Moonstruck Masness Read online

  BOUNDLESS

  Lucien burned to confront Sabrina's full wrath. Still she would not marry him, and she spoke the words firmly and surely. But his answer was no less firm, as he swore that her wishes meant nothing. . . that she would be his wife.

  ENDLESS

  At this she raised her arm swiftly, striking hard across his cheek. Without stopping to think, lie returned the blow with such force that the imprint of his fingers stained the white­ness of her complexion. With a cry she hurled herself onto the bed, hiding her mortified face in the soft, cool pillows.

  SUBLIME

  She felt the bed sag as Lucien sat down beside her, and the next instant he had her in his arms. "All I want to do is kiss you, and I end up hurting you," he whispered. His mouth closed over hers. She felt his lips move along the arch of her throat and shoulders, the scent of him filling her senses.

  THE TUMULT, THE SPLENDORS, THE FIRES,

  OF A PASSION TOO BOLD TO DIE

  MOONSTRUCK MADNESS is an original publication of Avon Books. This work has never before appeared in book form.

  AVON BOOKS

  A division of

  The Hearst Corporation

  959 Eighth Avenue

  New York, New York 10019

  Copyright © 1977 by Laurie McBain. Published by arrangement with the author. Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 76-53310 ISBN: 0-380-00871-8

  All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Avon Books.

  First Avon Printing, February, 1977

  CLS 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  AVON TRADEMARK REG. U.S. PAT. OFF. AND IB OTHER COUNTRIES, MARCA REOISTRADA, HECHO EN U.S.A.

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  For Nancy Coffey, my editor,

  with deepest appreciation

  The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,

  And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,

  Awaits alike the inevitable hour.

  The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

  Thomas Gray

  Culloden Moor, Scotland, 1746

  Prelude

  A northeast wind blowing rain and sleet welcomed the early morning watchers on the hill, their cloaked fig­ures cowering together in vain for protection from the cold, penetrating wetness that seeped through to the skin. Some distance away, and further down the slope of the moor, a lone figure crouched low in the heather.

  Sabrina Verrick hugged her cape more tightly around her as she stared in horrible fascination at the scene before her. The battlefield was the only patch of color across the wide expanse of gray moor. Colorful blue, yellow and green standards waved above the scarlet-coated battalions of the English king's army, its Union flag boldly flying in Scottish skies.

  Sabrina raised her head and felt the icy rain fall on her face. In the distance she could hear the monotonous beating of the drums. Drums beating in time for marching English feet, bringing them closer to the bright tartan plaid of the clans. Below her Sabrina could see her clan with her grandfather stalwartly leading them. His bonnet, trimmed with eagles' feathers, was cocked jauntily over his weathered brow, the blues and reds of his tartan jacket and kilt now darkened by the rain; but on his left shoulder the silver and cairngorm brooch that pinned his plaid still gleamed richly. He'd drawn his broadsword and was swinging its double-edged blade threateningly before him. He stood tall and magnificent before his men as they awaited the signal to attack. A burnt wooden cross, tied together by a piece of bloodstained linen, leaned crookedly in the ground—silent now that the call to arms had been answered.

  The haunting notes of the bagpipes echoed through the air as the fierce Highlanders surged forward to meet the enemy, their heavy broadswords singing as they sliced through the air in defiance of the shining bayonets of the English.

  But few reached the English ranks before they were cut down by the roaring cannon ripping through the clans, dismembering and leaving only parts of bodies where once bold men had stood.

  Sabrina screamed in terror as she saw half her clan wiped out by a single volley of cannon. Those who man­aged to escape the barrage of cannon fire were left to be cut down by the continuous, evenly timed musket fire that never stopped coming in waves of death and destruction. Sabrina felt the bile rise in her throat as she stared down at the massacre. Red was the only color that penetrated her dazed mind. Scarlet coats, bloodied swords and red-stained heather jumped before her eyes as English and Scot lay dying alike. It was impossible to separate the two enemies now. They were one surging mass of violence.

  Sabrina narrowed her eyes, straining them as she searched for her grandfather among the men below her, praying that she wouldn't see him crumpled to the ground with the countless others. Where was he? Where was her clan? She stayed low, sinking down into the heather as she sought desperately for a sight of their tartan. She turned suddenly at screams behind her and watched in horrified disbelief as English soldiers, gradually making their way up the slope, bayonetted the small group of watchers on the hill. They began" to scatter in panic, running for their lives as the soldiers bore down upon them, ruthlessly cut­ting down everything in their path. Sabrina remained still, afraid to move at all lest she meet the same fate. As she silently stared at the battlefield she caught a flickering movement as a small band of men made their retreat through the mangled bodies of their comrades and the enemy, escaping the field of their devastating defeat. Three carried her grandfather, and what was left of the clan limped along behind, their broadswords still raised to ward off any attack from behind.

  They were not the only ones fleeing the moor. The battle had been lost. The clans were now trying to gather together what remained of their members and escape to safety in the hidden glens and lochs, losing themselves for­ever up in the craggy hills and unapproachable valleys that cut in deep chasms through the hard, barren countryside.

  Sabrina carefully fled her hiding place and followed. She ran as though the devil were at her heels, running un­til her breath came painfully and her legs felt leaden. She followed them up into a narrow opening that twisted and climbed until the slaughter across the moor was hidden from view, and made her way through the passage, her mind a blank until she saw a small sod-and-stone cottage, little more than a hut, some distance ahead.

  "Let me pass," she told the guard who stood before the door, his bloodied broadsword held defiantly before her, barring her way.

  "Nay, lass, I couldna' dae that," he answered slowly, his blue eyes still dazed with disbelief. His face was darkened by streaks of blood from a deep wound beside his ear that was now clotted with dried blood the color of his hair.

  "I'm the laird's granddaughter. I must be with him!" Sa­brina cried, pushing past the beaten sentinel who gave eas­ily and moved wearily aside.

  Sabrina stopped abruptly as she entered the one-room hut. A peat tire was burning weakly in the middle of the room while an old woman squatted nearby, a worn shawl wrapped about her thin shoulders as she steadily stirred a rusted iron pot that hung over the fire. A sickening sweet odor of stewed mutton floated to Sabrina as she moved into the room.

  It was quiet, deathly quiet, as if all the men had died. They watched silently as Sabrina walked to the far end of the room and knelt down beside her grandfather. She choked back the sob that rose from her throat as she stared at his broken body. He was breathing heavily, an odd, rasping sound that shook his chest in deep, painful shudders.

  "Oh, Grandfather, what have they done to you?" Sa­brina sobbed brokenly as she wiped the blood trickling from the corner of his lips with the edge of her cape.

  "Grape. Tha' did it." A voice spoke sharply beside Sa­brina.

  Sabrina looked up in
to the blazing eyes of the man bending over the other side of her grandfather. His eyes were the only spot of color in his pale face. They glowed fanatically as they stared into hers, hatred pouring out of his soul.

  "It wae like a thousand knives bein' thrown at us. They couldna' just shoot us doon, nay, they had tae cripple us with tha'," he said bitterly, indicating the rusty iron, nails and leaden balls that littered the ground, shreds of tartan still clinging to some.

  "Ripping us apart, aul tae pieces, nae knowin' wha' hit us." He looked down at Sabrina's grandfather, a frown be­tween his eyes. "They even got the auld laird," he mumbled as if he couldn't believe it yet. He looked at his own bloodied hands, rubbing his fingers convulsively. "But they did nae get me pipes. I'll play for ye ever' nicht," he promised the laird. "They'll nae stop Ewan MacElden!"

  Sabrina was staring in horror at the half-crazed man when she felt her hand grasped by shaking fingers and looked down to see her grandfather's eyes opening. She closed her hands about Ms cold fingers, trying to warm them as she looked into his face. It was devoid of ex­pression and feeling, and she knew she gazed into a death mask. His eyes seemed to be pleading with her and she bent lower as his lips parted.

  "Shouldna' come doon from the hills. Waur fools tae fight in the open. Slaughtered like sheep," he whispered, his usually perfect English now thickened with an accent.

  "Please, Grandfather, don't speak," Sabrina pleaded, "we'll get you back to the castle."

  Sabrina looked to the others who stood silently about her. There were only five or six of them, and she won­dered frantically why they just stood there.

  "Do something!" she screamed. "Can't you see he's dy­ing?" Tears wet her cheeks as she watched a shudder shake his once proud body, now broken and frail as he lay in his own blood. She flinched as his fingers suddenly tightened painfully on her small hand.

  "Must tell ye. Knew this wae tae happen, but haed tae ficht. Go awa', lass," he struggled to say as he coughed up blood that oozed from his mouth.

  Sabrina bit her lip as she fought for control. "I won't leave you here."

  "Ye can dae nothin' tae help me. I'm a deid mon. Sa­brina, lass," he implored her, "ye must get awa' frae Scot­land. A ship on the loch tae take you tae safety. Go awa' an' take my grandson. His richt—his inheritance. For the clan and—" He stopped as another cough shook him, leav­ing him gray-faced and shuddering.

  "No, I'll not run!" Sabrina declared in a small, tight voice that throbbed with tears.

  "Lass, ye forg't," her grandfather whispered, "ye be half English yesel’. Ye can leave. Nae one need know tha' ye haed been here. I planned it this way—ye must. I'll nae hae my bloodkin aul die with me!"

  "Someone's comin'!" the sentinel cried from beyond the door, his cry jolting the silent men into life. They seemed to surge like a wave out of the door, their claymores lifted for the last time, prepared to wreak vengeance before they died.

  "Nae time," the laird whispered almost inaudibly. "Tae late. Sabrina, listen, child. Buried it, near the—" He choked, his face turning purple as he was seized by a con­vulsion.

  "Grandfather," Sabrina whispered pleadingly, willing him not to die.

  "Must tell ye the secret. . . false . . . the kirk . . . threads . . . gold . . . golden threads."

  Sabrina jerked her head up as the old woman began to wail, her body swaying back and forth. Through the door she could hear shots and yells as the combat was renewed.

  "Grandfather," Sabrina began, only to stop as she looked into his gray eyes that stared past her into noth­ingness. He was dead. She crumpled over him, her body shielding his as she sobbed brokenly.

  "Oh, Grandfather, why? Why?" she asked aloud. She raised her head from his chest and with gentle fingers closed his eyes and pressed her soft lips to his cheek. She felt something hard and cold against her hand and looking down saw his claw-handled pistols still hanging from his belt. She quickly removed one of the Highland dags and then the richly wrought silver dirk from his hip. Its sharp blade pricked her skin as she secured it in her bodice.

  Sabrina turned around quickly, startled as the door was swung open and MacElden fell in. He closed the door sharply and rushed over to her, looking down at her as she held the pistol pointed threateningly in his direction.

  "Deid?" he asked quietly.

  "Aye," Sabrina answered automatically as she had heard her grandfather answer so many times. She got to her feet slowly. "You'll see that he's buried with his broad­sword and dag? That he's not left to . . ." She paused, un­able to finish her words and the image they conjured.

  "Aye, he'll rest wheer he should. On his own land," Mac-Elden promised grimly. "They'll nae strip him like scav­engers, nor desecrate him—nae the laird."

  Sabrina shivered uncontrollably as she heard the fighting outside, wondering who the victors were. The old woman's wailing droned in her ears like a warning—but where could she flee? She was trapped with no avenue of escape.

  She felt the pistol in her hand and wondered whether she would be able to kill any of them before they killed her? Or would they take her prisoner and torture her as they had so many others? Suddenly MacElden pulled her to the corner of the hut. Shoving aside a rough-hewn table and shabby wool rug, he knelt and removed several large stones, disclosing a small opening in the side of the hut.

  "Quick with ye, through here an' oop tae the pines. Fol­low them tae the castle," he said, pushing her through the small space he'd made.

  Sabrina glanced back over her shoulder at the dead body of her grandfather and murmured a last farewell. "Aren't you coming?" she asked MacElden.

  He drew himself up, straightening his shoulders. "I canna' run oot on the laird. He would nae ken wheer I be," he answered incredulously.

  Sabrina nodded her head in agreement, then wiggled through the narrow space which opened into the back of a large wall of peat, stacked and drying for fuel in the win­ter months. Sabrina crawled along its length, then cau­tiously looked around the edge. She could see the pines standing tall against the barren line of hill in the distance. '

  Suddenly the ground seemed to shake as the loud, mournful wailing of MacElden's pipes began. All other sounds were drowned by the shrill, uneven notes of the bagpipe. Sabrina quickly fled the neat stack of peat and hurried into the protection of the pine trees, the pipe's la­ment still reaching her ears as she struggled up the hillside. She glanced back over her shoulder and began to cry as she saw the red and white coats of the English soldiers surrounding the little hut while other soldiers followed the few men of the clan who'd managed to escape yet again into the cover of the hillside.

  Sabrina missed her footing and fell heavily, feeling her breath knocked out of her as she hit the ground. Strug­gling to rise she leaned against a rock as she pulled herself up, closing her eyes as she breathed deeply of the cold, wet air, feeling it burn her lungs as she tried to catch her breath.

  Suddenly she stilled, feeling a cold sweat break out over her body as she sensed that she was not alone, and slowly opened her eyes to stare at a pair of shiny, black jack­boots. Her gaze traveled on up past the white breeches and scarlet coat, lingering on the drawn sword before coming to a halt at the face.

  Sabrina's wide eyes stared in fascination into those of her captor, her lips trembling with fear.

  The soldier sheathed his sword and then shook his head with its cocked hat perched high above his brow. "A child. Just a little girl," he spoke softly, almost to himself. His voice was very cultured and smooth, and some of the fear Sabrina had felt shaking her began to recede.

  "I won't hurt you, child. What are you doing here?" he asked in a voice used to command, his eyes narrowing as he noticed for the first time the pistol she carried in her hands.

  Sabrina swallowed nervously. "M-my grandfather. He lies dead in the hut," she answered, her fingers wrapping themselves around the trigger.

  "I see," the officer replied casually, his body seemingly relaxed. "Why don't you put down the pistol. It's much
too heavy for such little hands."

  "I'd like to put a hole in you!" Sabrina said shakily as she raised the barrel to the center of his scarlet-breasted chest.

  "I know you would, little one, but that won't bring your grandfather back. I saw him fight. He was a brave man, but he was badly wounded, and he's better off to have died quickly."

  He frowned as he stared at her upturned face, taking in the delicate features. What an unbelievably beautiful crea­ture, he thought as he stared into the heart-shaped face with its huge, violet eyes, and how ironic to discover such a perfect being in the midst of battle. He shook his head and raised his hand to touch her to make sure that she really existed.

  Sabrina took a panicked step backwards as the English officer started to reach out. She stared at him defiantly, feeling hatred coursing through her veins. This tall, red-coated man represented all that she despised and feared. The memory of her grandfather's torn body suddenly surged before her, and with a small, anguished cry she pulled the trigger.

  A deafening roar cut through the air, surprising Sabrina by its shattering effect and the violent jumping of the pis­tol in her hands. But the officer had read the hatred in her face and deflected the barrel of the pistol before she had even fired it, sending the bullet harmlessly through the branches of the pines.

  "Run along, little girl. Run back to your family where you belong. God only knows who let you loose this morn. Hurry, be off!" he yelled at her astonished face, pushing her suddenly into action as she turned and ran, her cape flicking her ankles as she fled.

  He stood silently under the pines watching her disap­pearing figure, a tightness about his mouth as he turned back to the clearing.

  "See any more Highlanders, sir?" a soldier called out as he came running up the hill with an excited gleam in his eyes, his bayonet dripping blood.

  "No, Sergeant, I saw no one up there," he replied coldly as he led the way back down to the hut.