The Mammoth Book of Scottish Romance

by Trisha Telep

  His smile was familiar as well – crooked with a single dimple set in the right cheek. “Aye. Ye do.”

  He’d been two years her senior when he crawled over the curtain wall of Kisimul Castle to give her a satchel of eiderdown feathers for her sixteenth birthday. He’d been known by her kin as the Falconer of Barra. They were worlds apart in station: he, the son of a crofter, and she, the eldest daughter of the chieftain. He’d always reminded her he wasn’t worthy of her affections, but that didn’t stop him from seeking her out in secrecy the summer before he went to war.

  “I taught ye how to skip a rock across the loch,” he reminded her when she didn’t respond. “And showed ye how to gig a frog,” He held her chin and traced her bottom lip with the tip of his thumb. “And I gave ye your first kiss when ye were just a wee lass.”

  The memory of that kiss exploded in full colour in her head. She’d been so young, so naïve to believe they could have a future together. It seemed like a lifetime ago, but had only been seven years.

  “Ye do remember me, aye?” He lifted her chin higher so she might study him better. He had a man’s face now – a long lean nose, thick black brows, a high forehead. A coarse shadow darkened his strong jaw beneath sharply angled cheekbones.

  “Keiran.” She touched a bruise colouring the side of his face, not yet believing him real. Then her gaze dropped to his lips, so perfectly thick and lush and kissable. Her belly filled with sensations, like a school of minnows flipping and flopping on dry land. When his privy parts hardened against her thigh, she became very aware of their state of undress. “I remember ye with more clothes on.”

  He chuckled, but made no attempt to separate himself from the intimacy of their embrace. His hand slid over her hip and cupped her backside. “’Tis good to see ye again, Sorcha.”

  Mayhap he never returned from war. Mayhap the sea goddess sent him in her stead to collect Sorcha. “Are ye dead?”

  “Nay.” His chest bounced with laughter.

  “Am I?” Her questions sounded foolish, but given the circumstances she felt justified. She couldn’t have survived the fall, and if she did, she would have been bruised from head to toe at the very least. Yet, she felt right as rain.

  “Ye almost died, but I saved ye.” Pomp and pride lined his expression, but his arrogance was of little import at the moment.

  She frowned, confused. Why had he been there? How had he known Hector was going to push her off the cliff? And why wasn’t she in pain?

  “Ye are safe now, Sorcha.” He trailed the tips of his fingers up and down her spine, tickling her.

  It felt good to be coddled, to be caressed. She’d longed for tenderness the whole of her life and could easily remain in his arms forever. Keiran had been the only person who’d ever made her feel like she was more than a piece of property. He’d vowed to protect her, but those had been the words of a boy who also promised her the moon for a kiss. The undeniable strength of his erection told her his desires were no longer so innocent. “Where are we and why are we naked?”

  Keiran’s grin was only half as wicked as his roaming hands. “We are on a ship bound for Barra, and we are naked because I had to warm ye, else ye might have froze to death.”

  “Thank ye for saving me.” Sorcha sat up, pulling the furs with her, worried her gratitude wouldn’t be enough payment for his heroics.

  “’Tis a vow I made long ago.” The light pouring into the small cabin showed her his muscular torso. Battle scars crisscrossed his abdomen, but what caught her attention more were the Pagan symbols covering his left arm like a decorative sleeve. The blue-black markings formed a design that wrapped over his shoulder and around a crucifix over his heart. Many of her kin had been raised as Christo-Pagans, but Keiran and she had both been forbidden by their Christian fathers to practice the Pagan ways.

  When he reached for his undertunic, she saw a bruise wrapped around his wrist. Blue ovals tinted his forearm much like the ones Hector had given her when he’d dragged her to the cliff. She looked down at her own wrists where Hector had bound her hands. Not a smidgeon of colour tinted the skin. “Why am I not hurt?”

  She caught Keiran wincing as he pulled on his undertunic and spun out of the small bed built into the bulkhead. “Because I took your pain.”

  Her brows popped up. Obviously, Keiran had gone against his father’s wishes to practise the Pagan ways, which meant he was most likely dead.

  “Dinnae look so surprised. I’ve spent the past nine months with Magda.”

  Sorcha eyed him curiously. “My grandmum is dead.”

  Keiran shook his head as he draped a blue and yellow plaid over his shoulder and began fingering the pleats into a thick leather belt. “Your grandmum is verra much alive and once again living at Kisimul Castle.”

  “’Tis not possible.” Sorcha had been first in line to offer Grandmum a gift to take to the afterlife. “Ye were at her burial. Ye placed a feather on her grave.”

  “I know not who we buried that day, but ’twas not Magda.” He tied the laces of his deerskin boots. “When I was at war on the mainland, I suffered from what should have been a fatal wound to the side. I was left for dead, but awoke some weeks later in your father’s solar at Kisimul Castle. I have no memory of how I came to be there, but Magda nursed me back to health and taught me the Pagan ways while I was abed. Three days past, she sent me to collect ye.”

  Sorcha struggled to believe his tale, but found herself weakened by the hope that Grandmum was alive and protecting Peigi.

  He handed Sorcha a dry undertunic. “Magda is waiting for ye to come home and lead the clan.”

  “I cannot lead the clan.” Sorcha shook her head adamantly. The man was a dunderheid if he thought her capable of such a task.

  Both Keiran’s brows slid up. He set himself in front of her, then ran his fingers up and down the column of her neck. “Then ye will name a tanist to reign in your stead.”

  His intentions suddenly became very clear. Had he cared for her at all, he wouldn’t have waited til Da died to save her from Hector. He’d always been determined to change his stars. An invisible wall of protection wrapped around her heart as she realized he’d saved her now because he wanted her title. No man had ever wanted her for herself. Da had traded her for an alliance. Hector had married her for land. And now Keiran intended to seduce her with gentle caresses for the power of the chieftainship.

  She jammed her fists into the sleeves of the tunic. “I suspect ye think I’ll name ye tanist.”

  “’Tis my hope that ye will find me worthy of the position.” His smug grin set her teeth on edge.

  S’truth, other clans had named tanists outside of their chieftain’s heirs. However, Clan MacNeil had remained true to its bloodline for generations. Regardless of her viewpoint on the matter, she intended to refuse him simply because he’d hurt her. “Unless the laws of our clan have changed, there are only two men who can lay claim to the chieftainship: my husband or Peigi’s.”

  Keiran stared at her, head shaking slightly, lips parted to protest, but she didn’t give him the opportunity to sway her with words.

  “If the chieftainship is what ye desire, then mayhap ye should set your silver tongue loose on Peigi. She’s of marriageable age now.” Pent-up anger made Sorcha spout such foolishness.

  Keiran’s amber eyes darkened, his brows pinched tight in the middle. “I dinnae want Peigi. I want ye.”

  “I already have a husband,” she hissed, knowing hurt drove her words now. Hector never loved her, nor had he been kind by any stretch of the word. S’truth, he’d been a wretched husband, but he taught her one thing during their marriage. “If I live long enough to become a widow, I can assure ye, I’ll never take another husband.”

  Keiran stared at her for long moments before he sheathed his weapons and strode towards the door. “Should ye have need for anything, m’lady, I’m here to serve ye.”

  Everything Keiran had done in the past seven years had been for her. He’d trained to be a w
arrior, for her. He’d fought and killed for the clan, for her. He’d learned her religion, and the foolish wench couldn’t see that he’d done it all for her.

  The afternoon air did nothing to ease his frustration as he paced the quarterdeck, all the while cursing the tenderness in his side. He’d taken her pain away. He’d saved her life. And she accused him of doing it all for the chieftainship.

  “Ye seem to be frettin’ over a’thing.” Sileas descended the steps of a companionway, then leaned against the rail. “Has your woman fallen ill?”

  “Nay, she is well. But she is not my woman, nor is she keen on naming me tanist.”

  “She remains faithful to the old laws,” Sileas guessed and rolled a slender piece of wood from one side of his mouth to the other.

  Keiran nodded.

  “Then we go back and make her a widow,” Sileas suggested without pause.

  Keiran hadn’t raised his broadsword since Leckmelm. His sword arm shook just thinking about what he’d done. “She will think I killed her husband for power.”

  “The cur pushed her off a bluidy cliff. Ye would be avenging her.”

  As much as Keiran relished the idea of seeing the man dead, his main goal was to get Sorcha to the stronghold where she would be safe. “We need to be patient. Give her time to see how things have changed.”

  “The clan has been without a chieftain for too long, and the kinsfolk living on Barra support ye.” Sileas retrieved a flask out of his plaid and tipped it to his cracked lips. “What ye did in Leckmelm was foolish, but it earned ye the respect of the clan.”

  “What did he do in Leckmelm?”

  Startled, Keiran spun on his heel. “Sorcha.”

  “M’lady.” Sileas bowed as if she were the bluidy queen, which in all manner of speaking, she was. “’Tis good to have ye aboard. We should have ye safe at Kisimul Castle come the morrow.”

  “Thank ye.” Sorcha offered Sileas a small smile, then redirected her gaze at Keiran. The fury that had fired her blue-green eyes earlier that morning seemed to have softened. Mayhap she regretted the heated words that passed between them.

  Keiran now realized he’d been overzealous to think she would be the same person he’d known seven years past. She’d been beaten and used and thrown away like rotted meat. ’Twould take time to gain her trust again.

  “Might I offer ye my sympathies regarding the loss of your father.” Sileas kept his head lowered and his eyes on his boots. “He was an apt leader.”

  “My father was a pig,” she snapped back. “He married my mother because she shared blood with the chieftain, and then he sold me off to further his gain. Ye need not glorify his name on my behalf.”

  “Forgive me, m’lady.” Sileas side-stepped around the woman and gave Keiran a sympathetic look as he took his leave.

  “Think ye I am like your father?” Keiran reached for her, but she angled her body away from him.

  “Ye want the chieftainship. I suspect it is something ye have craved since we were in our youth.” Her matter-of-fact tone scraped over his nerves like screaming gulls.

  Keiran blew air out through his nostrils and shook his head in objection. “If ye think my affections for ye are part of some plan to acquire the chieftainship, then ye are wrong.”

  The irritable woman obviously needed more time to think. He pushed past her and dropped down the afthatch. He stalked across the gunnerdeck, down another two ladderways, and into the storage chamber where he’d left his satchel of spices. By the time he heard the swishing of her skirts, he was grinding coltsfoot, comfrey and garlic cloves with a stone pestle and mortar.

  “I wasn’t finished speaking to ye.”

  “Ye always were one to argue a’thing to death.” How had he forgotten that annoying trait?

  “’Tis not true.” Sorcha rounded the barrel where he worked, her eyes wide, innocent.

  “Nay?” He stopped crushing the herbs. “Ye once argued with me for a sennight that the puffin stayed with a single mate for life.”

  “The puffin do stay with a single mate for life.” Her small chuckle washed away the tension. “Forgive me. I’ve not had anyone to toss barbs with in quite some time.”

  “Nor I.” Keiran broke the connection between them. Being with Sorcha was like taming the falcon. It required devotion, finesse and patience. He then reminded himself of the reward. The thrill he’d experienced the day Tàiseal returned from her first hunt was immeasurable. He drew a pentacle atop the barrel with a piece of coal and prayed Sorcha would one day find her way back to him.

  “What are ye doing?”

  “I’m about to cast a healing spell so I might rid myself of your wounds.”

  “’Tis something Grandmum taught ye?”

  “Aye.”

  “How does it work?” As she watched him, he remembered that young curious girl who’d once looked at him like he was a king.

  “On faith.” He placed a silver coin in the northern direction of the five-pointed star, then offered her a mischievous smile just before he yanked out a few strands of her hair.

  “Ow!” She rubbed her scalp. “What did ye do that for?”

  “’Twill strengthen the spell.” He lit the wick of a red candle on the southern tip of the star, then burned the ends of her hair and laid the remains on the eastern point. After adding water to the herbal mixture, he closed his eyes and focused on cleansing his spirit.

  “What are ye doing now? Are ye praying?”

  Damn distracting woman. He opened one eye momentarily. “I am attempting to free myself of negative energy. ’Twould be helpful if ye did the same.”

  “How?”

  “Close your eyes and visualize the things that are sacred to ye. Use them to eliminate the burdens darkening your heart.”

  Less than a minute passed before Sorcha once again interrupted his meditation. “What do ye think of?”

  He didn’t open his eyes, focused as he was on the memory in his head. “I think of a lass with long sable hair racing across a meadow towards me. Her arms are open and her bright blue-green eyes are filled with a trust that brings light into my heart.”

  “Ye think of me?”

  He nodded and hoped she believed him. Sorcha fell silent while he pushed his plaid and undertunic to his waist. He spread the herbal mixture over the bruises circling his wrists then proceeded to do the same for his rib. “I know ye dinnae trust me, but if ye are still in pain, I can help ye.”

  She lowered her eyes and contemplated his offer for long minutes before she finally admitted, “My side is tender.”

  ’Twas a small victory, but a victory just the same. His hands shook as he pushed her kirtle off her shoulders and hooked the draped wool at her elbows. She turned her head and closed her eyes when he released the ties of her tunic and lowered the garment to her waist.

  He swallowed hard, momentarily mesmerized by creamy white skin. Saliva pooled in his mouth as he watched her soft coral-coloured nipples harden into tight little buds. Then her heart began to visibly pound behind her breast.

  Bluidy-faugh! He should have bound his cock to his thigh. He ignored the blood rushing to his groin and quickly spread the mixture over her side. Regardless of how desperately he wanted to take her into his mouth, he resisted the temptation, knowing lust would taint the spell.

  Keiran flattened his palm over her rib and felt her tremble when he pulled her into his embrace. “I beseech Thee, Brigid, to help heal your kin.” Sorcha’s fingers curled around his forearm as he called upon the Great Goddess. “Surround us in Your radiant light, magick power pure and white.” He began the chant:

  “Fire flame and fire burn, make the mill of magick turn.

  By all the power of three times three, transfer her pain into me.

  Pains and aches and evil things, fly from us on rapid wings.”

  He repeated the incantation two more times and after the spell had been cast, he held Sorcha for long moments, wanting to bind her heart to his.

  “Is it done?�
�� she whispered, but remained firm in his hold.

  “It is.” He still didn’t release her. “’Twill take some time for transfer.”

  “Keiran.” She traced the blue-black designs marking his skin. “Is there a spell ye can cast to earn someone’s trust?”

  “Aye, but I would rather earn someone’s trust without the aid of magick.”

  She looked up at him. The tears filling the rims of her eyes hurt him more than any blade ever had. “I have never been held by a man who didn’t want something from me. My father wanted an alliance. Hector wanted my land. ’Tis difficult for me to believe ye are different.”

  He covered her breasts with her undertunic and pulled her plaid back in place on her shoulders, then he leaned in and pressed a kiss against each of her eyes. “The only thing I ever wanted from ye was your heart.”

  Three

  Fear no longer owned her, and she was grateful to Keiran for setting her free of its binds.

  Sitting on hillock surrounded by sweet-smelling orchids, Sorcha leaned back to let the summer sun warm her face. A dozen passing gulls flew overhead to the nearby sea, but the white falcon that had followed her home to Barra remained on guard atop the thatch roof of Keiran’s childhood home. For the first time in four years she felt free.

  Upon her arrival at Kisimul Castle a sennight past, she’d been greeted by her people with open arms – some she recognized, most she’d never seen before – but none had been more welcoming than her sister. Peigi had grown into her curves over the past four years, but was still very much a child in so many ways. It was upon seeing Peigi that Sorcha gathered the leaders of her clan into the council chamber and informed them of Hector’s intention to seize Barra. The elders had respectfully waited for her to advise them, but she knew nothing of warfare. She knew not how to save Barra from the invasion that was coming, nor could she raise a broadsword to protect her land or her people.

  But Keiran could.

  She’d watched him aboard the Cerridwen with the MacNeil kinsmen and known he’d somehow earned their loyalty. They obeyed his commands without question and showed him the respect that was due a born leader. And he’d treated her with equal respect since the day he rescued her from Hector.