Highland Sons: The Mackay Saga

THE MACKAY SAGA

SOUL MATE PUBLISHING

New York

HIGHLAND SONS: THE MACKAY SAGA

Copyright©2012

DAWN IRELAND

MEGGAN CONNORS

Cover Design by Rae Monet, Inc.

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Published in the United States of America by

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Macedon, New York, 14502

ISBN-13: 978-1-61935-153-0

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“The Ring of Belief”

Forged near a castle out of time and place, the Ring of Belief brings prosperity and love to those it chooses.

Bequeathed to Clan Mackay for defending natural magic, its bearer is presented with a chance to believe.

Each descendant’s choice will determine his ultimate happiness or despair.

“Perhaps all the dragons in our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us act, just once, with beauty and courage. Perhaps everything that frightens us is, in its deepest essence, something helpless that wants our love.”

―
Rainer Maria Rilke

Dawn Ireland

Scotland 1675

Province of Strathnaver

In spite of the warmth of the day, Kenzie McCleod ducked her head, then tugged her hood down to shade her face. It would not do to have her head covering fall, especially not here. A thin hound darted around her legs, tangling her skirt. She straightened the fabric, glancing around to see if anyone paid her any mind.

The village teamed with people, livestock squawked, a woman rhythmically pounded her rugs, and bairns’ excited laughter swelled and fell according to the outcomes of their games. The cacophony of sound sent a familiar surge of panic through her.

Only a short way to go now
. She tightened her grip on the hood, in spite of her aching fingers. Surely Anton would know what to do for her horse. Bell’s foal would make its appearance before the day’s end. She hated to leave the mare alone, but something was amiss, and without help, mother or offspring could die.

Kenzie stepped around a puddle of vile liquid she couldn’t identify. The smell of rot hung thick in the air. Preoccupied with avoiding the hazard, she didn’t see Clan Mackay’s laird until she collided with his solid chest, her nose pressed against his shirt. His spicy scent vied with the stench from the puddle, and she had an irrational desire to bury her face deeper in the folds of linen.

“Watch where you’re going, lass.” Laird Bane Mackay’s chest rumbled with his deep voice, and Kenzie stumbled backward in her embarrassed attempt to get away. Her arms flailed as she tried to maintain her balance and the hood slipped off her head. She would have fallen, had the laird not reached out to steady her.

She had only seen him from a distance, but he wasn’t what she expected. In the past he’d struck her as commanding, and completely unapproachable. But standing here, with his warm fingers wrapped around her arm, and green flecks dancing in his grey eyes, he seemed almost—familiar. But that could not be. They had never met.

The sudden silence of the villagers drew her attention. She tore her gaze from the laird and glanced around at the roughshod crofters, most of whom owed their fealty to Clan Mackay, and the castle that sat on the ridge. The hostile stares, especially from the women, suggested she had no business being in their village, let alone speaking to their laird.

A sob built in her throat. They were the same expressions she’d seen on the faces of countless others who had shunned her or forced her and her mother to move to the next village. Even worse were the men that assessed her with lust in their eyes, as if she were an object to be obtained. She raised her hood with a trembling hand.

“Why are you in such a hurry?” The laird was polite, but he did not drop his hand. There was something about him, a quietness she normally found only in her woodland creatures. Odd, she did not mind his touch as he drew her from the edge of the puddle.

It was then she noticed him. A man standing off to the side of the gathering crowd. He wore a kilt of the finest wool, and the arrogance of his stance, slight hook to his nose, and his narrowed eyes bespoke of cruelty. As he came forward, members of the crowd stepped aside, while giving him furtive glances.

The unwelcome intruder stopped a short distance from where she stood with the laird. “What have we here?” The man regarded her as if assessing breeding stock at a fair. “I’d not realized the Mackay women could be so comely.”

“And who might you be?” The laird stepped forward, angling between them.

“I’m here to keep your village safe from the scourge of Satan.” He raised his hands in supplication to the crowd. “Who here among you has not had a child sicken and die, or your crops fail? Do you think a just God would allow such to happen?” He turned back to them, his gaze resting on her. “There are times when the fairest are truly working for the Devil.”

The laird’s eyes narrowed and his voice rang with contempt. “A witch pricker.”

“Robert McGowan, at your service.” McGowan gave the barest inclination of his head toward the laird. “True, I search out the ungodly. Regardless of where they are found in society.”

Kenzie cringed at the implied threat. She had never seen a witch hunter before, but her mother had told her many horrifying tales.
Her mother
. Kenzie wrapped her cloak tight against her body. This McGowan must not find out about her.

“I’ll not have you filling the heads of my clan with your gibberish.” The laird stared down at the witch hunter. “Magic doesna exist. I’ve yet to see a woman, or man, in the village practice naught that would be considered unnatural.”

“Ah, but sometimes they hide their abilities behind healing.” McGowan moved around the laird and came to a stop, bare inches from where she stood. “Or beauty.”

Long ago, Kenzie had learned to rely on her instincts, and before McGowan could touch her, she turned and bolted down the path and out of the village. No noises of pursuit sounded behind her as she jumped over a log, then ran until her insides felt as if they would burst.

She’d been running her entire life. Just once she’d like to go into a village and not have people stare or whisper behind their hands. The crofters judged her, the clergy feared her, and though their poor opinions hurt, they weren’t dangerous.

But the man with the dead eyes, the witch pricker. He would stop at nothing to get what he wanted.

They would have to leave—again.

Her chest constricted until she felt like a mouse caught in the talons of an eagle. Mama was going to be so angry. She’d told her to don her disguise before venturing into the village, as she had many times before. But Bell seemed to be in such pain that she’d not wanted to take the time. It tore at her, the trust and hurt in their only horse’s eyes.

Now she’d have to help Bell on her own, and they would not be able to leave until the foal was born. Worry and anger spurred her faster, though whether her ire was sparked by the villagers, McGowan, or herself, she could not be sure. If they didn’t leave soon, the consequences of her actions this day may very well have sealed their fate.

McGowan gave a slight smile when the girl ran off, then turned his attention to Bane. “I’ve heard that there was a witch trial held here. Mayhap, there is need for another.”

Bane tried not to react. How did this
Godly
man know the clan’s history? And what was a witch pricker doing this far north? “That trial was over a century ago. We’ve no need of your services.”

“True, but evil can reappear. Even in a name. Odd that your mother would choose the name ‘Bane.’”

“My name has been passed down through the Mackays for generations.”
Damn
. Would his mother’s preoccupation with magic plague him his entire life? She had done him a disservice in naming him after one of the witches in Hector Mackay’s trial.

But something told him this man already knew more than he let on. And an informed enemy needed to be watched. If he got the authorities involved . . . Bane clenched his hands into fists until his fingers cramped. He could not let that happen.

McGowan rubbed his index finger along the leather pouch at his waist. “And what of the legend about the Devil luring a young girl to her death at Black Rock?”

“‘Tis just that—a legend.” His jaw clenched on the words, but he managed to spit them out. “We’ve naught to be afraid of here. As you’re traveling through Mackay lands, I’d be pleased to have you stay at the castle.”
Where you can be watched.

“That’s very kind of you. Very kind indeed.”

Bane swallowed. His mother would have to be confined to her room. If she and this man crossed paths . . . His thumb rubbed the back of the ornate ring on his right hand. He couldn’t let that happen. After listening to his mother’s tales, his unwelcome guest would be condemning every member of the Mackay Clan as a witch.

Bane Mackay mounted his stallion and set out after the woman who had slipped into the woods. He’d questioned the villagers, but only Anton, the blacksmith, had known about the girl and her mother. The villagers would likely say he was bewitched by the stranger’s beauty, but
bemused
would be closer to the truth. This lass was different.

Since becoming laird, he’d become fodder for many a wagging tongue that proclaimed him the “Devil.” It was said he captured the heart of every lass he met. Bane spurred his mount forward with a little more force than necessary.

They were wrong. As Laird Mackay, he needed a wife and bairns. If he must marry, at least he’d not tie himself to some muddleheaded woman who wouldn’t ken the things he was about. Thus far, he’d found naught to commend any of the women in the clan.

His mother insisted the ring would guide him, but he rued the day that symbol of his clan had been found. He glanced down at his hand as he clutched Night’s reins; gold glinted there.

How the metal worker had ever produced such intricate detail was a mystery. Two eagle heads wrapped around his finger, their hooked beaks crossed, a large oval diamond set in the depression created by the intersection. Ruby eyes, deep and pensive, watched him with an assessing gaze. He couldn’t see the Gaelic inscription on the inside of the ring, but he didn’t need to—
With Belief, Love.

Could a ring truly decide your fate?

He tightened his hands on the reins and leaned forward. Now he was being as fanciful as his mother. His clan thought his leadership was assured with this bit of gold and gems. Try as he might, he’d not been able to eradicate the superstition in his people.

The cottage, little more than a shack, came into view. Everything needed repair. The black-haired beauty and her mother had been living like this? Had he known the abandoned cottage was being used, he would have ordered it repaired.

It mattered not if they belonged to Clan Mackay. They were on Mackay land, and he would never let anyone in his care live in squalor.

Upon closer inspection, his eyes widened to see a well-tended herb and vegetable garden. Surely this had not been here before? The blacksmith said the girl and her mother had been here only a fortnight. Not nearly enough time for plants to—

A horse’s distressed neigh broke the silence. The sound came from a crudely constructed shelter off to the left. The lass from the village ran through the front door of the cottage, carrying a pot of something, while an older woman followed. They both stopped and stared at him, eyes wide, mouths open, as he reined Night in near the watering trough and dismounted.

Another plaintive whinny propelled the women forward. Without even a glance over their shoulders, they rushed to the rickety building.

Bane followed them into the cramped space. He tried not to breathe too deeply, as the place stank of damp hay, manure, and animals. A chestnut mare thrashed in the corner, her belly rippling, her hooves lashing out wildly. In spite of the danger, the young woman moved forward before Bane could stop her.

Making low, soothing sounds, the lass reached down and placed her hand on the mare’s neck. The rippling stopped, and if a horse could sigh, this one did. It was as if her touch removed the pain.

He shook his head. Perhaps the horse had not been in as much distress as he’d thought.

Moments later, the young woman gave him an exasperated look and tipped her head. “Well, are you going to stand there, or are you going to help the foal?”

“What makes you think it needs to be helped?” He knelt by the mare’s tail, praying the horse would remain calm. One spindly leg, covered in the remnants of a white sack, protruded from the mare.

The lass dropped her gaze. “I just know.” Her hand smoothed the mane as she leaned in close to the horse’s ear. A high-pitched whinny filled the shelter, then a groan accompanied the contraction of the horse’s belly, but the animal did not thrash.

The old woman shuffled forward. “My daughter knows what she’s about. I’ve not the strength to position the beastie, so ‘tis glad I am that you appeared.”

He rolled up his linen sleeves. Helping sheep with difficult births was one thing; they weren’t all leg. If one of the tiny hooves got caught . . . He reached inside the animal and, to his amazement, the horse simply shuddered as he found what he hoped was the other front leg and brought it forward. With measured force he tugged, and after a few minutes of squirming, the peat-colored foal lay on the straw. The mare lunged to her feet, then nuzzled her newborn. The foal’s loud, disgruntled whinnies filled the space as it attempted to stand and suckle.

A streak of light cut through the slats of the shed, highlighting the face of the girl as she gazed at him over the wobbly animal. She smiled the most genuine smile he’d ever seen. No pretense or coy seduction used to attract a man, but an honest reaction that celebrated life.

Bane shook his head. Maybe she
had
bewitched him. “So, what are you going to be calling the troublesome beastie?”

A dimple appeared in her cheek as she grinned. “I’d been thinking ‘Beauty’ if it was a mare. I’d not picked out a stallion’s name, so ‘Trouble’ it is.”

“Trouble. I’d agree he was that.” He stood, brushing the straw from his kilt. “He’s the reason you were in the village today?”

Her mouth turned down. “Yes. I’d hoped to find Anton. I could not keep Bell calm and shift the foal at the same time. The blacksmith knew . . . well, he would have come if I’d asked.”

Bane reached down to bring the girl to her feet. For a moment he didn’t think she would accept his help, but at last she placed her delicate hand in his, and he drew her up. They stood inches apart, their gazes held, hands clasped. He had to remember to breathe. What was it about this woman? “I know the name of your horse, but I have yet to learn your name.” It annoyed him that his voice sounded strained.

The lass studied him with her heather-colored eyes. He’d never met a woman with eyes that shade. Her gaze drew him in, warming the cold places in his soul.

The girl’s mother broke the silence as she circled the mare, pot in hand. “‘Tis Kenzie, and I’m a fool for naming her such. I’d not been aware that Kenzie meant ‘the fair one.’ If I’d known the fates would take me literally, I would have named her Mary or Kate. Something ordinary.”