Chapter 1
Nip his flesh with white-hot pinchers, force him to bathe in our cesspit, better yet flog and flay him. Pour molten lead down his throat and toss him in a cauldron of boiling oil.
Make him weary of drawing breath.
Hasten his mortal exit.
The snarl of angry voices pierced Donall MacLean’s slumber, waking him at once. Known as Donall the Bold, and proud laird of the great Clan MacLean, he opened his eyes to find himself in what could only be called the antechamber to hell.
Trouble was he wasn’t yet ready to leave this world. He did frown as more threats reached his ears…
Pull him asunder by four stout oxen.
Force him to his knees until he pleads bluidy mercy.
“Yank me apart? Make me beg?” The words burst past Donall’s parched lips, fury sweeping him.
He strained against the bands of iron around his wrists and ankles. Outraged, he glared at the stone-faced graybeards clustered in the cell’s open doorway.
Hatred simmered in their aged eyes, marking them as the crazed bastards who’d hurled such threats upon him.
Behind them, a wall torch sputtered and hissed, its flames edging their gaunt forms with an eerie reddish glow – an odd effect that strengthened his impression that he’d landed in the talons of the horned one and his cloven-footed minions.
“See me plead, would you?” Donall glowered at them. “You will wait long. A MacLean gets on his knees before no man.” His fury spiked at the very idea. “You’re a mad lot. The only getting I’ll be doing is out of here.”
“Aye,” one of the men agreed. “You’ll leave as a corpse tossed from the cliffs, your cold flesh food for the gulls.”
“You’re asking to have your hearts pulled out through your throats.” Donall glared at them. Regrettably, he lacked the strength to do more.
Cold and shivering, he’d been left unclothed to wallow on a pallet of dirty straw. His every muscle screamed in agony and his temples throbbed so fiercely he’d almost swear someone had cleaved his head in two.
Just scowling pained him.
With a low groan, he leaned back against the wall and drew a few shallow breaths. The chill air proved rank and sour, the smell overpowering in its foulness.
Where, by thunder, was he?
And who were his stern-faced tormentors? Why did he feel he should know them?
Sure that he did, he peered hard at the one who’d spoken. A hawk-eyed man with a shock of hair the color of rusted iron, the ancient met his gaze with arrogance.
In truth, they all did.
Waves of anger rolled off their bent and gnarled bones. Several seemed frustratingly familiar, but the pounding in his head kept him from thinking clearly.
And who was Lady Isolde?
The woman whose name the jeering old weathercocks had bantered about earlier, before making their threats.
Or had he imagined the name?
His mind’s attempt to turn his thoughts from his ravaged body?
Or was Isolde a long-forgotten mistress? A faceless partner in a one-time dalliance, come back to haunt him in his darkest hour?
Either way, the name gave him no peace, taunting him with its familiarity. Snatches of angry words and a half-remembered scuffle worsened his confusion.
“No’ so mighty now, are you, Donall the Bold?” Another of the graybeards stepped forward, his eyes glittering in the dimness. “But all isn’t lost. We’re giving you the honor of repenting your sins before our fair chieftain.”
Donall blinked. “Your laird is a woman?”
The graybeards said nothing.
Donall’s mind raced.
Lady Isolde. The name rang in his ears, pestering him.
Bits of conversation he’d had with his brother’s now dead wife, Lileas, joined the chaos in his head, adding to his bewilderment.
Hadn’t Lileas called her sister Isolde? And hadn’t there been talk about Archibald MacInnes’s eldest daughter assuming the role of chieftain upon Archie’s death?
The answers hovered close, but not near enough to grasp. Not with his blood pounding louder than a smithy’s hammer in his ears.
He opened his mouth to curse, but before he could, a tiny, four-footed something skittered across his bare feet.
He jerked his legs, but the cold iron at his ankles wouldn’t let him pull away.
The creature was a rat. And even as he stared at it, another one darted out of the shadows to sniff along his thigh.
Shuddering, he willed the haze to lift from his mind. When it did, he glanced about again, taking in his wretched surroundings and the sorry state of his bruised body.
Equally disturbing was the memory of a tiny, black-garbed crone bending over him. A grizzle-headed hag who’d peered at him from clouded eyes. To his horror, he also recalled the old woman lifting the tattered cloth someone had tossed across his vitals.
Brazen as day, the crone had peeked at what lay beneath.
She’d cackled, even rubbing her hands together once she’d dropped the cloth and straightened.
The gods help him if she turned out to be the ‘fair chieftain.’
“You appear vexed,” said another graybeard. This one had white hair and leaned heavily on a walking stick. Slow, shuffling steps brought him to where Donall sat braced against a cold, slime-coated wall. “Dare we hope you’re regaining your wits? Perhaps remembering the ease with which we took you?
“You, a mighty MacLean.” The ancient nodded, relishing victory.
“I am the MacLean.”
“Och, that we ken.” The man leaned in, his gaze piercing. “How does it feel to have been seized by an insignificant clan such as ours? Doubt you e’er thought to awaken wearing MacInnes irons?”
The MacInnesses!
Donall stared up at the fiend, feeling as if he’d been kicked in the gut. Indeed, he suspected he had. Further, the remaining dredges cleared from his head. Now he remembered.
Everything.
He hadn’t been bested. The bastards had tricked him.
When his brother Iain’s grief upon his wife’s death proved too great to bear, Donall and his friend Gavin MacFie set off alone to bear Lileas’ body home to her clan’s stronghold, Dunmuir Castle.
Upon arriving, they’d been welcomed, thanked, and even offered victuals and ale – hearty fare to sustain them before they continued on their journey, a trip to the mainland to purchase cattle and supplies for the MacLean holding, Baldoon Castle on the opposite side of Doon.
The voyage was one that Donall had hoped to make with a party of MacInnesses. An excursion he’d meant to use to locate the murderer of Iain’s bride.
He’d wanted the matter resolved. Preferably before his brother awakened from his sorrow and set off on his own to avenge his wife’s death. Iain’s rashness would only make a bad situation worse.
Now…
He strained against his fetters. Cold iron emphasized the futileness of his efforts, while the closed expressions on his captors’ faces showed the folly of trying to persuade them to see reason.
If only Archibald were still alive, he might have a chance.
But the old laird was gone.
And the graybeards before him showed none of Archibald’s desire to maintain at least a semblance of peace.
Neither Donall nor Gavin had doubted the plight of the woman they’d come upon not long after they’d left Dunmuir. Moaning, she’d limped about, favoring a twisted ankle. Her supposed injury allowed the scheming MacInnesses to fall upon them from behind when they’d stopped to help her.
“What ails you, laddie?” The white-haired ancient nudged Donall’s thigh. “Have you lost your tongue?”
“What have you done with Gavin?” Donall struggled to sit up straighter.
“If you’ve harmed him, it is your clan who will be tipping your heads, awaiting MacLean steel.
” He directed his threat to the hawk-eyed man he at last recognized as the late MacInnes laird’s brother, Struan.
“More than that, I’ll make sure the henchmen use dulled blades. ”
“Strong words for a man in chains.” Struan’s gaze flicked over Donall’s iron-bound limbs. “Your man rests in his own cell and more comfortably than you. We bear no grudges against the MacFies. Our fight is with you.”
“Striking a man from behind is no’ fighting.” Anger swelled in Donall’s gut. “Such trickery was a sorry deed, one I doubt your brother would’ve allowed.”
“Archibald is dead.” The youngest-looking graybeard stepped forward. “Struan is now our ceann cath, advising us in war matters. We also have the wisdom of our years.
“That is enough.” Looking pleased, he went to stand before the chink in the wall that served as the cell’s only window.
Though narrow, the slit allowed a bit of light and an occasional stirring of brisk sea air to enter the chamber.
By blocking the opening, he stole the scant comfort in the dank confines.
A knowing smile spread across the man’s face. “You see, Donall the Bold, brawn is not required to make an enemy squirm. Clever planning can often wreak a more fitting revenge than a well-wielded sword.”
“It is the taste of my well-wielded steel you shall suffer if you do no’ release me at once.” Donall’s anger heated his blood until he could no longer feel the dungeon’s chill.
“Your blade is secured,” Struan countered. “Indeed, your days of swinging swords are past. Even your supposed prowess with another sort of, shall we say, thrusting weapon, will serve you no more.”
Bracing his hands on his hips, he looked Donall up and down. “You shall regret being denied the use of that sword once you glimpse our fair lady chieftain. But alas, sampling such a tender fruit as she is a pleasure beyond your reach.”
“I would sooner plunge my staff into a she-goat.” Donall glared at him. He wanted to lunge at the man, but his shackles cut into his wrists and ankles, preventing him. “May my shaft wither and fall off before I-”
“Be assured I find the notion equally displeasing.” The woman’s voice floated to him out of the shadows. And what a voice it was: smooth and rich as cream, yet spiced with a dash of pepper.
Donall froze.