To Bewitch a Highlander (Isle of Mull #1)

Chapter One

On the outskirts of Berwick upon Tweed, Scotland

1296

D uncan lay on the ground, his eyes open to a blur of blue and white as the sky whirled i n dizzying circles. The drumming in his ears threatened to split his skull, and an invisible weight compressed his lungs as he struggled to draw breath. Wincing, he raised his head to look at his chest, but the only thing weighing him down was a blood-soaked plaid. At long last, his mouth opened, and he gasped for air. As he exhaled, his breath gave way to an anguished sob.

He looked down at the sword still grasped in his hand—Ewan’s sword. He released the steel as he sat up, his hands rushing over his body to find the bloodletting wound, but it was not his blood. It was Ewan’s. Screams suddenly rent the air, and he covered his ears against the tortured sound.

But they had escaped and were far from the slaughter. Why could he still hear their cries?

The bellows of the dying continued to echo inside his head. He pounded his skull with his own fist. If he hit himself hard enough, would his own pain mask theirs?

His stomach churned as his body sought to purge his soul of the horrific violence that choked his mind and blocked his vision from seeing naught but the brutalized bodies of women and children. He coughed and sputtered as yellow bile spewed from his lips.

After his body ceased to heave, he lay back down on the ground to stop the spinning while his mind sought refuge in memories of that morning before the massacre began...

“Duncan, might you consider lightening your expression? You are terrifying every woman and child who passes by,” Ewan said with a grin.

Duncan’s scowl deepened in response.

“You drank nigh a barrel of ale, Duncan. Why wouldn’t the lass cheat you? We are in Berwick, the great city. This is not Gribun.”

“Aye,” Duncan snapped. “I ken where we are, and at the moment, I do not wish to be reminded. A lass in Gribun would at least have given me a kiss before she robbed me blind.”

Ewan chuckled. “’Tis no wonder you have yet to find a wife, Duncan. You set your standards too high.”

Duncan laughed out loud at his friend’s jest. He could no longer deny the humor of his plight. Last night, following their evening meal at Crossings Tavern, a dancer entered the hall and stole his attention, his breath, and later a bag of coin, right out of his sporran. She was exotic, dressed in sheer veils that fell over a bejeweled bodice, revealing her bare midriff and curved hips—hips that undulated and shook as she passed from table to table.

She was sensuality beyond his wildest dreams, and as cup after cup of ale ran down his throat, his enamor grew in his mind until he was ready to propose marriage to the lass—or at least to her hips. He vaguely remembered Ewan and the other lads advising him to forget the dancer. He told them to sod off, and so they did.

Duncan and Jamie were the only unwed men in the small band of travelers from Mull, but even Jamie advised Duncan to be done with it. The other warriors refused to join his pursuit of drink and rolling hips. He was out-numbered and out-reasoned. With disapproving glances and shaking heads, they filed out of the tavern, leaving him at the mercy of the lass’s black eyes and even blacker heart.

“With your poor luck, you should swear off the fairer sex all together, Duncan. The last woman you fancied wanted more than your coin. Had you been any drunker, she would have filleted you like a herring,” Ewan said, slapping Duncan on the back, “and with your own knife.”

“What’s this?” Jamie intruded. “A woman took a knife to you, Duncan?”

“Leave it alone, Jamie,” Duncan grumbled.

No one beside Ewan knew of the humiliation Duncan suffered at the hand of a comely, mysterious, and rather deranged lass more than two years past. He had ridden up Benmore Mountain in pursuit of a stag who was trying to outrun death. Duncan’s arrow protruded from its chest, leaving a trail of blood in the melting snow. Winding hoof prints and red stained snow meant his tracking skills were not required to secure his prize, and so he allowed himself an easy ride and several warming sips of whiskey. As the mountain pass narrowed, he slid from his seat and guided his horse over the slippery trail. It was then he heard the song, delicate and sweet. The stag was forgotten for a new pursuit. He left the worn path, following the voice beyond a cluster of ice-covered rocks still untouched by spring’s warmth, and there she was. Golden brown hair hugged her naked body, the only shield concealing the wealth of her bosom. Her full, soft thighs forced the breath from his lungs.

She lifted her lids, showing him emerald eyes that glistened as a smile curved her mouth. He stared, breathless, while her fingers traveled beneath her mane, and in one fluid move, her hair spilled down her back, revealing creamy, full breasts that made his mouth ache.

When she arched her back and opened beckoning arms, he did not hesitate. Emboldened by the whiskey, he slid over her and seized her lips in a hungry kiss.

“What is your name?” he whispered.

“Davina,” she said.

He took her there on the mountain, and she cried out in his arms while she found her pleasure, but before he could even catch his breath, her countenance changed. Darkness invaded her eyes. She raised her hand above her head. His dagger gleamed in her fist.

Her strength shocked him as she fought against his escape. It was no small matter to wrest the blade from her grasp, but with his dagger restored to its rightful place in his boot, he mounted his horse, leaving her amid the rocks. A glance back sent shivers down his spine, as he glimpsed the hunger of madness in her eyes.

He had not touched a woman since—that is, until last night.

“God’s blood,” he swore. Perhaps Ewan was right. He should swear off women all together or mayhap just whiskey.

“What have we here?” Ewan said.

Duncan jerked around as he felt a tug on his plaid. His hand moved behind his back and grasped the hilt of his sword, but it was only a tiny lass vying with the city’s commotion and his own thoughts for his attention.

“Warrior,” she said, “’tis for you.” High above her smiling face she held a rosy orb.

“It appears as though word of my generosity has spread throughout all of Berwick,” Duncan said.

“Aye,” Ewan chuckled. “You are a marked man, Duncan MacKinnon.”

Duncan turned back to the lass. She was no taller than his waist. Her slim build and tattered tunic bespoke of the scarcity her family suffered. She seemed impervious to his height and his dark features, which often sent children scrambling out of his way before he could ease their fear with a smile. It had been so long since a child dared speak to him that he found himself growing uncomfortable under her unwavering scrutiny. He squatted down and brushed a golden lock of hair away from her unflinching face. Her lovely, soft blue eyes warmed when he took the apple from her hand. There was no point in denying that when it came to a pretty lass, he was as pliable as a new lamb. Would he ever learn?

“What is your name, lass?” he said.

“Rosalyn,” she said. “But my mum calls me Rose.”

He smiled and dug into his sporran and produced a handful of coin from his diminished supply, which he hid deep inside her basket to ensure she could return home without encountering trouble for his kindness. With a pat on her flaxen head, he instructed her to go straight there. She flung her thin, wee arms around his neck and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Then off she darted, disappearing among the throng of people milling about the crowded street.

“Your luck is changing, my friend,” Ewan laughed. “This time you earned a kiss for your trouble. Perhaps true love does await.”

“We can’t all be as blessed as you in marriage,” Duncan said.

Ewan stuck his finger in his ear, moving it about. “Saints above, my ears must need a good cleaning, because I thought I heard you compliment my Brenna.”

“Brenna is acceptable. I’ve never said she wasn’t.”

“Acceptable. Well, I will have to keep that compliment to myself. Such pretty words might go straight to her head.”

“Ewan, she is your wife. Why should my opinion matter?” Duncan said with a shrug.

“It doesn’t,” Ewan growled. “But as my oldest friend, I’d like to think I could trust you to respect what is mine.”

“That is just what I am trying to do,” Duncan replied.

“Try harder, you bloody...” Ewan’s stream of insults was interrupted by Cormac.

“Lads, this is a tired argument.”

Ewan continued to stare Duncan down with hostile intent. “If Duncan is finished insulting my wife, then we can head on our way.”

Duncan glanced at the apple in his hand. With a smile, he offered it to his friend. “’Tis yours. I paid a bloody fortune for it.”

A slow smile eased the harshness from Ewan’s face. “I accept your apology,” he said, grabbing the apple. He crunched a mouthful and mumbled, “Come lads, ‘tis midday, and I am hungry. Because you insist on giving the lasses of Berwick all your coin, Duncan, I shall pay for your meal.”

Duncan pounded his head into the sodden earth as he once again lay on his back. How could the world change so swiftly in the matter of a day? He knew the hard, iron taste of blood. Many warriors had met their death on the end of his blade. The Mull MacKinnons were no strangers to war, but this had not been war. Warriors—men practiced, prepared, and committed to the struggle—fought wars. The images of butchered children and women festered in his mind, the old and young alike being dragged out of hiding and executed in the streets. He could not silence their screams. He reached out his hand feeling around for Ewan’s sword. Ewan. His best friend and noblest of men.

His fingers grazed the steel as he strained to grasp the hilt. When he secured the sword, he laid it on his chest as he recalled Ewan’s last breath...

Duncan hurled himself through the streets of Berwick with Ewan’s limp form draped across his shoulder. Blood gushed in warm streams down his back. Amid shrieks of agony and horror, Duncan pushed on, deflecting the swords of English soldiers and leaping over the bloodied mass of bodies, mounting in number like a flood overtaking the city streets. Whole families, snuffed out in an instant, lay in a puddle of death, arms still enclosed around each other, revealing the terror of their last moments as they clung to hope and prayed to meet in the hereafter.

As Duncan leapt over a slain monk, he gasped realizing not even the clergy was to be spared. The cries of innocents filled the air, rising above the din of steel upon steel as men fought to defend those they most cherished. But they were unprepared and outnumbered.

Duncan turned a corner and found an alley with a market stall still standing. He took refuge behind it and laid Ewan on the ground. He tried to squelch the blood seeping from the deep hole in his chest.

“For the love of God, Ewan,” Duncan cried. “Why did you do it? Why did you take the axe?” The blood soon soaked through the wadded plaid and seeped between Duncan’s splayed fingers.

Duncan grabbed hold of Ewan’s shoulders and shook his friend as he spat, “’Twas meant for me. I was supposed to die.”

Ewan gripped Duncan’s plaid and pulled him close so that his lips grazed Duncan’s ear.

“Brenna,” he whispered. “Nellore. Protect them.”

“Aye, Ewan,” Duncan said as a knot filled his throat.

“I know you’ve never cared for Brenna, but promise me,” Ewan said as anguish twisted his features.

“I promise. Your wife and daughter will never know fear or hunger.”

Ewan’s hold on Duncan’s plaid tightened as he sputtered and gasped for air.

“Nay, Ewan”, Duncan pleaded, but then Ewan’s hand went slack, and he hung limp in Duncan’s arms as a final breath left his body.

“Nay,” Duncan shouted out loud. He jumped to his feet, his sword held at the ready as he searched for English soldiers to unleash his vengeance upon, but then his mind cleared. He remembered the fray was in the distance now. The battle raged on only in his thoughts.

He turned to find the three other surviving MacKinnon warriors behind him. Cormac, barely a man, was staring at an arrow lodged in his thigh. His face, pale from blood loss and terror, looked even younger somehow. Kenneth sat weeping, and Jamie stood with fists clenched, battling his own demons. They all shifted their dazed gazes to meet Duncan’s.

At that moment, Duncan wanted nothing more than to lie down on the ground and die. The weight of despair made it nigh impossible to draw breath, but with Ewan dead, he was in command.

“We must move,” Duncan growled. He would not fail his chieftain. Ronan would fight on, and so must he. “If they search for runaways, we shall soon be caught.”

He walked over to where Cormac sat and drew his sword. Cormac cringed as though he imagined Duncan would finish the job the English began.

“Cormac,” Duncan commanded. “Clear your mind. ‘Tis I, Duncan. We have to move or die.” Cormac stared, unblinking.

“Cormac,” Duncan said louder. “I need to know you ken what I’m saying.”

Cormac’s teeth chattered as he nodded his head, clarity creeping back into his eyes. “I ken,” he whispered.

Duncan undid his sporran and thrust the leather strap between Cormac’s teeth. “Bite down. This is going to hurt.”

Cormac did as he was bid. With an impassive expression, Duncan seized the shaft of the arrow sticking out from Cormac’s thigh and without hesitation yanked it from his flesh. Cormac fell back but did not lose consciousness.

Jamie stepped in front of Duncan with a strip of plaid in hand to dress the wound.

“Can you walk, Cormac?” Duncan asked.

Cormac nodded.

“Then stand up and run. We must move or find ourselves under an English blade like the others.”

He led his men through the Tweed Water to conceal their tracks until its current changed to a southerly course. Then they continued west toward Selkirk where Duncan aimed to purchase horses to hasten the journey to Largs where their ship, the Trinity, waited to bring them home. They would keep off the roads as much as possible. He doubted King Edward’s bloodlust was sated.

If only King Alexander III and his royal line had not met with such misfortune. Scotland’s throne would never have come into dispute, and King Edward of England would not have been invited by the Scottish nobles to intervene in settling the matter of the crown. Edward’s true ambition did not stay hidden beneath the surface for very long when he agreed to arbitrate only if first, he was named overlord of Scotland.

Duncan wiped the sweat from his brow as he turned back to view the men coming up behind. Cormac grew weary, but he persevered with Jamie’s assistance. Given Cormac’s injury they were covering a great deal of ground. With any luck, they would make it to Selkirk by the following evening.

Cormac collapsed at Duncan’s feet.

“Ronan was right,” Cormac said as his chest heaved. “He was right about everything.”

Duncan nodded grimly. Their laird had foreseen Edward’s betrayal and the blind ineptitude of the Scottish nobles as though it had been written in the stars.

When word reached Mull that John of Balliol was crowned on the Stone of Destiny, the warriors cheered; finally, they had their new king. But Duncan remembered Ronan standing in grim silence. He raised his hands, smothering his warriors’ cheers with a look of reproach on his face.

“Edward was handed the reins to our great kingdom long ago. Do you think he will give them back and allow another to lead? John is an instrument, nothing more.”

“What can be done?” Duncan had asked. “Who do we fight for?”

“For Scotland,” Ronan said. “A real Scottish army led by a true Scottish king shall rise one day and bring Edward to his knees. We will watch for his coming and take up the march when our king calls.”

Duncan shook his head sadly as he stared down at Cormac who lay on the ground, heaving air into his fatigued lungs. He offered Cormac his hand.

“Aye, Cormac. Ronan predicted right. John is spineless.”

“You mean he was spineless,” Jamie interjected.

Duncan grunted in response. King John had at last taken a stand against Edward when the English king ordered a tax on Scotland to pay for his campaign against the French. Instead of yielding as John had done thus far in all things, John made a treaty with King Phillip of France against the English.

“Nay, Jamie. He still played the coward. He should have united his people, formed an army. ‘Tis what King Alexander would have done. Instead, he skulked behind Edward’s back and made a treaty he was in no position to uphold. John has not the wit or the might to unite a Scottish army if the French called for aid, which King Phillip must know.” Duncan eyed his men grimly. “Treaty or no, the French will be no help to us, and the rest of Scotland will suffer for John’s petulance just as Berwick did.” Duncan was certain the Scottish king must have expected Edward to retaliate, but no one could have predicted the blood bath that swept Berwick.

His thoughts returned to the once great city that, in one day’s time, had been reduced to a graveyard. He managed to escape with his life, but he was certain his soul lay behind in the bloody streets. The horror twisted around him as though he was entangled in the very entrails that poured forth from the bodies of the slain. His fists clenched his head as he fought the direction of his thoughts, but once again he was struck by the question of what could have been done. Again, the same cold, heartless answer arrested his courage with impotent finality—nothing. His mind drifted then to the moment when he knew Berwick was done for...

When the alarm from the Berwick garrison sounded, the Mull MacKinnon gained access to the wall to measure the threat they would soon face. None of them spoke at first. What they saw was vast and sudden. Duncan’s blood ran cold when his eyes scanned the far-reaching English army.

“’Tis an army assembled and ready. Why have they only now sounded an alarm?” Cormac said. “There must be twenty thousand men.”

“Nay,” Jamie said, shaking his head. “’Tis at least thirty thousand; I’d wager my life on it. Not that it is worth much at this moment,” he uttered under his breath.

Duncan’s lips twitched into an almost grin at Cormac’s wide gaze. “I believe you have frightened the wee one,” Duncan whispered.

The wall was now crowded by castle guards who began hackling and mocking the growing army below. Then in amazement Duncan watched as the Scottish soldiers turned about and flipped up their kilts, bearing their arses to the English troops.

“Are you mad?” Duncan growled at them.

“You worry for naught, my friend,” one of the guards said between bouts of laughter. Duncan pushed off the hand that came to rest on his shoulder, but the guard continued undeterred. “This is not a simple stronghold. Berwick is the greatest city in Scotland. Edward does not make war. He merely seeks to intimidate, and we are proving his failure.”

“Idiot,” Duncan snapped as he gestured to the shifting troops below. “They head for the North bank. ‘Tis low tide. They will march unhampered into the city. The River Tweed and your arrogance are Berwick’s weaknesses—both will prove our failure.”

“Duncan is right,” Ewan shouted to his men. “To the stables, lads. A king does not fund an army that large without a thirst for blood.”

But the Mull Mackinnon never made it to the stables.

In the passing of an instant, Berwick was no longer the greatest city in Scotland. The fiery depths of hell rose to the surface of the world, unleashing King Edward’s fury.

Resting beneath the forest canopy, Duncan stared numbly at the shadow of leaves moving in the cool, spring breeze. His ears still rang with the screams of children, and then he remembered Rose, the sweet lass with the apples.

Rose never made it home but not for fault of his generous gift he so naively worried about when he filled her basket with coin. She was not the victim of theft. Duncan closed his eyes against the image of her lifeless body. Her blank stare caught his for an instant as he leapt over the slain. Like a rosy halo, bright red apples were strewn about her head, gleaming as they lay coated in her blood.

“My Anna begged me to bring her a fine lace wimple,” Cormac confessed to the night.

Duncan shook Rose from his thoughts. “Your Anna waits only for your return.”

Cormac grunted in agreement. Then he added in a quiet voice, “A happiness poor Brenna will be denied.”

“Aye,” Kenneth said. “And poor Calum’s young wife is pregnant. And Hammish. And Alasdair. And Niall. All dead.”

With a growl, Jamie leapt to his feet, his eyes wide and red with fury. “I’ve seen war before. I have fought and killed men. I watched my own brother bleed to death on the battlefield while I carried on the fight.” He drew his sword and swung, striking a nearby tree. Over and over again, the tree met the force of his anger. “But they were wee bairns and lasses. They killed a babe when it had not even taken its first breath and slayed its mother!”

Jamie collapsed to the ground. Duncan scurried over the earth to his kinsman’s side.

“I never should have gone into that house. Ewan would still be alive. They might all be alive if we pushed on.” Duncan said.

“Only the devil himself could have passed that house and not offered that poor woman aid,” Jamie said.

Duncan hung his head, but at his feet he did not see the leaves and ground he knew to be there. Instead, he saw the woman writhing in agony, her stomach round with child...

They had been running toward the stables, but then shifted course when they saw it overrun with English soldiers, swinging axe and sword like a scythe at harvest, leaving a wake of death in their path. After turning down an alley, they passed a group of soldiers beating down the side door of a house. But when they passed the front widows, Duncan froze.

A woman, whose attendants had abandoned her, was lying on a table, legs spread wide as she screamed—perhaps from the birthing pains but also from the terror of what fought to enter her home—a terror she was powerless to stop.

Duncan did not hesitate. He lunged into the doorway just as the soldiers pushed inside. He raised his sword but was no match for the tidal wave of blades that continued to pour through the side entrance. They charged for the lass who fought to bring new life into the world amidst so much death. A blade rose to strike her, but Duncan blocked it. In an instant, another sword swung high and came down, meeting its target.

“Nay,” Duncan cried. He stared in horror as the poor lass gasped her last breaths.

He was dumbstruck. He couldn’t move.

Then Ewan’s warning penetrated the ringing in his ears, and he turned to see steel flying through the air. But it did not find its intended target. Ewan dove in front of the axe, saving Duncan’s life.

Cormac furrowed his brow as he guessed the direction of Duncan’s thoughts.

“Do not blame yourself for Ewan’s death, Duncan. You would have done the same for him.”

Duncan turned away as he succumbed to sorrow like winter’s destructive hold on the earth, leaving his heart barren and cold. His mind settled on Brenna and Nellore as he faced Cormac once more.

“But Ewan’s life had more value... It should have been me.”