The Highlander (Victorian Rebels Book 3)

Twin bonfires roared and crackled amidst the festival grounds, blazing as high as a two-story London row house and half as wide. Mena sipped on the spiced cider she’d mixed with Scotch and hoped no one had noticed. Highlanders seemed very adamantly against blending their Scotch with nectars and such, but she hadn’t the constitution yet to sip it alone, though she was trying to build to it.

A crowd of several hundred guests circled the twin infernos as gamekeepers and farmers drove their most prized livestock between the fires to purify and bless herds through winter. Bones of the cows, pigs, and various fowl used to feed so many were dried, kissed, blessed, and tossed into the flames, lending the air a succulent aroma. If Mena hadn’t already been full to sick from her copious meal, her mouth would have watered.

“You are in luck, Miss Mena, they are about to start the ritual.” Jani appeared at her elbow, dressed this evening as a glittering gold maharaja. His turban shimmered with gems, the largest in the center of the headdress, from which a tall peacock feather sprouted.

“Jani, don’t you look regal?” Mena exclaimed.

His dusky skin glowed with pleasure. “You are kind, Miss Mena, but I am muted next to your beautiful self.”

“Go on, you.” She elbowed him good-naturedly and went back to watching the increasingly foreign ceremony. “What ritual is this, exactly? I’ve never seen the like.”

Jani’s black eyes reflected the light of the bonfire, turning a tiger gold. “Even in this modern age, Highlanders are superstitious people. The harsh Scottish winters are especially dangerous for livestock, and this ritual the Mackenzie is about to perform will petition the gods to protect the cattle and sheep.”

“I see,” she breathed, before the ability to speak was stolen from her.

A lone pipe blared, silencing the crowd with its piercing, mystical song. Then the Mackenzie Laird appeared between the fires, and a reverent murmur weaved through the night.

Here stood her ancient barbarian. The one from the canvas in the hall. Clad in nothing but his kilt and boots, Liam Mackenzie radiated primitive, elemental power. His arms and torso were packed with even more muscle than Mena had remembered, and gleamed like tawny velvet in the firelight.

Something dark and unbidden unfurled in Mena’s body, tightening her features with a primal hunger and softening her feminine muscles to welcome him. She’d fought the very idea when he’d warned her of his impossible intentions on the roof. But looking at him as he was now, the incarnation of an ancient Druid warrior, she couldn’t remember any impediment to his absolute possession of her.

The fire illuminated black and blue runes adorning his chest and arms starting just beneath his rib cage and knotting over and around his nipples, his shoulders, his throat, and finely crawling up his sculpted jaw.

Cuffs of solid gold circled above the swells of his biceps, his wrists, and his neck. His hair ruffled in the breezes, but as close to the flames as he stood, there was no conceivable way he marked the chill of the evening. The ebony of his unbound hair fell to the middle of his back and matched the shadow stubbling his jaw. The two braids over his shoulder teased at his beruned collarbone.

Surveying his people with unabashed pride and satisfaction, Liam found her where she stood at the crowd’s periphery. The look he sent her was so full of sensual promise, Mena’s body released a wet flood of thigh-clenching arousal.

How could he provoke her with just a look? How on earth was she to ever resist such temptation?

Because you must, she admonished herself.

Whatever he read on her features inspired a glance of such victorious self-satisfaction on his face, she suddenly wanted to throw something at him.

Something like herself, perhaps.

Jani waved to him, oblivious to their unspoken interaction. “The laird has only missed one Samhain since his father died,” he informed her, “and on that year, there was blight on the cattle. So the people demand that every year he is here for the ritual.”

Mena tore her gaze away from the overwhelming sight that was the Laird of the Mackenzie clan. “You don’t really believe that driving a few cattle through two bonfires and saying a spell has anything to do with the survival of the livestock herds, do you?” she asked skeptically.

Jani shrugged. “Who is to say, Miss Mena? The story is that Liam Mackenzie, his father, and all Lairds of the Mackenzie of Wester Ross are descended from an ancient royal Pictish line that mingled with invaders from the north. It is said they carry the blood of the Lachlan berserker in their veins.”

“Berserker?” Mena queried.

“Yes, a mythic Nordic warrior who gains the strength of ten men and incomparable ferocity at the sight of blood.” He sent her a meaningful glance. “Sound familiar?”

“I thought it was said he was possessed of a Brollachan.”

Jani gave another of his very quick shrugs. “Highlanders say lots of things. Telling stories is one of their favorite pastimes.”

She glanced back at the laird, who lifted his face to the stars, as did his congregation, and sang in a surprisingly lovely baritone to the sky in that lyrical language Mena didn’t understand. His delicious brogue lent such a potent sensuality to the prayer that he could very well be seducing a lover rather than symbolically blessing herds of livestock.

Mena was struck not just by his masculine beauty, but also by the beauty of his people gathered around, their faces warm with whisky, ale, and rapture as they repeated parts of the lovely verses, cheering as each herder finished driving his choice few symbolic animals between the fires to finish the blessing.

The rite wasn’t long, formal, or ponderous as the mild Protestant services she’d attended growing up had been, and before she knew it, the spell was over. A bagpipe blared, and then another, until four pipers placed at the north, south, east, and western points of the circle lifted their wailing tunes in perfect synchronization.

A young child toddled too close to one of the bonfires, and Ravencroft swept her up and flung her high before settling her giggling body on his massive shoulders. He patiently ignored her playful tugs on his braids as, one by one, middle-aged or wizened women stepped forward to light torches in the fire before leading entire families in their wake.

“What are they doing now?” Mena asked Jani.

Jani gestured to the older women. “The reigning matriarch of each family must take the ritual fire home to her hearth. If their house is close, then she’ll take it to the village tonight. If not, she’ll take it to the tent and tend the coals until they travel safely home and ignite in their own dark fireplace. The Druid-blessed Samhain fire keeps them safe over the coming winter.”

“How lovely,” Mena murmured, as she marveled at how quickly the crowd began to disperse, each family following their matriarch back to where she would take the blessed flame.

She noted that the young father of the errant child affixed to Liam’s shoulders had wound his way to his laird. Liam tossed the little one up, eliciting one last squeal of delight, before he settled her back in the young man’s grateful arms. The men exchanged what Mena imagined to be paternal smiles and words of exasperation over mischievous young daughters before they locked forearms in a traditional show of kinship.

An emotion gathered in Mena’s throat in the form of a lump that refused to be swallowed. Did Ravencroft want more babies? Would he like another chance to raise children from the beginning? Were he ever to marry again, he was most definitely virile enough to father many sweet, dark-haired little ones.

Little ones she could never have.

Frustrated tears welled in her eyes. It didn’t matter, she reminded herself firmly. None of it mattered, as a relationship between them was as unattainable as the stars. She knew it, and eventually, he would as well.

Miserably, she watched him move through the throngs of his clan. Women doted on him, using any excuse to touch his exposed skin the color of his own famous whisky. She could see from her vantage that though some people feared him, the women desired him, and the men respected him. Be he the Brollachan or the berserker, his people flourished beneath his leadership, and they loved him for it. How could he not know that?

A man like him would be easy to love.

Once the word amalgamated out of the universal impossibilities of the future and the terrifying rifts of the past, Mena realized that she was utterly lost.

She hadn’t fallen in love with Liam Mackenzie. No, she’d drifted into it in subtle shifts. The moment they’d met had been like the whisper of a storm kissing a hot, humid day with a blessed chill. The promise of something dark and exciting gathered on the horizon, and Mena had watched that storm rumble closer with every instant they’d spent together. Every time she’d banked the fires that blazed in his eyes. Every time he’d ignited heat into her cold heart. He’d chipped a bit of her resistance away and replaced it with the force of his raw, unbridled passion. He shared with her what men rarely did, and he unveiled the darkest parts of himself for her to see. Illuminating them not only to her eyes, but to his own and his children’s in an attempt to try and be better. He wanted her to understand him more so that she feared him less.

And Mena loved him for it.

She loved him.

Dear God, what did she do now?

“Miss Lockhart! Jani!” An animated cry broke Mena away from her astonished revelation as she felt Jani tense beside her.

Rhianna raced up the subtle hill toward them, draped in the costume of a Grecian goddess. The effect was slightly ruined by her thick lamb’s-wool wrap, but in frigid weather such as this, it couldn’t be helped. Flanked by two equally red-faced and exuberant girls, she nearly bowled over Jani, but he stopped her just in time with two steadying hands on either arm.

The moment she was stable, he dropped his hands to curl them into fists at his sides.

“Whit like, Jani?” The younger girls giggled, casting not-so-subtle coquettish looks at the young Hindu. Mena had to admit, Jani was an exotically handsome young man, and it broke her heart that he only had eyes for her oblivious charge. Especially when she noted that he caught the notice of many a lass.

“Are ye all right, Miss Lockhart? Ye look like ye’re about to cry,” Rhianna observed with her usual lack of tact, though her dark eyes were filled with concern.

“Just a bit of ash from the fires drifted over,” Mena lied as she greeted Rhianna’s friends, remembering their names as Liza and Kayleigh, though she couldn’t recall which was which. “What’s this, then?” She gestured to the charred remains of what she’d surmised to be an apple peel in the girl’s hands.

“It’s a C, Miss Lockhart, and C is for Campbell.” The sad-looking apple peel was shoved beneath her nose for inspection, and it did, indeed, seem to have been singed into the shape of a C. Though there was a suspicious hook at the bottom of the peel that could have been a J if reversed.

Rhianna had explained earlier that a long-standing Samhain tradition of divination claimed that if a woman were to peel an apple, then stand with her back to the ceremonial bonfires and throw the peel over her shoulder into the flames, said peel would spell out the first letter of her future husband’s name.

“Campbell, indeed?” Mena smiled into Rhianna’s glowing features and glanced at Jani, who scowled at the peel as though it were his enemy.

“As in Kevin Campbell,” the brunette taunted in a singsong voice.

“Nay, Rhianna, it wouldna be Kevin Campbell,” the redhead—Mena thought she was Kayleigh—argued. “The letter only pertains to the first name of your husband, surnames doona count.”

Rhianna pouted at her friend. “But there’s no way an apple peel can spell out the letter K!” she protested loudly. “Exceptions have to be made, isna that right, Miss Lockhart?”

Three sets of expectant young eyes turned on her and Mena couldn’t help but laugh out loud, abruptly grateful for the distraction. “I would imagine that in such a case, an exception could be made. Else it would make many an unfortunate man with a name starting with the letter K very lonely, indeed.”

“Right!” With her raven hair glittering in the firelight, Rhianna triumphantly held the charred peel up as if it were a trophy of war, and whooped like a savage.

“What about ye, Miss Lockhart?” the brunette, who must then be Liza, asked shyly. “What did yer apple peel say? Mine was an N … or an S, I suppose.”

Mena forced a laugh. “I’m much too old for such games, and I’m not of a mind to be married.”

Because she already was, and it had been a nightmare.

“It doesna matter!” Rhianna insisted, her dark eyes glittering with mischief. “It’s not like you have to marry. The apple peel just tells who ye would marry if ye were of a mind.” She repeated her words with a mocking giggle.

“Really, I—”

“Oh, come on, Miss Lockhart!” they all begged, pulling at her sleeves and half dragging her toward the fires.

“Just try it once!”

“It’ll be fun!”

“Please?”

Feeling rather harassed, yet enjoying the barrage of attention from energetic young women, Mena shrugged. What harm could it do?

She glanced at Jani who still studied the apple peel with a fierce expression. Though when he turned back to her, he summoned a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Mena reached out and gave his hand one soft squeeze.

“Andrew!” Rhianna bellowed in a rather unladylike fashion across the fires to her brother, who lingered with Rune by the handsome tables laden with food. “Bob an apple for Miss Lockhart!”

Dark hair already gleaming with moisture, Andrew flashed a rare smile, tossed whatever he’d been snacking on to Rune, and lustily dove into the dark liquid of the nearby barrel face-first. His skinny legs kicked comically in his struggle, and even the solemn Jani laughed at his antics.

After emerging victorious, he slicked his hair back once more, and pilfered a knife from the tables. Simultaneously peeling and walking, Andrew presented her with a brilliant smile and the smooth red flesh of an autumn apple. “Ye have to throw it over yer shoulder and doona look until it starts to burn, or it willna work,” he whispered.

“Got it.” Mena winked and turned her back to the fire and was ready to throw the peel behind her.

“Wait!” Rhianna stopped her. “We have to say the spell over it first.”

All the youngsters nodded in solemn agreement.

“The spell?” Mena echoed.

To the Maiden Goddess of the land

The Crone please bless with divine hand

From the Mother’s fruit I hold

My future soul mate’s name is told.

Each of the girls’ voices blended to the verse beautifully and Mena figured that it should count for her peel. She backed closer to the fire until its searing warmth glowed through the back of her dress. Closing her eyes, she flicked the peel over her shoulder and was rewarded with a hiss.

When her eyes opened, all those who had previously been in front of her had vanished. Turning, she found them bent as close as they dared to read her theoretical fortune.

“Look! It’s a C like mine!” Rhianna pulled her close. As it singed and cooked, the peel did seem to be curling in upon itself.

“That’s not a C, look at that corner there!” Kayleigh pointed to where a flaw in the corner of the peel caused it to jut out, making a specific point. “It seems more like an L to me.”

“Let me look,” Andrew demanded, leaning closer and inspecting it with a scrupulous eye.

Mena’s heart pounded audibly when he turned to her with a look of solemn authentication. “Most definitely an L,” he confirmed.

The girls giggled and began to make lists of L names.

“Lucas or Lionel,” Kayleigh suggested.

“Aye,” Rhianna agreed vehemently, ticking off names on her fingers. “Or Lawrence, Logan, Lucius—”

“Liam,” Andrew offered quietly.

Mena froze as the party almost simultaneously made the connection, and their eyes searched each other’s, trying wordlessly to surmise what their reaction should be. The laird and the governess? Dare someone even suggest it?

After a breathless moment, Andrew’s face melted into the warmest smile she’d ever seen and Mena’s heart broke into gossamer pieces. She swallowed the shards and forced a smile.

“Liam is short for William, dear,” she reminded brightly. “I don’t imagine that counts.”

“Besides, she needs the name of a Brit,” the all-knowing Kayleigh interjected.

They all bent back over the apple peel, though something in Andrew’s eyes told Mena that he wasn’t convinced.

*   *   *

As people filtered out of the grounds, the sounds of horses and carts and the chatter of excitable children and exhausted parents began to dwindle. Liam turned to look for his family. After only a moment of searching firelit faces, he chuckled a little at the sight of six bent arses huddled in a neat little row around the base of the north bonfire. One particular bottom caught his attention, sheathed in a full green skirt and deliciously plumper than the others displayed. Mena’s shapely legs were longer than the children’s and Jani’s. This pushed her round derriere higher, made it more tantalizingly accessible.

Liam silently ambled up to them until he found himself directly behind the object of his desire. If he bent his knees just a little, and pressed his pelvis forward, his erection would be nestled in the sweet cleft. Shaking his head, he stepped back, reminding himself it wouldn’t do to turn into a raging tornado of primal lust in front of his clan, his children, and the visiting Highland nobles.

Animated giggles erupted from the girls and they were talking softly among themselves, observing some undetermined spot on the fire.

“What’s this, then?” he asked, keeping his voice deceptively light.

Six bodies simultaneously sprang around in surprise, but the line didn’t break. Mena wouldn’t meet his eyes, but kept her horrified gaze locked on his bare chest.

“Father! We were just—” Rhianna was cut off by her brother.

“We were just playing a silly girl’s game.” Andrew shot his sister a quelling look and Liam watched as confusion and then epiphany played across his daughter’s features. Her gaze flew to him and then bounced to Miss Lockhart, who had still yet to move.

“Whit like, Laird Mackenzie?” Rhianna’s friends chorused with matching curtsies.

“Good evening, lassies.” He gently smiled down at them. “The hour is late, I’m sure that yer families are looking for ye now.”

The pleasantly blank looks on their faces told him that they were not privy to the private thoughts of his children and therefore would be of no use to him.

They left with pleasant fare-ye-wells after a quick exchange of hugs and promises with Rhianna.

“Father, we were just tossing apple peels,” Rhianna said brightly, taking his arm and maneuvering around the still-frozen Miss Lockhart. “My husband’s initial is a C. Look!” She pointed to the fire and he saw a smoldering apple peel perilously close to turning to ash.

He squinted into the fire and pretended to study the apple peel with a frown. “Now I know the initial of the man that I’m going to murder.”

Rhianna planted her hands on her hips. “Father!”

“But if I’m no’ mistaken, this peel more closely resembles an L than a C.” He gestured to the point at the corner.

His children exchanged excited glances and then huddled close to him, making a big display out of studying the peel for themselves.

“Hmmmm,” was all Rhianna replied with an exaggerated nod. “So it does.”

“What do ye think, Miss Lockhart?” He turned to include her in their study, but her retreating form was out of earshot as she swiftly walked toward the growing city of tents on the far end of the grounds.

“She thought that it looked like an L, too.” Andrew murmured seriously, squinting after his governess.

“There ye have it, then.” Liam offered his arm to Rhianna and put a hand on his son’s shoulder, wondering at their strange and guilty behavior. “What do ye say that we put ye two miscreants to bed? ’Tis almost time for the in-between masquerade.”

“Canna I stay up for it this time?” Rhianna begged. “Please, Father, I’m seventeen, isna that old enough?”

Liam shook his head. “Next year, nighean,” he promised. “Now come with me.”

He nodded to Jani and led his children toward the keep, noting that his brother Gavin ambled in the direction of the tables where Mena had escaped to seek the respectable company of Mrs. Grady.

All’s fair in love and war, his brother’s voice taunted.

A dark knowledge drifted to him from where his demon stirred. Tonight he would begin the most important battle he’d ever waged.

The one for Mena’s heart.