Page 8 of Highland Storm

“Ach, child! Go! Ye ha’e nae need for an auld woman’s trembling hands to apply a simple poultice—not when ye’re strong and capable yourself.”

“But—”

“There is no but, Sorcha. Take the poultice to Lìli. She will know what to do with it. And take my book as well. Guard it with your life.”

Frowning, Sorcha’s gaze moved to the high shelf where the book was supposed to be, and gasped in surprise, finding it vanished. Now, it lay beside her upon the table. Dumbfounded, she brushed her fingers across the old leather binding, and a long overdue weariness settled into Una’s bones. “Tell Lìli I will come later.”

“Very well,” Sorcha said, relenting.

“And tell her to set two more plates at table in time for the evening meal.”

Sorcha hugged the book to her breast. “There will be guests?”

“Not precisely.”

Sorcha shook her head. “Ever with the mysteries,” she complained. “Very well, Una. I shall tell her, and I will make certain she makes a tonic as well. Ye’re no’ looking so verra well.” And with that, she picked up the book and came to kiss Una lovingly on the forehead. The kiss was sweet and filled with love and Una lifted grateful eyes. Up close, the evidence was indisputable, even through her tired old eyes. After peering into the keek stane, one of Sorcha’s eyes had turned the color of a leaf in spring, the other remained clearest violet. So many words teetered on the tip of the old woman’s tongue, but she kept her mouth shut, swallowing a wave of emotion that bobbled up like an apple in her throat. She patted her young charge on the arm. “Go. I will come anon.”

With her arms wrapped about the ancient grimoire, Sorcha gave a nod. And keeping it close, she made her way toward the ladder. As she lifted herself out of the grotto, the torch in the room guttered, leaving Una seated in the darkness. The fox moth returned, fanning the air before Una’s nose, before finding purchase on the stone in the hilt of her staff.

“We must prepare,” she said, and the fox moth went perfectly still.

Chapter

Three

Gauging his position against Càrn Dearg—the highest peak of the Am Monadh Liath—Keane dún Scoti sidled his mare as near to the edge as he dared to go. The wind ruffled his black hair and the fur of his heavy cloak tickled his chin.

Nestled between the red hills and the grey, hidden by the pinewood forest below, she would be easy to miss. But the closer he got, the more fervently she whispered to his soul.

Anticipation quickened the beat of his heart. Horseflesh tensed between his muscled thighs. Beithir’s right front hoof clipped the rock and a smattering of loose stones trickled down the bluffside… but then he saw her.

Lilidbrugh.

Huddled beneath the half-light exchange between the sun and moon, she lay strangling in weeds, brambles clawing at her stone. The ancient ruins lay at the edge of the great boreal forest, where his ancestors had once battled Roman legions. Blackened, not by age, but by ash that had been scoured now by nigh on two hundred years of Highland wind and rain, she stood, battered and bruised, clinging to her berth.

Until her doom, she had been the ancient seat of Fidach, the heart of his kinsmen, back when their lands all bore the names of Cruithne’s sons—Cat, Fidach, Ce, Fotla, Circinn, Fortriu and Fib. One by one, all seven Pecht nations had fallen to the Scots or to the Gaels, with the final blow being dealt five years past to Fortriu, elsewise known to the Scots as the Kingdom of Moray. As he’d claimed he would do, David mac Mhaoil Chaluim brought down the Mormaerdom, wresting the North from his brother’s allies and heirs. Against all odds, the youngest son of Malcom Ceann Mor was now the one true king of all of Scotia.

Tendrils of pink and violet wove their way through the dark silhouettes of evergreens, like fingers threaded through a lover’s mane.

Their priestess once said the dawn of their people was past; the sun was setting now, and soon, no one living would remember from whence the dún Scoti had come. They were the last of the painted ones—those men the Romans once called Pechts. They carried the heartbeats of their ancestors in their blood, and the song of their people in their hearts. But like the light of this day, their song was fading fast.

Downwind, by the burn, Keane could hear his men chattering endlessly, none of them overly concerned about being overheard. For his part, he was so entranced by the ruins that he never even heard his friend approach. “What is that?” Cameron asked.

“Lilidbrugh,” Keane replied, and his tongue made love to the name.

“Lilidbrugh?”

“Aye.” The White Lily of Fidach, named after the rare stone from which she was hewn, the white quartz that had been culled and hauled from the lands near the River Ness. And there, in the courtyard had once stood a lavish fount, fed by sweet Highland springs. The fount was drained now, dismantled piece by piece, its keystones chipped away and filed into jewels for the curious.

“Ye’re ogling it like a woman’s arse! Is this what draws us to this god-forsaken place? Tis naught but a pile of rubble, Keane.”

Keane smiled and said nothing more. Like the Stone of Destiny hidden in their vale, some things were not meant to be discussed. “Where are the others?” he asked.

“Stopped to take a piss in the burn.”

“All of them?”

“All. Of. Them. Dirty bastards.”