The Secret Clan: The Complete Series

by Amanda Scott

  Still gripping her torn bodice, Bab went into the cottage and picked up her cloak, putting it on and fastening enough of the clasps to protect her modesty. Stepping back outside, she came face-to-face with the Fox.

  She had already seen that he was tall, but standing so close to her, he seemed larger than life.

  He reached toward her, placing his hands gently on her shoulders, but even so light a touch sent a wave of heat to her very core.

  His gaze met hers and held it, his eyes gleaming with intent. She saw at last that they were light gray, almost colorless, but the knowledge was of little help, since more Highland folk than not had blue eyes or gray. If his were unusual, it was only that they were particularly light and particularly clear, only darkening at the outermost rim of the iris.

  He gazed into her eyes as if he were also trying to determine their color, which was absurd, since she knew they were just ordinary dark blue.

  Still she could do nothing but stare back at him.

  Gently he reached for the ribbons of her hood although she had not even put it up. He tied them in a bow beneath her chin, his knuckles gently brushing her skin as he did. When she did not move or protest he put one hand on her left shoulder, slowly drawing her closer. Then, with the other hand, he eased the lower part of his mask up as he bent his head and kissed her on the lips.

  She could smell the dusty material of his mask and saw his light gray eyes close to hers. His lips tasted salty, but they were smooth and soft, and they moved gently against hers, as if they savored the taste of her.

  No man had ever before dared to take her willingness for granted until Francis Dalcross had done so that day, but it did not occur to her to protest. It was not the first time she had been kissed, of course, but any man who had kissed her before had first sought her permission, and those kisses—although daring, since she was yet a maiden—had been chaste and gentlemanly. This one was neither, although she could not have explained just why it was not.

  Perhaps the energy emanating from him made his kisses seem unusual.

  As the thought crossed her mind, the hand that touched her shoulder slid to the small of her back, somehow increasing the heat in her body as his other hand eased around to the hollow between her shoulder blades, pulling her harder against him. At the same time, the pressure of his lips against hers intensified.

  Lower down, she felt his body stir against hers.

  Bab closed her eyes, relishing every sensation.

  His kiss grew hungrier, more demanding, and her lips moved in response.

  His hands slid over her body, exploring and caressing her as no man’s hands had ever done before, and yet she did not try to stop him even when his tongue slipped into her mouth.

  Involuntarily she gasped, but his tongue felt warm, and her body welcomed the penetration with another rush of pleasure. Without a thought for what she was doing, she pressed harder against him, moaning softly in her throat.

  He raised his head, and both hands moved back to her shoulders, holding her firmly as if he knew that her knees were weak and might not hold her.

  She stared at him blankly, wondering why he had stopped.

  “Now that,” he said softly, “is how a man should kiss a woman.”

  Her throat felt tight, and she was not sure she could speak, let alone speak sensibly, but since he seemed to expect a response, she murmured, “Is it?”

  “Aye, so if ye’re sensible, lass, ye’ll ha’ no more to do wi’ Francis Dalcross. He’s not nearly enough man for ye.”

  “No,” she said, agreeing with him and realizing that it did not disturb her in the least to know that he would now abduct her just as Dalcross had.

  He gestured toward the two horses tethered near the cottage. “The bay would be yours, mistress, would it not?”

  “Aye,” Bab said. “The chestnut is his.”

  “Ha’ ye aught else inside to collect afore we go?”

  “Nay.” She had a dozen questions she wanted to ask him, but the words would not form sensibly on her tongue. She could only stare at him.

  Without looking away, he gave a low whistle. At first she thought he expected it to mean something to her, but then she heard movement in the nearby thicket, and a splendid horse appeared, all black except for a narrow white stripe extending from just above its eyes to its nostrils. Trotting to the Fox, it nuzzled his shoulder as he stroked its nose.

  “What’s his name?” she asked.

  “Merry Dancer.”

  “Like one of the Northern Lights?”

  “Aye, for he’s magnificent, beautiful, and strong, just as they are.”

  “How did you find me?”

  His eyes twinkled, and she knew he must be smiling. “Ha’ ye no heard, lass? Sionnach Dubh kens all, sees all, and rescues them that suffer from injustice.”

  “I have heard that,” she admitted. “Are the tales all true, then?”

  “Need ye ask?” He reached for her shoulder again, but his touch was casual this time as he turned her toward her horse. “We’d best be going,” he said. “I doubt that yon Dalcross will soon find his lads or let them see him as bare as he is, but if I’m wrong and he leads them back here, we’re sped.”

  “Surely, if you know all and see all…”

  He chuckled. “I’ll ha’ none o’ your backchat, lassie.”

  “But did you not say that you left some of your men watching?”

  “I did, so now ye ken me for as grand a liar as Dalcross,” he said as he lifted her onto her saddle. “Will ye still love me even so?”

  Feeling flames in her cheeks, she said sternly, “You should not jest about love, sir. Where are you taking me?”

  “To rejoin the rest o’ your party. Where else would I take ye?”

  Since she would rather have died than admit she had hoped he was abducting her, Bab did not answer, but her cheeks felt hotter than ever.

  He untied the gelding and handed her its reins. Then he untied the chestnut that Francis Dalcross had ridden, and with its reins in his hand, mounted the black and guided it to stand next to hers. “Ready?”

  “Aye,” she murmured.

  He said no more, and she remained silent, too, as they rode back up the hill. The questions she wanted to ask seemed impossible under the circumstances. A well-bred young woman simply did not ask a masked man why he did not wish to abduct her, and doubtless it would also be unmannerly to ask him to remove the mask. He had rescued her from a horrid fate, after all. The least she could do was respect his privacy as he apparently expected.

  Honesty stepped in then. The truth was that she did not want him to refuse her request, and she was certain he would. Thus, they rode in silence until they reached the track she and the others had been following when Francis’s men attacked them. It occurred to her then that the Fox might leave her there, expecting her to rejoin the Chisholm party without further help.

  Glancing at him, she nearly blurted the question, but he forestalled her.

  “I’ll see ye safe afore I leave ye, mistress.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “I should have thanked you before, for rescuing me.”

  “Aye, but ye did,” he said, and she heard laughter in his voice. “However, if ye think the one wee kiss were insufficient, mayhap we should bargain a bit.”

  She felt her heart pound at the thought of what he might mean, but she had regained her wits and would not have him guess that she had nearly lost them. “I do not bargain with men,” she said.

  “That be a good attitude to take wi’ most men,” he said amiably.

  “Is it, indeed?” she said, nearly adding sir out of habit. Something about him reminded her of her brother and Fin Mackenzie. He had the same ease of command and the posture and bearing of a man who knew his worth. He spoke like a common man, to be sure, but she had noted, too, that he often phrased things as his betters might, so he clearly aimed to improve himself.

  “Aye, lass,” he said, repeating provocatively, “ ’twould work wi’
most men.”

  She knew that he did not count himself among “most men,” nor should he. His voice was so deep that it seemed to vibrate when he spoke, and the vibrations touched responsive chords in her body.

  They came to a branching glen, and he gestured toward a narrow path jutting upward at an angle from the track they followed. “We’ll go that way,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “ ’Tis the way your people went,” he said.

  “But how can you know that? There are hoof prints everywhere in this mud, and just as many fresh tracks lead onward as lead up that hill.”

  “Aye, for Dalcross’s men will ha’ left your people here,” he said.

  “But how do you know which ones went which way?”

  He gestured toward a nearby tree. “That mark yonder,” he said.

  She saw it at once, a slash in the bark of a tree. It did not cut through the outer layer, but it was visible once he had pointed it out. So he did have henchmen of one sort or another, at least one of whom had followed Lord and Lady Chisholm.

  “Lead on,” he said. “I’ll follow until we see the gates, and then I’ll watch until ye be safe within.”

  She did not ask how he knew there would be gates, thinking that perhaps in this area everyone had them, but they came into view all too soon. Built of stout timber and ironbound, the double gates formed part of a high, stone wall, and she could see the steeply pitched roof of a house beyond.

  They reined in, and she turned to him. “Thank you again. He would have ruined me had he succeeded in his plan. If ever you need aught of—”

  “Dinna say it, lass,” he cautioned. “Ye shouldna make promises to men ye dinna ken, even them that play hero now and again. Ride on now, and if ye do have a care for me, ride quickly, so I needna tarry here long. Ah, but wait now. I ha’ a wee gift for ye to remember me by.”

  He reached inside his cloak and withdrew a silver coin. Pressing it into her hand, he closed her fingers over it and said, “Go quickly now, and don’t look back!”

  Clutching the coin, not daring to look at it lest some guard at the gate demand to know what she carried, she obeyed him, spurring the gelding to urge it to speed. Nor did she glance back to see if he lingered. She was not so obedient by nature, but if the guards had not seen him, she did not want to alert them to his presence. Let them think she rode alone, desperately hard though it was to keep her gaze fixed firmly ahead.

  He watched her from the shelter of the trees until the ironbound gates of Gorthleck House opened and swallowed her. What a lass she was! Stunningly beautiful but without guile or vanity, and she had a head on her shoulders and courage in her heart. He had thought it too much to expect that she would resist looking back, but she had surprised him, making him even more thankful that he had sent Hugo to keep watch over the Chisholm party. The decision had seemed only sensible at the time, and he had been confident of his abilities against Dalcross, but his stomach churned now at the thought that had he been wrong and had Dalcross bested him, the villain would have succeeded in his evil intent.

  He could still taste her lips on his, and he mentally shook his head at his foolhardiness in kissing her. No sooner had he touched her than his usual quick wits and survival instinct had deserted him, for she might easily have unmasked him when he kissed her, and had she done so, it would have jeopardized everything.

  Knowing she was safe now, or as safe as any lass could be these days in the Highlands, he forced his thoughts back to the present and the necessity to take every care. Riding back to the main track, leading Dalcross’s horse, he forded the burn that tumbled through the center of the glen and rode into the trees on the other side.

  Elsewhere and in their own time

  As Brown Claud entered the misty place members of the Secret Clan called the High Glen, music filled the air. It was so infectious that his feet begin to tingle, reminding him of another day and the beguiling Lucy Fittletrot, who had enticed him to a fair where he danced as he had never danced before. He had liked Lucy.

  But Lucy had disappointed him, and despite his tingling toes, he did not feel like dancing. It was a long time since he had been to the High Glen, and he entered reluctantly and only because he dared not ignore the summons to present himself before the High Circle. In his experience, such a summons portended nothing good.

  The music grew louder as he walked down the hill into the mist, and despite his fears, the sound eased his spirits. He began to look forward just a little to the Beltane fair and the gathering of the tribes, if not to the meeting of the Circle.

  At first, he was aware only of the lush, mist-laden shrubbery around him and the enthralling music, but as he moved deeper into the Glen, although the music grew louder and more alluring, he heard laughter, too.

  Moments later, the mist dissipated, and he saw the fair in a clearing ahead. Colorful tents and banners emerged from the densely growing trees and shrubbery. A greensward in the center teemed with dancers, and folk who were not dancing tapped a foot or nodded to the music.

  He recognized members of different tribes by their apparel and appearance as hailing from the lowlands, the hills, or from points in between, as well as others whose antecedents he could not so readily discern.

  He chuckled, his spirits increasingly buoyed by the music. Until he found his mother, he would not even know why he had been summoned. He watched eagerly for her, but although he searched the merry crowd, he could not find her, and soon his determination to do so faded, as did his worries about why he was there, until he was aware of nothing but music and gaiety.

  Maggie Malloch was aware of her son Claud’s arrival, had known the moment he entered the High Glen, and she knew what he was feeling, but she had other things on her mind. The annual spring festival of Beltane had already begun for the Secret Clan, and as a fire festival, Beltane was a time when the members’ powers were at their strongest, when tempers flashed and mischief stalked the shadowlands. And at present, she was enduring a more private meeting of her own.

  “What were ye thinking, woman?”

  She stiffened and looked the questioner straight in the eye, although she had to look up a considerable distance to do so. He was much taller than she, reed thin, white-bearded, and a wizard of the first order whose eyes were known to flash real sparks when he was angry. He was also Chief of the Secret Clan, but the only thing that gave him greater power than hers was her sworn fealty to him. “I were thinking I’d a job tae do, like always,” she said.

  “Aye, sure,” he agreed. “Still, ye ken our rules, and ye ha’ overstepped them by a wide margin wi’ this last business.”

  Rolling her eyes toward the ether as though she sought patience there, she made a rude noise, which was met by grim silence.

  Meeting his stern gaze again, she saw that his pupils glowed like smoldering coals. Her temper stirred, but for once she drew a deep breath to bank it down before she said, “I ken fine what I did. Ye’ll recollect, though, that the odds were high, the opposition unmannerly if not downright evil, and the outcome excellent.”

  His grim expression did not soften. “The outcome doesna concern me,” he said. “What does concern me is your evident belief that our rules dinna pertain tae ye. Did ye no warn your own son that he should do naught tae draw attention tae himself or tae Lucy Fittletrot, that wee Border baggage he’s mad about?”

  “I did,” Maggie replied.

  “And were ye no casting spells right and left even afore then, the results o’ which anyone wi’ half an eye could see?”

  “Even an I did do such a thing,” she said, “ye can be sure I saw tae all the pertinent details afterward. There be nae one able tae speak o’ those events, nor will there be, for none will recall aught but his or her own role that night.”

  “Sakes, woman, ye took a common serving lass, clad her in a grand dress, decked her wi’ jewels fit for a queen, and sent her tae a royal ball. Are ye so daft that ye thought nae one would notice her there?”

 
Maggie shrugged. “Only good came o’ that in the end. She married happily.”

  He was silent, but his eyes remained fiery, and the air was thick with his displeasure. At last, quietly, he said, “Ye caused a riot.”

  “I solved a problem nae one else could ha’ solved and in the face o’ grand wickedness, too,” she retorted. “When ye recall what I did, mind ye recall what that villain Jonah Bonewits tried tae do, as well.”

  “Aye, Maggie, I ken fine that Jonah Bonewits ha’ tried ye sorely over the years, but what I’m trying tae tell ye now, if ye’d but listen tae me, is that although we ha’ banned him from the Circle, he still has allies here.”

  “Toadies, more like!”

  “Aye, sure, call them what ye will. Still, they’ll no stand for ye tae walk clear o’ this business when he did not, not when they can say, and fairly, too, that ye ha’ made nae progress on the other wee task we set for ye.”

  “I ken that, too,” she admitted. “But mending rifts betwixt the Merry Folk and the Helping Hands be a gey difficult task, which is why ye set me tae do it. The mischief lies wi’ their determined unwillingness tae come tae any agreement.”

  “I understand that. Still, ye’d best understand that what comes o’ this will come tae ye. Ye’ll ha’ tae answer for your actions and for the lack o’ them, too.”

  “Aye,” she said, folding her arms across her breast and glowering at him. “Let them try their worst.”

  Aboard the Marion Ogilvy, outside the Strait of Gibraltar

  The storm that prevented the Marion Ogilvy from entering the Mediterranean reminded him of the first storm he had endured at sea, except that he no longer cared much one way or another if the ship stayed afloat or plunged to the bottom. He had not been ashore since his boarding, bound and gagged, when he had learned that his fate was to serve aboard her until he died.

  The Marion Ogilvy would be heading for Rome and then Brindisi and Venice when she could sail through the Strait, but it did not matter where she went. One port or another, it was all the same to him.