To Bewitch a Highlander (Isle of Mull #1)

Chapter Twenty One

S honey was busy, almost too busy to think about Ronan...almost. She had joined ranks with Morna and the other ladies in their numerous preparations for the warrior’s departure. Large numbers of bannock were baked over open flame, and the blacksmith’s hammer could be heard from the first light of dawn until the sun dipped beneath the sea as swords and axes were forged or repaired and spikes were added to oak shields. Iron blade heads were also fashioned and given to boys who inserted the tips into barbed shafts as piles of arrows began to form. Shoney and the other women polished the metals until they gleamed in the sunlight. Then they gathered and packed supplies. Every warrior would carry a large leather sack in addition to their usual sporran with dried herring, bannock, and oats.

As they labored, the stores were diminished, which added to their already heavy workload, for the village provisions would be refilled before Gribun was left with only a fraction of its usual defenses. By the end of each day, Shoney was exhausted and fell asleep as soon as she pulled her blanket beneath her chin, and in the morning, it all started again.

Every day before sunrise she awoke to a line of villagers waiting outside her door, each suffering from some ailment or another . She applied alder bark mixed with grease to burns and combined ground ivy and honey to dress open wounds.

That morning had been no different but for one unusual affliction. Just as she was saying goodbye to one of the blacksmith’s apprentices who came early to fetch a supply of her burn grease to keep on hand at the shop, she spotted a small band of villagers making their way toward her hut with Flora in the lead. Holding a boy’s ear in a firm grip, she explained to Shoney what had occurred the evening before. The boy, who was her youngest son, Dugan, had been playing near the Daione Shi Knoll.

Shoney knew the spot well. It was a rocky mound at the foot of a tall, jagged hill some distance from the coastline deep within the moorland. In the summer, it was a lush place. The hill was a steep, verdant green tower, littered with jutting rocks trailing down its surface. At the base of the hill, the rocks gathered in jumbled, moss-covered stacks. The moss was a rich emerald color and out from its shallow depths sprung tall, pink blossoms. How the abundant flowers grew out of the rocky knoll with only a thin layer of moss for a bed was a mystery, but every year they returned.

Giving her son’s ear a good yank, Flora spoke of the clan’s belief that the king of the faeries lived deep beneath the stones. Each year he planted the pink flowers to attract young girls to the entrance of his lair where he lured them down below.

“’Tis a sacred but dangerous site,” Flora explained as the onlookers nodded their heads in agreement.

Dugan turned crimson when Flora insisted that he confess how he tripped while playing and fell directly on top of the knoll, crushing some of the famed pink flowers.

“Bridget, he is damned for certain. ‘Tis only a matter of time before the faeries claim him as their own,” she said, her eyes creased with worry.

“Cease yer fretting, Flora,” Bridget said as she took hold of her friend’s hand. “He is too old to be raised as the faeries’ own and too young to be of interest to their queen.”

Flora’s yellow head remained downcast as she seemed to consider Shoney’s words. Finally, after several minutes she said, “What ye say sounds right and should bring me comfort except for the warning in my heart. I am afraid, Bridget. Is there naught that can be done to ensure his safety?”

“If ye wish to protect yer son, then plant rosemary and gorse outside yer door. The smell will keep the fair folk away. And for the next fortnight light a piece of fir-wood and walk around Dugan’s pallet three times before he sleeps.” This advice was met with murmurs of approval from the villagers in Flora’s company.

She nodded, looking somewhat relieved. “I will do everything just as ye have said.” Then the little woman kissed Shoney on the cheek. “Thank ye, Bridget. I knew ye were the one to ask. We are all so glad ye’ve come.” With another hard yank on Dugan’s ear, Flora and party quitted her doorstep with smiles of gratitude.

Remembering the pleading look the boy gave her as he was led away, Shoney chuckled. In the morning, they might be back only this time to mend Dugan’s battered ear. She continued to knead the bannock dough as she stretched the muscles in her neck and shoulders. She could not remember ever feeling so tired or so alive with purpose. She was made an instant member of the clan. The villagers valued her opinions and looked to her for healing and relief.

Or, rather, they looked to Bridget.

She frowned. Despite feeling satisfied that her skills were finally being used, she was filled with sorrow. She had not seen Ronan since the night of the dance. She knew he stayed away to keep her in Gribun. She would never leave without saying goodbye, and so he refused to give her the chance. Doubtless, he wanted to tempt her to stay by revealing what her life could be like if she became Bridget MacLeod for good. She could not deny that his plan was working, and in a way, she was glad he kept his distance. All her life, she watched the village from afar, imagining what it would be like to live amid all the comings and goings, laughter and noise. The reality surpassed her every dream, but she ached for him and dreaded his departure.

Sometimes her mind was hazy with longing, and she lost herself to daydreams. It would start with a breeze that swept the hair off her neck and made her tremble, reminding her of Ronan’s warm lips searing a trail of slow kisses down her spine and across her bare thighs. Or, she would be admiring a fine tree in the distance, and then she would see his tall, thickly muscled frame leaning against the tree, naked as though they had just made love. His lips would curve to the side as he gave her his lazy grin. Then suddenly either Morna or Una would command her attention, forcing her head from out of the clouds and her feet back on the hard, brutal ground. Despite how she wished otherwise, her daydreams could not alter reality.

She threw a couple more loaves on the fire and looked to the midday sun. Today appeared no different than any other summer day, but to her and surely to the rest of Gribun, it was a dark day indeed. On the morrow, the men would leave. Ronan would lead them into battle, and she would return to her home on the cliffs and once again become Shoney.

“Bridget,” Una’s lyrical voice interrupted her thoughts. “Would ye like to sup with me tonight? Ye have not had a chance to meet Guthrie.”

Shoney met Una’s gaze. “But he leaves in the morning. Would ye not rather spend the evening alone? Besides, I told ye I met him briefly when I first arrived.”

“I’m not asking ye to spend the night,” she winked and once again Shoney could not help but admire her friend’s dancing black eyes and the frost of black curls contrasting against her white skin.

“Bridget, ye look like how I imagined faeries looked when I was a child, with yer golden hair and strange silver eyes. Ye truly are lovely,” Una said to Shoney’s surprise.

“I was just thinking the same thing about ye,” she laughed. “Not the part about faeries. I was thinking how becoming motherhood is to ye. Yer time is coming soon, is it not?”

Una smiled and rubbed her swollen stomach. Then her black eyes became watery pools, filled with forlorn tears.

“Guthrie will likely be away during the birth. I was hopeful he would be here,” she whispered.

“Oh, Una.” Shoney folded her new friend in a warm embrace. “Do not fear. I will help ye through the labor, and then ye will have a beautiful surprise for Guthrie when he returns.” Big, dark eyes, wide with fear stared back at her.

Shoney squeezed her even tighter. “He will return, Una.”

Una exhaled and dried her eyes. Then she straightened her tunic and brushed the curls from off her brow. “Ye’re right, Bridget. All will be well.” Una pointed to the fire pit at their feet where several bannock rolls were turning black. “I can’t say the same for our bread,” she chuckled.

Shoney whisked the bannock off the flames with a small knife. They rolled onto the ground, stopping at the feet of a young boy.

“I hope that is not my supper,” he laughed.

“Take them and feed the chickens, will ye?” Una called.

Shoney watched the boy grab the bread and run off to carry out Una’s bidding. She marveled at the whirl of activity surrounding her. The village was alive with the mingling of noises and smells, but there also was tension in the air. More likely than not, some of the men would not return, and the women already gave comfort to each other when fear crept into their hearts. Shoney refused to consider the possibility of Ronan not returning. That he might be struck down seemed impossible. He was too vital, too powerful. Surely, there was no warrior alive that could best him. The moment doubt stole its way into her heart, she shook her head and threw herself into the seemingly endless array of tasks to be done.

“Will ye come, Bridget?” Una asked.

Shoney hated to disappoint her friend, but she was confident Ronan would come to her that evening. Surely, he would not go off to war without saying goodbye. With this in mind, she did not want to stray too far from her hut.

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to stay for long, but I will come around to meet Guthrie,” Shoney said.

“Thank ye, Bridget, ‘tis important to me.”

They finished cooking the last of the bannock, and Shoney wondered what task would be next.

“Right,” Una breathed. “Come along then. I told Morna we’d help polish the last of the steel. The Norse will be blinded by the gleam of our men’s swords. They won’t be given the chance to raise their own weapons.”

Shoney admired how Una struggled to remain hopeful and courageous in the face of war, and she could not help but envy the various certitudes that defined Una’s life—her kin, her duties, and a love shared with Guthrie, which thrived without deception. A lifetime of love from those around her had nurtured a strong and sensitive woman. She was a vital and essential member of her community .

Shoney hung her head in shame. She was a fraud and did not deserve the affection of her new-found friend. More than ever, she wished for Ronan to appear around the corner and ease her uncertainty. She missed him, and her vulnerability invited doubt about his reasons for staying away.

What if his absence could not be blamed on his desire for her to remain in Gribun? What if his feelings had changed? Perhaps having seen her through the prejudiced eyes of his father, he now wanted nothing more to do with her. Or, mayhap, Ronan had finally accepted the truth that she had known in her heart for some time—the obstacles keeping them apart were too great to surmount.

“Bridget, do ye hear me?”

Shoney looked up from the sword she was polishing and saw Morna staring down at her with a smile.

“Forgive me, Morna, I didn’t hear ye,” She replied.

“Ye were daydreaming again, lass.”

Shoney sighed. “So I was.”

“One of these days ye are going to have to tell me who he is,” Morna chuckled. “But now is not the time. Tomorrow will be a hard day, so off ye lassies go. I will be around in the morning to wake ye, Bridget.”

She followed Una back to her hut and helped her prepare Guthrie’s supper. It was not long before the door swung wide, and a broad-shouldered warrior ducked his grinning head inside.

“Where is my pretty lass?”

He was not quite as large as Ronan, but he seemed to overwhelm the hut with both his form and his smile. Una rushed forward and threw her arms around Guthrie’s neck. They shared a long, sensual kiss. Shoney could not help but feel awkward and out of place. Una must have sensed her discomfort, because she pushed against Guthrie’s chest as she tried to peel her lips away.

“Guthrie, we have company,” she said, pointing to Shoney.

“Hello there, Bridget. Forgive me, but I did not see ye. Not that I would have resisted kissing my woman even if I had. Give us another, Una.” He laughed as he pulled Una back into his arms. She playfully slapped his arm and chided him on his manners.

“So, Bridget McLeod, are ye joining us for supper?” he asked.

“Nay,” she said. “I can’t stay long. Una wanted us to meet.”

“Well then, come and sit with me while Una pours the ale.”

Shoney shooed a chicken off one of the seats as she sat down at the table. Her mood was already improving. How could it not when in such fine company? Despite his looming departure and the uncertainty of his future, Guthrie’s wide and infectious smile never faltered. He was not the handsomest of the warriors with bushy hair and a nose that had been broken too many times, but his eyes twinkled and filled with love every time he glanced toward his lovely Una.

“Bridget, what do ye think of the MacKinnon lads? Has anyone captured yer interest?” Guthrie asked. “Nary a maid has been able to resist Aidan’s fine features, even my Una I’d wager. That is until I won her over with my hairy good looks,” Guthrie teased.

“Aidan seems a good and fine sort of man, but I would not fancy binding myself to a man who was prettier than I,” Shoney said, causing Guthrie to whoop with laughter.

“Teasing fair Aidan is one of Guthrie’s favorite diversions,” Una said. “Ye’ve just made a friend for life, Bridget.”

After a brief but enjoyable visit, Shoney kissed Una and said goodnight to Guthrie. She was anxious to return to her borrowed hut, hopeful Ronan already waited for her. With every step that drew her closer, her unrest grew. Events unfolding beyond Mull ensured that on the morrow she returned to her true home and cast off the mantle of Bridget MacLeod, and Ronan would set sail on a quest to defend his king and country, but tomorrow had yet to come. Tonight would be theirs.

She raced the last of the pathway to her hut and swung open the door with anticipation, but inside she found only shadow.

She rekindled her fire and warmed some bannock and leftover porridge. Her disappointment combined with exhaustion made her suddenly long for sleep, but instead she finished her supper and sat in wait for his coming. Fatigue fought to claim her as she rested her head upon the rough-hewn wood of the table. As her eyes fluttered heavy with sleep a white light flashed in her mind’s eye, and she was lost to a vision. With a start, she came to and released a sob that wracked her body. Her vision had shown a future so bleak it caused her to retch her meager dinner.

When at last she was able to compose herself, she stood and quickly donned her cloak. Then she opened the door and saying a prayer to Skatha to send her courage against the shadows, she rushed into the night. She stole through the village toward Dun Ara Castle, thankfully passing no one along the way. Everyone else was sound asleep after the day of exhaustive labor. She passed through the open gate into the courtyard and dashed up to the keep but the door was locked. Then she remembered the side entrance Morna had led them through on the morning of Anwen’s recovery. She raced around the keep and sighed with relief as she pushed open the door.

The muted sconces in the great hall scarcely illuminated the two winding staircases. One she knew led to the chieftain’s quarters. Dread gripped her as she imagined meeting Nathair. She remembered the burning hatred enflaming his amber eyes as he stalked her with murderous intent. Shivering, she pushed the image from her mind. She thankfully had not laid eyes on him since that first morning, and she could only hope she never saw him again.

The narrow stone steps wound around and around until they deposited her on a short landing in front of what she prayed was the right door. Closing her eyes, she raised her hand to knock, but her knuckles only grazed the wood as the door flew open, and she was yanked against a wide chest with a knife to her throat.

“Shoney? ”

She recognized Ronan’s voice and sighed with relief. “Aye, who did ye think it was, King Haakon?” she replied.

“Forgive me, Shoney, but I heard someone skulking up the stairs, and I grew suspicious.”

“I was not skulking,” she reproached. “I was merely trying to not draw attention to myself. What would Morna think if she knew I’d come to yer rooms.”

“At this moment, I could not care less about what Morna thinks.”

He smiled and pulled her into his arms, lifting her off the ground. His lips slowly lowered to hers. She groaned into his mouth as her arms encircled his neck. She hungrily returned his kiss. It had been so long since he had held her, too long. His tongue swept inside her mouth, igniting a fire deep within.

“Why have ye stayed away?” she whispered. “I know we fought, but...”

“I did not want ye to leave,” he interrupted. “Ye’re stubborn, Shoney. Even if ye wished to stay for a while, ye would have said goodbye if I had given ye the chance. I stayed away to keep ye in the village.”

He carried her across the room, his lips never leaving hers. Only when he laid her on his pallet did his kiss end. Orange embers crackled in the hearth as he turned to rekindle the fire. His golden-brown hair fell on broad shoulders, and the thick muscles of his arms shifted when he stabbed the cinders with the iron. Turning back around, his gaze bore into hers, heavy with desire. He knelt in front of her. His features lightened as his lips slowly curved to one side.

“I knew ye would come to me,” he said.

She reached up and stroked his forearm. “Having now seen a fair share of men up close, I now know what I have always suspected.”

“Aye, and what is that, lass?”

“That ye’re finer made than most.” Her fingers caressed the hardness of his chest, making a trail down the ridged muscle of his abdomen. “The Mother of all cut yer form from the strongest stone. And Taranis, the god of thunder, filled yer eyes with lightning so they would glow amber with passion when it suited ye and fire when ye swung yer sword.”

His sword.

How could she forget her vision? His hold was too great on her heart. It emptied her mind and filled her body with an unquenchable fire.

“Oh Ronan,” she cried. “Ye stir my body and make my mind numb—I forgot my reason for coming.”

He came over her then, covering her body with his hard warmth. “I know, my love. It has been too long, but do not worry as I have forgotten nothing. I know every luscious curve and every sweet smell.” His hand found the edge of her tunic, and he began to push it over her knees.

She grabbed his hand, trying to keep her clothing in place. “No, Ronan. Ye don’t understand. I came here to ask ye to run away with me.”

He froze as the smile left his face. “Shoney, not now,” he groaned. “Not again. I cannot leave my clan, nor can I abandon my duties.”

He stood up and walked to the window. Then he turned to face her again. “Don’t ye understand, Shoney? I would have no honor. I would no longer be the man ye love.”

“Ye will be dead.”

“What?”

“Ye will die, Ronan. I have seen it.” He turned away from her, but she continued. “Ye will march with yer men to Largs, and there will be a battle. Storms will rage, casting the land in darkness for many days. Then the clouds will break. The sun will stream down upon yer back and ignite yer hair like amber flames as ye stand on a great precipice. The enemy will ascend from all sides, their blades gleaming in the sunlight. Ye fight with valor, but ye will be overrun, and they will cut ye down.”

He closed the distance between them. His eyes were torches lit with anger.

“Why do ye tell me this when ye know I must go?”

“Did ye not hear what I said, Ronan. Ye will die.”

She took his hands and pulled him toward the door. “Please, Ronan, come away with me,” she implored. “Ye can escape yer fate.”

“Shoney, if I run, I am dead.” He ran his hand through his hair in agitation. “My men will march, and they look to me to lead.”

She desperately searched her mind for some way to convince him to stay behind. He must not die. They were destined to live apart; this much she knew. Neither could bend to meet the other without losing too much of what made them who they were, but to breathe life into her body knowing his was cold was profoundly unthinkable.

“Ronan, there must be a way. If I but think for a moment longer, the solution will come to me.” Panic was taking hold of her. “I cannot live in this world, knowing ye are gone.”

He put his arms around her waist. “Hush and listen to me. Stay here with my clan as Bridget MacLeod. I will return, and we will make our life together.”

“Stop it, Ronan. This argument no longer has any meaning. Our battle ends without a victor. Regardless, of my name, ye will go, and ye will die. Don’t ye see? We have no future about which to argue.”

“Ye put too much faith in yer visions and none in me.” He turned away from her and leaned with both hands on a large table littered with his various belongings. His sporran was packed and ready. His polished dirk and sheath lay side by side near a mug of ale and several unlit candle stubs. His shoulders flexed in agitation. Then, in one swift movement, he scattered the table’s contents across the room and turned to face her.

“I will return, Shoney. Ye will not escape me so easily,” he growled.

Her breath caught. Never had he appeared wilder. He moved toward her with predatory intent. His eyes promised danger, causing the hairs on the back of her neck to stand up. She thought to make a run for it, but he stood between her and the only way out .

“Ye cannot run from me anymore, Shoney. Ye came to my rooms, and ye’re not leaving tonight until I have yer word that ye will remain in the village while I’m gone.”

Shoney lifted her chin in defiance. No Scotsman was going to order her around, not even the one she loved.

“Never,” she said. “Now let me pass.”

“Not until I have my promise,” he said, walking toward her. “I need to know ye’re safe while I’m gone.”

His movements were measured and deft like a shark searching for prey in the shallows. She scurried back until she felt the cold stone wall behind her, at which point she knew there was nowhere else to go. Panic began to set in as she watched his approach. He moved slowly. The heat of his gaze seemed to burn where it touched. He was so close now. She could not breathe. He took the last slow step that brought her face within inches of his chest.

“Stop it,” she hissed.

A slow smile lifted the corner of his mouth. “ Stop what?”

“Ye know what ye’re doing.”

“This is only the beginning,” he promised. “Ye may be stubborn, but I never give up.” Lifting her in his arms, he laid her on the table. A part of her wanted to defy him, to resist his touch, but the intensity of gaze held her in place. His fingers slid beneath the rim of her tunic at the neck, and in one swift movement, he tore it asunder, fanning out the pieces to expose her kirtle. She could feel the heat of his hands through the thin fabric. His musky scent tempted her senses while he trailed slow, hot kisses down her throat. She bit her lip to keep from moaning when his mouth closed over her nipple. His tongue stroked her hard peak, building wondrous heat inside of her. But she had to fight against the hunger.

A slow smile curved his lips as he climbed onto the table and hovered over her. Before she could draw her next breath, he tore open her kirtle. They locked eyes. “I look forward to hearing my promise on yer lips,” he breathed. Then his mouth set to work inflaming her body with bittersweet desire. She swallowed groans that crept to her lips as the interplay of tongue and stroking touch kindled an undeniable flame deep within. Her back craved to bend and arch so that she might press into his touch, but despite the hunger spreading into the far recesses of her limbs, she resisted. He moved lower. He continued to tease as his lips traveled to the flat of her stomach. His tongue dipped into her navel, but then he continued to move down.

She looked away as his warm breath hit between her thighs. Her head was spinning. Like a whisper, his tongue swept over her, and she inhaled sharply. His touch was barely perceptible, but it created surging waves of heat, which coursed through her, demanding her surrender. His kiss deepened as he tantalized her most intimate places, causing her agonizing pleasure. She cried out with ravenous desire. She bucked her hips to escape the languorous touch of his tongue, but he held her still and stroked her wet heat. She moaned aloud—she could no longer control herself. She ached and throbbed and writhed beneath his touch. She was losing herself to the sweet agony of his kiss when suddenly he stopped.

“Ronan,” she cried.

“Let me hear the words,” he whispered.

“Ronan,” she cried out again.

“Promise me,” he urged her.

She bit her lip as she tried to resist. His lips descended once more. He grazed her with a faint kiss. She pressed her hips into him, her body seeking the relief it craved. He lavished her with his tongue, causing her to quake and tremble. Then again, he pulled away.

“Say it, Shoney.”

Once again, she quivered at his touch. Then once again it was gone.

“Ronan, please.”

“Promise me ye will stay, and I will ease yer body.”

She was overcome with desire. She shuddered as the yearning within her throbbed until it was all she could feel, and she could no longer fight her hunger.

“I promise,” she cried.

In an instant, he surrounded her. Her arms swept around his neck. Forgive me,” she heard him whisper. Then he swiftly entered her. She cried out with relief. Her hips pounded against his as she sought release from the agony that gripped her. With each stroke, the searing heat spread until it was almost unbearable. Then finally her body surrendered. She clung to him, shuddering with release as rapture tore through her, leaving her quivering and quaking in his arms.