Glencoe

By M MacKinnon

Scot against Scot. Clan against clan—the day when Highlander turned on Highlander in a horrific and unforgivable act of murder and treachery.

Daniel MacArthur doesn’t know much about his country’s history, and he doesn’t care. He has enough problems coping with life in the twenty-first century. He’s spiraling downward, losing himself in alcohol and self-loathing. Until he meets a strange woman on the streets of Inverness, and for the first time feels a stirring of something beyond his own wretched existence. Does she bring hope...or death?

• Language: English
• Publisher: M MacKinnon
• Release date: Mar 9, 2023
• ISBN: 9781959096726

M MacKinnon

M MacKinnon has always been a writer. When she was eight, she wrote a story called “Princess Zelda”, a plagiarized mixture of Moses and Cinderella, and begged her mother for weeks to take it to the local library and get them to publish it. A gentle refusal to do so, while seen as a betrayal of the highest order, did not stop MacKinnon from continuing her writing. She has since learned that there are a few more steps between pencil copy and library.M MacKinnon writes emotions. Love, hate, fear, redemption, second chances. Her writing is primarily paranormal romance with modern mystery thrown in for spice, and a little horror to stir the senses. And humor. Always humor.MacKinnon lives in New Jersey with her husband. One month each year is spent in the Scottish Highlands, her happy place and the source of her inspiration.

Book preview

Prologue

February 13, 1692

The snow came faster, pelting everything in its path with a fury that seemed sentient. Icy flakes clung to her eyelashes, melted, dripped into bleary eyes, and froze there. The cold was a living thing, reaching into her soul and sucking each breath away. Was it a wolf she heard, or only the relentless wind, howling in triumph?

She was staring at death; she knew it. She could not last much longer in this wild maelstrom of wind and snow. She had already lost sensation in her hands and feet, and her mind was wandering into forbidden territory. It conjured up a roaring fire, raucous drunken voices, a cacophony of laughter, song, and camaraderie, and threw the images at her as a taunt. Only hours ago, but how quickly time twisted joy into horror.

A figure came to her out of the storm, and she whimpered in relief. Cloaked in light, beloved face shining with the promise he had given, the future he had drawn for them. His lips parted into the smile she adored, and he held out his hand…

She wrenched her tattered mind away from the image, knowing it for the lie it was. He would not come. Why should he? The smile had been a mask, hiding the treachery behind warm brown eyes.

I love ye, those beautiful lips had said. I will come back t’ get ye, I promise. Jist wait a little longer.

Just wait a little longer.

Bitterness flooded her mind, colder than the stinging ice that beat at her frozen body. Wait a little longer. Until the fire dies to embers, until the ale is gone, until the hall is quiet but for the snoring of satiated men and the whisper of mice stealing the last crumbs of food from beneath the table.

Wait. Until shadows rise up and the night awakens to the swish of dirks pulled from scabbards and the retort of muskets fired close at hand. Until the gurgle from ruined throats and the sighs of dying men break the silence. Just wait.

The women were spared—or so she had believed at first. But that was another lie—their fate was much the crueler one. She and the others were pulled from their beds and led to the open front door. Clad only in their nightclothes, they were thrust into the heart of the blizzard.

Before the door closed, she turned and looked for him. Searched the hard faces of the men who had spent the week as honored guests. Just last night those faces had smiled, those hands now holding dirks and swords and muskets had waved tankards and chanted Highland songs with their unsuspecting hosts.

A figure stumbled into the doorway and stood, swaying. She stared in horror at the hand that had held and caressed her just a day before. Now that hand held a dirk, from which blood ran and dripped onto the snow. She whimpered and turned away into the storm, defeated. The betrayal was complete.

The terrified women had made little progress through the vicious storm—her fault. Her weak leg slowed them down, as it always did, although none complained. They were used to her weakness, and too kind to move on without her.

The chief’s wife had succumbed first to the vicious elements. Blue lips without even the strength to move, limbs that refused to hold a once-sturdy body, she folded into the snow and was just…gone. Another sat down against a rock and crossed her arms in defiance. Come back and get me, the woman said, although they knew it meant good-bye.

She and the youngest had struggled along together, until a turn of the head told her she was alone in the alien landscape of snow and ice. She turned back to search, but her last companion was lost, melted into the white landscape as if she had never been.

She could no longer feel her feet, and looked down to see that her shoes were missing. When had that happened? She limped on, heedless of her movements. Snow fell from frozen hair and covered the shoulders of her thin gown. The wind battered at a numb body, forcing her to her knees.

Rest, it sang, you have done enough. She rolled onto her side and then to her back, and stared into the abyss of white that swirled above and around her. How beautiful it was! She could no longer feel the cold, so perhaps the storm was abating. It would be good to rest for a moment. Her eyes closed.

Words found their way into her mind.

What is your desire? a voice whispered.

She ignored the words, drifting on the edge of awareness.

What is your desire? the voice said again, more insistent. A stab of annoyance—must she answer for it to leave her alone? She reached for the words she needed and found them. Buried in the frozen depths of her mind, cold as the snow that covered her with its white mantle.

She forced her lips open, pushed the words out into the storm. Revenge.

There was silence for a moment.

That is not the right answer, the voice said. It was tinged with disappointment. If you pursue this path, the outcome may not be worth the cost.

I care not, she managed.

You will become a revenant, the voice said.

She felt herself drifting. A rev-enant? she managed.

The words swirled and ebbed in the howling wind. cursed to exist...but one purpose...vengeance.

That is—all I want, she whispered.

Granted. The voice sighed in her mind. You will have your wish.

Snow swirled and settled around her, but she could no longer feel its cold embrace. Her thoughts drifted, broke into icy shards, and vanished. The wind wailed and surged, sculpting mounds of white in the stark landscape.

When the blizzard finally blew itself out, the morning sun glistened on the sea of white that covered everything in its frigid beauty. Nothing moved; nothing disturbed the silence in the glen.

Chapter One

Argyll, Scotland - 1676

Faolán

"F aolán Edward Dughall Campbell!"

Faolán froze, his wooden sword held above his head. His mother’s voice resounded through the hall and drowned out the sound of his sister’s wailing. It was followed immediately by the woman herself, as she sailed through the doorway and grabbed her son by the hair.

How many times do I need t’ tell ye not to battle yer sister, ye wee scamp! If ye hurt her, I’ll hae yer heid on a plate! She yanked his head back and forth for emphasis. Tears sprang into Faolán’s eyes, but he blinked them away angrily. He was a man, even if he was only ten years old. He would never let the women in his family see him cry. His wretched six-year-old sister was doing enough crying for both of them.

Little Doirin dropped the stick she was using as a sword onto the floor. She stopped crying and looked back and forth between her mother and brother as she assessed her options. Her blue eyes lit and the wailing resumed, increasing in volume.

I wasnae hurting her, Mam! She was havin’ fun till my sword hit her elbow—it wasnae even hard. She’s fakin’!

His mother shook him once more and then released his hair. Her voice lowered to a gentler tone, and she crouched down in front of him, capturing his glassy eyes with her own.

I ken that, lad. She spared a sidewise glare at her daughter, and the tears stopped like magic. I’m just saying, ye’re bigger and stronger than she is, and a wooden sword is still a weapon. Ye hae t’go easy, ye ken?

But she was a fuckin’ MacDonald!

Faolán’s brown eyes widened as his words reached his ears, too late. Now he was in for it. Morag Campbell abhorred cursing more than anything, and she didn’t take prisoners. He closed his eyes and prepared for doom.

He heard an intake of breath, then a choking sound, which resolved itself into a wheeze. He braced himself, but the blow didn’t come. After a while, he squinted one eye open to see his mother, red-faced and gasping for air.

His mouth fell open. Was she laughing?

Mam?

She straightened to her feet and schooled her face. Stand up, lad.

Faolán scrambled to his feet and waited for the inevitable. His mother sighed, but her hand stayed put.

Well, she said slowly, I certainly understand why ye were so eager to defeat her, then. But dinnae ye think she’s a bit wee to be a soldier?

Never too young t’be a soldier, aye?

Faolán turned as his father strode into the room. Ahh, salvation. Dughall Campbell understood—he had been a real soldier until he’d hurt his back. And Da hated the MacDonalds too.

Morag Campbell rounded on her husband. "Ye take this wee fool and see if ye can knock some sense into him—ye’re the one put these ideas into his heid. And hae a thought to his language too. Don’t think I dinnae ken where that came from!"

Faolán wilted. Mam ruled the house, and her word was law. She’d check with Da later too. When this was all sorted, he’d be lucky to get by with a skelping.

Morag turned and pinned her daughter with a gimlet gaze. "And dinnae ye think I’ll be feelin’ sorry for you, either, lass! Ladies dinnae fight! She sighed again. Let’s go get ye cleaned up."

She grabbed little Doirin by the hand and hauled her out of the room. As the door closed behind them, a small voice rose in a whine, "But he always makes me be th’ fucking MacDonald!"—followed by the crack of a hand and a renewed bout of wailing, real this time.

Faolán kept his head bent. For a long moment, there was almost complete silence in the room—the kind of quiet that is somehow louder than a hundred people all screaming at once. Then his father put a hand on his shoulder.

C’mon, lad. Let’s sit down. Ye’re old enough to hae a man-to-man discussion about soldierin’ wi’ your Da, aye?

Faolán’s eyes widened to the size of dinner plates as he trailed after his father. Man-to-man? Warmth spread through him. His little frame straightened and his shoulders went back. Man-to-man.

Dughall led the way to a bench, pushed his son onto the rough wooden seat none too gently, and sat down beside him.

Now, why were ye whackin’ at your sister wi’ your wee sword?

Well, I hae t’ practice for when I join th’ army, ye ken? Faolán gave his father an earnest gaze. An’ she’s th’ only one who’ll do it—if I give her my share o’ sweets. I dinnae mean t’ hurt her, really!

His father patted his shoulder. I ken that, lad. But ye hae quite a few years before ye need to worry about practicin’ swordplay. And it’ll be the time when ye’re old enough t’ ken that real soldierin’ isnae about dislikin’ your enemy.

He gave his son a long stare. A soldier doesnae go to war because he doesnae like someone, lad. He goes t’ keep the peace. It’s verra different.

Faolán looked confused. But—ye hate the MacDonalds, dinnae ye?

Dughall Campbell took a deep breath. "Well, I cannae say I favor th’ clan, lad, but I dinnae hate them. ’At’s a verra strong word, hate is, and ye’d best understand it b’fore ye use it. There’s a big difference between hatin’ a man and hatin’ what he stands for. Do ye ken that?"

N—no. The boy squirmed in his seat. It isnae the same thing?

His father sighed. Nae, lad, not at all. Th’ MacDonalds and the Campbells have been fightin’ for hundreds o’ years, so long that we oft times forget why. The simplest way t’ unnerstand it is, our two clans hae different ideas about what’s best for Scotland an’ who should be king, aye?"

Faolán’s eyes clouded. Weel, but everyone already kens that. The king is Charles, aye?

Aye, but the problem isnae with King Charles th’ man, lad. His father’s brow creased. "The problem is that th’ MacDonalds want t’ be the king. They think they should rule Scotland, like their ancestors did once’t long ago."

The MacDonalds ruled Scotland? Faolán asked, shock mirrored in his wide brown eyes.

Weel, not all o’ Scotland. But hunnerds o’ years ago they ruled th’ Western Isles, and they niver got over losin’ ’em.

Faolán was entranced. But why d’ th’ Campbells and th’ MacDonalds allus fight each ither? Did th’ Campbells want to rule th’ Western Isles too?

Nae. Th’ Campbells have always stood for th’ king, lad. We dinnae think we’re the lords o’ th’ land--we ken who he is--and we’ll fight anyone who wants t’ take the crown away from th’ rightful king. Ye ken?

I—I ken. Faolán nodded his head. So that’s why we hate—er, dinnae like—th’ MacDonalds, aye?

That’s part o’ it. There’s a lot more, like religion and culture, but that can wait till ye’re older. Th’ point is, each MacDonald is a man wi’ rights and thoughts o’ his own, just like each Campbell. So, I dinnae want ye sayin’ ye hate all the MacDonalds just because o’ the name.

He fixed his son with a meaningful stare. And I dinnae want ye usin’ yer wee sister to practice warcraft, aye?

Faolán gave his father a stubborn look, then sighed, and nodded. Aye. I willnae.

And I dinnae want t’ hear ye cursin’, ye ken? ’Cause your mam’ll skelp the hides off o’ us both, and just like th’ army, part o’ bein’ a man is keepin’ the peace. Now, go find your sister and apologize. And steer clear o’ your mother for a wee while if ye’re canny.

Chapter Two

Islay, Scotland - August 1684

Siònaid

It isnae th’ big things.   It isnae a death, or a witch’s curse, or even a monster under your bed. ’Tis a small, unimportant thing like a tiny hole in th’ thatch, or an ember fallin’ out o’ the hearth…or th’ sharp sting of a bee that has meandered across th’ path you’ve taken a hundred times b’fore.

Siònaid knew the exact moment, the exact second, when her life changed forever. She had awakened to a tiny ray of sunlight coming through a new hole in the thatch. The rain that had plagued the island for a week now was gone, swept out to sea, and the birds were celebrating a new morning.

She could hear the sounds of her two older brothers arguing as they did every morning. The smell of new thatch mingled with the subtle, woodsy scent of heather and the smoke from the cook fire as her mother stirred the porridge. Such an ordinary day.

A sudden joy gripped her at the easing of the weather. Beitris was waiting; the horse would be eager to get out of the stable after being cooped up for so long. If she were lucky, Siònaid might be able to sneak out for a run before anyone noticed. She dressed in haste and tiptoed to the doorway of the room.

There was no one left in the sleeping chamber besides her—the boys were probably already wolfing down the porridge as if no one ever fed them, which would keep her mother busy as well. She threw on her gown and peeked into the outer room. The backs of two heads reassured her—but where was Mam? Probably bent over the cook pot. She took a deep breath and ran for the door.

Siònaid! Where d’ye think ye’re going, ye wee scamp? Her mother’s voice flowed out of the house as if it had a will of its own. Siònaid laughed and kept going. Mam couldn’t catch her; at twelve years old she was the fastest runner on the island, faster even than the boys. There’d be a skelping later, of course, but right now that didn’t matter. Beitris was waiting.

This was her secret pleasure, a chance to get away from family and obligations and be one with her beloved island. Together she and Beitris had navigated these paths until they could make the trip in their sleep. Siònaid was a MacDonald of Islay, descended from the Lords of the Isles, and the mountains were inscribed on her soul.

At the highest point on the trail, she stopped her horse and sat still for a moment, face upturned toward the morning sun. Down and off to her left the sea sparkled like gems, reflected light bathing the cottages in warmth.

She wished Da could stop working long enough to enjoy the sun and the warm summer air. It was he who had given Beitris to her and taught her to ride. He’d given her the freedom to enjoy her childhood, to run with the wind despite her mother’s misgivings. She’d love him forever for such a gift.

Had Mam ever been young? It didn’t seem so. She worked from dawn to dark, keeping the home fire going, cooking, cleaning the fish, going to the market, chasing her three unruly children. She seemed always to be tired, always cross. Surely she had never felt what her daughter was feeling at this moment.

Siònaid shook her head. It willnae happen t’ me, she told Beitris. I willnae get marrit and have t’ work my fingers t’ th’ bone. Ye jist wait and see.

Beitris snorted and shook her head. Siònaid laughed and gave her mount a pat.

Believe or nae, I’ll show ye.

She turned back to the path and pointed the horse’s head toward home. Beinn Bheigier, the tallest mountain on Islay, loomed against the horizon on her left and cloaked the pathway in shadow. Siònaid saluted the mountain, grateful for its staunch presence.

Something buzzed near her ear, and she batted it away. Beitris let out a high-pitched whinny of surprise and pain and reared, throwing her rider out of the saddle.

Land and sky changed places and Siònaid was flying, turning end over end in a glorious dance that defied gravity. A strange euphoria, a feeling that she was one with the elements, ended with a crushing blow against the unforgiving earth and an excruciating lance of pain, followed by merciful darkness.

She awoke in her bed, gasping at the agony that burned its way up her left leg when she moved. Tears sprang to her eyes, and through them Siònaid saw her mother sitting beside the bed, head bowed and eyes closed.

Mam? A weak voice sighed in her ear, a tiny trembling whisper that she recognized in surprise as her own. Lilias MacDonald’s head jerked up and a look of fright crossed her face, replaced quickly by that fierce protectiveness that only a mother can summon.

Ye’re awake! Oh, my darlin’. I am sae glad. Her mother’s face wore a smile that was somehow more frightening than the tears—a fixed, rictus grin that was too wide and too frozen to be real.

Tell me. Siònaid forced the words through stiff lips. She had to know--needed to know—so she could deny whatever the truth was that would cause that smile.

Ye’ve had an accident. The words came slowly, as if dragged from her mother’s mouth. It was bad, darling. Verra bad.

Siònaid waited.

Ye’ve been—sleepin’—for a week. The doctor was afraid ye might niver come back to us. Her mother’s breath hitched and she swiped a hand across her eyes.

A week? Siònaid let her mind circle around the words. That was ridiculous. Just a few minutes ago she had been riding Beitris on the mountain path, enjoying the rare perfect weather in the Highlands. Her mind reached for some sense, shied away from it, came back and approached the memory on little cat feet.

The mountains. A buzzing in her ear, a sudden squeal from Beitris…she was flying through the air, and then—nothing.

Wha’ happened? Is Beitris aright? Sudden fear for the horse gripped her. Was this what her mother was afraid to tell her?

She’s fine. Lilias’ gaze was directed over Siònaid’s shoulder, her voice bitter. Th’ damn horse is fine. Ye—

Time stood still. Siònaid knew in that moment that this was the scene she would remember forever. The fear and regret in her mother’s eyes, the clutch of a cold hand on her heart. The knowledge that she would never be the same.

"Is there somethin’—wrong—wi’ me, then?" It was the hardest thing she had ever done in all her twelve years on this earth, forcing those words out into the air and giving them life. She wanted to reach out, grab them back, and stuff them away deep, never to be heard. That way they could never be answered.

Lilias MacDonald let out a shuddering sigh and met her daughter’s eyes for the first time. A tear worked its way out of the corner of a bleary blue eye.

Ye broke your leg when ye fell, darlin’. Th’ healer set it as best he could, but he said the damage was verra great. ’Twas good that ye were asleep; th’ pain would hae been hard t’bear. Ye may—ye may not—

May not? Siònaid held her mother’s eyes. May not—?

Ye may not hae use o’ the leg. The words dropped into the quiet room and spread out to fill the space, bringing with them a growing panic. Not have use of her leg? What did that mean? Not run as fast? Not dance as well? Not—walk at all? Suddenly a red anger welled up and drowned her thoughts.

Just tell me! she shouted. What cannae I do nae more? Stand? Walk? She gripped the edges of the coverlet and pulled herself into a sitting position, ignoring the stab of pain in her left leg.

Am I—a cripple?

Chapter Three

Inverness, Scotland - Present Day

It is a curious thing, watching a strong man fall to pieces.

—Jodi Picoult

The stranger was quite lovely. She leaned across the table to talk to her companion, laughing at something the other woman said. Blue eyes, perfect teeth. What he could see of her figure was stunning. He’d never seen her before, which meant she was probably a tourist, in on one of the buses that thronged Inverness even in winter. Which also meant he’d never see her again. She was just what he needed tonight, enough perfection to satisfy any man.

Daniel was going to be that man, he decided. He stood up, and the walls of MacAlpine’s Pub tilted. He shook his head and grabbed for the edge of the bar, but the room continued to shimmer like the Highland mist when it met the morning sunlight.

He looked for the woman, but now there were two of her. The twins wavered and became one again. The woman continued to talk to her friend as if she hadn’t noticed. She split, danced away from herself, and became three.

Well, three were too many, even for him. A wave of nausea washed over him, and Daniel pushed himself away from the bar rail. Time to leave. He edged his way down the bar, concentrating his attention on the wooden door that led outside and away from the stifling atmosphere of the crowded pub. Only a few more feet; he could do this.

Somehow a chair leg became entangled with his foot and he stumbled and fell to one knee. A hand grasped him under the arm and pulled him up.

Ach, laddie! Ye’re fair bladdered tonight, aye?

Daniel shook off the arm and lunged for the door. He hung onto the handle for what seemed a very long time, but managed eventually to shove his way out into the frosty Highland air. The change in temperature did not help his situation—he stumbled a few feet, bent over, and lost the contents of his stomach onto the sidewalk.

Keep moving; get away from the smell—c’mon, you’re an expert at this!

An expert. Through the fog of alcohol, Daniel could hear the derision in his mind’s voice. When your own brain labeled you a loser, how much further could you sink?

He swiped a hand across his mouth and forced himself to walk a few more steps, until the stench of vomit diminished to a more tolerable level. The snarky voice in his head congratulated him for his achievement, so to celebrate the victory he leaned against the stone wall of the building next to the pub and let himself slide down to sit on the sidewalk. Just till my head stops spinning—just a minute.

Look at that! What is this city coming to, letting vagrants camp out on the street like that? Daniel looked up to see two middle-aged women glaring at him. They caught his glance and turned away in disgust, before hastening their steps to get away as quickly as possible.

I’m not a vagrant, he mumbled under his breath. Then he looked down at himself. His shirt had splotches of something that had likely resided in his stomach not too long ago, one pant leg was torn where it had caught the table leg, and his jacket and tie were missing altogether. Wonder where those went? he thought in mild surprise. He shook his head and leaned back against the wall. Just a minute.

When he opened his eyes again, a fog had settled over the silent street, obscuring the roadway and the now darkened pub. It was as if he floated in a formless world, devoid of touch, sight, or sound. In a sudden panic, he pressed his back against the wall behind him and felt the reassuring sharp edges of stone.

Through the fog he could see the faint outline of a street lamp at the corner, its small beam of light fighting to be recognized in this amorphous atmosphere. You’re not helping, he told the lamp. You’re only making it worse.

Two things found their way into his numbed mind. He was freezing, and he was sobering up. Damn it.

What time was it? How long had he been sitting here? He pulled his knees up and huddled into himself. He had to get up, go home. He had work tomorrow. Still, he sat, mesmerized by the surreal beauty of this alien environment. It felt strangely good to be so totally alone. Solitude was his natural state, anyway—his choice.

He had to stop this, though—get his act together. He wasn’t an alcoholic, really he wasn’t, although he had a sneaking suspicion he might be headed down that path. A sudden self-loathing flooded him. Living a lie was exhausting, and lying to himself worse. He had a job, a decent one, and even though he hadn’t really earned it and didn’t like it all that much, he couldn’t afford to lose it.

He did what he had to do to stay under the radar. His family accepted him as the black sheep, someone with no ambition who cared more for women and socializing than actual work, and he was happy to nurture that image. They didn’t trust him with anything important, anyhow, letting him go his own way as much as possible. But tonight’s little outing proved that things were getting worse.

He closed his eyes again and leaned his head back against the wall.

Just another minute.

Are ye a’right?

His heart jumped and his eyes snapped open. A woman floated in front of him. Daniel took a deep breath to slow his racing heartbeat and studied her curiously. Okay, she wasn’t actually floating; it was merely an effect of the fog. She was young and quite pretty, if you liked the waif look.

Her black hair was long and hung loose around the shoulders of her white gown, and luminous grey eyes peered at him from a pale face. Except