The Druid’s Glen Book One:

HIGHLAND MIST

By

Donna Grant

© copyright February 2006, Donna Grant

Cover art by Eliza Black, © copyright February 2006

ISBN 1-58608-8246

New Concepts Publishing

Lake Park, GA 31636

www.newconceptspublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

In a time of conquering

There will be three

Who will end the MacNeil line.

Three born of the

Imbolc, Beltaine and Lughnasad Feasts

Who will destroy all at the

Samhain, the Feast of the Dead.

PROLOGUE

Sinclair Castle, Highlands of Scotland

February 3, 1607

Being a man was never easy. Being a Druid as well as laird was even harder, yet Duncan Sinclair had managed to do both, as well being husband and father. The latter two gave him the most joy, though.

He turned his head away from the hearth to his wife lying in bed holding their newly born daughter, the last of the three spoken of in the prophecy, a prophecy that could alter the course of the future.

Duncan rose from his chair before the fire and walked to the bed. He rested his hand on the babe’s head.

“Don’t think about it now,” Catriona said softly, so as not to wake the babe.

“’Tis all I can think about. The fate of the world rests on their shoulders, Cat.”

Catriona chuckled, her green eyes crinkling at the corners. “You worry overmuch, husband. We have our third daughter after years of thinking I would have no more children. We are Druids. We will raise them as they should be and help them to learn and harness their powers.”

Duncan groaned. “Powers. The Fae must know what they are doing to give our children those kinds of powers.”

The babe stirred and gave a small cry. “She has strong lungs, just like her father,” Catriona said as she rocked the infant.

“What should we name her? Moira and Fiona will want to know first thing in the morning.”

“How about--”

Duncan held up his hand to quiet his wife. “I thought I heard something.”

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the door to the chamber crashed open.

“You,” Duncan hissed. He ran to his sword at the end of the bed and quickly palmed it.

Alistair MacNeil sauntered into the chamber with six men at his back. “So, ‘tis true. The brat was born on Imbolc just as the prophecy foretold.”

“You will die for daring to come into my home,” Duncan ground out. He raised his sword and lunged at MacNeil.

MacNeil quickly stepped away. “A fool I am not, Sinclair. I’m no match for you.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Duncan saw Catriona leave the bed and huddle in the corner with their daughter in her arms. He would not let harm come to them.

“You and your men are nothing,” he said to MacNeil.

Laughter followed his words. “Do you really believe I only brought six men with me? I came to kill your daughters, Sinclair. I brought my entire army.”

Duncan took a step toward MacNeil only to have a soldier step in his path. Duncan easily blocked a downward swing from the man’s sword.

MacNeil smiled as he watched Sinclair fight. It was turning out just as he planned. And it was time to add a little something.

“By the way, Sinclair, did you know there is a traitor in your midst? ‘Tis a pity you’ll never know who it is.” He smiled when Sinclair growled low in his throat. ‘Twas just the reaction he wanted.

“Don’t worry,” MacNeil continued. “Your family will soon be joining you in Hell with all the other pagans.”

At his nod, his men rushed to surround Sinclair, who merely raised a blonde brow and beckoned them to charge. MacNeil grudgingly gave Sinclair credit. The man fought valiantly even against such odds.

To his surprise, Sinclair cut down two of his men in the space of a heartbeat and wounded another, further proof, in MacNeil’s mind that the man wasn’t mortal, but was in league with some demon, or the devil himself, to have such strength.

The last soldier would soon be defeated, and he couldn’t take the chance of fighting against Sinclair’s superior skills. MacNeil saw his chance when Sinclair pivoted after blocking a blow. In one smooth movement, he stuck his sword into Sinclair’s back and twisted the blade.

An ear-piercing scream rent the air as Sinclair’s sword clattered to the floor and his body crumpled, unseeing eyes staring at his wife.

“Murderer,” Catriona screamed.

MacNeil turned and stared at the woman standing before him, her raven hair streaming around her while her green eyes blazed with fury. ‘Twas a pity she was a pagan for she could have given him good, strong sons.

He sheathed his sword and walked toward her, stopping inches away, his fingers brushing the dagger hidden up his sleeve. The infant’s cries at being left in the corner echoed inside the chamber.

“I’m only ridding Scotland of your kind, Catriona,” he said before he slit her throat.

Her green eyes widened in astonishment before they closed and she fell beside her husband. He stared at the couple, their blood pooling and mixing together.

“Get the infant,” he commanded his remaining soldier.

MacNeil left the chamber and smiled at how easily they had taken the castle. The fighting had all but stopped, and the sounds of his men celebrating their victory could now be heard.

There was only one task left.

His men crowded outside the nursery chamber and parted as he neared. Inside, he spotted the two young girls lying in the middle of the floor, their lifeless bodies covered in blood.

“Were they the only children?” he asked.

“Aye, laird.”

MacNeil sighed with relief. It was done. No more prophecy hanging over his head like an axe ready to fall. Or so he thought, until he heard the infant wail, reminding him there was one more life to take.

Yet, a thought took root. With her sister’s dead, was she a threat? He could raise her as his own and use her Druid skills and supposed powers to his advantage. Without the threat of the prophecy he would be free to pillage at will, but how much more powerful would he be with the power of the Druids by his side? No clan in Scotland would stand a chance against him.

“Come. Our work here is done,” he said.

“And the babe?” one of his soldiers asked.

“Bring her.”

CHAPTER ONE

Highlands of Scotland

April 1625

Conall MacInnes no more wanted to enter the gates of MacNeil castle than he wanted to gnaw off his own hand, but for the sake of his clan he was doing just that.

“’Tis a good time to ask them about Iona,” Angus said as they rode through the gates.

Conall looked at his friend. “Aye. I’d thought of that.”

The mere mention of his sister brought a spasm of pain. It had been nearly a year since her disappearance, and no trace had ever been found. No thanks to the Druids he kept hidden. He pushed aside his thoughts and concentrated on the task at hand.

Angus grunted as they dismounted, his giant form standing taller than any man, Conall included. “I don’t know if forty of our men is enough to bring into this pit of Hell.”

“’Tis a peace talk. I couldn’t very well bring an army,” Conall hissed though he wished he had brought more. He looked up and spotted Alisdair MacNeil’s lanky form walk toward them.

MacNeil kept his gray hair shorn to his neck. His light brown beard was full and graying slightly, but he still carried himself like a young warrior. His command over his clan showed when men bowed their heads and women refused to meet his eyes as he passed.

Not exactly what Conall would call a good leader if everyone feared him, but then again MacNeil was known in the Highlands as a butcher who didn’t know the meaning of mercy.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t take my offering seriously. Many say you’re too young and foolish to come,” MacNeil said once he had reached them. His hazel eyes roamed over Conall’s men as if sizing them up for battle.

It was on the tip of Conall’s tongue to say he didn’t take the offer seriously. “Lairds will do much to keep their clan safe and happy.”

“Even to one such as me?”

Conall could literally feel Angus readying himself for a fight. “Aye, MacNeil, even to one such as you.”

“But I have to wonder,” he said and paced in front of Conall. “Why? All the others have refused and challenged me on the battlefield.”

“I’ve battled many a clan, but I want peace for mine. And if the price for such is to have a truce with you, then so be it.”

“You aren’t afraid of me?”

Conall saw the surprise on MacNeil’s gaunt face. “Nay, I’m not.”

“My soldiers outnumber your clan, but still you say such words.”

“Loyalty is what counts. It wouldn’t matter if you had ten thousand soldiers if none are loyal to you.”

MacNeil nodded thoughtfully and clapped him on the shoulder. “Come and drink with me. We’ve the finest ale around. And while we drink we can talk of peace.”

Conall followed slowly. His gut told him something wasn’t right. He took in the state of MacNeil’s bailey. ‘Twas filthy, no children ran around playing or women talking in groups. The people wouldn’t meet his eyes, but the soldiers dared him to make a wrong move.

Brutality hummed from them. Conall knew it would be a miracle if they left here unscathed, for the laird may want a truce, but the soldiers did not.

The quiet stillness of the bailey unsettled Conall. He was used to the chatter and sounds of everyday life at his home, not the silence of a graveyard.

He saw his men glance around warily. None were fools. The MacNeil’s had proven themselves time and again as the enemy, why should today be any different. It most likely wasn’t, but he had to think of his vow to his mother to bring Iona home. In order to bring her home he had to put aside his personal feelings.

“We’re here for peace between our clans,” Conall reminded his men and himself. “Regardless of what the soldiers try, ignore them unless I tell you otherwise.”

They entered the bleak hall to find it full of soldiers and a few women serving mead, but the MacNeil himself was nowhere to be seen. Conall’s guard immediately went up as he surveyed the filthy state of the castle and its inhabitants.

Old rushes full of bones and urine coated the floor. The women’s clothing was tattered and torn, barely hanging onto their bodies. Unlike the soldiers who’s clothing was dirty, but not shabby. Candle wax hadn’t been cleaned from the floor or the rushlights. All in all, it was a disgusting place to step foot in, and he was immensely grateful that his mother had run such a clean castle.

His eyes ran back around the hall, this time looking more thoroughly at the men. Most were in groups giving him and his men a wary eye, but a few stood alone. Conall was a man to take advantages when they came his way. Now was one of those times.

He grabbed a goblet of ale and made his way toward a lad who lounged against the wall. As he approached he noticed the lad’s youth and hid his smile at how easily he would gain information.

The lad looked up and immediately greeted him. “Laird MacInnes.”

“You know me?” Conall asked and watched him closely.

“Aye,” he answered and visibly swallowed. “A clan knows everything of their neighbors.”

“So you know of my sister, Iona, and her disappearance?”

“Nay,” the young lad answered quickly–a little too quickly-and lowered his head.

He’s lying. His unwanted power recoiled at the lie issued from the lad. Conall wanted to bellow his fury. He tamped it down and prodded further, softening his voice. “Surely you have. Like you said, you know everything of my clan.”

The lad raised his troubled eyes and bit his lip. “I remember it being said she’d disappeared.”

“But you know nothing else?”

“Nay. I must get to the stables to ... ah ... they need me,” he finished lamely and ran off.

Conall seethed with unbridled rage. There would be no truce talk now that he knew the MacNeil’s had something to do with Iona’s disappearance. Now they would talk of revenge and battle.

Although he hated to admit it, his powers came in handy in times like these. He took several deep breaths before he was calm enough to return to his men to tell them of his findings. Just as he turned, a flash of light grabbed his attention.

Swords. Drawn swords at that.

This wasn’t a peace talk. ‘Twas a trap. He whistled and threw down his goblet. In seconds his men’s swords were drawn. A blur of MacNeil plaid surrounded him. He raised his sword and looked his enemy in the eye, promising each a long and painful death.

The sounds of metal against metal clashed around him as his men fought. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted Angus as he threw a brute of a man over his shoulder before plunging his sword in the soldier. In a glance he noted that all his men were surrounded and fighting valiantly.

With a diving roll, he ducked a deadly swing of a sword and came up ready to see his sword stained with blood. His blood cried for revenge, demanded revenge. Revenge for Iona. Maybe once his family was avenged then the helplessness that filled him would leave.

The five soldiers that surrounded him didn’t make a move. Conall studied each until he found just the man he sought. The soldier had a wary look in his eye.

He nearly laughed when he winked at the soldier and saw his face turn red. The soldier raced at him, sword swinging wildly. With a swift downward arc of his own blade, Conall ended the man’s life.

The other four rushed him at once. He blocked a killing blow that left his arm feeling as though ‘twas on fire, but he ignored the biting pain. In quick succession he sent two more soldiers to their deaths and turned to face the last two.

One of them backed away, and Conall turned his full attention on the remaining man. The soldier ran at him. Conall easily sidestepped and brought his claymore down to slice the back of the soldier’s knee. The man crumpled, screaming in pain, his sword and the battle forgotten.

Conall then found himself face down on the floor, a heavy weight on his back, pinning him down. He spotted an arm and quickly rolled the weight off. One glance told him the soldier was dead. He sat up and found Angus standing above him.

“I cannot believe me eyes. What are you doing on the ground when there’s a fight, man?” Angus asked with a twinkle in his eye.

Conall rolled his eyes and gained his feet as more MacNeil soldiers charged.

His sword was drenched in blood when he saw a man who wore no plaid but a leather jerkin and trews stumble over a dead body while fighting a MacNeil. The soldier raised his arms, about to end the stranger’s life. Conall wasn’t about to let the man die, not when he was fighting MacNeil’s.

With a downward slice, Conall killed the soldier he had been fighting and leapt over several more before he thrust his sword between the stranger and the MacNeil soldier.

The soldier’s sword clanged into his.

He smiled at the surprise on the soldier’s face before he twisted his arms up and around. The soldier’s sword flew from his hand, and finding himself suddenly bereft of a weapon, he turned and scurried away. Conall laughed and turned to the stranger.

“You saved my life,” the stranger said, his black eyes guarded.

“I’m Conall MacInnes. And you are?” he prompted.

“Gregor.”

Conall ignored the fact Gregor hadn’t offered his surname and held out his arm to help him to his feet. “Good luck to you. I needs find the MacNeil.”

“I know who can tell you.”

He looked at Gregor. “Who?”

“Her,” Gregor said and pointed to the top of the stairs.

Instead of wondering how Gregor knew of the lass, he simply stared. For the first time in his life he was speechless.

Standing atop the stairs was a lass so beautiful she put sunsets to shame. Waves of dark hair flowed over her shoulders nearly to her waist. She was a tiny little thing, but there was no denying she was a woman by her lush curves and ample breasts. Though the blue gown that clung to her nice shape was in better repair than the servant’s, ‘twas still worn and faded.

He licked his lips as his eyes raked over her delectable body once more before he raised his gaze. Lips perfectly formed, full but not too wide, parted slightly as she raised her stubborn little chin. Her angelic oval face held no expression, but her big almond shaped eyes were riveted on him.

“Who is she?” he asked Gregor.

“MacNeil’s daughter.”