To Bewitch a Highlander (Isle of Mull #1)

Chapter Nine

R onan was nervous as he stood at Shoney’s door but for vastly different reasons than when he last paid her a visit. A fortnight had passed since she accepted his hand in friendship, but not for a moment had she been absent from his thoughts. Longing made for sleepless nights and distracted days. There was no denying that his regard for her went beyond friendship.

He took a deep breath and knocked. She did not answer. He raised his hand to knock again but stopped when he heard a song drifting on the breeze. A voice like dark honey wrapped around him. Its enchanted sound was languid and old, and even though the words were Gaelic, the song’s meaning was unfamiliar. It was a story of the gods and of war and then renewal.

He had lain awake all night with thoughts of her silken skin and soft curves and knew she had to be his. He had resolved to rescue her from the solitude she despised, to give her the life she deserved. But as he came around the corner and took in her tousled hair and painted profile, he knew introducing her to the clan would prove more difficult than he first imagined. If he had thought for a moment their differences were insignificant, the sight of her in all her pagan glory put that assertion to rest. Even if he could convince the clan she was a maid and the Witch was only the stuff of legend, Father Colin would certainly not consider Shoney to be a child of Christ. He suppressed a chuckle as he pictured the good Father’s reaction were he to see her painted, half-naked, and singing to the gods.

She continued to sing unaware of his presence. He longed to remain unseen, to gaze unabashedly at the sensual sway of her hips as she moved, lost in the lulling refrain, but he did not wish to intrude if unwelcome.

“Hello, Shoney,” he said softly.

She jumped and turned to see who spoke. At first, trepidation constricted her features, but when she saw that it was he who stood nearby, a wide smile spread across her face. He felt an odd gratification knowing it was he who put it there.

“Ronan, welcome!”

“I’m sorry to intrude on...whatever it is ye are doing,” he said hesitantly.

“We’re friends,” she smiled. “Ye’ll never be an intruder here. Anyway, I pray to the gods today on yer behalf.”

“On my behalf?” he said not bothering to conceal his surprise.

“Ye said yer people will soon be at war. I pray for yer protection, but I am not finished.”

She moved to stand beside a large rock, which was hollowed out to form a basin. Then she picked up a clay bowl and poured what looked like milk into the rock all the while mumbling an indiscernible chant.

“There,” she said when the bowl was emptied. “I am finished.”

“What did ye just do?” he asked.

“The Long-haired one is powerful. He is a great sorcerer and warrior. I gave him an oblation of milk.”

Not knowing how to respond, he shrugged and said, “To be sure”—as though the observance of pagan offerings was a routine occurrence.

“Why do ye make war with the Norse?” she asked.

Standing near an oblation stone, next to the hut formerly thought to belong to an evil witch, he was relieved for the change of conversation to something familiar. “I told ye of how the Vikings retain ownership of the Western Isles. Scotland’s King, Alexander the III, aims to unite the country, but he was denied purchase of the Hebrides by the Norse King, Haakon.”

“Have ye any sympathy for the Norse interest here?”

“Actually, most islanders have Norse ties. In fact, the king is a distant MacKinnon relation through marriage.”

“Then yer enemy is also yer family?” Shoney asked.

“That was a union befitting the times, but it was a time long ago. Findanus MacKinnon married a Norse princess nicknamed Saucy Mary. Her marriage dowry included lands on Skye together with Dunakin Castle, which are still MacKinnon lands to this day.”

“Saucy Mary is a strange sort of name,” Shoney said .

“Well, she was a strange sort of lass. Mary earned the title after she ordered a chain run across the water from Dunakin to the Scottish mainland to halt the passing ships. The chain would drop beneath the water, allowing the ship to pass, but only after the Captain paid a toll.”

Shoney chuckled. “I think I would have liked her.”

Of course Shoney would admire his audacious ancestor. “No doubt ye would have enjoyed many foolhardy adventures together, but that was a time long ago. Today, our allegiance rests only with Scotland, and King Alexander plans to seize what he cannot purchase.”

“If war is at hand, Ronan, then ye should not delay at introducing me to yer father. I can fight. I have the skills of a warrior.”

He threw his head back with laughter. But without hesitation, she seized his dirk from beneath his plaid and pressed the tip just below his waist, silencing his amusement.

“I would not laugh so heartily at my expense, lest ye find yerself missing a favored appendage,” she said, smiling sweetly.

She was swift with a blade. This much he had to concede given she wielded a knife that moments before had been securely sheathed against his own thigh, but her foolish warmongering was reckless. Her mother trained her to strike with steel and find her target, but her slight build rendered her skills worthless. Did she not realize he could break her neck with one hand before she drew her next breath? He grabbed hold of her hand, reclaiming his weapon with ease.

“Women are not warriors, Shoney.”

“Ye’re mistaken. My ancestors were great warriors.”

“The men, perhaps, but women have never been warriors, at least not for many, many centuries. Adomnan's Law of Innocents disproves yer claim.”

“The word of my mother is all the evidence I need. I don’t care if yer people outlawed women warriors. The Picts certainly did not.”

“Adomnan’s Law did not exclude women; it protected them. It was a decree by the Abbot of Iona some six-hundred years ago and protected not just women but also children and monks during times of war. The decree was accepted as law by all the kingdoms, including the Picts. Innocents had not the tools, skills, or inclination to make war but were often its victims.”

“With training anyone may fight, and inclination is found when one’s home is under threat of the torch and one’s life under the blade,” she replied.

She was like no maid he had ever met. Her spirit and sense of honor were unmatched. She stood before him defiant even in defeat. Her unpinned golden curls were perpetually tangled and the confident, stormy depths of her eyes mesmerized.

“Ye have some skill, Shoney, but not the strength.”

Her eyes narrowed as she turned on her heel and stamped inside. He could not help but admire how the thin fabric of her kirtle revealed her shapely buttocks and the swing of her slim hips. He followed, wondering how he would soothe her anger once again.

“I never thought I would meet anyone with a temper to match my own,” he said as he ducked his head beneath the door frame. “I apologize. I did not mean to suggest that I found women lacking, for they are sacred. Women hold the breath of God in their bodies. They make and sustain life. Their bodies are meant to be cherished, savored not spoiled by war.”

She turned and met his gaze. He walked toward her and reached out to stroke her cheek. She did not flinch at his touch.

“Ye’re courageous, Shoney, but look at how fine ye are.” He took a step closer and inhaled the lavender scent of her hair. His finger traced the stag that adorned her shoulder.

“They’re beautiful.”

“They’re sacred images of the gods,” she said. “The stag symbolizes Fionn who is a great warrior. The knots and circles represent the Mother of all.”

“And what of the seal and fish?” Ronan asked as he extended her arm and slowly traced a large fish painted on the soft skin of her forearm.

“They are to celebrate Shoney,” she smiled. “Who is the god of the sea.”

“Ye were named after a god?” he asked.

She smiled. “My mother wanted to ensure an abundance of fish at her table.”

“The circles on yer cheeks are for the Mother of all, but what of the solid expanse of blue on yer chest?” His fingers grazed the delicate skin of her neck and above her kirtle where a deep blue, darker than the rest, covered.

“That is for Skatha. She is the goddess of shadows. Whenever I perform a ritual, I always remember Skatha. Each time I pray she removes my fear of the dark.” She cast her eyes to the ground as she spoke, clearly embarrassed of her weakness.

He despised the isolation of her home. She would be imprisoned come nightfall by her fear. He wanted nothing more than to save her from ever being afraid again.

“I’m sorry I angered ye,” he whispered.

A slow smile curved her lips. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“God’s blood,” he swore aloud as he stepped away from her intoxicating scent and exotically painted and partially-clad form.

He ran his hand through his hair in frustration, knowing he couldn’t stay there one moment longer. She clouded his mind with desire, but it was not a simple desire of the flesh. To be sure, he wanted to tear her kirtle and reveal her proud breasts and slim curves, the memory of which were seared into his mind. But more than that, he wanted to protect her. In her own mind, she was fierce, and she certainly was valiant. But he saw her innocence, her small stature, and fear. Whether she knew it or not, she needed saving. Now, he just had to figure out how to surmount the many obstacles standing between Shoney and Gribun.

“I have to go.” His gaze met confused eyes.

“I could go with ye, Ronan,” she said, her voice filled with hope .

“Now is not the time, Shoney.”

“The way ye so readily offered to take me to the village led me to believe it was a simple matter. Can ye not use yer sway as laird?”

“Need I remind ye that I am not yet laird, and regardless, introducing ye is no simple matter. We must be careful and patient and wait for the right moment.”

She cast her eyes away to stare at the heavens not trying to hide her disappointment, but there was naught he could do at that moment. He had yet to conceive of how he would bring Shoney into the clan, but he would find a way.

“I promise ye, Shoney. Ye will stand in the village and be welcomed when the time is right.” He cupped her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Anyway, I think mayhap yer current attire is less than appropriate,” he said as his eyes once again traveled the length of her slim legs to her lean torso and to the gentle slope of her breasts, all of which were barely concealed by her thin kirtle.

“I see yer point,” she blushed.

As he waved goodbye and began his cautious walk home, he contemplated how he was going to bring Shoney—his pagan princess, named for a false god—to Gribun. By the time he made it home unseen, he was certain of one thing only. Shoney would never be welcomed by his clan.