Chapter Twenty-Two
Grace’s heart sank into her stomach as she watched Keir gallop away. The vital organ felt as heavy as the boulders that rose from the Highland landscape like giants’ knobby bones. She wobbled. Any second she would fall to the dirt in desolate defeat. Bracing her hands on her knees, she forced herself to breathe as tears gathered in her eyes. She watched them as they dropped out to dot the dirt beneath her, physical evidence of her pain.
She thought of the promise she’d made to the picture kept lovingly on Keir’s mantel. The poor woman had lived in secret and fear her whole life, protecting her children as best she could and seeking out love here at this small cottage on the border.
Grace slowly walked her hands up her legs, pressing palms against her thighs for support until she stood straight. If she waited until Brodie came to drag her home, Margaret Mackinnon’s three children would suffer. Dara would die, Rab would be responsible for ordering the death of his half sister, and Keir would never be able to wash Dara’s blood from his hands. Grace couldn’t let it happen.
“I need help,” she whispered. Her mind flitted to the people she’d met at Dunakin, searching for someone strong, someone who might love Keir enough to help her save him. “Fiona,” she said. She wasn’t his grandmother by blood, since his father was a MacLeod, and she was Aonghus Mackinnon’s mother, but she seemed to care for Dara. Would she help Grace save her and Keir?
Grace gathered her skirts and ran toward the path she’d ridden along to find the cottage. “Ballocks,” she cursed as her ankle twisted slightly on the edge of a rock, but she kept going, holding her skirts high to see the ground. If she’d known she’d be running through the woods, she’d have worn boots instead of slippers. Pebbles and twigs poked through the thin soles, bruising her feet. She ran and ran, stopping periodically for breath and to search for landmarks. Over the rushing in her ears, she heard the thud of hooves ahead, and Grace dodged behind a thick oak in time to avoid Brodie’s gaze. Her lips grazed the rough bark as she sucked in gulps of air and prayed for him not to turn around.
When the thuds faded, Grace pushed away from the tree. Hands out before her, to slap away the branches determined to rake her eyes, she charged down the hillside, breaking out at the edge of the forest. Just as she had when riding on Little Warrior, she gulped a last breath of untainted air and tipped her gaze to the ground. Concentrating on her footfalls along the uneven ground, she ran between the torches holding the rotting heads. There was no time for shock. She needed to reach Fiona.
Off to the left, she could see the wide river flowing beside the castle, on its journey to the ocean. A small island sat in the middle of the river, a circle with a narrow bridge on one side. “Oh God,” she breathed at the crack of hammers hitting pegs. The execution platform.
With renewed determination, Grace raced into the village. “Fiona!” she yelled as she ran along the path between the thatched cottages. “Fiona Mackinnon!” A door opened, and a man peeked out. He pointed toward the cottage on the far end. “Thank you,” Grace called, running to pound on the door.
It flew open, but Grace was too out of breath to say anything. Fiona stared, her eyes hard. She looked behind Grace and yanked her forward into her cottage, slamming the door. “Find your breath, lass,” she said. “And tell me ye are here to save my granddaughter.”
Grace plopped into a chair. “And Keir.”
“Aye.” She shook her head. “Rab is as insane as my son, Aonghus, I fear. The deaths of his wife and bairn have addled his head.”
“What can I do?” Grace asked, still gasping for breath. “Brodie’s hunting for me to carry me back to Aros. No one else will stand up to the bloody Devil of Dunakin.”
Fiona took Grace’s hands. Her fingers felt hot against Grace’s frigid skin. “Ye can.”
“I tried. Keir wouldn’t listen to me.” Grace felt panic press tears in her eyes until Fiona’s image swam before her.
“Ye must stop the Devil of Dunakin, not Keir,” Fiona said, bringing her a cup of light ale. For the first time ever, Grace wished it was whisky, strong whisky.
“How can I do that?”
“The Devil of Dunakin will be killed by an angel, ending the long line of Mackinnon devils,” Fiona answered, nodding. “He calls you an angel. Ye must pierce his heart.”
Grace pressed upward out of her seat. “I’m not killing him or anyone.”
Fiona frowned at her as if she were being stubborn. “Not Keir,” she snapped. “Ye will kill the Devil of Dunakin.”
Fiona was as insane as her grandson. Grace stared after her as the woman rushed to a wardrobe, throwing it open and rummaging in the bottom. “Ye will wear my warrior clothes.”
“What?” Grace asked, her mouth hanging open.
Fiona turned around, a smile cracking her nearly permanent frown. She held up a suit made of bleached doeskin with a white linen shirt. Three straps with buckles encircled the waist, and the breeches tapered to the ankle. A broad collar rose up to lay flat against the breast up to the neck. “Put it on. I have white boots to go with it.”
“What?” Grace said again, staring aghast at the costume.
“Is that all ye can say?” Fiona snapped, throwing the boots out from the wardrobe to clunk against the floorboards. “Put the damn things on.”
Grace worked her fingers into her bodice laces, loosening them. She kicked off her muddied shoes. “I don’t think they will fit.” She’d never tried to stuff her legs and hips into such tight clothing.
Fiona gestured toward the costume. “Leather stretches. And ye look about the size I was when I wore it decades ago.”
“In battle?” Grace asked, sitting on the bed to shimmy the trousers up her legs. Her heart beat fast, but she persisted, yanking the pliable leather.
“Aye.” Fiona threw the linen shirt over Grace’s head and tied the bodice into place.
“I am not brave enough for battle,” Grace whispered.
Fiona’s hands landed on Grace’s shoulder. She stared directly into her eyes. “Ye need to learn the circle of caim.”
“Wh—” Grace stopped herself from saying the word again. “I’m not familiar with ‘cime’.”
“The word is said kie-em,” Fiona said, stepping back to draw a circle around herself with one extended finger moving through the air. “Caim. ’Tis Gaelic for sanctuary, or an invisible circle of protection drawn about yourself to remind you that you are safe and loved, even in the darkest of moments. ’Tis what makes a warrior brave.”
Grace exhaled and, with Fiona’s encouraging nod, she drew a circle around herself. “Caim,” she repeated, stressing the two syllables, for she needed all the bravery she could find.
…
Where will you etch your sister’s cross? Grace’s words flew at Keir like poison-tipped arrows, and he could do nothing to dodge them. Rab had judged her guilty, and she could be. Dara had certainly had ample opportunity. She’d handed out the cups at the table. After her initial plea of innocence, Dara had kept her lips clamped shut. Maybe her guilt wouldn’t allow her to speak. Or her pride. Their mother had done the same thing when Aonghus had accused her of adultery, and she’d admitted to her crime. Keir would never have put his mother to death, so how could he put Dara to death?
“Damnation.” He tugged his black leather mask into place, walking toward the river where the entire clan stood silently. Wearing the costume of the Dunakin Devil, he strode over the foot-wide bridge to the execution island. Blazing torches lit the scene where Dara stood on the platform next to…Brodie? Bloody hell! He should be miles away with Grace. Was she with the villagers now? Watching him stalk toward his sister, an unforgivable monster?
Brodie and Dara stood before a thick tree stump, set for her to place her neck. As he walked closer, she sneered. “Aonghus Mackinnon would be proud of ye, Devil.”
Her words hit him like a blow, but he shoved the ache away, his gaze turning to Brodie. “Why the bloody hell are ye here?”
Brodie’s mouth puckered with frustration. He shook his head. “I am always by the Devil of Dunakin.”
“Your damned henchman can join ye in Hell,” Dara said.
Rab stood from his seat next to Lachlan on the far side of the river. “For your crimes against me, my son, and the Devil of Dunakin, ye, Dara Macleod MacInnes, shall die for your sins.” Stripping her of his father’s name, Rab was letting everyone know she was a bastard.
The wind blew dead leaves about the bottom of the scaffold as if nature itself felt the icy hand of condemnation against Keir’s nape. Bare to show the dark etchings on his skin, chill bumps rose. Keir’s breath rushed in his ears, and he stepped to stand before Rab. Reasonable judgment to accompany strength and strategic prowess… Grace’s words about leadership beat through the conditioning of many brutal years. There hadn’t been a chance to weigh Dara’s true guilt. Rab was not showing the reasonable judgment of a good leader, and Grace was right. Keir did have a choice.
“Commence the execution,” Rab yelled, his lips pulled back in grim determination.
Keir stood before his chief and brother, his fist tight around his sword. “Rab Mackinnon, as your brother and chief advisor, I ask once more that you consider the lack of proof against Dara. Normond MacInnes may have acted completely on his own, and ye will be condemning an innocent woman. I ask ye to show your wisdom and sound judgment.”
Rab’s eyes narrowed, and he stepped to the edge of the river. The two brothers faced each other over the surging current. “Does the Devil dare to question my decision and rule before the clan?” Rab’s words seethed from between clenched teeth. Wildness lurked in his gaze.
“Nay,” Keir said, his battle stance tall and full of strength. Familiar heat surged through his body at the promise of war. “But I, Keir Macleod, do.” Keir reached his arm over his head to grab the back of his mask.
“Stop!”
The familiar voice reached Keir’s ears, shooting like burning lightning through him. He dropped his hand, leaving his mask in place, and turned, his eyes falling on Grace, standing on the other side of the river beside the narrow bridge. But she wasn’t dressed like Grace. Clothed in white, she stood like an Amazon warrior woman holding a short sword. Tight-fitting trousers of pale leather curved along her hips and thighs, tapering down her perfectly shaped legs, which Keir had feasted upon the night before. Buckles of brass cinched her trim waist, accenting her full breasts. Tall boots, made of the same doeskin, rose up her legs to an inch past her knees.
She wore a face shield similar to his own but out of white leather. It curved upward, leaving only her eyes open, and a drape of white material covered her hair. Like Joan of Arc leading an invisible army behind her, Grace stood, a cross between a warrior and…an angel in white.
…
Grace glanced below the edge of the dark, flowing river that surrounded the flame-lit island. Forcing an inhale, she looked across to Dara, who stood on a platform with Brodie. But her focus swept to the man hidden behind the black mask, standing across the river from Rab.
“Who the bloody hell are ye?” Rab yelled, where he stood at the water’s edge.
“Grace Ellington,” she called. Her heart pounded in her chest, making a tremor run through her limbs. She inhaled, filling her lungs. Slow breaths would help the tingling recede in her chin. She placed one boot on the thin plank that ran across the river. “I have come to stop the Devil of Dunakin from killing an innocent woman,” she yelled. “And losing his soul.”
“Good bloody hell,” Dara said from her spot on the platform. She didn’t sound confident. Neither was Grace, but she wasn’t turning back now. Not when the man she loved stood there, ready to forfeit his compassion and honor to follow the order of an insane tyrant. Love? Yes, this was certainly love. To risk humiliation before a crowd, drowning in a freezing river, and confronting the deadliest man of whom she’d ever heard… Love was the only explanation for this insanity.
Grace stared down at the rushing water. She could hear her sadistic brother’s taunts, teasing her that he would hold her under the water again. She swallowed hard. God save her! If she swooned now, she’d surely drown. She could turn back, run, and hide somewhere, wait for Brodie to come find her and take her back to Aros to…cry in shame forever. The thought of retreat twisted her gut harder than the fear of the water.
Grace let the tip of her sword lower as she took even breaths. Caim. Caim, a circle of protection. She recited the word, summoning any power she could from the ancient belief that it could keep her safe.
With slow movements, Grace raised her empty gloved hand, drawing an invisible circle above her, encompassing her entire frame. She imagined it draping down as a column of protective light and stepped forward. Caim. Caim. Caim. Love is stronger than fear.
The rushing noise of the water receded, and her heartbeat slowed. She looked straight at the Devil of Dunakin, but she didn’t see him there in the mask. She envisioned Keir’s face, his strong jaw, full cheekbones, sloped nose, and his deep brown eyes.
Rab’s voice rang out. “If she interferes with Mackinnon law, she is also a traitor. I command the Devil of Dunakin to execute the healer, too.”
His words didn’t penetrate Grace at all, sliding away as she murmured the powerful Gaelic word. One more step, then another, and finally… Grace jumped down from the end of the plank, her boots thudding softly on the trampled winter grass.
“I am here to stop the Devil of Dunakin,” she called through the leather, wondering if she should take it off so he could see the determination in her face.
“Kill her first,” Rab demanded.
Lachlan left his seat to join his father at the river’s edge. “Nay, she healed me.”
With a backward swipe, Rab slammed his arm against his young son, sending him sprawling. Gasps rose behind Grace from the crowd on the bank.
“I will not back down, Keir,” Grace said. “Surrender Dara.”
“He isn’t Keir!” Rab yelled. “He is the Devil of Dunakin, protector of the Mackinnon clan and the weapon of the chief. Do your duty, Devil.”
Grace paused, staring at Keir, who stood like black, carved ice. She couldn’t tell anything about his thoughts behind the damn mask. “I know you are Keir behind that mask,” she whispered.
Keir held his sword tip to the night sky. Grace walked around him, and he turned with her. With a flick of his sword, he could disarm her, but what would he do then? Kill her? Knock her down, vault onto the platform, and behead his sister? Grace shook her head. “You have the choice not to do this, Keir,” she said, her voice low, but he remained silent, watching her.
Grace brought the point of her sword to the pebbly ground. With a quick step, she dragged it in a circle around the two of them. “I summon Caim, sanctuary, around the two of us,” she said with all the confidence she could muster.
Keeping her sword tip lowered, Grace grasped the edge of her mask under her chin, yanking it from her face. The hood followed, releasing her long hair. She stepped closer to him and lifted her sword with both hands. Leaning forward she pressed the tip to his bare skin, right over his heart where the intricate crosses lay etched.
Her lips parted, pulling in air, and all else around them seemed to vanish. It was only Grace and Keir in the circle. She swallowed and inhaled. “Keir Mackinnon, is tù gaol mo chridhe.”
Keir’s sword lowered to the side. “Grace, do ye know what ye are saying?”
A smile flitted to her lips at the sound of his voice, the way he said her name. Her heart pounded with relief. There was no Devil here, only Keir. She wet her lips. “I walked all the way across that bloody board,” she said. “Of course, I know what I’m saying. Tha gaol agam ort,” she continued. “I love you, Keir.”
Grace barely heard Rab yell from his spot. Her complete focus was on the man before her. Keir raised his hand to his mask and slowly pulled it off. Arms spread wide, he pressed forward, her blade tip piercing his skin. “Is tù gaol mo chridhe,” he repeated as a drop of blood slid down his bare chest.
“What is happening?” Rab yelled, running over another bridge, spanning the river, to push through the crowd.
Grace could barely draw a breath as she stared into Keir’s intense gaze. His lips parted, his words calling out on the night breeze. “An angel has pierced the Devil of Dunakin’s heart.” His biceps hardened as he threw his mighty claymore away from him. “The Devil is vanquished,” he yelled, his voice resounding across the island.
Grace’s vision swam with tears, and she blinked, throwing her own sword toward his in the grass. A small sound issued from her lips as she rushed forward. Keir grasped her face in his hands, staring down into her eyes. “I love ye, Grace.” A small sob of joy came from her, and he lowered to kiss her.
“Keir!” Brodie yelled from the platform, making Keir whirl to tuck Grace behind him.
Rab had run over the narrow bridge to the island, kicking their swords away while holding his own pointed at Keir’s chest. “Ye are a bastard and a traitor against the Mackinnons,” he said.
Grace slid to the side where she could see Rab’s contorted features. Pinched tight, lips pulled back to show gritted teeth, spittle wetting his mouth. Fury and bitterness had stolen his sense. Could Keir unarm his brother without a weapon? She wasn’t taking a chance.
With subtle movements, Grace slid the sgian dubh from her boot, the same one she’d carried from Aros. Her throw was never perfect, but the thought of losing Keir squashed the embarrassment and fear of failure out of her mind.
“Ye’ve gone mad, Rabbie,” Keir said, holding his arms outward calmly. “Losing Bradana—”
“Shut your bastard mouth!” Rab yelled, lifting his sword as if to swing.
Without the hindrance of skirts, Grace threw her weight into a forceful step like Gavin Maclean had taught her back at Aros. Arm and wrist snapping forward, she released the dagger into the air. End over end, it flew toward Rab.
Crack! The heavy, dull end of the handle hit Rab’s nose. The blade snapped upward, its razor-sharp edge scoring Rab’s forehead before falling to the ground.
“Shite,” he yelled, blood gushing from his nose as his empty hand came up.
Seizing the opportunity, Keir leaped forward to knock the weapon from his brother’s grasp. Grace watched, her palms pressing against her cheeks, as Keir’s leg swung behind Rab. At the same time, Keir shoved him in the chest, sending Rab crashing to the ground. Keir stepped over him, pinning his brother with one solid boot in the middle of his chest.
“This is finished, Rab,” Keir said. Rab turned his head to spit out blood as he held his nose. “From this moment on, the Devil of Dunakin is no more, and ye aren’t the chief of the Mackinnons.” Keir glanced to where Brodie stood, sword drawn, face grim. He turned his focus to the silent, wide-eyed villagers. “Until Lachlan has aged and earned the respect of his clan, Brodie Mackinnon will rule Dunakin as chief.”
Brodie stepped up to him as Keir signaled several of his warriors to come across to take Rab. “Keir,” Brodie said. “Ye should be—”
“I am leaving Dunakin,” Keir said. Grace’s breath caught with a twist of hope. “Ye should lead.” He turned to meet Grace’s gaze. “A sound leader is intelligent and thoughtful, using reasonable judgment, strength, and strategic prowess to earn the respect of his warriors. Not brutality and fear.”
Grace felt the ache of tears as Keir used her own words. She gave a small nod to him, and he turned back to Brodie.
“Ye’ve earned the respect and trust of the clan, Brodie,” Keir continued. “Ye will make a strong chief for the Mackinnons of Dunakin.”
Stepping forward, Brodie extended his arm. Keir grasped it, linking it in solid approval as Brodie accepted. A shiver rose up Grace’s back, as around the island a soft rumble grew among the villagers until the dark glade echoed with cheers of acceptance and something Dunakin had been lacking for many generations. Hope.
Keir turned to Grace, pulling her into his arms. He touched her cheek and looked down into her eyes. “I’m going to teach ye to throw a sgian dubh,” he said, his perfect lips turning up at the corners.
She smiled back and gave him a quick shake of her head. “I hit him exactly how I’d planned.”
He chuckled softly. “Ye are a wise woman, Grace Ellington. And I love ye.” He leaned in to kiss a tear that had escaped her eyes. Pulling her around to face the crowd, Grace saw Fiona. Rab’s grandmother nodded to her. Grace held her hand to her heart and bowed her head to the woman who had helped her, even when it meant removing her grandson from power. Fiona let a sad smile touch her lips and followed behind Rab as he was forcefully led away by Keir’s men.
Keir’s voice rose. “Ye are all witnesses,” he said and turned to stand before Grace. “I pledge my heart to ye, Grace Ellington. Forever.”
A giddiness bubbled through Grace, a mix of joy, hope, and love. “I, too,” she said, her voice clear in the once again silent, watching night, “pledge my heart to you, Keir Macleod Mackinnon. Forever.”
Keir leaned in, one eyebrow raised. “Ye do know that ye just wed me?”
She tipped her chin higher to give him a mischievous look. “With the night I have planned with you, I certainly hope so.” Keir’s grin grew into a full smile, lighting his face with the same happiness that made Grace laugh. Keir pulled her to him, and Grace reached up on her toes to wrap her hands behind his neck, surrendering to his powerful, oath-sealing kiss.