Devil in a Kilt by Sue-Ellen Welfonder
Chapter 1
Dundonnell Keep, Western Highlands
Scotland 1325
“‘Tis said he’s merciless, the devil’s own spawn.” Elspeth Beaton, unspoken seneschal of the MacDonnell keep, folded her arms over her substantial girth and glowered at her laird, Magnus MacDonnell. “You cannae send the lass to a man known to have murdered his first wife in cold blood!”
“Is that so?” Magnus took another swig of ale, seemingly unaware that most of the frothy brew dribbled into his unkempt beard. He slammed his pewter mug onto the high table and glared back at his self-appointed chamberlain.
“I dinnae care if Duncan MacKenize is the devil himself or if the bastard’s killed ten wives. He’s offered for Linnet, and ‘tis an offer I cannae refuse.”
“You cannae give your daughter to a man said to possess neither heart or soul.” Elspeth’s voice rose with each word. “I willnae allow it.”
Magnus guffawed. “You willnae allow it? You overstep yourself, woman! Watch your mouth, or I’ll send you along with her.”
High above the great hall, safely ensconced in the laird’s lug, a tiny spy chamber hidden within Dundonnell’s thick walls, Linnet MacDonnell peered down at her father and her beloved servant as they argued over her fate.
A future already decided and sealed.
Not until this moment had she believed her sire would truly send her away, especially not to a MacKenzie. Though none of her six older sisters had married particularly well, at least her da hadn’t plighted a single one of them to the enemy. Straining her ears, she waited to hear more.
“Word is the MacKenzie is a man of strong passions,” Elspeth pronounced. “Linnet knows little of a man’s baser needs. Her sisters learned much from their mother, but Linnet is different. She’s e’er run with her brothers, learning their-”
“Aye, she’s different!” Magnus raged. “Naught has plagued me more since the day my poor Innes died birthing her.”
“The lass has many skills,” Elspeth countered. “Perhaps she lacks the grace and high looks of her sisters and late mother, may the saints bless her soul, but she would still make a man a good wife. Surely you can arrange a more agreeable marriage for her? One that isn’t sure to bring her unhappiness?”
“Her happiness matters naught to me. The alliance with MacKenzie is sealed!” Magnus thundered. “Even if I wished her better, what man needs a wife who can best him at throwing blades? And dinnae pester me about her other fool habits.”
Magnus took a long swig of ale, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “A man wants a woman interested in tending his aching tarse, not a patch of damty herbs!”
A shocked gasp escaped Elspeth’s lips and she drew herself to her full but unimpressive height. “If you do this, you needn’t tax yourself by banishing me from the dubious comforts of this hall. ‘Tis gladly I shall go. Linnet will not be sent to the lair of the Black Stag alone. She’ll need someone to look out for her.”
Linnet’s heart skittered, and gooseflesh rose on her arms upon hearing her soon-to-be husband referred to as the Black Stag. No such creature existed. While animals of certain prowess often adorned coats of arms and banners, and some clan chieftains called themselves after a lion or other such noble beast, this title sounded ominous.
An omen of ill portent.
But one she had little time to consider. Rubbing the chillbumps from her arms, Linnet pushed aside her rising unease and concentrated on the confrontation below.
“‘Tis glad I’ll be to see your back,” her father was ranting. “Your nagging willnae be missed.”
“Will you not reconsider, my lord?” Elspeth changed her tactic. “If you send Linnet away, who will tend the garden or do the healing? And dinnae forget how often her gift has aided the clan.”
“A pox on the garden and plague take her heathen gift!” Magnus bellowed. “My sons are strong and healthy. We dinnae need the lass and her herbs. Let her aid the MacKenzie. ‘Tis a fair exchange since he only wants her for her sight. Think you he offered for he because she’s so bonnie? Or because the bards have sung to him of her womanly allures?”
The MacDonnell laird’s laughter filled the hall. Loud and mean-spirited, it bounced off the walls of the laird’s lug, taunting Linnet with the cruelty behind his words.
She cringed.
Everyone in the keep would hear his slurs.
“Nae, he doesnae seek a comely wife,” Magnus roared, sounding as if he were about to burst into another gale of laughter. “The mighty MacKenzie of Kintail isn’t interested in her looks or if she can please him or nae when he beds her. He wants to know if his son is his own or his half-brother’s bastard, and he’s willing to pay dearly to find out.”
Elspeth gasped. “You know the lass cannae command her gift at will. What will happen to her if she fails to see the answer?”
“Think you I care?” Linnet’s father jumped to his feet and slammed his meaty fists on the table. “I am glad to be rid of her! All I care about are the two MacDonnell kinsmen and the cattle he’s giving in exchange for her. He’s held our clansmen for nigh onto six months. Their only sin was a single raid!”
Magnus MacDonnell’s chest heaved in indignation. “‘Tis a dullwit you are if you do not realize their sword arms and strong backs are more use to me than the lass. And MacKenzie cattle are the best in the Highlands.” He paused to jeer at Elspeth. “Why do you think we’re e’er lifting them?”
“You’ll live to rue this day.”
“Rue the day? Bah!” Magnus leaned across the table, thrusting his bearded face forward. “I’m hoping the boy is his half-brother’s brat. Think how pleased he’ll be if he gets a son off Linnet. Mayhap grateful enough to reward his dear father-in-law with a bit o’ land.”
“The saints will punish you, Magnus. The old gods, too.”
“I fear none of them!” Linnet’s father laughed. “I dinnae care if a whole host of saints come after me. The pagan ancients, likewise. This marriage will make me a rich man. I’ll hire an army to send the sniveling lot back where they came from!”
“Perhaps the arrangement will be good for Linnet.” Elspeth squared her shoulders, her voice surprisingly calm. “I doubt the MacKenzie partakes of enough ale each time he sits at his table to send him sprawling face-first into the floor rushes. Not if he’s the fine warrior the storytellers claim.”
“Fine warrior?” Magnus straightened. “Did you no’ just call him a murderer?”
“There are many tales about him.” Elspeth fixed the laird with a cold stare. “Have you ne’er listened when the bards sing of his great valor serving our good King Robert Bruce at Bannockburn? ‘Tis said the Bruce himself calls the man his champion.”
“Out! Be gone from my hall!” Magnus MacDonnell’s face turned as red as his beard. “Linnet leaves for Kintail as soon as Ranald has the horses saddled. If you want to see the morn, gather your belongings and ride with her!”
Peering through the spy hole, Linnet watched her beloved Elspeth give Magnus one last glare before she stalked from the hall. The instant her old nurse disappeared from view, Linnet leaned her back against the wall and drew a deep breath.
Everything she’d just heard circled through her mind. Her da’s slurs and disdain, Elspeth’s attempts to defend her, and then her unexpected praise for Duncan MacKenzie. Heroic acts in battle or nae, he remained the enemy.
But what disturbed her the most was her own odd reaction when Elspeth called the MacKenzie a man of strong passions. Even now, heat rose to her cheeks at the thought. She was embarrassed to admit it, even to herself, but she yearned to learn about passion.
She suspected the tingles that sped through her at the notion of wedding a man of heated blood had something to do with such things. Most likely so did the way her heart had begun to thump upon hearing Elspeth’s words.
Her face grew warmer, as did the rest of her, but she fought to ignore the disquieting sensations. She didn’t want a MacKenzie to bestir her in such a manner. Imagining how her da would laugh if her knew she harbored dreams of a man desiring her chased away the last bits of her troublesome musings.
Resignation tinged by anger settled over her. If only she’d been born as fair as her sisters. Lifting her hand, she ran her fingertips over the curve of her cheek. At least her skin was smooth and unblemished. But while her sisters had been graced with creamy and clear complexions, a smattering of freckles marred hers.
And unlike her sisters’ hair, always smooth and in place, she’d been burdened with a wild mane she couldn’t keep plaited. She did like its color. Of a bolder tone than her sisters’ blondish red, hers was a deep shade of copper, almost bronze. Her favorite brother, Jamie, claimed her hair could bewitch a blind man.
A tiny smile tugged at her lips.
Aye, she liked her hair.
And she loved Jamie. She loved each of her eight brothers, and now she could hear them moving through the hall below. Even as her father’s drunken snores drifted up to her, so did the sounds of her brothers making ready for a swift departure.
Her farewell to Dundonnell Castle. The dark and dank hall of a lesser and near-landless clan chief, her ale-loving da, but the only home she had ever known.
Now she must leave for an uncertain destiny, her place here wrested from her by her father’s greed. Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them away, not wanting him to see them should he stir himself and deign to look at her as she exited his hall.
Steeling herself, she snatched up her leather herb pouch, her only valued possession, and slipped from the laird’s lug. She hurried down the tower stairs as quickly as she dared, then dashed through the great hall without so much as a glance at her slumbering da.
For the space of a heartbeat, she’d almost hesitated, almost giving in to a ridiculous notion she should awaken him and bid him farewell. But the urge vanished as quickly as it’d come.
Why should she bother?
He’d only grouse at her for disrupting his sleep. And was he not pleased to be rid of her? Worse, he’d sold her to the laird of the MacKenzies, the MacDonnells’ sworn enemies since long before her birth.
And the man, king’s favorite and strong-passioned or nae, only wanted her for the use of her gift and because he’d been assured she wasn’t bonnie. Neither prospect was flattering nor promised an endurable marriage.
That being so…
She took one last deep gulp of Dundonnell’s smoke-hazed air as she stood before the massive oaken door leading to the bailey. Perhaps in her new home she wouldn’t be suffered to fill her lungs with stale, ale-soured air.
“Oh, bury St. Columba’s holy knuckles,” she muttered, borrowing Jamie’s preferred curse as she dashed a tear from her cheek.
Before more could fall, she pulled open the iron-shod door and stepped outside. Though late morning, a chill, blue-gray mist still hung over Dundonnell’s small courtyard – just as a pall hung over her heart.
Her brothers, all eight of them, stood with the waiting horses, each brother looking as miserable as she felt. Elspeth, though, appeared oddly calm and already sat astride her pony. Other clansmen and their families, along with her da’s few servants, crowded together near the opened castle gates. Like her brothers, they all wore sullen expressions and remained silent, but the telltale glisten in their eyes spoke a thousand words.
Linnet kept her chin high as she strode toward them, but beneath the folds of her woolen cloak, her knees shook. At her approach, Cook stepped forward, a clump of dark cloth clutched in his work-reddened hands.
“‘Tis from us all,” he said, his voice gruff as he thrust the mass of old-smelling wool into Linnet’s hands. “It’s been locked away in a chest in your da’s chamber all these years, but he’ll never know we took it.”
“What have you done?” With trembling fingers, Linnet unfolded the arisaid and let Cook adjust its soft length over her shoulders.
“Only what you deserve, lass.” He belted the plaid around her waist, the moment solemn. “My wife made this for Lady Innes, your mother. She wore it well, and it is our wish that you will, too. ‘Tis a bonnie piece, if a wee bit worn.”
“It’s perfect.” Emotion formed a hot, choking lump in Linnet’s throat as she smoothed her hands over the arisaid’s pliant folds. A few moth holes and frayed edges didn’t detract from the plaid’s worth. To her, it was beautiful – a treasure she’d cherish always.
Her eyes brimming with tears, she threw herself into Cook’s strong arms and hugged him tight. “Thank you,” she cried against the scratchy wool of his own plaid. “Thank you all! Mercy, but I shall miss you.”
“Then dinnae say good-bye,” he said, setting her from him. “We shall see you again, never worry.”
As one, her kinsmen and friends surged forward, each one giving her a fierce hug. No one spoke and she was grateful, for had they, she would’ve lost what meager control she had over herself. Then one voice, the smithy’s, rang out just as her eldest brother Ranald lifted her into a waiting saddle. “Ho, lass,” Ian called, pushing his way through the throng.
When he reached them, the smithy pulled his own finely honed dirk from its sheath and handed it to Linnet. “Better protection than that teensy wench’s blade you wear,” he said, nodding in satisfaction as she withdrew her own blade and exchanged it for his.
Ian’s eyes, too, shone with unusual brightness. “May you ne’er have cause to use it,” he said, stepping away from her pony.
“May the MacKenzie say his prayers if she does,” Ranald vowed, then tossed Linnet her reins. “We’re off,” he shouted to the rest of them, then swung up into his own saddle.
Before Linnet could catch her breath or even thank the smithy, Ranald gave her pony a slap on its rump and the shaggy beast bolted through the opened gates, putting Dundonnell Castle forever behind her.
Linnet choked back a sob, not letting it escape, and stared straight ahead. She refused – she couldn’t – look back.
Under other circumstances, she’d be glad to go. Grateful even. But she had the feeling that she was merely exchanging one hell for another. And, heaven help her, she didn’t know which she preferred.