Prologue
Isle of Skye, Scotland
1354
Cold permeated Finlay MacLeod’s body, bone-deep and damp. A small finger of reflective light crept across the floor from above. The sun was going down, and he knew the chill would grow worse. He had been imprisoned in the oubliette for two days, with only a heel of bread dropped down into the narrow cell from above.
It wasn’t the hunger gnawing at his belly that preyed on his mind, but the thirst and the cold. He could no longer control his chattering teeth. He winced at the pain as he clenched his teeth in an instinctive effort to still them.
The side of his face hurt where Tearlach struck him. The fool almost broke his jaw. Finn’s chin, cheekbone, and temple ached, and his eye was swollen to a slit. His head pounded relentlessly, making him queasy. Had he anything in his stomach, he would have bocked.
He twisted against the ropes binding his arms to his sides, but only managed to further chafe the skin. The insides of his elbows were raw and painful, his ribs bruised. Surely his cousin, Ian Ciar MacLeod, wouldn’t leave him here to freeze to death and die a lingering death of starvation and thirst.
A shudder of cold and pain shook him. His cousin was not known for his warmth and generosity. Ian Ciar could be brutal, his moods mercurial. Finn understood why his cousin was upset with him. But all this over a woman?
Granted, she was the Druid’s daughter, but no more valuable than any other lass.
And perhaps if he truly believed she was not, he would not feel an icy finger of fear trailing up his spine.
The old draoidh seemed to know things others in the clan should, but did not. Ian Ciar depended on the Druid to alert him to troubles long before they struck. While morning prayers were reserved for the castle priest, Finn was not sure what the Druid Cinead MacLeod worshiped, but everyone had a healthy fear of and respect for the draoidh.
Finn shook his head and nearly groaned aloud when his jaw and temple throbbed like a punched bruise. He closed his eyes and rested his head back against the hard stone wall.
Why had he gotten it into his mind to seduce Isabel? She was too innocent to be interesting. But so ripe for the picking. And once picked, so desperate to please. He had lost interest about the time she came to him with the news she was bairned, and now ’twas he who was paying for the deed, when she had been just as eager as he.
His resentment died as quickly as it started. He did not wish Isabel to be beaten. Surely her father wouldna go so far as that. He would not see her punished and possibly have the bairn harmed.
She was a sweet lass, and deserved better than he was capable of giving her…or any other woman. It was not in his nature to remain faithful, and even if it were, that alone would not make him a good husband. He had no property of his own, no way to provide for a family, and lived largely off what he could earn with his fists and his sword. Obvious impediments to making the lass happy.
They were both in a sorry state.
At the sound of the bolt above being thrown, Finn cracked open his one good eye. The iron grate screeched as Tearlach swung it aside. Finn gingerly tilted his head back and gazed up at the two men standing at the mouth of the small cell.
Isabelle’s father glared down at him with disgust. Though the man wore braes and a rough shirt, just like the rest of them, there was nothing common about him. He stared down his long nose with the arrogance of a king. The cold, hard glow in his dark eyes promised retribution, and the chiseled bones of his face were sharp with hatred. His gray beard hung against his chest, iron gray and coarse.
“Ye have disgraced my daughter and broken trust with yer own people. ’Tis not only m’child ye have preyed upon. There are others who have come forward. Ye will face them now.”
He gestured toward Tearlach, and the huge man bent to pick up a short ladder and lowered it into the pit.
Finn eyed the two men warily. They’d probably beat him again once he was out of the oubliette, but at least he would be free of this hellish, small dungeon. He rested his back against the wall, and, bracing his feet, shoved upward until he was standing. The ground seemed to sway beneath him as he approached the ladder and clumsily gripped the rungs with hands he could only lift waist high because his arms were bound. He paused there for a moment, waiting for the dizziness to abate. He had to lean into the ladder and search for each rung with his feet to ascend. Weakness dragged at his legs, and he had to rest between each step.
Tearlach gripped his shirt as soon as he was within reach and dragged him onto stable ground, then dropped him like a sack of oats.
Finn grunted in pain, and his vision went gray as the agony in his head and jaw soared. It hurt to breathe. He lay still a moment, willing the pain to subside a wee bit. Perhaps his ribs were more than just bruised. He rolled to his knees and clumsily staggered to his feet. With his elbows tied at his waist and the room spinning with every move, it was difficult, but he managed to get to his feet. He swayed unsteadily and fell back against one of the close, cold walls. The vision in his right eye blurred, then dimmed, and his stomach rolled.
He had been beaten before, and the pain was bad then, but this fierce agony pointed toward his hurts being far worse. “If ye mean to kill me, ye may only need to wait a wee time. Tearlach has done his job well.” His words sounded slurred, and the only thing keeping him on his feet was the wall at his back. He closed his eyes as the room pitched.
Was he facing his death? No fear rushed out to embrace him. Death seemed so foreign, so distant, and he was focusing too fiercely on staying on his feet for the emotion to take hold.
“He will never make it upstairs without help.” Tearlach cut Finn’s bindings and tossed them aside, then gripped his arm, slung it over his shoulder, and half-carried, half-dragged him to the stairs.
Every step jarred Finn’s ribs and jaw. His eyes watered from the pain, and he swallowed back more than a few groans while he put pressure on his ribs, hoping to hold them in place. Once they reached the landing, he gulped in a breath of relief, more like a sob.
The castle’s great room smelled of burning wood and roasting meat, overwhelming Finn until he gagged and finally bocked. As soon as Tearlach released him, he fell to his knees and curled into a knot. The painful throbbing inside his head worsened with every heave. He collapsed on the floor and lay on his side.
“He is dying.” Tearlach’s deep murmur reached him.
“Nay. Not yet. Not until he has paid.”
“If he dies, is that not payment enough?”
“Nay, ’twill never be payment enough. He shamed my daughter. She was meant for better than he.”
“And better than me as well?” Tearlach asked.
Finn lay still, grateful the two had forgotten him.
Tearlach wanted Isabel? Had he known, he would have never touched her.
Many’s the time he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with him, defending the clan. But he had never noticed Tearlach’s interest in Isabel. Why had he not seen it?
And what difference did it make now? It was too late. He could not change his actions any more than he could change the consequences of them.
“Ye shall have her after the bairn is born, if that be yer wish. She will be grateful to have ye after the likes of him.” Cinead tossed a scornful gesture toward Finn.
Through the slit of his one good eye, Finn now recognized the man’s thirst for revenge. It was not his daughter’s honor he was defending, but his own.
What punishment had Cinead heaped upon the girl? He wanted to turn and search the large tables for Isabel and reassure himself she had not been harmed, but to move would once more stir the pain into a maelstrom, and draw the devil bastard’s attention. And at the moment he did not feel strong enough to survive even the man’s harsh words.
Despite the huge fires burning at each end of the room, the cold penetrated deeper into his bones. The vision in his one eye was growing fuzzy, and he could not discern the faces of those few sitting even a short distance away.
The room was strangely still and quiet, the only sound the popping of the fire as it consumed the huge logs.
Would Tearlach stand between the old Druid and his daughter to protect Isabel? Finn would appeal to him to do so, because he knew he would not live much longer. The pain in his head was growing worse, throbbing relentlessly behind his eyes, against his ears, as though it were a thing alive, trying to push its way free of his skull.
“Raise him so his accusers may look him in the face,” Cinead demanded.
Tearlach stepped over his body and bent to grip Finn under the arms, lifting him into a sitting position.
Finn couldn’t bite back the groan of pain as an ax seemed to split his forehead above his eye. Had Tearlach not been holding him up, Finn could not have been able to remain erect. He snagged Tearlach’s sleeve between his fingers. “Dinna let him hurt Isabel or the bairn.”
“Nay, he winna do so.” Tearlach said, just above a whisper.
Tearlach would protect them. Finn leaned his head back against the man’s knee and his lids dropped.
“Open yer eyes, Finn MacLeod.”
It took all his effort to do so. He could see nothing. Everything was black.
“Ye have shamed many women of this clan and deserve a harsh punishment.”
One blow and the pain would be gone. Tearlach would strike it, and it would be over.
“What say ye, Finn MacLeod?”
“I didna take m’ pleasure without givin’ as well as I received, Cinead MacLeod. Can ye say as much?”
He could not see the man, but when the punch landed on his jaw, a sword of pain lanced into his brain. Blackness closed in around him, and awareness fell away.
Seconds later it seemed he was awakened by a cold liquid dashed over his face all at once. He choked as he breathed in some of the water and rolled facedown as he hacked and coughed, the pain in his ribs unbearable. His body was one huge ache as he gasped and finally dragged air into his starving lungs.
His face felt strangely numb.
“Open yer eyes, Finn.”
Cinead’s commanding voice did not impress him. “Leave me be, Druid.”
“Ye will face the women ye have spoiled.”
A booted toe hit his ribs, and again he could not breathe. He coughed and tasted blood.
Tearlach once again tried to intercede. “Look about ye, Cinead. What do the people’s faces tell ye? What does yer daughter’s face tell ye?”
“They are weak-willed and foolish to have sympathy for the very man who has shamed them.”
Finn’s head was beginning to thunder again, but the vision in his one eye had cleared enough for him to see Cinead MacLeod’s hatred. If he could provoke him, would it end this? He gulped enough air to speak. “’Tis you who have shamed them, Druid. I have never spoken of any lass I have been with. Who has born witness against any of the lasses here? Or have ye frightened them all into saying they have been with me?” Finn coughed again and spat blood. “No matter what ye do to me, ’tis ye they will hate for this. Their kin will hate ye as well.”
“Then I will give them more than hatred to think about.” He thrust out his palms toward Finn.
“Yer heart has hardened to stone,
“And for that ye shall remain alone,
“Trapped in yer own hardened shell,
“Until ye learn to tell,
“Respect and affection from lust,
“Or until ye crumble into dust.
“No sunlight will ye feel.
“Only at night will the monster in ye steal
“Sustenance for ye to remain
“The monster ye will claim.
“By the power of me and thee,
“So mote it be.”
The wind spiraled around Finn, and a force like a large hand picked him up and set him on his feet. He hunched forward against the pain.
A violent rush of panicked movement came from the large tables and benches in the great room, the clansmen and women scrambling to get away from the hot air roaring around the chamber, knocking over tankards and whipping their clothing against their bodies.
Finn’s head felt too heavy to hold upright, and his chin dropped to his chest. He cried out in agony as a piercing cold raced from his fingertips and toes inward, consuming his arms and legs, burrowing into his torso. The leaden weight of his limbs dragged at him, threatening to tear them from their sockets.
He screamed as shards of pain like a thousand knives pierced him. His shoulder blades ripped from his back and bowed outward, growing into more. The weight of the projections dragged against his skin, against his bones, until he thought his back might snap in two. He fell to one knee, the sound wrenched from his throat more an animal growl than a scream. Power raged through his body, stiffening his limbs until they solidified in a crouched position.
He caught one last breath and howled a curse upon the Druid, his voice like crushed stone.
“Revenge is a double-edged sword, draoidh. Ye will pay as steep a price as I. Ye will know every loss I do and more.”
Finn’s lungs seized, everything turned gray, and he knew nothing more.