Highland Seer Read online

  Table of Contents

  Highland Seer

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Praise for HIGHLAND SEER

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  A word about the author...

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  Highland Seer

  by

  Willa Blair

  Highland Talents, Book Two

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

  Highland Seer

  COPYRIGHT © 2013 by Linda Williams

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Tina Lynn Stout

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Faery Rose Edition, 2014

  Print ISBN 978-1-62830-114-4

  Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-115-1

  Highland Talents, Book Two

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To my Maryland critique group, for years of friendship, tutoring, and the occasional reality check.

  I wouldn't be here without all of you.

  ~

  To my mother—a strong-willed woman,

  ahead of her time and gone too soon.

  She taught me to strive.

  ~

  And especially, to my husband.

  You're my hero, my rock, and my inspiration.

  Praise for HIGHLAND SEER

  “If you love historical romance with a touch of the paranormal, Willa Blair delivers again. HIGHLAND SEER is another great read from this talented author.”

  ~Rebecca York, best-selling author

  “Willa Blair does it again! Blair tugs at your heart and stirs your soul with this fast-moving, sensual read!”

  ~Chassie West, Edgar- and Anthony-nominated author

  “A plot powered by intrigue and surprising twists, sizzling love scenes, wonderfully drawn highland settings, and unforgettable characters—especially the female laird of the clan—make HIGHLAND SEER a must-read.”

  ~Toby Devens, award-winning author

  “I really enjoyed this engaging, somewhat off-beat tale of the strong, high spirited widow, Ellie MacKyrie. Not only is she her clan’s laird and seer, but she falls for and then takes steps to snare her somewhat reluctant man—what a fun romance!”

  ~Nancy Baggett, double winner of

  the Best Baking Book Award

  “A hunky Scot, a heroine with a powerful gift, and secrets galore—what's not to like about Willa Blair's HIGHLAND SEER?”

  ~Mary Hart Perry, award-winning author

  “Willa Blair delivers on the promise of her debut novel, HIGHLAND HEALER, with another wonderful story, HIGHLAND SEER. If you love historical romance spiced with a hint of paranormal, you'll want to read this series.”

  ~Elizabeth Ashtree, RITA® finalist

  Prologue

  Ellie MacKyrie looked down on wolves, a dozen of them, circling below her in the light of early morning. They eyed her as they jumped, then snarled and snapped at each other, slavering, teeth flashing in frustration, unable to reach her. She ruffled her feathers.

  Feathers?

  She had enough self-awareness to know she slept. Did she merely dream? Or was this a Seeing?

  Ah, she wore the brown breast and claws of an owl. Symbol of wisdom, knowledge, a night hunter of great vision.

  Another Seeing, then.

  But a night hunter facing a threat in daylight, hunted by the wolves below, who must know they could not catch her. So what, then, was their purpose? What were they meant to show her?

  Suddenly, a man appeared, big, broad-shouldered, his hair shot through with golden streaks that gleamed in the sunlight. At his appearance, some of the wolves fell dead at his feet. Others ran, howling, scattering into the forest around them. Until nothing remained but the man.

  He turned his face up to her, but the sunlight dazzled her dark-sensitive eyes. She blinked but could not see his features. Only the hand he held up to her, reaching for her. Why? Who was he?

  She swiveled her face away, the better to see him from the corner of her eye. Strong features, but still not distinct enough to form a recognizable face. Closer by, his big hand looked strong and scarred. A warrior true.

  She’d seen him before in visions like this one. Why did he appear, again and again, in her Sight? Always reaching up to her after turning aside threats, averting danger. Would she ever meet him in the real world? How dire would be the threats that finally brought him to her? Would he arrive in time?

  Would he still reach for her when he’d done what he came to do?

  Chapter 1

  Scottish Highlands, 1517

  Donal McNabb of Clan Lathan held up his left hand, then closed his fingers into a fist. The six men following him reined their mounts to a stop. He glanced at Jamie Lathan and saw him nod. Aye, he heard it, too. The breeze carried banshee shrieking. The rough clatter of horses’ hooves on rocky ground. Still at a distance, but ahead.

  The sounds coming through the trees were unmistakable to men who, between them, had fought too many battles to count. But something seemed odd. Why didn’t they hear the bright clang of sword-on-sword? Was the battle ahead already won—or lost?

  “Wha’ the hell?” Jamie breathed the question, one eyebrow raised.

  They couldn’t be sure how far their voices would carry in these woods, and that noise up ahead could be anything. A training session—a mock battle with wooden weapons—might explain the missing clang of swords. Or a joust. Donal had attended a tournament in Edinburgh many years before and watched in disbelief as French knights in costly armor rode full-out, intent on unhorsing each other with long lances. Such contests were not practiced in the Highlands, where life was much less genteel. But this far to the south and east, perhaps such contests had been adopted from the Lowlands.

  In any event, they were in unfamiliar territory, so they took precautions.

  Donal didn’t need to answer Jamie. He had trained the men riding with him from lads to seasoned warriors. At his nod, they picked their way carefully through the trees, spreading left and right, keeping in sight of each other. At his signal, they began to move forward, their well-schooled mounts making hardly a whisper as they passed between boughs and branches.

  The racket grew louder as they approached, deepening into men’s hoarse shouts pierced by the terrified cries of—children? Donal spurred his mount forward. The rest of his men kept pace, stealth forgotten as they rode hard through the trees.

  When they reached the source of the noise, Donal took in the scene with a glance. Horsemen
charged in a loose circle around three wagons loaded with wooden casks and manned by young lads and old men. The normally placid Highland cattle hitched to the wagons tossed their heads, their horns threatening to disembowel any horse that came too close. The bandits, wearing plain clothing that lacked any clan insignia, slashed broadswords through the air over the heads of their intended victims. They whooped and jeered as the old men on the wagons shouted, thrusting swords at the circling mounts. The lads clustered around a wounded elder as they bravely waved dirks, then cried out and cowered away from certain death when the bandits’ blades whipped near.

  In one smooth motion, Donal pulled his baldric over his head and slid his claymore out. He charged the nearest rider, swinging with deadly aim. His men engaged the others with equally fatal results. In moments, the few bandits still alive took off through the trees.

  Donal reined to a halt and signaled his men. Jamie and Bram flanked him while the rest began to confirm the dead or stood guard against the remaining bandits’ return. He sheathed his sword and dismounted, eyeing the wagons’ contents. What bounty did they hold that failed to merit a decently armed and able escort, yet still attracted a band of ruffians this deep the Highland mountains?

  The lads watched him approach, wide-eyed and ruddy with fear. The old men waited warily, swords brandished, to see what he would do.

  He stopped several yards away from the wagons, hands out, palms open. “Are ye well, then?” he called out.

  “Nay,” came the piping response from one of the lads. “Fergus is bleedin’.”

  Donal kept his hands in view. Tempers ran high in the aftermath of a battle. He wanted to reassure the wagons’ occupants, not incite them into doing something unexpected. Surprises could be deadly. The last thing he wanted was to be forced to kill laddies and old men.

  “Who’s in charge here?”

  “I am.” The wounded elder’s voice sounded raspy but stronger than Donal expected, given the amount of blood staining the man’s shirt from a slice on his arm. “Fergus MacKyrie at yer service. We owe ye our thanks.” He waved away the lads and tried to stand, but couldn’t gain his feet. Two of the lads helped him up.

  Donal looked over all of them while he waited for Fergus, giving the man time to gain his feet and his dignity. Several were bloodied, though none as badly as their leader.

  “No thanks are needed,” he said, finally. “We couldna stand by when we came upon such banditry. Where is yer escort?”

  “Escort?” Fergus gestured at the wagons with his good hand. “We care for ourselves, and travel as ye see us, simple men on our way to deliver our goods.”

  Donal eyed the casks, waiting for Fergus to offer more information.

  “Nonetheless,” Fergus continued with a grimace, reaching behind him with his good arm to grasp the edge of a barrel, “ye have our thanks and those of the MacKyrie, should ye ever find yer way here again.”

  “Clan MacKyrie is where we’re headed,” Donal told him with a glance at Jamie, who nodded. What did those barrels hold? “’Tis best we escort ye there. Those ruffians will come back.”

  “But the whis...” one of the older men objected.

  Fergus waved him to silence while he gave Donal a long, assessing stare.

  Donal kept his face impassive, despite his mounting anger. That much whisky, with none to guard it but old men and lads? The MacKyrie laird was a fool or worse. Sending this lot without proper escort risked their deaths and the loss of their cargo, as they had just seen.

  “Aye, that would be wisest,” Fergus continued after a few shallow breaths. “I believe I’m in need of patching up. As are some of the others.” He paled and sank onto the barrelhead. “Over the pass...”

  “Mount up,” Donal barked to his men. The old man couldn’t last long, bleeding like that. “Get these wagons moving. Let’s get out of here before more trouble arrives. One of ye,” he said, gesturing to the MacKyries, “get Fergus flat and find something to bandage his wound or he’ll no’ finish the trip alive.”

  Jamie stood by Donal as everyone scrambled to obey. “Too bad Aileana’s no’ with us.”

  Donal grimaced.

  Their laird, Toran Lathan, had escaped from an invading Lowlander army over a year ago, along with a woman who could heal with her touch, Aileana Shaw. Many in the clan, Donal included, had treated her with suspicion, distrusting her strange talent even after she’d saved Jamie from an arrow wound that would have killed any other man. Even after Toran married her. To this day, Donal regretted ever doubting her abilities or her devotion to their Laird.

  “If we can keep that auld man alive until we arrive, they’ll sign the treaty, never fear,” Donal told Jamie. “That’s yers to do. I’ll get us there.”

  ****

  “Would ye look at that?” Jamie’s voice held awe, but his face displayed pure consternation: brows drawn down around slitted blue eyes, his lips pursed. He shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, despite the easy pace they’d been forced to keep for the wagons.

  The keep was bigger than the Aerie. A lot bigger.

  “Toran’s a crafty one, he is, to ally with this lot,” Bram added. Donal ignored him and studied their destination.

  The keep rose up behind its high walls across the glen, pennants flying from the tower tops at each corner. Glass glinted under the midday sun in every window. A sprawling village puddled out from the base of the walls like a sitting woman’s skirt, and a trail meandered through its midst to the keep’s open gates.

  “Can we be sure of our welcome here?” Jamie asked quietly.

  “We’re bringin’ home their whisky and their menfolk,” Donal groused. “The laird’s gratitude had better include answering questions, like why we’re havin’ to escort his wounded.” At Jamie’s raised eyebrow, he continued. “Once they ken how charming we are, there shouldna be any problems.”

  Jamie grinned and shook his head.

  Behind him, Bram choked back a laugh and began coughing.

  What was Toran thinking, Donal fumed, sending them to a treat with a clan that could claim a seat such as this one? Damn him. Toran stayed in the Aerie, close by his hearth, besotted by his wife and bairns, but still determined to stitch together treaties with the surrounding clans so they would never again fall prey to a Lowlander army like the one that had plagued them last year.

  Not that Toran had anything to regret. The Lowlander army had brought Aileana to him. Donal scowled at his partner. If Jamie hadn’t bound the two of them together in the handfasting ceremony, it would be Toran out here in the hinterlands with Jamie, and Donal holding down the fort back at the Aerie, the clan Lathan seat. Wedded bliss…pah. Donal had no interest in that, especially after having seen the effect it had on his laird.

  “Why did a clan as rich as this one appears to be send Fergus out with no escort?”

  Jamie’s question brought Donal back to the present. He shook his head. “It doesna make sense.” As much as Donal would like to turn around and forget the whole mess, there was no hope for it—they couldn’t return to the Aerie without an answer from the MacKyrie or Toran would have their heads.

  “Worst case,” Jamie added drily, “we can always ask guest-right. They wouldna turn us away then, no matter how many questions ye ask. Of course, gettin’ him to sign a treaty after ye finish yer interrogation might be more of a challenge.”

  Donal slanted him a look. “I’m sure with yer ambassadorial skills, ye’ll be up to it.”

  “Come on, then,” Jamie urged, smirking. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Donal kicked his mount into a faster pace and crossed the glen, Jamie at his side. The wagons trundled faster behind him, the coos sensing home much as a horse would. The rest of the Lathans stayed with the wagons, the guard they should have had all along. The more he thought about the attack they’d broken up, the more his ire rose against the laird they were about to meet. Good thing Jamie was the ambassador. He would do the talking. As irritated as the laird’s neglect of his pe
ople made him, Donal was more likely to start a new war.

  On closer inspection, the village seemed well kept if not overly prosperous. Off in the distance, black dots were scattered over the hillsides—each one a short, shaggy Highland coo. Or did they name them “cow” here, in the Lowlander manner? No matter. They had milk and meat aplenty then. Smoke rose from the blacksmith’s chimney. A lad barely old enough to be a tinker’s apprentice pounded out the side of a bent pot in front of his shop. But most of the villagers they passed were women. Several started toward the wagons only to be pulled back by their companions.

  “They fear us,” Jamie remarked, “even though we are no’ threatening them or their men.”

  “’Tis odd,” Donal agreed. “I’d expect more of a welcome from a Highland village.” He glanced behind him at the old men and lads. The men smiled at the women they passed. The lads waved and called out, but they failed to entice any lasses too near. Donal resolved to find out what had happened here to make the villagers so wary.

  They made their way without incident inside the walls of the keep. The gate stood open. No one challenged their entry. Dangerously lax safeguards, Donal thought, looking around. The few men he spied were up on the ramparts. Women and children filled the bailey.

  “Flodden?” Jamie asked quietly.

  “That would be my guess,” Donal replied. “We’ll get more answers from the laird.” Many clans had lost their lairds and fighting-aged men in 1513 defending King James IV against the English at Flodden Fields. The losses were so heavy in the Lowlands that many clans had fallen apart. Some of the clanless “lost men” had joined together in the army the Lathans had broken up the year before. Losses at Flodden among Highland clans varied, but Donal suspected this one had been hit hard.

  Donal and his men dismounted as old Fergus and the other wounded were moved into the keep. One of the lads approached, manlike despite his youth. “If ye’ll wait here, I’ll send the steward to ye,” he offered. “He’ll get ye settled in.”

  “We’d like to talk to yer laird, lad,” Jamie told him.

  “The laird will be with ye presently, I’m sure.” The lad shrugged, looking anything but sure as he took off at a run for the door of the keep.