A Dark Highland Magic: Hot Highlands Romance Book 4

by Kelly Jameson

  The silence stretched between them. “Nay. What will ye do with Lorcan?”

  He turned to face her. “He declared loyalty to clan Maclean so I have offered him my protection. He has no love for Angus either.” He frowned. “Yet what else could he do, being one MacDonald in a sea of Macleans, and injured at that? Yet will he have a home here. He will fight for the Maclean clan when we fight. He will celebrate with the Maclean clan when we celebrate. I hope he can be trusted. I hope he does not spin lies like his sister.”

  Tears of gratitude and shame sprung to Kat’s eyes. She went to him and reached up to caress his face. He stood as still as a statue, not responding to her touch, not looking down at her. He backed away from her and went to stand by a tall window.

  Kat held back a flood of tears. Even though the space between them was not great in the small room, it felt like an ocean. She didn’t know how to cross it, but she was going to try.

  “My feelings about the battle,” she began, “about losing my brothers to Maclean blades, and then when Lorcan was dragged into the hall, alive! My feelings are all jumbled. I felt joy, then rage at yer clan. Then despair and sorrow. I did plan to tell ye my name but I wanted the moment to be right between us, not forced. Maybe once ye’d forgotten me, when it no longer mattered.”

  “Forgotten ye?” he rasped. Then something shifted in his eyes. “Why did ye want the moment to be right between us, Kat?”

  “Even more confusing are my feelings for ye, Conall. I ken ye can ne’er love me, ne’er love yer own wife, that ye made sacrifices for me that ye did not have to make.”

  He was looking at her now, his eyes intense. “What are yer feelings for me, Kat?”

  She looked down at her feet, as if the rush-covered floor was fascinating, then she studied the scenes in the tapestries on the walls, scenes depicting horses and battles and swords raised high. She gathered her courage and raised her eyes to meet his. “I wanted to hate ye, Conall. Most of my life my clan has been against the Macleans. I ken not why or when the feud started. I wanted to rush into battle and prove myself as able as my brothers. I had not much else to live for.

  “But those terrible shouts and yells. I will never forget those hellish sounds swirling up to the heavens above us, the stars like tiny cold fires compared to the bursting fires of rage in men’s hearts.” She paused and took a breath. “Rage is a flame that quickly spreads. And maybe that night I didna care if I lived or died.”

  “Bàs no Beatha. Death or life. ‘Tis the Maclean battle cry. I should have hated ye, too, Kat. I was taught to hate MacDonalds from the time I could walk and hold a sword and a targe. I was taught MacDonalds were cruel, dishonest, brutish and filthy. But everything we’ve been taught about each other, well, much of it is lies that have grown bigger than Beinn Mhòr over the years, casting their deceptive shadows over the Highlands, throwing our clans into chaos and darkness. Some of it is true. Yer not responsible for the terrible deeds of yer clan, even though ye did try to slice me apart on the battlefield.” A small smile ghosted his lips.

  “Mayhap I am terrible,” she said. “I have not been honest with ye. But I have no more lies to tell. And mayhap I am brutish for taking a sword onto a battlefield. And mayhap I am cruel. But at least I am not filthy.”

  The smile remained on his sensual lips. “I think yer a vera brave woman.”

  “And I think…ye’d ne’er drink the blood of your enemies from their skulls.”

  His look turned serious again. “Ye dunna hate me?”

  “I tried, but I cannot hate ye, Conall. I would not blame ye if ye hate me, for ye’ve shown me many kindnesses and I rewarded them all with deceit. I was desperate to leave here. I’ve never really belonged anywhere. I was afraid. Afraid of yer clan. Afraid of yer touch and the feelings ye stir in me.

  “I’ve never known affection or much kindness and so I don’t expect it. Yet no one has ever given me so much before. Conall, I dunna ken how to repay ye for kindnesses and I did not accept them with grace. I was frightened. But I willna deceive ye again.”

  Kat didn’t tell him she thought Fonia had been wrong. Never give yer heart away, she’d said to Conall. Kat realized she had a heart which had always longed to love. But she’d never found love before and perhaps she didn’t deserve to be loved.

  “Ye haven’t answered my question, Kat. What are yer feelings for me?”

  “Yer not who I thought ye’d be. But trust doesna come easily for me. Our clans have been enemies for so long, since before we were both born. How do we cross that chasm? I ken when ye touch me, it floods my senses. Yer hands and yer lips…are magic. I forget yer a Maclean rumored to drink blood from skulls. I forget I’m a MacDonald who’s supposed to hate ye.” She felt her face flush with heat. “We are just a man and a woman. I willna lie about ye touching me. I liked it when ye touched me. I liked that I could feel ye between my legs even hours later, the soreness, that ye’d been there and…filled me as I’ve never been filled before.” She choked back a sob. “And though ye forced me to wed ye, I am tired of being alone and scared and trying to blunt those feelings with the point of a sword.”

  “My God,” he breathed, closing the space between them and turning her so her back was to his chest. He wrapped his arms around her and trailed his lips softly along her neck, making her shiver. “We will have to keep trying then,” he breathed. “In the good times and the bad.”

  “Yer patience and yer willingness to forgive astounds me,” she said. “I’ve ne’er kent a man like ye before, Conall. I thought it was just a trick to make me let my guard down before ye revealed yer true punishment for me.”

  The desk was before her. He stood behind her, his arms wrapped around her. Through the glazed glass of the window Kat could make out the shapes of the hills beneath an ink-dark sky spattered with stars. The glass windows were a novelty; in the MacDonald keep, when it was cold, the windows were simply stuffed with sod.

  Conall caressed her hips and bottom and then lifted her dress so her bottom was bared. Gently, he bent her over the desk.

  “What do ye?” she breathed.

  “There is still the matter of yer punishment, wife.”

  “My…true punishment?”

  “Oh aye. Ye need a spanking.”

  “Ye said ye’d ne’er hurt me….”

  “This will not hurt, wife.” His voice was a husky growl as his hand caressed her backside and then his fingers delved inside her. A flood of warmth rushed to her core. Then his big hand came down on her bottom, again and again. It was stinging but not harsh or unpleasant.

  Pain and pleasure entwined in an exquisite way. He was in complete command. His fingers were inside her, exploring her wet folds. The next minute, his hand came down again. Their shadows entwined on the walls, his engulfing hers. She heard him fumbling with his trews and stepping out of them, then felt his hard, hot shaft pressing against her, rubbing, seeking entrance, before he nudged her legs apart with his hair-roughened thigh. His fingers and his knuckles brushed her wet, womanly crease and she moaned. He caressed her stinging bottom and the inside of her thighs and she trembled with passion, a desperate throb building in her core.

  “Conall.”

  “I like the sound of my name on yer lips, wife. Tell me what ye want.”

  She moaned. “I want ye inside me.”

  He thrust hard, filling her, and she cried out in passion.

  They moved as one, and she gave him all he sought.

  Much later, when they were sated, he dressed. They sat by the hearth, she on his lap, his hand in her auburn hair.

  “Is it wrong to wish my punishment was not so soon over with?” she said.

  He smiled and filled her with his words, his breath a warm river flowing over her cheek and neck. “Katarina, we are the magic. It is within us. We found each other despite the violence, despite the sorrows and the sadness. If ye can ne’er love me, mayhap ye can find a peace, a solace in my company. That is something. That is a little bit of magic. If w
e can learn to trust each other, despite our pasts, despite the lies, that is even bigger magic. Maybe we can find something new to live for, to fight for, to save. The Highlands can be a vera dark place, lass. But the shadows pass. Ye have to believe in the light.”

  “Mayhap, Conall. Mayhap who we were is not who we are now or who we have to be. Time will tell.”

  Chapter 20

  King James the Fourth sat at the table in the great hall in Edinburgh, looking bored. He did not have his usual entertainers today. There were no trumpeters, no drummers or fiddlers or Italian minstrels; no dancers or acrobats; and no storytellers or magicians. James was in a reflective mood.

  A guard opened the great carved oak door and stepped into the room. “Announcing Murrough. Do ye wish to speak with him?”

  The king motioned with his fingers to let the man in. James had been king for less than two years, assuming the throne following the death of his father, James the Third, shortly after the Battle of Sauchieburn. James was only seventeen years old and had never really known his father. James had been warded at Stirling Castle, away from his father, for most of his life. He found he preferred Stirling to Edinburgh castle.

  Winter approached and he would miss the nearby monastery of Stirling and the sight of the leafless fruit trees of the orchards and the frozen banks of the River Forth. He missed his mother the queen, who had been poisoned. It was she who’d taught him the names of flowers, birds, and bushes, how to speak different languages, and how to make a leaf whistle in his thumbs. Now he was alone, with a kingship on his young shoulders.

  Two years ago a rebellion broke out and rebels had set him, a fifteen-year-old boy Prince, as their nominal leader. The battle of Sauchieburn was fought on a sweltering June day and the Prince, as a condition, forbade anyone from harming his father. Yet the king was murdered after he fell from his horse and sought aid in a cottage. A mysterious priest had been called, and instead of comforting his father, the priest had stabbed him instead.

  Young James the Fourth spent his days afterward bearing intense guilt and decided to do penance for his sin. For the rest of his life, he vowed to wear an iron chain around his waist, next to his skin. Each Lent he vowed to add extra ounces, for his kingship had been gained at a heavy cost.

  A year ago James had defeated a major Northern rebellion, mainly supporters of his murdered father. The rebellion had begun in Dunbarton, led by the Earl of Lennox and Lord Lyle, and had spread through the North. James also planned to bring the rebellious Highlanders and Lord of the Isles under his control, no matter how long it took. And he believed eventual peace between England and Scotland was in the interest of both countries, though it was not a popular view with all of his subjects. Yet James was determined to be a strong king and a popular one, for his father had been weak and indecisive.

  Murrough, the man now standing before him, was one of James’ confidantes. He often brought interesting news James could use to his strategic advantage.

  “Do ye bring me news of Angus Og MacDonald, Murrough?” James asked. He twisted in his seat, trying to get comfortable. It was impossible due to the heavy chain beneath his clothes that bit into his skin. Murrough bowed low. He knew better than to ask about the chain or to tell James he’d done enough penance. The king was a devout young man who did not eat meat on Wednesdays or Fridays and would not ride a horse on Sundays. He had a keen, strong mind and Murrough admired that.

  Murrough removed his hat from his head, clutching it in his thick fingers. He had news for his king but was not sure how it would be received. James was a young king who demanded justice, and how satisfying it would be if James were to deliver that justice himself to Angus Og and bring him to heel, dead or alive. James was eager to lead his men, rushing into battle himself, which concerned more than just Murrough, for a commander should stay back, surveying and strategizing. The fact that he fought alongside his men, however, was making him well liked, among soldiers and barons. When James’ father had been king, animosity and uncertainty lurked always within the royal court; it was not an exaggeration to say barons did not know how loyalties aligned from one day to the next.

  “I have news indeed, your royal highness.”

  James motioned him to sit down next to him. “Refresh yourself. Have some wine. ‘Tis the finest, from Spain, naturally.” James shooed a servant away and poured the wine himself. Sometimes, due to this youth, he forgot he was a king when in the presence of a trusted friend.

  The king raised his silver goblet to Murrough’s. “Good health and good, long life to ye.”

  “And to ye, my king. Good health and good, long life to ye.”

  They put their goblets down. “Ye seem rattled,” James said.

  “I have surprising news. I’m not sure how ye’ll take it.”

  “Is it good news?”

  “Vera good news, in a manner of speaking.”

  “Well speak, in a manner then.” James smiled, despite the fact that beneath his royal robes, the heavy iron was leaving raw and tender marks in his flesh, reminding him that while he was now king, he was a flawed sinner. Outside the castle windows, rain slashed the stones and fog shrouded the hills and valleys.

  “Angus Og is dead, my king.”

  “Vera good news indeed! Why did ye hesitate in telling me?”

  “I thought ye’d be more satisfied if ye’d delivered the death blow yerself, that ye might be disappointed someone else landed it.”

  The king raised his goblet again. “Tell me how the arrogant bastard died.”

  “I have it on good account a man by the name of Art O’Carby of the county of Monagham in Ireland, who was often at MacDonald’s, was secretly promised Mackenzie’s daughter if he put Angus MacDonald to death. MacDonald went to bed one night, and in the room with him was only John Cameron, brother to Ewan, Laird of Locheill, and Macmurrich, a poet. Art O’Carby rose in the night, snuck into the room while Angus slept, and the Irish harper cut his throat.”

  James let out a roaring laugh. “An Irish harper? God’s teeth, that’s rich! Are ye sure ‘twas a dirk that killed him dead and not the harpist’s music? Everyone kens the Scottish harpists are far superior!”

  Murrough relaxed enough to laugh with his king. Then James turned serious.

  “The man deserved such a fate, for ‘tis said he burned women and children taking refuge inside a church,” James said. “I’ve heard Angus and his men had so little barley meal they often had to mix it with water in the heels of their boots and eat it before battle!” James paused. “Ye’d think barley tasting of sweating Highlanders’ feet might have killed them all then!”

  Murrough wondered if James was thinking about how Angus Og had fought his own father in battle and deliberately caused his father’s downfall. James had indirectly caused his own father’s death. It was not a thought Murrough would put to words.

  “I would like to reward this Irish harper,” James said.

  “Alas, ‘tis not possible, my king. He was drawn after horses until his limbs were torn asunder. Beforehand, several jewels were found upon his person which belonged to Mackenzie and the Lady of Muidort.”

  “A shame.”

  “The Highlands are in chaos, my king.”

  “Then we shall plan and we will strike. Any fighting there will be, I will be there to lead it. I will not rest until the Lord of the Isles bows to the throne. Scotland must be united.”

  The men were silent for a while, having known each other long enough to be comfortable with silence. Murrough sipped his wine. “’Tis the finest wine, indeed, my king.”

  The king stood and stretched, adjusting the chains about his waist so they bit more deeply into his tender skin. It was the least he deserved. He was neither tall nor short, but handsome with a noble bearing. He spoke several languages, including the old language Gaelic, and he liked to receive letters written in Spanish. He was interested in science and alchemy. In fact, he had his own personal alchemist.

  His father before him had had a p
enchant for scryers and fortune tellers and magicians that his son did not share, perhaps because once a fortune teller had told him he would be the last king of Scotland, killed in battle, and that his reign, years hence, would unite England and Scotland, but not in the way he might imagine.

  “I have other news of a strange sort,” Murrough said. “I have met a skilled witch hunter called Laise of the Marked Face.”

  James frowned, turning to stare out the window at the shrouds of fog closing like fists about the castle stones. He was anxious to be on his horse and ride, to feel the great animal’s legs stretching fast beneath him, the wind on his face.

  “I only ask ye to hear me out, for ‘tis news that may help ye settle an old score of yer father’s.”

  The king turned his full attention back to Murrough now.

  “Do ye remember hearing of how yer father accused Malcolm Maclean of being a male witch and ordered him burned at the stake years ago? A crowd watched him die and yet he reappeared in the Highlands, flesh and blood.”

  “Aye,” James said, setting his goblet down on the table. “Everyone kens that story. My father greatly feared the man forever after. ‘Tis well kent my father had a great fear of witches after being cursed by one. The witch predicted ‘the lion shall be killed by his whelps.’”

  “I have heard tale of a witch hunter with great skill. I have heard of him spoken in coffeehouses and taverns but I have not met the man myself. He makes his main home here in Edinburgh. He claims to be the son of a sorceress descended from the Picts and to have captured, tried, and killed at least eighteen witches this year alone.”

  The king said nothing so Murrough continued. “They say Malcolm Maclean and his son Conall possess a dark Highland magic. I am thinking perhaps we could meet this witch hunter, Laise of the Marked Face. If he is deemed worthy by ye, perhaps we could engage him to pay a visit to Malcolm Maclean? The Macleans are a strong force in the isles. They will not be easy to bring to heel.”

  The king stood and paced. “To toy with such things can be vera dangerous.” He felt a trickle of blood from one of the gouges made by the chain drip down his hip and thigh beneath his robes. He felt a brief satisfaction. “Murrough, kings have started feuds and wars for frivolous reasons. Because of tales of romance. Because of whims. Some claim God spoke to them or a fortune teller foretold their great victory after gazing into a bowl of water. Some started wars because they thought that’s what they were supposed to do. I will not be that sort of king. When I go to war, when I take part in battle, when I administer justice, it will be a necessity. The people of Scotland will benefit from my actions, not suffer.”