts. Nor monsters.”
Angus moved to stand beside her. “There are monsters, Cara. Heed me words, lass. Ye go near the ruins, we’ll never see ye again.”
“I promise I won’t go in the castle, but I must get near it to get the mushrooms. Sister Abigail needs them for her herbs.”
“Then let the good Sister go herself. She’s not one of us. Ye are, Cara. Ye know the tales of the MacLeods.”
“That’s right, Angus. I do.” She didn’t bother denouncing her MacClure ties. She was a Sinclair, though no one knew it. It was just one of her secrets she kept from the clan that had taken her in when she was a small child wandering the forest.
Nay, she wasn’t a MacClure, but she didn’t correct Angus, one of her only friends. It felt good to belong to something, even if it was just in her mind. Not even the nuns who had raised her made her feel as if she truly belonged. They had loved her, in their own way, but it wasn’t the same thing as a parent’s love.
Not that she blamed any of the MacClures for not opening their homes to her. When the nuns had found her, she had gone days without food. She had been filthy, barefoot, and still so in shock at her parents’ deaths that she refused to speak. She doubted anyone wanted to know that her parents had sacrificed themselves to save her, their only child.
Like most Highlanders, the MacClures were a superstitious lot and feared Cara and what had driven her from her home. It was that same superstition that kept everyone away from the ruins of the castle that stood on the cliffs. With one last look at Angus and his furrowed brow, she lifted her skirts and turned to start toward the ancient ruins, ignoring the tingle of apprehension that ran along her spine.
His words were soon drowned out by the breeze and the cries of birds. Cara kept a watchful eye on the sinister clouds moving toward her. If she was lucky, she would be back inside the nunnery before the first drop landed.
She set out, enjoying the spring wind and the call of the razorbills that made their homes in the cliffs. Ever since the spring equinox and her eighteenth year, strange things had begun to happen to her. She would feel a sort of . . . tingling . . . in her fingers. The need to touch something overwhelmed her. Yet she feared that sensation, so she kept her hands to herself and tried her best to ignore the need that called to her. Being more different than she already was would not endure her to the MacClures—or the nuns.
The village of the MacClures had been built but a short distance from the old community of MacLeod Castle. After the massacre, it hadn’t taken the other clans long to divide up the lands of the MacLeods, and the MacClures were one of the first.
It was a sad story, and every time she looked at the castle she couldn’t help but wonder what had actually happened. The MacLeods had been a great clan, feared and respected, and had been destroyed in a single night. Yet no one had claimed responsibility for the annihilation.
A shiver ran through her as she recalled the animalistic howls and screams she sometimes heard at night. She told the children at the nunnery it was simply the wind racing across the sea and moving between the ruins. But deep inside, she knew the truth.
There was something alive in the castle.
The closer she got to the old castle, the more the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She turned her back on the ruins, scolding herself for letting her fear take hold. There was nothing to worry about now. It was daylight. Only the dark of night brought out her true fear.
She briefly closed her eyes and tamped her growing fright down. A gasp escaped her lips when the necklace she always kept hidden warmed against her skin.
She pulled the necklace out of her gown and stared at the vial and the silver knot work that wound around it. The necklace had been her mother’s, and the last thing she had given Cara before she died.
Cara dropped the necklace and pulled in a shaky breath. Her mother had bade her to keep it with her always, protecting the vial. Cara couldn’t think about the night her parents died. It brought too much guilt, too much anger, to know that the people who had loved her, cared for her, had surrendered their lives so she might live.
She glanced down to see the mushrooms she was supposed to pick. No one knew why they grew only along the path to the castle, and few braved the ghosts to harvest them. Some claimed it was magic that brought the mushrooms, and though Cara would never admit it to anyone, she thought it very well could be magic. She had volunteered to go this time because Sister Abigail needed them for little Mary’s fever.
Cara loved helping the nuns with the children. It satisfied a piece of her heart that knew she would never have a child of her own. Her decision to become a nun had been a sound one. Yet there were times she felt . . . incomplete. It always happened when she saw a couple about the village. She wondered what the touch of a man would feel like, what it would be like to bring her own child into the world and look into the loving eyes of her husband.
Stop it, Cara.
Aye, she needed to stop. Keeping her mind on that track would only bring her melancholy for what could never be and rage over her parents’ deaths.
She began to pick the mushrooms and enjoyed the time alone that she rarely got at the nunnery. Her mind wandered, as it often did, while she plucked the shrooms from the ground.
It wasn’t until her basket was nearly full and a large cloud blocked out the sun that she looked up, startled to find she was closer to the ruins than she had planned to go. She had been so intent on the mushrooms and her daydreaming that she hadn’t paid attention to where she had walked. Or how long she had been out.
But now that she was at the castle, she was intrigued by it, forgetting the approaching storm. Even after three hundred years the scars from the battle and fire could still be seen in the stones.
Cara’s heart hurt for everyone who had died. No one had ever discovered why the clan had been killed. Whoever had attacked had spared no one, not even a babe. The entire MacLeod clan had been wiped away in a single night.
She shuddered as if she could hear the screams and the sound of flames surrounding her. It was all in her mind, she knew, but that didn’t stop the terror from taking hold. Her blood turned to ice, and fear clawed at her, begging her to run.
Yet she couldn’t move.
Cara blinked and forced her gaze away from the castle to calm her racing heart as her necklace heated once more. It was so hot that she took it off and held the leather strap by two fingers. She had never feared the necklace before and rarely taken it off since her mother had placed it around her neck. However, there was something decidedly odd about it now, had been since the equinox. It looked the same, but she knew what she had felt.
The wind suddenly picked up and swirled around Cara. She gasped for breath and dropped the basket in an effort to pull the hair out of her eyes.
“Nay!” she screamed when her mother’s necklace was ripped from her hands.
Cara followed the precious link to her parents as it bounced over the rocky landscape to land near the edge of the cliff.
With her heart in her throat and her hands tingling with that strange sensation again, Cara hurried to the necklace as the first fat drop of rain landed on her arm. The wind suddenly dropped in temperature. Cara glanced up to see the storm had grown larger than she had anticipated. With the breeze beginning to howl, she inched closer to the necklace.
A bolt of lightning zigzagged across the sky a heartbeat before the clouds opened up and the downpour soaked her. After several days of constant rain, the ground was already soggy and unable to hold any more water.
Cara got down on her hands and knees, uncaring of the mud that soaked her skirts, and scooted closer to the necklace. Tears coursed down her face.
Please, God, please. Don’t let me lose the necklace.
She should never have taken it off, never have feared the very thing that her mother had kept close to her heart. An image of Cara’s parents flashed in her mind, driving home yet again how lonely she was, how alone in the world she always would be.