Dreaming of a Devilish Highlander (Highland Shifters Book 1) Read online

  Uncertainty prickling through him, Alpin cleared his throat. "Gavin and Lunn are mine enemies. They expelled me from the clan. But once those two are dead, I will be a good chief to the MacTavishes."

  "Think of someone besides yourself for once!" she scolded.

  Annoyance twisted his gut, but he held his tongue. "Aye, m'lady."

  "Once I have my revenge, you may do whatever you wish with the clan… if any of them are left."

  Hope lit within Alpin. "I can at least gain possession of the castle."

  "If you wish." She shrugged. "It matters naught to me."

  He needed to spur things into motion. "Silas was like a brother to me. I will help you exact revenge for his death. What can I do?"

  "Naught, but remain patient. I intend to take everything from them, little by little, day by day. They will rue the day they crossed me."

  Chapter 2

  Lady Wilona MacRae yanked on the bridle, signaling her horse to stop outside the ancient stone cottage. Soot covered the worn thatched roof. The bitter-scented peat smoke from the fire within rose skyward to mingle with the low-hanging mist.

  This journey deeper into the Highlands had taken several hours, far longer than she cared to ride in the damp chill. Grief for her son, along with intense hatred for Gavin MacTavish, had turned her heart into an icy, dark stone. She would not rest until he suffered as she did.

  A sennight had passed since Silas's death, and she'd made detailed plans.

  "M'lady." Malcolm, her brawny guard, spoke, pulling her from her ponderings. "Are you ready to dismount?"

  Glancing down at him, she nodded.

  He gently lifted her to the ground. As she strode toward the cottage, she raised her skirt-tail a few inches off her brown leather boots so as not to sully it on the muddy, wet ground.

  Malcolm followed.

  At the portal, she glanced at him. "Knock." She didn't want to stain her new doeskin gloves on the grimy wood.

  Malcolm lifted his giant fist and pounded on the old scarred door that rattled in its frame.

  After an extended moment, the door opened a crack, and a dark, rheumy eye peered out at them. A bit of hoary hair poked from the front of her pale blue head kertch.

  "A good morn to you, Dolag. I have brought you a few supplies." Wilona motioned to another of the guards to bring the large willow basket forward.

  Dolag swung the door wide, revealing her worn and faded peasant dress. "M'lady." She crouched her body into a slight curtsy of respect. Though an aged crone, she still looked to be a stout woman. "Come in, then. You are welcome."

  The guard set the basket inside, then left. Wilona entered, and Malcolm closed the door behind her. The meager light in the room came from two small windows and a low-burning peat fire in the center of the floor. Tendrils of smoke drifted toward the round hole in the roof.

  "Have a seat, m'lady, if it pleases you." Dolag motioned to a squat stool by the fire.

  Wilona sat down, though she was unaccustomed to such a low seat. When Dolag remained standing, Wilona motioned toward the other stool on the opposite side of the fire.

  Once the other woman settled herself, Wilona said, "My son, the chief, has been murdered." She again felt as if she'd been stabbed in the heart, as she did numerous times each day.

  "Nay," Dolag gasped in shocked denial, then shook her head. "I'm so sorry to hear of it, m'lady. He was a good chief."

  "Indeed. And so, there must be justice." Wilona decided to get to the point, for this smoky dark cottage vexed her. "I ken you have knowledge of spells, aye?"

  Dolag's eyelid fluttered. "I'm a healer, m'lady."

  "Of course you are," Wilona snapped. "But there are unseen ways to seek justice. Do you know of them?"

  Dolag glanced away, rocking her round body. "'Tis dangerous to speak of such."

  "Not to me, and I'll nay tell anyone. How fortunate for us both the witch-hunting King James is dead."

  Eyes bulging, Dolag looked scandalized for a long moment.

  Impatient, Wilona continued, "I require a curse to punish my son's murderers."

  "With all due respect, m'lady, a curse is sinister. Whatever scourge you send to others will be reflected back to you."

  Wilona ground her teeth, incensed and yet undeterred. Her life was already hell; what difference would it make? "So be it," she blurted. "I want these three men to live long miserable—indeed, hellish—lives. If I have my way, they'll have no male heirs, just as I now have no son. I wish them to turn into beasts, so their clans will fear them and cast them out. As well, they will frighten away all women who even consider wedding them."

  Dolag sat for a long moment, considering. "But would you wish to change into an animal, yourself?"

  Wilona shrugged, imagining herself as a bird flying over the moors or mayhap a salmon swimming in a loch. "I could endure shifting if I could choose when and which animal."

  Dolag nodded. "It can be done."

  Wilona sat forward, eagerness surging within her. "Do you ken the spell?"

  "Aye. It has been passed down for many generations, but scarce are the people brave enough to try it."

  "Well then, consider me brave." Wilona forced a bitter smile.

  "You must memorize it and never scribe it." Dolag repeated the chant in a rhythmic, musical voice. Wilona supposed that made it easier to remember. Dolag left certain lines unfinished, indicating Wilona was to insert the names of people and animals in those spaces. When placing the curse, she needed to light candles and burn certain herbs as she chanted the words.

  Wilona repeated the sequence a few times, committing it to memory. "Now, is there a way I can see or know what my enemies are doing at a great distance? I have heard of certain objects with special powers."

  Dolag hesitated. "There are keek-stanes."

  Wilona's heartbeat quickened. "Are they like scrying stones?"

  "The very same."

  "Where might I acquire one? I'm willing to pay a goodly sum."

  Dolag's thin gray brows shot up but, faltering, she remained silent.

  "If someone hereabouts might have one they would like to sell…." Wilona drew a sack of silver coins from the pouch attached to her waist. With the numerous small denomination coins, Dolag could purchase her food and supplies for the remainder of her days from the merchants in the village without drawing undue attention. "I could also provide the seller with a generous portion of our oat harvest each autumn."

  Dolag sat on the short stool, rocking her sturdy body for several moments as she glanced about her, considering her options. "I have a keek-stane I've nay used in recent years."

  "Have you a reason?"

  "It never felt like 'twas truly mine, though I purchased it from a traveling merchant. He said 'twas from the continent."

  "Mayhap 'twas meant for me."

  Dolag nodded. "'Haps."

  Her hope and anticipation growing, Wilona sat forward. "Can I see it?"

  Dolag pushed herself to her feet, shuffled to the cupboard, and pulled open a drawer. She rummaged through some items at the back, then withdrew a small object. As she brought it forward, the beauty of the wee carved mahogany chest fascinated Wilona. Intricate trees and animals decorated the sides. Dolag placed it on a short table near Wilona, slid the lid toward the right, then opened it. She pushed the small box closer to Wilona, allowing her to see inside. A flat, round black stone rested upon wine-colored velvet material.

  "'Tis obsidian," Dolag said.

  "May I hold it?"

  "Aye."

  Hesitating for a moment, Wilona realized this particular object could alter the course of her life and the lives of others. It could give her powers she had only dreamed of. She picked up the stone from its plush bed and cradled it reverently in her gloved hand. 'Twas about five inches wide, and the surface had been polished to a slick finish. When she gazed into the stone, it appeared to be a dark mirror with a gold sheen where she saw her own reflection.

  "How do I use it?"

&n
bsp; "Go into a quiet room by yourself and light a candle. Stare into the stone as you think of the person or place you wish to see."

  "Perfect." She wanted to observe those murderers often so she would know best how to make their lives torturous.

  Wilona placed the keek-stane on the velvet padding, then Dolag closed the lid and handed her the box. Feeling much satisfaction, Wilona handed over the sack of coins, then slid the wooden case into the pouch at her waist. She would need to be careful with it as she rode.

  "I'm most pleased with my purchase, Dolag. I shall go home now and put it all to good use."

  ∞∞∞

  "Riders approaching!" the guard in the stone gatehouse at Caithmore Castle shouted.

  In the bailey, Gavin turned from talking to Torr and Brodie. "How many, Alan?" He glanced around at his own clansmen and their allies from the MacElrath and MacCain clans, wearing plaid and leather armor. They all had heard the announcement and prepared for battle—unsheathing swords and dirks and grabbing targes.

  They had been expecting retaliation for several days. But the MacRaes hadn't yet attacked, giving Gavin and his friends time to send for reinforcements. Now, they had around a hundred and fifty armed warriors.

  "I only see a half dozen!" Alan informed him.

  "Half dozen?" Gavin muttered, surprised at the small number. "Are you certain?"

  "Aye. I have counted six. One appears to be a woman."

  Gavin's father, Chief Lunn MacTavish, bypassed him and his two friends, his long grayish-black hair flying back in the wind. "'Tis a trick, lad. The rest of their soldiers may be hiding in the bracken."

  "Aye." Gavin followed his father up the steps of the gatehouse and peered out over the high curtain wall. A small party rode across the moor. One person near the front wore black skirts.

  "Lady Wilona MacRae," his father growled.

  At this news, Gavin's face tightened, and the stitches that closed his long sword wound pulled like a needle pricking his skin anew. "The harridan." He had met her once, years ago, and held no fondness for her. Of course, he could understand her rage over her son's death, but the knave had attacked Gavin first. And Gavin had a right to defend himself. "Why would she come here with so few guards? She must know we could crush them."

  His father shook his head. "The wench is crafty and nay to be trusted."

  At fifty yards away, the MacRaes paused, then Wilona rode forward with one guard beside her.

  "She is brave; I'll give her that," Gavin grumbled.

  A short distance outside the portcullis, the two drew up.

  "Her ladyship wishes to speak to Gavin MacTavish!" the guard shouted.

  "Stay far back away from her, son. She is the devil's own daughter."

  "Och. I have no fear of her. 'Haps she wishes to tell me she does nay blame me for her son's death."

  "Humph. Doubtful," his da muttered as they descended the steps. "Keep your targe before you at all times. Her guard might try to kill you. Or an archer from farther back."

  Gavin nodded. "Remain here, Da, where you'll be safe. I'm the reason she's here, so I must deal with her."

  Brodie and Torr joined him at the portcullis. All three held targes before them lest a foe should shoot arrows at them through the massive grid of wood and iron.

  The two enemies waited outside, some fifty feet away.

  "Gavin MacTavish," Wilona MacRae yelled.

  "Aye."

  "Torr MacElrath!" she said.

  "How does she ken my name?" Torr muttered low.

  "Alpin told her." Gavin scanned those behind her but didn't see his vile cousin.

  "And Brodie MacCain!" she continued. "You three beasts murdered my son! Justice will prevail. I have placed a curse upon each of you. Your true beastly nature will emerge."

  Brodie snorted. "What nonsense is she spewing?"

  "The harpy belongs in Bedlam." Torr scowled.

  Gavin nodded. "She did act half-mad the first time I met her. A mighty strange woman." He drew nearer the portcullis and raised his voice. "We did nay murder your son, Lady MacRae. He, his men, and Alpin ambushed us in the wood."

  "Liar!" The word burst from her mouth in an enraged snarl. "I refuse to listen to you vilify my son. And if you retaliate against me or try to kill me, my powerful spell will ensnare all of you four-fold. I have spoken my peace." She turned her horse about, then rode away, the guard following.

  "What the hell?" Brodie appeared perplexed. "Is she a witch?"

  "If she is, I did nay ken of it." As Gavin watched, the party of six riders trotted away, back toward MacRae lands.

  "Mayhap 'tis a trick to disarm you. She may send troops back in a few days to attack after we leave," Torr speculated.

  Gavin had no notion of her true plans, but her eerie words about a curse echoed in his mind. A dark cloud passed overhead, and a cold wind whipped through the bailey, giving him a chill. Was she insane or a witch? Rumors of witches had circulated for decades. Their former king, James, had ordered many witch trials and executions during his reign.

  Torr and Brodie remained at Caithmore Castle for a few days, but the MacRaes didn't show their faces again. Their surroundings remained quiet. The MacTavish scouts and guards found no MacRaes hiding in the bracken or the wood near the border. The MacElraths and the MacCains left, returning to their own lands several miles distant.

  A fortnight after Lady MacRae's visit, Gavin awoke at sunrise, an immense and blinding pain slicing through his body. He shoved himself out of bed and landed on the floor. The pain vanished, but when he opened his eyes, he was close to the wooden floor. What the devil? He was only a foot or two tall. He glanced down at his own body and, seeing black feathers, decided he must still be dreaming. He squeezed his eyes shut tight, then opened them again. The feathers remained. He lifted his arm, but… he had no arm.

  'Twas a wing.

  What the hell? He tried to say the words, but a whistling screech emerged from his mouth. He muttered several choice Gaelic words, all whistling sounds. Black feathers covered his chest and abdomen. Wicked talons had sprouted from his feet.

  God help me! What happened?

  The curse. What had the hag said? Their true beastly nature would emerge.

  He turned his head and glanced down over the sleek black feathers of his back. He had a tail like a hawk. Watching the long feathers, he wiggled them as if 'twas completely natural.

  He turned his head, surveying the room, which appeared far larger than ever before. Glad no one was present to witness the abomination he had turned into, he ran across the wooden floor, his long talons clicking.

  He stopped before the full-length silver mirror.

  'Slud! 'Twas true. A hawk stared back at him. Turning his head this way and that, he peered closer to see his eyes were still intense blue.

  Could this be a nightmare?

  Nay, everything felt too real.

  A plague upon Wilona MacRae! How could she do something so vile and evil to him?

  He knew not how such magic worked. How could he change himself back into a human?

  A fresh breeze from the open window ruffled his feathers, distracting him. Though the room was sizable, 'twas still confining, like a cage.

  A craving for freedom and open space surged through him.

  He rushed to the open window and somehow knew how to use his wings to propel himself up to the windowsill. He sat perched three floors up, but the ground did not appear far away. The urge to fly overwhelmed him. He leapt, then outstretched his wings. He was shocked to find himself gliding over the stone walls and out into the gray Highland mist above the moors.

  Chapter 3

  Present-day, North Carolina

  "When are you going to get married, dear?" asked the tiny whitehaired lady at the hors d'oeuvre table.

  Danielle MacRae forced a tight smile. If this weren't her younger sister's engagement party, she would've beat a hasty retreat. Even the delicious barbeque scents coming from the grill couldn't have kept her here. A
lmost everyone she'd chatted with this evening had inquired about her marital status. Talking about her inability to find a date was her least favorite topic.

  Dani ladled herself a generous serving of pink Caribbean punch, hoping it was spiked with plenty of rum.

  "Aren't you the older sister?" Mrs. Deweese, her parents' longtime neighbor, raised her voice to be heard over the squealing future flower girls splashing in the pool nearby.

  Dani nodded, taking a generous sip of the citrusy punch. "No good men are available," she said. Or attracted to me.

  If this were historical times, she would've been considered a spinster at twenty-four. Since most of the guys she'd gone out with over the years had been wrong for her, she'd spent most of her time focusing on earning a Ph.D. in English literature.

  "Well, you're a beautiful girl." Mrs. Deweese grinned like a pixie. "One day, when you're least expecting it, you'll meet a good man."

  Dani couldn't help but smile at the sweet lady who used to give her butterscotch candies as a child. "Thank you. I hope you're right."

  After Mrs. Deweese excused herself and walked away, Dani noticed a new arrival—a guy she had dated briefly years ago, when she'd been seventeen. He hadn't spotted her yet, and she didn't want him to. She slipped behind a pavilion column and glanced back through the flowering vines. She knew she was being ridiculous, but she didn't want to rehash high school with him nor talk about her nonexistent social life.

  Her sister, Gracie, was too busy to notice if Dani took a break from the party.

  After glancing around to make sure no one watched her, she slipped inside the house and into her dad's library. No one would look for her here, she hoped. She would stay away from the French doors where the draperies halfway covered the windows. Late evening had not yet turned to night.

  Dozens of tidy, organized bookshelves dominated the room, giving her a thrill. She took her book nerd tendencies after her father, whom she'd been named after. She had not inherited the social butterfly gene like her mom and sister. This library, and her dad, had influenced her to become an English professor.

  She hadn't visited this room in several months. Her dad had bought a new case with glass doors for his treasured books. After turning on the lamp, she peered inside and spied several first editions—his favorites to collect.