To Bewitch a Highlander (Isle of Mull #1)

Chapter Seven

S he stood in front of him. Her stance could only be described as defiant. He had expected her to be humble, even afraid of what would happen now that she had been found out. Instead, she held herself like a queen. The soft glow of the fire made her hair shine like spun gold, lending her a regal beauty as if she were clothed in bejeweled satin rather than homespun wool.

“Hellfire,” he swore.

Once again, he allowed himself to be distracted by her appeal. He straightened his shoulders, resolved to remain focused. Any fear she might have harbored was well hidden. She stood poised for a fight, but he wasn’t going to give her what she expected.

He walked to the rear of the cave and grabbed a thick cut of peat, which he tossed on the fire. Then taking a few strips of dried meat, he reclined by the flames and nonchalantly said, “I found yer pendant.”

He stared at her, waiting for her reply.

“Oh,” she said.

“Yes. I found it around the neck of my clansman who had been beaten nigh to death.”

She swallowed slowly and wilted. The warrior faded, and the vulnerable maid emerged. He removed his dirk from its sheath and started to clean his nails with the tip, giving the task all his attention.

“We caught up with the men responsible.” He slowly raised his head and met her gaze. “It was the MacLeans. Ye wouldn’t know anything about that, would ye?”

Her lips moved as though she wanted to speak, but she did not utter a word. He had accomplished the impossible. She was rendered speechless.

“If ye wish to refrain from commenting on the attack suffered by my friend, then perhaps ye may have something to say about the attack on my village.”

Her eyes widened with what looked like disbelief, but Ronan knew better. He could smell her fear. She exhausted her store of lies and now resembled a small prey backed into the corner, which made him the predator. He sprang to his feet. She retreated until her back pressed against the hard rock of the cave. He surrounded her with his large frame.

“Bridget MacLean, ye’re in league with yer clansmen against the MacKinnon.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head.

“Ye were behind the attack on my village,” he snarled.

Her voice was barely a whisper. “No, Ronan, I swear I do not know of what ye speak.”

“Do ye expect me to believe ye when ye’ve done naught but lie to me since our paths first crossed,” he shouted. “Admit ye’ve lied to me, damn it.”

“Aye,” she shouted, “I have lied to ye.”

He stared at her but did not speak. He knew she needed no more prodding. Her breaths quickened, and her head jerked left and right as though searching for a secret passageway to safety. He cupped her chin and forced her to meet his gaze.

“The truth,” he said.

Her voice was a whisper. “I have lied, Ronan, but ‘tis not what ye think.”

“Are ye going to ply me with yer forked tongue again?” he sneered. “A viper even when pressed, I see. Do ye even know the meaning of truth or honor?”

Instantly, her gray eyes deepened to hard steel as they narrowed with accusing intent. “Do not speak to me of honor, Ronan, descendent of King MacAlpin, false heir to the throne.” She pressed a finger into his chest. “Yer people are the true vipers and thieves.”

“What are ye talking about?” he said, more confused than ever.

She was mad.

“Although I do not understand why he is pertinent to our conversation since he’s been dead for centuries, but King MacAlpin ruled the lands that would become Scotland, including those owned by the MacLeans. He was yer king too.”

“He was never King to my people,” she said through gritted teeth. “I am neither MacLean nor MacKinnon. I am Shoney, daughter of Brethia, descendent of Tharain and of Oengus, King of the Picts.”

He stared at her with wide eyes, his mouth slightly agape. Then he burst out laughing. “Ye expect me to believe Tharain is dead and ye’re now the Witch of Dervaig.”

“I am not a witch,” she shouted and pushed past him.

He reached out and grabbed a fist full of plaid and pulled her back to face him.

“Tharain is not dead,” he spat. “I saw her only weeks ago. She has no daughter, and even if she did, ye’re too young to be born of that old hag, witch or not.”

She screamed with rage and came at him with fists flying. He had to admit a few of her blows were well placed and stung for all that she weighed no more than a bag of wool. He managed to pin her arms at her sides.

“I’m sorry if my words offended ye, lass, but ye must have known I would see through this new farce of yers.”

She gulped for breaths but managed to spit out, “Tharain was my ancestor not my mother and died long ago. My mother was Brethia, beautiful and brave. She wore the tattered cloak of her ancestors and made herself the crone, just as her mother did, as have all our forebears. ‘Tis nothing more than a disguise.”

Madness. Her story was pure madness, but was she so in doubt of his sanity to think he would believe her tale?

“I am impressed with the ingenuity of yer lies, but that makes yer story no less absurd,” he said.

She carried on, clearly not heeding his words.

“My mother concealed me, kept me hidden away to protect me from the cruelty of the clan. She carried on the tradition of the cloak to ensure every Gael remained afraid.” Tears gathered in her eyes and began a slow course down her cheeks.

“She gave ye what ye wanted,” she shouted. “Ye wanted a witch. She gave ye a witch.”

He had to concede she was a damn convincing liar. Tears and rage combined with a compelling force of indignant sincerity, but despite the absorbing performance and the beauty of the actress, he had reached his limits. The one character flaw he abhorred most was deceitfulness.

“To review, Tharain is dead, and I’ve never seen ye before because yer mother, who is the Witch of Dervaig, has kept ye hidden all this time?” he asked dryly.

“No,” she answered.

“No, yer mother is not the Witch?”

“My mother is dead. She died three years ago. I am the Witch of Dervaig.”

“Ye’re telling me that for the past three years, ye have lit the pit fires in the Witch’s hut, and yer cloaked figure has been seen hunched over, shuffling across the moors?”

“Aye. Is there something the matter with yer ears? I am the Witch of Dervaig.”

Ronan took her hand and began to lead her to the cave entrance. If she wanted to play this game, then he would oblige her. “Well then, come along, my dear. I shall walk ye home.”

IN HER GATELESS PRISON above the sea, she had dreamt of her return home, a trip she had expected to make on her own, alone. The reality could not have been farther from the dream. She was not alone, a fact made even more real by the tightening of Ronan’s hand around her waist. She puzzled over his motivation for riding out to her home when he clearly did not believe her, which was another baffling point, because at least the truth was plausible. The clan believed the Witch of Dervaig had haunted the moors for centuries, and the price of her longevity—her soul. A fanciful legend blinded him to the truth. Perhaps, he was not as shrewd as she first thought, or his conviction of belief might be a testimony to her forbears’ mastery of concealment. They hid their offspring well and never, ever revealed their true identities.

“Except for love,” she murmured as she inhaled Ronan’s scent.

Love had somehow found its way into the life of every Dervaig woman. Her mother’s heart had been lost to love, but she had refused to speak of Shoney’s father. Her gray eyes had darkened with stormy sadness whenever Shoney mentioned the affair. Eventually, she stopped asking altogether to save her mother from the pain of remembering. His name, how they met, how long their affair lasted, she would never know.

She used to believe love was the only force strong enough to remove the cloak. She had imagined her mother crossing the moors, obscured beneath the tattered darkness when suddenly her father appeared. Love had permitted his eyes to penetrate the ugly folds of the cloak to see the beauty beneath, but now she knew her childhood daydream had been just that—a dream.

Apparently, a prize buck was all that was required to unmask the Witch of Dervaig. Doubtless, it was some careless action that had also revealed her mother’s true identity. If only Shoney had stayed away from the woods on that fateful day, then she would doubtless be at home, enjoying the safe predictability of faceless, traceless anonymity. Instead, she raced over the moors imprisoned in the steel embrace of a very skeptical and angry man, a man who knew her true name and lineage. She still could not believe it. Now, to the outside world, she really did exist.

Mother of all, what had she done?

On the one hand, she felt relieved. She wanted to leave behind her cloak and run across the moors in broad daylight, shouting her name and ancestry for all to hear. On the other hand, terrific fear consumed her, making her throat tight and her stomach churn. He would come to know the truth soon enough, and then the whole of Clan MacKinnon would know there was no gruesome hag. Would they fear her still, or would they banish her from the island or worse? She felt the hairs on her neck stand straight up as a shiver shot up her spin. They might burn her alive.

Ronan thankfully interrupted her thoughts as he brought his horse to a halt. She could just make out the shadowed outline of her hut against the night sky.

“There is the house of the Witch of Dervaig, an old crone who has lived for centuries. Anyone who dares trespass will be turned into rock and sunk beneath the heather, lost for all eternity.”

“Is that really what ye believe?” Shoney could not help but chuckle.

“’Tis not too late to admit who ye really are,” he said as he nudged his horse forward.

Clearly, he expected her to be overwhelmed by fear and beg him to turn his horse away. She said nothing as they continued.

“All ye have to do is tell me the truth, Bridget, and I will turn around,” he said.

She pinched herself to keep from laughing. His voice contained a nervous edge, and she felt his body stiffened around her, the tension increasing with every stride of his horse. He was scared.

“My name is Shoney,” she said softly. “I am a descendant of Eithne, the fierce Pictish warrior princess and ye, Ronan, future laird of the Mackinnon, are afraid.”

She decided to add being called a coward to the list of things Ronan disliked, because he drove his heels into his horse’s flanks and raced the last distance to her house. Sliding off his mount, he pulled her down and motioned to the oversized doorway with the fanged snake carving.

“After ye,” he said.

Shoney flashed him the sweetest smile she could muster then pushed the door open and walked inside. Straightaway, she knelt by the cool fire pit. When the flames burned brightly, its soft glow illuminating the inside of her quarters, she motioned to the figure standing in her doorway .

“Ye are welcome, Ronan. Please do not be afraid. Ye showed me great hospitality in yer cave. I’d like to return the favor.” She pulled a chair close to the fire and gave him an encouraging smile. “I promise ye’re safe here.”

He stood motionless in the doorway. “Enough of this, Bridget...er...Shoney...whatever yer name is.” He took a step toward her with his arm outstretched. “If she catches us here, there’s no telling what she will do. We must go. Now.”

She saw the panic in his eyes and took his hands in hers. “Hear me, Ronan,” she beseeched him. “This is my home.” She smiled and pointed to the other side of the room. “I will prove it to ye. Look inside the box beside my pallet. Ye will find a necklace made from small, white seashells.”

“Not another necklace, Bridget.”

She blushed remembering her earlier deceit. “I am sorry for lying to ye before, but it was the only way to help yer friend.”

“Ye admit to knowing about Aidan’s attack.” Ronan was beginning to look ill.

“We’ll discuss that later. Just open it,” she urged, pointing to the small box.

At first, he hesitated. Then he stuck his head outside, looking left then right. When he was apparently satisfied the old hag of his childhood nightmares was not lurking just outside the door he turned, took a deep breath, and walked over to her pallet. Beads of sweat glistened across his brow. He bent down keeping one hand on the hilt of his sword as he slowly lifted the lid on the box. His head whipped around, and he stared at her in disbelief as he held out the necklace she described.

“Ye are the Witch of Dervaig,” he whispered.

Suddenly, a log snapped in the fire pit, causing Ronan to jump. Then, to Shoney’s utter amazement, he turned and sprinted out the door. She called after him, but his only acknowledgment of her appeal was to run faster. When she heard his horse galloping away, she knew he was gone.

Leaning against the door frame, she gazed into the night and imagined that he reined in his mount and watched her beyond the shadows. The fire’s glow at her back would allow him to see her while he remained obscured by darkness. For the first time in her life, she could not bring herself to turn away from the night as she watched with hope for his return.

For days, she had wanted nothing else but to go home, and now that she had her wish, she felt suffocated. The walls of her hut used to mean comfort and safety. Now, she felt hemmed in. She had traded one prison for another, but just like Ronan’s cave suspended in air, this cell needed no bars. Her legend was her warden—she was the Witch of Dervaig.

She pulled at the folds of the plaid in which Ronan had so deftly wrapped her. At least she would always have his colors by which to remember him.

“Mother of all, listen to yerself,” she said as she slammed the door with disgust.

She yearned for someone who by all accounts she should despise. She tried to convince herself it was not him she missed but companionship. Beyond the fleeting and hurried visits of distressed women seeking her aid, it had been three years since she had spoken to anyone other than animals and trees. She had to admit it felt good. Then she remembered his strong arms around her waist, the scent of his skin, and the fire of his kiss branding her neck, and she conceded to having enjoyed more than just his conversation.

“Damn it,” she cursed. He was gone. He had fled her side, and she would never see him again.