The Laird of Stonehaven (2 page)

She saw
him
. The man in her dreams stood large and virile before her. He wore the blue, green and black plaid of Clan Campbell. An aura of red, the color of war and bloodshed, hovered over him. Was the man a warrior? Abruptly the aura changed from blood red to blue, the color of love and peace.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

No answer was forthcoming.

“Are you my future?”

He merely smiled.

“I canna love you. ’Tis forbidden.”

His smile taunted her, his voice challenged her. “Is it?”

Before she could question him further, the vision faded, replaced by that of her half-brother Niall, the man destined to become Chieftain of Clan MacArthur when her dying father breathed his last. His evil grin lacked warmth and sincerity. He reached out to her in a menacing manner. She screamed, breaking the spell.

“Are ye all right, lass?” Alyce asked. The candles were extinguished as Blair stumbled from the circle. “What did ye see?”

“The man in my dreams is a Campbell.”

“A MacArthur ally,” Alyce said with a sigh of relief. “Did ye see anything else?”

“My brother Niall. He means me harm.”

“Aye.” Alyce nodded knowingly. “Yer brother is up to nae good.”

“We must be on our guard, Alyce. Once he is chief—”

“Hark!” Alyce hissed. “I hear angry voices at the gate. Do ye ken what they are saying?”

Both women flew to the window overlooking the gate. The moon had disappeared, replaced by a blood-red sunrise, and the voices that rose up were chanting the words from Blair’s dream.

“Burn, witch, burn.
Burn, witch, burn.”

Stonehaven at Torridon, Scottish Highlands, 1432

“Ye’re mad, Graeme!” Heath Campbell chided the laird of Stonehaven. “You canna wed the MacArthur lass. Have ye not heard? I know ye’ve been away fighting in France with Joan, the Maid of Orleans, but surely you recall the MacArthur Prophecy. The MacArthur lass is said to be a Faery Woman.” He lowered his voice until he could barely be heard over the jingle of their horses’ harnesses. “Some say she’s a witch.”

Graeme’s dark brows rose in obstinate objection. “I dinna believe in witches, Cousin.”

“Mayhap ye should,” Heath grumbled.

Graeme urged his horse onward toward Gairloch and Douglas MacArthur, chief of Clan MacArthur and a Campbell ally.

“Douglas MacArthur is dying,” Graeme stated flatly, “and he fears for his daughter’s life. I canna ignore his summons. The least I can do is speak with him. Mayhap I can suggest another to wed his lass.”

Heath shook his shaggy head. “I canna believe ye would even consider wedding a Faery Woman.”

“You place too much store in rumors,” Graeme scoffed. “Blair MacArthur is known for her healing skill. There is talk of other powers, but I dinna believe what I canna see.”

“What about Joan the Maid? Did she not possess unnatural powers? She claimed that her mandate to fight came from God.”

Graeme gazed into the distance where the sun was rising to shed a crimson glow over the land. He was recalling the horrible fate of the young woman whom he had fought to protect but had been unable to save from a fiery death. His blue eyes turned murky and his handsome features hardened.

“Joan was a true saint. That much I know. She truly believed that God directed her actions. She died a martyr to her faith, but her fate was not easy for me to accept. In my eyes, no woman can ever live up to her. But Joan is no more, and I fully intend to obey MacArthur’s summons. He saved my father’s life once, and I owe him.”

Heath blinked in dismay. “Then ye
do
intend to wed the witch.”

“I didna say that,” Graeme hedged. “I merely intend to hear MacArthur out.”

“ ’Tis said the lass has stringy black hair and a wart on the end of her nose.”

“Leave off, Cousin,” Graeme warned. “I can make my own decisions.”

“Aye,” Heath said glumly. “ ’Twas yer decision to go fight on foreign ground.”

“Better the English focus their army on France than Scotland. I did what I thought was right.”

“And neglected yer holdings in the bargain. Not to mention the wound ye suffered at the hands of the English.”

“Uncle Stuart proved more than capable in my absence. As for the wound, ’tis long healed.”

“I see ye’re set on this folly,” Heath sighed. “But dinna let the witch cast a spell on ye.”

Graeme shook his head at his cousin’s superstition. He was too world-weary and too cynical to believe in evil spells or witchcraft. At eight and twenty he had seen and done things in France that had shattered his innocence. He had bedded accomplished courtesans, dockside whores and lonely widows. He had killed and maimed in battles fought on foreign soil, and found something so holy, pure and innocent in Joan the Maid that her violent death by fire had devastated him.

After her passing, he had returned to Scotland to heal, but the raw wound of her violent death still festered inside him. Trust in humanity no longer existed for him. Only Scotland was real, and Stonehaven. Though he had obeyed MacArthur’s urgent summons, he would not wed his daughter if he could help it. There was no passion left inside him for a wife. He had given his all to Joan’s cause and intended to dedicate the rest of his life to protecting the Highlands against English aggression.

When the keep came into view, Graeme paused, surprised to see a boisterous rabble clustered outside the gate. He drew his sword, advising his six kinsmen who accompanied him to do the same.

“Who are those people? Can ye hear what they’re saying?” Heath asked.

Graeme moved cautiously forward. “I dinna like it. Be on your guard.”

“They’re not MacArthurs,” Heath noted. “Some are wearing MacKay plaids. What do ye think they’re up to?”

“I dinna know, but I intend to find out,” Graeme said, spurring his horse.

When Graeme was close enough to hear what they were saying, the blood froze in his veins.

“Burn, witch, burn.”

A curse on his lips, he plunged into the rabble-rousers, scattering them in all directions.

“What is the meaning of this?” he thundered.

“ ’Tis the witch Blair,” a man boldly taunted. “Her evil spells are causing havoc.”

“Aye,” a hard-faced woman agreed. “My bairn fell ill when she looked at him. ’Tis witchcraft, I tell ye.”

“When she passed by my fields, my crops withered and died,” observed a poorly dressed man.

“My cows no longer give milk,” another contended. “The witch doesna belong here, living among good, decent people.”

“Who among you are MacArthurs?” Graeme asked.

The shuffling of feet and evasive glances answered his question. There was not a MacArthur among Blair’s accusers. Who were they? Who had put them up to this? For what reason?

“There is no such thing as witchcraft,” Graeme bellowed. “Go back to your homes.”

“Not as long as the witch still lives to cast her evil spells,” a man shouted. “Death to the witch!”

Graeme had seen and heard enough. Some evil was afoot here. The MacArthur chieftain had been right. Danger permeated the charged air around him. From all indications, Blair MacArthur was in deep trouble. The question was whether or not the charges against her were justified.

His face composed in harsh lines, Graeme waved his sword above his head and shouted, “Begone, I say! If you return, I’ll set my men on you.”

The threat was enough to send Blair’s accusers fleeing.

“Think ye we’ve seen the last of them?” Heath asked.

“I dinna know. Someone put them up to this, and I intend to find out who.”

Graeme pounded on the gate with the hilt of his sword.

“Who be ye?” the gatekeeper asked.

“Graeme Campbell. Your laird sent for me.”

The gate swung open, admitting Graeme and his guardsmen. “Are the others gone?” the gatekeeper asked, peeking through the open gate.

“Aye, I chased them off. Where are the laird’s guardsmen?”

The elderly man gave a contemptuous snort. “Niall took them with him to Edinburgh, leaving behind naught but a handful of aging servants to serve the old laird and his daughter.”

He closed and barred the gate. “Go on up to the keep. The laird is expecting ye. His business with ye is all that’s keeping him alive.”

Graeme shook off his feeling of foreboding as he approached the keep. A lad ran up to take his horse as he dismounted, and he quickly climbed the stairs while his men followed the boy to the stables. An old man wearing the MacArthur plaid opened the door; his face lit up when he recognized the Campbell plaid Graeme wore.

“Be ye Graeme Campbell?”

“Aye,” Graeme said, stepping over the threshold. “Your laird is expecting me.”

“I be Gavin. Sit and refresh yerself while I tell the laird ye’re here.”

Graeme crossed the spacious hall and sprawled into a chair near the hearth. A serving maid appeared, thrusting a leather cup filled with foaming ale into his hand.

“Would ye like a wee drop of uisge breatha?” she asked timidly.

“Nay, lass,” Graeme said. In truth a wee drop of strong Scottish whiskey would sit well on his stomach after his long ride, but he wanted a clear head when he spoke with Douglas MacArthur.

Graeme was just finishing his ale when his men entered the hall. Mugs of ale and glasses of uisge breatha were passed around as the men took their ease. All but Graeme, who remained tense and on edge. The situation here was more serious than he had suspected. Cautiously he glanced over his shoulder, as if expecting to find a hook-nosed witch hovering over him. Cursing himself for a fool, he drained the last of his ale.

The Scots were a superstitious lot. Graeme recalled stories of a man named Jubertus who was supposed to have murdered children and made them into powder. From the powder, imitation children were made for demons to inhabit. According to the church, witchcraft was heresy—and the punishment was burning.

Unfortunately, King James had done nothing to ease the hysteria surrounding witchcraft. Indeed, he seemed to have a sick fascination with witches and felt no remorse over burning those unfortunate souls convicted of witchcraft. Graeme thought of Blair MacArthur, and a chill of apprehension raced down his spine.

“Laird MacArthur is eager to see ye,” Gavin said from behind Graeme. “Follow me. I will take ye to him.”

Jerked from his reverie, Graeme surged to his feet. “No more anxious than I am to see him. How fares MacArthur?”

“He is weak but lucid. I fear he is not long for this world. Mark my words—things will change around here once Niall becomes laird. And not for the better.”

The last was spoken with such bitterness that Graeme was immediately put on guard. What little he knew about Niall MacArthur had come from rumors, and none of what he’d heard was good.

“Douglas tires quickly,” Gavin warned as he led the way up the staircase to the master’s bedchamber.

“I’ll try not to tax him,” Graeme said as Gavin opened the door and stood aside.

“I’ll be just outside the door should ye have need of me,” Gavin said.

Graeme stepped into the chamber.

“Shut the door and come closer,” demanded a weak voice.

Graeme closed the door and approached the bed. “I am here as you requested, Laird MacArthur.”

“Thank ye for that, Graeme. I heard ye were wounded in France.”

Graeme scarcely recognized the emaciated man lying in the bed. The once robust MacArthur had wasted away to a mere shadow of himself. His sunken eyes and cheeks already had the look of death about them.

“ ’Twas naught,” Graeme said. “A lance wound to the thigh—long since healed.” He pulled a bench up to the bed.

“Did ye read my letter?” Douglas asked.

“Aye.”

“Is that all ye can say? Is yer answer yea or nay? I havena much longer in this world, and I would see my lass safe. Ye are the only man strong enough to protect her.”

Graeme considered mentioning his confrontation at the gate but decided it would be best for Douglas’s failing health if the danger to his daughter was kept from him.

Graeme’s silent contemplation seemed to agitate Douglas. “Dinna dither, mon! ’Tis little enough I ask of ye. Did I not save yer father’s life when he was arrested in 1425 on charges that he supported the Duke of Albany during the years King James was a prisoner of the English? Did I not put my life on the line when I swore that Ian Campbell was a loyal supporter of the king?”

“Aye,” Graeme acknowledged, “and grateful I am for it. But what you ask is—”

“I suppose ye heard the ruckus at the gate when ye arrived,” Douglas interrupted. “ ’Tisna true. None of it. My lass isna a witch, she’s a healer. She is a Faery Woman and well loved by her clansmen for her healing skills.”

He rose on his elbow and clutched Graeme’s arm with a bony hand. “I love my daughter, Graeme. I wouldna see her harmed.”

Graeme eased him back down on the bed. “Who would harm her if she is so well loved?”

“Listen carefully, Graeme, for time grows short. Ye must wed Blair and take her away before Niall returns. I’ve settled a generous dowry on her, and it will all be yours, including rich lands on the Isle of Skye.”

Graeme frowned. “Are you saying Niall wishes Blair harm?”

“Aye. He is jealous of his sister and fears her powers. He will give her to MacKay once I am dead and he becomes clan chief. Much as it grieves me to say so, Niall isna a good man.”

Confusion darkened Graeme’s brow. “How could Niall give Blair to MacKay against your wishes?”

“I have been ill a long time, and Niall has been slowly usurping my authority. He earned the loyalty of my guardsmen when they realized I was on my deathbed and Niall would succeed me as laird.”

“How does MacKay fit into all this?”

“Niall has formed an alliance with MacKay. I’m not sure why, but I think MacKay wants Blair for her powers. With Blair’s help, he intends to become the most powerful chieftain in the Highlands. He covets her for selfish reasons and not for the sweetness that dwells within her. I want a better fate for my lass. MacKay isna the mon for her.”

“I am sorry, Douglas, but I have no wish to wed.”

“Dinna say me nay, Graeme,” Douglas pleaded. “Ye’re my only hope of saving Blair.”