It seemed that she had barely closed her eyes before she awoke with a start, choking back the scream that had risen in her throat from the force of her dream. In it she had been running in the hills, aware that she was being chased, terrified of what would come at the end of it. When she looked back at her pursuers, all she could see were shadows in the mist.
Like shadows, her pursuers were strange, constantly moving shapes, ever-changing as they came ceaselessly closer and closer.
They might have been selkies, creatures of myth and magic, beasts that could shed their coats and adopt human forms. But they were still dangerous creatures, for they remained beasts inside.
They had kept coming and coming, silent as they ran over the green-carpeted hills. Coming closer, closer, encircling her. They hadn’t been selkies at all. Rather, they had been strange human beings, half-naked, bronze and copper in color, wielding axes, hatchets, bows and arrows. They’d been adorned in feathers, and in her dream, she had known that they were savages from America, that they had come for vengeance. The mist continued to swirl all around them, then from that mist there stepped another man, this one clad in Highland colors, kilted and broached, his sword in his scabbard, his dirk set into the sheath at his calf. This one walked straight toward her, this one stared straight into her eyes, and he knew her, knew the truth of all that had happened, and it was then that the scream rose in her throat…
Until she awoke. Hot, yet shivering, her heart beating quickly within her chest.
She rose, trying to calm that racing beat, to slow her breathing.
Dear God, but she was shaken tonight!
She smiled mockingly at herself as she walked to the window, looking out upon the mist-shrouded night. Naturally, she was having nightmares. The new Laird Douglas was coming to Scotland to see to his affairs. Andrew Douglas—Hawk—to those who knew him well. A man who was half American Indian. Her dreams might well be filled with vengeful savages, eager to learn the truth.
What was the truth?
That question had plagued her for five years now, during the time right after the Fire when she had stayed, the time when she had ran to Glasgow, the time when she had returned. And now, knowing that David’s brother was coming back, she was starting to live with the nightmare again.
Because she had lured David to his death.
Oh god, not intentionally!
As angry as she might occasionally get with her family, she loved them all. Gawain, Lowell, Alaric, Aidan—and Alistair. Alistair especially, perhaps. He and she were so close in age. They had always been friends. But she’d never meant harm to David, even for Alistair’s sake. Her kin had needed time, only time, and she had meant to give them that. But it had been time itself that had betrayed her in the end. Fate had played her cruelly. The only good to come of it was that she would never be so innocent again, never so malleable.
Nor, she thought, would she ever live without the nightmares.
She suddenly felt as if she had to escape the confines of the castle, the heavy stone walls that surrounded her.
The shimmer of moonlight on the loch seemed to beckon her. She slipped her white-fringed shawl from the hook by herdoor, sweeping it around her. She quietly opened her door and stepped barefoot from her room.
This is madness, she thought. She was like some poor fey creature, rushing out to see the moonglow on the water when it was well past midnight. She told herself firmly that she couldn’t run away from the past, the future, or the nightmares.
Still, the urge was with her. She needed to get out. She ran down the steps to the hall.
The great hall of Castle Rock was empty. She stood on the last step for a moment, surveying it. The great hall at Castle Rock had been much the same for centuries. A massive table in the center, carved hardwood chairs around it, and tall-backed chairs facing the hearth that ran at least half the length of the far wall. The stones that comprised the walls were ancient. What ghosts might linger here, she wondered, then shook off the fanciful thought. The hall was simply caught in the stillness that came with the night. The world itself was quiet.
She hurried out the massive wooden doors to the courtyard, through the high gates, and down the slope of rich, verdant grasses toward the loch. Ahead of her loomed the massive Druid Stones.
CHAPTER 2
Though the mist was rising, moonglow fell upon the earth, illuminating the ragged cliffs, the rocks, the sweeping plains and vales of the landscape. Soft light, countered by shadow, fell upon the shimmering loch, where again, great cliffs rose on either side of the shoreline in the central valley.
The night was warm for November in the Highlands, quiet and still. Then the man rose from the water, alone and as naked as the bare rock surrounding him, a man as hard and unyielding as that same rock in shape and form, bred and born to the harsh and beautiful tors and craigs of the land around him. His was both a wild and rugged breed of men, a people who had stood their ground for centuries, battled, won and lost, and even into the present day, preserved both honor and individuality. Like many of his ancestors, he had suffered at the hands of the treacherous. And again, like many of those who had come before him, he had survived the malicious intent of others and come back a more powerful and wary man.
Indeed, he was back.
Laird of all his land.
But none knew it. So far, he mused, he was king of the night. His castle was a cave.
His choice.
For now.
He stood, shaking back a thick length of dark hair. Despite the unseasonable warmth, it was cold enough for him to shiver fiercely, and long for the warmth of his clothing.
Yet he paused, staring upward, suddenly not noticing the chill that assailed him, for from where he had risen from the loch he was given an excellent view of the countryside. Castle Rock to his far right upon the highest cliff, Castle MacGinnis to his far left, both commanding great sweeps of the landscape. Indeed, neither was a manor that would be much coveted by modern standards. Both structures had been built long ago, when Highland lairds had determined to take Norman architecture and use it to their own purposes. When William the Conqueror had seized England and looked to Scotland, wary chieftains had seized upon the talented Norman stonemasons instead, and thus had risen these structures. The years had added hidden alleyways and priests’ nooks, since religious wars had been waged and Jacobite princes had had to be hidden, but very little had been done to add the modern concepts of comfort and beauty to the strongholds. Castle Rock was the older of the two edifices, standing upon the highest tor and overlooking the largest amount of property. It was grander in scale, the seat of the Douglases of Castle Rock, a fortress of unique historical significance.