A Dark Highland Magic: Hot Highlands Romance Book 4

by Kelly Jameson

  The first few blows to Martainn’s face and side rattled his defenses, told him he was facing an enemy who, though wounded, wanted to thrash him to a pulp. Both men’s battle instincts kicked in. Everything else faded as the fight waged between the two well-matched rivals. Back and forth they fought, neither seeking nor giving quarter. And then Martainn was on the ground and Lorcan’s fists were pounding away at his face. Several men rushed forward to pull Lorcan off of Martainn.

  Both men sat panting, winded, faces bloodied and bruised. If his leg throbbed in pain, Lorcan did not show it.

  “By God, enough!” Mollie cried. She knelt down by Lorcan, raising a hand to touch his jaw. He jerked away before she could. “I’m not a babe who needs coddling from a Maclean lass!” he said. “That’s the last lass I want touching me!”

  Mollie, wide-eyed, stood and turned away, hoping he didn’t see the tears springing to her eyes. She disappeared inside the castle.

  There was a booming sound. It was Martainn’s deep laughter. He stood and offered his hand to Lorcan. “Truce, MacDonald. Ye fight like a Maclean. Ye didna use yer healing wound as an excuse. Ye’ve proven yerself worthy of yer oath to our clan this day.”

  Lorcan hesitated.

  “Truce, on my word,” Martainn said.

  Lorcan grasped Martainn’s rough palm as he was hauled to his feet.

  “Inside for a whisky, Lorcan.” He clapped Lorcan on the back and put his arm around him as they started to leave the courtyard.

  “Martainn,” Andrina said.

  Martainn stopped in his tracks, standing as still as a statue.

  “I’ll see ye inside,” Lorcan said, and walked off.

  Andrina approached Martainn. She reached up to touch his face. “Are ye hurt badly?” she whispered. “Ye look a fright. Yer eye is swelling shut.”

  “I’ve had worse fights,” he said, taking her fingers ever so gently in his. She did not pull away from his touch.

  Kat was close enough to see the tears in Martainn’s eyes. He held Andrina’s fingers as if they were a delicate flower and the most precious thing on earth. Andrina placed her head on Martainn’s chest and, hesitantly, he stroked her hair.

  “I’m…sorry, Martainn.”

  “Lass, ye have nothing to be sorry about! I’m the one who should be sorry, treating ye so gingerly, reminding ye every day of yer suffering. I should have given ye my strength, not my pity and fear. But ye ran and hid every time I came near.”

  He kissed the top of her head. “Fear is a cage we make ourselves, Andrina, with iron bars. We think the bars are unbreakable but they’re not. We have the power to take those bars in our hands and break them apart. And the power is…love. Lass, ye have to ken, I would never, e’er hurt ye.”

  As Kat left to give them their privacy, she saw Martainn’s arms wrap around Andrina and she was painfully aware of how much she missed being in Conall’s arms.

  Chapter 28

  The winter would soon be upon the Highlands. Kat walked the garden paths, enjoying the cold brace of the wind. She often walked in the gardens, having found a secluded spot hemmed in by tall hedges that overlooked the silver-blue sea.

  The truth was, she missed Conall during his absences. She leaned over the stone wall, peering at the sea far below, thinking of all that happened in a short time. Had she started to mend the deep wounds in her soul? Was Conall responsible for that?

  She knew she’d been horribly ungrateful to him in the first weeks, with good reason. But now, now she did not have a reason to hate him. In fact, she had many reasons to…fall in love with him.

  She sighed as the wind ruffled her hair.

  “Dear wife, I hope yer not considering throwing yerself over that wall. Marriage to me canna be that horrid.”

  She turned and smiled at Conall.

  “Well, a smile for yer husband,” he said. “This is a surprise.”

  He stood close now. “I think ye missed me.” His voice was low and masculine. “Is it true?”

  She met his hazel eyes and answered by caressing his cheek and stretching up on her toes to kiss him. “There is yer answer husband,” she breathed. “How did you ken where to find me?”

  “I will always ken where to find ye,” he said.

  It started to rain and lightning flashed gold over the sea, but they remained dry, as the hedges around and above them were thick and gnarled. They sat on a carpet of grass and watched the storm.

  Conall stood and unfastened the brooch at his throat and removed his plaid, placing it on the ground. “The storm that rages is nothing compared to the storm inside me. I want ye, I need ye, now.”

  He offered his hand and she took it. He pulled her up easily. “Remove yer clothing.”

  “Here?”

  “Here. No one will see us. ‘Tis private.” His smile was back—brutal and possessive.

  She removed her clothing, discarding it in a pile on the grass, until she stood naked before him. His hazel-gold eyes roved her body, arousing her as if he’d touched her with his hands. A mere look from him could do wondrous things to her body.

  He kissed her, driving his tongue inside her mouth. Then he stood back, removed his clothes and knelt between her legs. “Open for me,” he commanded. “I want to taste ye.”

  She closed her eyes in pleasure as his mouth lathed her womanhood, making her knees weak. His chin was rough with whiskers, which only added to her pleasure. She grasped at his midnight-black hair.

  And then he was standing and she had to look up at his darkly handsome face.

  “I want ye on yer hands and knees, before me.”

  She obeyed, liking the rough feel of the grass on her palms.

  He got on his knees behind her, his rough fingers sliding inside her as she arched her back. She was slick with need, slick for want of his touch.

  He groaned to find her so wet for him. His cock was hard and hot against her inner thigh, his heat seeking entrance. She turned to look over her shoulder at him, her auburn curls tumbling nearly to the ground. She watched him, her lips parted and her breathing ragged, as he stroked himself.

  “Yer so beautiful,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “Yer skin is so soft.”

  She pressed her entrance to his slippery heat, guiding him without words.

  He pressed on her back gently so her face was closer to the ground. His fingers stroked her intimately and she moaned, her hips writhing.

  “I like the sounds ye make when I touch ye,” he breathed. He caressed her arms and then held her wrists behind her back while her face was pressed to the soft grass. He couldn’t hold back any longer and thrust hard inside her. She took him all. She met him, thrust for thrust, as his cock pressed the back of her womb with each stroke. She ached for his hardness. And he gave it to her.

  She liked being submissive to him; she liked being commanded by him, taken by him, and giving him pleasure. He watched as her firm breasts bounced each time he thrust into her softness, her nipples hard with lust and pleasure. “Deeper,” she breathed.

  He pushed her thighs even farther apart. His drive became more frantic. He slammed forward, groaning. She watched him take his pleasure, her own spiraling to a nearly unbearable height.

  “Conall,” she said, coming with a low, pulsing groan. She watched him as he slammed into her quivering core once more, his head back, his veins pulsing. A spasm of pleasure rolled up his spine and he came inside her.

  The sight made her come again and then he was sagging against her.

  When she moved to get up, his hand on her back kept her where she was. He grasped her hips, his shaft soon hard again, and with deft skill and passion, guided her to another peak. Kat did not hold back once she acknowledged her desires and the thought filled him with wonder and insatiable need.

  The rain came in torrents and thunder boomed, but neither noticed, safe and dry and sated in their private garden alcove. They lay side by side, naked. “Open yer legs, let the wind caress ye,” he said. “It feels good. It feels na
tural.”

  Kat felt close to tears with the feelings bursting inside her. Did she love Conall? She longed to say it but held back, not wanting to appear the fool if all he felt for her was lust.

  “I dunna like it…when yer away,” she finally said.

  He took her hand in his, turned, and with his other hand, caressed a breast. “I dunna like to be away, wife.”

  He hadn’t said he did not like to be away from her, but it would have to do.

  Conall, her sworn enemy from birth, who had forced her into marriage to protect her from both clans, was one of the few who had ever shown her kindness. And now he was teaching her all about desire.

  Her fear was that she would not be able to get enough of him. The freedom to savor the sight of her naked husband, to know he was hers to touch when she chose, filled her with heady anticipation and awe. And fear.

  Chapter 29

  The great hall was ablaze with candlelight and filled with clan members and villagers. Malcolm, Sorcha, Conall, Mollie, and Kat were seated at the main table.

  Conall stood and the hall grew hushed. “It’s come to my attention that years ago a grave injustice was committed.” He looked around the room at the curious faces.

  “Just one?” a man said and laughed.

  Conall did not smile. “This is a serious matter and no time for jesting.”

  The man nodded, no longer smiling.

  “I was just a boy when a woman was convicted of a crime she did not mean to commit,” Conall said. He motioned and an old woman emerged from the shadows. Her back was stooped and she walked with a cane. Conall came around the table and gently took Fonia’s arm, guiding her until she stood before Malcolm. Clan members crossed themselves and whispered.

  “Fonia has lived these many lonely years in exile for the crime of loving her unfaithful husband,” Malcolm said. “Unfair judgment was passed upon Fonia, who continued to visit her husband’s grave every year and place flowers upon it. That is not the act of a woman who deliberately poisoned her husband, because each time she visited his grave site, she risked ridicule and scorn.”

  Tears ran down Fonia’s wrinkled cheeks and she bowed her head before Malcolm.

  “Fonia, I believe it was not your intent to kill your husband when ye found he’d been unfaithful and had a child by another woman,” Malcolm said. “A child ye delivered safely.”

  “Nay,” she said quietly. “I loved him. I was desperate. I mixed a potion hoping it would make him love me again and give us our own bairn to love, but I wasn’t as skilled in such things as I thought I was and he…died. I have lived with the shame and guilt all these years. I just…wanted him to love me.”

  Malcolm rose. “Fonia, I wish this had been done much sooner than now but I, as laird and judge, declare ye innocent of yer husband’s death. Ye are invited to live among our clan for the rest of yer days. Ye’ll live in peace here, not fear, and all will treat ye kindly, for yer no witch and yer no murderer. Ye were responsible for bringing many babes safely into this world when ye were younger.”

  Fonia almost sank to her knees in gratitude. She would have if she didn’t have the tall warrior Conall supporting her. Finally, she took a deep breath. “I have lived alone these many years and dunna wish to be a burden.”

  “A newly thatched hut has been prepared for ye in the village, where ye’ll be accepted with kindness from this day forth,” he said, challenge in his eyes as he surveyed those gathered in the hall. “Ye had a gift as a mid-wife when ye were young,” Malcolm continued. “A king once tried to burn me at the stake for my gift of Sight. I ken how it feels to be feared and unfairly judged for yer gifts. I only wish I had righted the wrongs of my forebears long before this night. From now on, ye’ll have warm fires in the winter and ye’ll be dry when it rains. Ye’ll have cheese and bannock cakes and ale. Ye’ll have blankets and a place to lay yer head when ye sleep.” He waved his hand at the servants. “Now Fonia, eat and drink. We celebrate new beginnings.”

  As one by one villagers and clan members embraced her and welcomed her back home, Fonia felt her heart creak open. Though she was old, she cried like a wee bairn. She wanted to thank them, truly, but she couldn’t find the words. Sometimes we have so much to say we cannot say anything at all, she thought.

  She was led to a table near the fire and was warmed while she ate and drank. She had lived so long where things were wild and crouched, rain-swept and raw, she wasn’t sure how to be among people. She’d moved about so often, always returning to her husband’s grave year after year, trying to stay ahead of the frost and the snow-crusted hills with the stars spinning above her. She was getting too old for that now and had expected to die somewhere in the wilds, alone with her grief, which she’d held swaddled to her breast for years. She’d believed she’d deserved that fate. Until now.

  Longing for her husband to love her and to give her a child, she’d mixed a potion using scrapings from the root bark of the mandrake plant and wine. It was supposed to bring love, seduction, and possibly a child. She’d been naked when she’d gathered the plant under the light of a full moon, approaching it from upwind.

  But her hand at mixing the potion had not been expert and she’d apparently used too much. All these years she’d lived with the guilt and shame. All these years her punishment was to be utterly alone, her life as barren and unfruitful as the fields in winter.

  Her accuser had been Hendrie, the woman whose life she’d saved in childbirth. The infant had been her husband’s child. ”Murderer!” Hendrie cried one day, holding the babe in her arms as she pointed at Fonia in front of the other villagers and her long golden hair streamed over her shoulders in the sunlight. The villagers had formed a crowd and had run Fonia out of the village. For people were always fooled by great beauty, whether it be a beautiful woman or a poisonous plant.

  Fonia had had to leave everything behind, including her small glass lotion bottles, her knives, forceps, needles, and cloth. She’d become a shadow that sometimes flickered in someone’s memories. Meanwhile, she’d known Hendrie would receive gifts wrapped in linen—currant cakes, cheese, jam, and a soft woolen baby blanket woven and spun by someone at Castle Duart.

  Fonia stared at the flames dancing in the great hearth and remembered a hearth from long ago, a man’s pipe absently left by a chair, and Hendrie’s face reddened from the exertion of giving birth. Hendrie had held the newborn babe on her chest, a boy with a smudge of a nose and smile and a lusty wail. A boy who was clearly Fonia’s husband’s child.

  That fateful day, a lad of about four or five knelt by Hendrie’s hearth and looked on with curiosity, tears streaming down his cheeks. “Will my mama and the babe live?” he’d asked.

  “Yea, they shall live,” Fonia said, gathering her things and leaving quietly as the boy shyly approached his mother’s bed.

  Silently Fonia said a prayer of thanks for the unexpected miracle of forgiveness and shelter by the very clan that had banished her years ago. She vowed to somehow repay the laird’s kindness, and that of Conall Maclean, for she remembered him as a wee lad years ago who had tried to give her an apple. He’d been one of the few who had seen her, who had been kind to her.

  Later that night, several of the villagers walked Fonia to her new hut. There were skins of ice on the puddles along the path and frost spun and clung to the thatched roof like tiny stars. When the villagers left her, Fonia stood in the opening of the hut, looking up with wonder at the castle sitting atop a great black rock and the mountains beyond.

  She’d always been a watcher, slipping by unseen by most, laying her head in soft mounds of heather or on the stone floor of a cave or on a hard pew in a ruined chapel, thinking of the women faded to their hearths with their children and the men bragging of their battle victories. She’d walked the beaches late at night, collecting stones and tiny pink flowers that grew in crevices, until she’d become as wrinkled as the blue sea. It was a miracle she’d survived this long. For all the dark things said of Malcolm Maclean an
d his son Conall, they were bright lights in the world, as bright as the stars above, for they had mercy and forgiveness in their souls.

  Instead of thinking of her loss, of all the things she’d never had, Fonia, for the first time in many, many years, slept peacefully, wrapped in a warm blanket near a warm fire—thinking of all she’d gained.

  Chapter 30

  Mollie leaned over the gate in the stable, close to her horse’s neck. She whispered to the dark stallion, whose ears flickered in response.

  Lorcan stood in the shadows, having finished sword drills, and watched the play of afternoon sunlight reflecting on her silky black hair, which tumbled freely down her back.

  The stables were impressive and large. Stable hands busied themselves bringing hay and water for the war horses, shoveling dung, and tending to the saddles and other gear. A large dog lay on a bed of hay, gnawing at a bone, and a cat darted into an empty stall, chasing after a mouse.

  “Is something amiss with yer horse, lass?” Lorcan said.

  She squinted her eyes at him as he emerged from the shadows to stand close to her, peering into the stall. “She’s not her usual self?”

  “Nay,” she said.

  “She’s a fine steed. Magnificent, actually.”

  “How come ye to ken anything about horses?” she asked.

  “My brother Ragnar and I slept many a night in the stables. Kat too.”

  Mollie gave him her full attention now, remembering she’d heard how Lorcan and his brother had taken beatings from Angus Og to protect their sister Kat. “Why did ye sleep in the stables?”

  “Horses are special creatures,” he said, deliberately ignoring her question. “Intelligent and loyal. They carry a man into battle, facing it just as bravely as any man and sometimes more so. I like horses better than most people.” He reached over the gate to pet the horse.

  “I wouldna do that,” Mollie said. “She’s likely to nip ye. The last thing Lady wants is to be coddled by a MacDonald.”