News

I have placed this historical novel on the back burner.  When I finish my new foray into the world of paranormal romance, I shall return to finish Morif's story and begin the stories of his siblings.

 Change means failure.  Yet change is attacking all that MORIF MACLACHLAN holds dear.  He will sacrifice anything to keep Scotland the same as it was on the day his father defeated the MacFeys.  Determined to defeat a dark prophecy that foretells his father’s death, Morif pledges to use RHIANNON MACFEY’S tender heart to control the fate of his clan.  Rhiannon, the pesky brat of his memory, has grown into a beautiful temptress, one poised to undo his careful plans for the future. Only by ruling her can he keep his family safe and possess the woman who makes him burn.

           Change means freedom.  Daughter of a slain enemy of the MacLachlan chief, Rhiannon longs for the day when the MacFey clan can rule themselves.  She will do whatever is necessary to help them stand strong, even if it means she must use her cursed ability to read Morif’s emotions and deny the love she feels for the man she can never have.

 Change means a future when  

Excerpt from

The Chieftain

CHAPTER ONE

 Dumferline Abbey, Scotland, March 29, 1286

The sky wept icy tears for Scotland’s loss.

          Morif, son of Garric, mourned with his countrymen in the downpour drenching the king’s burial.  If only King Alexander the third had heeded Gran Ada’s warnings against riding on a stormy night, his horse wouldn’t have thrown him to his death.  There’d be no rumors of civil war, no threats from England.  The King of Scotland was dead.  Without a male heir.  His loss threatened the traditions Morif valued.

Morif stood in the midst of the highest-ranking nobles in attendance, in the place he earned by fighting his way from his mother’s womb before his brothers. 

As if it waited for the priest to end the service, the storm ceased its fury with the final word of the last prayer.  A shaft of sunlight danced across the royal grave, spreading warm speckles through the leafy birch canopy overhead.  A bird chirped in the distance and the musk of wet dirt mingled with the scent of saturated foliage.

     His father, Garric, son of Gilchrist, chief of the clan MacLachlan, turned toward him with green eyes as sharp as honed steel.  Lean and intimidating, his father remained a daunting symbol of their clan’s strength.  “Today we buried our best chance for peace.

Morif’s shoulders burned with tension.  “Perhaps the best chance, but not the only.”  There would be war but, with men like his father leading their warriors, they would prevail. 

Swallowing the apprehension that smothered him whenever the fates wrenched control from his hands, Morif asked, “Why didn’t King Alexander heed Gran Ada’s vision?”

Garric stared blankly across the graveyard.  “Even when they hear their future, some men ignore the warnings.”  Resignation dulled his voice to a husky whisper.  “Don’t repeat his mistake.”

“I won’t.”

His father flexed his fingers, as he did at the end of every training session when the weight of his sword made his fingers ache.  “I’ll escort your mother and grandmother to the abbey.  Before I leave for the counsel meeting, I’ll hear your thoughts.  Find your brothers and meet me in the chamber beneath the main chapel.”

     Morif nodded.  As the mourners cleared the grounds surrounding the king’s final resting place, the scenery of the setting enthralled him.  Gently rolling hills reached from the graveyard toward the ancient abbey.  On the distant ridge, sandstone walls rose to unimaginable heights to break the horizon.  Tearful mourners trampled grass, leaving black muddy paths zigzagging across the landscape.  The bleak setting fit his mood and the occasion. 

Black paths.  Tears.  “Damn me for a fool!”  He’d missed it. 

Gran Ada, the healer who delivered the three had foretold their future on the day of their birth.  On a day of tears, three men delivered from the same womb between dawn and dusk of the same day will stand on a hill.  Down the same black path the three will travel. And then, each will go his own way.  Never again will they travel the same path.

     “Dreaming, brother?”

     Morif glanced up to meet Adam’s jolly grin.  Adam, The Fool, always laughing.  He turned away from Adam’s grin to find the tallest of the three closing the distance between them with purposeful strides.  From the top of his auburn head to the bottom of his polished boots, William looked every bit the English lord.  “What is William wearing?”

“Trousers.  Long pants.  At least the peacemaker hasn’t taken to the English habit of wearing silks and velvets.”

Morif couldn’t hide his disdain for William’s clothing, even in the face of Adam’s frivolity.  “He dared attend the funeral of a Scottish king dressed like an Englishman.”

“He does control our English holding.”  Adam leaned closer.  “I’ll remind you that open warfare atop the king’s grave would be even more distasteful than dressing like the enemy.”

Morif sighed.  Were his brothers blind?  He turned back to stare up the hill rising to the abbey’s entrance as William reached his side.  Without plan, they always seemed to stand in the order of their birth.  Him first, then William, with Adam last in line.  Unfortunately, the position also served to remind Morif that he stood a handbreadth shorter than his brothers.

“Our father reminded me of the prophecy,” Morif said.

“Black paths...mourners.  It fits.”  William met his gaze.  “But, we are together.  Even when we sit on opposite sides of a discussion, we stand as one.  We survived training against each other and fighting over Rhiannon MacFey.  I’m of the opinion that we defeated the prophecy, in the same way our father defeated the vision of our mother’s death.”

Morif wanted to follow William’s logic, but doubt remained.  He turned to ask another question, but William and Adam were absorbed with the crowd moving toward the abbey. 

William groaned. “Breathtaking, isn’t she?” 

“The Highlands are full of beautiful women.”  Admiration for the fairer sex was the only real emotion Adam ever showed.  “Which one caught your attention?”

William pointed at the path leading to the steps to the abbey.  “I was talking about the lovely Rhiannon MacFey.”

A lengthy walk separated them from the abbey walls.  Some of the mourners remained in the churchyard between the marked graves and the ancient structure, but his family was not among them.  Morif searched the crowd, starting with the balcony fronting a single arched entrance.  His view swept down the steps and across the various groupings waiting at the base of the staircase.  On the path, his mother had stopped to pet an ancient hound while his father and grandmother watched.  Holding his grandmother’s forearm stood the bane of his early life, Rhiannon MacFey. 

Sighting the pest gave him purpose.  Though he wasn’t sure what would be expected of him in the coming weeks, he could focus on keeping Rhiannon and her ability to read his emotions at a safe distance.  No one needed to know what he feared.

Adam stretched forward, hooding his eyes with his hands.  “It is Wheat.  Things sure grow—I mean, change in three years.”  Adam nudged William.  “I had forgotten she’d be here.”

“I’ve been looking forward to spending some time with her.”  William cocked his head.  “Has it been three years since she accompanied Gran Flora to console the king when his heir died?” 

“Aye.”  Adam’s left brow rose in that loathsome display of disrespect that made their mother cringe.  “Who would have thought Gran Flora would have kept company with a MacFey this long?”

 “Not me.”  William held up his thumb, as if to measure her across the distance.  “She’s still as tall as a forest pine, but from where I stand, I’m thinking we may have to reconsider her nickname.” 

How could they be so entranced by a girl when the prophecy they dreaded awaited them? 

Morif glanced again at Rhiannon.  The unruly golden curls, which seemed to shoot straight out of her head, had been combed back from her face, but they were clearly still untamed.  “Why would you change her name?”

Adam chuckled and cocked his head as if to exclude Morif.  “The chieftain has spent too many hours in training, and not enough time in love play.” 

Morif followed Rhiannon’s progress as she climbed the first step and waited for Gran Flora to join her.  She turned his way giving him the first clear glance of her face.  His heart raced.  The gangly waif had flowered into a beauty he could not have imagined.  Her lush figure promised bounty to a starving man.

For the first time in his memory, his thoughts mirrored Adam’s.  Unbridled disgust fueled his reaction.  Morif punched Adam in the arm and stepped back to avoid the immediate retaliation his hot-headed brother had been known to vent. 

“He never saw what was right before his eyes,” William added. 

“What was right before my eyes?”

“Rhiannon MacFey has loved you since the day she read your mind and found you were hard on the outside, but compassionate and kind where it counts.”  William continued to watch her with an interest that was far too familiar.  “And now, she’s a woman but you won’t see it unless someone points it out.  She no longer resembles a stalk of wheat, Morif.  Look at the curves she grew while residing these three years with the king’s court.”

 “We named her Wheat because she had wild hair.  Had nothing to do with her figure.  She was but a girl.  Is still just a girl, and you stand in a graveyard lusting after her.”

William licked his thumb and, in the same way he silently claimed game on a hunt, made a cross over her back. 

“You can’t claim her,” Adam whispered.

“I believe the claim has been made,” William answered with a wink and a grin. 

Morif glared at both of them.  As a boy, he’d taken enough teasing over Rhiannon MacFey and her strange gift to last a lifetime.  She tussled with his brothers, but followed him with pure adoration in her gaze.  He’d stop this insanity before it started.  “No more.  This is not the time for jests or women.  The council will meet in Scone in less than a week.  If the landowners can’t agree on the best means to protect Scotland’s interests, we will go to war.  Our father commands us to the chamber below the chapel.”

After a backward glance at his king’s grave and a final, quickly whispered prayer, Morif led his brothers down the black path.  Deep puddles in their way caused them to split. 

Morif kept the straight route.

Adam diverged to the north.

William walked south. 

“Damnation!”  And then, each will go his own way.  Never again will they travel the same path.  Alone.  They would not support him, in fact, his brothers would fight against him. 

He searched the grounds as the rest of Gran Ada’s words played in his mind.  A flare of gold will declare her—the woman who will weep over the chief’s unseeing eyes and then embrace the new chief beneath a starlit sky. A spray of light broke through the clouds, illuminating Rhiannon’s golden hair, bathing her in its brightness.  Wheat was irritating, bothersome, but not dangerous.  Nay, it cannot be.

His gut clenched.  Her presence could not be ignored.  Somehow, Rhiannon would play a part in the prophecy that would become his future.  Once more, a MacFey would threaten the chief of the MacLachlan clan.

A fierce hope replaced the sinking feeling in his heart.  The play of sunlight had illuminated Rhiannon exactly as Gran Ada had predicted.  She would play a role in his future but he could use that knowledge to protect his father.  He would seek the healer and ask her to repeat her predictions for his life and...his father’s death.

Morif pulled his gaze from Rhiannon’s bright smile to meet his mother’s stare.  She lifted a hand from the stone railing and brushed at her cheeks.  His father moved to her side and held her steady.  He tried to smile in a vain attempt to deny what they all knew.  The king’s death set events into motion that would not stop.

The Prophecy of the Three had begun.

All images and writings copyright 2006  Sheila-Rae Z. Mohs  Last Updated 12/30/07