To Bewitch a Highlander (Isle of Mull #1)

Chapter Four

T he pale face inside the full moon looked down on Ronan with what he saw as a mocking grin. It was nightfall, and yet he rode over purple moors on a baffling errand for an equally baffling lass. He had never felt absurd before, but it appeared as though there was a first for everything. He should be at home with a full belly and a warm fire, yet he still could not turn from his quest. Instead, he urged his mount to ride even faster toward the Cillchriosd Stone. He did not understand what had come over him. He was not given to romantic whimsies like Aidan, and he usually did not have patience for the fairer sex. Nevertheless, shirking all responsibility and no doubt causing his father boundless vexation, he wanted nothing more than to be the man to make Bridget smile—so here he was.

He imagined her wrapped in the MacKinnon colors, likely asleep on his pallet with her long, black lashes fanned out against her fair skin. Her golden hair lit by the flames of the fire he built for her, and her full lips slightly parted, waiting to be consumed by his kiss.

Damn her pendant. He wanted nothing more than to turn his horse around, ride back to the cliffs, and have his fill of her. He groaned aloud as he recalled their meeting that morning in the pool. He could still feel her slick, wet body pressed against his own. He longed to savor every curve. He wondered if he could ignite her passion as easily as he did her anger. Sweet Jesus, he had never wanted another woman as he did Bridget, Bridget MacLean. He groaned aloud as he again remembered her surname, a fact that continued to conveniently slip his mind.

His father would be furious if he knew Ronan gave shelter to a MacLean runaway. Worse yet, if he learned of Ronan’s burgeoning desire, his father’s rage would be heard all the way to Skye and rightly so. Surely, the consequence of his affection might be war, especially if she was betrothed to another. Beyond the odd cattle raid or small feud, it had been some years since the two clans had fought on the battlefield. Given the pending war with the Norse, how could he further add to the insecurities facing his clan by picking a fight with their adversaries to the south?

Violet swells of moonlit earth stretched out before him like ocean waves at twilight frozen in time. The moon, large and low in the sky, shone brightly, illuminating his path just as Bridget had predicted it would. He could even make out the standing stone in the distance. He spurred his horse forward, feeling consumed by the urgency to find Bridget’s treasure. He wanted to make her happy. He wanted to make her his.

Jesus above, what was wrong with him?

He was acting like a love-sick maid. It had to stop. His behavior over the past weeks had been disgraceful. He neglected his duties, consequently disrespecting his family, his position, and his clan. He could not ignore reality or pretend as though things were different—she was a MacLean, comely perhaps, but still a MacLean.

With gritted teeth, he resolved to honor his duty. He would find her pendant but would not return it to her tonight. Ronan knew that were he to enter the cave again before dawn, he would not be able to deny the heat of his desire. Images of her long, flowing hair cascading down her slender back, resting against the swell of her buttocks came unbidden to his mind. He shook the images from his head. He could never see her again. It was that simple. In the morning, he would send two of his trusted warriors to retrieve her and bring her to the outskirts of MacLean territory. It was a solution that prioritized his family and his responsibilities. And yet, both regret and longing gnawed at his stomach, spreading throughout his body like bracken over the hills.

He would never see Bridget again. He closed his eyes and conjured her face so that he might savor her loveliness one last time, but his musings were interrupted as his horse brayed loudly and ground its hooves deep into the earth, coming to an immediate halt. Ronan fell forward and off to the side, the muscles in his legs straining to keep him atop his mount. He leapt to the ground, grabbed the horse’s bit, and stared the beast in the eye.

“What the hell happened?” he snarled.

The horse whinnied and tossed its head. Ronan released its bit and rubbed a soothing hand through its mane.

“Hush, lad. What’s the matter with ye? Ye nearly launched me to my death.” Ronan looked around and saw that the Cillchriosd Stone was just up ahead. Then his gaze was pulled toward a dark heap on the ground not twenty strides away. Ronan narrowed his eyes and saw the MacKinnon plaid and telling black curls.

“Aidan,” Ronan cried as he hurried to kneel at his friend’s side. Aidan lay on his stomach with one knee bent as if trying to crawl forward. Ronan rolled his friend’s limp body over and saw that he was breathing. “Thanks be to Jesus and Mary, ye’re alive.”

No thanks to him.

If his horse had not stopped, then Aidan would have been crushed beneath the animal’s stride. Bridget had preoccupied his thoughts, proving once again the destructive nature of his desire. Daydreaming was not a privilege afforded the future laird of the MacKinnon.

“Aidan can ye hear me?”

When Aidan did not respond, Ronan began to check the extent of his wounds. He had not suffered any fatal blows. There were no punctures from blades, but he had been thrashed nigh to death. One eye was swollen shut. His face was smeared with blood and dirt, and bruises were forming from his skull to his legs .

“Who did this Aidan? Wake up so I can find the bastards and beat the life out of them.” Ronan gently shook his friend. “Aidan, wake up. Ye must wake up.” Aidan stirred and slowly opened his one eye. He lifted his head but winced and fell back.

“Don’t worry, Aidan. Ye’ve been flattened alright, but ye’ll live.”

“I thought I was in heaven,” Aidan whispered through cracked, dry lips. “There was an angel with golden hair and dark eyes smiling at me.”

“Ye aren’t in Heaven, Aidan. Ye’re right here on Mull.”

“I know I can’t be in Heaven. Ye’d never get passed the gate,” Aidan chuckled. “Damn that hurt. No more jests—that felt like a hot poker jabbing my side.”

“Ye have some broken ribs,” Ronan said.

“Those devils were certainly thorough.”

“Who did this, Aidan?”

Aidan tried again to raise his head but fell back. “To hell with sitting up. Just leave me, Ronan. Let me stay here and wait for the angel to come back. She was sweet to look upon. I’m sorry friend, but I would rather die in her arms than yers.”

“Ye aren’t going to die,” Ronan said dryly.

“If it meant seeing her face again, then I would wish to die.” His voice trailed off into a whisper Ronan had to strain to hear. “I’d wrap myself in her long golden hair and drown in her stormy eyes. Eyes like gray stone, but they were warm and beckoning. ”

Aidan’s whispers describing his angel trailed off as he fell asleep. Golden hair and gray eyes made Ronan once again think of Bridget. If one could imagine immaculate beauty sent from Heaven, who else might this beauty look like but Bridget? Again, he pictured her safe and warm in his cave. Ronan shook his head. He had to put her out of his thoughts for good. Now, he had only two concerns—getting Aidan home and punishing those who hurt him. But Aidan never confirmed who was to blame. He knew it was likely the MacLeans. Still, with tinkers about, he had to be sure.

“Aidan,” Ronan said as he gently shook his friend. “Aidan, who did this to ye?”

“MacLeans,” Aidan whispered. “Five of them.”