Wildly Romantic: A Multi-Genre Collection

by Lana Williams

  Storm reached over and kissed her and then picked up Heather from her arms, kissing the little girl atop the head. This child was named for the special time he’d spent with Wren in a field of heather before they were married. He then ruffled the hair of Hawke, and smiled at Lark who looked just like her mother with her long, dark hair.

  “Oh, me Lady Renegade, ’tis Hogmanay, and the wee ones want te wait up te see in the bells. And o’ course we should be here, as ye ken this place is special te me, as it is here I asked ye te marry me on this day, nine years ago.”

  “Aye,” she said. “But I must remind you this was also a spot that brought back some not so pleasant memories for me as well.”

  “All right,” he agreed, knowing the rough road Wren had come when he’d first met her. “I’ll come above stairs wit’ ye now, and tomorrow we’ll head back te Hermitage Castle. I only wish I coulda convinced me da and mathair te come along to celebrate with us, instead of stayin’ at the MacKeefe camp.”

  Hogmanay, or New Years Eve, was a big night for celebrating, and old Callum MacKeefe’s pub was known to service not only Lowlanders, but also the Highlanders, and even some of the English from across the border. The Highlanders did not welcome the English as easily as the Lowlanders, but since Storm took over Hermitage Castle near the border, things were different. And while Clan MacKeefe had once hated all English, that wasn’t the case anymore. Storm’s mother, Clarista was English, and Storm had married an Englishwoman as well. But unfortunately, not everyone agreed with this acceptance of the English so easily.

  Suddenly, a scream went up from the crowded room, and everyone started forming a circle around Onyx who still lay prone on the ground.

  “He’s dead!” A woman shouted.

  “Aye, his eyes are open but he’s bloody well dead, all right,” said a man. “He’s even turning blue.”

  “What?” Storm quickly handed his children off to his wife. “Take the weans upstairs, quickly,” he told her, and pushed his way through the crowd and looked down at the man he’d been having a drinking competition with just moments before.

  Storm felt awful for insisting Onyx drink with him now, but after all, it was Hogmanay, and also the boy’s birthday. And Storm, more than anyone, always loved a competition.

  He’d never thought of Onyx as a boy, but rather a man. He was taller than any of the clansmen, and his body was mature beyond his years. Onyx was a madman just like Storm – or at least how Storm used to be, until he’d married Wren and also been elected chieftain of the MacKeefe clan. He knew he had to be responsible now, and his little game may have just cost the boy his life.

  “What’s all the stramash aboot?” Storm’s grandfather, Callum MacKeefe pushed his way through the crowd with Storm’s eldest son, Renard, of eight and ten years at his side. The old man spied Onyx lying on the ground, and shook his head. “No one dies in me pub. He’s probably jest knocked out from me mountain magic, as it has a way of doin’ thet te the meek ones quite often.”

  “Da, is he deid?” asked Renard, pushing a stray strand of red hair from his face. His cheeks were flushed from drinking with the rest of them, and it seemed like just yesterday that he was only a boy.

  Storm bent down to examine Onyx, pulling the man’s green and purple plaid from his shoulder and opening his saffron leine. He looked at Onyx with his tousled shoulder-length, black hair and the rugged stubble on his face, the image of a true MacKeefe Highlander.

  His eyes stared straight up at Storm, but not once did he blink. One eye of orange, and the other of black, Onyx had always been feared as a demon by those who didn’t know him. It was an eerie sight, and unsettling to say the least.

  Storm leaned over and placed his ear against his drinking partner’s chest, listening for a heartbeat. The pub was noisy, but if there was a beat, he couldn’t hear it. Then he reached under Onyx’s nose, feeling for breath. When he found neither he just shook his head sadly.

  The crowd became noisy talking amongst themselves, the concern in their words echoing the concern in Storm’s own heart. Onyx’s demonic-looking eyes were opened wide, and sent a shiver through Storm’s body. He never had gotten used to looking at the lad, even after all these years.

  “Aye,” he said sadly shaking his head and getting to his feet. “Onyx MacKeefe, the poor laddie, is stone-cold deid.”

  “Let me through,” shouted Fenella, making her way to her son who was prone on the floor. Onyx’s two best friends, Aidan and Ian followed right behind her.

  “Dagger, get up,” said Aidan, getting down on his knees and shaking him. He used the name for Onyx that his close friends called him, because he always had his gemstone dagger at his side. Onyx’s dagger had a black onyx stone with a crazy orange crack, just like his terrifying eyes.

  “Aidan,” said Ian, putting his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “He’s deid. ’Tis too late te save him.”

  Ian was taller than Aidan and had dark hair, while Aidan was blond. They both were two of the sturdiest, strongest men of the MacKeefe clan, their muscles and physique always getting them more women than Onyx, though Onyx’s build was not a shabby sight. But because of his terrifying eyes, they’d often had to pay whores to bed their friend, as no respectable woman ever wanted to be near him.

  “Nay, ’tis no’ too late. Ye dinna ken how te do it, thet’s all,” said Fenella, reaching out the toe of her shoe and putting it under her son’s body. She nudged him slightly, but nothing happened.

  “I’m so sorry,” said Ian, putting his arm around the woman. “Dagger was a guid man.”

  “Aye,” said Aidan, trying to hide the fact he wiped a tear from his eye. “Our best friend.”

  “Ye dunderheids. Both of ye. Ye really ken nothin’ of yer best friend. Onyx, get up off th’ floor afore ye catch a draft.” Fenella actually kicked him this time, getting a gasp from the crowd.

  “Fenella, how can ye be so heartless?” asked Storm, “To stob yer toe on yer own deid son?”

  “That was no stob, that was a quick, swift kick, Laird MacKeefe,” she told him. “And had he fallen on his face, I’d o’ kicked him in the doup.”

  “Och, woman,” spat Storm’s grandfather, Callum MacKeefe. “He was yer own son, yet ye dinna shed a tear.”

  “Bid the devil, I tell ye he isna deid,” she said. “Give me a stoop o’ ale someone. Quickly.”

  “Da?” asked Renard. “How can she drink at a time like this?”

  “I dinna ken, son,” Storm answered with a shake of his head.

  A serving wench handed her a pitcher of ale and she took it with both hands.

  “’Tis no’ fer me,” she told them. “’Tis fer me son.” She turned it over and emptied it over his face, then dropped the metal pitcher atop his chest. “Get up ye galoot and show them ye can hold yer whisky. Get up, I say.”

  “Heartless,” said someone from the crowd.

  “I canna even believe this,” mumbled someone else.

  The crowd started getting louder, not liking what the woman was doing, and Storm raised his hand to quiet them down.

  “Wheesht!” he called out so everyone could hear him. “Ye’re being loud enough te raise the deid.”

  Then Onyx’s pet Scottish wildcat kitten slipped through the crowd and started licking his face. It was not a safe pet to have, but Onyx had loved to live a risky life. It jumped atop his chest and settled down and curled up as if it were going to take a nap.

  “Fenella, I dinna think . . .” started Aidan, but the woman just held up her hand.

  “Give it a wee bit o’ time,” she said, and the entire room quieted down at her words and watched in eager anticipation.

  Then, Onyx suddenly sputtered and gasped and coughed, trying to regain his breath. He grabbed the cat atop him, his eyes wide and crazed and started to shake it.

  “I’ll kill ye, ye bastard fer dumpin’ yer drink on me.”

  “Dagger, ye’re alive!” Aidan pushed his way toward his friend happily.

  “A
nd ye’re killin’ yer own cat, ye fool.” Ian laughed, and reached out a hand to help his friend to his feet.

  “Sorry, Tawpie,” Onyx said, placing the tan and black striped kitten gently on the ground. “Ye always were foolish and thet’s why I named ye thet. Dinna ye ken ne’er te get near me when I’m like this?”

  “All right, everyone back te yer own business and quit gawkin’,” said Fenella.

  “How aboot another round of drinks?” asked Callum with a raised hand.

  “I’ll take one,” said Onyx,” getting up and brushing off his plaid.

  “Nay ye willna,” said his mother sternly. “Ye ken what happens e’ery time ye get well in yer cups or are in an insufferable situation.”

  “This has happened before?” asked Storm, as the crowd went back to their merrymaking.

  “I’ve never seen it,” said Ian, “and we’ve been friends our entire life.”

  “Me neither,” agreed Aidan, with a shake of his head. “And we’ve been in many insufferable situations together.”

  “That’s because he normally controls himself,” said Fenella. “Because he kens when he acts like a dolt, he dies another deith, so te speak.”

  “What does thet mean?” asked Aidan.

  “Ne’er mind,” she said, waving her hand in the air. “Now watch yerself Onyx, and stay out o’ trouble.”

  “Of course, mathair, and I’m sorry fer worryin’ ye.” He placed a kiss on her cheek and she headed away.

  “Come on,” said Aidan. “Let’s go. We’ve got yer birthday surprise waitin’ out in the stables.”

  “Aye, all three of them,” added Ian with a grin. “Just in case ye need a little help, we thought we’d join ye.”

  “All three?” asked Onyx with a pleased nod, collecting his sword from the trestle table and strapping it on the opposite side of his dagger. He and his friends never went anywhere without their weapons, and Onyx was able to use them left or right-handed, it didn’t matter. “Dinna tell me ye got all three of the randy Lowlander Trotter triplets all at once? Which one is fer me? The bonnie one with the cute little doup or the one with the big diddies?”

  “Neither. You get the one thet screams like a banshee in heat when she’s being pleasured,” said Aidan. “And thet’s why we put them in the stables, far away from curious ears. Now let’s go already, as the night is sharp and snell and there’s no tellin’ how long they’ll wait fer us.”

  Onyx knew the weather was very frigid, but he and his friends had never been bothered by it. They often jumped in the loch in the middle of winter just for fun, and hardly ever wore a cloak even when it snowed.

  They headed out the door in just their billowed-sleeved leines covered by their wool plaids. Their legs were partially bare, but long, tall boots bound by cord wrapped their lower legs up to their knees.

  Their green and purple plaids identified them as being of the MacKeefe clan. They were a Highland clan, but in the winters most the clan stayed at Hermitage Castle in the Lowlands and near the English border. The castle had been taken back from the English and once again belonged to the Scots thanks to Storm MacKeefe. And since his English wife wanted to live in the castle rather than the cold, that’s where Storm had kept his family, going back to the Highlands only in the summer.

  And since old Callum MacKeefe owned the Horn and Hoof Pub in Glasgow, once again the clan was split. Onyx preferred staying in the Highlands, and he and his friends resided there throughout the winters, as they were always up for a challenge. And a Highland winter was just that, as they could become very treacherous indeed.

  Onyx loved feeling alive, and did anything he could to prove it. The more dangerous or risky, the better. He and his friends, Ian and Aidan were so crazy that everyone started calling the three of them the Madmen MacKeefe when they saw them. Onyx liked this. And he also felt as if he hadn’t done anything to make himself feel alive in a long time now.

  “Dinna ever scare us like thet again,” said Ian, grabbing Onyx in a headlock under his arm.

  “Aye, we didna ken ye could play deid.” Aidan rushed over and jumped atop Onyx, knocking him to the ground.

  “I’ll kill ye fer thet,” shouted Onyx, reaching up and pulling Aidan toward him, flipping him over his head. Aidan’s sword got tangled in his clothes in the process and slammed down on the ground next to him, still sheathed. Ian reached out to help him, and Onyx’s legs shot up and locked around his friend, pulling him to the ground as well.

  “We willna wait all blasted gloamin’ fer ye laddies,” came a girl’s voice from the stables just outside the pub.

  The three men stopped their roughhousing and looked at each other, then hurriedly got to their feet, brushing off their plaids.

  “Time te celebrate yer birthday, guid friend,” said Ian, hitting Onyx on the back, “ye lucky son o’ a bitch.”

  “Dinna refer te me mathair as such, or ye’ll find yerself on the ground again,” Onyx warned him, then smiled.

  “Come on, Dagger, these are real ladies, not hoors,” Aidan pointed out. “And we didna have te pay them a single coin either.”

  Onyx knew the Trotter triplets were far from ladies. He also knew that they’d probably only agreed to bed him because his friends were part of the bargain. And as Aidan and Ian were both a good five years older than him, he knew they had bedded these lassies many times through the years, while Onyx had to settle for whores.

  His eyes had scared away any bonnie lassie he’d ever met, and if he wanted to bed a woman who wasn’t a whore, he knew he’d better take up the offer quickly. But still, he felt angry now that his little problem was exposed of passing out and turning blue every time he got drunk or when life became overwhelming. He hated the way anxiety seemed to overtake him in certain situations, and he could do nothing about it.

  He couldn’t wait to get back to the Highlands and his clan – where he felt safe and at ease. The fresh, crisp air of the Grampian mountains settled him, and the rolling meadows and fields of heather had always been a place he spent his time relaxing. He loved lying under the stars, staring up at the vast, open sky, listening to the sound of the bleating sheep in the hills, until he was finally lulled to sleep. Nay, the outdoors didn’t bother him, but being in small, enclosed places was what really unsettled him. That is, being trapped in a confinement, not able to breathe. He wasn’t sure why this was, but he hoped some day he’d figure it out.

  He felt embarrassed by what happened tonight, and also bad for putting his mother in this situation. He wanted to make sure she was all right and not still angry with him. He knew he doted over her, but since he had no siblings, nor a father, he felt it was his duty to take care of the woman who birthed him and gave him life.

  He wouldn’t tell his friends, because they would only tease him of the protective nature he had for his mother. But she was all he had, as he’d never even known his father. And he would give his life if need be to protect her, as she meant the world to him.

  “Wait,” he said, stopping his friends. “I feel bad about almost stranglin’ Tawpie to death. “I’m goin’ te go find her first and make sure she’s no’ hurt.”

  “She’s a cat, dammit,” said Ian. “The lassies are waitin’, and I assure ye they’ll enjoy the pettin’ more than that cat of yers.”

  “Och, ye fool. Leave the cat. Ye’ll find plenty te keep ye warm in the stables,” growled Aidan.

  “Go ahead,” he said, stopping and turning around, still feeling the effects of having had so much mountain magic. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

  He headed back toward the Horn and Hoof while his friends continued toward the stables. But before he got there, men quickly approaching on horseback had him turning around. They’d nearly run him over as the party of over a half-dozen men stopped at the pub. They traveled by night and several of the men held lit torches in their hands.

  Then he realized one of the riders was a woman, sitting sidesaddle on the horse. She was helped off her mount by one of the men, and
her hood slipped from her head in the process.

  They were English, and that fact already turned his stomach sour, adding to the burning sensation of Old Callum’s whisky in his gut. He hated the English, since his mother told him it was one of them who killed his father. He grew up hearing the stories of how his father was ambushed by them, and lost his life just before Onyx was born.

  “Sassenach,” he spat under his breath, and almost as if the girl had heard him, she turned and looked in his direction. She wore a small square-shaped hat covering her head, with a caul, or net attached. Her long, blond hair was folded over and pushed inside the net to keep it in place. She wore a burgundy, velvet gown trimmed in gold, with long, flowing tippets. And covering herself from the cold winter air was a long, thick cloak made of dark grey wool and lined in fox fur and ermine.

  “Ask him,” she said, pointing directly at him, giving the impression she was an English noblewoman and these were her guards. The entourage was rather large for just one woman, and oddly enough he didn’t see a handmaiden with her. The men looked to all be footsoldiers, not even knights, so he doubted any of the men were a lord, or her husband.

  “You there,” said one of the guards who seemed to be the girl’s head lackey. He stepped forward and raised a hand in the air. “We are looking for someone. A Highlander woman. We believe her name may be Fenella. Do you know where we can find her?”

  Onyx had planned on turning and ignoring them and hurrying to meet his friends where his willing wench awaited him, but upon hearing his mother’s name springing from the man’s lips, his curiosity grew and he moved toward them instead.

  “Who’s askin’?” he called out, slowly moving closer. He laid one hand on the hilt of his sword at his side, and fingered his dagger with the other. His attention fastened on the girl as he spoke. He could see her eyes clearly in the moonlight, and also in the firelight of the torch a guard held near her. She had bright blue eyes, like the sky on a warm summer’s day. Her face was that of an angel, with smooth, pale skin, and her features were sublime, her composure prim and proper. She looked nothing like the casually dressed, hearty Scottish lassies.