To Bewitch a Highlander (Isle of Mull #1)

Chapter Nineteen

T he courtyard was alive with music and dancing. Several cattle had been slaughtered at his father’s command to mark the occasion. The scent of roasting meat filled the air with its tantalizing aroma. The joyful significance of the night certainly was not lost on Ronan. His mother’s brush with death had terrified him, but his mind was elsewhere. His body went through the motions of celebrating—eating, drinking, greeting friends, and graciously accepting the relieved embraces of his kinsmen, but it was Shoney who filled his thoughts.

His eyes skimmed the crowd. She was still nowhere to be seen. Perhaps, she had refused to come and was at that moment trudging over the moors toward her hut, vowing never again to see him. He stormed out of the courtyard with the intention of going after her, but when he passed through the gate, he met the blackness of night and knew she was going nowhere—at least not until daylight. He muttered a thank ye to Shoney’s god, Skatha, for not yet removing her fear of the dark.

He returned to the festivities, fixing a smile on his face. He just had to be patient. Morna would insist that Shoney come, and no one, even Shoney, could refuse Morna once she had made up her mind.

He tried to relax. She would soon arrive, no doubt furious and not without justification, but he also felt his reason for deception was defensible. When he first looked upon Anwen’s failing body, gripped with pain, he knew Shoney was her only hope. Surely, she would understand he had no choice. The only way to ensure her safety in the village was to give her a new identity. Nathair’s reaction to her presence only confirmed this.

He still could not believe his father had known. Nor could he forget the hatred that enflamed Nathair’s eyes and blinded his senses at the very sight of Shoney. That kind of anger does not simply disappear—no matter that Shoney save his beloved’s life. There would be a reckoning to be sure. Nathair had yet to confront him, but he knew it was only a matter of time.

His mind started to race, but all the while he maintained the appearance of the rejoicing son for the revelers that surrounded him. He raised his cup to toast his mother and then again to honor the healer, Bridget MacLeod.

“God’s blood,” Ronan swore aloud when he heard Shoney’s alias called out in unison by the entire clan.

“She will never forgive me,” he said turning to Aidan.

“She might,” Aidan smiled. “But ‘tis very unlikely.”

Ronan scowled and was about to tell Aidan just where he could stick his so-called words of encouragement when a flash of burnished gold caught his eye as Shoney passed through the gate and stepped into the courtyard. She soon disappeared from sight as a sea of grateful MacKinnons swallowed her up.

Morna, Una, and Shoney shuffled through the crowd as they advanced across the courtyard. Ronan’s jaw clenched. He resisted the urge to push past everyone and scoop her into his arms, but as far as anyone knew, they only just met.

Finally, she stood before him. “Hello, Bridget,” Ronan said.

She dipped her head in greeting.

Then he knelt before her and took her hand. “I have no words for the gratitude in my heart.” He kept his gaze downcast, wishing to avoid the fury he would surely find in the gray depths of her eyes. But when he finally met her gaze, her eyes were brimming with tears, and her mouth curved into a gentle smile.

“My heart shattered the day my mother died. I am glad I could help save ye from such grief.”

He kissed her hand. “I know ye have sacrificed a great deal coming here to be with us, Bridget, but I need ye to understand ye were our only hope.”

She said nothing but smiled in response. A full smile and bright eyes were not what he expected, although they were a good sign. Perhaps, now that she was in Gribun, and a hero to the people, she was willing to forgive the underhanded means that brought her there in the first place.

“Now that ye are here, Bridget, let me just say it is my greatest desire ye remain for as long wish. ”

“Quit fawning over her, Ronan,” Una interrupted. “Come on, Bridget,” she said, taking Shoney’s hand. “Let us join the dance.”

Shoney was whisked away, leaping and kicking out her heels with the others as they wove through the tables and benches, eventually forming a large ring. The music was quick and lively with pipers and flutes. Ronan savored the expression of wonder that never left Shoney’s face as she joined in the revelries. Everything was new to her, and he was nigh bursting with the joy of watching her partake in the pleasures she had long been denied.

As the large ring of dancers broke into pairs and groups of three, he decided he had kept his distance long enough. But just as he was about to grasp Shoney’s hand, another man moved in and whisked her into a twirling reel. He wanted to flatten Cormick Mackinnon to the ground and beat the love-struck look from his face, but he took a deep breath and tapped him on the shoulder.

“I would ask to cut in, Cormick,” he growled.

Cormick muttered a brief excuse to Shoney before he stepped aside. Ronan took her hands, and together they stepped in a circle to the quick tempo of the music. But with every step, he pulled her closer and closer.

“Nay, Ronan,” she protested. “No one can know how familiar we are with each other.”

“I assure ye, Shoney, no one here could know ye and I have lain together.” He dipped his head and whispered into her ear. “Or that I have tasted yer skin and felt yer warm thighs wrap around me.”

“Hush, Ronan,” she laughed. “Put some space between us.” She wriggled from his arms and twirled in a circle. Her hair burned like crimsoned gold in the torch light.

“Ronan,” she said. “This is my first dance.” Then she threw her head back and laughed. “What am I saying? This is my first everything.”

“Not yer first everything , my love.”

She blushed, and his body responded immediately. His self-control was being tested. He glanced with longing high up the keep wall at his bedroom casement. He wanted nothing more than to throw her over his shoulder and race up to his rooms. He would stand her in front of his great hearth where the flames would warm her as he eased her tunic and kirtle over her head. He imagined the feel of her silken curves. His hands would stroke her skin, causing her to tremble in response.

“Ronan?” Shoney said.

“What? Aye, I’m sorry. I was somewhere else. What did ye say?”

“This music,” she whispered. “’Tis beautiful.”

Ronan followed Shoney’s gaze to where a short, brawny man with flaming red hair stood strumming a harp. His voice was soft and clear as it drifted over the intent onlookers.

“That is Callum. He is a fine bard.”

“His voice is like nothing I’ve ever heard. The song’s poetry is beautiful, but what does it mean?” she asked wistfully.

“It refers to an old story of a young monk who claimed he was visited by Saint Columba in a dream. He told his abbot, who was of the Clan MacKinnon, that Columba bade the abbot set sail in search of a magical island. Wanting to please the Saint, the MacKinnon embarked on the dangerous voyage. Along the way, he encountered the plaintive song of a mermaid who lured him into the waves. She swam him safely to a sandy shore where he met an old man who did not return his greeting. The man was as still as a statue but for his eyes, which darted from the sky to the abbot’s ship. When the colors of twilight painted the heavens and the waters, the old man suddenly turned away, shielding his eyes. The sky erupted with myriad veins of lightning, and deafening thunder shook the ground. Then right before the MacKinnon’s very eyes, his vessel and crew vanished.”

“’Tis a chilling tale,” Shoney whispered. “Remind me never to venture out upon the sea again.”

“Are ye enjoying yerself?” he asked.

“More than ye could ever know or understand,” she replied as her face lit with laughter at the now drunk and raucous antics of a few of his clansmen. Shoney was wrong. He did fully understand the joy of the evening, for it was the finest he had ever known.

As the festivities drew to an end, he still could not believe how contented she appeared. Perhaps, she could be happy as Bridget McLeod.

“Shoney,” he whispered. “I have something to show ye.” He guided her through the courtyard, beyond the gate, and into the village.

“Ye wouldn’t be bringing me to yer home, would ye?” Shoney asked playfully.

“Ye’ve naught to worry about, lass; my intentions are entirely honorable. But if ye wanted to come to me during the night, my rooms are in the keep. Be sure to use the stairwell opposite the one leading to my parent’s rooms.”

“I wouldn’t wait up if I were ye,” she teased. “Where are ye taking me then?”

“Ye’ll see.” He shrugged and gave her a lazy grin. “We are almost there.”

As they approached the hut chosen for Shoney, Ronan was pleased to note the freshly swept entrance and smoke curling from the rooftop like fingers beckoning them inside.

“Here we are,” Ronan said as he swung open the door.

She peered in. “Whose home is this?”

“’Tis yers, Shoney.”

Her eyes were wide with surprise, and Ronan watched as a slow smile spread across her face.

“Come inside and see for yerself. Morna arranged everything. Ye have yer pallet there against the far wall and a table and chair. Over here are baskets with potatoes and oats and plenty of peat for the fire. ‘Tis all yers, Shoney.” With dismay he watched her smile falter, and her eyes grow somber.

“Ye mean Bridget. Don’t ye?” she muttered.

“What?” he asked.

“Ye meant to say ‘tis all yers, Bridget, because I am quite sure yer clan did not give Shoney this home.”

Were they back at the beginning again? “God’s blood, ‘tis just a name,” he swore .

“’Tis not just a name, Ronan. ‘Tis the name my mother chose for me, and ye are asking me to give up much more than that. Am I to disgrace my mother and dishonor the gods?”

“Aye! If it makes ye mine, then that is what I want ye to do!”

“But it would not be me.” She turned away from him.

“Already ye’re not yerself,” he snapped. “Ye’re the Witch of Dervaig.”

When she spoke next, her voice betrayed the tears she had tried to hide. “I will be loved for who I am or not at all, Ronan.”

He reached out, and wrapping his arms around her waist, he pulled her close. “Hush, my love. Please do not cry, Shoney. Fight me. Scream. Pummel me with yer fists, but do not cry.”

“What have ye done to her, Ronan?” He jerked around to see Morna standing in the doorway. She stomped over to where they stood and pulled Shoney from his arms.

“Are ye going to tell me what ye’ve done, lad, or need I go fetch yer mother from her sick bed?”

“’Tis nothing, Morna,” Shoney smiled. “I was just so overwhelmed by everyone’s kindness and generosity. ‘Tis such a beautiful home. I am truly honored.”

“Indeed, Morna, ye’ve done a fine job,” Ronan added.

The older woman blushed. “Well, I cannot take all the credit. Flora and Una were of great help.”

Morna began to bustle around the hut, straightening what Ronan noticed was already straight and wiping what was already clean.

“Well, my dear, I came to make sure ye have everything ye need. I noticed yer satchel carried only medicines, bless yer heart. Some of the ladies donated what they could spare for tunics and the like. They’ve been altered to fit yer slim frame.”

“My goodness, Morna, did ye sleep at all today?” Shoney exclaimed.

“Oh, don’t ye be worrying about me, lass. I will sleep like a plow at Yule tonight.” She kissed Shoney on the cheek. Then she turned and gave Ronan a little shove.

“Now, out ye go. Ye might be the size of three men, but ye don’t scare me, Ronan MacKinnon. Ye know better than to be bringing her here on yer own. Her family is trusting us to care for her, virtue and all.” She shoved him again. “Now, get!”

“I would not dare risk yer anger, Morna. I will take my leave.” He looked beyond the older woman to where Shoney stood and winced when he met her scowl.

“Goodnight, lass. Ye no doubt will feel better in the morning.” Turning to leave, he muttered, “I hope.”

Morna shut the door with a ‘humph’ behind him. The night ended on a much different note than it began. Shoney had been jovial all evening, smiling and dancing. She had even teased him wickedly, intentionally fueling the fire of his desire but how swiftly her mood had changed.

God’s blood, what game did she play?

He gazed up at the stars. “ What would ye have me do?”

“For starters, quit talking to yerself.”

Ronan turned to find Aidan standing behind him. He swore again.

“Ye’re always under foot. Wipe that grin off yer face, before I do it for ye,” Ronan growled.

Aidan’s laughter only increased. “As I see it, there is but one answer to yer problem, and ye won’t find it in the stars.”

“Aye, and what is that?”

“Whiskey, my friend.”

Ronan looked back at Shoney’s hut. He pictured her lithe body as she undressed and laid down on the pallet with her fair skin glowing in the firelight.

“Damn it,” Ronan swore. “Whiskey it is then. But I’m warning ye now, Aidan—I am likely to get pissed drunk and beat someone to within an inch of life.”

“No worries, my friend, we’ll bring Guthrie along. He’s already soused and won’t feel a thing.”

RONAN WOKE WITH A JERK . His father stood over him with an expectant look on his face.

“Get up, Ronan. We have to talk.”

He sat up and winced. Damn it, but his head pounded. He remembered little about the night before other than drinking a fool’s portion of whiskey. He looked around and saw he had passed out in the great hall alongside Aidan and Guthrie. The latter had a fat lip and a black eye, the responsibility of which no doubt was his.

“I’ll be paying for that when he wakes up,” he said aloud .

“Ronan, hung over or not, I would speak with ye now,” Nathair commanded. “Get those two louts on their feet and out of the keep, then join me down by the docks.” Then Nathair turned on his heels and strode out the door.

Ronan watched him exit. He remembered the fire in his father’s eyes when Shoney first walked into his parent’s quarters. He had yet to truly speak to his father since his mother’s recovery, and he did so now with a measure of trepidation. His father had charged at him with murderous intent. If Aidan had not intervened, Ronan might have been run through. Of course, Nathair had not been in his right mind at the time. Still, Ronan knew this was not going to be a typical meeting with his father where they discussed clan business. He was going to confront Ronan about Shoney.

Ronan closed his eyes and prayed for Norse ships to attack their coastline so that the subject at hand might be avoided at least until he was no longer hung over.

“Christ, where the hell am I,” Aidan groaned.

“Ye were just leaving,” Ronan muttered. “Wake up Guthrie and gather the men together for drills.” Ronan stood up and stretched the ache from his bones. “I have a feeling we all need a good sweat after last night’s indulgences.”

“Where are ye going now?” Aidan asked.

“The MacKinnon wants a word with me.”

“Och, well ye knew this was coming,” Aidan winced. “If my head wasn’t pounding, I’d wake up Guthrie and sing ye a death march so that ye could meet yer maker with dignity.” Aidan groaned again. “But that being said, I can’t open my eyes, and I think I’m dying.”

“Get up, ye sod,” Ronan said, giving his friend a light kick to the ribs. “And wake Guthrie up, but not until after I leave. He has a shiner that I’m pretty sure I put there. Where my father has already reserved the right to wallop me this morning, I’d hate to disappoint him.”

“Ronan, we both have six and twenty years to our credit. We have fought numerous battles and have the scars to prove our bravery, but yer da scares me as much now as he did when I was a lad. I’d rather face a fleet of Norsemen than yer da.”

“As always I thank ye, Aidan, for yer encouraging words,” Ronan said dryly. “I feel so much better.”

“I do what I can, my friend,” Aidan chuckled. “I’ll see ye out on the fields...I hope.”

THERE HE WAS, NATHAIR , Laird of the MacKinnon, standing at the end of the pier, staring out to sea. He had not been Ronan’s first hero; that role had belonged to his brother, Nachlan. In Ronan’s youth, the MacKinnon was always an elusive figure, hard to reach and seldom available. It was Nachlan who first taught him to ride and wield a sword, but he had died at sea during a storm off the Outer Hebrides when Ronan was eleven. He had dived in to save a fallen brother and was never seen again.

For many days, Ronan had stood at the end of the pier where his father stood now, looking out to sea for Nachlan’s ship to return. One day, the MacKinnon came up behind him and rested his hand on Ronan’s shoulder .

“He is gone, lad. Do not look to the sea for yer brother’s ship. He died with honor. Turn around and look to the land instead.” Ronan did as he was bid.

“Ye’re next in line to be chieftain.”

“Aye, Father,” he mumbled.

“Look with open eyes, lad. One day ye will be responsible for every MacKinnon, every man, woman, and child and every field that feeds and sustains the clan just as I am now.”

Ronan remembered feeling awed by the man who had stood beside him, and ever since that moment, he had done all he could to walk in his father’s footsteps. Nathair was a great leader and warrior. He was fierce and honorable. Few saw his softer side, but Ronan knew he was also a gentle and loving husband.

Ronan took a deep breath and strode down the pier to stand alongside Nathair. After some time, the MacKinnon spoke.

“To be a leader, Ronan, is to be alone.” Nathair turned and looked at him. “Never forget that. The council plays a part in every decision, but the outcome rests on yer head.”

“Aye, Father.”

“The clan must always trust that even during the hardest times ye are doing everything within yer power to aid and not to harm. Do ye understand me?”

“Aye, Father.”

“If ye were to marry Bridget and her secret be discovered ye would lose the trust of the clan. What say ye? ”

“I do not believe anyone will ever know. Her fictional origins are intentionally vague, and if someone did suspect that she was other than what she claimed, no one would entertain the possibility of her being the Witch of Dervaig. Beyond this, her merit is such that if any doubt regarding her identity were to arise, it would be soon forgotten.”

“If what ye claim is true, and she has no sorcery, then she does seem to possess all the fine qualities any young woman might hope for, excluding of course the fact that she is a heathen. But listen well, my lad. If any mistrust arose or if the truth came out, the clan would never forget. Suspicion’s seed would be planted. If fortune holds, then ‘tis possible ye and Bridget might never be called to task, but if sickness were to take hold or crops fail, they would cry out that ye brought the wrath of God down upon their heads. Do ye ken what I am telling ye, lad? Despite her goodness, she is always one tragedy away from being the Witch of Dervaig.”

“It is a risk I am willing to take, Father.”

“Yer life is not yer own to be careless with. As chieftain yer life belongs first to the clan.” Nathair’s voice took on a foreboding note. “I have tried to appeal to yer sense of logic and duty, because, in truth, I am ashamed for raising my sword against ye the other night.”

“Father—” Ronan began.

“Enough,” Nathair snapped. “I have been more than reasonable. I gave her a home, and her secret will not be revealed by me. I owe her this much. But ye listen well, lad. Do not test me. Debt or no debt, I will tell the priest that the Witch of Dervaig disguised as a child of God is living among us, and he will purge our island of her black soul.” Nathair looked Ronan hard in the eye. “Ye must choose yer destiny, Ronan. The laird of the MacKinnon lies with a woman of the MacKinnon—a daughter of Christ. I will have yer decision tonight. If ye choose Bridget, ye will not be laird.”