Plight of the Highlander (The MacLomain Series: Next Generation Book 5) Read Free Page A

blade and magic that you meet your end.”
    An immortal wizard born of Ireland, few were stronger than Iosbail Broun.
    Except for Iosbail’s brother, Adlin, who all but birthed the MacLomain clan.
    “Come, you arrive on the Beltane,” Iosbail said. “I will see you settled first then we will talk further.”
    But she knew well that Iosbail didn’t need to ask much having been inside Torra’s mind. Yet one with dragon blood was powerful indeed. Torra had not let her see everything. Not the longstanding rivalry Iosbail would have with the Sinclair clan or her eventual love for King Alexander Sinclair. Some parts of history or the future in this case, must happen as they would.
    Torra eyed the Broun castle as they crossed a meadow. Built with wood, it was considerably smaller than the MacLomain’s but held a certain charm Adlin’s castle never would.
    But her eyes weren’t on the castle long.
    Instead, they were flickering discreetly between the men striding along either side of her.
    Leave it to her to have desired such tall men when she was so slight of stature. Where Valan had inherited his Da’s swarthy dark looks, Colin was his lighter counterpart. Though Keir Hamilton’s very nature had decayed his appearance, his son still held the glow of youth. With dark brown, near obsidian eyes and striking features, he was never without admirers.
    Yet he’d never been able to rival Colin MacLeod.
    Though the years had hardened Colin some, it only lent to his fierce handsomeness. With well-formed lips, a straight nose, strong jaw and high cheekbones, the MacLeod Laird was the sort who truly made a lass feel feminine. Sun-streaked and thick, his hair was accentuated by eyes surely given to him by the gods. Coloring with his emotions, they’d go from the shade of a deep, dark thundercloud when angry to sunlit ignited fog when happy. Only when truly impassioned would they become the color of fire on freshly sharpened steel.
    As if he sensed her thoughts, Colin’s eyes cut to hers as they walked. Torra looked away but not before her gaze slid down his well-muscled body and then over the large tattoo Keir Hamilton had marked him with on his bicep and shoulder.
    The tattoo.
    She closed her eyes briefly and sighed. Keir had stolen a slice of her essence when she’d time-traveled to meet with Colin. Using such he’d sought out the MacLeod and marked him with a depiction of Torra herself. Mixed with Keir’s dark magic, the mark would always draw them to one another. So it became a tool the Hamilton used to lure.
    Iosbail again reiterated what she’d said before as they walked over the drawbridge. “No strife within these walls or ‘twill be hell to pay.”
    Torra swore Valan and Colin both huffed, but she didn’t dare look at either.
    “You will bathe, change, then join my clan in celebration,” Iosbail declared.
    There might be a chieftain about if Iosbail married one, but she would always rule the Brouns as long as she was here. As such, her words were final. “I already have chambers being prepared but first,” she made a flourish at the men and then the armory, “Go choose your weapons for the evening’s festivities. If ye make to attack each other even once, yer no longer welcome.”
    Then her attention turned to the women. “I will show you to your chambers.”
    Torra gave a small smile and nodded, amused at how Iosbail’s accent fluctuated in accordance to her company. It was something all Scots with magic tended to do when around those from the far future. A balance between how they normally spoke to a dialect designed to make the women from the twenty-first century feel more comfortable.
    The courtyard was decently sized with kitchens located before the armory and stables alongside the warrior’s quarters. Like the MacLomain castle, the Broun stairs led to the front door and opened into the main hall. Instead of two sets of stairs running up either side, only one set ran up the left side and the great