The protective mists surrounding Draegonmare—only passable if one knew the ancient words to part the fog:a mundo ultra,a world beyond—grew thin this far from the loch so Graham dared not risk taking to the sky. Pure grace by water, soft as a melody by air, the dragon Graham wallowed worse than a mired cow when it came to walking across thickly wooded land.
Twenty-one summers of age and full of himself, Graham MacTavish had been mesmerized by the spectacle when King Domnall had ordered his crazed wife drowned in the loch for her evil doings and witchery. Head held high, arms lashed to her sides, and dark curls whipping around her naked body, the enraged queen was the most intoxicating beauty the lad Graham had ever seen. The conniving temptress perceived the young man’s interest and in one last attempt to save herself, she entered his mind, whispering all the erotic pleasures she would teach Graham if he would but save her.
Graham nearly stepped forward, but as the rope swung the witch out over the water, his flesh grew cold at the hideous reflection the condemned woman cast across the water’s surface. The beautiful witch’s truly hideous form—the blackness of her heart and soul—was revealed by the pure waters of Loch Ness. Flinching, Graham turned away.
Before the queen’s head disappeared beneath the waves, she cursed Graham to become a creature even more horrendous than the reflection he had seen and be bound to Ronan as they wandered through eternity searching for the one woman to break the curse. Dragon by day, man by night, Graham guarded Iona the wolf and her cub and later mentored Ronan when he learned to shift into a man.
“What a trio we are: wolf, dragon and . . .” Ronan bit back the word.Shifter.He sat straighter in the saddle, raising one hand in farewell as his mount broke through the last of the boundary mists. “May the gods favor us this time, my friend. Pray Mairi Sinclair is the one.”
Graham saluted with an exploding volley of flames above the treetops then rumbled, “Let it be so.”
“Aye, lad. Let it be so. To MacKenna Keep.”
CHAPTER2
Ronan Sutherland yanked the crumpled roll of parchment from the folds of his tunic and stabbed the air with it. “Ye summoned me here—nay—demandedthat I come. And now ye dare tell me that the Lady Mairi Sinclair, the woman set to be my wife, is not here and ye have no idea where she might be?”
“It was not I who summoned ye,” Chieftain Gray MacKenna said with a strained growl as though the words risked lodging in his throat. “It was the old one.” He pointed at the missive in Ronan’s hand. “Did ye not see her sigil upon the seal?”
The old one. The Sinclair matriarch herself.A tingling sensation pricked across his nape. Ronan scrubbed at the annoying sting. It was never a good sign when intuition stirred his hackles—especially when it came to finding the one who might free him from the curse. He rolled his shoulders, flinching away the subtle warning. “Mother Sinclair for certain?”
“Aye.” The MacKenna’s response was curt—his tone controlled and guarded. He leaned forward in the great chair at the head of the keep’s meeting hall, a look of apprehension hardening his features. He slowly perused the width and length of the main gathering room for Clan MacKenna.
Ronan’s unease deepened as he followed the MacKenna’s line of sight, searching the room for . . . what? What troubled the man?
Servants quietly bustled among the tables and benches, readying for the evening meal. The MacKenna’s men stood in scattered groupings of two’s and three’s among the columns and archways of the high-ceilinged hall, speaking quietly over mugs of ale while eyeing the prettiest of the serving maids. All seemed normal—even peaceful.
Ronan turned back to the MacKenna. The man was taking too long to choose his words. What the hell was amiss?
Finally, the chieftain straightened and draped his hands over the ends of the carved armrests. With an almost imperceptible flick of a wrist, he motioned to all those milling around the room. “Hall is not the place to discuss the details of Mother Sinclair’s summons.” A darker scowl cut his words short. He lowered his voice. “Not all embrace the entirety of the Sinclair women and their truths. I advise ye—tread carefully.”
Ronan understood completely. The MacKenna clan had proven more accepting than most when it came to the Sinclair women and thetalentsthey possessed. But one never knew when superstition and unspoken fears might turn acceptance of the remarkable, time-traveling women into loathing and mass hysteria. Witch hunts had decimated many a community of late.
Gray nodded stiffly, affirming his words. “Ye would do well to speak to Lady Mairi’s grandmother privately. I would suggest the seclusion of the gardens.”
Ronan shifted against another wave of pinpricks stinging up his spine. He would rather face a legion of MacKenna warriors than speak privately with the Lady Nia Sinclair. Truth be told, Mother Sinclair, or Granny, as she instructed many to call her, scared the living hell out of him.
“Verra well.” Ronan nodded at the archway leading to the outer courtyard. “I trust she will be told I wait for her?” He rolled his shoulders again and resettled the folds of his plaid across his chest. Damn the uneasiness in the air of this place.He stole another glance around the room. The feel of the keep was as though it held its breath—waiting for the gates of hell to split wide open.
“Aye.” Gray motioned to a nearby maid replacing the spent tapers in the candelabras at each end of the back serving table. “Fetch Mother Sinclair. Chieftain Sutherland would see her in the gardens.”
The girl bobbed a quick curtsy, tucked her basket of candles underneath the table, then scurried to do her chieftain’s bidding.
Gray turned back to Ronan with a sympathetic grin. “I ken how ye feel. All here would rather face old Lucifer himself than risk stirring Granny’s ire.”
Ronan stood taller and tucked his hands to the small of his back. The MacKenna read him too easily. “The elder Lady Sinclair has my utmost respect.”
Gray chuckled and rose from his chair, then slowly stepped down from the dais. He clapped a hand on Ronan’s shoulder and leaned closer. “Aye, man. She has mine as well—much akin to the respect I give a well-honed blade.” Releasing Ronan with a friendly shake, Gray motioned to a young lad with a serving platter waiting just inside the doorway on the far side of the room.
The serving boy perked up as soon as Gray lifted his hand, scuttling over to meet them. With a respectful dip of his shaggy head, the boy waited for his chieftain’s command.
“Pints, lad.” Gray turned to Ronan. “Or will ye be needing something a bit stronger afore ye seek Granny Sinclair’s council?”
“Has she gotten worse since last I was here?”
The chieftain shrugged. “Nay. But neither has she improved. And ye will also be dealing with my wife, who has grown to be a great deal like her grandmother.”
Hell’s fire and damnation.Ronan wet his lips and straightened his shoulders. “Whisky, boy. A healthy dram, if ye please.”
