Free CursedLaird by Tara Nina Page A

him o’ his mistake. Why had he kissed the boireannach without her permission? Never had he taken what was not willingly given. He
tasted her on his lips, a fine blend of feisty Scottish lass and honey.
    Struan tilted his head ever so slightly. An odd light shone
in the ceiling. His breath hitched. A witch’s magic. How had he come to be in a
witch’s hut? One face appeared within his mind’s eye. MacGillivray. Where was
the coward who conspired with a witch against the MacKinnons? It was the only
answer as to how he had fallen without so much as a solid blow to
MacGillivray’s jaw. That was to be corrected the moment Struan found him. His
free hand fisted at the ready. MacGillivray must answer for what he had done.
    With each slight movement, his balls reminded him o’ the
woman who rendered him to his knees. If’n things were different, he would show
her how quickly a MacKinnon recovered and teach her the joy o’ his touch. Och ,
but things were not that way. Desperate need to find MacGillivray and protect
his family pumped through his veins. He palmed the sword’s hilt and prepared to
take his stand.
    Fight or die. Either way it was better than being a
prisoner. Struan took stock o’ his position, ignored the throb between his thighs
and prepared to do battle for his freedom and that o’ his family.
    “Struan MacKinnon.” The tender use of his name struck a
chord of familiarity and his grip eased upon the hilt, but did not release it. Mary. Slowly he rose to his feet, darting glances from side to side, searching for
the gentle beauty.
     
    “Struan MacKinnon.” Again Mary stated his name and Caledonia
heard the admiration and love in her lilt, yet her tone held a commanding air.
    Caledonia watched for any signs the man heard Mary. If she
blinked, she would have missed his subtle movements. With the fluid grace of a
vested warrior, he stood. When he turned, Mary floated in front of him. He
stepped back. His pallor drained as he gasped.
    “Mary, ye are a spirit.” He pointed at Caledonia. “It is the
work o’ a witch.”
    “Aye, I am a spirit, through no hand o’ a witch. Nay,
Caledonia is not a witch.” She nodded then smiled. “Ye have been entombed in
stone by a curse for over two hundred years, M’Gaol .”
    “A curse…” It was the only answer. “He would not have
captured mi ‘n a fair fight.” Struan growled, took a step then suddenly
stopped. His eyes closed tight and his expression showed extreme pain.
Caledonia attempted to help him, but the shake of Mary’s head stilled her
movements.
    As if the past replayed behind his eyes, Struan roared in
anger. A warrior’s mask shifted his face into a macabre appearance of sheer
hatred. In a solid, swift stroke, the claymore left the sheath at his side and
he swirled about in a predatory stance on the hunt for prey. His words seethed
with deadly intent on a horrific bellow.
    “MacGillivray. Where are ye, ye bastard?”
    When his gaze leveled on Caledonia, Mary floated between
them as if she could shield Caledonia if he chose to attack. Her chin lifted
and the spirit’s shoulders squared as she delivered her news.
    “He is dead.”
    “Dead.” The massive man’s shoulders lowered, but his sword
didn’t waver. It remained readied for battle. His brows bunched and his jaw
tightened as if he contemplated whether she spoke the truth or not.
    “Aye, dead,” Mary repeated.
    “Mi family?” His tone softened but his battle stance didn’t.
The warrior’s gaze never left Mary.
    “Your brathairs fell to the curse same as ye. Two
have been freed. The others remain lost, for now.”
    The pain in his eyes tore at Caledonia’s heart. Sheer love
shone in those deep-sea blues. A love for family. Caledonia swallowed against
the threat of tears.
    After a moment, he found his voice again and asked, “And
Akira? What be her fate?”
    “She lingers such as I, protecting those we gaol .”
She floated closer and brushed a transparent hand along his