"Alpin told her," Gavin muttered.
"And Brodie MacCain!" she shouted. "You three beasts murdered my son. Justice will prevail. I have placed a curse upon each of you. Your true beastly nature will emerge."
"What nonsense is she spewing?" Brodie growled.
"The harpy belongs in Bedlam." Torr no longer felt sorry for her. She had gone mad if she thought Torr and his two friends had no right to defend themselves in a surprise attack.
"We did nay murder your son, Lady MacRae," Gavin roared. "He, Alpin, and their men ambushed us in the wood."
"Liar! 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 and the guard turned and rode away. The rest of their party followed.
"What the hell?" Brodie said. "Is she a witch?"
"If she is, I did nay ken of it," Gavin said.
What was the MacRaes' secret strategy? Why had their new chief not come along? "Mayhap 'tis a trick to disarm you," Torr said. "She may send troops back in a few days to attack after we leave."
Low dark clouds hung overhead, their gloom blocking most of the sunlight, and a sharp, icy breeze swirled through the courtyard. The mad woman's sinister words about a curse replayed through his mind.
Torr and his clansmen remained at Caithmore several days longer, but no MacRaes appeared. The scouts reported that none lingered in the wood or surrounding area.
Finally, Torr took his leave and returned with his fellow clansmen to MacElrath lands and Castle Dubhuisge. Still, the strange lady's vile words about a curse haunted him. What had she meant? Did she possess some dark power?
***
JUST OVER A WEEK LATER, Torr, Angus, and a few of their clansmen returned from a stag hunt at sunset. As they left the stables and crossed the bailey, a strange and unexpected battle rage seized Torr's mind and body. He had no reason to feel angry or violent. Had he suddenly developed second sight, which was warning him of danger? His muscles tensing, he paused and glanced around the bailey, paved with cobblestones and enclosed within granite walls but detected no threat. A few of the clansmen and servants milled about as usual.
"What's wrong?" Angus stopped beside him, his pale brown eyes concerned. "You look ready to kill someone."
Torr shook his head, for he had no notion. The tension in his chest grew, along with his fury, and his body felt stronger with each passing moment.
An explosion burst through him, the light of it blinding him briefly and the painful, fiery energy propelling him forward.
A moment later, the sharp ache drained away, but the heat remained. He had never felt such power and strength infusing his muscles—such energy. The need for action overwhelmed him. If he couldn't race headlong across the moor, he would go mad. He sprinted across the bailey, but strangely, his feet slipped over the cobblestones. Glancing down, he was shocked to see a horse's front hooves and sleek white fur covering the legs.
What the hell?
Glancing aside, he found a long white mane at the edge of his vision.
Had he experienced an apoplexy and gone mad? Passed out and hit his head, spawning the strangest dream imaginable—that he was a horse?
Angus and his clansmen stood gawking at him, their mouths agape and eyes wide.
The chaotic rage that churned within Torr wrecked his reasoning ability. With an unhinged, roaring neigh, he reared and galloped around the bailey, his hooves thundering.
The clansmen scattered, yelling and fleeing for cover. Even Angus backed up several paces. "Torr? That cannot be you!" He glanced around as if looking for him. "What happened?"
Unable to suppress his boundless energy, Torr flung his front hooves into the air. Damnation, how he craved the freedom of running across a moor at breakneck speed. He approached the portcullis, turned, and kicked his back hooves against it, near knocking it from the chains.
"Open the gate!" Angus shouted.
The guards in the gatehouse obeyed the command, but 'twas still a slow process. Torr bolted toward the opposite stone wall, rearing and bucking. By the time he returned, the guards had raised the portcullis halfway. He ducked under it and bounded through.
He breathed a sigh of relief as the chill night breeze blew over his heated body. He was not runningfromanything. He was running toward sanity, trying to expend the overwhelming power of his fury. He indulged in a mad gallop at great speed, his hooves pounding across the earth. When the glimmering water of the loch came into view, a fierce craving for its wet coolness possessed him. He might die if he couldn't submerge himself there.
From the bank, he held his breath and leapt. He knew the water to be deep, for he swam here in summer. His robust equine body produced a tremendous splash as it hit the water, and he sank into the refreshing cold. The scorching ferocity subsiding, he paddled with all four legs, then raised his head above the water's surface.
'Twas his first moment of sanity since the strangeness had besieged him.
