The true story of Rome’s departing from Britain was forgotten. It passed into legend and myth amongst the Celts with each retelling of the story. Only the Druids knew the truth.
Then one
The scrolls, however, only listed one tribe—the MacLeods.
Deirdre turned her eye to the MacLeod clan. There she would begin. . . .
CHAPTER ONE
“Ye’ve gone daft, ye have.”
Cara adjusted the basket on her arm. The brisk wind from the sea pulled tendrils from her braid to fly haphazardly into her eyes. She tucked them behind her ear and smiled at Angus. He had only one tooth left in his mouth, and what little hair he had stood on end, waving about in the vicious sea wind. “I’ll be fine, Angus. The best mushrooms in all of Scotland are within walking distance.”
“Ye stay away from that castle, lass. ’Tis full of ghosts it be. And monsters.” He shook a gnarled finger at her, his white, fluffy brows furrowed deep in his wrinkled forehead.
He needn’t remind her. Everyone in clan MacClure knew of MacLeod Castle. For centuries the stories of how the entire MacLeod clan had been massacred had been passed down from generation to generation. Tales of ghosts that roamed the land and castle were also told to frighten young children.
But it did more than scare the bairns. Even adults swore they saw movement in the shadows of MacLeod Castle.
No one dared venture near the old ruins for fear of being eaten alive. It didn’t help that strange, furious sounds, almost like howls, could be heard emanating from the ancient fortress in the dead of night.
Cara inhaled deeply and turned her head to look at the castle. It stood dark and foreboding against the ominous clouds coming their way. Grass, bright green in the warming weather, surrounded the stones that protruded from the landscape while the dark blue sea set a fantastic backdrop to the castle. The castle itself had two connected towers that had at one time served as the gate house. The gate had burned in the slaughter, leaving nothing left.
The castle wall that was easily twelve feet thick still stood, its stones blackened by the fire, with many of the sawtoothed merlons and crenels broken and crumbling. There were six round towers that stretched to the sky, leaving only one with the ceiling intact.
Cara had wanted to look inside the bailey and castle but had never been brave enough. Her fear of the dark, and the creatures that lurked in it, kept her out of the stronghold.
“They are simply stones turned to rubble,” she said to Angus. “There are no ghosts. Nor monsters.”
Angus moved to stand beside her. “There are monsters, Cara. Heed me words, lass. Ye go near the ruins, we’ll never see ye again.”
“I promise I won’t go in the castle, but I must get near it to get the mushrooms. Sister Abigail needs them for her herbs.”
“Then let the good Sister go herself. She’s not one of us. Ye are, Cara. Ye know the tales of the MacLeods.”
“That’s right, Angus. I do.” She didn’t bother denouncing her MacClure ties. She was a Sinclair, though no one knew it. It was just one of her secrets she kept from the clan that had taken her in when she was a small child wandering the forest.
Nay, she wasn’t a MacClure, but she didn’t correct Angus, one of her only friends. It felt good to belong to something, even if it was just in her mind. Not even the nuns who had raised her made her feel as if she truly belonged. They had loved her, in their own way, but it wasn’t the same thing as a parent’s love.
Not that she blamed any of the MacClures for not opening their homes to her. When the nuns had found her, she had gone days without food. She had been filthy, barefoot, and still so in shock at her parents’ deaths that she refused to speak. She doubted anyone wanted to know that her parents had sacrificed themselves to save her, their only child.
Like most Highlanders, the MacClures were a superstitious lot and feared Cara and what had driven her from her home. It was that same superstition that kept everyone away from the ruins of the castle that stood on the cliffs. With one last look at Angus and his furrowed brow, she lifted her skirts and turned to start toward the ancient ruins, ignoring the tingle of apprehension that ran along her spine.
His words were soon drowned out by the breeze and the cries of birds. Cara kept a watchful eye on the sinister clouds moving toward her. If she was lucky, she would be back inside the nunnery before the first drop landed.
She set out, enjoying the spring wind and the call of the razorbills that made their homes in the cliffs. Ever since the spring equinox and her eighteenth year, strange things had begun to happen to her. She would feel a sort of . . . tingling . . . in her fingers. The need to touch something overwhelmed her. Yet she feared that sensation, so she kept her hands to herself and tried her best to ignore the need that called to her. Being more different than she already was would not endure her to the MacClures—or the nuns.
The village of the MacClures had been built but a short distance from the old community of MacLeod Castle. After the massacre, it hadn’t taken the other clans long to divide up the lands of the MacLeods, and the MacClures were one of the first.
It was a sad story, and every time she looked at the castle she couldn’t help but wonder what had actually happened. The MacLeods had been a great clan, feared and respected, and had been destroyed in a single night. Yet no one had claimed responsibility for the annihilation.
A shiver ran through her as she recalled the animalistic howls and screams she sometimes heard at night. She told the children at the nunnery it was simply the wind racing across the sea and moving between the ruins. But deep inside, she knew the truth.
There was something alive in the castle.
The closer she got to the old castle, the more the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She turned her back on the ruins, scolding herself for letting her fear take hold. There was nothing to worry about now. It was daylight. Only the dark of night brought out her true fear.
She briefly closed her eyes and tamped her growing fright down. A gasp escaped her lips when the necklace she always kept hidden warmed against her skin.
She pulled the necklace out of her gown and stared at the vial and the silver knot work that wound around it. The necklace had been her mother’s, and the last thing she had given Cara before she died.
Cara dropped the necklace and pulled in a shaky breath. Her mother had bade her to keep it with her always, protecting the vial. Cara couldn’t think about the night her parents died. It brought too much guilt, too much anger, to know that the people who had loved her, cared for her, had surrendered their lives so she might live.
She glanced down to see the mushrooms she was supposed to pick. No one knew why they grew only along the path to the castle, and few braved the ghosts to harvest them. Some claimed it was magic that brought the mushrooms, and though Cara would never admit it to anyone, she thought it very well could be magic. She had volunteered to go this time because Sister Abigail needed them for little Mary’s fever.
Cara loved helping the nuns with the children. It satisfied a piece of her heart that knew she would never have a child of her own. Her decision to become a nun had been a sound one. Yet there were times she felt . . . incomplete. It always happened when she saw a couple about the village. She wondered what the touch of a man would feel like, what it would be like to bring her own child into the world and look into the loving eyes of her husband.
Aye, she needed to stop. Keeping her mind on that track would only bring her melancholy for what could
