The Last Celtic Witch [Celtic Series Book 1] Page 3

  "You must not overtax yourself."

  The chieftain grabbed his grandson's arm and looked solemnly into his eyes. “You must pledge to me an oath before I die."

  "Grandfather—"

  "Pledge!"

  "What be the oath, my laird?"

  "Pledge you will do whatever you must to bring peace to our clan."

  Sighing, Phillip nodded with an assurance he did not feel. “I swear to you, Grandfather. It will be done.” He rose from the chair and walked to the entrance. “Now get some rest. I must go back to the battlefield. The men—"

  A wheezing sound came from his grandfather, and Phillip turned to find the chieftain's blue eyes were glazed. His chest no longer rose and fell with breath.

  Returning to the bedside, Phillip took his grandfather's rough sword hand and fell onto the chair.

  Inside, he felt empty, numb. He rubbed his dry eyes and sighed. His grandfather was the last of his family. Leaning over, he rested his forehead on the edge of the bed. He had not the luxury of grief. He was now chieftain of the west Highlands, a powerful laird. Yet he did not feel it. His deceased father was a legendary warrior, as was his grandfather. Both had ruled with fairness, wisdom and strength.

  How could he live up to such a legacy?

  Phillip pushed to his feet and raised his chin. He must not let his people down.

  He glanced once more at the body of his last remaining relative. “I will not disappoint you, Grandfather. Peace will reign in our land. No matter what it takes!"

  * * * *

  Weary from making arrangements for his grandfather to be sent home for burial, Phillip exited his makeshift home and joined his men-at-arms at the fire. Talk of the day's battle and their conquests had them arguing about who had killed the most.

  "I swear to you, I have killed twenty Campbells on this day,” Richard, a short burly soldier with a wart on his bare chin, announced.

  "Hah, twenty-eight Campbells felt the point of my blade,” a lanky man boasted.

  "You must jest, Seamus. E'eryone knows you cannot count that high,” teased his twin brother, Thomas.

  Phillip winced at their blood thirst on the eve of their chieftain's death.

  "Have you no shame?” Phillip's voice rose. “Your leader is barely cold and you crow over victories."

  The soldiers looked at their feet and mumbled their apologies.

  Phillip pivoted and stormed away, only to be followed by Dougal, whose hefty build, red hair, and thick beard added to his fierce appearance. Dougal had only to growl at a soldier to have him fainting with fright.

  Although the same height as his friend, Phillip's skill had won him many practice fights with the elder, battle-hardened soldier.

  "Think you I was harsh with the men?” Phillip asked, slowing for the trainer to join him.

  "Aye. You know they risk their lives for the clan. When the day's battle is complete and they still live, they must find courage in their prowess of steel to last another day on the bloody field."

  "Aye,” Phillip answered with regret, his body slumping with exhaustion.

  They walked in companionable silence to the river that weaved alongside their camp. The peaceful currents moved before him as he stared into their depths, wondering how the river still flowed with certainty of its direction when death polluted its waters.

  Phillip kneeled. Cupping cold water in his hands, he scrubbed the blood from his skin. He wished he could just as easily erase death from his heart.

  He was the last of the Roberts and now felt truly alone.

  Dougal crouched beside him. His gaze was heavy on Phillip. “What are your orders?"

  "I do not know,” Phillip answered. “I must have peace amongst our clans. Still, Lady Torella will not be reasoned with. I dare say she will spill the blood of every man in the Highlands before giving up the prospect of taking our lands."

  "May I offer a suggestion, my laird?"

  "Have out with it, man."

  "Why not give it to her?"

  Phillip stared at him. “Have you been knocked on the head too many times, my friend?"

  Laughing, Dougal shook his head. “Marry the lady, join lands and call an end to this feud."

  "Are you daft? Lady Torella hates all Roberts. She would never marry me."

  "A man of your comely looks can seduce any woman,” Dougal said, winking. “A woman has never said nae to you."

  "Even so, Lady Torella would by no means agree.” Phillip added with sarcasm, “It would take an enchantment to have her thaw to me."

  "Exactly."

  "Pardon?"

  "A love potion,” Dougal said, a single eyebrow arched.

  "A love potion?” Phillip laughed. “Now I know you have been hit on the head."

  "I know of a witch who can make you a potion that will have the beautiful Lady Torella begging to be yours."

  "I do not believe in witches,” Phillip said, his tone firm.

  "'Tis worth a try, my laird. They say she is ugly to look upon, but has the magical touch of the fey."

  "I am surprised a warrior such as you believes in superstition."

  "Do you wish to have peace?"

  "Aye, but—"

  "Then have the witch summoned and see for yourself, my laird."

  "Verily well, then. Have her brought to Gleich Castle. And I will see for myself if these rumors be true.” Phillip went to leave, and then turned. “Have the men return home to their families on the morrow. There has been enough death on both sides."

  Bowing, Dougal replied, “As you command."

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  Chapter 4

  The thud of muddy boots rang on the stone floor as Dougal marched through the great hall of Carline Castle. Servants scurried out of the large Highlander's way, his barbaric reputation and murderous scowl produced fear in all who stumbled across his path.

  He grasped his claymore, and it glided silently out of the scabbard. With a determined stride, he reached the mistress's chamber and pushed open the heavy oak door.

  His eyes adjusted to the darkened interior while feminine moans of pleasure filled his ears. Upon the large bed sat the beautiful and naked, Lady Torella. Her smooth lily-white backside moved up and down, straddling a male slave. Her thick, black hair swayed with each thrust of her hips. Watching Lady Torella's exposed, heart-shaped buttocks, Dougal pursed his lips, enjoying the sweet view of her tight hole.

  She needed to be speared and speared hard.

  Torella's musky scent surrounded him and he breathed deeply. His shaft ached for the inner caverns of her loins. He threw down his sword, and it clattered on the stone floor. In a swift motion, he undid his chausses and stood behind Torella. Leaning over her, he grabbed her ample breasts and guided his straining erection up her arse while she moved in rhythm to the servant beneath her.

  Unwilling to share her, Dougal lifted her up and threw her face down on the bed, her plump buttocks still embracing his shaft. He growled at the incensed slave, and the young man's face paled and he scrambled off the bed.

  "Harder, Dougal,” Torella moaned.

  He seized her hips and thrust deep. The clinking of his chain mail mingled with a tight-jawed growl.

  Her muscles squeezed from inside, and a throbbing heat shot up his groin. He had plundered many a wench in the backside but none gave the same stimulation as Torella. Concentrating on not losing his load before she reached her peak, his body glistened with sweat. Od's bodkin, she felt incredible!

  Stay the pace, stay the pace!

  Finally, she screamed her release, pushing her slippery buttocks harder against him. She was insatiable and Dougal was only too eager to pump his seed into her. Just when he was about to yield to his physical need, she rolled away, left him unfulfilled and aching for more.

  Twisting around, Torella kneeled on the bed before him, her breasts pressed against his chain mail. She lightly kissed his lips, teasing him. Rolling her pink tongue along her mouth, he knew she took glory in t
he sexual pain she caused.

  "Will he seek the witch?"

  "Aye,” Dougal breathed, the veins in his forearms standing out. “He promised his grandfather he would bring peace to the clan before the old man died from the potion you gave me."

  He clenched and unclenched his fist at his side, his manhood standing boldly erect. The need for satisfaction was excruciating. But he knew her game and must play by her rules or be left unsatisfied.

  "Excellent. This pleases me well."

  Torella grabbed hold of his swollen flesh and rubbed from the base all the way to the tip. Her hand increased in speed while her wicked smile stretched with victory at her prowess.

  With his hands on his hips, Dougal threw his head back and groaned, his body rigid and ready for an explosive release.

  Torella's eyes shadowed with malevolence and she halted the movement of her skillful hands. “Beg me!"

  Tight lipped, he remained silent.

  "Beg me or leave."

  "Pl ... please,” he said. “Keep going."

  Her jade eyes glittered with triumph and he scowled, hating the power she held over him.

  Torella worked her practiced hand until he bellowed with release. His warm ejaculation shot over her flat abdomen and curly ebony hairs nestled at the apex of her thighs.

  She lay down on the soft ruby coverlet, her hands resting behind her head.

  "Now lick your seed off me. Then lick my ... sheath ... clean."

  Lowering to his knees, the most feared soldier in all the land obeyed with unrelenting abandonment.

  * * * *

  Adela had failed. She had failed to become pregnant by the soldier in the woods, and the vision of her death remained the same. Time was running out!

  The MacAye powers would end with her life and all good magic would vanish from earth. How could her spell have led her to the wrong man? How could Phillip not be the chosen one?

  She swallowed the defeat in her throat and hastily rose from her chair to make ready a sack of herbs and potions. If she was going to be captured, she might as well be prepared. One could not cheat fate after all. Did not her mother die with those same words on her lips?

  In the early morning light, her nervous fingers fumbled with the small black leather sack she would hide in her kirtle. Soon, very soon she would be taken away. A crackle of energy snapped in the air close to her shoulder. She jumped and turned, searching for the source.

  A sharp caw echoed from the kitchen window, and Adela jerked her head to find a black bird sitting on the ledge.

  "A raven!"

  Shutting her eyelids tight, Adela envisioned a white protection light swirling around her body. She tentatively opened an eyelid, her heartbeat hammering in her ears.

  "Get out of here!” she shrieked, waving her hands about wildly.

  But the raven returned her look with contempt, its beady black eyes glaring at her with arrogance.

  "Leave!” she yelled, her voice stronger with fortitude. Adela picked up a bag of sage and threw it at the intruder. The bag landed pathetically short, and the raven mocked her with another eerie cry.

  Its long black wings stretched wide and it flew off the ledge, but not before leaving Adela with the notion her future was doomed.

  A chill ran down her spine with a vision of horses thundering through the woods, the soldiers’ expressions grim with their determination to find to her.

  "They are coming,” she said aloud, and gathered her meager belongings before opening the front door.

  Calmly, she closed the door behind her, and faced the direction the soldiers would appear out of the thick, dark forest.

  Ironic, that with death approaching she could be somewhat composed. She would face her fate like her mother had done. With pride and dignity. She did not regret being a witch, nor would she apologize for her powerful lineage.

  The heavy thud of horses’ hooves pounded on the forest floor. Adela tilted her head up to the sun. This would be the last time she felt its warmth. With a deep breath she closed her eyes and allowed the balmy rays of the Celtic Sun Goddess, Grian to surround her body, filling her with courage.

  Several soldiers erupted from the dark forest; their banners marked with the black wolf crest of the Roberts clan. The chieftain's men abruptly halted before her and dismounted.

  A handsome brawny soldier with a beardless face and wild, blond hair stepped forward with authority. “Are you the witch who lives in the woods?"

  "Would there be any other?"

  The soldier looked confused and shared a glance with one of the men behind him.

  Adela sighed. “Aye, I am the one you seek."

  "Know you we were coming?” the soldier asked bewildered.

  "Aye, I knew,” she answered, and allowed the soldier to lift her up onto a bay mare. Without looking, Adela could feel the soldiers ogling her. Their fear and disapproval weighed heavily on her as they rode side by side. She was used to the stares of people who knew not of the gentle powers she wielded. Their ignorance made them afraid, and their fear had killed her mother and would have her condemned on this day.

  A strong urge overcame her to kick the horse into motion and try to outride the soldiers, but she suppressed it. She would not be able to outride her fate, no matter how fast the horse.

  The somber group rode for most of the day in silence until they reached Gleich Castle. The imposing edifice perched on the side of the mountain, appearing as thought it were carved out of the a towering cliff.

  With the setting sun behind the mountain, muted shadows cast over the raised village within the impassable fortress walls.

  It must be nice for the occupants within to sleep safely at night, Adela mused, knowing the battlements would keep enemy raiders out. If only she could cast a spell to have them sleep while she escaped. Adela shook her head, dispelling the thought. It would take more power than even she possessed.

  Large wooden gates creaked open, allowing them to pass under an iron portcullis before entering the lower ward. Their horses’ hooves clopped over the cobblestones through the village toward the imposing castle. Small cottages with colorful flowers on their windowsills lined both sides of the path, contrasting with the gloomy wall that stood behind them.

  People came out of their homes to gape at her. Adela guessed they did not know she was a witch. Otherwise she would be peeling their rotten vegetables off her clothes. At least she could be grateful for the chieftain's discretion.

  Perhaps he planned to use her flaming execution as a surprise amusement for his people. Despite her bravado, she shivered with apprehension. She did not want to die.

  * * * *

  With a chalice of red wine in hand, Torella glided over to the stone pillar holding a metallic scrying bowl adorned with emerald stones and Celtic symbols of ancient sorcerers. Carefully, she poured in the dark liquid and it swirled continuously, a grey light illuminating the contents.

  "Show me what I want to see,” Torella intoned, resting her long nails on the edges of the enchanted bowl.

  An image appeared of the MacAye lass riding into the bailey of Gleich Castle. The witch's fear was so delicious; Torella could almost taste it. Dipping her finger into the wine, the picture rippled. She licked the tart liquid from her fingertip and laughed. Soon she would have the witch's power. She had waited ten long winters to restore her ageless beauty and youth.

  Torella walked over to the large glass mirror with iron candle sconces along the edges. Sweeping her hand across the tight skin of her face, she searched for any signs of aging.

  Enchanting the Campbell chieftain into believing she was his lost daughter was easy enough. The power of commanding the chieftain's virile soldiers gave her a delightful diversion while searching for the MacAye witch. But she soon grew vexed with her father's interference.

  'Tis a shame he suddenly became ill and died a painful death, leaving me with everything.

  "He was a fool,” Torella said to her stunning reflection, and lifted her chin up to
inspect the skin beneath.

  Her eyes widened with shock. A wrinkle! Edging closer to the mirror, Torella squinted at the faint line under her chin.

  If she did not take the witch's power by the full moon of Samhain, all would see she was a three hundred year old sorceress. She must have the girl's powers!

  Rushing back to the scrying bowl, she glared at the image of the witch being taken into the castle by two soldiers.

  "Aye, take her. Take the virtuous witch to meet her true love."

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  Chapter 5

  With a soldier on either side, Adela was led into the great hall to stand in front of a high, empty chair. The soldiers promptly left and she scanned the deserted chamber. Different clan shields, swords, and rich tapestries adorned the walls, giving the room a warrior appeal.

  Crackling sounds came from a fireplace behind the high table. Adela shuffled to the side and shifted from foot to foot, becoming hypnotized by orange flames hungrily consuming the dry timber. She swallowed nervous the lump in her throat, and diverted her gaze.

  The smell of cooked meat wafted in her direction, and she inhaled the delicious aroma of beef, lamb and chicken. Against the walls stood trestles filled with food of every description, including garden vegetables, exotic fruits, and pies of various sizes and shapes. Adela's mouth watered and her stomach rumbled, her eyes widening as they gazed upon each delectable platter.

  "Stealing food from the chieftain's table is a decision not wise,” Adela admonished herself, her tone holding less than conviction. Scanning the empty hall again, she wound a finger in her hair. “What can they do to me? Burn me at the stake?” she added with a crooked smile of defiance.

  Her blue skirt rustled around her bare feet, brushing over the clean rushes. Unsure what to eat first, she picked up a chicken leg and ripped into the tender meat. Its savory juices ran down her chin, but she was so hungry she did not care. She took another bite when masculine voices drifted inside the hall and the herb-flavored chicken lodged itself in her throat. Bending over, she coughed, her eyes watering.