Reclaimed (A Highland Historical Trilogy) (The MacKay Banshees 1-3) (19 page)

Every memory created by a loving man and father in that room had been defiled, replaced by the image of another man’s hatred. His domination. His sweat. Her pain. Her blood. Screams. Flames.

“Keep your secrets, Daroch McLeod.” A tear snaked from Kylah’s eye and burned its way down her cheek. “And I’ll keep mine.”

She’d vanished again. The evening seemed darker without her, and not just for the absence of her ever-present glow. Daroch inspected the ruins of the quaint washhouse with renewed intent. What would keep her from entering the forge? What harm could befall her there?

The living structure just off the business had been made of wood rather than stone, so only the blackened outlines of two bedrooms and the cook hearth of a kitchen remained. They told Daroch nothing, except that if anyone had been trapped there, they’d have perished.

Beneath a mulberry bush, a stone cross and two small wooden ones were lined neatly by the pond. Perhaps his wee Banshee was buried there. His nose pricked to the smell of the heather blooms mixing with the mulberry as he made his way to the tiny, well-kept graveyard.

He ran a finger across the stone engraving of Diarmudh MacKay. His cross was done in the olde way. Not to symbolize the Christian sacrifice, but in the way of the Druids, symbolizing the great balance of science and magic. Of earth and the sky. The body and the soul. Man and woman. Life and death. Twined together with sacred, eternal knots.

Sinking onto his haunches, he found the next two graves to be small, shallow, and relatively fresh, only recently overtaken by moss and grass. The markers were rough hewn and wooden. They read
Katriona MacKay
and
Kamdyn MacKay
in shaky, hand-carved script. The graves were small enough for young children.

Only their bones rested here. Daroch shook his head. That must have been all that was left after the fire. He stood and scanned the outlying area, capturing each detail in its entirety.

What about Kylah’s bones? Where did they rest?

His gaze landed back on the ruins and a cold spear pierced his chest.

He knew exactly where they were.

Returning to the entry, Daroch studied what used to be the washhouse. The patterns in the char along the walls and floor implied fire accelerant of some kind. Not pitch, so likely alcohol based. He could mark where the large wooden tubs had stood and noted the metal remains of various tools and instruments of their trade strewn every which way among the ashes.

As though they’d been upended and tossed in violent chaos.

Violent enough to spawn the creation of three Banshees.

Heart accelerating, Daroch’s eyes flew to the ruined archway and the forge beyond. His boots sounded very loud as they disturbed the ashes, creating the echoes of a ghastly, unspeakable horror. By the time he reached the forge, his breath sawed out of his lungs in great bursts. His nostrils flared, and his mind retreated from what he was certain to find there.

The room fared better than the rest. Daroch’s eyes skimmed past burnt tools, a great forge covered in the fine layer of ash, anvils specialized to make everything from nails to horseshoes to armor.

The back window cut into the stone wall behind the forge was broken. The sunset illuminated the heather-strewn hill that offered some protection from the harsh Highland weather, and sparkled off jagged edges of glass.

Something strange drew Daroch to it and he crossed the room with swift strides. Reaching out, he pried one of the glass fragments from the casing and inspected the dark, dried stain on the sharp point.

Blood.

Someone had escaped through the window. Upon further inspection he surmised that the window had not been broken by the heat of the fire, but by the force of a blunt object. But what? He looked at the floor to the corner on his right and then turned to the left to search the dark nook created by the back wall and the forge.

All the breath in his lungs released in a great whoosh as Daroch’s knees fell to the ashes.

Bones.
Her
bones.

“Gods,” he rasped through a throat closing with alarming pressure.

Huddled there, as though playing a children’s hiding game, the legs were curled into the chest. The arms circled the drawn up knees, but the wrists…

Daroch turned from the sight, sucking in a bracing breath before he could face it again.

The wrists were secured with small iron chains. Likely forged in this very room. The tiny bones of the fingers clasped together in supplication.

He closed his eyes again, but gruesome, hideous images flashed behind his lids. The worst of which was her soft green eyes, round with terror, begging for mercy. His own eyes burned, and a suspicious sheen clouded his vision when he opened them again.

Daroch blinked it away. A band of wrath encircled his lungs. His heart fell like a heavy brick to the pit of his stomach. He wanted to scream. He wanted to vomit.

He wanted to run.

Instead, he forced himself to look at her. To bear witness to her unjust death. Her skull sat on slim, delicate shoulders, regarding him from small, empty sockets. Her teeth smiled at him in the most macabre way and a shudder overtook him.

“Och lass,” he whispered. “What did they do to ye?” Reaching to her, Daroch’s finger trembled as he gingerly wiped at the green patina of ash that covered her bones and rubbed it between his finger and thumb. Peat moss, oil, and pitch, identical to the bricks he’d been loading into the forge.

Huddled in the tiny nook, she would have been spared the fire. Likely, the smoke would have filled her lungs, but she’d have died before feeling the burn of the flames. Daroch had a sick suspicion the blaze hadn’t been lit in one room of the house. Nay, the fucking villains had used live women as tinder.

I never venture in there.

His stomach protested again and he snarled. What other secrets of hers did this room contain that had been erased by the fire? Why hadn’t her bones been laid into the earth? Why was she stuffed back here like so much forgotten slag?

Who had done this?

Daroch picked up a peat brick and crushed it in his fist. The first time he’d laid eyes on Kylah MacKay was in the great hall of Laird MacKay’s Castle. Rory MacKay had been plagued with Banshees and summoned Daroch for help. The self-same Laird who sent these peat bricks. He hurled another one through the window.

Banshees were creatures of vengeance. Daroch looked down at her bones, every part of him aching for her. He’d know, of course, that Kylah must have died horribly. He’d just forced himself not to think of it. Not to care. She wasn’t his problem, after all. She wasn’t his fault.

She wasn’t his to lose. To avenge. But the fact that she remained a Banshee this long after her death meant she was unable to claim her vengeance.

And that was something they had in common.

Chapter Eight

The witching hour fell before Daroch found himself at the doors of the MacKay keep. He beat on them with his staff. “Open up, MacKay,” he demanded.

A familiar, fair-haired man with the dimensions of a tree trunk threw open the heavy door and held Daroch at sword point. “
You
, Druid!” he accused.

“Yes. Brilliant deduction. Now get me yer Laird,” Daroch ordered.

The man sputtered before rushing him, sword aimed at his throat.

Daroch side-stepped his attack easily, and thunked him soundly between the shoulder blades with his staff, sending the man sprawling face-first into the dirt.

The man was likely still sore at the hours he’d spent as Daroch’s guest some weeks past. The curses that were spat from his mouth along with the mud validated the theory.

Perhaps
guest
was too kind a word.

Shrugging, Daroch slipped through the open door and slammed it closed, barring it against the angry MacKay steward and turned to find another sword held just as directly to his throat.

“Druid,” the soft, low voice of Rory MacKay held a lethal note Daroch instantly respected.

“Laird,” he returned the man’s greeting, meeting Rory’s deadly amber gaze with one of his own. “If I were ye, I’d look into finding more competent protection.”

“Lorne is one of the most capable, deadly warriors to see a battlefield.” Rory glanced at the door, but only for a moment, a look of resigned respect teasing good humor into his brawny features. “I imagine he’s still cross with ye for leaving him stranded when I sent him for ye.”

“Lower yer sword,” Daroch commanded slowly. He would not trade good natured conversation with the man who may have murdered three innocent women.

Rory instantly sobered, stepping closer and narrowing his eyes, the dangerous tip of his weapon pressing against Daroch’s jugular with precision. “State yer business, Druid, before I run ye through.”

For a moment of pure male instinct, Daroch wanted to test the man. Rory’s name was heralded as one of the best warriors in the Highlands that didn’t claim to be Berserker or Shape shifter. Daroch rarely ventured out of his cave and he’d still heard of the man. They stood remarkably similar in height, and though Daroch’s shoulders and arms were wider, the Laird’s trunk was thicker.

“Why run me through, when ye can tie me up and set me on fire?” Daroch put a winter’s worth of chill in the words and watched as the Laird’s face transformed.

Rory lowered his sword as though it had become too heavy to lift. Shame and regret darkened his eyes and he turned away, treading the few steps to the council table to settle his bulk into the Chieftain’s chair.

“I thought I was a cold-hearted bastard,” Daroch advanced on him, shaking with the strength of his rage. “But three innocent lasses, burned
alive.
Do ye ken the pain of it? Have ye no compassion at all, no humanity? Why have the Banshees not reaped their vengeance?”

A hollow, wry sound escaped the Laird. “Believe me they tried, but the man responsible is already dead by my own order. I stole their vengeance from them, but not their lives.”

Daroch hit the table with his staff. “Doona lie to me! I
vow
I’ll see ye burn as they did. I can prove the bricks used to raze the washhouse to the ground came from this very castle.”

“Set to blaze by my twin brother, Angus, and his men.” Rory put his knuckles on the table and rose to his feet, bringing their faces flush. “All of whom are dead upon
my
command.”

Daroch searched the man for signs of deceit. His breath was steady, his eyes undilated and clear, the pulse thrumming in his temple slightly elevated, but none more than had been at Daroch’s threat. He spoke the truth.

Aggression sizzled in the air between them for a tense moment.

“Who are ye to storm my castle and accuse me of such atrocities? What business is it of yers?” Rory’s voice lowered to a more reasonable register, but his meaning was apparent.

“I’m—” Daroch paused. No one. He was nothing to these Banshees or to their Laird. If he truly was a smart man, he’d be relieved Kylah had finally left him alone and go about his business. But he couldn’t. The ghostly lass had reached her wee glow into his darkness and illuminated something he’d long forgotten he’d even possessed.

His heart.

“I’m buggered.” He sank into the chair behind him and tossed his head against the wooden back. He was so close. So close to reaping a vengeance of his own. He couldn’t afford a comely distraction like her. Not now. “Ye requested that I help eliminate a Banshee back when ye were tormented with them. How did ye end up ridding yerself of her?”

The Laird threw his bronze lion’s mane back and laughed so hard he fisted his hands in his blue and green plaid. “It’s quite the story,” he choked out between guffaws. “But the long and short of it is I married her.”

Daroch gaped. Perhaps the Laird had gone mad.

“Moved their mother and the entire lot next door for the time being.” Rory wiped a tear of mirth from the corner of his eye.

“Ye… jest?” Daroch asked dubiously.

“Serious as a Banshee’s curse.” The Laird still chuckled as he took his seat again and regarded Daroch over long, steepled fingers. “I’m assuming Kylah’s been yer unwelcome companion these past couple of days.”

Daroch nodded, squirming at the word
unwelcome.

“Her mother’s been worried.”

“I thought ye were after some black magic by marrying the Frasier witch,” Daroch recalled. “How did ye end up married to a Banshee?”

“I had no idea Kathryn Frasier was a witch when we married. To be fair, both women tried to kill me,” he said good naturedly. “But Katriona couldna because I’ve already died once and came back so I was immune to her Banshee powers.”

“Ye’re
An Dioladh
,” Daroch observed.

“Aye. But Kathryn attempted to poison me on our wedding night and ended up poisoning herself. Katriona took advantage of an empty body and...” he waved his hand, as though that explained the rest.

Daroch gaped for a second time in as many minutes. “So Katriona is now Kathryn.”

“To everyone but her family.” Rory confirmed. “And ye now, though I canna ken why I told ye.”