Chapter One #3
were workmen. Minions brought along to do the nobles’ bidding, whose busy hands erected viewing platforms while their hurrying feet flattened the sweetest grass in the glen.
Already, they’d caused scars.
Deep pits had been gouged into the fertile earth. Ugly black gashes surely meant to hold cook fires. Or—James’s throat filled
with bile—the bodies of the slain.
On the hills, naked swaths showed where tall Scots pines had been carelessly felled to provide wood. Jagged bits of the living,
weeping trees littered the ground.
“Christ God!” James blew out a hot breath, the destruction searing him with an anger so heated he wondered his fury didn’t
blister the air.
He went taut, his every muscle stiff with rage.
Beside him, his cousin Colin wrapped his hands around his sword belt. “They haven’t wasted a breath of time,” he vowed, eyeing
the stout barricades already marking the battling ground where so many men would die.
A circular enclosure better suited to contain cattle than proud and fearless men.
James narrowed his gaze on the pen, unable to think of it as aught else. “Only witless peacocks wouldn’t know that such barricading
isn’t necessary.”
Colin flashed a look at him, one brow raised in scorn. “Perhaps they do not know that Highland men never run from a fight?”
“They shall learn our measure soon enough.” James rolled his shoulders, keen to fight now. “Though”—he threw a glance at the
men working on the nearest viewing platform—“I might be tempted to flee their hammering!”
Half serious, he resisted the urge to clamp his hands to his ears. But he couldn’t keep an outraged snarl from rumbling in
his throat. The din was infernal. Any moment his head would burst from the noise. Each echoing bang was an ungodly smear on the quiet of the glen, most especially here, in this most beauteous stretch of the Glen of Many Legends.
Equally damning, the MacDonald wench once again stood at the edge of the chaos. On seeing her, he felt an even hotter flare
of irritation. He stepped closer to the walling, hoping he erred. Unfortunately, he hadn’t. She was truly there, hands on
her hips and looking haughty as she glared at the Lowland workmen.
Joining him at the wall, Colin gave a low whistle. “She’s Catriona MacDonald, the chief’s sister. Word is she’s the wildest
of that heathenish lot.”
“I know who she is.” James glared at his cousin, not liking the speculative gleam in his eye. “And she is wild—so prickly some say she sleeps in a bed of nettles.”
Colin laughed. “She’s bonnie all the same.”
“So is the deep blue sea until you sink in its depths and drown.” James scowled at the lass.
Pure trouble, she’d clearly come to show her wrath. As she’d done every day since the Lowlanders began setting up their gaudy
tents and seating. If Colin hadn’t noticed her before now, James had. He always noticed her, rot his soul. And just now, she was especially hard to miss with the sun picking out the bright copper strands
in her hair and her back so straight she might have swallowed a steel rod. And if he didn’t want to lose his temper in front
of workmen who—he knew—were only following orders, he would’ve marched down to the field days ago and chased her away.
He’d done so once, running her off Cameron land years ago, when he’d been too young and hotheaded to know better than thrusting
his hand into a wasp nest.
She’d stung him badly that day. And the memory still haunted him. At times, sneaking into his dreams and twisting his recollections
so that, instead of sprinting away from him, she’d be on her back beneath him, opening her arms in welcome, tempting him to
fall upon her and indulge in the basest, most lascivious sins.
Furious that she stirred him even now, he tore his gaze from her and frowned at the long rows of colorful awnings, the triumphal
pennons snapping in the wind. The festive display shot seething anger through his veins. Truth be told, if one of the King’s
worthies appeared on the battlements, he wouldn’t be able to restrain himself.
Apparently feeling the same, Colin stepped back a few paces and whipped out his sword, thrusting it high. “Forget the MacDonald
wench and her jackal blood. We could”—he made a flourish with the blade—“have done with yon mummery in the old way! Cut down
the Lowland bastards and toss them into a loch. We then block every entry into the glen, keep silent, and no one need know
they even reached us.”
He grinned wickedly, sliced a ringing arc in the cold afternoon air.
James strode forward and grabbed Colin’s wrist, stopping his foolery. “The old way ne’er included murdering innocents. The
workmen”—he jerked a glance at them—“are naught but lackeys. Their blood on our hands would forever stain our honor. Sir Walter’s
blood, much as I’d love to spill it, would bring a King’s army into the glen. No matter what we did, they’d come. Even if
every clan in the Highlands rose with us against them, their number alone would defeat us.
“And”—he released Colin’s arm, nodding grimly when his cousin sheathed the blade—“King Robert would then do more than scatter us. He’d put us to the horn, outlawing us so that
we’d lose no’ just our land but our very name. A fire-and-sword edict passed quicker than you can blink. That, he would do!”
Colin scowled, flushing red. “Damnation!”
“Aye,” James agreed, his own face flaming. “We are damned whate’er. So we do what is left to us. We keep our pride and honor
and prove what hard fighters we are. With God’s good grace, we shall be victorious.”
Colin’s chin came up, his eyes glinting. “Perhaps He will bless us now.” He flashed a wicked grin and strode for the door
arch. “I’m off to the hall to see if God in His greatness might cause Sir Walter to choke on a fish bone. I shall pray on
the way.”
James’s lips twitched. On another day, he would have thrown back his head and laughed. As it was, he watched Colin hasten
into the stair tower without another word. Only when his young cousin’s footsteps faded did he glance at the heavens and mutter
a prayer of his own.
Then he whipped around to toss another glower at Lady Catriona, even though she couldn’t see him.
He snorted when he saw her.
She’d edged even closer to one of the viewing platforms, her glare pinned on the workmen. James shuddered just looking at
her. He almost felt sorry for the men flamed by her scorching stare. Deepest blue yet piercing as the sun, her eyes could
burn holes in a man if he didn’t take care.
James knew it well, much to his annoyance.
Fortunately, their paths didn’t cross often, but each time they’d had the displeasure, he’d regretted it for days.
Just now, with the wind blowing her skirts and her hair whipping about her face, he almost felt an odd kinship with her. There was something about the challenging tilt of her chin
and the blaze in her eyes that—for one crazy, mad moment—made her not a MacDonald but every Highland woman who’d ever walked
the hills.
Almost, he was proud of her.
But almost was just that—something that hovered just short of being.
He let his gaze sweep over her one last time, glad that it was so. Catriona MacDonald was the last woman he wished to admire.
Blotting her from his mind, he strode to another part of the battlements, choosing a corner where the sight of her wouldn’t
spoil his view. Then he braced himself and stared past the fighting ground to the hills beyond, deep blue and silent against
the sky. Directly across from him, a sparkling rock-strewn cataract plunged down a narrow gorge cut deep into one of the hills.
It was the same vista he enjoyed from his bedchamber window. The sight—as always—took his breath and made his heart squeeze.
This day, the falls’ beauty also quenched any last shred of sympathy he might have felt for the MacDonald she-wolf.
In Cameron hands since distant times, the glen was his birthright and his joy. Cloud shadows drifted across its length, the
gentle play of light and dark bleeding his soul. His eyes misted at the well-loved scene, his throat thickening. He’d always
believed his children would one day love the glen with equal fierceness. That they’d carry on tradition, bound to the land
and appreciating their heritage, teaching their own offspring to do the same.
Now…
He wrenched his gaze from the glen, fury whipping through him like a flame to tinder. He should’ve known better than to come up here. But Colin had wanted to see the workmen’s
progress. And, truth be told, brisk winds always blew across the ramparts and he’d relished a few moments in the cold, clean
air before courtesy demanded he join Sir Walter and his ravenous friends in the hall.
The man’s lofty airs and barely veiled insults were more than any man should have to tolerate within his own walls. And watching
Lindsay and his henchmen eat their way through Castle Haven’s larders—with neither the MacDonalds nor the Mackintoshes helping
with the costs—was as galling as it was enlightening.
No matter how the trial of combat ended, the other two clans of the glen would never change their colors.
Most especially the MacDonalds.
The she-wolf’s presence on the field vouched for their obstinacy. Just as her flay-a-man stares proved they had a touch of
the devil in them.
It was a taint that might serve them well when they soon found themselves in hell.
James’s pulse quickened imagining them there.
It was a fine thought.
A well-met fate that sent a surge of satisfaction shooting through him. He could see them landing on Hades’ hottest hob or
in a deep, icy pit where they could languish for eons, pondering their treacheries.
They deserved no better.
Pity was so many Camerons would be joining them.