The Spellbinder: Highland Eyes Read online

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  Renaissance

  www.renebooks.com

  Copyright ©2004 by Marissa St. James

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  HIGHLAND EYES: THE SPELLBINDER

  A Romantic Fantasy

  By

  MARISSA ST. JAMES

  A Renaissance E Books publication

  ISBN 1-58873-563-X

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © 2005 by Marissa St. James

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission.

  For information:

  Email [email protected]

  PageTurner Editions

  A Heart-Swept Romance

  A Note about Pronunciation:

  Dun Ceathach; (doon ke-akh) n. fort of mist

  Laoch; (lay och) n. hero

  Famhair: (faver) n, giant

  Dream your dreams, Magician mine,

  Within your crystal cave.

  The thoughts of men you can't define;

  Our ways you cannot save.

  A price you'll pay for what is done,

  The truth will out at last.

  When you dared betray our art

  The die was surely cast.

  She will come from future time,

  This girl with mystic pow'r,

  To lead her people in the past

  Out of their darkest hour.

  While eyes are windows to the soul,

  If one dares look that deep;

  When one comes who loves her most,

  Her power will he keep.

  Share your dreams with me, my love,

  I would recall the past.

  For magic is a dying art

  And we are but the last.

  Till one comes with moonbeam eyes,

  Our magic to endow.

  The legacy belongs to her;

  Magician, sleep for now.

  PROLOGUE

  Scotland, 1305

  The coppery smell of blood permeated the still air. An uneasy quiet dominated the moor. One man stood apart from the other survivors and took in the battle's aftermath; the bodies, the blood soaked earth, the stench of death invading every breath. The odor clung to the skin, seeping into every pore, a grim reminder of the devastating carnage.

  Tristan's sword, the blade dull with dried blood, hung loosely in his right hand. The tip of the weapon rested carelessly on matted grass. Shouted commands and death screams echoed in his memory. The clash of swords still rang in his ears. He wondered if he would ever again feel clean.

  Many of the men who had fought along with him, back to back and by his side, lay motionless. Some stared unseeing at the bright morning sky. Last night they were confident, with no doubt they would win this battle. As always before a battle, theirs had been a quiet, but nervous anticipation. They looked forward to returning to their homes and families. He heard the moans of men who would not live through the day. They had trusted him, willingly followed him to rout the English invaders.

  He survived.

  They hadn't.

  Tristan listened more carefully to a whining barely heard on the breeze. It could only mean one thing. He shoved his sword into its sheath and ran toward the sound.

  He knelt beside Angus, who lay dying on the moor. Tristan cursed himself, unable to do anything for his closest friend and teacher. If it hadn't been for the man's beloved dog, Famhair, Tristan would have found the warrior too late. Tristan gave the dog's massive head a pat of assurance, then turned his attention to its master. He raised Angus's head and rested it against his knees.

  "You can do nothing for me, boy,” Angus rasped, knowing his wound was mortal. He raised a feeble hand but dropped it to his chest. “We have waited too long ... The time is now. If we are to win, you must act now.” His words were slow in coming, while he struggled for every breath. A trickle of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth and Tristan quickly wiped it away, as if trying to deny the inevitable. As the old warrior continued to speak, Tristan was vaguely aware of someone standing behind him. Famhair growled. Angus held a fistful of Tristan's shirt with as tight a grip as his dying body would allow, determined to get this last promise from his student.

  "I wouldn't know where to begin looking, Angus. I don't have the right or the authority."

  "I give it to you. You will be my successor, the next clan chieftain."

  "Angus, you are a good friend and teacher, but I can't accept."

  "You must and you will,” the old man insisted, his voice fading. “Promise me you will start a search."

  "I promise, Angus,” Tristan reluctantly gave his word.

  A brief smile touched Angus’ lips then he sighed and released his last breath.

  Famhair growled again and stood protectively over his master Tristan eased Angus’ head to the ground, then stood wearily to face new accusations.

  "You canna have the chieftainship. ‘Tis my right by birth,” the newcomer raved. “My father had no right handing it to you. What control have you had over him that he should do such a thing, and deny his own blood?"

  "None at all. Don't worry Dougal, the chieftainship is still yours. I have something more important to do.” Tristan stared at the new chieftain for a moment, disgusted with him. “A man who would stay clear of a battlefield till the fighting is done, is no man in my book. You never were and never will be a man to fight for his beliefs. Heaven help the clan with you at its head.” Tristan gazed at Angus’ body once more, said a silent farewell, then turned and walked away.

  "What is it that's more important? If it's clan business than I should know of it.” Dougal's voice grew louder, taking on the tone of a petulant child.

  Tristan stopped and glared over his shoulder. “A man who will not defend his father's back has no right to know his father's last words. I will tell you it has nothing to do with you or your clan.” Not directly, at least, he finished thoughtfully. He wanted nothing more at the moment, than to put distance between himself and the arrogant son of his respected teacher. He heard Famhair's growl become louder and more menacing.

  "Get this monster away from me before I run a blade through it."

  Tristan shook his head and whistled sharply. Famhair growled once more at Dougal then loped away in Tristan's direction. “Looks like you have a new master, Famhair."

  * * * *

  Tristan knew he would remember this day as long as he lived. The sounds of fighting and dying were stuck in his memory and would follow him, haunt his dreams for years to come. What went wrong? He kept asking himself that question over and again, trying to find some explanation for their failed plans. They had carefully worked out every detail of the raid. The attack on the English camp should have been a surprise, quick and thorough. Instead, the English had been armed and ready, waiting for the Scots. How did they know, unless...? No, he didn't want to believe such a possibility could exist, yet it seemed the only answer.

  Tristan reached the end of the field and breathed a weary sigh. Famhair settled down close beside his new master. This would not be the last battle. The Scots had a long way to go to gain their freedom. He spun around quickly, as if someone had called to him. A chill ran down his spine, one which had nothing to do with the early morning cold. Change was in the wind; he could feel it. Another warrior approached him and he straighten
ed, choosing, for the moment, to ignore what could be an omen.

  "We were betrayed,” Tristan told the newcomer. “The battle should have been over quickly. We should have been able to take prisoners. They were waiting for us."

  "Are you sure about that?” the newcomer asked. A frown crossed his sharp aristocratic features.

  "Think about it, Graeme. They should have been half asleep when we rushed the camp. They were alert and ready for us.” Tristan ran his free hand through his sweat dampened hair. He stared into the distance for a moment, not seeing anything. “I'll find the traitor and deal with him personally. I swear I will.” He paused for a moment. “Angus was right. The time has come to seek out the Legend."

  Graeme stared incredulously at his friend. “You don't believe that tale, do you? That's all it is, you know—just a great deal of foolishness. You can't take it seriously."

  "I'm very serious. Things are not going as they should. Come, there is much to be done.” Tristan's long strides took him toward his wounded men. He would give what comfort he could.

  Graeme watched Tristan walk away with the huge grey dog close by his side. What was the tale about the Legend? Ah, yes. His grandmother used to tell him the story when he was a small boy. The legend told of a young woman, from another place and time. She had dark hair, and eyes so pale they appeared the silvery color of the full moon. Her ability to come and go as she pleased would deny any man the right to say her nay. The tale claimed her to be a witch, one of the ancient wise ones, capable of using her magic to unite the highland clans and drive out the English. Her strange ways were sure to make many enemies, but her kindness, win her many more friends. The Legend promised to be the first of a special clan of women, with those who followed bearing a remarkable resemblance to her. Each, in turn, would use her own special kind of magic to guide the highland clans. Then, one day, Scotland would be free.

  The soldier scoffed at the tale. It was just as he'd told Tristan, nothing but a fanciful story to amuse and entertain. Graeme considered Tristan's last words before following him. Tristan was wrong. But, if he did seek ‘the legend’ and prove it true, Graeme would have to do something about it. Let Tristan do all the work. In the end, everything would be as it should.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Present day

  Meryl pulled the brush slowly through the long strands of black hair and studied her reflection in the mirror. Pale silver eyes stared back at her and she wondered, once again, why she looked so different from the other family members. Well, not different really, except for those weird eyes. Nobody else had eyes like hers. She felt like an outsider, one without an ounce of witchcraft. Maybe she was a changeling. That must be it; someone played a trick and left her with a family of witches.

  She rested her arms on the dressing table and leaned forward. The pendant at her throat dangled free of her shirt. She lightly ran her fingers over the engraved design, then flicked it with one finger to set the heat shaped pendant gently turning on its double chain. Two moonstones were set in one half of the heart, appearing like eyes. Diagonally set on the other half was a turquoise. The heart was actually two halves held together by a catch on the back of the pendant. She never understood the meaning of the strange emblem. Her aunt Enchantra had told her she was to wear it always, for it had marked her future. Beyond that advice, Enchantra could give her no further explanation, except to say it was a sign of her witching legacy. Meryl laughed at the idea but believed one day she would have the answers. Today would not be the day.

  Meryl made a face at her reflection in the mirror, then tied her hair back and sighed. A good run might do wonders for her mood. So, why was she sitting there feeling sorry for herself? She tucked the pendant inside her light blue tee shirt, then tucked the bottom of the shirt into her cut-off jeans and went around to the back of the mansion where a cliff path led down to the beach.

  She stopped a moment at the top of the path to look out at the mist floating above the water. The morning fog burned off slowly and the air remained cool. Another deception. The day would quickly heat up and in a few hours the beach, south of the mansion, would be crowded with sun worshipers. Part of the shoreline always remained deserted. Townsfolk weren't afraid of the mansion's residents, but neither did they want to become too friendly with them. One never knew what a Spellbinder might do at any given moment.

  Meryl scurried down the steep path then walked briskly along the shoreline, taking pleasure in the gentle breeze floating in above the tide. Plovers left tiny prints on the wet sand in their search for food. The small birds scattered when she approached them.

  "Morning, Dinks,” Meryl called to the large black cat loping along the water's edge. Meryl puffed while she tried to keep her footing on the dry sand, feeling the grains slide beneath her feet. She quickly tired of the battle and headed for the high tide mark where the sand was packed and wet. Dinks easily kept pace with his mistress and her familiar routine. Meryl adjusted the headphones and set the Walkman's volume to a comfortable level. Celtic music always lifted her mood, especially bagpipes.

  She loved to read about the old ways and often imagined herself living centuries earlier. It wasn't just the reading; she often felt a pull to that time, as if someone or something beckoned her to the past. At those times, she felt warmth from the pendant she couldn't explain. She used to imagine the necklace being the key to an ancient power trying to gain her attention. Meryl shook her head and cleared her mind of the fanciful idea. Power indeed! She couldn't cast a simple spell, never mind control something like the pendant—if there was something to be controlled.

  Meryl concentrated on the music while her feet pounded into the wet sand. The tread from her shoes left deep distinctive marks. At first, she thought the dull thudding beneath her feet was her doing, until she noticed a difference in the rhythm. She paused to catch her breath and figure out what caused the vibrations. Meryl's eyes widened at the sight of a horse cantering toward her out of the mist. While that was a surprise in itself, her gaze was riveted on the large animal keeping pace with the horse. From this distance she wasn't quite sure what it was, being almost half the size of it's companion. Dinks stood by her side, sniffing the air, watching the strangers approach too quickly for his liking. Remnants of mist swirled about in the warming air, still making a clear view impractical. She shut off the Walkman and removed the headphones. Hooves splashed in waves along the lower waterline.

  The rider wore a style of kilt from hundreds of years ago. He slipped off the horse's bare back and patted the animal's neck in a gesture of assurance, then strolled closer to her. They studied one another in silence. He wasn't very tall, a bit under six feet if she was any judge of height. Dark hair hung loosely about his shoulders except for the narrow braid on one side of his head, a warrior's braid. He was no Kevin Sorbo but she thought he could hold his own in a fight. He'd have no problem handling a broadsword. She could picture him in the thick of battle on some Scottish moor. His soft leather boots were cross-tied and she could see the hilt of a sgian dhu in the top of one boot. The three-inch knife might be small but it was just as deadly as its larger cousins. The stranger's eyes were the green of emeralds and Meryl found she couldn't look away from them. She felt captured by their spell.

  She finally glanced at the animal standing beside the horse and tried to hide the nervousness she suddenly felt. It had started moving forward, but a hand signal from the stranger kept it in place. “You're trespassing on private property,” she warned the warrior when she was finally able to speak. No one ever came onto Spellbinder land. For every step she took backward, the stranger moved a step closer to her. He moved cautiously and kept a wary eye on the cat by her side. Meryl vaguely wondered what he was seeing when he looked at Dinks. She got an impression of his dislike for cats, and her cat in particular. She sensed a seed of doubt in his mind and knew when he'd pushed it away. She had the strangest feeling the doubts he harbored had something to do with her. Meryl sensed his relief in having found the wo
man he'd been searching for, and yet, her youth puzzled him. This wasn't the chance meeting it appeared to be. To Meryl's surprise, she could no more turn from his stare, than he could from hers.

  He stepped closer and raising his hand, carefully slipped two fingers beneath the delicate chains to lift the pendant she wore. “How do you come by this?"

  Her skin tingled where his fingers brushed it. The question and her response to his light touch, startled Meryl. Her heart beat a little faster, a bit harder. How did he know about the pendant and why would he be interested in it? The heirloom belonged to a mother she couldn't remember.

  "Not that it's any of your business,” she replied tartly, feeling defensive. “I've always had it.” He made her nervous and intrigued her at the same time. She stared intently into his green eyes, until he released the jewelry. “What interest do you have in my pendant?"

  Tristan ignored the question.

  * * * *

  While the humans carried on their awkward conversation, Famhair kept a close watch on the approaching cat. The animal seemed capable of making itself appear larger than it actually was. Famhair yawned widely, as if bored, then snapped his jaws shut. “I eat creatures like you for breakfast,” he growled softly.

  Dinks stopped, surprised he hadn't intimidated the strange intruder. Then again, he'd never seen an animal as big as this one—at least not one that wasn't a horse. “What are you?"

  "Deerhound,” the newcomer replied bluntly.

  "Never seen anything like you before."

  "Not surprised.” The panting dog raised his muzzle and sniffed the air, as if talking with the cat were a waste of time.

  "What's your name?"

  "Famhair. That's ‘grey haired’ in human language."

  "I'm Houdini, but everybody calls me Dinks."

  "Strange name."

  Dinks sat before the dog and bobbed his head slightly as if trying to shrug his shoulders. It was the closest he could come to emulating the way humans would respond to a comment that didn't necessarily require a verbal response. He raised one paw and groomed his face, then set the paw back on the sand. “You don't say much."