by Hazel Hunter
Elspeth chuckled. “Aye, if my hair turns black and my eyes blue, like Emeline.”
He picked her up and took her to his great chair, where they talked of the pleasures to come. He adored his children, and worshipped his wife for her gentle patience with their ever-growing brood. Maddock was surprised, however, when his lady asked if she could be attended during her confinement by their new kinswoman, Emeline.
“You’ll have all that you wish, except that cheese you favored with young Duncan,” Maddock said. “The smell of it near killed me. But why would you wish Lady Emeline to tend to you? You ken more about birthing than a midwife proper.”
“I’m not a young lass anymore, Husband, and it would comfort me to depend on such a learned lady.” She glanced at him. “You’re no still annoyed that she wedded the Skaraven shaman. No’ after what they did for our bloodline.”
He fiddled with the lace at her wrist as he struggled with his pride. “I’m the McAra, Ellie. ’Twould have been pleasant to be consulted.”
“But now we’ve a kinship tie with the Skaraven,” she pointed out. “No other clan in Scotland can claim such a bond.”
“Truth.” He sighed. “Comforting, too. Long after we’re gone Ruadri and Emeline shall yet remain. As kin they’ll always look after our clan. ’Tis fortunate as well that I agreed to the truce. Ending Kanyth Skaraven wouldnae have improved on the matter.”
“You forget what Lady Emeline said,” Elspeth said, smiling at him. “Mayhap we’ll return to look after the McAra as the new laird and lady.”
“So the Gods would curse me to live this life again. Very well, we shall have fourteen bairns in the next.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “Come to bed. I wish to fondle your pretty belly.”
A soft knock came on the door, and a young face peeked inside. “Forgive me, my lady, but you sent for me?” the maid asked in a broad lowland accent.
“Ana, yes, please come in. The laundress delivered the wrong bed linens to our room.” Elspeth climbed out of her husband’s lap and went to the big armoire in the corner of their chamber. “Maddock, this is our new chamber maid, Ana Breem.”
He inspected the lass, who had hair the color of brambleberries and placid dark eyes. “Serve your lady well, young Ana, and I shall be very pleased.”
As his wife instructed the servant on which bed linens to remove and place in their guest rooms, Maddock turned down the coverlet and went into his dressing room to change into his night shirt. It would come off along with Ellie’s night rail as soon as the maid left them, but appearances had to be kept.
“’Twill be done as you wish, my lady,” Ana said when he returned, and bobbed to him before carrying out a large stack of linens.
“How did you find a lowlander, and why do we need another maid?” Maddock asked as he undressed his wife.
“She came looking for work.” Elspeth smothered a yawn. “Poor lass lost her only kin to the famhairean. I thought it a kindness.”
“You’re too generous,” he scolded her as he climbed into bed with her. “Next you’ll be collecting kittens from the barns and owlets from the rafters.”
“We must do what we can, Husband.” She pressed his hand to her belly. “And she shall help much when the new bairn comes.”
Outside the laird’s bed chamber, the chambermaid stood listening until the voices fell silent. She carried the linens to the nearest guest room, where she dropped them on the floor and flopped on the big bed.
It vexed her still not to know where Bhaltair Flen had fled. She knew it could not be Dun Mor, for the Skaraven chieftain despised the old bastart too much to offer him sanctuary. Still, she expected she would find him as she continued her search for the Skaraven.
As Ana Breem she would work hard to make herself necessary to Lady Elspeth and invite her confidence. All mortal females of high rank told everything to their servants, and even the laird might speak unguarded in her presence. What she couldn’t learn from the lady she’d glean from eavesdropping. Being kin to the Skaraven meant the McAras would know much she could use.
Aside from losing track of the old druid, Oriana was quite pleased with herself. She had positioned herself in the perfect place to learn the location of Dun Mor. Once she had it, she would at last take revenge for her murdered love.
It would be glorious, and soon.
Sneak Peek
Kanyth (Immortal Highlander, Clan Skaraven Book 4)
Excerpt
CHAPTER ONE
THE FIRE HAD gone out again. No wonder Perrin Thomas’s hands and feet had turned into lumps of ice. Even before she’d been starved half to death she’d always gotten chilled easily. In her own time, she would have had central heat, an electric blanket, cuddly pajamas and fuzzy socks to keep her warm. Here in the fourteenth century she had a scratchy wool blanket, borrowed clothes that felt like burlap, and an ancient fireplace that wouldn’t stay lit.
Rowan would know how to build a fire with two rocks and some twigs. And keep it burning. In her sleep.
Perrin had always depended on her strong, capable younger sister to handle any sort of trouble, but she couldn’t do that anymore. She’d told Rowan she could take care of herself. Here in the subterranean refuge of Dun Mor, the hidden stronghold of the Skaraven Clan, she was on her own.
“I can do this,” she muttered as she pushed herself out of bed. She yelped as a sharp piece of straw poked up through the ticking and scratched her backside. Jolting to her feet, she turned and swatted the mattress. “Stop attacking me.”
Outside in the hall heavy footsteps thudded, and the door to her chamber burst open. The big, dark-haired man who came in held a longsword only slightly less intimidating than the fury in his black eyes. The tightly-muscled wall of his bare chest heaved as he scanned the room, and then regarded her.
“Who dares harm you, my lady?” Kanyth Skaraven demanded.
“It’s the bed.” She hated how whispery and helpless her voice sounded, but with all that man-chest in her face she could hardly breathe. Ever since she’d come here she’d been fascinated by the weapons master—so much so that she kept having erotic dreams about him. “Uh, the stuffing stabbed me.”
“Indeed.” Slowly the clan’s weapons master lowered his blade as he peered at her. “Show me this wound.”
“That’s okay. I’m fine.” She took a step back. “You can go back to, ah, whatever you were doing.”
“Brennus sent me to guard you,” Kanyth said as he sheathed his blade and loomed over her. His powerful body heat enveloped her trembling form in an invisible embrace. “Show me where you’re hurt, lass, that I may comfort you.”
Unfortunately, nothing about the big man made that possible. Up close he smelled of hot cinnamon and cloves, as if he sweated spices. She’d never seen such a perfect face on a guy, as though he’d been laser-sculpted from some flawless marble. His hair fascinated her, like some mass of polished onyx mysteriously spun into midnight threads. A faint blue light glowed along the lines of the primitive tattoos on his chest. Perrin felt herself swaying toward him and stumbled back another step.
“I’m comfortable,” she said, her voice tight. She gulped as he put his big, scarred hands on her shoulders. Now he was touching her, and she shook so hard she’d probably break into a million pieces. “Really, I am.”
“I think no’,” Kanyth murmured. “You’ve naught but yourself here…and me.” He moved one palm down the length of her back, and then cupped the stinging curve of her scratched buttock.
“Um, okay,” she managed to whisper. The sensual caress made her skin heat up until she thought she’d combust. But wait. What was that sound? Was she moaning? “Please, what are you doing?”
“All that you secretly desire,” Kanyth crooned as he leaned down, touching his lean cheek to hers. “For you’re my wench.”
Wench.
He kept saying that but he began shaking her.
Wench.
“If you dinnae awake, wench,” a much deeper, annoyed vo
ice said, “I’ll call the shaman to pour one of his wretched potions down your gullet.”
Perrin’s eyes flew open to see a brightly-burning fireplace, a bowl of porridge under her nose and a frowning rugged face hovering over her. It took a moment before she realized she’d dozed off again.
“Yes? I mean, yes. I’m comfortable. I mean, very cozy.” Ignoring whatever was still stabbing her in the butt, she beamed at the Scotsman. “I’m fine.”
“Oh, aye, for a hank of hair and bones,” Kelturan said. The Skaraven’s chief cook, fussed with the wool blanket covering her legs before he pushed the bowl into her hands. “Eat, or I shall toss you in my pottage kettle.”
She nodded and even took a spoonful to satisfy the grouchy cook, although it tasted like lumpy paste. Once he trudged back to the kitchens she glanced around to see if anyone in the great hall was watching her. Dozens of big Skaraven warriors sat quietly eating around the enormous table shared by the clan for meals. Armed sentries occupied positions by every entrance, their eyes watchful. Three more towering men stood listening to Brennus, their chieftain, who appeared to be issuing orders.
Perrin set aside the porridge and started to relax until she saw the silhouette of the man standing by the back wall, the one who looked like a polished, refined version of the chieftain. He had the same glittering black eyes, and he was definitely watching her, but not in a protective, I’m-guarding-you way. No, Kanyth Skaraven always looked at her as if she were an uninteresting child. Which, considering the fact that he was an immortal highland warrior with some sort of scary superpower no one talked about, seemed apt.
Oh, God, had she been talking in her sleep? What if he’d heard her? Or everyone had? She’d die of embarrassment. Just die.
Her face flooded with painful heat as she ducked her head and reached under her hip. She pulled out Emeline McAra’s wooden knitting needles, and what appeared to be a scarf the nurse had been knitting. She hadn’t looked in the chair when she’d come up from her room and sat down by the fire to warm her frozen feet. At least that explained part of the dream.
Perrin tried to eat a little more of the pasty porridge, but the familiar morning headache began to pound inside her skull. Absently she rubbed her temple, wishing she could get over the caffeine withdrawal. She’d always needed at least two cups to wake up properly, but the nearest Starbucks was seven hundred years away. Of all the reasons that tempted her to go back, vanilla latte sat at the top of the list.
“What ails you, my lady?”
Perrin froze and looked up into narrowed black eyes. She had to say something to Kanyth or he’d make a fuss. Then everyone would come over and she’d be the center of attention. Again.
“Nothing,” she lied.
The weapons master crouched down to her eye level. “Lady Althea told us you’ve visions of what shall come. Have they again begun?”
Of course, her former ability to see things in the future would be the only reason Kanyth spoke to her. But the visions hadn’t come since Lily had conked her on the head to keep her from doing something brave and stupid. She should tell him that her ability would probably never work again. But no, instead she sat like a silent lump in front of the man, who looked even more gorgeous close up. Too close for Perrin’s personal space issues, her shyness locked up her throat and threw away the key.
He scowled. “Shall I summon Ruadri?”
Perrin would talk to Kanyth, right now, because this was ridiculous. She took in a deep, slow breath as she tried to calm down. She should have gotten over this exasperating anxiety years ago. A grown woman who had survived being yanked back in time by crazy magic people and their horrible abuse and weeks of starvation should be able to speak a couple of words. Especially to one of the nice men who protected her now. Only he was leaning in now, and she’d squeak or stutter or make him believe she was even more of a nitwit than he thought.
She cringed back and shook her head.
Kanyth stood, looking as frustrated as she felt. “Mayhap you’d feel easier with one of the ladies.”
I’d feel better if you held my hand and waited and let me breathe through this, Perrin thought. Then maybe I’d tell you that I want to do something to help find the mad druids. I know how much you and the clan need to stop them, and make sure they can never hurt anyone again. Or maybe I’d tell you that I’ve been dreaming about you every time I close my eyes. And that’s really scaring me, because maybe the visions have come back, but as dreams, and you’re part of them. Or maybe I’d say that somehow I’m meant to be with you. But that would mean you’d have to want me instead of looking at me like a boring kid.
All she could do was shake her head again.
• • • • •
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Glossary
Here are some brief definitions to help you navigate the medieval world of the Immortal Highlanders.
acolyte - novice druid in training
Am Monadh Ruadh - the original Scots Gaelic name for the Cairngorm mountains, which translates to English as “the red hills”
apoplexy, apoplectic - medieval terms for “stroke” and “suffering from a stroke”
arse - British slang for “ass”
aye - yes
bairn - child
baggie – Scottish slang for “big-bellied”
banger – Scottish slang for “penis”
barmy – British slang for “crazy”
bastart - bastard
bausy – Scottish slang for something large, fat and coarse
baws - balls, testicles
beastly - British slang for something horrible or arduous
Beinn Nibheis – old Scots Gaelic for Ben Nevis, the highest mountain in Scotland
besom – Scottish slang for a promiscuous woman
besotted - British slang for strongly infatuated
bhean – Scots gaelic for “wife”
black affronted – very embarrassed, extremely humiliated
blaeberry - European fruit that resembles the American blueberry
bleeding - British obscenity, roughly equivalent to “damned” but much more offensive in the UK
blethering – Scottish slang for talking a lot without making much sense
bloke - British slang for a male
blethering - chatting
bleezin’ -drunk
blind - cover device
blood kin - genetic relatives
bloody - British obscenity, see bleeding
boabie – Scottish slang for “penis”
bone-conjurer – a druid who uses the bones of the dead to communicate with their spirits
boon - gift or favor
boyo - British slang for a boy or man
Bràithrean an fhithich - Brethren of the raven
braw - Scottish slang for “outstanding”
brieve - a writ
brilliant - British slang for excellent or marvelous
broch – an ancient round hollow-walled structure found only in Scotland
buckler - shield
bugger - British slang f
or a contemptible person
caber tosser – an athlete in a traditional Scottish field event who throws a large wooden pole called a caber
cac - Scots gaelic for “shit”
caibeal - Scots Gaelic for “chapel”
cairn - a pile or stack of stones
Caledonia - ancient Scotland
cannae - can't
caraidean - Scots Gaelic for “friends”
centuria – (plural centuriae) a Roman legion detachment of eighty men
chap - British slang for a male
cheeky - British slang for slightly disrespectful
Chieftain - the head of a specific Pritani tribe
chuffie – Scottish slang for fat-faced, portly
chundering - British slang for throwing up
clodhoppers - British slang for work boots
clout - strike
cocked up - British slang for something done very badly
coddle - pamper
codswallop - British slang for “nonsense”
comely - attractive
conclave - druid ruling body
conclavist - member of the druid ruling body
confinement (relating to pregnancy) – childbirth
cosh - British slang for “hit”
couldnae - couldn't
cow - derogatory term for woman
croft - small rented farm
cross - British slang for “angry”
cudgel - wooden club
daft - crazy; Scottish slang for “unstable”
death oan a prin stick – “death on a prin stick”; Scottish slang for someone who looks deathly sick
demi - French term for a half-size bottle of champagne; holds 375 ml
dinnae - don’t