A Dark Highland Magic: Hot Highlands Romance Book 4

by Kelly Jameson

  Lorcan turned over on his back and the blanket fell to his lean hips. He was bare chested. A thin sheen of sweat coated his brow. His dark hair curled slightly at the nape of his neck and she wondered what color his eyes were as she studied the sculpted muscles of his chest and arms. He had battle scars and bruises and she was curious about those too.

  She stood beside the bed and bent closer. He had a fine face. Dark brows. An aquiline nose. A rugged jaw that needed a shave. She raised her hand intending to place it on his forehead to see if he had a fever. His hand snaked out and caught her arm and his eyes snapped open.

  Staring into a pair of mesmerizing blue eyes, Mollie found herself unable to speak. There was pain, sorrow, and curiosity in his eyes. His fingers were lean and strong—and alarmingly warm—and he didn’t release his grip.

  “Do ye like what ye see?” he asked, a teasing smile playing about his masculine lips. “Or have ye come with poisoned tea for the prisoner?”

  She thrust her chin forward. His fingers finally relaxed and she yanked her arm away.

  “Lass, didn’t anyone ever tell ye ne’er to sneak up on a sleeping MacDonald? Yer a brave maid, eh? I shudder to think what could have happened to ye if I’d had my sword by my side.”

  Mollie backed away. He thought her a common maid!

  “Are ye mute then, lass?”

  It was unusual for Mollie not to speak. Yet she could not find her tongue. She backed into the small table and knocked an empty cup of whisky over. The clattering brought Ronald in.

  “Is anything amiss, Mollie?”

  “God’s teeth!” she finally said. She took a sip of tea from the mug she’d brought for Lorcan, swallowed the liquid, and set it down. “There. To prove ‘tis not poisoned. ‘Tis a simple cup of tea, brought to ye on the orders of our healer, Glynmyne.” She bent and retrieved the whisky cup from the floor and set it on the table.

  “What a fine maid ye are, Mollie,” Lorcan said. “Thank ye for the tea. Perhaps I’ll have ye sample all my food and drink from now on? One can never be too careful.”

  Mollie clenched her fists at her sides and stormed from the room.

  Ronald shook his head, stroking his shaggy red beard. “She’s not a lass to tangle with,” he said. “She’d never poison ye but she’s trouble. Headstrong, independent, stubborn….”

  “I gathered.”

  Ronald frowned and closed the door.

  Lorcan took a sip of the tea, thinking of Mollie’s flowing, midnight-dark curls and her sensual lips, the same lips that had touched his tea cup. She had a charming bridge of freckles across her nose and her stormy green eyes had met his with defiance and challenge. Trouble indeed. Probably the best kind.

  Chapter 26

  Laise of the Marked Face stood before James the Fourth. He’d never stood before a king until now. While Laise had scars from pockmarks, and the winds and weather of over forty winters etched into his features, James the Fourth was youthful. Still, he gave an impression of wisdom beyond his tender years.

  Though it was difficult for him, Laise tried to appear humbled. After he bowed to the king, they took each other’s measure in silence. Finally James spoke.

  “I’m told yer a witch hunter of some skill.”

  Laise nearly frowned but smiled. Only half his mouth smiled, for half of his face had been badly scarred when he was a lad. Of some skill, he thought. “I hope you will forgive me, yer royal highness, but I believe I am one of the most skilled witch hunters in all of Scotland. I have hunted witches on other continents as well, including France, a country kent not only for wine and whores.”

  James nodded and continued to study the man. The king’s features revealed nothing. Laise knew James’ grandfather, King James the Second, had a disfiguring mark on his face and was called James of the Fiery Face. Perhaps this king thus would look past Laise’s own hideous scars.

  “If yer as skilled as ye say, what think ye of the task of capturing Malcolm Maclean, a Highlander my father tried to burn at the stake, who later appeared in flesh and blood? There is an old score to be settled, and there is the Papal Bull, a document signed by the Pope himself a few years back, giving church approval for witch hunting.”

  Laise nodded. “Yer royal highness, I have hunted and killed many witches. I would relish the task of capturing and…trying…this man they call The Black Wolf. I have a jeweled dirk blessed at Iona and other…weapons.”

  He withdrew the dirk to show it to the king, who studied it with interest before Laise slipped it back into its sheath.

  “I also have several men I trust who accompany me to every burning, staking, and hanging. I would, however, request a man to accompany me who speaks the old language, if ye would be so kind as to recommend one who can be trusted.”

  “Aye, the Highlands, a thorn in my side,” James mused. “They have long disregarded royal rule. But they are powerful and only a fool does not respect a man like Malcolm Maclean, who rose from the ashes.”

  “I hope ye dunna think me too bold, yer royal highness, but I would like to see witchcraft become illegal in Scotland. I would like to see the local lairds and kirk elders against the practice, for far too many of them tolerate it. They dunna see a witch; they see a healer! They dunna realize the danger their mortal souls are in!”

  “So be it,” James said. “But I said witch hunting, not witch killing. I want Malcolm Maclean brought back here alive so I can try him myself.”

  Laise bit his tongue to keep from denying the king’s request. “If yer majesty will advise, what if I need to defend my life against The Black Wolf?”

  “Alive. There can be no other way. I will not ask for yer services otherwise. In fact, if he is not brought back to me alive, it will be your head. Is that understood?”

  “Aye,” Laise said, hoping he did an adequate job of hiding his disappointment and the shiver of fear that tore up his spine. It had never been part of his plan to bring the big Highlander to Edinburgh Castle!

  “I ken a MacDonald man who is loyal to me,” James said. “He’s a rough sort, an ox-bottomed, mannerless ogre. But as I said, he’s loyal. He’ll be yer interpreter. He can be trusted absolutely, for the MacDonalds and Macleans are enemies. How many men will ye travel with?”

  “There will be five of us, including yer interpreter.”

  “Five! Well, ye’ll need more than that to face the Maclean.”

  “I beg yer grace’s pardon for saying so, but we are vera resourceful men.”

  “Even so, there are many more MacDonalds who can be looked to for support if needed.”

  “Aye, yer grace.”

  James, seated at the great table in the main hall, looked down at Laise. He grimaced as he adjusted his position in a great carved chair.

  So it was true, Laise thought; James wore an iron belt beneath his robes. Laise had heard the king was a lusty lad and popular with the ladies; he wondered how he managed to rut with the chain around his waist. Perhaps some of them liked that sort of thing. There were women who preferred rough lovemaking, who preferred to be dominated, who liked a mix of pain and pleasure. And who would ever deny a king his pleasures, if he enjoyed that sort of thing?

  Laise was only making assumptions but he knew this was no ordinary king. He was decisive and wise beyond his years. James had been crowned at Scone, the crowning place of Scottish kings dating back to legendary times. The Stone of Destiny had been kept there until Edward the First of England took possession of it. Robert the Bruce had been crowned at Scone, but not James the Second nor James the Third. James the Fourth currently only had control of the Lowlands, and his control did not extend to the border counties, which were lawless. For the first time in years, Laise believed this king had a chance to bring those counties and the Highlands to heel.

  The king’s eyes were intense. “Stirring The Black Wolf from his lair could mean he is upon us in our sleep. Are ye sure yer up to the task? Malcolm Maclean is not a man to be trifled with.”

  Laise thrust his c
hin out. “’Tis The Black Wolf who should fear me.”

  James narrowed his eyes in thought. “What happened to yer face?”

  “When I was a lad I…fell into a fire.”

  The King sipped wine from a goblet and swallowed. “Ye should be more careful.”

  When Laise had left the castle and returned to the crowds at the bottom of the hill, he took a deep breath. It was so cold he could see his breath in the air. It was growing dark; lanterns had been hung on some of the merchant premises and the lanterns swayed and creaked in the wind.

  Despite his fine clothes, Laise felt at home here, amidst weathered, raw faces and callused skin blackened by peat smoke. He made a point of walking by the simple dwelling where he had once lived as a lad with his abhorrent mother. It started to snow.

  He watched as a butcher cleaned up after a slaughtered cow, the snowflakes ghostly white in the darkness of the spilled blood. The man’s arms were hard and strong, as hard and strong as his eyes. He wore tartan trousers and his hair was long and tangled. His shirt was greased and bloody, and his brogans were spattered with blood and fat.

  He glanced at the window on the second floor, covered with an oiled linen cloth—the room where he and his mother had once slept, his mother in the bed and he on a straw pallet on the floor.

  He could almost see her brutish, hulking silhouette in the window, staring down at him. He could almost hear her singing to him as she pushed him closer to the fire in the hearth:

  Fire is friend,

  Oh, fire is foe!

  The more ye fan it, lad,

  The more it grows!

  “Step closer to the fire, Laise,” she’d hissed, slurring her words.

  “Nay, mama, it is too hot where I stand already!”

  “Step closer, ye wee bastard!” She clutched his small arms and pushed him forward. The heat had been unbearable.

  “Ye have that bastard Highlander’s blood in ye, that bastard what raped me! I wish ye was ne’er born! I should have taken a potion when ye were festering in me womb!”

  She pushed him closer yet. “Fire is friend, fire is foe…” One more vicious shove and he’d fallen into the fire. He’d screamed, the flames mangling the flesh on half of his face while she laughed.

  Laise turned and walked on, the years falling away with each booted step. He began to sing, “Fire is friend, fire is foe, the more ye fan it lad, the more it grows!”

  The hills in the distance were velvet shapes, and the mountain peaks capped white with snow were a cold comfort. The lingering, awful smells of the butcher’s stall and the tanner’s pits—with stinking urine in which the hides were steeped—mingled in the air, making him think, with delight, of the smell of flesh the first time he’d burned a witch. He’d never burned a male witch; the Maclean would be the first. It must be fire for him. No hanging. No stake through the heart. The Black Wolf would not escape it a second time.

  A horse and carriage rumbled by, sloshing his fine clothes with muck. Laise raised his hand and cursed the driver. “Piss on ye, ye shite-spattered bastard!” The carriage rattled on and the driver did not look back.

  Laise thrust his chest out and kept walking. His determination and arrogance served him well, but he would not forget Edinburgh was a place where friends became foes in the blink of an eye, where whispers could be as cold as deceit and as hot as flame.

  Truth be told, he longed for the warm spring, when witch hunting would be easier than in the cold autumn or bitter winter of the Highlands. It was easier to hunt when the forest floors were covered with a blanket of bluebells, and once-bare oaks, rowans, birches and alders swam in soft, waving green leaves.

  In the spring, too, it was easier to gather tinder—dried brush, straw, birch bark, rotten wood, small twigs—to burn the witches with. But Laise had been given an order by the king himself, and he would not wait until spring to fulfill the king’s wishes. Laise was not particularly experienced of kings, but he knew better than to test this one’s patience. Still, if it came down to choosing between his own life and the life of the Black Wolf, well, he would choose his own, kings be damned.

  Chapter 27

  Conall and a party of men had gone to investigate a raiding threat from the Campbell clan. Kat kept herself busy instructing Andrina on sword tactics. The air was cold but no snow yet fell to blanket the courtyard.

  Despite the cold, she and Andrina worked up a sweat. And gained an audience. Servants, ladies, and warriors, including Martainn, who had not joined the party of men who’d left a few days ago, stood watching. Mollie was among the crowd, too. It wasn’t a sight one saw every day, two lasses sparring with swords.

  The crowd whispered as Lorcan emerged from the shadows, picking up a sword propped against a wall. “Sister dear, let us spar like we did when we were young,” he said. “I remember ye were quite the worthy opponent!”

  There were tired shadows beneath Lorcan’s blue eyes but his eyes danced with mischief. Wind ruffled his dark hair. He favored his wounded leg only slightly.

  “Ye aren’t fully healed, Lorcan, so I will not scuffle with ye,” Kat said. “Get ye back to bed!”

  “I’m sick of lying abed. I simply canna do it for another moment. I need to move around. I’m restless.” Lorcan pretended to study his sword. “Afraid I’ll best ye, sister? That yer skills are rusted like a Macleans’?” Lorcan made a point of glowering at Martainn, who crossed his arms over his chest and glared back at him.

  “Ye play with fire,” Kat whispered, so only Andrina and Lorcan could hear. “Dunna bait yer new clan members!”

  Mollie elbowed her way to the front of the crowd, her attention focused on Lorcan. He bowed to her. “My lady maid, Mollie. The tea was delicious and I thank ye for not poisoning it.”

  Mollie blushed. Martainn took a step forward but Mollie put her hand on his arm to stay him.

  “Are ye daft?” Kat whispered. “Mollie isna a maid. Ye insult her!”

  There was confusion in Lorcan’s eyes, which were as stormy and blue as the Scottish sea. “She brought me tea. She drank some herself to prove to me she hadna poisoned it.”

  “Truly ye dunna ken who she is?”

  “A headstrong, independent, stubborn, beautiful maid.” He raised his sword and out of habit Kat reacted, the steel blades colliding and hissing. “Now that’s the Kat I remember!” Lorcan said.

  They battled for the sheer joy of it, well matched, movement for movement, until they were both gasping for breath. But of course, Lorcan was a man, taller and stronger. Kat would need to employ a strategy other than strength to catch him off guard.

  “The headstrong, independent, stubborn, beautiful maid…” she said, her sword clanging and vibrating against his, “…is no maid at all, but the sister of Conall Maclean!”

  Lorcan looked at Mollie with surprise and Kat used the moment to push him to the ground. He fell on his arse with an ignoble thud. Kat pointed her sword at his chest and then withdrew it. Lorcan used that moment to catch Kat’s knees, and she fell to the ground. They both laughed, for the moment forgetting their audience.

  “Andrina, this will be a most excellent lesson for ye,” Kat said, as Lorcan wiped sweat from his brow. “I stopped because he is my brother. If he were my enemy, and I hesitated in a real fight, I would have been killed. ‘Tis a harsh truth ye should learn now. When ye fight, when ye cross blades, there is no rank, no title, no mercy. In a real fight, either ye kill him or he will kill ye. Never forget it.”

  Andrina nodded and lent Kat a hand, pulling her to her feet.

  Lorcan stood and dusted off his backside. Martainn left the crowd and sidled up close to Lorcan’s face. “What sort of man draws swords with a lass and insults the daughter of The Black Wolf? A lump of dung?”

  “He meant no harm, Martainn,” Kat said. “We sparred all the time as children. He just wanted some exercise.”

  Martainn removed his plaid, handing it to someone in the crowd. “Why don’t we spar with our fists, Lorcan? Let’s see
how good ye are man to man, with no weapon. I’m sure the clan is curious.”

  “Nay, Martainn,” Kat said. “Lorcan is not fully healed. It wouldna be a fair fight.” In truth, Kat’s concern was not for Lorcan but for Martainn. Even wounded, Martainn could not know Lorcan was faster than most, a seasoned fighter, a man who knew more about fighting with sword and fists than any man she’d ever seen training. The tales she’d heard about him on the battlefield only added to his reputation. Lorcan knew how to make a blade of steel come alive, moving it about as if it were a feather, even when his fingers were bruised and numb. His feet were always moving too, and he knew when to break the two-handed grip at crucial moments. She’d seen him get the better of bigger men with his fists, especially as he grew from a child to a man. There was something in Lorcan that didn’t back down.

  Lorcan’s eyes were hard as Martainn turned to walk away. “Aye, ‘twould not be a fair fight, Martainn, for even wounded I’ll have ye eating dust with two punches.”

  Martainn turned back. In height and strength, the two men were well matched.

  “If yer going to issue a challenge, best ye mean it,” Lorcan said. “Or do ye have the courage of a lump of dung, Martainn?”

  The crowd gave the two men room as Martainn charged Lorcan. They fell to the ground, rolling, arms swinging, legs kicking. Both men were up quickly, Martainn landing the first punch square on Lorcan’s face. Lorcan staggered but did not fall down.

  “That’s one,” Martainn said. “Are ye sure yer up to the challenge?”

  “Stop!” Kat cried.

  The men ignored her, led by masculine pride.

  “Give me yer best,” Lorcan said, his face revealing nothing of the dangerous, spiraling rage building inside him. He forgot the healing wound in his leg as he thought of Ragnar. He forgot it was Martainn he fought, second in command to Conall. A Maclean stood before him, and Macleans had killed his brother Ragnar.