Page 27 of Highland Storm

“If ye try to kill me like ye did her, I swear I’ll kill ye first.”

“Is that a threat?” he asked in a gruff voice, his hot breath in her ear. He was masculine and strong, and she felt affected sitting so close to him. Even though he was her enemy, she oddly felt attracted to him, which only made things worse.

“It’s a warnin’,” she whispered back, closing her eyes, trying to ignore his manly scent of pine and musk. His strong arm held her tightly, and she was pressed up against his hard body, making her feel hot being so close to him right now.

“Dinna think ye could ever kill me, lass, because ye are sadly mistaken.”

“Dinna be so sure,” she whispered, resting her hand over her throwing knife tied to her thigh that was hidden under her gown. Even if she felt an attraction to this MacKeefe and couldn’t stop thinking about the kiss they’d shared, he was still her enemy and also her captor. She needed to remember that. He was one of the most dangerous men alive. She’d seen the way he’d taken down four MacNabs without even breaking a sweat. He was a killer. A murderer, she reminded herself, her eyes filling with tears to think of poor Osla and how she died at the hands of her own husband.

Hawke had protected Phoebe and kept her from going to the dungeon. And for that, she was grateful. But she was a captive of the MacKeefes, and they severely misjudged her just because she was a girl. None of them had even thought to check her for weapons. Thankfully, she still had her throwing knives, and if she had to use them to escape, she wouldn’t hesitate to do so. Even if her knife was aimed right at Hawke.

* * *

“Storm MacKeefe bravely set out with only a young squire to search the rugged hills of the Highlands for the band of renegades,” read Bridget, holding the open book of the Highland Chronicles in front of her. Everyone gathered around her in the great hall, listening intently to the latest entry in the king’s book. Her father sat next to her, smiling.

“Young squire?” Hawke blew air from his mouth, talking to Phoebe as they entered the great hall. “It was a French knight he had with him who was almost the same age as him.”

“Mayhap the chronicler misunderstood,” said Phoebe innocently.

“Or mayhap my faither embellished the story a little,” remarked Hawke.

“Ye sound jealous.” Phoebe’s face lit up in a smug smile.

“Hardly.”

“I dinna believe ye.”

“Then dinna believe me, because it doesna matter to me at all what ye think.”

“Read the part about me again,” said Hawke’s grandfather, Callum. “I want to hear about my Mountain Magic.”

“Aye, read that part, Bridget,” Brigham told his daughter. “My daughter always reads my works aloud,” the man explained to the crowd. “She has a nice voice and an excitin’ way of bringin’ the stories to life.”

The girl flipped back a page and thumbed her finger over the parchment, stopping halfway down. “Callum MacKeefe is the eldest and wisest, most experienced member of the clan,” she read, getting a huge smile from Hawke’s great-grandfather. “His potent Mountain Magic is his original recipe for his strong Scottish whisky that he brews in secret in a cave.”

“He does?” asked Phoebe curiously.

“He used to, when he was considered addled and was hidin’ away from everyone,” Hawke told her.

“This Mountain Magic is revered and coveted by people all the way from the bonnie hills of the Highlands to the sandy coast of southern England. It has even been kent to render the Scots’ enemies unconscious for days at a time. It is the MacKeefe’s secret weapon for winnin’ battles.”

“Really?” asked Phoebe in awe.

“I suppose it has been used several times to slow down our enemies,” agreed Hawke. “And my da drank too much and passed out for a few days, but that is nothin’ to boast about. Och, I’ve heard enough. Let’s go.”

“It also has medicinal qualities, and has brought about miraculous recovery of bad health and is also attributed to longevity,” read Bridget. “Some say it is a secret potion that can possibly lead to immortality.”

“Wait!” Phoebe stopped dead in her tracks and put her hand on Hawke’s arm to keep him from leaving. Hawke liked the feel of her touch. His eyes dropped to her long, slim fingers. Thoughts ran through his head and he found himself fantasizing that she was holding on to his arm as his lady and he was her man. Shaking the absurd thought from his head, he heard Bridget’s next words.

“Auld Callum MacKeefe drinks Mountain Magic every day and this is what has kept him alive for nearly a hundred years. His magic potion might make him live another hundred.”

“He’s a hundred years auld?” gasped Phoebe. “That is unheard of to live that long.”

“Nay, he’s no’,” grunted Hawke, making a face. “That is wrong. Way wrong.”

“Then how auld is he?” she asked.

“I dinna ken,” said Hawke with a shrug of his shoulders. “I’m no’ sure anyone really does, but I’d guess he isna a day over ninety at most.”