A Hunter, a Witch, and a Shrew: Enduring Legacy, #8

By Leona Bushman and Enduring Legacy

Lachlann flees to Scotland to escape witch hunters, only to have one target him.

Lachlann has made a good life for himself in Scotland, learning to fight with a sword to back up and better hide his magical powers. But something or someone must have given him away because a hunter and his daughter have come asking pointed questions.

He adroitly sidesteps most of their questions, while preparing to run. He'd done it before, so this time should be easy, right? He might have thought so, but the hunter's daughter, Isla, has claimed his heart despite him warding off love. Why his magic fails him now, he couldn't begin to explain. But, can he risk death at the hands of her father just for a chance at her love?

Isla has spent years with her father tracking down dark witches...and not so dark witches...and rumors thereof. She has also spent those years trying to protect them from people like her father. She has a dark secret which could get her killed, one she wants to entrust to Lachlann, despite everything. Love hits her between the eyes the first time they touched, and now, she is stuck between her father and the man who stole her heart. How can she choose between family and her heart's desire?

More, could she trust Lachlann with her secret?

Because, if she trusted wrong, the penalty was death at her own father's hands.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leona Bushman
• Release date: Oct 12, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386483182

Book preview

Dedication

To my muse, forever and always.

Chapter One

1603 Scotland

Flashes of times past when Isla had witnessed the death of others like them—witches, real and falsely accused—kept dancing before her eyes. The acrid scent of burnt hair. The black smoke as clothes burned. The crackling of wood as flames licked the sides in morbid merriment. The screams.

By the Holy Lord God, the screams.

Nay.

She could not witness it again. Isn’t it enough I ha’ ta see them in my visions and memories now? Why must he add to those memories? I cannae. Nae again.

Nay, Father! Ye must nae. Please! Spare them. For me. Isla stared at her father, trying to hide her fear and defiance behind begging and pleading. Her hands clenched together, hidden in the folds of her skirts. Some of the villagers possessed magic. That knowledge, which slid through her upon meeting them, had prompted her to do a spell of blessings and calm, hoping to keep her father from targeting them. Then, she had put a spell of protection around the coven she’d sensed hiding from the rabid mobs and other hunters searching for a reason to kill anyone different. The hunters infuriated her with their scheming and foul, murderous hearts veiled behind the royal orders. And the king, so high on his self-made pedestal, he cannae see the way the men under him abuse their powers in his name. And isn’t Thou shalt not kill in the Ten Commandments?

King James the VI of Scotland’s edicts personally scared her to death, but she couldn’t let her father kill these people. Now she understood she should have done the protection spell around all of the village people, but she possessed not enough power for it nor enough time, and just the one other witch braved her trust enough to help her. And I cannae risk asking anyone else. What if they told my secret? But what is the use of having such powers if I cannae help those who need it the most?

The whispered conversation hurriedly spoken with Gracie had been furtive and brief, but enough to get a clear picture. Her father wasn’t the first hunter to saunter in, drunk on the power given them by proxy.

Her breath skittered in and out in ragged gasps as her father continued to stand there, not releasing the poor people. What if he sees through my act? A spurt of dread hit her, clawing at her insides, sapping away her confidence. She tried not to look at the innocent villagers, but her eyes kept fearfully straying to them, guilt tripping through her every time she caught sight of their tribulation. Her stomach churned, her earlier meal threatening to make an appearance.

Ropes secured their hands. Gags loped around their mouths to keep them from uttering any further spells. The poor villagers stood back to back, six of them. Whimpers escaped them. Children milled around them, crying for their parents, their dirty faces streaked with tears. A cow mooed nearby, complaining, as if it, too, disliked the happenings in the common area.

These people never hurt anyone. Even Father cannae say it to be true. She’d asked about for strange things, or even whispers of deeds. None of them performed against the Church or cursed others from what she’d found upon their arrival. Nay, the villagers and witches worked together, the non-magic people apparently never knowing whom they lived and worked with. They existed by growing their own foods away from the nobles, keeping to themselves, the witches using discreet spells to help ease their lives and their friends’ lives. Remembering all this renewed her determination to stop them.

She wanted to scream at him. You have no right to kill them!

Except he did.

The right of that unfair decree. That damned piece of paper. Father was part of a society started by King James. After his near death experiences to obtain the queen, the king pushed horrible punishments onto the people of Scotland, and now England. Open condemnation within the courts, all the violence and bloodshed and terror both secretly yet openly committed, because some fool had convinced him that the fault in so many storms upon his crossing and that of his appointed bride-to-be, Anne of Denmark, lay at the foot of dark witches.

Verily, I would happily curse the one who put the magic people in such danger. Because, ever since then, the king had appointed men and women to ferret them out and had went as far as to create clandestine groups and given them permission to kill all such abominations, as they were called in the parchment her father carried about his person. We would nae be here and in this mess if someone had kept their mouths shut. I would nae ha’ had to live my life in fear.  She shivered and tried to maintain her servient attitude even as anger coursed in her veins. Mayhap I should search out for myself if witches had cursed the queen. Nay, I am nae able to. Father barely lets me alone as it is.

Nay, my daughter. You be young, innocent of such depravity, and cannae ken the power of evil. The power of those who would work their dark arts against our God and against the one true king.

She bit down on the retort which sprang to her lips about his own dark deeds, and instead, she took a deep breath instead. Mayhap nae, Father. I cannae say for sure. But these people are nae evil. They are simple folk without the wisdom ye ha’ been privileged with. Please, Father. Ye can see they are but frightened, simple folk. They be having no dark arts to save them from the power of your wrath. She dipped her head demurely as she spoke, hoping to hide the lies ingrained within her statement, hoping to keep her father from targeting them all. However, the anger pulsed deep, threatening to give her away.

Things had been going well, but then, as had happened before, someone dared cross her father, dared to naysay him. Isla breathed deeply, forcing back the words which wanted to escape from passing forth across her lips. He was the evil one. He used his power and position to retaliate against any perceived slights. It always angered her.

By the time she’d turned twelve, she had noticed how his enemies all became witches. Shortly after that, her powers had surged in strength and had taken some getting used to, especially as she had to hide them. At thirteen summers, she had more knowledge than she liked of the ways of the wicked, particularly his. However, as a child and a female, she found she held little power, little sway with the king or his men—or any man whom she met. She again clicked back the fury which threatened to overwhelm her magic and patiently waited for his answer.

At his continued silence, she dared to look upon his countenance. He gave a small sigh and nodded. My sweet daughter. Isla. Ye ha’ a pure heart. I will allow them to live. But know this, people of this shire. He raised his left hand, holding the parchment. I shall be back. If I find witches among you, if any dare to defy the king’s commands, then my wrath will be many times over what it is now. Nae even the kind heart of my beloved daughter will be able to save you.

Isla caught the eye of one woman, not tied up, the one whom had helped her do the spells around the others. Gracie gave a short wave of her hand in thanks then didn’t look to Isla again.

Thank ye, Father. Ye are kind and wise as all of God’s servants. She folded her hands and bowed her head as if in prayers of thanksgiving.

But peaceful prayer lay far from her thoughts. Nay. She vowed then to stay with her father as long as he allowed, protecting the innocent from him and the unfair tenets of the king.

Even if it meant her death.

WITCH HUNTER, JOHN of Argyll, turned and left, his daughter in his wake. His long strides ate up the ground as he tried to outpace his daughter and hide his fury at her interference. One small price to pay to protect her innocence. One day, he would marry her off to a high-ranking man in the court. He needed her to appear as sweet and malleable as possible. He wanted those ties, the power. Even with his rank in the king’s society, it was never enough power. His older brother had a dukedom. He planned on having one himself one day. For now, he gathered more wood and shot down grouse and quail for their meals.

Isla stayed quiet and helped him prep the birds. She’d become quite efficient on the road. And lately, all that backtalk and shrew attitude had perceptively diminished. Made travelling a lot easier when he did not have to listen to her complaints. He preferred to stay at hostels or commandeer a cottage, but when no accommodations met his standards, she performed well.

Their two tents took up most of a clearing. A creek ran through on its way to meet up with the larger one they’d crossed on their way to this godforsaken village.

Isla finally retired for the night. Once she’d put out her candle, he slipped out of his own tent and secretly made his way back to the village. There was one there who had made him look the fool, and John meant to make the man pay for his insolence and refusal to bow to him. He was John, witch hunter for the king. How dare any defy him!

Anger pushed his strides even longer, so he quickly traveled the short distance to his intended target. The cottage was easy to locate, even in the dark. It stood at the outskirts of the town, far enough from the main square and any other homes to keep any sound from reaching them. Still, it would behoove him to stay as quiet as possible. No point in risking someone coming along before he left.

John crept up to the shuttered window and listened. Then he slunk to the door, slowly pushing the latch in and the heavy door open. The insolent bag of bones lay on a cot in the corner of the room, one hand across his chest.

The hunter smiled, the darkness hiding most of his face except the white of his eyes and a small gleam on his teeth where the light leaked in through the door. In one, swift, combined motion, he put one hand over the mouth of his victim and raised the other arm and brought it down with all his might. The newly sharpened stiletto pierced the heart and barely a gurgle left on the man’s last breath.

I know thee to be a witch, John whispered. He slid the knife out and wiped the blood on the rough woolen pants of the dead man. I only wish ye ken it be me who brought you down. No one crosses me and lives, not even for the love of my daughter.

Chapter Two

1603 France

Lachlann Craeg shook himself from the vision and frowned while trying to catch his breath. His chest hurt with the pounding of his heart. Such gruesome visions of late, and thoughts of evil from the ones he watched wrapped their cold ways into his heart, forcing him to seek out warmth and goodness more than usual. He had taken to drinking an herbal tea to help him sleep. His gaze swept the countryside their small farm nestled into.

In recent times, his visions had centered more and more in Scotland, even England. Why, when their lives lay in France where they’d been since he lost his mother? Melancholy threatened to swamp him again. With his whole family in sadness, it had taken his child self a long time to find his own emotions and deal with them. Being gifted with the three gifts of his family, and a little something more which no one could explain, made him different in the eyes of his Aunt Ailis and Uncle Daniel, different and harder to help.

But this vision, this one gripped him even now, seeming so real. He could still smell the bird the witch hunter and his daughter had partaken of during their evening meal as it cooked and turned over a fire. He went back to his outdoor chores, but Uncle Daniel found him.

Comment ca va, Lachlann, his uncle asked, using French which they spoke whenever not in the home.

Lachlann shrugged, not wanting to answer. The beat of the French coming from his uncle sounded wrong to his ears after the Scottish dialect of the hunter and his daughter. A sudden longing for Scotland filled him.

You cried out, his uncle remarked.

Lachlann’s head jerked up. Damn it. He hated when he did something while in a vision. I am sorry, Uncle, he said, then stared back down at the hay he spread out for the cows.

A loud sigh left Uncle Daniel. I know you are not happy here. We will move someday. Though not yet. But if this has to do with your vision, if there is something we need to know... I can’t protect the family if... I trust you shall tell us if anything changes, that you will not deny us the right to know.

Lachlann heard the underlying anguish in Uncle Daniel’s voice, but more, he felt it run through him as his gift of empathy picked it up. I will not, Lachlann said quietly, wanting to console the man who had acted more