Forbidden Kisses

by Laurel O'Donnell

  Yet when a cloud sailed from the moon, revealing the glen’s tall, rain-slicked walls and dark, wet birches, he knew exactly where he was.

  Mairi’s Glen of Winds.

  Still.

  His mood worsening, he dashed the water from his face, half ready to believe Mairi held the ear of the weather gods. Or that his besotted dog had taken her side in Gare’s quandary. He could see the beast championing his favorite with his best interference and stalling skills.

  Troll knew his mind.

  He was also greatly adept at cajoling others into his corner.

  He’d always preferred the lasses. Not that Gare could fault him for that.

  He did frown at the meddlesome beast as he slinked back from the nearest outcrop, so drenched that he looked like a dripping denizen of the sea. For sure, he didn’t resemble the once-ferocious battle dog of a long-forgotten warrior.

  He was simply Troll the Terrible.

  Gare knew his tricks.

  He’d heard the dog creep from his plaid beside the fire, had watched his slow, hinky-hipped gait as Troll nudged aside the door’s leather curtain. Then he’d surprised Gare by loping easily to the nearby tumble of stones. He’d run without any sign of pain, as if he had nary a care in the world.

  He’d faked his limp these past seven days.

  Gare had a good notion why.

  Troll wasn’t pleased that he hadn’t joined Mairi on her bed of furs.

  Gare wasn’t happy about that either, but he preferred the pain of restraint now to a lifetime of regret later. The price of touching her was too high, the cost, too crushing to Mairi. His feelings scarce mattered, but he wouldn’t break her heart.

  He was acting nobly.

  Doing what was best from them both.

  He just never would’ve believed that keeping an oath would make him feel more like an arse than a valiant.

  So he drew a tight breath, narrowing his eyes on Troll as he trotted closer. If his dog thought he was a fool for not touching Mairi, he could be excused because he knew nothing of the importance of honor, a man’s sworn word, and the duty that comes with privilege. A King’s writ is binding, irrevocably blessing or damning a man, however the crown’s wishes happened to fall.

  Never had he broken a pledge.

  He wouldn’t now.

  Even if walking away from Mairi would snuff out every last glimmer of the light she’d restored to his life.

  “So you knew?” came her soft voice at his elbow.

  “That his limp vanishes when he goes out?” Gare glanced at Mairi, stroked the hair back from her face, unable not to touch her. “I ken as of this night, aye. I suspect his miracle happens only when he believes no one is watching him.”

  “There’s more you don’t know.” She sent him a quick smile, stepping back so Troll could shuffle inside, once again assuming his achy-hipped gait.

  “Watch out.” Gare grabbed her arm and pulled her out of the way just as Troll stopped near the fire to shake his great dripping bulk. Soot, ash, and peat smoke rose in a gray, cough-inducing cloud that drifted everywhere.

  He threw a glare at Troll, sure the bugger was laughing.

  “I shouldn’t be surprised, scoundrel that he is.” He turned back to Mairi, releasing her. “Had I no’ grabbed you, we’d be covered in soot.”

  “But we aren’t, and the mess is soon righted. My broom will sweep it away and the rain will freshen the air.” She glanced at Troll, a smile dimpling her cheek as the dog circled thrice and gingerly lowered himself onto his sleeping plaid. “Some might say Troll is mightily clever.”

  “That he is.” I’d wager my beard that he hoped to see me no’ just grab, but kiss you.

  Praise the gods, a good warrior kept his wits at all times – even men who carry broken swords.

  “So! That was no great task.” Mairi returned the heather broom to its place against the wall. His broken sword was propped nearby. The polished blade and the broom’s heather presented an unmatched pair, shouting their different stations.

  No matter.

  She had a smile that pierced his soul and warmed his heart, proving how little he cared.

  “What else did the beast do?” He didn’t really want to know.

  “We can be glad of this one.” She tilted her head and glanced at Troll, now sprawled before the fire. “The lad’s not ill and he hasn’t lost his appetite. He just hasn’t been eating from the food bowl here.”

  “Is there another?”

  “Not inside the broch.” She kept her gaze on the dog, a corner of her mouth lifting. “He’s been sneaking the food I set out for the glen’s wild creatures. There’s a wee red fox, almost tame and very smart, with remarkably knowing eyes. Then the usual squirrels, rabbits, martens, and a colony of wildcats.”

  She shrugged, her face softening. “More red deer than I can count.”

  “You feed them all?” Gare frowned, not surprised. His mind whirled. As he was beginning to know Mairi MacKenzie, she’d do just that, even setting out her own last supplies so her four-legged friends didn’t hunger.

  She laughed, a rich, velvety laugh that did terrible things to the hard knot she’d put into his chest.

  “Aye, I feed them all.” Her smile grew as she set her hands on her hips and cast another glance at Troll, who was watching her with slit-eyed stealth. “And because you are so much like my liege, I know why you’re asking.

  “The Black Stag also worried I’d not have enough for myself.” She went to a darker area of the broch and came back with a large bowl that she placed where rain dripped through the roof thatch, forming a puddle on the hard-packed earth floor. “Now whenever Sir Marmaduke and his men make their rounds, they bring sacks of leftover viands from Eilean Creag and fill the troughs. The men cut pine shoots and grasses for the deer, also bringing acorns and nuts. The troughs are in the wood behind the outcrop.

  “Troll must’ve smelled the food.” Gare paced, rubbing the back of his neck. “I am glad he’s no’ ill, that he’s eating. But we should’ve been away days ago.”

  “He is a fine dog. He surely had his reasons for wanting to keep you here a bit longer.”

  Gare set his jaw, sure that was true.

  He just wished he could do more than admire Troll’s choice in ladies.

  But his hands were tied, his word given.

  And inside Dunwynde on such a cold, wet night, beside Mairi MacKenzie’s peat fire, all he could see was the luminosity of her creamy skin, the blueness of her great sapphire eyes, and her luscious lips that he knew were so soft and warm.

  Just looking at her sent need racing downward so that he had to turn away, not wanting her to see how much he desired her.

  As if she knew, she appeared before him. “I know you’ll ask why I didn’t tell you I saw what Troll was doing,” she said, placing her hand on his arm. “I couldn’t because I knew what you’d do when you found out.”

  “Indeed?” He arched a brow. Her light touch affected him too much to say more. If he tried, he might blurt that all he wanted was to join her on her bed of furs and ravish her.

  “Aye.” She nodded. “I believe you have a bit of a temper. Not so bad as Duncan MacKenzie in a rage, but strong enough that you might’ve taken off with Troll. I worried you’d traipse across the hills in the teeming rain.

  “You could’ve fallen ill, both of you.” She glanced at the sleeping dog. “Troll may not be sick now.” She leaned in, her voice low. “He would’ve caught a chill had you gone.

  “So I meant to tell you after the rains.” She went to her bed of furs, turning back the top coverlet as she did each night before sleeping.

  It was a signal for Gare to retreat to the far side of the broch and his makeshift pallet.

  The hour for him to no longer look her way – he had once and so was aware that she slept naked. Damn his eternal soul for peeking! He’d also made it his habit, once settled in his own bracken-stuffed pallet, to turn his eye on the space between the doorjamb and the leath
er curtain.

  Old ways died hard.

  Especially for champion knights.

  And so it came that he caught a flash of silver in the rainy dark. A drawn blade carried by a great hulk of a man with a broad, hard face, and loathing in his eyes. His thick beard was hung with several small bones and he’d thrown a bear skin around his shoulders. He looked like a Viking warrior from darker ages and was surely as brutal. Gare watched as he reached the base of the cliff path, where moonlight glinted off his sword and shone on his bone-hung beard.

  Then he was in shadow again, disappearing behind the outcrop.

  It didn’t matter.

  He’d been seen.

  Gare knew from his quick glimpse at the assailant, that he was just that.

  He also knew why the brute was here.

  He was coming for Mairi.

  ~ * ~

  “Sorcha sent him.”

  Mairi lifted on her toes, leaning close to whisper into Gare’s ear. “He’s here to kill me.”

  “He’s here to die.” Gare whipped around, just as she was about to say more.

  Their lips brushed.

  A jolt raced through her and his expression turned fierce, hinting he’d felt it, too. Stepping back as if she’d scorched him, he ran both hands through his hair and glanced about the broch, his gaze searching the shadows.

  “I should’ve kept the ax in here and no’ in your byre.” He threw a furious look at his broken sword, her own weapon so dull-edged it would scarce cut peat. “No’ matter. You’ll stay here with thon blade of yours and Troll at the door. I’ll sneak round before he leaves the cover of the outcrop. I cannae fetch the ax fast enough, but if I charge him from behind, surprise will work for me.

  “He’ll no’ expect a man with you.” His voice was harsh, his face grim-set.

  Mairi’s heart thundered. “You’ll be killed.” She glanced at the door. “Leave now, take Troll. While you can.”

  Looking more fierce than ever, he grabbed her to him, kissing her hard and swift, before releasing her as quickly. “The time for me to leave was the moment our eyes met. ‘Tis now too late.”

  “All the more reason I’ll not see you die.” Mairi touched his face, slid her fingers across his beard. She’d think later about the implication of his words. “Sorcha follows a dark path. She spells those beard-bones and mumbles incantations to make the wearer invincible.”

  “No man is that.” He crushed her to him again, squeezing tight. “There’s a greater power than her ancient evil.”

  Troll was already at the door, pacing. His hackles were raised and low growls rumbled in his chest. Mairi knew he’d defend her to the end – if Sorcha’s man killed Gare.

  “Stay at the back of the broch, tip over the cauldron if need be.” The look he gave her was fierce, commanding. “The bastard could slip on the muddied floor, giving you a chance to flee.”

  Mairi nodded, fear and dread sweeping her, making her lightheaded.

  She knew what Gare meant by ‘if need be.’ The possibility chilled her to the bone. She started to say so, but he lifted the door flap and disappeared into the cold, blowing rain.

  “By all the mercies, I never wanted this!” Ignoring his order, she ran to the door and dropped to her knees beside Troll. She wrapped an arm around the dog, pulling him close. “I’m so sorry, laddie. I know you love him.” So do I…

  Leaning forward, she pressed an eye to the slight space between the leather curtain and the door’s edge. She saw only rain and the glen’s great peaks, so dark under the roiling clouds.

  Sorcha’s man and Gare were nowhere to be seen.

  Then Troll’s hackles rose even more and his snarls deepened. In the same moment, the huge, bearskin-cloaked assailant strode from the birches into the glen, making no attempt to conceal himself.

  He was heading for Dunwynde.

  He’d gone only a few paces when Gare burst from the trees, charging after him. Mairi clapped a hand to her mouth, looking on in horror as Gare flew into the brute, roaring a challenge as they both slammed to the ground.

  Mairi ran outside just as the assailant’s sword flew from his hand. Gare leapt off him with lightning speed, snatching the blade and swinging it in a fast down-slashing arc that could’ve disemboweled an ox. Equally fast, the big man jumped to his feet, bellowing as he yanked a huge double-bladed war ax from a sling across his back.

  Troll was frantic, running circles around her, barking loudly.

  Mairi pressed her hands to her face and stared at the two men, scarce feeling the wind and rain.

  “So she’s returned to her whoring ways!” The big man tossed the ax into the air, smirking as he caught the spinning weapon by its haft. He flicked a glance over Gare, clearly assessing his strength and skill as he demonstrated his own prowess by twirling the ax in an array of dizzyingly fast curves. “Shame to carve up a good warrior and noble,” he taunted Gare, not looking sorry at all. “I’ll be glad for your dog. I’m in need of one!”

  He pointed the ax at Troll. “Thon battle dogs are well-loved in my folk’s northern home!”

  Not blinking, Gare tossed his sword high into the air, catching its hilt with the same ease as the assailant and his Norse ax. “That is good,” he returned the challenge. “You may search for such a dog tonight - in the mead halls of Valhalla!”

  “Nae.” The man shook his head, his gaze flicking to Gare’s hammer amulet. “You will tell the gods that Sorcha’s man, Brude, yet serves her well. I’ll claim my mead another day!”

  The taunt made, Brude roared and charged, his ax whistling in the air, ready to rain blows on Gare. Mairi felt the blood drain from her, terror washing over her in waves, chilling her like a hail of sheeting ice. The wind buffeted her and the rain drenched her, but she couldn’t move, fear and dread freezing her where she stood.

  When Brude raised his arm for a hacking blow to Gare’s neck, she yelled, “Nae! He can have me! Stop now, please!” I can’t bear it!

  She dashed toward them, running, only to fall to her knees when Troll hurled himself at her and knocked her down. Snarling in caution, not a threat, he sat on her spread skirts, making clear he meant to guard her well.

  Gare and his opponent ignored her. Their gazes were locked, the red haze of fury on their faces. Sword and ax looked bloodied, but Mairi couldn’t tell for sure because of the rain and the blowing mist, which was thickening. She did hear the crash and clash of steel, the insults and grunts of the fight.

  Then Brude lunged, his ax slamming into Gare’s sword. The blow caused Gare to stagger, but he recovered quickly. Yelling, he scythed his sword in such a rage-filled arc that the blade cut through Brude’s thick-hided bearskin and nearly severed his arm. Howling, the big man swayed and dropped to his knees, the ax slipping from his fingers. He toppled over, his blood pooling with the rain on the drenched ground.

  He’d bleed out at speed, Mairi knew.

  Shuddering, she reached to curl her fingers through Troll’s rough fur.

  “A man ne’er hurts a lady,” Gare snarled, pressing the tip of his sword into the thickness of Brude’s bone-hung beard. “I will tell Sorcha that you serve her no more.” He nudged the long-handled ax close to the brute’s hand. “Take your ax, go with your Valkyries. I’ll no’ be the reason any Norseman cannae enter Valhalla.”

  And so when Brude’s fingers curled around the haft’s wood, Gare nodded once.

  “I will tell the gods that you fought well, whate’er I think of you,” he promised, his voice strong and clear. “No Norseman should die without a weapon in his hand. And you no longer pose a threat to any woman.”

  Then, as Mairi watched, still too shaken to move, Gare grabbed a handful of deer grass, using it to clean the blood from his borrowed blade.

  “The bastard is dead,” he called over his shoulder to her. “He can harm you no more.”

  “Ahhh, but I can,” came a dread voice behind her, just as the cold steel of a dirk’s blade pressed hard against her throat. “Didn�
��t think I’d find you, eh?”

  Mairi’s heart plummeted, her innards icing. She didn’t need to know who’d spoken. She’d recognize the deceptively soft, eternally evil voice anywhere, anytime. There could only be one person as vile and dangerous as her nemesis.

  The devil’s own handmaiden.

  Sorcha Bell.

  ~ * ~

  Much later, in the smallest, darkest hours of the night, but on the far side of Kintail, light from a brace of almost gutted candles cast shadows up and down the white-washed walls of Eilean Creag Castle’s most sumptuous tower bedchamber.

  Quarters to the laird and his lady, the room held all the comforts a besotted husband lavishes on his much-loved wife. At the moment, Duncan MacKenzie slept deeply. His snores were light, his sleep undisturbed by the wind rattling the window shutters, the ceaseless rain drumming on his roof. He also wasn’t aware of the sharp tang of brine and wet rock permeating the air.

  For sure, he didn’t know about the bees.

  His wife, Lady Linnet, knew all about them.

  She couldn’t see them, but she knew why they’d wakened her with their buzzing. Somewhere beyond her capability to see them, they swarmed about the shadowy chamber, their drone increasing in volume, as did her dread.

  The bees were heralds, come to warn of an impending vision.

  Even after all these years, she didn’t greet them gladly.

  Knowing it was pretty much pointless, she went into one of the room’s deep-set window embrasures and threw open the shutters, rain and wind or nae. Sometimes brisk air helped, keeping her from slipping too deeply into the images the gods chose to show her.

  Now and then she suspected Duncan’s powerful presence held the visions at bay. He wasn’t at all fond of them. She’d noticed that whenever he was near, she was bothered less frequently.

  This night he slept soundly, only the half width of the room away from her.

  Which meant the vision’s message was dire.

  “Duncan, my love…” She glanced at him, sprawled naked across the covers as always when in their bed. Chill, wet air and moonlight spilled through the window, limning the room – and him - in a shimmering silver glow.