Sins of a Highland Devil Page 8

  His foot throbbed maddeningly. He could feel it swelling inside his shoe, and he winced at the tongues of flame shooting up his leg.

  He suspected he’d broken a toe.

  And if he had—he gritted his teeth, determined to ignore the fiery pain—he’d place the blame on Isobel. No matter that she was the last person he’d expect to behave so strangely. His sister was the heart of Clan Cameron. She soothed all ills and always kept a cool and gracious mien. Just now he didn’t know her. And although he loved her dearly—and never in all their days had ever once spoken harshly to her—he was soon going to give her a scolding that would set her ears to ringing for a hundred years.

  He might even follow his advice to Alasdair and lock her in her bedchamber.

  At the least, it would be a long time before he trusted her again.

  She was worse than Catriona.

  Flitting about in the coldest, darkest part of the glen where even he took care to tread with caution. And—he could scarce believe what he’d seen—she’d worn such thin-soled slippers that her feet would have frozen even if she’d been standing before a roaring fire in the great hall.

  Down there, on the chill and boggy ground—

  “Guidsakes!” His eyes flew wide when she reappeared from behind the red-berried rowan and he could see the whole of the moor right through her.

  He blinked, sure he was mistaken.

  Sadly, he wasn’t.

  The world tilted beneath his feet and blood roared in his ears as the see-through beauty drifted to the rocky edge of a burn. Clearly not Isobel, she wrapped her arms around her waist, hugging her middle as she peered down into the stream’s rushing waters.

  Then she was gone, vanishing as if she’d never been there.

  “Guidsakes!” James stared, flushing hot and cold.

  He tried to breathe and couldn’t.

  He’d been raised on tall tales about the ghosts said to walk the Glen of Many Legends. His path hadn’t crossed one until this moment. He’d never truly believed the stories, had even laughed at those who did. But he couldn’t deny what he’d seen, and there could be just one explanation for the mysterious raven-haired beauty.

  She could only be Lady Scandia Cameron, a clan ancestress from distant times. She was named after the northern homeland of her Viking mother, a woman given as a war prize to a long-forgotten Cameron champion. Scandia remained in clan memory because she haunted Castle Haven.

  When the bards sang of her, their eyes always lit on Isobel, for—although no one could say for sure—it was believed that Scandia had been a great beauty with the same creamy alabaster skin and silky raven’s-wing tresses. But that was long ago and mattered no more.

  Now she was a gray lady.

  And her appearance foretold doom.

  The problem was James wanted nothing to do with disaster. His only concern was the well doing of kith and kin and seeing his clan stride triumphantly from the King’s fast-approaching trial by combat.

  He also needed to banish his lust for a headstrong, flame-haired hellion who could shatter his world with the crook of a finger.

  Nothing else was of consequence.

  Certainly not a see-through woman who’d lived hundreds of years before. She might be known as “the Doom of the Camerons,” but it remained beneath his dignity to show how deeply her appearance beset him.

  It was maddening enough that his toes ached so badly he couldn’t walk without favoring his foot.

  And it was a greater annoyance that even after Scandia’s departure, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. There was a curious shivering in the air that persisted in raising the hairs on his nape. Some dim unseen presence, watching him still.

  Sure of it, he summoned his fiercest mien and gave the burn a hard stare. Just in case Scandia yet lingered there, eager to plague him.

  He wanted nothing to do with her and hoped his scowl made that clear.

  Blessedly, she didn’t reappear. Though there was—his heart jumped—the unmistakable patter of cloven hooves on the stony ridge behind him.

  He whirled, spotting the deer at once.

  The herd was in full view, a good number of hinds and at least six young stags, each one proudly carrying wide-spanned antlers of no less than eight points. James tipped his head back, watching them. They moved carefully, their red-brown coats gleaming softly through the mist as they picked their way along the edge of the high corrie where he’d stood such a short time ago.

  Only now the ravine looked different, and the mist hovering over the jagged rocks held an eerie luminance that wasn’t there before. Thick and shimmering, the fog poured through the corrie like a rolling sea, glowing from within as if lit by the flames of a thousand candles.

  James stared, spellbound.

  A strong wind rushed down off the hill then, circling him and filling his lungs with cold, damp air and the scent of dark, ancient magic. High above him, through layers of shifting, glittery mist, he saw the deer herd freeze and then turn as one to bound away, leaping over a river of stones that sparkled like stars.

  And as soon as the last deer bolted out of sight and the clatter of hooves could be heard no more, the very mist drew breath, glimmering brightly before the curtains of fog rolled back to reveal a single standing stone spearing toward the heavens. Shining with the luster of costliest pearls, the monolith hummed, its music soft, old, and sweet, strumming the air.

  The stone was covered with beautifully carved runes, curving and fluid, as if each hoary line and symbol beat in rhythm with the living rock.

  It was the Bowing Stone.

  And beside the monolith stood a magnificent white stag, his peaty-brown eyes all-seeing and wise, and fixed steadily on James.

  Laoigh Feigh Ban.

  He was the Makers of Dreams’ pet deer. Called Rannoch, after the vast moorland said to be his true home, he was an enchanted creature, possessing untold powers. Clan bards swore his age rivaled that of his venerable masters, Gorm and Grizel, who made no secret that they’d lived since before time was counted.

  Few men had ever seen Rannoch.

  Even James had glimpsed him only on rare occasions. Most recently, when he, Colin, and several other trusted men brought Gorm and Grizel their winter supply of cut wood and peats, an important gift to the ancients who, all knew, kept benevolent watch on the glen.

  Then, as now, Rannoch had turned his velvety gaze on James, making him feel as if all creatures, large and small, ever to walk the earth, were looking at him through the stag’s kind and gentle eyes.

  James started forward. The wind roared, swooping down from the heights once more, this time bringing the sparkling mist to whirl and spin around him. He kept on, ignoring the pain in his leg and making for the steep path back up to the corrie, to Rannoch and the Bowing Stone. But then his knee buckled and he stumbled on the slick, wet ground.

  “Damnation!” He righted himself and hurried on, determined not to falter again.

  Rannoch watched him with interest, edging forward to peer down at him from where—James was certain—he’d braced his arm against the jagged outcrop. But now the jumble of stone was no longer there.

  The Bowing Stone had taken its place.

  And although Rannoch stood only a few paces from the monolith, still so high up on the mist-draped hill, James could see the magical beast as clearly as if he were right in front of him.

  Indeed—his breath caught and his eyes rounded—the Laoigh Feigh Ban was closer than a hand’s breadth. Man and stag stood face-to-face. So near that Rannoch’s nose almost bumped James. He could even see how the stag’s perked ears quivered with curiosity.

  James closed his eyes and shook his head, certain he hadn’t moved. His foot hurt too badly for him to have reached the corrie so quickly.

  But when he looked again, that’s where he was.

  Rannoch was there, as well, eyeing him with a look that held more intelligence than some men’s.

  And somewhere close
by, something—perhaps a woman’s skirts?—rustled lightly and an amused-sounding cackle filled the air.

  “Begad!” James jumped as the world blurred, dipping and slanting, then turning brilliant white, the starlike flickers of light he’d noticed in the mist, now blazing like a sea of dazzling suns.

  “Holy saints!” He reeled, his injured foot sliding dangerously on a peat slick. He thrust out his arms, wheeling them for balance when a quick grip caught his wrist, preventing his fall.

  “There be no holy men here,” trilled a reedy, old woman voice, “though we do hold them in esteem, whatever!”

  “Grizel!” James drew himself up, brushing at his plaid.

  “That’s myself, true enough.” The tiny black-garbed woman peered up at him, looking proud. “I’ve been the same for”—her wizened face wreathed in a smile—“ach! Who is to say how many years?”

  James glanced at her, noting the freshening scent of cinnamon wafting from her dark woolen cloak and how carefully she’d looped her scraggly white braids on either side of her head. Her wrinkled cheeks held a hint of rose, thanks to the day’s chill. And, as always, she wore a half-moon brooch of beaten silver and had taken care that her small black boots were spotlessly clean.

  As a cailleach of the highest order, she took pride in her appearance.

  James suppressed a smile. He also pretended to peruse her more critically. “Ach, Grizel.” He laid on a tone of appreciation. “ ’Tis true that you dinnae look a day more than eighty summers.”

  She preened. “Some do be saying the like. Though”—she eyed him shrewdly—“I know fine that you’re not here to ply me with sweet words.”

  “That is so.” He nodded. He’d enjoyed bantering with her. But at the moment he had more important things on his mind than stoking the crone’s vanity.

  He hooked his thumbs in his sword belt, hoping to uphold his own image.

  “How did I get here?” He needed to know, seeing as they were at the far side of the corrie. The opposite end from where Rannoch now grazed beside the Bowing Stone. “I was down near the rowans, at the burn and—”

  “Ach!” Grizel’s blue eyes twinkled. “That’s where you were, right enough. But here’s where you are now, eh? And I’ll tell you this”—her thin chest puffed—“you didn’t climb the hill on thon aching foot.”

  “I didn’t think so.” James folded his arms, trying to look stern. “It wouldn’t be yon mist—” He broke off when she wriggled her fingers and the glittering mass quivered and spun away over the edge of the corrie. Only a few twirling sparkles remained and then they, too, winked out, leaving no trace of the luminous fog.

  James cleared his throat, frowning. “I would have preferred—”

  “Pah!” Grizel set her hands on her hips. “What, then? Would you rather have tromped up here on your own, with two broken toes?”

  “My toes aren’t broken.” James was sure they were.

  “Say you.” Grizel wasn’t fooled.

  It was also clear that she’d used her craft to do more than whisk him into her midst. A glance showed that the spill of rock that had blocked the corrie no longer proved an obstacle. Now there was a narrow gap where the ravine ended, a dark passage through stone, just large enough for a man.

  Beyond that the heather-rich ground swept away and upward, widening into a rolling moor of finest grazing, bounded by the daunting heights of some of the most steep-sided, jagged peaks in the land.

  This was the heart of the Glen of Many Legends.

  And—James knew well—no mortal man could call this stirring place his own.

  A light touch to his elbow made that clear. “Are you for having me rid you of those aching toes now, or”—she darted a glance across the moor to a low, white-walled cottage tucked snugly between a tangle of boulders at the base of a particularly steep cliff—“will you be wanting a wee bit of nourishment before—”

  “I’ll be keeping my toes and the pain.” James was sure she didn’t mean she might banish his digits, but he didn’t want to take any chances.

  Wise women such as Grizel sometimes took a visitor’s wishes too earnestly and—he swallowed—worked spells that wrought all sorts of havoc.

  So it paid to speak plainly.

  It was also in his best interest not to set foot inside the home she shared with her partner, Gorm. Known as Tigh-na-Craig—“House on the Rock”—the earthy-sweet peat smoke that permeated the thatched cottage was said to be so soothing it could lull susceptible visitors into a doze that could last a thousand years.

  Longer if a soul was unlucky.

  James tried not to shudder.

  Grizel stepped closer. “This day has seen me busy.” Her gaze flitted again to the cottage. “I’ve set out some fine cheese, made from the milk of my best hinds, and”—she laid a knotty-knuckled hand on his arm, the glint in her eyes showing that she’d read his thoughts—“fresh-baked oatcakes, hot off the toasting stone.

  “There’s even a thick meat broth bubbling over the fire.” She peered up at him, her voice crooning. “A fat capon, well larded and savory—”

  “Nae.” James broke away before her words could spell him to her cottage with its softly glowing peat fire and tantalizing smell of food. “I’m no’ hungry,” he lied, his stomach rumbling loudly.

  “Och! I do be sorry to hear that, I am.” She didn’t sound grieved at all.

  But her voice did come from at least twenty paces behind him.

  James froze, balling his fists.

  He’d been marching through knee-high heather and grass, making for Tigh-na-Craig, as had undoubtedly been Grizel’s nefarious plan.

  He swung around to glare at her. “You tricked me.”

  “And if I did?” She glanced at his foot. “Be you still in pain?”

  He wasn’t.

  James pressed his lips together, not wanting to admit that his toes felt good as new.

  “I see you aren’t!” She had the cheek to look mightily pleased.

  James frowned, stubborn.

  Grizel didn’t seem affronted. “I’ve been healing worse than broken toes since before the first sprig o’ heather bloomed in these hills.” She came forward to poke him with a slightly crooked finger. “That be long enough to know that some men would sooner choke to death than admit they’ve got a bone in their throat.”

  “Ah, well…” James pulled a hand over his chin. “The pain has gone, aye. And”—he glanced at the deer herd, now nibbling grass along the edge of a black-watered lochan—“I do thank you.”

  “It was Rannoch what told me you were in need.” Grizel sent an affectionate glance to the white stag. He stood apart from the other beasts, his proud head held high and his uncanny gaze fixed on them.

  “Did he tell you my foot was aching?” James felt foolish discussing a deer with such capabilities. But he knew better than to doubt the cailleach. “Or did he… Rannoch… reveal the true reason I came to see you?”

  He just hoped she and Gorm would give him the answer he sought without too much ceremony.

  She might have cured his throbbing toes, and he did feel obliged to her, but it was late. He’d hoped to be back at Castle Haven by noon. Now—he could scarce believe how swiftly the day had vanished—the gloaming was slipping across the land, darkening the moor.

  “She’s a great beauty, eh?” Grizel was eyeing him, looking purposeful.

  “Who?” James felt the back of his neck heat.

  “Why”—she didn’t even blink—“she who you saw this day.”

  “What makes you think I saw a woman?”

  “Hah!” Grizel gave a cackle that would have curled the hair of a lesser man. “She cares for you, that one. I do be speaking of the maid with the shining tresses.”

  “Humph.” James felt a spurt of irritation.

  Grizel was baiting him. Catriona and Scandia both had shining tresses. But he knew from experience that it’d be pointless to try and prise a more direct explanation from the crone.

 
She enjoyed riddles.

  James couldn’t abide them.

  “Is Gorm in his cave?” He looked past Grizel to a cleft in one of the hills. It was there that Gorm spent his days, peering into a smooth-surfaced pool in the floor of the cave. Said to be bottomless, the pool reflected every thought and deed in the world since time beginning. And, some claimed, beyond earth’s end.

  Every evening before sundown, Gorm gathered handfuls of these truths and formed them into dreams. These he took with him to the front of the cave, releasing them to the night wind, which bore them to those deserving.

  James shuddered.

  He knew the old man carried his tidings in both hands, his right hand clutching the good and true dreams, while he used the left one to deliver nightmares and false omens meant only to deceive.

  The bards swore Gorm never erred.

  His credo was simple.

  Those pure of heart needn’t fear him. Others…

  James swallowed, his every sin flashing across his mind. He was especially aware of how he could still feel Catriona’s warm, supple body pressed to his side. How he’d burned with desire for her. He did now, fevering to taste the soft ripeness of her lips. Need rode him hard, making him ache to drink in her sweetness. He drew a tight breath, certain his lust stood all over him, blazing like a beacon.

  And now that he was here, so close to Gorm and his Pool of Truth, he was no longer sure he wanted to hear what the ancient might tell him.

  “Gorm is there, aye.” Grizel spoke at last, sounding a bit miffed. “There be no day what passes when he isn’t up at thon cave.”

  She leaned close, eyeing him sharply. “You’ve no need to see him. There’s naught he can say that I don’t know myself, mayhap better.”

  “To be sure, and I respect your wisdom.” James kept his voice firm. “But I’ll no’ be offending Gorm by leaving here without conferring with him, as well. Therefore”—he held Grizel’s bright gaze—“I will be making the journey up to his cave.”

  “So be it.” She turned then and struck out across the moor, taking a narrow path that had suddenly opened between the windblown grass and heather. “But keep close, for the way there changes more swiftly than the climb to the Bowing Stone and its corrie.”