Page 1 of Awoken
Prologue
A Pact with the Devil
Dunan broch
MacKinnon Territory
Isle of Skye, Scotland
Spring, 1349 AD
ROSS STARED AT the clan-chief, shock transforming into incredulity. Surely, he’d misheard? The man he’d served loyally for nearly fifteen years had just ordered him to abduct a nun.
“MacKinnon,” he said finally before clearing his throat. “Tell me ye aren’t serious about this?”
“I am,” Duncan MacKinnon replied. He turned, from where he stood at the window to his solar, and fixed Ross with a gimlet stare that the warrior knew well. “Niall MacDonald is dead. It’s time to act.”
Ross’s gaze shifted from the clan-chief, to the man who stood a few feet away. Red-faced, his leathers caked in mud from the journey, the messenger’s chest heaved. He was still out of breath from his flight here from Duncaith and his sprint up the stairs to deliver the message. His name was Aodh, and he was a MacKinnon spy who’d lived among the MacDonalds of Sleat for the past three winters.
The spy’s gaze gleamed as it met Ross’s. “It’s true,” he said, his voice raspy from exhaustion. “The chieftain fell from his horse during a stag hunt yesterday … dashed his brains out on a boulder.”
The news left a sour taste in Ross’s mouth; he hadn’t known Niall MacDonald well, having only met him on a handful of occasions, yet he remembered him as a proud warrior. One who had met a sudden, unfortunate, end.
Ross knew the history between the two chiefs, the rancor that ran deep. MacDonald had thwarted MacKinnon, had prevented him from wedding MacDonald’s eldest daughter by sending her to Kilbride to take the veil. Duncan MacKinnon had nursed the grievance like a bruise over the past two years.
“But surely … she has taken her vows now?” Ross said after a long pause, his attention shifting back to MacKinnon. “The lass is out of yer reach.”
Ross watched the clan-chief’s face stiffen. At forty winters, Duncan MacKinnon was twelve years his elder. They had known each other a long while, for Ross had come to foster at Dunan at sixteen. He’d served Duncan’s father, Jock MacKinnon, first and then remained upon the Isle of Skye once he came of age, to serve Duncan. MacKinnon had treated him well over the years. He’d risen fast in the clan-chief’s personal guard, and had no desire to return to Argyll, upon the mainland, where he was the youngest of many sons.
But there were times he wondered if he hadn’t signed a pact with the devil when he’d sworn his fealty to this man.
Now was one such time.
“Kilbride sits on my lands,” MacKinnon replied, his voice developing a harsh edge. “Leanna won’t have taken her vows of perpetuity yet.” He halted there, his face screwing up. “But since the abbess lets nuns run off and wed whom they please, I’d say those vows mean very little anyway.”
A brittle silence settled over the solar. Of course, MacKinnon was referring to the incident last year, when one of the nuns had left the order to wed the MacNichol clan-chief. It was a sore subject for MacKinnon, for he’d been hunting the woman at the time.
Ross wasn’t sure of the details, but the nun—who had accompanied MacNichol to Dunan that summer—had somehow fallen foul of MacKinnon during their stay. MacKinnon’s story was that he’d visited Sister Annella’s bed-chamber to question her about Lady Leanna, but she’d savagely attacked him, knocking him senseless upon the floor.
MacKinnon had sworn to bring the woman to justice.
The next day MacKinnon and his men had ridden west to Kilbride Abbey, only to find that both Gavin MacNichol and Sister Annella had never arrived there. Or so the abbess said.
Ross wasn’t a fool. He knew that MacKinnon hadn’t told him the whole tale. He’d seen enough over the years to know that the man he served was far from a saint. However, Ross preferred not to know the details. There were many times when he deliberately ignored things, when he willfully remained ignorant of unsavory facts. He had a good life here at Dunan—and he wasn’t about to jeopardize it.
Ross’s silence made MacKinnon scowl. “Ye aren’t considering defying me, are ye, Campbell?” he growled. “Don’t forget who made ye Captain of the Dunan Guard … before ye came here, ye were nothing.”
Ross tensed and took a deep breath to quell his rising temper.
Aye, signing a pact with the devil always came at a price. Sooner or later Satan came to collect. And MacKinnon—the smug bastard—knew that Ross would only oppose him up to a point; his pride prevented him from going further.
“Ye want me to ride in there and just drag the lass away?” Ross asked finally, not bothering to hide the exasperation in his voice. “That will never work … Mother Shona won’t allow it.”
MacKinnon smirked. He was a handsome man, with a mane of rich-brown hair, not yet touched by white, and iron-grey eyes. Yet many of his facial expressions tarnished his swarthy good looks. The smirk was one of them.
“Ye are a clever man, Campbell,” he replied, crossing the room to a large oaken sideboard where a ewer of wine and cups sat. He poured himself a large measure and slugged it back in three gulps. He then slammed down the cup. Turning to Ross, MacKinnon favored him with a wolfish smile. “I don’t care by what means ye get me Lady Leanna MacDonald of Sleat … only that ye do.”
1
