The Secret Clan: The Complete Series

by Amanda Scott

  “Likely, ye’d remain wi’ Donald for only a short time,” Mackinnon said reassuringly. “But go now, lass, I dinna want anyone realizing who ye be till I get shut o’ this lot from Kintail.”

  “But who are they, exactly? You mentioned Mackenzie of Kintail, but that name is not familiar to me.”

  “That would be himself in there lying on the floor. He’s the Mackenzie chieftain from Eilean Donan Castle, and he carries a writ from the King.”

  “King James?”

  “Aye, and what other king might be making a nuisance o’ himself but our own Jamie?”

  “As to that, I do not know,” Molly said, forcing a smile. “I suppose that, since Henry of England has formed the annoying habit of attacking the Scottish Borders and poking his nose into royal affairs at Stirling, he might decide to extend his impertinence to the Highlands. He certainly has made a nuisance of himself everywhere else for many years, or so they say.”

  “And who’s been talking t’ ye about the Borders?” he demanded.

  “Why, you have, sir, frequently, and Micheil Love, as well. You said that I should know about what has been happening there in my absence.”

  “Aye, but your absence, as ye call it, ha’ gone on now for nigh onto a dozen years, lassie. I doubt what happens in the Borders these days need trouble ye.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Aye, so dinna fratch wi’ me more, but go and do as I bid ye, and dinna go t’ your own chamber but sleep wi’ Doreen or Annie. And if anyone asks ye who ye be, tell them ye be a servant lass here in the castle.”

  A disturbingly familiar voice said grimly, “We would not believe her.”

  Molly and Mackinnon turned as one and found themselves face-to-face with Mackenzie of Kintail. He looked even larger than Molly remembered—and more handsome—but the impudent grin was gone.

  She had recognized his voice instantly, for it had the same effect on her that it had had before. Even so, she could scarcely believe that the tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired, and extremely healthy-looking man standing in the archway could be the same one who had lain senseless only a short time before.

  Evidently, Mackinnon felt the same, for he said blankly, “So ye’re no dead after all, Kintail.”

  “As you see,” Kintail replied. “Your healer was surprised, as well, but I have a hard head.” Although he answered Mackinnon, he looked at Molly, and she forced herself to look steadily back.

  The flickering light from the taper she still held and from torches in nearby holders made his dark eyes glint menacingly, making her feel as if she gazed into the eyes of Satan himself. She could not look away. His eyes looked brown, she thought, but very dark. That dark gaze held hers and seemed to draw her nearer, although her feet did not move. Her body stirred as if he had touched her.

  Stupidly, she said, “You… you are standing up.”

  “You are perceptive, mistress.” His voice was honey smooth, but his tone was nonetheless ominous. All sign of the impudent marauder she had met on the hillside was gone. Some undercurrent in his tone kept her silent, although she longed to tell him that both his comment and his manner were insolent.

  Mackinnon said abruptly, “If ye’re not hurt, Kintail, mayhap we should return t’ the others now and let the lass retire t’ her chamber. I’ve a chess match t’ win yet, but your lads are welcome t’ bed down in the hall, and I warrant we can find a spare chamber for ye and your deputy. He’ll be a MacRae, will he not?”

  “Aye.” Kintail’s gaze still locked with Molly’s, and she began to feel that to look away now—if she could—would somehow give him a victory. “We thank you for your hospitality, Mackinnon,” he added, “but we’ll sleep with my men.”

  “As ye wish. Be they all MacRaes?”

  Kintail glanced briefly at him. “Why would you think that?”

  “Men do call the MacRaes ‘the Mackenzies’ shirt o’ mail,’ do they not?” Mackinnon said. “ ’Tis only natural t’ think MacRaes would make up the greater part o’ your tail, lad. D’ye play chess?”

  “I do.”

  “Then if your head’s no paining ye, we’ll ha’ a game, for ’twill be my pleasure t’ beat ye,” Mackinnon said cheerfully.

  Kintail raised his eyebrows. “Do you always win?”

  “I do. Does that terrify ye, or will ye play?”

  “I’ll play,” he said, capturing Molly’s gaze again. “But before we abandon the lass, I would know her name.”

  “Dinna tell him, lassie,” Mackinnon said urgently.

  “As you wish, sir,” she said. “He asked me several times earlier, but I did not like his tone, so I did not tell him.” She shot Kintail a challenging look, daring him to recall all that he had said to her.

  He did not flinch, saying easily, “I thought what any man would think, meeting a lass walking alone at such an hour. If I offended you, mistress, you have only yourself to blame. You ought to have had a companion. In truth, you should keep her more closely guarded, Mackinnon.”

  “Why should he?” Molly demanded, furious that he would blame her for the incident. “Pray, what business is it of yours if I choose to walk at night?”

  “It is very much my business,” Kintail replied sternly, “because I believe that you are Mary Gordon, Maid of Dunsithe.”

  “And what if I am?” She heard Mackinnon gasp but kept her attention firmly fixed on Kintail.

  He said evenly, “If you are, I hold a royal writ granting me your wardship.”

  “But you cannot hold such a writ,” she protested, appalled at the thought of this man having any hold over her, realizing at last just what Mackinnon had been trying to explain to her. Desperately, she said, “My guardian is Donald of Sleat.”

  “No longer, mistress. His grace the King has seen fit to transfer that guardianship to me. Apparently, he learned that Sleat harbors thoughts of reestablishing the Lordship of the Isles.”

  “I know little about that,” Molly said flatly, “nor can I imagine why a matter between Donald and the King should involve me.”

  “All you need to know is that I speak the truth,” he replied with that maddening calm. “Do you deny that you are the Maid of Dunsithe?”

  “I’ll not deny it, for I am certainly she,” Molly said. “But if you seek to control my fortune, sir, you should know that many others have long sought to find it and all have failed. There is land, of course, and Dunsithe Castle in the Borders, although that is doubtless falling to rack by now unless Donald still keeps a garrison there. But although men say that my father was a man of great wealth, as far as I know, no one has laid eyes on anything but the castle and its lands since his death.”

  “That is my concern now, not yours,” he said. “At present, I am interested in collecting what is mine—which is to say, yourself, mistress. You will prepare to depart for Eilean Donan at dawn.”

  Molly looked from one man to the other, speechless and fighting tears. As she had continually feared, despite being allowed to remain in one household for years, she was again to be uprooted without a moment’s thought for her wishes.

  “Dinna be daft, lad,” Mackinnon said curtly. “The lassie ha’ made her home here for ten years and more. Ye canna sweep her away overnight. I warrant it will take a sennight at least, for she’ll want t’ take farewell of all here who love her. Ye’re welcome t’ stay wi’ us till she’s ready, but surely—”

  “She may have one day.”

  “Nay, then, for it lacks but a few hours till dawn, and the lass requires her sleep. Make it four days. There’s a good lad. We canna say fairer than that.”

  “Two.”

  “Make it three, at least!”

  “Faith, Mackinnon, I’ll not be taking her to the end of the earth, only to Eilean Donan. It is not as far away as Dunvegan,” he added dryly.

  “Aye, sure, Dunvegan,” Mackinnon replied with a twinkle. “Well, I did think I’d sent the lass there, ye ken, but ’tis true, I ha’ a dreadful memory.”

  Gathering h
er scattered wits, Molly said, “Do you not think that someone should ask me if I want to go with him? Even if I did—and I don’t—I could not possibly prepare to leave Dunakin so quickly.”

  “You have nothing to say about it,” Kintail said. “As it is Tuesday morning already, I’ll give you until noon Thursday to pack.”

  “We dinna dine until one,” Mackinnon said. “Ye’ll no want t’ go afore ye eat, for ye’ll need your strength, lad. ’Tis a wonder and all that ye can keep your feet after such a clout as ye must ha’ taken, falling off your horse. And how ye come t’ do such a fool thing, I dinna ken. My man’s a wizard training horses, and I ha’ never had trouble wi’ the one that gave ye a toss, but mayhap ye—”

  “There is naught amiss with me or the horse,” Kintail said, shooting a look at Molly. “Indeed, sir, so mild was his temper before that moment that my men still suspect witchcraft.”

  “That is not what your men said about his temper,” Molly said. “They said it was as wicked as your own—although,” she amended hastily, “they did say, too, that he was as meek as a lamb with you. It was odd, sir,” she said to Mackinnon. “Naught occurred to spook him, I promise you. He reared for no reason.”

  “Well, there be little accounting for beasts,” Mackinnon said amiably. Turning to Kintail, he added in the same tone, “We’re agreed, then. Ye’ll remain until after dinner on Thursday—or mayhap till Friday morning. Ye’ll no want t’ be sleeping on that stone floor in the hall all that time, either, for ye’ll need your sleep, and in a bed befitting your station. My people will look after ye nicely. Now then, Molly, ye run along t’ bed. We’ll speak more o’ this business anon.”

  “Aye, lass,” Kintail said.“You and I will also speak more anon.”

  Ignoring the little shiver that shot up her spine at his stern tone, Molly curtsied to Mackinnon but spared only a nod for Kintail. She was pleased when he frowned. Let him learn that she was no woman to bend her knee to a man merely because he thought he wielded power over her.

  “Come along, lad,” she heard Mackinnon say heartily as she strode briskly away from them. “Unless ye be lying and your head aches like the devil—as it should—I’ll teach ye how t’ play chess properly.”

  Chapter 4

  Fin accompanied his host willingly enough, but it was as well that no one asked him just then what he thought of his new ward. From the moment of receiving the King’s writ, he had thought only of what the transfer would mean to Donald of Sleat and perhaps to Eilean Donan. He had scarcely given a moment’s thought to what it might mean to him. Had anyone asked what he had expected her to look like, he would have had no answer. Indeed, he would not have thought such a detail important, but he certainly had not expected her to look as she did—deliciously, intoxicatingly beautiful.

  He had never seen anyone like her. He doubted that most men ever had, and it occurred to him then that James could not possibly know how beautiful she was, or he would have seduced her himself before offering her to anyone else. Such was his grace’s reputation, after all, and if her fortune was half what they claimed, her purity would not matter a whit. Doubtless, James thought of her still as a child, no more than a pawn in his favorite game of pitting noble against noble.

  Fin realized that he, too, had thought of this new ward as a child, but she was no such thing. Even dressed as she was and bedraggled after hiding in the shrubbery, she was exquisite. Her pale red-gold hair was soft and silky-looking, encouraging a man’s touch. He could easily imagine burying his face in her long, thick curls. Her complexion was pale, translucently so, with a stubborn little chin, a tip-tilted nose, and undeniably kissable lips. And her eyes were extraordinary—large, with black-rimmed gray pupils, or so they had seemed in the dim torchlight of the corridor. Black lashes—long, curly ones—fringed them and made her look vulnerable, until she opened her saucy mouth.

  She had a truly elegant figure, slender, graceful, and enticingly curvaceous. Indeed, he could complain of nothing in her appearance, and if the truth were told, he looked forward to seeing her again. But her behavior and manner of speech would have to change if they were to get along. That much was certain.

  Following Mackinnon to the high table, he wondered what the man had been thinking to let her grow up speaking so impertinently to him or to anyone else. As Fin watched him finish his game, an image flashed before his mind’s eye of the lass naked and spread out like a feast before him, her mouth bound shut. He chuckled at the thought. Doubtless, she would unman anyone foolish enough to try gagging her.

  When Mackinnon’s opponent relinquished his place at the chessboard, Fin took it with alacrity, certain that he could beat the older man. But although they played several games, no matter what he did, no matter how clever his strategy seemed, luck eluded him. When Mackinnon said kindly, as he offered him more of the heady brogac that the islanders drank, that Fin’s losses were probably due to the clout on his head, Fin wanted to believe him, but his head did not even ache.

  That seemed strange, too, because since he had hit the ground hard enough to render himself unconscious, his head ought to hurt like the devil.

  One benefit came from the busy night, however—or the brogac—for although he rarely slept well in strange surroundings, he slept soundly in the bedchamber allotted to him until a sharp rapping at the door awakened him.

  “Enter,” he growled, shifting his pillows and sitting up against them.

  “You’re in a pleasant humor,” Patrick MacRae said with a teasing grin. “I came to see if you mean to sleep the day away. ’Tis nigh onto eleven.”

  “Faith, it cannot be so late!”

  “Aye, but it is. I’d have come sooner, but Mackinnon told me you wanted to sleep late. He passed that information to Tam, as well.”

  “The devil he did! After this, my lad, unless you or Tam hear such an order from me, you will pay it no heed.”

  “Aye, well, normally I would not have believed him,” Patrick said with a wise look, “but you stayed up till nearly dawn, after all, letting the old man beat you at chess and drinking his brogac, so I thought he might be right to let you sleep.”

  “Where is the lass? Is she still abed, as well?”

  “Nay, the old man said she went hunting shortly after dawn.”

  “Hunting!”

  “Aye, I thought it strange, myself, but I did take the precaution of sending a pair of the lads to keep an eye on her so she’d not winkle her way off the isle whilst you slept. They have not returned, so doubtless they managed to follow my orders.”

  “Good man,” Fin said.

  “Aye, unless Mackinnon is more devious than we think,” Patrick said thoughtfully. “He could have murdered our lads and hidden the lass somewhere. This is his ground, after all.”

  “Men say Mackinnon is a man of his word,” Fin said, “but I do not trust the lass. Unless I miss my guess, she’ll leap at the first opportunity to escape me.”

  “How odd that she did not take to you at once,” Patrick said, grinning again.

  “You mind your manners, my lad,” Fin growled, “or even you will soon find it difficult to laugh. I may allow you frequent liberties, but—”

  “I’ll hold my peace,” Patrick said, sobering hastily. “There is still food set out in the hall,” he added. “Shall I send a lad up with a platter of it?”

  “I’ll go down,” Fin said. “Tell someone to saddle a horse for me. I mean to follow that hunt as soon as I’ve broken my fast.”

  An hour later, Fin rode out of the castle with Sir Patrick at his side, and it did not take them long to find the hunters. To his astonishment, the Maid rode ahead of the men, and she rode like a young goddess.

  Her mount was of the highest quality, a fine bay gelding with four black stockings and a white blaze on its face. Its black mane was strung with tiny silver bells that tinkled musically as it paced along with its long black tail arched high. Her plushly padded saddle was inlaid with ivory and gilt. Her silver-tipped stirrups, her elegant g
ray velvet dress, and her plumed black hat—all augmented her beauty and the magnificence of her appearance. The fair huntress held her reins gracefully in her left hand and her bow in her right. A quiver of arrows hung from her belt. Her thick, reddish blond curls hung in a loose cloud down her back.

  The sight reminded him of his Viking ancestors, any one of whom would have been delighted to capture such a treasure and carry her back to his home, to plunder at will until she squirmed with delight beneath him. The thought stirred tension in his loins.

  Three huge gray deerhounds followed her closely, their heads held high, nostrils twitching eagerly as they sought to catch scent of her prey on the wind. Still staring at the alluring huntress, Fin found himself wondering next how much it all had cost. Becoming to her as it was, he hoped she did not expect him to clothe or mount her so finely at Eilean Donan—not unless he discovered that her fortune was as large as everyone claimed it was and it somehow came into his hands.

  He had expected her to be riding with the hunters but not actually to be hunting, herself. He wondered again what Mackinnon was thinking, to let her ride with a company of men in such a fashion. He would certainly protect her better than that. Had the man no common sense at all?

  It would not have shocked him to see her—with a proper lady companion or two, of course—hunting larks with a merlin whilst the men escorting them hunted with larger hawks or falcons. But the lass carried a longbow, and that, to his mind, was an absurdity. The longbow was a man’s weapon, not a woman’s, and meant for warriors, not willow-slender lasses, who could spend their time more wisely learning how to please a man. Surely, she could not even draw that bow properly. She was too small and lacked the necessary muscle. Nonetheless, she rode astride, she rode well, and she carried the bow as if she knew what to do with it.

  Even as the last thought danced through his mind, the hunters flushed a flock of gray-brown wood pigeons and she swiftly raised her bow, dropping her reins to her horse’s neck and letting an arrow fly in almost the same short span of time that it took him to notice what was happening. The arrow flew true, and the bird fell.