Highland Fire (Guardians of the Stone)

Published by Oliver-Heber Books

Copyright 2013 Tanya Anne Crosby

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced or transmitted in any manner whatsoever, electronically, in print, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of both Oliver-Heber Books and Tanya Anne Crosby, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

PUBLISHER'S NOTE: 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, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Highland Fire by Tanya Anne Crosby

Edited by Rima Laham Jean

ISBN-10:0989840824

ISBN-13: 978-0-9898408-2-8

COPYRIGHT © Tanya Anne Crosby

Published by

“Enchanting landscapes, breathtaking betrayal, and heartwarming passion herald Tanya Anne Crosby's triumphant return to ancient Scotland.”
–Glynnis Campbell, Internationally Bestselling Author

“Tanya Anne Crosby is a master of her genre … Highland Fire will keep you turning the pages late into the night!”
–Laurin Wittig, Internationally Bestselling Author

“Tanya Anne Crosby returns to writing historical fiction as only she can: superbly and beautifully. Love, honor, suspense, passion... all the good things we love in a Highlander Romance.”
–Suzan Tisdale, bestselling author of Rowan's Lady

“Crosby’s characters keep readers engaged…”
–Publishers Weekly

“Tanya Anne Crosby sets out to show us a good time and accomplishes that with humor, a fast paced story and just the right amount of romance.”
–The Oakland Press

“Romance filled with charm, passion and intrigue …”
–Affaire de Coeur

“Ms. Crosby mixes just the right amount of humor … Fantastic, tantalizing!”
–Rendezvous

“Tanya Anne Crosby pens a tale that touches your soul and lives forever in your heart.”
–Sherrilyn Kenyon #1 NYT Bestselling Author

For my husband, Scott, the original dún Scoti,

And to all who still believe in faerie tales,

With thanks to Lael Telles, for the use of her lovely name.

Thanks also to my daughter Alaina Christine Crosby-Barber, and to dear friends and fellow authors Laurin Wittig, Glynnis Campbell and Suzan Tisdale—along with Barb Batlan-Massabrook and Rima Laham Jean—you helped to send this book out the door.

Thanks also go to my writing support team: Danelle Harmon, Cynthia Wright and Jill Barnett. You ladies kept my butt in the chair!

Finally, if I haven't said it enough, thank you from the bottom of my heart to all my loyal readers.

“L
et us go forth, the tellers of tales, and seize whatever prey the heart long for, and have no fear. Everything exists, everything is true, and the earth is only a little dust under our feet.”—
William Butler Yeats, The Celtic Twilight

• Praise
  
• Dictionary
  
• The Caimbeul Curse
  
• Chapter One
  
• Chapter Two
  
• Chapter Three
  
• Chapter Four
  
• Chapter Five
  
• Chapter Six
  
• Chapter Seven
  
• Chapter Eight
  
• Chapter Nine
  
• Chapter Ten
  
• Chapter Eleven
  
• Chapter Twelve
  
• Chapter Thirteen
  
• Chapter Fourteen
  
• Chapter Fifteen
  
• Chapter Sixteen
  
• Chapter Seventeen
  
• Chapter Eighteen
  
• Chapter Nineteen
  
• Chapter Twenty
  
• Chapter Twenty-One
  
• Chapter Twenty-Two
  
• Chapter Twenty-Three
  
• Chapter Twenty-Four
  
• Chapter Twenty-Five
  
• Chapter Twenty-Six
  
• Chapter Twenty-Seven
  
• Chapter Twenty-Eight
  
• Chapter Twenty-Nine
  
• Chapter Thirty
  
• Chapter Thirty-One
  
• Chapter Thirty-Two
  
• Epilogue
  
• Author's Note
  
• The MacKinnon's Bride
  

Provided for better reading enjoyment. For Gaelic words not included here, the meaning has been worked into the story itself. Look for both the Gaelic words and the English translation in italics.

Am Monadh Ruadh:
the Cairngorms, but literally the red hills distinguishing them from Am Monadh Liath, the grey hills

Arisaid:
lady's version of a great kilt, used more like a cloak in earlier eras as the actual plaid did not arrive until much later in Scottish history

Ben:
mountain

Corries:
mountains, or hills

Crannóg:
wooden dwellings the early Picts used as homes, often built over a body of water

Keek stane:
a scrying stone, or crystal ball

Loch:
lake

Mo chreach
: exclamation, used in surprise or disappointment

Scotia:
Scotland, also known as Alba

The Mounth:
range of hills on the southern edge of Strathdee in northeast Scotland

Uisge-beatha:
whiskey, literally means water of life

Vin aigre:
vinegar or sour wine

Fire of the candle, heat of the flame,

Strike a blight on the Caimbeul name.

Gift of beauty I now bestow, and lo,

Accursed his bairn will grow.

Violet eyes and skin so fair,

The last his name will ever bear.

Tempt the Weeper, it be done,

Love’s first kiss will bear a son.

On the fortnight of its birth,

Forfeit honor, life and worth.

No' by Caimbeul hand, nor by his will,

No sons, nor daughters blood he'll spill.

By all on high and law of three,

This is my will, so may it be.

—The One

King David’s Secret Council

Somewhere in Scotia, 1125

“
S
he’s a witch, I say!”

The king blew an impatient sigh. “Simply because minstrels sing it does not make it so. She is skilled in the simples, so what?”

“Nay, Your Grace, I myself have witnessed miraculous recoveries by her hand. Last fall, she passed a maid’s bairn through a wreath made from woodbine and the boy’s fever simply vanished.”

The King’s answering expression was full of mockery. “A wreath, ye say?” A guffaw erupted from the depths of his belly. “Art certain it wasn’t a halo instead? Perchance the girl’s a saint?”

Quiet laughter sliced through the tension in the hall.

“Saint Lìleas,” one advisor quipped, leaping at the opportunity to earn the king’s favor.

From the far end of the table came a crude jest. “Not with tatties like those, I'll warrant. If she came tae my sickbed, all I’d be wailin’ for are those sweet nipples ’twixt my lips!”

The chamber erupted with nervous cackles.

But despite the levity of the moment, the discussion at hand was a sober one. Held in the most private of quarters, with doors closed and guards posted outside, King David of Scotia had gathered his most trusted advisors, along with a discreet group of influential chieftains. Each mulled over the dilemma he had presented—how to quell the most rebellious of Highland tribes—and how to do so without bringing the clans to further bloodshed. Boorish and weary, the council had been ensconced now for long hours. The chamber reeked of sweat, greed and fear. After so many hours of keeping counsel, the billowing black smoke that crept up from the pitch torches had embedded new layers of soot into the ceiling. Flies had begun to swarm the picked-clean carcass of a hog that sat in the center of the table. No one had allowed the serving wenches to enter to clear the leftovers for fear of being overheard. The ewers were long empty now, and so were the goblets, save for a swallow of backwashed spit from their mouths.

As for the mood prior to the meeting, the empty seats at table were a reminder that not every chieftain held the same influence in David's court. There were a few whose absence was conspicuous—in particular the MacKinnon laird, who was perhaps the greatest thorn in David’s side. In fact, were it not for the MacKinnon’s interference, they might already have had a valuable pawn on their board.

But it was not the MacKinnon they discussed at length today. At the moment, the subject of the discussion was likely the second greatest threat to David’s throne—a Highland rebel, who, while he held no obvious design to plant his arse upon the Stone at Scone, could do much to rouse the clans against David mac Mhaoil Chaluim. These were uneasy times and David had spent far too much of his youth in England. There were many who did not welcome his rule.

The King cleared his throat. “Being cursed is not the same as cursing others—nor do I believe in witches. But for the sake of argument, how would the lass be of any use to me?”

“Ach, but dinna ye see, Your Grace?
Everyone
who loves her dies!”

David rolled his eyes. Grunting in discomfort, he shifted in a chair that was made for lesser men. “As far as I know only one man has ever kicked up his toes.”

“Aye, though precisely as foretold,” the man argued.

David remained unconvinced. “By an auld woman’s angry curse? The same auld crone, might I add, who plays nursemaid to the dún Scoti clan. Nay, the plan is ill fated from its conception. The dún Scoti would never allow the girl within a league of the Mounth. Aidan would kill her himself, I am certain.”

“Respectfully, Your Grace, I dinna believe that is true,” interjected another of his counselors. “There are some who say the dún Scoti would see his clan return to the old ways, when their womenfolk whipped them about by their willies. He indulges his sisters as though they were men. I say he would never harm a hair on the lass’ head.”

The laird of Teviotdale spoke up now. “He’s a milksop like his father.”

David raised a brow at Teviotdale. In his considerable opinion, Teviotdale had too little respect for women when he could send his own daughter, unwed, to share a man’s bed for the sake of greed. On the other hand, the dún Scoti would die for any one of his sisters. He had recognized that look in the man’s eyes. “Would ye say that to the mon's face?”