A Dark Highland Magic: Hot Highlands Romance Book 4 Read online

  A Dark Highland Magic

  Kelly Jameson

  The grit, beauty, and romance of 15th century Scotland come alive in A Dark Highland Magic!

  Kat Martin, NYT best-selling author, says Kelly Jameson’s Highland romance series is "filled with passion, intrigue, vengeance, and all-consuming love."

  “Jameson's strength lies in her world-building...

  she demonstrates a solid knowledge of Highlands history and lore." BookLife Prize/Publisher’s Weekly

  “Kelly Jameson’s A Lady and Gentleman in Black is a riveting, blood-curdling mystery, replete with exciting red herrings, that will appeal to both fans of the genre as well as those intrigued by art history.”

  BookLife Prize/Publisher’s Weekly

  A Lady and Gentleman in Black, winner of the 2018 BookLife Prize Mystery/Thriller category, is a “fascinating and intriguing twist on the crime genre.” Adam Croft, Worldwide Best-Selling Crime Writer

  EXCERPT from A DARK HIGHLAND MAGIC

  A muscle in his jaw twitched. “I had dreams of ye, more recently.”

  “Did ye dream of returning me to the Maclean dungeons? Of driving a stake through my heart? Of shackling me and taking me out to sea and throwing me overboard…or maybe….”

  “I dreamed I kissed ye like this.”

  He lowered his head and his mouth claimed hers. Kat found the hall and its dreamers and dancers falling away under the touch of his experienced lips. His arm went around her back and he pulled her taut against his wide chest while his other hand cradled her head. His arms were strong. He was in control, all man, authority and strength. His tongue was bold. Her breasts were pressed against his chest; his legs were iron hard muscle against her thighs. Of their own accord, her hands crept up around his neck and her fingers threaded his dark hair, which was still unbound. It was silky to the touch.

  He pulled away. “We all need a home, Kat.” His breath was warm on her ear. “A shelter and a hearth. A cold cave filled with twigs, plucked flowers, and stones is no place for a lass like yerself.”

  Her senses were returning and she balled her hands into fists at her sides while his eyes searched her face.

  “Even though ours is a marriage of convenience, I can offer ye safety here. A home, of sorts. In time, as my wife, people will forget yer a MacDonald, and people will forgive ye.”

  “Forgive me? What of the slaughter of my brothers? I will never forgive them for that!”

  “I wish it hadn’t been so.”

  Kat didn’t trust herself to speak.

  “Ye may find me a hideous toad with a scarred face, but marriage to me will be better than returning ye to the animal Angus or a lonely life living in caves. Ye think me a monster, but I am not. I merely offer ye a different life. And if not romance…or love…ye’ll have a home, a hearth. Ye’ll have a less than perfect husband with a scarred face…a husband who would never harm ye.....”

  Text copyright © 2019 by Kelly Jameson

  All Rights Reserved

  Cover credit: SelfPubBookCovers.com/andrewgraphics

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, incidents or locales is entirely coincidental.

  No distribution or reproduction is permitted without the written

  permission of the author. For more information, write

  [email protected].

  Books by Kelly Jameson

  Ann Yang Mysteries

  Dead On (Book #1)

  A Lady and Gentleman in Black (Book #2)

  Hot Highlands Romance Series

  Spellbound (Book #1)

  Across a Dark Highland Shore (Book #2)

  Beneath a Dark Highland Sky (Book #3)

  A Dark Highland Magic (Book #4)

  Other Titles

  Desperate, Disturbed, Deranged & Double-Latted (short stories)

  Don’t Say Her Name

  Full Moon Cleaners (pen name James Nolan; Book #1)

  Hollow Gods (Book #1)

  Jer-Z (pen name Dee Kay)

  Moby Dickhead: or the White Zombie Whale

  Shards of Summer

  The Falcon’s Prize

  To Tame a Rogue

  What Remained of Katrina: A Novel of New Orleans

  To family, the true gift.

  For my mom, editor extraordinaire, mom extraordinaire, and friend extraordinaire.

  And to the brave women history forgot.

  Prologue

  Duart Castle, Mull Island, 1475

  Bodies were numb from cold but hearts burned hot with rage as the ancient language of the gods rang out—sword clanging against sword, axe raking axe. Sparks leapt from weapons as if in an ancient dance; wood and bone splintered in the onslaught of violence.

  The boy stood on a war galley in the middle of it all, but no one could see him. Ocean waves curled and clawed at the galleys amassed in the bay, hauling many of them to silence beneath the dark, churning waters.

  A man had wedged an oar in the stern-post of the boat the boy stood on, between the helm and ship, rendering it useless. Conall Maclean could hear the grunts of the men who stormed the paralyzed ship. With each breath, he smelled the damp sea air.

  The northwesterly wind and sprays of spume slapped hard against the boat’s sides. But Conall was like a ghost watching it all, a wraith, a spiral of smoke, twisting about and trying to make sense of the air and forms around him.

  He knew the Macleans, members of his own clan who were called Spartans of the North, brandished swords, axes, and dirks. Macleans were excellent swordsmen. But like many Highlanders, they would also fight with their fists and teeth to defend what was theirs if they had nothing else. Macleans were descended from Gillean of the Battle Axe, who had fought at Largs many years ago. Gillean had been a vassal of Robert Bruce, Lord of Carrick and the father of Robert the Bruce, who became King of Scots in 1306.

  The fiercely independent Macleans had chosen to answer the Scottish king’s call for help this time. That much the lad had gleaned. The MacDonalds and the Macleods of Harris were there too, and the Macneils of Barra. The Macleods—descendants of the Norse King Olave the Black—and some of the others, enemies of the king, had aligned themselves with a man named Angus Og MacDonald, the bastard son of John MacDonald, who apparently wanted to overthrow his own father as Lord of the Isles.

  Conall put his small hand out and it went right through the muscled belly of a fierce, red-bearded warrior whose face dripped blood from a gash in his forehead—and came clean out the other side.

  Despite bodies toppling over the sides of the galley, gulped up by churning waters, Conall was not afraid. He needed only to concentrate on all that was happening around him and to remember it.

  Boldly he strode forward on the galley, moving through mountainous forms of men swinging blades, axes, and even oars. He stopped when he saw the chief of the Macleods killed, his kinsmen unfurling the Fairy Flag, which had magical powers that could turn the tide of battle in favor of the ones who had unfurled it.

  Upon raising their eyes and seeing the flag snapping sharply in the cold gusts of wind, the Macleods, who had aligned with Angus Og, switched sides and began fighting for the Scottish king’s forces.

  Young as he was, Conall was astute; he knew the battle had already been decided. The king’s forces were soon defeated. Galleys for both sides burned, wood cracking and groaning, sinking to the bottom depths of the cold bay, there to join the watery graves of men lost in battle. Angus Og may have won a victory but he’d lost half his fleet an
d many clansmen.

  Angus Og had no mercy in his hardened soul. His heart was like a wet rock; things like compassion and mercy slid off it. He took many prisoners, including his own beleaguered father, John MacDonald.

  Conall closed his eyes and a moment later knew he was ashore, huddled inside a cave with many men who wore Maclean colors. The men had been cornered without weapons. Having jumped from the sinking galleys, they swam for shore and the cave. But a short time later, the cave began to fill with smoke and the men began to choke on it. Gasping for breath, lungs stinging, they panicked and raced outside. Conall watched helplessly as they were massacred. He ran outside too, trying to stop it—raising his small fists in the air though he knew it to be useless. He brushed at something on his face and realized he’d been crying.

  In the next moment he was back on an impressive galley, watching Angus Og shout, the veins near his temples pulsing as he threatened to execute Hector Maclean, a chief of clan Maclean. Someone intervened. Conall guessed he was also a chief, maybe the Chief of the Clanranalds. “But Angus, ye’d have no one as fierce and skilled to battle if Maclean were struck down!”

  Hector Maclean’s life was spared but he was forced to give his oath of fidelity to the shaggy brute Angus, the undisputed new Lord of the Isles.

  The lad had seen enough. He closed his eyes and felt as if he were falling through time. When he awoke, his father, Malcolm Maclean, sat by his bedside, concern etched on his rugged face.

  Conall’s mother Sorcha had always told Conall he was the spitting image of his Da—he had the same gold-hazel eyes and the same hair, black as a churning sea at midnight or a mountain dark with moss. Conall wondered if he would still look like his Da when he was a grown man. More importantly, he wondered if he would ever be as brave and wise as Malcolm Maclean. He didn’t feel brave or wise at the moment. Truth be told, he was a little afraid of his father though he knew his father loved him fiercely.

  Wind howled, scouring the stone walls of the castle, tearing at the wooden shutters. Ocean waves pummeled the rocky shores below. Conall’s mother stood in the doorway to his chamber in her white nightgown, her dark auburn hair, bound in a single long braid, catching the gold light of the fire in the hearth. She cradled a babe in her arms—Conall’s fussing sister Mollie. Mollie never seemed to be still when she was awake.

  Malcolm smoothed his son’s damp hair back from his forehead. “Ye cried out in yer sleep.” He wiped tears from the lad’s cheeks. “What troubles ye, lad? Did ye have a bad dream?”

  Conall shook his head, ashamed at his little-boy tears. “’Twas not a dream, Da.” He held his small fist up, looking at his fingers in wonder. “I was like a ghost, watching. I could see everyone and everything but they couldna see me. I was on a galley, in a bay, in the middle of a bloody battle. I was brave. I could put my hand right through the fighting warriors. I saw Macleans….” He frowned.

  A look passed between Malcolm and Sorcha.

  “I saw Macleans,” he gulped, “huddled in a cave after the battle. I saw them die, cut down by the bloodied axe of a man named Angus MacDonald and others like him. The Maclean men had no weapons to defend themselves. They had nothing but their fists!”

  “MacDonalds have been foe to Maclean more often than friend,” Sorcha said, frowning. “The reeky, rump-faced swines are not to be trusted!” She came into the chamber and sat on the bed, Mollie cooing and gurgling in her arms.

  “There was a time when I swore ne’er to trust ye or yer own Douglas clan, wife,” Malcolm teased.

  Sorcha ignored him, the tilt of her head proud. “It sounds like ye had a vision, Conall,” she said.

  “Ye mean I saw the future?”

  “Ye may have, lad,” Malcolm said.

  “But I saw Maclean men die,” he whispered.

  “Dunna fear the future, lad,” Malcolm said. “What ye saw doesn’t necessarily have to come to pass. Tell me about yer vision. Sometimes our dreams and visions can help us avoid the vera futures we fear.”

  Conall told them of the galleys, the bloody battle in the stormy bay, the man Angus who had fought his own father, and the raising of the magic Fairy Flag. He told them of the dark, dank seaside cave, the smoke, and what came after. He told them what the other chief had said to Angus to stop him from killing Hector Maclean. “He said Angus would have no one as fierce and skilled to battle if Maclean were struck down.”

  The lad’s voice rose in waves of alarm. “I ne’er want to go back to that cave. ‘Twas so cold. There was smoke and screaming and it was hard to breathe….”

  “Hush,” Sorcha said. “Ye dunna have to go back, Conall. Yer Da has some experience with The Sight. He had it as a lad too, and he can help ye understand it and use it to yer advantage so ye dunna have to fear the future or fash yerself that the things ye see in yer visions are certain to pass.”

  “But what if such horrible things do come to pass, Mama? What if it was a warning? Why would I see such things in my sleep if I canna ken their meaning? If I canna stop them from happening?”

  “When I had a disturbing vision as a lad I prayed to God,” Malcolm said. “God is always stronger than our fears, our frightening dreams, and our visions. He will guide us, always. And always I am grateful. Thank God I am a Maclean!”

  Conall pursed his lips. “Da, will there always be fierce Macleans on this island for someone to battle with?”

  Malcolm smiled. “God willing. If we have anything to say about it son, yea. There shall always be Macleans in this castle. And there shall always be Macleans raising their swords in the Highlands! When yer auld enough, ye’ll raise yer own sword.”

  Conall nodded. “Before the battle I saw a strange man who betrayed Scotland for England, who was banished from his clan by Angus. The banished man was alone. He hid beneath an old boat. Though he was of clan Macdonald, I dunna ken who he was. I couldna see all of his face. It was in shadow. I could only see his eyes. I dunna understand it, but I ken that’s why there was a bloody battle in the bay. Because of a man with eyes the color of watery ale.” He sat up in bed. “And there was a young king in chains, but the chains were around his waist! Next to his skin. The chains caused him great pain, yet he wouldna take them off. This king could speak Gaelic! He could speak our tongue. The language of the gods.” He frowned. “Da, are visions magic?”

  Malcolm sighed. “I think ‘tis time I told ye about a certain youthful king who tried to burn me at the stake because of my gift, because of my visions. A king who was vera interested in fortune tellers and scryers, in Seers and futures, particularly his own. It happened at Edinburgh castle. He posted a notice which said witch and trial by fire. I was roped to a stake. The townsfolk hurried up the long hill to the castle, women hiking up their skirts, their bare feet dirty and their breath sharp and piercing in their chests, so eager they were to see me die!

  “These people didna ken me. They’d ne’er met me! But a king had called me Witch and they were afraid. Some spit at me. A few wee children threw stones. Ye see, Witch is a word people use when they dunna ken something, when their hearts and minds are filled with fear. Yer old enough to hear the tale and learn from it, and to ken there are men in high positions who are as wicked and twisting as the flame they long to lie at another man’s feet.”

  Conall’s eyes grew round. Sorcha handed Mollie to Malcolm and got up to tend the fire in the hearth, which flickered softly, making shadows reel about the room.

  Malcolm’s big hands cradled his infant daughter tenderly. “’Tis the perfect time to tell ye how yer Da survived—with a wee bit of magic and faith and help from a few unexpected allies.” He looked at Sorcha. “And the love of a vera special lass.”

  Sorcha smiled. “’Twas more than a wee bit of magic,” she said, love shining in her deep green eyes. But then her smile disappeared. “That day was the longest of my life.”

  Mollie had the same long lashes and green eyes as her mother, and as her tiny fingers curled around one of Malcolm’s, she seemed to s
tudy her brother with fascination.

  “Conall, pay attention now,” Malcolm said as he told him the story of how he’d escaped. Conall sat nearly on the edge of the bed as he listened.

  When Malcolm had finished, Conall jumped off the bed and retrieved a small bronze lion from the hearth. He looked at it in wonder. The toy lion could wiggle its tail and let out a tiny roar. “The magician at the royal court gave ye this, didn’t he?”

  “Aye,” Malcolm said. “And I gave it to ye. I have one for Mollie too, when she’s old enough to play with it.”

  Conall climbed back into his bed, holding the toy lion.

  “When ye look at that tiny lion, I want ye to remember something, Conall. Sometimes we have to make our own magic to survive. ‘Tis something ye best remember during battles fought and battles yet to come. During the darkest of times. Remember. There is magic when the fish flash silver in shimmering summer lochs. There is magic when people play their pipes and fiddles and Seanachie tell their well-loved tales of auld. There is magic in the wind that claws the shrubs and grasses of the moorland and tickles the royal capes of purple heather blanketing the hills. Remember. There is magic where ye least expect to find it—if ye look hard enough. Magic in tiny things and sometimes in the most simple of things.

  “Promise me, lad, ye’ll always look for it. For ‘tis my wish that ye’ll always be able to find it.”

  “I promise, Da. I promise to always look for the magic, even in the darkest of times. In battles fought and battles yet to come. I will.”

  Chapter 1

  Finlaggan Castle, 1478

  The great hall of the castle was alive and bustling with activity.

  Lord of the Isles, John MacDonald, sat at the great table on the dais, his cup of whisky in hand. He did not smile. He only half-heartedly watched the young men competing in the sword dance, an intricate movement requiring great skill and agility. There were currently eight swords on the floor of the great hall, and as the movements became faster, if yer feet touched or knocked a sword, ye were eliminated from the contest. If someone could complete the dance without touching any of the swords, it meant the clan would be victorious in coming battle. So far, none had completed the dance.