Across a Dark Highland Shore (Hot Highlands Romance Book 2) (4 page)

3

Isobel was not certain how long they rode on in the snowstorm. The horses were strong and sure-footed despite the hilly, sometimes treacherous terrain and piling drifts of snow, but time seemed to blur and slow.

They stopped to rest only once, in a cave that provided shelter from the icy wind, and she was given ale, barley cakes, and stringy, roasted rabbit. The men did not talk to her. She was hungry, thankful they thought to feed her at all. The black-haired warrior stared at her, his eyes curious and more heated than the fire they now sat round, but he said nothing.

When they gathered their things to get moving again, the men brushed their plaids with water so the wool would swell and provide better protection against the wind and cold air. The thin glaze of ice on the surface of the plaids insulated the wearers. Wrapped up like that, with their heads beneath the blankets, their breath created a warm and moist atmosphere around them.

They continued on, and though it was well past midnight now, they did not stop to sleep. Occasionally Isobel got a glimpse of the full moon, but it was soon again covered with snow cloud.

She kept her head low, watching the sturdy, dark legs of the horse beneath her swish rhythmically through the snow. They traveled over moors, through forests, and then across a snow-covered beach, and finally up hillsides, until she knew they climbed ever higher. 

Isobel was exhausted by the time the horses picked their way up a last, rock-scattered hill along the Sound of Mull and Loch Linnhe. It was near dawn, and a great keep rose up before her, strong and commanding atop the headland, much like the men who had built the thick walls of stone.
It was one of main fortresses of clan Maclean, its stone turrets reaching high to the heavens.

The keep was well placed. On two sides, it was naturally protected by rocky cliffs, which fell into the roiling sea beneath it. The rock the castle stood on was, in fact, sometimes called the “Dubh-Aird”, or the Black Height.

The fortress of her enemy.

In truth, her own clan had turned on her viciously and become her enemy. She had no one she could claim as family or friend now, no one to trust.

The wind was as harsh and stinging as her thoughts and Isobel soon tired of wondering why the Maclean, enemy to the MacKinnon clan, had snatched her from a fiery death. Why had he brought her here? Had he a worse fate in store for her? The clans had been feuding and battling, Maclean arrows falling like flakes of snow and finding their marks year after year, banners rising and sinking, the grounds covered in gore. There’d been shreds of pennons, soiled with blood and clay. The Maclean men were proud warriors that put fear into the breast of every man who had to face them on the battlefield.

Isobel knew some of the history between her clan MacKinnon and the Macleans. A hundred years or so had passed since Lachlan Maclean had obtained an ascendant influence at the court of the Lordship of the Isles, a powerful land owner advised by a council. Subordinate chiefs were granted charters for their possessions, and in return were dedicated to the Lordship of the Isles, who had an attitude of aloofness, at best, toward the Scottish crown.

In the case of Lachlan Maclean, a conspiracy was soon afoot. A MacKinnon chief plotted to kill Lachlan and his brother Hector at a stag hunt. They failed, and Lachlan and Hector killed the MacKinnon chief for his treachery. The Lordship of the Isles, sailing in his galley toward his Castle Ardtorinsh in Morven, was captured and taken to Icolumb-kill, where he was obliged, sitting on the sacred black rock of Iona, to swear that he would bestow in marriage upon Lachlan his daughter Margaret, granddaughter by her mother’s side of Robert the Second, King of Scotland. And with her was a fat dowry, to give the island of Eriska with all its isles to the Lord of Duart. The dowry consisted of a towering black rock, commanding an extensive view of the islands by which it was surrounded.
A black rock that was now commanded by a warrior they called the Black Wolf.

To calm herself, Isobel thought of what this island must be like in the summer, for she had heard travelers talk of its white cockleshell sand, its vivid green slopes marbled with rust red granite, and its cascading waterfalls. Sprays of orchids, pink thrift, and yellow irises would joyfully splash across the glens. In warmer months, there would be seals in the rock covers and herons in the rock pools, stretching their elegant, white necks. The woods would be full of game, there would be vast fields of purple heather, and the startling blue lochs would mirror the sky. Now all was a swirling mass of treacherous white.

They climbed the steep-sided gorge to the keep and Isobel clutched the horse’s mane for dear life, much to the amusement of Ranulph, who sat easy on the beast’s back. Like many males, he’d probably learned to ride a horse and use a bow and arrow shortly after he’d learned to walk, to prepare him for a lifetime of hunting and warfare.

“Witch, can ye use yer powers to halt this raging snowstorm? It sours my already soured mood. ‘Tis so cold I canna feel my big, dumb feet.”

“My name is Isobel and I am no’ a witch. I did no’ cause the storm and I canna stop it from raging.”

“Glad that’s settled, then.” He grunted. “’Tis a shame, though. I’ve heard ye witches can whip up the winds with a spell, or change yerselves into snarling black cats as tall as Highland warriors. I’ve heard it said ye can cross the sea in nothing more than an eggshell. But I’ve also heard it told that a witch canna cross Mull water and so can ne’er leave this island.”

“’Tis no wonder then that Mull is called the island of gloom,” Isobel said. “An eggshell, Ranulph? Anyone who would sail the sea on an eggshell is daft indeed. An eggshell doesna seem vera seaworthy to me. An eggshell, in fact, is quite silly. If I were to cross the sea, I wouldna use an eggshell but a seaworthy galley, a proud one like yer laird owns. I’ve heard he owns many.” She paused. “Do ye ken what children say about the snowflakes, Ranulph?”

“Nay.”

“Ye truly dunna ken?”

“What do they say?”

“That snowflakes are the witches of Mull on their journey through the air. So ye best hope they
can
find a way to leave the island.”

Ranulph grew quiet, no doubt contemplating the vast array of snowflakes that could be witches in disguise, witches that would never be allowed to leave the island. “That’s a lot of witches,” he said quietly.

Isobel smiled but knew he could not see it. Then she frowned. “Why would a Maclean save a
MacKinnon
healer?” she asked.

The horse’s footing faltered and Isobel gripped the beast’s mane even tighter, sure she would hurtle off and hit her head on a snow-covered rock. But Ranulph’s arms were around her waist, strong and steady, and the horse found its footing easily. “Dunna worry child, I’ve been tasked with keeping ye safe, and keeping ye safe is what I will do.”

He also thought her a child?

She did not have the strength to correct him. “Why has the Maclean brought me here? How did he know to appear at the vera moment he did? If he hadna, I’d be dead now. As dead and charred as that stringy rabbit ye cooked for dinner.”

“Ye dunna like my cooking?” He sounded truly offended and Isobel wanted to laugh.

Ranulph sighed. “To tell ye the truth, I dunna know his plans for ye. All I know is that he dreamed of a great witch who belonged to the MacKinnon clan, a witch he must rescue from fire on Hogmanay. He believes ye will bring him and the clan good fortune with yer visions and ye’ll help him win the hand of the lady he loves.” Ranulph shifted uncomfortably behind her.

“Ye dunna believe in visions or dreams, Ranulph?”

“I’ve ne’er met a Seer before. Och, besides, the Maclean doesna ha’e to see the future. He doesna ha’e to conjure it. He
makes
it.”

The wind gusted and Isobel caught her breath. She pushed a tendril of sodden hair that was nearly frozen from her eyes.

“Does the Maclean have the Sight? Does he often have dreams or visions?” Despite herself, she was now intrigued by the scarred, handsome face with the intense eyes, by the man who had had the bravery to act on a dream despite a blinding snowstorm and possible ridicule from his own clan members.

Ranulph laughed. “Nay. Leith Maclean is a hard man, a practical man. He’s no’ usually prone to fancies or one to act on dreams. He is a fair and just leader and I would gladly lay down my life for him, as would all his clansmen. He has suffered a great tragedy recently and it may have affected his….” Ranulph stopped talking, as if he realized he was imparting too much information, as if it was not for him to judge his laird’s actions in bringing an enemy Seer to the keep.

“Ranulph, will I be chained in the Maclean dungeons? I’ve heard stories of dark cells and shackles, of wet, stinking straw and rats, and awful tortures. I’ve heard there is no’ a single shaft of light in the dungeons and prisoners have to stand on a large stone or drown. Is it true? I think I would rather freeze to death than be chained in a Maclean dungeon. I also heard that the Maclean cuts the hands off of any enemy who tries to board his galleys.” Isobel had heard much about the Maclean. Now that she had seen Leith’s face for the first time, it was not difficult to connect the rumors of his ruthlessness with those glinting, topaz eyes.

Ranulph chuckled again. “Lass, Leith may be a hard man but he doesna put children in putrid dungeons. As for slicing off hands, ‘tis no more than a nasty rumor. Though ‘tis true that no man would want to meet Leith’s axe on the battlefield, for his enemies lose much more than their hands when he is defending his clan.”

“I’m no’….” Frustrated, Isobel was finally going to tell him she wasn’t a child, but the sound of a warbling horn heralding their arrival echoed down the hill, cutting off her words.

“What was that horrid sound?”

“’Tis our heralder,” Ranulph said. “He’s no’ a vera good heralder, but at least he’s
loud
.”

As the horses and men clattered into the icy courtyard, Isobel felt a foreboding. Great cloud shadows hung over the cliffs. In the distance she heard the raw howl of a lone wolf. The tips of great rocks protruding from snow drifts glistened black and blue.

The walls of the keep rose above her and Isobel remembered she’d once heard that those walls were fourteen feet thick. Snow and ice had crusted the outside of the half-glazed windows of the hall, further muting the light and movement within. Shivering servants scampered about the courtyard, carrying food from the storerooms to the sculleries and hefting firewood inside to the great hall. Several stopped to study her but quickly resumed their tasks. All were intent on their chores, working as though their lives depended on it. Isobel had no doubt that the laird of the keep inspired such awe and fierce loyalty to duties and she wondered what sort of man Leith Maclean was. He certainly gave the impression of both strength and cruelty. There was sensuality in his face but there was much that was veiled.

Over the doorway of the dwelling part of the keep, within the courtyard, was a stone built into the wall, sculptured with the Maclean coat of arms. She thought again about what they called Leith Maclean because of his looks and his hunting skills—
The Black Wolf.
She could well imagine him sitting absolutely still on his black rock, waiting to pounce on unsuspecting prey.

Ranulph had told her that Leith expected her to use her visions for his clan’s gain and good fortune. But the Sight was unpredictable. How can a person know of future times? She could see them sometimes and feel certain about what she saw, and other times she could not. It was as if she only saw part of an event that had yet to unfold. And there was always more than one way it could unfold. The Sight was not something that could be commanded to appear.

Isobel knew that some with the Sight had sold their visions and predictions of the future for fistfuls of silver pennies to spend on ale, whisky, stale bread or ribbons for their hair. But she had never done that. She’d sold nothing. She always tried to use her gift to help people. She honored her mother that way. But to help a
Maclean?

“Why does the Maclean need the help of a healer to win a woman’s hand?” she whispered. “Is he no’ man enough to do it himself?”

Behind her, Ranulph shifted uncomfortably again. “Aye, well, this lady is
much
sought after by many suitors. Lady Katherine Campbell is one of the most beautiful women in all of Scotland. She was engaged to Leith’s twin, Logan.”

“The engagement was broken? But the Campbells are enemies of the Macleans.”

“Aye, we are enemies, and we were exploring a tenuous peace through the betrothal. But Leith’s twin Logan was killed two months ago, just days before the wedding was to take place. He was hunting in a glen when he was struck down by an arrow. ‘Tis rumored Lady Katherine was so distressed at the news that she burned the clothes she had been wearing that day in the hearth of her bedchamber, swearing she’d ne’er marry another, that she’d wear mourning clothes for years to come. Logan’s death was a sore loss for this clan and for the Maclean most of all. Leith and Logan were inseparable since they were babes. Logan was the elder, having come out of the womb first. The story is that he was a quiet babe, studying everything and everybody. Leith came out moments later, immediately crying and making a fuss, demanding to be heard. Screaming his lusty little lungs out. From the moment he was born, he knew how to get what he wanted. Each time his nursemaid tried to put him in his cradle, he bellowed. He was rocked and held by tender arms all through the night.