Highland Dragon (2 page)

August 1502

How can Hell be so cold?

Akira Neish inhaled gulps of icy air as she struggled to keep pace with the guard’s strides. She clutched the rope binding her to the warrior in an effort to ease the pain pulsing around her bruised wrists. As she stumbled down a stone stairwell behind him, she prayed her weak legs wouldn’t collapse beneath her. She felt certain this passageway must lead straight to Satan’s realm.

They reached the end of the tunnel where a single pitch-pine torch illuminated a door. The rock walls glistened with seepage, and the smell of soot burned the flesh in her throat.

Her guard stopped abruptly. Akira caught herself just before she might have crashed into his back. The screech of scraping iron sent a jolt of dread up her spine as he slid the crossbar to release the door. Akira swallowed hard, fearing the fate that awaited her on the other side. The warrior ducked beneath the doorjamb and pulled her into a room lit by firelight.

Whispers flitted through the air.

Akira’s breath hitched when she saw the women. They were everywhere—old and young, chained to the floor, huddled in groups. Their haunted eyes glowed in the torchlight, and all wore yellow shifts, thin enough to see through. Who were they? What was this place?

Before she could study them further, the guard roughly hauled her up beside him. Her black hair webbed over her face with the abrupt movement.

He bent to her ear. “Think ye the MacLeods who brought ye here are evil? Wait til ye meet the MacLeods of the outer isles.” He licked her cheek. His vile odor made bile rise in her throat, but she refused to let him see her fear. His dark brows rose and his lips curled into an ugly snarl. “Now ’tis time ye pay for kicking me in the bollocks, lass.”

Placing his booted foot atop a barrel, he forced her to bend over his leg. She had to stand on her toes to lessen the crushing of her ribs against his thigh. His fingers wrapped around the back of her neck, holding her in place. Akira knew what was about to happen and braced herself for the humiliation.

“I advise all o’ ye to keep a distance from her. She’s a witch,” he hollered to the captives. The mockery in his voice brought familiar tears to her eyes. She’d been dragged across the outer isles behind her captor’s foul-smelling horses only to be tormented by her secret.

Cold air crept up her thighs as he raised the skirt of her kirtle, exposing the mark on her backside for all to see. The devil’s mark. Gasps echoed through the cavern, warning Akira she would find no pity here, nor friends or allies.

Shame heated her skin, and an age-old anger erupted within her just as it had when the children of her clan had cast their stones and taunts. She refused to be displayed like an animal, regardless of what it might cost her. She pulled back, opened her mouth wide, and bit the heathen’s thigh so hard her jaw pinched.

“Ach! Ye bitch!” Grabbing a fistful of her hair, he jerked her upright. The tip of his dagger made a painful dent in the base of her throat. “Fortunate for ye, ’tis against the code to mark the captives.”

He led her toward the darkest nook in the cavern. Her struggles were futile against his warrior strength. He clasped an iron shackle to her ankle and chained her to a spike in the stone floor, then held her chin between his filthy fingers. “Mayhap I’ll return to dress ye instead of Auld Nattie.”

He was vermin. A blood-sucking leech. She sorely wanted to bite him again or, better yet, gut him with his own dagger, but he turned on his heel and swaggered to the door. The bar clanked, and his fading footsteps left her in welcomed silence.

Her body ached from days of being bound, and the stone floor offered no comfort. She cupped her cold hands to her mouth and blew into her palms. Akira didn’t have to scan the cavern to feel the women’s accusations. This wasn’t the first time she’d been treated like a leper, nor would it be the last, she suspected.

Why was this happening to her? Why had the MacLeods taken her from her clan’s homelands? She bowed her head and prayed Kendrick would come to her aid. But in the three days it took her and her captors to make the journey, she hadn’t once seen any sign of her brother. Akira’s only solace was that the men from her neighboring clan hadn’t delivered her sister into the hands of these demons. Isobel would have never survived the journey across MacLeod soil.

Kendrick would come. He had to.

Calin studied his childhood friend’s size from the thick foliage of late summer. The wee runt grew up brawny.

It would take a man of great force to take Kendrick Neish down—over six feet of raw muscle covered with tufts of dark red hair. Kendrick outweighed him by two stone as a lad, but Calin now matched his height and weight. He could take him.

Calin emerged and cinched a forearm around his old friend’s bearded neck.

Kendrick jerked, but quickly checked his initial shock and clutched his hands behind Calin’s head. Blue sky and green pine branches filled Calin’s vision as he found himself somersaulted over Kendrick’s back and into the thin trunk of a birch tree. It snapped. At least he won the battle against the tree, but he’d sorely misjudged his old friend’s strength.

He jumped to his feet and swiveled. Kendrick’s attention diverted to his sisters frolicking beneath the pelting sprays of a thunderous waterfall. As soon as Kendrick conceded defeat, Calin would figure out which one of the lassies was his bride.

He drove a clenched fist into Kendrick’s gut, doubling him over with a grunt. Before Calin could act again, his feet were hauled out from under him, sending him sprawling to the ground on his backside. The air whooshed from his lungs. His eyes flew open in time to see Kendrick lunge for him. Calin dodged, rolled over the forest debris and regained his position. Just once, he wanted to win a brawl against Kendrick. But Calin battled in play and his bride’s brother fought to protect his sisters. According to her missives, there were six sisters in all.

Kendrick’s color turned red, his nostrils flared, and his pose took on the stance of an angered warrior. Calin suspected he would lose this battle just as Kendrick dove at him. Calin held one hand out as a shield, but Kendrick twisted that arm behind him. Within a blink, Kendrick cradled Calin’s head in the crook of his arm, constricting the air in his throat.

“Ye be on Kinnon soil, mon, and it would take verra little to snap your wee neck between my brawny arms.”

His comment was delivered with such force Calin couldn’t help but laugh at the man.

Kendrick leaned to the side to study him. “Are ye addlebrained, mon? Mayhap a wee bit light in the head?” Kendrick released him with a forceful shove into a bed of prickly pine needles.

From a squatting position, Calin offered him a crooked, ornery grin. “Ye wound me, Kendrick. Ye’d forget the face of an auld friend?”

“I’ll rot in Hell afore I claim a mon who attacks me from behind as a friend.” Kendrick’s burr lifted with his agitation while his arms crossed stubbornly over his broad chest.

Brushing pine needles from his bare thighs, Calin stood, wrinkled his nose, and sniffed the air in jest. “Ye reek like two-day-old haggis, but not rotten yet.”

Kendrick eyed him warily. His jaw tilted.

Calin couldn’t stop the smug grin from lifting his lips while he waited for Kendrick to recognize him. After all, a decade had passed since last they’d seen each other.

Only seconds later, Kendrick pummeled him to the ground in a roar of merriment. “Ye randy, pigheaded, arrogant, wee
bastaird
, ye, Calin MacLeod.”

Calin wrestled with the giant in a heap of fists and feet. He took three blows. One to his nose, the other two connected with his ribs. Eight and twenty was too old for such frivolous horseplay, especially on his wedding day.

Kendrick pinned him. “Ye concede, mon?” he asked an instant before Calin straddled him.

“Nay. ’Tis my turn to win.”

But Kendrick didn’t accept defeat. They rolled in a tangle of limbs, both bleeding from the nose, knuckles maimed and raw, and bare knees in much the same state. Sprawled on his back, Calin clutched his bruised ribs, now suffering from his laughter.

“’Tis been too long, MacLeod,” Kendrick said with a bit of resentment in his voice. “Far too long.”

“I could’ve gone another decade without seeing your ugly puss.” Flashing a smile, Calin struggled to his feet then extended a hand to his friend.

“’Tis time?” Kendrick asked.

“Aye. I met with the Donalds on the Sabbath. They’re in agreement. Laird Kinnon’s throng of thieving warriors has stolen the last of my chattel. Laird Kinnon has made many enemies over the years. No one will aid him in protecting these borders if the English invade our coastal waters.”

“Then we gather the Isle’s council and Laird Kinnon will reign nay more. And Clan Kinnon will be cleansed of his bloodied hands. I’ll send a spit-boy to ride with the torch at twilight and gather the rebels. When do ye wish to meet?”

“Soon, Kendrick. Soon your laird will pay for his crimes against both of us.” Calin clapped Kendrick on the back, grateful he remained dedicated to their cause. So many years had passed since they’d stumbled into each other in the pitch-black caverns beneath Brycen Castle. They’d bonded in secrecy knowing they were supposed to be enemies, but they had wanted the same thing—an alliance.

Pulling back a pine branch, Calin peeked at the bevy of beauties skipping around the waterfall. In their gaiety, they twirled and danced, dragging the hems of their kirtles through the water. He couldn’t contain his enthusiasm. Eighteen years had passed since he’d entrusted Kendrick with his wee bride, and by dusk he had every intention of taking the lass back to Cànwyck Castle and making her his wife. He prayed he could look upon her face and just see a woman, and not the daughter of the man who murdered his father. Regardless of how he saw her, he had a vow to fulfill and a clan to protect.

A clan that was currently preparing for his wedding.

When he’d left MacLeod land earlier today, the bailey was abuzz. The clan’s matrons spent early morning filling the chapel with fresh-cut bluebells, yellow saxifrage, and wild primroses. MacLeods had been trickling in for two days to attend the festivities. A handful of brutes had been warming whisky and ogling the village maidens. An onslaught of babes was sure to arrive in nine months, and he hoped one might belong to him and his new bride.

Haunches of wild boar, venison, and mutton sputtered and hissed over the spits and filled the halls of Cànwyck Castle with a savory smell. All the while, Father Harrald worked feverishly on writing the personal blessing he would deliver following the evening ceremony.

The only thing missing was the bride. His bride. Akira Neish.

Calin had intended to retrieve her a day or two in advance, but he’d assured himself she would be compliant. To date, there hadn’t been a woman to refuse him, and he held confident that his bride would melt beneath his charm. Mayhap there would be time on their way back to Cànwyck Castle to woo her a wee bit before making her his lady wife.

“Which of the lassies is she?” Calin scanned the beauties cavorting around the pool of water. “Please, tell me that”—he pointed—“is not her. She looks to be a healthy eater.”

Kendrick’s wrinkled forehead expressed confusion, but he answered.
“That”
—he pointed at the plump redhead—“is Maggie, and she and her husband, Logan Donald, are expect-in’ late autumn.”

“Then how about the tall beauty?” Calin raised both eyebrows, hoping he chose correctly.

“That’s Neala. She’s wife to the smith’s brother. Did Akira send—”

“Ach!” Out of nowhere came a blast of icy water to Calin’s backside. He sucked in air. The warmth of August had done little to take the frigid sting from the water. He spun on his heel to capture the assailant. The roar of the waterfall may have drowned out their footsteps, but the shrieking nymphs holding two empty pails behind him didn’t stand a chance of escape. Kendrick held one girl by the wrist, while Calin grabbed the other around the waist. The girls slithered free of their captors, collapsing against each other in a fit of giggles.

Calin shook his muddled head. They were identical in every way—from their strawberry-blond ringlets, to their slender noses, and moss-green eyes. If he’d the time to count, he suspected he might find the same number of freckles atop their noses. He faintly recalled Akira mentioning the twins in her missives, but at least eight years separated those memories. He never knew why she stopped writing to him.

“And this pair o’ lassies would be Riona and Fiona,” Kendrick introduced the twosome. “Everyone just calls them Iona, cause ye cannae tell one from the other.”

“’Tis a pleasure to meet such a bonnie fine pair of lassies.” Calin bowed with grace before brushing chaste kisses across their petite knuckles. Their giggles increased and they blushed simultaneously. When he returned his attention to the waterfall, his eyes landed on the innocent young woman sitting beneath the protective foliage of an old ash tree, both ankles tucked neatly under her kirtle, and a book held just beneath her chin.

He motioned at her. “That’s her. I knew my bride would be the bonnie smart one.”

Kendrick’s smile faded, his stature stiffened. “Enough, MacLeod! Girls, fetch up your sisters. We head back at once.” Kendrick’s tone turned ferocious. “Why are ye here, MacLeod?”

Calin speculated on Kendrick’s change of mood. He thought his missive had been very clear. “I wrote a month ago to inform ye I was coming for Akira.”

“And ye wrote a year ago statin’ the same thing. I started forming the rebellion when ye sent the first query, and Laird Kinnon’s suspicions o’ betrayal have only mounted during your delay. Do ye know what ’tis like trainin’ alongside that bastard? Where in all o’ Scots have ye been for the past year?”

Calin had spent his first year as chieftain in regret. He broke eye contact with Kendrick as he recalled the deceptive woman who had deluded him and prevented him from coming sooner. Bitterness held thick on his tongue. “I was detained, but I am here now and ready to form our alliance as promised.” Gesturing once again at the girl beneath the tree, he asked with more persistence, “Is that Akira?”