Chapter One
DUNMUIR CASTLE THE ISLE OF DOON, 1330
NIP HIS FLESH with white-hot pinchers, expose him to
showers of offal and ceaseless floggings. Pour molten lead
down his throat and force him to fetch pebbles from a
cauldron of boiling oil. Make him weary of drawing breath.
Hasten his mortal exit.
The hum of angry voices pierced the blessed refuge of
Donall MacLean's deep slumber with all the subtleness of a
heavy-handed peasant battling moonbeams with a rusted
scythe.
Careful not to reveal he'd awakened, Donall the Bold,
proud laird of the great Clan MacLean, opened his eyes to
mere slits and squinted into what could only be called the
antechamber to hell.
Trouble was, Donall the Bold, belted knight and warrior of
untold renown, was not yet ready to pass into legend.
Pull him asunder by four stout oxen. Get him to his knees
until he pleads the mercy of God's holy blood.
"Pull me asunder? Make me plead God's mercy?" The words
burst past Donall's parched lips, riding hard on a
floodtide of fury he could no longer suppress.
Now fully awake, and uncaring if his malefactors knew it,
he strained against the heavy bands of iron secured around
his wrists and ankles. Outraged, he stared in disbelief at
the unsmiling graybeards outlined in the open doorway to
his dungeon cell.
An unlikely assemblage to be spouting brazen words, but
the hatred simmering in their aged eyes brand marked them
as the crazed dominions who'd rained such vile threats
upon him.
Behind them, a wall torch sputtered and smoked, its
reluctant flames edging their gaunt figures with an eerie
reddish glow-an odd effect that underscored the impression
he'd awakened in the talons of the horned one and his
cloven-footed minions.
Relying on a fast-waning reserve of strength deep inside
his battered body, Donall raked them with a defiant
glare. "A MacLean gets on his knees before no man."
Incredulity warred with his fury over the very idea. "'Tis
mad the lot of you are if you think to accomplish such a
feat. The only getting I'll be doing is out of here."
"Aye, and leave us you shall," one of the men agreed, "as
a corpse to be tossed from the cliffs, your cold flesh
good for naught but carrion for the gulls."
Donall narrowed his eyes at his captors. He'd howl with
laughter at their effrontery but regrettably, he lacked
the vigor to do much more than glower.
Cold and shivering, he'd been left unclothed to wallow on
a pallet of fouled straw, his every muscle screamed in
agony and his temples throbbed so fiercely he'd almost
swear some heavy-armed churl had cleaved his head in
twain.
Giving heed to the urge to laugh would only increase his
misery. Even scowling cost him.
With a low groan, he leaned his head against the damp wall
and drew in a few shallow breaths. He instantly regretted
doing so, for a bitingly rank smell assailed his senses
with each ragged gasp.
A stench almost as sharp as the white-hot shards of agony
shooting through his head.
Where, by the Holy Rood, was he? And who were his stern-
faced tormentors? Donall peered hard at the one who'd
spoken. Hawk-eyed and boasting an unkempt shock of hair
the color of rusted iron, the graybeard returned his
stare.
They all stared.
And waves of anger emanated from their ancient bones.
Several of them seemed hauntingly familiar, but the
throbbing in his temples kept him from thinking clearly.
And who was the lady Isolde?
The woman whose name the jeering old weathercocks had
bantered about before they'd let loose their barrage of
ludicrous threats.
Or had he imagined the name? His mind's attempt to wrest
his thoughts from his ravaged and aching state of being?
Or was Isolde the name of a long-forgotten paramour? A
faceless victim of a one-time dalliance, come back to
haunt him in his darkest hour?
Either way, the name wove a fine dance along the outer
edges of his mind. Elusive as a nimble sidhe maid
cavorting in the gloaming, the name taunted him with its
familiarity but never came close enough for him to
comprehend who she might be.
Snatches of angry words and a half-remembered scuffle
joined the chaos of confusion in his mind but the red haze
of pain banished each snippet of thought before he could
make sense of aught.
"Not so mighty now, are you, Donall the Bold?" another of
the graybeards commented, his aged voice laden with
sarcasm. "Still, we purpose to grant you the preservation
of your dignity by allowing you to repent your sins before
our fair chieftain."
A female chieftain. The lady Isolde.
Fragments of conversations he'd had with his brother's now
dead wife, Lileas, joined the swirling morass in his head,
adding to his bewilderment.
Hadn't Lileas called her sister Isolde? And hadn't there
been some talk about Archibald MacInnes's eldest daughter
assuming the role of chieftain upon Archibald's death two
years past?
The answers teased him, hovering close but not near enough
to grasp.
Not with his blood pounding louder than a smithy's hammer
in his ears.
He opened his mouth to let loose a stream of choice
epithets but the dark oaths died on his tongue when a
tiny, four-footed something skittered across his bare
feet. He jerked his legs in reaction, but the cold iron
binding his ankles hindered any further movement and drove
home the grim reality of his plight.
At once, the haze clouding his mind lifted, leaving only
pain, anger, and indignation in its place.
With dawning clarity, the wretched details of his
surrounds and the sorry state of his own bruised body
became as clear as if illuminated by the flames of a
thousand well-burning torch lights.
Not as clear but equally disturbing came the faint memory
of a grizzle-headed female bending over him, a hell-hag
who peered at him from clouded eyes. To his horror, he
also recalled the crone lifting the tattered cloth someone
had tossed across his vitals and, brazen as day, peeking
at what lay beneath.
Saints preserve him if she proved to be the "fair
chieftain" his captors thought to force him to do penance
to. The very thought was enough to curdle his flesh.
"You appear vexed," said a third graybeard. This one had
stark white hair and leaned heavily on a walking crook.
With slow, shuffling steps, he came near to where Donall
sat braced against a cold, slime-coated stone wall. "Dare
we hope you are regaining your senses at last? Perchance
remembering the ease with which we took you?"
The man leaned down, so close his stale breath fanned
Donall's cheek. "Pray, how does it feel to have been
bested by an insignificant clan such as ours? I doubt you
e'er thought to awaken wearing naught but MacInnes irons?"
The MacInnesses!
At last, the remaining dredges of fog cleared from his
mind and he remembered.
Everything.
But he hadn't been bested, they'd tricked him.
When his brother Iain's grief upon his wife's death had
proved too great for him to perform the sorry task
himself, Donall and his foster brother, Gavin MacFie, had
set off alone to bear Lileas's body home to her clan's
stronghold, Dunmuir Castle.
Upon arriving, they'd been welcomed, thanked, and even
offered victuals and ale to sustain them before they
continued on their journey to the mainland to purchase
cattle and supplies for the MacLean holding, Baldoon
Castle on the opposite side of Doon, the bonnie isle both
clans had shared since time beginning.
A voyage Donall had expected to make together with a party
of MacInnesses.
An excursion he'd meant to use to locate the true murderer
of Iain's beloved MacInnes bride.
An endeavor of great and dire import, a matter he'd hoped
to see resolved before his short-tempered brother awakened
from the haze of his sorrow and set off on his own to
avenge his wife's death. Iain's rashness would only make a
bad situation worse.
Deep inside, in a hidden place Donall did not care to let
his thoughts linger, he hoped Iain's hot temper and
tendency to quick bouts of irritability had nary a finger
in causing the tragedy.
And now his attempts to avert further turmoil were
rendered impossible by the MacInnesses' addlepated plans
to wreak vengeance on him!
He strained against his fetters, frustration hot and
bitter in his throat. Cold iron emphasized the futility of
his efforts to break free, while the closed expressions on
his captors' faces bespoke the folly of trying to persuade
them to form an alliance to seek the true perpetrators of
their kinswoman's murder.
But futile or folly, he must try.
Donall forced himself to swallow his anger. If only
Archibald were still alive, he might have half a chance.
But the old laird was gone, and the graybeards holding him
captive showed none of Archibald's desire to maintain at
least a semblance of peace.
Though they had been bitter enemies for centuries, the old
laird's efforts had enabled the two clans to enjoy an
uneasy truce in recent years. Neither Donall nor Gavin had
suspected the lass they'd come upon not long after their
departure from Dunmuir of pretending to have twisted her
ankle. Her supposed injury allowed the scheming MacInnes
whoresons to fall upon them from behind when they'd
stopped to help her.
"What ails you, laddie?" The white-haired ancient nudged
Donall's bare thigh. "Are you so vexed o'er being bested
that you've lost your tongue?"
Donall ignored the taunt and swept the cell with his gaze,
peering deep into the shadowy corners to see if his pain-
addled state had prevented him from spotting Gavin. But he
was indeed alone, his foster brother nowhere to be seen.
"What have you done with Gavin?" He struggled to sit up
straighter. "If aught has befallen him, it is your clan
who will be bested," he swore, directing his words to the
hawk-eyed man he at last recognized as the late MacInnes
laird's brother, Struan.
"Proud words for a man in your position." Struan's gaze
flicked over Donall's iron-bound limbs. "Your man rests in
his own cell and more comfortably than you, never fear. We
bear no grudges against the MacFies. Our fight is with
you."
"Striking a man from behind has naught to do with
fighting." Ire swelled in Donall's gut. "Such trickery was
a sorry deed, one I doubt your brother would have
allowed."
"Archibald is dead." The youngest-looking of the gray-
beards stepped forward. He cast a sidelong glance at
Struan.
"Our ceann cath now advises us in war matters, and we
possess the wisdom of our combined years. It is enough."
Without further discourse, he went to stand before the
chink in the far wall that served as the cell's only
window. Though painfully narrow, the opening had allowed a
semblance of light and an occasional stirring of brisk sea
air to enter the chamber. By blocking the air slit, he
stole the scant comfort Donall had gleaned from the few
stray breezes that had found their way into the cell.
As if Donall's thoughts were emblazoned upon his forehead,
a knowing smile spread across the man's grim-cast
face. "You see, Donall the Bold, brawn is not always
required to make one's enemies squirm. Clever planning can
often wreak a far more fitting revenge than a well-wielded
sword."
"And it is the taste of my well-wielded blade's steel you
shall suffer if you do not release me at once." Donall's
anger heated his blood to such a degree he no longer felt
the cell's damp chill.
"Your blade is secured far out with your reach," Struan
countered. "Indeed, your days of swinging swords are past,
MacLean. Even your supposed prowess with another sort of,
shall we say, thrusting weapon will serve you no more."
Bracing his hands on his hips, he gave Donall a wholly
unpleasant smile. "I daresay you shall regret being denied
the use of that sword once you glimpse the fair
countenance of our chieftain, the lady Isolde. But alas,
sampling such a tender fruit as she is a pleasure beyond
your reach."
"I would sooner plunge my staff into a she-goat," Donall
seethed, his shackles cutting into his wrists and ankles
as he sought to lunge at the graybeard. "May my shaft
wither and fall off afore I-"
"Be assured I find the notion equally displeasing." Donall
froze. Smooth and rich as thick cream yet irresistibly
spiced with the bite of pepper, the woman's voice poured
over, around, and into him.
Under any other circumstances, the pleasing tones would
have banished the sting of his anger with ease, mayhap
even ignited fires of an entirely different sort of heat,
but he was in no mood to be swayed by the sweet lilt of a
few saucily spoken words.
Especially when the melodious voice most assuredly
belonged to Isolde MacInnes.
A woman he had no intention of being attracted
to. "Distasteful as your presence is to me, you are under
my roof and I am determined to have done with you
accordingly," she spoke again, her words confirming her
identity.
Donall shifted on his pallet of straw and wished more
covered his manhood than a thin piece of cloth. If the
lady Isolde's appearance proved halfway as provocative as
the honeyed timbre of her voice and the avowals of her
uncle, he would have preferred a more substantial modicum
of dignity.
Cell-bound and fettered or nay, red blood yet coursed
through his veins.
Nor had the blackguards put out his eyes.
Pressing his lips together, he pushed aside all thought of
fetching lasses. It'd been longer than he cared to admit
since he'd last taken his ease with a wench, but he did
not want to be bestirred by Isolde MacInnes.
Not even a wee bit. What he wanted was a way out of this
cell.
With luck, he'd find her so unappealing, any unwanted
surges of admiration would fly away at first glance.
Holding his breath lest it not be so, he turned his head
toward the door whence her voice had come.
She stood just inside the open doorway, holding a rush
light, her aged kinsmen clustered around her. And much to
his ire, he recognized her worth immediately.
Her uncle hadn't lied: she was indeed a beauty.
A powerful jolt of frank appreciation shot through him,
boldly declaring his hot-blooded nature's refusal to
cooperate with his avowals to resist her charms.
"Lady Isolde." He curtly inclined his head. Blessedly, his
voice remained free of any indication he found her
alluring. "I refuse to be a part of such foolery as your
men intend to perform on me and demand you release me at
once."
She stepped farther into the cell, her rush light held
aloft. Its flame illuminated the finely formed contours of
her face, emphasizing the smooth perfection of her skin
and casting a bright sheen upon her plaited hair.
Hair the color of a thousand setting suns, its deep bronze
tones shot through with lighter strands that shone like
molten gold. Unbound, it would surely swirl around her
gently curved hips and bewitch the good sense out of any
man fool enough to try to resist his attraction to her.