To Bewitch a Highlander (Isle of Mull #1)

Chapter Eight

R onan looked to the sky, disbelief and confusion played a game of domination in his mind. Finally, shock won out. He had stood within the Witch’s hut, or was it Shoney’s hut? She’d said the Witch was a ruse, a trick, only Shoney in disguise.

Shoney: the most beautiful and bravest of creatures ever to be seen or malevolent servant of the Devil.

He groaned as his hands gripped his head in frustration. Surely, this was trickery. The old crone cast a spell to cover her wrinkles and warts with the freshness of youth and divinity’s beauty.

But her eyes.

He summoned her deep, smoky eyes from memory. Could a spell conjure such innocence, such candor and passion ?

Mounting his horse in a daze, he rode toward the village. He started out at a light clip, but then he sped up and raced home as if Satan licked at his heels.

In the morning, he awoke still plagued by questions. Had it all been a dream, or worse yet, witchcraft? Perhaps the Witch sought to seduce him and poison his mind to gain control of the clan. If that was the case, he certainly did not advance the cause of his people. With shame he remembered how he’d fled like a whelp facing battle for the first time. Growling, he threw off his blankets and began pacing his rooms housed in the keep of Dun Ara Castle.

All morning the Witch and Shoney battled for existence in his mind. One moment, he was certain Shoney’s depth of character belied the possibility she was merely the product of artifice. The next, Shoney was erased by a lifetime of believing the Witch of Dervaig toiled for one purpose only, to cruelly use anyone na?ve enough to fall into her trap. Whether a witch or an angel, there was only one way to find out—he was going back.

RONAN SCANNED THE HILLS , ensuring no one was nearby to witness his western bearing. To further obscure his path, he had left Gribun without his horse, making the long journey on foot to avoid leaving tracks. Knots twisted his stomach the closer he drew to the Witch’s hut, and he questioned whether he should have left some indication of his journey’s end just in case he was wrong about Shoney. But it was too late. He glimpsed the Witch’s hut looming in the distance .

Doubt clouded his mind. He fought the urge to turn back. If he could lead his men into battle against barbarous Vikings, then he could face whatever awaited him behind the snake fangs of the wooden door. But as he passed beyond where his kin dared to tread, terror—rooted deep in his mind by a lifetime of belief—broke the surface of his control. Perhaps, she had lied, and when he reached his destination, it would not be fair Shoney who greeted him, but the hag who would no doubt unleash a fury of curses upon his trespassing hide.

“God’s bones,” he swore as perspiration dripped from his brow.

He was nervous.

Hell, he was terrified.

It was one thing to stand against a flesh and blood warrior who was every bit as mortal as he, but his sword was no match for sorcery. If he was wrong, and Shoney was nothing more than an illusion, then he was damned.

He stopped and took a deep breath. Shoney was not the stuff of dreams. She was a woman of flesh and blood. He forged ahead, keeping his eyes fastened on the ground. Stepping over one of the Dervaig Stones, he knew he was almost there. Then, as though in a dream, he stood at the large round door, sweat dripping from his brow as he searched for the courage to knock.

SHONEY’S BIRTHRIGHT was solitude, and it weighed on her young shoulders as never before. She fought to stand straight, to keep her spirit strong, but now that she had tasted another’s company it was even harder to reconcile herself to her fate.

For a distraction, she put water to boil and tidied her already impeccably clean home. As she lifted the pot from the fire a knock at the door cut through the silence she was trying to ignore. Shoney jumped, and the hot contents spilled over the rim, causing her to shriek as she pulled the wet plaid she still wore away from the sensitive skin of her thigh.

“Bridget...er...Shoney?”

It was Ronan. Her heart began to pound.

Again, the knock sounded. Still holding the sodden wool off her skin, she started to lift the latch on the door when it occurred to her that he may not be alone. He could have rounded up an army ready to cleanse the Isle of Mull of the evil witch once and for all.

“Ronan is it ye?” she whispered.

“Were ye expecting someone else, lass?”

“Are ye alone?”

“Aye, Shoney. Ye’ve naught to fear. I’m not leading a witch hunt.”

Without seeing his eyes, she could not tell if he spoke the truth.

“Shoney, talk to me. I cannot read yer mind. I might remind ye that between the two of us, I am not the one suspected of having the powers of magic.”

He teased her to make light of the moment, but he was holding something back. She could hear it in his voice.

“Shoney, I need to speak to ye. Please let me in. Standing alone outside this place, staring into the eyes of yer serpent is testing my courage like never before.”

In that moment, she realized fear tainted his voice, not deceit. She slowly opened the door and peered out. His height and breadth of shoulder blocked out the sun as she gazed into his nervous eyes. She took a deep breath and opened the door all the way. He accepted her invitation to enter but refused to sit in the chair by the fire.

“I am warm enough, thank ye,” he said.

He surveyed her small quarters. She followed his gaze about the room suddenly very self-conscious. She had never seen inside the homes in the village and did not know how they compared. She was glad for the dried lavender on the ground. The flowers’ soft perfume filled the air. He paused in front of her great wooden table. He seemed to consider the contents of the pouches and her various tools.

“Ye’re a healer?” His voice betrayed his trepidation.

Walking over to where he stood, she pretended to busy herself with crushing some herbs and replied, “Aye, I am a healer, not a witch, Ronan.”

He tensed next to her.

“Nor was my mother,” she continued. “I do believe in the strength of the gods of the earth and the heavens, but my skills are for healing. Sadly, few benefit from my knowledge.”

“Few?” His face showed his surprise. “Do ye mean to say people have sought yer skills?”

“Don’t look so shocked, Ronan. Women from yer own clan have been visiting this hut since before the days of Tharain. ”

“MacKinnon women have come here! Why?” he asked.

She ignored the fact that he seemed appalled by the notion. “MacKinnon and MacLean women visit in the night,” she replied. “They come when they cannot find help elsewhere.”

Ronan lifted a clay pot containing a pungent mix of seaweed and nettle. Shoney watched his face crinkle with distaste before returning the pot to the table.

“That can’t be true. The MacKinnon clan cares for its own women. We too have healers.”

“No doubt, but my mother told me yer religion teaches ye to fear women, and so ye silence them.”

“’Tis not our religion that creates fear, Bridget...”

“Shoney,” she interrupted. “My name is Shoney.” He looked as though he did not like being reminded.

“’Tis not our religion that creates fear, Shoney.” He began again. She smiled, enjoying her name on his lips. “Men are born of sin,” he continued. “We must fear our own wickedness and repent.”

“And what of women?” she asked, turning her back to him.

She moved to stand by the fire. When he did not reply she sought his gaze. His eyes glowed with amber intensity as they bore into hers, searing a path straight to her soul. Her gaze faltered as she looked at her feet.

“We love our women,” he said in a low voice. “We protect and cherish our women.”

When she again met his gaze, she stopped breathing altogether, startled by the desire she saw in their depths. Deep warmth spread across her face .

What magic was this? Why did he have this hold over her ?

He was the enemy, a descendant of King MacAlpin. She despised him and blamed him for her loneliness. Why should he not suffer the consequences for his ancestor’s choices just as she must? She should be fighting him not desiring him.

“Ye destroyed my people,” she said, the words bursting from her lips.

His eyes widened in disbelief, “Yer people? Shoney, what is the matter with ye?”

“Ye’re a Gael, descendant of King MacAlpin.” She stood with her arms akimbo, ready for battle. “Yer descendants seized the throne of the Picts, our lands, our way of life. ‘Tis because of yer people, Ronan, that my life is spent cloaked in solitude. I am accused of witchcraft because of ye.” Her voice broke. She was losing control, but she did not care. “Ye’re the reason why my mother died with fear in her eyes, fear for my safety, for my happiness.”

He backed away from her. “Yer people?” he said. “My people? Shoney, ye speak of wrongs centuries old, and I’m afraid I must mention that yer knowledge of history is somewhat lacking.”

“My mother warned me never to believe yer lies,” she snapped.

“The Gaels and the Picts did their share of fighting to be sure, but the Gaels did not defeat the Picts. Both peoples were forced to converge or face annihilation at the hands of the Vikings. ”

“Ye are lying.”

“Believe me or not, but Kenneth MacAlpin was very much a Pictish king as was his son, Aed. A Gaelic king did rule temporarily after he assassinated Aed.”

“Ye admit that a Gael stole the Pictish throne,” Shoney interrupted.

“Aye, but his brief reign did not mark the beginning of Scotland or the diminishment of the Picts in history—that, my dear, can be blamed on a Pictish king.”

“Yer version of history is lacking in logic,” she scoffed.

“I am not finished.” He snapped, but he composed himself before continuing. “When Aed was murdered, his son, Constantine, and nephew, Dugald, were both too young to rule. They were secreted away to a Gaelic monastery in Ireland. They returned when they were grown to avenge their King, and they succeeded. At least according to bloodlines, a Pictish throne was restored. But Constantine and Dugald had spent their formative years within a Gaelic monastery. They were no longer young Pictish princes. They had grown into Gaelic men. Constantine called himself King of Scotland and openly encouraged the spread of Gaelic tradition.”

“Now ‘tis yer turn for telling stories,” she sneered. “What fool taught ye such lies?”

“In my youth before my brother’s passing, my father sent me to the monastery on Iona to study. My story is backed by volumes of written evidence, by the markings of graves, by ratifications and agreements.”

“Writing is a privilege reserved for the powerful. My mother’s word is worth far more than the words recorded by traitors and thieves,” she replied, raising her chin defiantly.

“Shoney, listen to me,” he urged.

She turned away, determined to ignore him, but he continued anyway. “It has been many centuries since the days when the Picts and the Gaels were separate peoples. The past cannot be undone, especially one that happened so long ago.”

Madder than ever, Shoney railed at him, “Ye speak of a time centuries ago, and yet I am this very day shunned and feared by yer people.”

Ronan’s voice intensified, revealing his growing frustration. “Not by reason of yer Pictish blood, Shoney, for it flows in my veins, too. ‘Tis yer pagan idolatry the people fear.” He picked up her carving of Taranis, the god of thunder, and thrust it in her face.

“My gods are born of this land, Ronan MacKinnon. I am born of this land,” she shouted.

In a soft voice he said, “My God is of all lands, Shoney.”

She started to reply, but he closed his hand over her mouth.

“Enough of this, please. I am no priest. My sins, I’m sure, are many, and I will not feign being holy enough to judge the soul of any man or woman. I have never wronged ye.” Then his face reddened as he hastily added, “With the exception of the bruises on yer arms, a little jostling, and a few stolen caresses, which ye could hold against me for the rest of our days if ye wished, but...” He smiled as he removed his hand from her mouth. “I sincerely hope ye do not.”

Shoney eyed him with suspicion. “What ye’re asking for then is a truce.”

“Aye, I suppose I am.” He took a step back and extended his hand for her to accept.

“Shoney, join me,” he said, his voice rich with formality. “Together we can end the blood wars of our ancestors with an alliance of our own. Once, a long time ago, we were sworn enemies. Now, we will be bonded in friendship.”

She turned from him suddenly weary. “I do desire to be yer friend. I’ll not deny this, but to surrender would cast me under the dark cloak of shame. A darker mantle than even that worn by the Witch of Dervaig, and what’s more, its folds would defile my mother’s rest.”

“I do not ask ye to swear allegiance to Scotland or to the MacKinnon for that matter. I ask not for yer surrender. We are simply establishing a peace. And Shoney...” His voice beckoned for her to meet his gaze. “There is never shame in peace.”

Her mind raced. Her heart pounded. She wanted nothing more than to accept his hand and have—for the first time in her life—a friend, but her mother warned her about the true nature of men. At their best, she cautioned, they were capricious and quick to make vows that later went unfulfilled, and at their worst, they were foul beasts.

“I am but one of many women who have lived behind these walls, hidden by cloak and full of regret,” she said. “Do ye think ye’re the first man to stand here with hand extended? I had a father, Ronan. So too did my mother. ”

“But I have never stood here. Not all men are the same, Shoney. If ye wish me to leave, I will. But remember, I do not seek to change ye or bend yer will. I only wish to be yer friend.”

She searched his eyes for some sign of deception, but his gaze held only truth. Perhaps it was wrong to punish him for past crimes. Should he be blamed for the solitary lives the Dervaig women had chosen to lead, swearing never to accept Scottish rule? By taking his hand in friendship, she did not surrender the enduring struggle of her ancestors, the fight even her own mother refused to concede. It only signified a blessed release from the silence and despondency of solitude.

Very slowly, she reached out and took Ronan’s hand, resisting the desire to smile. She had never had a friend before. She blushed as the touch of his strong hand made her think of his powerful grip on her bare waist beneath the surface of her seaside pool. The heat of his touch had warmed her despite the chilly water until she had melted into him. She looked from his giant hand cradling hers to his bright amber eyes and lost herself in his lazy, sideways smile. Then she cleared her throat, deciding it would be wise to look elsewhere. She took her hand back and busied herself with replenishing the fire.

“So, ye said yer village has healers?” she asked, trying to redirect her thoughts away from his golden skin and thickly muscled shoulders.

“Indeed,” he answered.

“And they are skilled in herbs? ”

“Aye, perhaps one day ye will meet and exchange knowledge.”

Shoney whirled around. “Ye think I might be welcomed by yer clan?” she asked skeptically.

“I may remind ye, my dear, one day I will be laird.”

“When?” she asked.

“My father has no brothers. I am next in line. When he passes unto heaven, the...”

“Nay,” Shoney interrupted, “I mean to say, when will ye take me to Gribun?”

He threw his head back and laughed, evidently enjoying her enthusiasm. “When the time is right, I will take ye to the village. I promise ye. But for now, the hour grows late. I must return.”

She shook her head to object. She did not want him to leave. She wanted to talk further about visiting the village.

He took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Do not fret, Shoney. I will return,” he whispered. “Never forget we are friends.”

She waved goodbye from the doorway until he disappeared over the sloping moors. Evening approached. Its dim light cast the hills a deeper shade of green, and she could hear the breaking waves against the cliffs behind her. She lingered, enjoying the warm spring air, and thinking of Ronan’s promise to return and bring her to the village. For the first time since her mother passed, she was excited about the future. Having surrendered nothing, sacrificed nothing, she had altered her destiny. Her life could no longer be mapped out as a series of lonely days until she died. She had a friend, and for the first time in her life—at least until she was gifted with a vision—she knew not what her future held.