Highland Thunder (Isle of Mull Series) Page 19

  Her heart ached with sweet fullness as he continued. “In secret, you have been the center of my world. And now I look down and I see my hands upon your body. I feel your lips graze mine. ‘Tis hard for me to believe. I never allowed myself to hope for this.”

  “I love you, Duncan”, she said. With downcast eyes, she continued. “I thought you were going to die.”

  He crooked his finger and lifted her chin. His black eyes shone as a slow smile spread across his face. “The woman of my dreams asked me to marry her. I could been hacked to pieces, and I would have found a way to live.” He kissed her hard and quick before he continued. “Brenna, now we shall be a family. You and Nellore shall forever be mine.”

  “Nellore is yours”, Brenna said as her eyes filled with tears. Duncan looked away and whispered, “You know then that Nellore is my daughter?”

  She nodded her head, but still she could not speak.

  “Brenna, she is our daughter. You have naught to fear.”

  She gasped and pulled him close. “Aye, Duncan. I ken. I am overwhelmed by the grandness of it all. I feel as though God laid his hands on our souls and blessed us with a world richer than I could have ever imagined. Nellore is our daughter.”

  “And I shall never let either of you out of my sight again”, he vowed. “Never.”

  “Hush”, she said as she soothed his brow. “Save your fervor for when you are well, and we can consummate our marriage properly.”

  “At this moment, I feel like a king”, he said as his warm lips covered hers.

  She sighed into his mouth and pressed her body flush to his. Then with a groan, she pulled away. “It ends there with a kiss, my love, for you must rest.”

  His hand followed the contours of her waist and hip and then trailed down her thigh. “This once you can play nursemaid and refuse me, but never again will I be denied.”

  She raked her hands though his hair and brought her lips a breath from his as she said, “And neither shall I be.”

  Chapter 28

  Brenna stood in the threshold of the great hall, keeping a tight hold on Nellore to prevent her from racing toward Duncan who, along with Ronan, Cormac, and Jamie, hauled the massive Yule log across the courtyard.

  “’Tis a beauty,” Brenna shouted to the men who labored under the weight of the great tree.

  Duncan smiled while Brenna and Nellore skirted out of their way as they entered the hall. “Funny,” Duncan said, “’Tis just what I was thinking.”

  Brenna’s faced warmed when she realized he was speaking of her and not the log.

  The hall was alive with music and feasting. Holly and ivy garland hung from the mantle and trimmed the tables and chairs. Ropes of evergreens encircled the tall wooden columns that framed the hall, running down the length of each side. The heavy scents of mulled wine and venison stew made Brenna’s mouth water.

  As the men labored through the hall with the log, the room erupted with cheers. Yule was at hand. The sun was reborn. The days would begin to grow longer, and the birth of the son of God would save their souls. They had much to celebrate. Brenna twirled Nellore in a dance as Ronan and Duncan shoved the tip of the tree into the hearth.

  “Here, Duncan,” Jamie laughed as he handed Duncan a jug of ale.

  Duncan doused the log in the golden liquid and then retreated to stand by Brenna. His fingers twined around hers as they watched Bridget parade a flaming shard of wood through the hall.

  “’Tis a piece of the log from last yule, Nellore,” he said, pointing to their lady. Nellore clapped with delight. He scooped her up to provide her with a better view of the spectacle. Bridget wound her way through the hall to stand before Ronan who accepted the flame from her extended hand. He raised the fire above his head, and once again the room erupted with cheers. Then he set the new log ablaze. It would smolder for the next twelve days.

  Duncan placed Nellore on her feet and pulled Brenna into his arms into what was at first a crushing embrace, but then he swore and pulled away, dropping to his knees. He felt her slightly rounded belly. “Did I hurt you,” he said.

  “Nay, my love. You cannot hurt me or our baby with a hug.”

  Duncan stared up at her, his eyes wide with apprehension, but the reassurance he glimpsed in Brenna’s eyes calmed his soul.

  “Happy yule, little Rose,” he whispered to her stomach.

  “And what if we have a boy, Duncan. Will you still call him Rose?” she laughed.

  He pressed a kiss to her stomach and then stood, pulling her back into his arms. “’Tis a girl, Brenna. I am sure of it. And her name is Rose.”

  “’Tis a miracle, Duncan. Of that, I am sure,” Brenna said.

  Duncan drew close to kiss his wife again, but a sudden commotion outside stole his attention. The door began to swing open. He shielded Brenna and Nellore behind his back.

  “’Tis only Kenneth,” Brenna said.

  “Where is the laird?” Kenneth cried. “Where is the MacKinnon?”

  Ronan and Bridget came forward. “What news, Kenneth?” the MacKinnon said.

  “Your grandson has arrived. Logan is here.”

  Once again the hall erupted into cheers as the revelers poured out into the courtyard to welcome their future chieftain. Duncan scooped Nellore into his arms and grabbed tight to Brenna’s hand. Together they joined the flood of onlookers in the courtyard.

  “There he is,” Duncan said when a young boy entered the baily.

  “He could be no one else but Bridget’s grandson with that coloring,” Brenna laughed.

  He was a tall lad of eight years with gleaming flaxen hair and even from the distance his silver eyes shone.

  “Poor lad must be scared,” Brenna said.

  Duncan nodded. “He has left behind his home, his mother. What child would not be afraid?”

  Nellore began to wriggle in his arms. With a kiss, he set her down, but he did not expect her to dart into the crowd. Fear snaked around his heart as his daughter disappeared.

  “Nellore,” he called.

  “Duncan, she is safe, surrounded by our kin. You must begin to release your fear,” Brenna said as she wrapped her arm around his waist. They watched as Nellore pushed through the throng, landing on her bum a few steps from the frightened lad.

  Duncan started forward to go after her, but Brenna stopped him. “Wait, Duncan. Let us see what she is about.”

  Nellore climbed back onto her feet and closed the distance between herself and Logan. She gazed up at him for a moment, and then she reached out and took his hand in hers. Slowly, a smiled spread across Logan’s face as the two walked toward the castle. The sea of MacKinnons parted to allow their passage.

  Duncan smiled when his daughter and the young lad walked by. “She did not want him to be afraid,” he said.

  Nellore and Logan stopped in front of Ronan and Bridget who stood framed in the castle threshold. Bridget kissed her grandson, and then scooped Nellore into her arms. Ronan laid his hand on Logan’s shoulder and then pulled him close, enfolding his heir in a warm embrace.

  When Ronan at last released the lad, Logan reached into his sporran and withdrew a missive. Reading the scroll, Ronan absently ruffled Logan’s hair, but then his eyes jerked up from the page and scanned the crowd until his gaze found Duncan’s.

  “Come, Brenna,” Duncan said. “The MacKinnon has news to share.”

  The gleam in Ronan’s eyes hastened Duncan’s approach. He followed Ronan into the empty hall.

  “Lachlan, laird of the Skye MacKinnon, received word that Alexander MacDonald is dead,” Ronan said.

  Duncan’s brows rose with surprise. “How?”

  “He died at the hand of the MacDougall.”

  A slow smile spread across Duncan’s face. “Angus Og is now laird of the Clan Donald.”

  “Aye,” Ronan said. “Now we have an alliance and such a force it shall be.”

  Duncan thought of the sincere and stalwart young man now in possession of the MacDonald wealth and power. He r
emembered Angus’s quiet conviction and his commitment to the Scottish throne. Together they would stand and fight.

  The tide was shifting. Bloodlust coursed through Duncan’s veins.

  He turned to look at Ronan. “Now all we need is a king.”

  Dear Reader,

  I hope you enjoyed Highland Thunder, the second book in the Isle of Mull series, as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thank you so much for your kind support.

  Connect with me on facebook at https://www.facebook.com/lilybaldwin

  If you have yet to read the first book in this series, To Bewitch a Highlander, then keep on reading. I’ve included a bonus excerpt.

  With Gratitude,

  Lily Baldwin

  TO BEWITCH A HIGHLANDER

  BY LILY BALDWIN

  Chapter 1

  Isle of Mull, Scotland

  1263

  Ronan motioned for the small band of warriors behind him to halt.

  “We are on a fool’s hunt, Ronan,” Aidan whispered.

  Ronan cast Aidan a scowl that would have sent most men to their knees. Aidan stood his ground, but nodded to let Ronan know he understood the warning. On the battlefield, Aidan was one of Ronan’s fiercest warriors, but away from the fray, he was easily bored and distracted. More often than not, it was women who distracted and later bored him, but, evidently, their latest mission lacked enough dangerous enticements to hold his interest. Tedium, however, was no excuse for carelessness. Aidan was beginning to try Ronan’s limited patience. If his complaints continued, Ronan would personally tie him to a tree and use him as bait to ensnare the trespassers.

  Ronan signaled for the men to split up, but motioned for Aidan to follow him. The last thing he wanted at that moment was to endure any more of Aidan’s nagging, but the only way to ensure he stayed out of trouble was to keep him close.

  “Ronan, ‘tis barely spring”, Aidan whispered. “The MacLean is an idiot to be sure, but he’s not daft enough to

  think he might conceal his warriors in the forest this time of year.”

  “Enough”, Ronan growled. He had to think, a simple task made harder owing to Aidan’s incessant prattling in his ear.

  Despite hours of searching they had uncovered no sign of the enemy. He hated to admit it, but Aidan was right. Springtime arrived on the wings of migrating birds, but despite the warm breeze, the trees had yet to fill with leaves. Madness alone would have informed a command to lead the MacLeans into the wood with nothing better than bramble and bare limbs behind which to seek cover, and although they were no account thieves, their chieftain was not entirely deprived of sense. Surely, the brigand, Angus MacLean, knew better. Then again, Angus was aware the MacKinnon clan had twice the warriors and stores, but he was still foolhardy enough to order the occasional raid. No, danger was not imminent, but this in no way excused Aidan’s reckless behavior.

  “The cottars saw a flash of the MacLean tartan through the trees. Our laird ordered us to flush them out. Instead of griping over being pulled away from Anna’s skirts, why don’t you keep alert and find me a few MacLeans. Then we can go home.”

  “Get down”, Aidan hissed as he dove to the ground.

  Ronan did not hesitate. He lunged behind a tree, but as he peered around the trunk he saw nothing to warrant an alarm. He raised a quizzical brow at Aidan.

  “’Tis the Witch”, he whispered, pointing toward a copse of trees.

  Amid a slender cluster of birch trees adjacent the forest road stood the Witch of Dervaig. The folds of her tattered and filth covered robes, draped over her bent and crooked form, sent shivers up his spine. The hood of her cloak, always pulled low over her face, surely concealed hideous deformities and festering boils. Ronan exhaled with relief as she hobbled out onto the road.

  “I dreamt as a lad that she captured me here in the wood”, Aidan said. “I struggled to break away from her hold as her hood fell back, revealing a wart covered, twisted nose and an evil toothless grin,” he grimaced with disgust.

  “We’ve naught to fear. She is gone now”, Ronan said as he stood, but he shivered as a chill swept through him, no doubt caused by the icy current of her black heart.

  “God’s blood”, Aidan swore, “why does she not die already? Is she to haunt our island for another three hundred years?”

  “The devil owns her soul. She may plague Mull for all eternity”, Ronan replied. “Forget the Witch. We’ve work to do.”

  “What now?” Aidan asked.

  Ronan expelled a long breath. “I’m beginning to agree with you, Aidan. This is a great waste of time. But the laird is not interested in our opinions. Judgments do not safeguard our stores. ‘Tis done with the lives of men. We cannot return to Gribun until every patch of forest is searched.”

  “You’re beginning to sound like your father”, Aidan said, “which of course means my future is grim. When you become chieftain one day all my fun ends.

  “Why?” Ronan asked, “You won’t be laird.”

  “No, but I will be your second.”

  “Saints preserve us, Aidan, if you are ever my second”, Ronan scoffed.

  “Jest if you wish, but you trust no one as well as me.”

  “Aye, I trust you all right. I trust you will be the first to complain.”

  Ronan made light of Aidan’s claim, but it struck truth. He had many fine warriors under his command, but Aidan was his oldest friend. His loyalty never wavered, and he understood better than anyone how to calm Ronan’s ire once it raged out of control. Although during times of peace, Aidan drove him to temper more than anyone else.

  “What say you to splitting up? We’ll cover more ground”, Aidan suggested.

  Ronan hesitated at first but then agreed. He was as anxious to return home as his friend but for different reasons. There was no maid waiting for him back at Gribun but rather a mountain of duties, which promised to keep him busy until he arrived in the hereafter. He looked to Aidan who was awaiting his command.

  “Cut across the road, but first make sure the hag is not lingering nearby. Follow the river. Stay low and alert. If you find nothing by the time the sun is low in the sky, meet me near the forest edge on the north side.”

  Aidan started to walk toward the road, but Ronan grabbed hold of his arm and said, “I know you think this mission is a heap of dung, but do not be careless.”

  Aidan nodded his consent. Ronan’s eyes narrowed as his stare penetrated his friend’s perpetually jaunty gaze.

  “Aidan, you are a MacKinnon warrior, and your people depend on you.”

  “I will be thorough and cautious. I assure you, Ronan.”

  “Go, my friend, and fear not, war with the Norse is at hand. You will be back on the battlefield soon enough.”

  “I’m counting on it. ‘Tis the only way I am going to escape Anna’s skirts without marriage”, Aidan said with a wink and dashed through the trees.

  Ronan watched him peer beyond a tall oak to first check for the Witch. He signaled the road was clear, and then he was gone.

  He wondered what it would be like to have his biggest concern be whether to marry his latest conquest. He shook his head as he turned and headed deeper into the thicket. The brambles, although bereft of leaves, possessed sharp spines, but he paid little heed to the pricks that snagged his exposed calves and tugged at the plaid hanging just below his knees as he scouted his surroundings.

  A branch snapped behind him. Someone or something was approaching. He dropped to one knee and reached behind his shoulder to grasp the hilt of his sword from the scabbard strapped to his back. The nearby trees and bramble were still, and he heard naught but his own breathing.

  He waited, poised and listening. His patience was rewarded as the rustle of twig and branch renewed and drew closer. Then a red deer became visible through the bramble. It was tall with proud antlers. And although lean from the winter months, its meat would be a welcome addition to their stores. Wet leaves newly released from their snowy grave clung to its hooves as it moved cautiousl
y through the forest. Ronan grinned at his luck. He was hunched downwind from his prey, and, as yet, he had not been detected. At least something would come of their trek into the wood.

  He cursed the absence of his bow, and his sword would be useless against the speed of a deer, but the sizable dirk tied to his thigh beneath his plaid might prove sufficient. If he could just get close enough, the stag would be his with one throw. Ronan looked around at the bare trees and cursed under his breath. He was the largest of the MacKinnons but for Dugald. Someone else should have been given this opportunity, someone smaller. Even Dugald, who somehow managed to maneuver his bulk like a man half his size, was better suited for the job.

  Ronan stole between the trees, keeping the deer in sight as he did his best to stay low and sidle through the bushes for extra coverage.

  “God’s blood”, he swore as he squeezed through a particularly tight cluster.

  Ordinarily, he found his great height and breadth to be an advantage. On the battlefield, his size instilled immediate fear. As the future laird of the MacKinnon, it encouraged the cooperation of his men as did his rather infamous temper, but seldom were they unruly. The MacKinnons were indeed a loving and loyal clan, to each other and to Nathair, Ronan’s father. He was a fair and competent laird but formidable when necessary.

  Following at a distance, he watched the deer walk toward the shallow ravine at the forest’s center. It must have been drawn to the sweet grass, which grew in the space between where the tree line ended and the abyss began. He grinned. The buck was unknowingly walking into the perfect trap. Once at the edge, it would have no place to run but down giving him a clean shot. The deer advanced further. It was almost to the ravine. He silently cut to the edge and tucked himself behind one of the larger trees. Down he peered, observing the depth to be shallower than he remembered. It was nigh the length of three men to the bottom. The fall would not kill someone, but the jagged rocks littering the ravine floor might.

  The buck cleared the tree line and began nibbling the tender grasses. Its nose and eyes showed the feast complete deference, but its ears bristled, ever alert for danger’s approach. He was a prize to be sure. Reaching his hand beneath the pleats of his kilt, he eased his dirk from its narrow scabbard. Already the sun dipped behind the trees. He needed to hurry. It was almost time to meet his men. He shifted his grip so the point of the blade was pressed between his thumb and forefinger. He eased his arm back, took aim, and started to launch the dirk, but the steel never left his fingertips. A movement to his left captured his attention. In an instant, his gaze shifted and he redirected his deadly aim toward the unknown distraction. But when he saw what snaked his concentration away from the stag he froze not believing his own eyes.