Forbidden Kisses

by Laurel O'Donnell

  “I will strengthen their number.” Duncan nodded, agreeing to keep the peace, secretly resenting an old woman telling him what to do.

  Any foulness that thought to enter Kintail was aye met with the sharp edge of a sword, the drawn steel of many blades, all of them expertly wielded.

  Such was enough.

  “The men who watch that area are my best warriors.” Duncan unfolded his arms and reached to rub the back of his neck, which was beginning to pain him.

  He turned slightly, glancing out the embrasure’s arched window. It was a fine afternoon and Loch Duich shone like blue glass in the cold autumn sun. Beyond, for Eilean Creag claimed an island in the loch, the great hills of Kintail stretched on and on, dressed now in shades of burnished red and gold. But a thick mist was gathering on the higher peaks and the swirling blue-gray mass gave him a chill. The Glen of Winds was hidden deep inside those rugged, trackless heights. And on such days, especially so close to gloaming, the wee defile would disappear beneath the fog.

  No man would know the glen existed.

  And that was why it’d been chosen as the refuge of one of his most precious kinswomen.

  Duncan’s scowl returned, along with a cold, unpleasant tightness in his gut. Turning away from the window, he hooked his thumbs in his sword belt and addressed the tiny, black-garbed cailleach.

  “Sir Marmaduke often rides with the men who guard the Glen of Winds.” He glanced at the Sassunach, letting a curt nod acknowledge his friend’s renown and experience. “Only a fool would challenge such a patrol. Nor will they allow any man to cross into the glen.”

  “So I knew!” Devorgilla wagged a finger. “See you, there is one man they must give entry, a great warrior whose fame is almost as great as your own.

  “And his,” she added, giving Sir Marmaduke a bright, twinkly-eyed smile.

  Duncan waited, not swayed by her flattery.

  “Who is this paragon?” He didn’t know why he asked, for Devorgilla ever answered in riddles.

  “He is the man who will repel the dark winds,” she returned, proving him right.

  Duncan glared back at her, his anger rising. “There is a treasure in that glen.” He wasn’t about to say more. “If I dinnae ken who to trust, no stranger will enter the Glen of Winds.”

  “He won’t be a stranger when your men see him.” The crone persisted in speaking riddles.

  “If he’s not known to me, he’s an outsider.” Duncan wouldn’t risk his kin. “My men will have orders to run him through with a spear.”

  “I believe I know who he is.” Linnet appeared at his side, slid her arm gently through his. “I have seen him,” she admitted, leaning into him softly as she always did, calming him as no one else could. “It happened in my herbarium, only moments before Devorgilla arrived.

  “There wasn’t time to tell you.” She looked up at him, the truth in her eyes. A rich brown, but flecked with gold, they were still the most beautiful eyes he’d ever seen. They were also expressive, and never ever lied. She used them now to hold his gaze. “I have never before seen this man and I cannot say his name, but a fine silvery light edged him, letting me know he is good.”

  “That be him!” Devorgilla beamed. “Had silver shining all round him, he did.”

  “Saints, Maria, and Joseph!” Duncan stepped away from his wife, roared his favorite curse. Scowling at Devorgilla, he shoved his hands through his hair. “You would have me tell my guards to look for a man who is good and walks about wreathed in silver?”

  Sure his men would hold him for addled, he pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. He drew a long breath, hoped that when he looked again, he’d find himself in his bed, this entire misbegotten day naught but an unpleasant dream.

  “Perhaps the man is a knight?” Sir Marmaduke’s voice rose from across the solar, shattering the possibility. “Knights wear mail, could appear to shine like silver.”

  “Is that so?” Duncan glowered at him.

  Devorgilla smiled at the Sassunach, bobbed her grizzled head. “He surely is a knight, and a much honored one,” she trilled, her eyes lighting. “But the silver ringing him is his goodness, no’ a coat of mail.”

  “Then he’d best don one because my men will fall upon him when he appears.” Duncan strode over to the table and snatched up the uisge beatha flagon, pouring himself a large measure and tossing it down in one long swig.

  Dragging the back of his hand across his mouth, he turned back to the others. “Your champion is a dead man, Devorgilla. Lest you-”

  “Aye, that he may be.” She threw a glance at Linnet, then looked again at Duncan. “Whether he’s dead or no’, isn’t how your men will recognize him.”

  Duncan spoke through gritted teeth. “Then how will they?”

  Devorgilla jutted her chin. “He carries a broken sword.”

  “Then he can be no great warrior.” That Duncan knew.

  “Ah, but he once was,” Devorgilla informed him, again wagging her finger. “The rent blade is his penance. He seeks the Glen of Winds to cast off his shame.” She lowered her hand, glancing round at them all. “Regrettably, he isn’t the only soul heading there.

  “But he is the one who shall save your treasure,” she finished, looking pleased.

  “I see.” Duncan did, leastways he hoped so.

  He might have a temper, but he wasn’t a fool.

  He understood something of broken warriors. Great men who’d made poor choices and sought redemption. Once, many long moons ago, he’d belonged to their number. If Devorgilla and his lady wife were sure this faceless fighter was worthy, he wouldn’t harass him.

  As for the rest…

  He’d take measures to safeguard kith and kin, as always.

  Satisfied, he smoothed his proud MacKenzie plaid and gave the cailleach his word. “My men will be instructed to allow this warrior passage across our lands, even into the Glen of Winds.”

  He glanced at Sir Marmaduke, satisfied when his friend inclined his head.

  “It is agreed, the man with a broken sword is welcome in Kintail.” Duncan waited for any final arguments.

  When none came, he nodded. “So be it.”

  Chapter One

  Dunwynde Broch

  The Glen of Winds

  Mairi MacKenzie knew the moment a stranger entered the glen. She felt a shifting in the air, a ripple down her spine. So she stilled before the broch’s central fire, and quietly set aside the long wooden ladle she’d just lifted off her table. Tending her cook-pot could wait, her dinner mattered less than her safety. She might not possess the gift so many believed she had, an ability to bring the dead back to life, but she was fond of living.

  Necessity had taught her caution, honing her senses.

  She’d heard the telltale crunch of a horse’s hooves on pebbled stone. She’d also caught the creak of saddle leather, the jingle of a harness. Her fine-tuned ears picked up the sounds through chinks in the walls of the half-ruinous broch that served as her home.

  A rough shelter, to be sure. Even so, Dunwynde guarded her well, its age-smoothed stones protecting her through the long, endless-seeming moons since she’d left everything she’d known to become the banshee of this fearsome defile.

  A mythic terror few would risk troubling.

  Now…

  Someone had breached her sanctuary, and the knowledge alarmed her greatly.

  She shivered, the cold coming from within. Then she stepped away from her cauldron of thick, simmering stew, and crossed the broch’s circular main room to the low lintelled entry. A heavy length of hide hung there, as good a door as needed in this benighted place, so shunned by men. Behind her, peat haze hung in the air, the earthy-sweet scent not soothing her as on most days. For the first time she could remember, the chill wind that aye raced through the glen, struck ill-ease into her heart, even prickling her skin.

  There could be no reason for anyone to visit Dunwynde.

  For someone to seek her was even more unsettling.
>
  She didn’t want to seek a new hideaway.

  She’d been so grateful to have found succor here, regaining the calm and quietude that had been stolen from her when she’d been chased from her cottage at Drumbell village. Branded the devil’s own mistress, she’d fled to her clan chieftain, Duncan MacKenzie, the Black Stag of Kintail. A good and strong leader, he’d settled her at Dunwynde, vowing that no harm would come to her within its ancient embrace. She even felt a bond to the broch’s earliest dwellers, sensing they’d welcomed her to the strange, tower-like structure they’d built so long ago. She also liked the glen’s wildness, its rugged splendor a balm to her soul.

  She didn’t care if folk thought her a banshee.

  Not if such a guise kept her peace.

  Hoping it wasn’t about to be broken, she gripped the edge of the door-flap, easing the leather aside. The glen stretched long and narrow before her, its sides tall and sheer, the ground rock-strewn and hemmed with birches. Mist rolled everywhere, making it difficult to see the track that twisted down from the windswept pass so high above her. If anyone rode there, spray from several plunging cataracts and the mist hid the intruder from view.

  Even so, she reached for the short sword propped by the door. She raised it defensively, her heart thumping hard in her chest at the rustling of autumn-brittle leaves, the snap of a twig.

  She saw no one.

  Yet she knew someone approached.

  Mairi bit her lip, wary. She hadn’t imagined the noise. As if the gods wished to send another warning, the crunch of footsteps on stone came again. Not a horse’s step this time, but the unmistakable tread of a man. He was closer now, coming through the mist-drenched glen, and making for Dunwynde.

  Tightening her grip on the sword, Mairi prepared to swing if she must.

  She hoped she needn’t.

  Her heart thundered, disbelief warring with her dread.

  The Black Stag, as her chieftain was known, sent frequent patrols along the perimeters of her tiny, rockbound refuge. His men were hand-picked, fierce, and battle-hardened. One of them, her chieftain’s captain of the guard, Sir Marmaduke Strongbow, had once been hailed as one of the realm’s greatest swordsmen. He was still revered, his fame undimmed. Such champions would never allow anyone to disturb her. Whoever approached, must’ve gained entry by stealth. Like as not, a poor misguided soul hoping she could cast miracles.

  Or her enemy had found her, a threat she couldn’t ignore.

  Hatred and envy were powerful emotions and she’d roused both in a truly formidable foe.

  Sorcha Bell’s face flashed across her mind, the healer’s angry, twisted mien letting Mairi’s courage swell, her own fury steeling her backbone. Her heart still pounded, and her mouth had gone dry, but she stood taller. Unafraid, she hooked back the door’s leather curtain and stepped outside, into the half-light.

  She saw the sword before she saw the man.

  Shining brightly in the gloom, the weapon’s blade revealed that no one need fear its swing.

  The sword was broken, more than half of its proud length missing.

  Before she could wonder why, the mist parted and the man wearing the rent sword strode into view. He was tall, powerfully built, and clearly a warrior, though his proud features were merely grim-set, not aggressive. Mist whirled around him and Mairi would’ve sworn each tendril sparkled, but it was only the sheen of his mail shirt, and perhaps the glint of the silver Thor’s hammer hanging at his neck. His arm rings also shone brightly, the number of them indicating his status as a fighting man of great skill.

  The plaid slung boldly over his shoulder told her he was a Highlander, while his dark good looks would’ve trapped her breath in her chest if she still allowed herself to acknowledge the passion that once ran so hotly in her blood. Even so, she couldn’t deny the jolt of awareness that hit her when his gaze locked on hers.

  Once, long ago, she’d have embraced such a powerful attraction, the natural urge to touch, taste, and melt into his warrior body, the intimacy exciting not just her flesh but searing her soul.

  Mairi took a deep breath, steadying herself against the wild beating of her heart, the racing of her blood. The warrior was almost upon her, his strides purposeful. Whoever he was, his eyes were deeply shadowed, their grimness leaving no doubt that he came as a miracle seeker.

  Like so many before him.

  All that set him apart from the others was the huge dog at his side. A massive brute, the beast could’ve been a wolf-or-deerhound, though a strain of something more savage gave him the look of a war-dog capable of tearing out a man’s throat at a single command.

  Mairi felt only a surge of love for him.

  He could have been her own beloved Clyde, her much-missed companion who had indeed once been a war-dog, until she’d found and nursed him back to health. Clyde’s years with her had been far too short, but he’d taught her that the softest heart could beat beneath the fiercest exterior, so she didn’t fear the stranger’s dog.

  She was wary of the warrior.

  So she straightened her shoulders and started forward, not wanting him to reach her door. She didn’t brandish her sword at him. Like as not, he’d flick it aside as easily if brushing lint from his sleeve. But it didn’t hurt for him to see that she was prepared to defend herself.

  She just chose to do so with a casual tone and an unconcerned mien.

  “Are you lost, sir?” She knew he wasn’t. “Not many wayfarers come this way.”

  “I am no’ a traveler, my lady, nor have I erred direction.” He stopped before her, fixing her with his intense, dark eyes. “I am Sir Gare MacTaggert of Blackrock Castle on the other side of this fair realm, and I came to your Glen of Winds to seek the aid of its banshee.”

  That I knew, good sir, and you can leave now.

  The glen’s banshee cannot help you.

  “There is no such being here.” Mairi gave him a third version of the truth. “You have journeyed for naught. I dwell in this glen with my husband,” she allowed herself the lie. “He will return anon-”

  “Lady Mairi.” A slight smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “I was told you’d attempt to send me away, and I ken you aren’t married.” He glanced down at his dog, then back at her, his smile now gone. “Troll and I come in peace and mean you no harm. Your chieftain’s captain of the guard, Sir Marmaduke, and his men, granted us passage across their lands and into this glen.

  “I spoke with them only a short while ago.” He glanced up at the cliff-tops, now thick with lowering mist and clouds. “They were good enough to take my horse back to your chief’s Eilean Creag Castle for stabling and care while I am in the Glen of Winds.”

  “You cannot think to stay here.” Mairi tried to look away from him, but couldn’t. His gaze was too compelling. “I dwell alone, my broch too small for a guest.” She waited as the dog rubbed against her, bumping his great head at her hand. “Besides, you’ve truly come in vain. There isn’t a banshee to aid you or anyone.

  “The banshee is me.” Mairi stood straighter, ignoring his dog. “She is a tall tale spun to keep intruders from disturbing my peace. No more, no less, see you?”

  “So I was told, my lady.” He inclined his head in acknowledgment, another slight smile curving his lips. A sad one this time. “In truth, it was you who drew me here, no’ a myth. Your reputation as a healer is great, reaching even to my lands in Scotland’s distant northeastern bounds. I believe you can help me, leastways I have prayed to the gods that is so. If you will but give me your ear, I swear to depart at first light should you decide against aiding me.”

  Mairi frowned, her heart beating wildly again.

  The dog, Troll, was leaning into her, staring up at her with friendly, hopeful eyes. His master, Sir Gare, towered over her, a terribly appealing flicker of hope in his own gaze chipping away at her resistance.

  Mairi folded her arms, every protective instinct she had screaming caution.

  She didn’t want to find any man appealing
.

  For sure, not one who would turn on her as soon as it became clear that she couldn’t restore life to his loved one.

  “I must ask you to leave.” There, she’d said what she must.

  Go before my heart yearns for you as fiercely as my woman’s body already does.

  Dear heavens, he smelled of sandalwood, clean wool, leather, cold air and man, and the heady blend was fuzzing her wits, making her vulnerable. Worse, he had a way of looking at her that made her feel as if he’d actually touched her, and in intimate, sensual ways!

  Mairi’s pulse quickened, a tingling, long-forgotten warmth pooling low by her thighs.

  No virgin, she’d once loved well and had never denied herself passion. She recognized the danger of this man, with his alluring scent and potent virility. His tall, well-muscled body, surely hard as iron. His strong, beautiful hands that reminded her of the pleasures a skilled lover’s questing fingers could give a woman.

  Joys she hadn’t known in so long.

  “See here, I can do nothing for you,” she started again, sure she was glowering. “Nor can you sleep here.” She indicated the rock-sided glen, the boulder-strewn ground. “Even if I wished you to stay, there isn’t enough bracken to make the thinnest pallet.”

  His gaze locked with hers, and something in his expression told her she was losing. “Troll and I can sleep on the ground.” He spoke as if everything was settled. “We have done so most nights of our journey. I need no more than my plaid, and Troll is well-furred enough to no’ feel the rocks beneath him.”

  “Very well.” Mairi nodded, sure resistance was futile. “But you’ll leave on the morrow.”

  “If you say you cannae help me, aye.”

  “I’m telling you that now.”

  “It is said you have brought back the breath of life to the coldest of the damned.” His words pierced her heart, making her soul ache. “Your fame is on every bard’s tongue, the wonders you have wrought, the miracles-”

  “The tales are untrue.” Mairi tucked her hair behind an ear, kept her chin raised. “No one can bring the dead back to life.”