Highlander Ever After: Nvengaria, Book 3 Page 3

  Egan gave her another of his narrow-eyed looks. “Oh, do ye, now?”

  Zarabeth gave him a haughty look right back. “I do, now. Quite a fortification.”

  “’Tis a sieve,” Egan growled. “Too many windows and doors, and there are tunnels beneath that lead out to the hills.”

  Zarabeth sensed he was goading her to some retort, but she couldn’t imagine what. She made a languid flap of her fan, which was also borrowed from his sister. “It was good of you to rescue me.”

  “I could nae verra well tell your father I left ye to die, could I?”

  No, she supposed he couldn’t. Egan would do anything for Zarabeth’s father, including climbing down impossible rocks to wrest his daughter from the sea.

  If only Egan hadn’t grown still more attractive since she’d last seen him. He was thirty-six now—why did he not have a balding head, a large waist, and a sagging face? Why did she want to drink him in and love every sip?

  To stem her irritation and confusion she returned her attention to the dancers. She’d met each of Castle MacDonald’s Highlanders today during the rush of the wedding preparations, and she thought she’d sorted them out. There was Angus MacDonald, Egan’s cousin, now married to Gemma. He was a large man about Egan’s age, with russet hair and dark brown eyes.

  Near him was Hamish, Angus’s “wee” brother, who was as large and bulky and red-haired as Angus. The two younger lads were Dougal Cameron and Jamie MacDonald—Dougal was seventeen and the son of Egan’s sister, Mary, who was presently in Edinburgh.

  Zarabeth watched Jamie, Egan’s fifteen-year-old nephew and heir, bounce across the dance floor, his kilt flying. Zarabeth knew that Jamie’s father, Charlie MacDonald, had been killed in the Peninsular War, in Portugal. It had been after Charlie’s death that Egan had roamed Europe, grieving, and had ended up half drowned in a freezing ditch in Nvengaria.

  The handsome blond Highlander who’d assisted her down from the horse this morning was Adam Ross, Egan’s nearest neighbor. He and his brother Piers were regular visitors to the castle, though at one time, apparently, their families had been deadly enemies. Their kilts were bright red and green with blue, in contrast to the MacDonald blue, green, red, and black.

  Adam, spotting Egan and Zarabeth standing alone, made his way to them. “I hope you are pleased with our Highland hospitality, dear lady,” he said, giving Zarabeth a bow.

  Zarabeth turned a grateful look on him. “Indeed, I find Castle MacDonald lovely. So quaint and full of history.”

  “Drafty,” Egan growled. “And cold. The castle is nae but a pile of rock, most of it falling down. We try to keep it in repair, but nothing lasts.”

  Zarabeth glanced around the hall again. The room looked worn, but the firelight bathed the vast chamber in a warm, friendly glow. It was a chamber that must have seen much—weddings, deaths, births, triumph, tragedy, and happiness.

  “’Tis the curse,” Jamie said, whirling to a stop in front of them. Jamie had long, coltish legs, a young man still growing into his body. “The curse of the MacDonalds. That’s why the place is forever falling down.”

  “Curse?” Zarabeth’s interest perked. She liked stories about places, the odder, the better.

  Egan glared at his nephew. “There is no curse, lad.”

  “Of course there is a curse,” Jamie retorted. “Three hundred years ago, a witch pointed her finger at Ian MacDonald and cursed him.” He held out his hand, forefinger curled, his voice becoming a high falsetto. “‘A curse on the MacDonalds!’—and it has nae been the same since. Ghosties and beasties all over the place.”

  “Nonsense,” Adam said, winking at Zarabeth. “Stories your nanny told you to keep you from running about the castle in the middle of the night.”

  “Nanny Graham was a wise old woman,” Jamie said indignantly.

  “Nanny Graham was mad as a weasel.” Adam laughed. “She thought her hat stand was the Duke of Cumberland and tried to shoot it. Screaming ‘Die, Butcher!’ as she blasted at it with a pistol.”

  Jamie scowled. “She only tried to shoot it a few times.” He turned back to Zarabeth. “See the sword up there?”

  He pointed his long finger to a sword hanging by itself to one side of the massive fireplace. The sword had a thick blade and a simple basket hilt without adornment, a weapon made for fighting rather than show.

  “That is the claymore of Ian MacDonald,” Jamie said. “The legend goes that to break the curse, the sword must be used by the laird for a brave deed, and then the laird and his lady—a woman of magic herself—must chant a rhyme and break the blade together. Only then will the curse be lifted.” His expression turned glum. “But the times of brave deeds are over, unless ye count me and Dougal putting a sheep in Uncle Egan’s bedroom. That took much courage, and he shouted at us something horrible. And we don’t know what the rhyme is. I’ve never been able to find it.”

  “How interesting,” Zarabeth said. She was Nvengarian enough to love stories about curses and prophecies, magic spells and enchantments. In Nvengaria, such things were real—were they in Scotland?

  It intrigued her still more that the story made Egan glower like a bear whose den had been invaded. “Enough of the curse nonsense, lad,” he snapped at Jamie.

  Jamie took on a mutinous look. “But, Uncle, I think it only fair Zarabeth knows she’s living in a castle with a curse.”

  Egan’s brows lowered further, a dangerous man who’d been pushed to the edge. Jamie continued to look rebellious, and Zarabeth feared Egan would haul him away by his ear.

  Jamie was saved as Gemma whirled by, gripping a red-faced Angus by the hand. “Jamie MacDonald!” she shouted. “’Tis my wedding day, and ye’ll dance w’ me. Now.”

  She grabbed Jamie with her free hand and pulled him into the sea of plaid. The fiddler burst into a new and louder tune and the drummer joined in, filling the hall with raucous music.

  Egan’s gaze remained fixed on Jamie as the boy danced away, his expression troubled. “Jamie and his curse. The lad needs to learn the more practical side of running the castle, no’ go on about magic and fairy tales. He’ll be laird someday.”

  “He enjoys it,” Adam told him. “There’s more to being laird than crop rotation and mending roofs, and we know it. It’s understanding the people and their stories.”

  “Aye,” Egan conceded. “Jamie knows every tale every farmer’s granny tells, but nothing about cattle or how to collect rents without beggaring the tenants.”

  Adam clapped Egan on the shoulder. “Leave off the discipline tonight, my friend. Let the lad celebrate.” He looked to where Jamie leapt up and down with enthusiasm, kilt flapping. “Not only are Angus and Gemma finally wed, but Zarabeth has arrived safe and sound.” He smiled at Zarabeth and held out his hand. “Will you favor me, my lady? Egan, do you mind?”

  Egan shrugged, still watching Jamie.

  Zarabeth lifted her chin. “I would be pleased to dance, Mr. Ross.”

  “Excellent. And I am Adam to you.”

  Zarabeth carefully touched Adam’s thoughts, but she found nothing more than a spark of interest in dancing with a young woman he found attractive. He had pride in himself—though Zarabeth didn’t need to read his mind to know that—otherwise, he was simply a handsome man wanting to become better acquainted with a woman.

  She flashed him her sweetest smile. “Then I thank you, Adam.”

  “Excellent.” He held out his arm to lead her away.

  Egan’s thoughts, of course, were a blank to her, but the scowl on his face said it all.

  Chapter 3

  The Curse of the MacDonalds

  Adam Ross wasted no time, Egan thought as he watched Adam and Zarabeth join hands with the other dancers. The circles moved in and out, clasped hands rising and falling, as the fiddler played faster and clapping pounded through the room. In the middle of the noise, Zarabeth danced, her dark hair shining and her eyes sparkling with delight.

  And didn’t she look fine in MacDonald plaid?
The slender skirt outlined her legs and the round of her hips, and the décolletage hugged her fine bosom. She was wrapped in Egan’s colors—all he had to do was claim her.

  He forced his hands to unclench. It had been a long time since he’d seen her, and Zarabeth was much different now. Unfortunately, she’d only become even more beautiful. Her body had filled out into a woman’s curves and she carried herself with confidence and poise. Her hair was lustrous, her lips red, her eyes sparkling.

  But she’d changed in troubling ways. He sensed a darkness in her, more than what could be explained by her flight from Nvengaria and the dangers she faced. Her bright smile was out of place considering all she’d been through. Damien’s letters describing Zarabeth’s husband as the devil incarnate, and then the attempts on her life by him and his supporters, had made Egan’s blood boil.

  I will find ye, Zarabeth, he thought. I will strip away whatever layers you’re hiding behind, and I will nae stop until I have the truth of ye.

  “You think deep thoughts.”

  Baron Valentin had moved to Egan’s side.

  The baron had typical Nvengarian coloring—black hair, very blue eyes, olive-toned skin—the mix of Magyar and Romany ancestry evident. Nvengarians were a wild, unpredictable people, descended from mountain tribes who practiced and believed in magic. After all Egan had seen, he believed in magic too.

  Valentin had the sharp-eyed look of most Nvengarians and something else that hinted of danger. Egan put him at nearly thirty years old, and he stood ramrod straight, almost as tall as Egan’s six-foot-five inches.

  The baron wore a midnight blue frock coat and breeches, and high black boots. Several knives hung from the belt behind his green-and-gold sash. Sashes symbolized rank in Nvengaria—Imperial Prince, Grand Duke, Grand Mage, prince’s advisor, and many other offices. Barons were third and last in the order of aristocrats in Nvengaria, after dukes and counts. Valentin was highborn, not the usual sort of man hired for bodyguard duty.

  Egan said in fluent Nvengarian, “Why did Damien choose you to bring Zarabeth to Scotland?”

  If Valentin was surprised by Egan’s language skills, he made no sign. “He trusts me. Why did he choose you to hide her?”

  “He trusts me too.”

  Valentin gave him an assessing look. “Your castle is defensible at the gate and at the bottom of the cliff, but once inside there are too many holes, too many nooks and crannies. It is not a safe place.”

  Egan knew the truth of this, but for some reason felt defensive. “It has stood against enemies of our clan for eight hundred years.”

  “Noisy Scotsmen with swords and axes, not Nvengarian assassins with silent feet and poisoned darts.”

  Egan understood Valentin’s point. “Someone will be with her at all times—a guard stationed outside her bedchamber door, and she’ll nae go out without armed escort. Those two footmen of hers don’t let her out of their sight.” He motioned to the Nvengarian footmen—who went by the names of Ivan and Constanz, who watched the dancing with delight, but also kept their gazes keenly on Zarabeth.

  “And these Rosses?” Valentin asked. “I have looked into everything surrounding the MacDonalds, and the Ross clan used to be your sworn enemies. Would they not betray Zarabeth in order to thwart you?”

  A very Nvengarian point of view. “Adam Ross is a good man,” Egan said. “Those bloodthirsty days are over. The ’45 ended them when Butcher Cumberland chased down, arrested, and killed so many Highlanders. The Clearances are now seeing to it that the Scottish clans can never be strong again. We stand together, or all of us fall.”

  He knew Valentin didn’t quite believe him, and Egan understood why. Nvengarians nursed grudges for generations, even hundreds of years, while Highlanders had recently learned that in order to survive, they needed to bury the past.

  The Highlanders were only now recovering from the atrocities of Culloden and its aftermath, although Egan knew they’d never truly be the same. Those who might once upon a time have attempted vengeance on the English king were now laboring in the factories of Glasgow, leaving the Highlands silent and empty.

  Even the plaid patterns Egan’s clan and the Rosses wore were recent acquisitions. The Highlanders had been forbidden to wear the plaid or speak their own language after their defeat in 1746—not so much defeat as wholesale slaughter, Egan amended.

  Not until the Highland regiments began in the army and the ban on tartans lifted toward the end of the last century did interest in plaids rekindle. And now that being Scots had been romanticized in novels like Waverley, societies had devoted themselves to the restoration of the clan tartans. All the plaids in Egan’s family had been destroyed—not a scrap from before the ’45 uprising remained.

  “I will watch this Adam Ross,” Valentin was saying.

  “Ye do that.” Egan felt a bit cheered. Adam’s interest in Zarabeth was obvious. “He’ll be watching you too.”

  Valentin gave a brief nod. “As it should be.”

  Egan looked the man up and down again. Valentin hadn’t actually explained why Damien trusted him, and Damien had never mentioned the man before. Valentin was smooth and careful, but Egan now noticed that his eyes were a little different, a very dark blue, the irises slightly larger than normal.

  “Oh, Lord,” he groaned. “Ye aren’t one of those bloody logosh, are ye?”

  Logosh were shape-changers that lived in the mountains of Nvengaria and could choose what shape they’d take, animal or human, even demon. Grand Duke Alexander had turned out to be one of them, his chosen animal shape, a panther.

  Valentin’s brows rose. “You are perceptive. Though I am not full-blooded. My mother was half-logosh, and I possess some of their powers.”

  That explained a few things. Logosh were ferocious creatures, but as long as Valentin protected Zarabeth, Egan welcomed him.

  The dance wound to a close with much cheering and applause. Valentin moved away to circle the dance floor, like a wolf prowling his territory.

  Another dance began, but Egan saw Zarabeth give Adam a polite smile and beg to be excused. Adam led her to a chair like any gentleman in a London ballroom, where she fanned herself and smiled brightly.

  Too brightly. Almost brittle. What had happened to the twelve-year-old girl who’d fished with him in the river behind her father’s house, and the eighteen-year-old flirt who’d asked with a teasing glint what a Highlander wore under his kilt?

  “No one will take it amiss if ye rest yourself upstairs,” Egan said to Zarabeth when he reached her. Adam stood at her side like a sentinel, as though he had nothing better to do. “Ye’ve been through much.”

  Zarabeth’s smile remained in place, but her voice held an edge of coolness. “I am perfectly fine, Egan, thank you.”

  She had dark smudges under her eyes and the fan trembled. If Adam noticed, he made no sign of it. He gave Egan a lazy look as if to say, Push off, old friend, you’re getting in the way.

  Egan offered his hand to Zarabeth. “Then mebbe you’ll dance with me?”

  She raised her brows. “A kind offer, but you are indeed correct that I had a tiring journey. Perhaps I should simply sit and enjoy the music.”

  “Leave the poor lady alone, Egan,” Adam rumbled. “Run off and be laird or something.”

  Egan ignored him, and kept his hand out toward Zarabeth. He exaggerated a polite tone as he said, “Then mayhap Your Grace would like a turn on the terrace to cool down? We have a fine view of the moon from there.”

  Adam snorted. “You haven’t got a terrace.”

  “Mary fixed it up. Zarabeth will like it.”

  At last he saw a sparkle in her eyes, the old Zarabeth emerging. She put her gloved hand in Egan’s and allowed him to lift her to her feet. She gave him a neutral look but turned her warmest smile on Adam. “Thank you, Mr. Ross, for looking after me.”

  “A pleasure indeed, my lady.” Adam made a perfect bow and smirked at Egan.

  Egan, rather abruptly led Zarabeth away.
/>   * * *

  The “terrace” was little more than a crenellation that jutted from the main castle, likely used in violent days as a lookout post for whatever enemy was expected to pour across the valley. The moon was round and full, glittering white, the breeze sharp but bearable. Potted plants gave the terrace color, and a bench had been set here, positioned out of the wind.

  Zarabeth stepped away from Egan. She felt empty when he wouldn’t speak to her, but she had difficulty standing close to him as well. He was too large, too masculine, too real. She’d thought about him for five years, but it was one thing to imagine him, another to have him standing next to her, warm and solid.

  In her dreams he belonged to her, but she knew the true Egan belonged to no one. Women the length and breadth of Europe ate their hearts out over him—they’d been eager to tell her so.

  Egan put his hands on the stone balcony, his arms tightening under his coat. He surveyed the cold valley, moonlight glinting on his untamed hair and touching his hard face. His dark eyes glittered but hid what was behind them. What did Egan think about when he gazed pensively at the land below? Zarabeth hated not knowing, but then again, she feared the truth.

  The silence between them stretched too long. If the bloody man wanted to talk to her, why did he not say anything?

  “Quite lovely,” Zarabeth blurted, sounding like a tongue-tied debutante. “Ingenious. The terrace, I mean. Please give my compliments to your sister.”

  Egan abruptly swung to her, closing the space between them. He gripped her shoulders, his fingers points of heat in the cold. “What is the matter with ye, woman? Ye were shipwrecked and nearly drowned, a man tried to kidnap ye, and ye’d have died had I not heard ye calling. Any other lass would have taken to her bed in hysterics by now. Yet ye smile and dance as though the world is sunny. You’re smilin’ so hard, your face might crack.”

  Her entire body might crack if Egan kept holding her like this. His hands were strong through the thin plaid of her bodice, cutting the chill.