The sun had set and a steady drizzle now fell from the darkening skies. He had first sighted the boar a half-mile back down the glen but it had spooked at an untimely breaking of a twig as he had approached. Donal' had cursed and carried on with his hunt, taking more care of where he placed his feet.
A sudden flash of lightning threw the jagged spikes of the Black Cuillins into stark relief off to his left; the sharp blade of rock of Am Bastair, the executioner, prominent amongst them. An omen? he thought. He cursed again; the weather was turning for the worse. He'd have to find shelter soon, he thought. Thunder rolled over him and the drizzle was turning to sleet as he continued to follow the boar's spoor.
The boar had crested a small rise in the ground, forsaking the cover to either side. Donal' slowed his stalk, wary now. He drew his short sword, the sword his father had left him, covered in oiled cloth and buried so that the English wouldn't find it. The English invaders were harsh if they found an armed clansman, especially so if they came across one kilted in tartan as he was.
He crouched down, studying the ground to either side of the boar's tracks. The rise was the moss and grass covered remains of a low wall. He peered through the sleet and cursed again. He hadn't realized he had come so far down the glen. The ruins of a keep lay a hundred paces in front of him, the dark mass of Creagh Liath, the gray crag, behind.
Donal' straightened from his crouch, there were unlikely to be brigands near by. The boar must just be stupid. He sniffed the air, cursing yet again. Snow would be coming soon and he had better find a place to stay dry and warm, hopefully get a fire started if he could find enough dry kindling. He unconsciously checked the pouch tied to his belt, the reassuring weight of the flint and steel inside.
He made his mind up, sheathed his sword and strode towards the ruins. He'd given up on the hunt; he would just have to eat cold tack or maybe make a broth.
The keep was not totally ruined; some rooms had remained untouched from the fire that had swept through the building one night. The Campbells, curse them all, had come on orders from the English. They'd been given shelter and fare, as was custom and right, but had risen in the small hours to slaughter every man, woman and child in the castle, most while they slept. A fire had been started and when those who had not been murdered in their sleep tried to escape the flames the Campbells struck them down.
The castle was never entered again after the dead were buried by their kinsmen. It was said to be haunted by the ghosts of the slain.
Donal' crossed himself, muttered a prayer under his breath, and entered the Main Hall. It was half roofed as the oak supporting beams had resisted the fire. A large hearth dominated the far end and the floor was littered with leaves and debris, even some broken branches for a fire. The room wasn't suitable for Donal's purpose so he moved towards an arched doorway beside the Great Hearth that led through to what appeared to be private chambers.
It was too dark to see so he retraced his steps scouring the floor for a likely branch. He soon found an arm's length piece of wood and some dry cloth under a pile of wind blown leaves. Donal' wrapped the material round the end of his makeshift torch and struck a spark from his flint and steel, using a piece of frayed cloth he kept in his pouch as tinder. His mood brightened as the torch guttered into life and he returned to the doorway.
The room beyond was small, cosy one might say, a small hearth set into the wall to his right and a stone, spiral staircase leading to rooms above. An animal had made its lair here, but had abandoned it some time ago. He gathered wood and kindling from the detritus on the floor and soon had a roaring fire going. Setting his torch in a wall bracket he set his bedroll and kit down and warmed his hands before the dancing flames. He set off in search of more fuel for the fire and water for his small copper kettle.
Firewood was stacked against the wall, his kettle was bubbling with a weak mixture of roots, herbs and even some barley he had found. He was warm and dry; life couldn't get much better than this, he thought. Time for a bit of an explore.
Donal' retrieved his torch from the wall and relit it from the fire; it had gone out some time before. He thrust the torch in front of him to light the stairs that wound round and up to his right, a defence from attackers climbing the stairs; left-handed clansmen were few and far between. The stairs hadn't been used in a long time but looked to be in good condition. He could hear the wind whistling softly through unshuttered windows above as he climbed.
The room he entered was similar to the one below except for a window slit set in the outer wall. There was a hearth here too and the spiral stairs continued up to the next floor, nothing of note left behind. As Donal' looked around he noticed from the corner of his eye that the stairs were lighter than they should be, as if a dim light was in the room above. He quietly placed the burning brand in a wall bracket and tiptoed towards the stairs, turning his back to his torch to acclimatise his eyes to the dimmer light.
Don't be daft, Donal', he thought. He'd been making a fair noise for the last hour with his preparations for the night. No one was about. He still crept warily up the stairs though, his hand poised over the hilt of his sword. His sight adjusted to the gloom as he entered the chamber but his eyes widened in shock as he saw where the light was coming from. He closed his eyes tight shut, opened them again. She was still there; a translucent, silvery-white figure dressed in a long shift, combing her long, fine,silver hair.
Donal' stayed rooted to the spot afraid to move from fear of disturbing her. She hadn't noticed him, seeming to be preoccupied with the ministrations to her hair. He realised he was seeing a vision, a ghost or some such, but what harm could she do him?
She finished with her hair, the comb seeming to disappear or be absorbed into her substance. Her hands came up to the front of her shift to undo the ties holding it closed over her breasts. She shrugged the garment off from her shoulders to let it fall at her feet in a silvery pool, which dimmed and vanished.
Donal' could feel his cock harden as he watched. He'd seen some bonnie lasses in his time in various stages dress or undress, even rolled with a few, but this fair Lady was startling in her beauty. Unlike the wenches he was used to bedding, she was slim and long of leg. He lifted his kilt to wrap his hand around his cock, stroked his hardness as he watched the tableau before him unfold.
She cupped her small breasts in her hands, squeezed and played with them, her head arching back in rapture. A hand snaked down her body to cover her sex, to stroke the wee bud that brought women pleasure. Donal' stroked harder as he watched the Lady kneel on the floor and spread her legs to rub the bud there. She held her small breast tightly as she inserted her middle finger inside her. Her finger plunged in and out as she bucked her hips. She appeared to be enjoying this as much as Donal' was. He saw her hips shudder as she threw her head back and he felt his cock tighten.
He came with a rush and a grunt. The figure flowed towards him, dipping her head into the spurt of his cum, combing her fingers through her silvery hair as he continued to come, washing her hair as she would under a mountain stream.
Donal's hand slowed on his cock, her head came up to accept the last drop that oozed out. A chill touched him, his cock softened quickly and he let his kilt drop back down.
She looked up to him from where she knelt; seeming to have more substance than before, a sigh escaped her lips. "Thank you," she said, her voice a rustle of leaves in the wind. She rose to her feet, her shift appearing to clothe her again. She wandered around the room and touched once present furniture, watching him from the corner of her eyes.
Donal' watched her warily in return, not knowing what to do or say.
She returned to stand in front of him, an imposing figure, her silvery eyes on a level with his, studying him. "That was as much of a surprise to me as it was to you," she said. "There was a desire, a...need I had." Her head cocked to one side. "Ye'r no afeared," she stated rather than asked.
