I care for naught now, Lachy, he finished in a hard voice. He knew, too, what the clans folk whispered-that Satan himself had marked Dougal MacRae with the scar that marred his right cheek in the shape of a claw or talon.ĭougal alone knew the true origin of that scar, and he would not tell. He knew he looked the part of a Black Devil, with the dark curls spilling down his neck and eyes so deeply grey they might as well be black. Dougal slanted his gaze so the firelight reflected from his eyes in a fiendish manner.

If these folk feel better for calling me by a foolish name, so be it.ĭo you not care? Lachlan asked, only partly feigning his surprise. Whatever else he might do, he strove always for honesty. They would hang you if they could.ĭougal crooked a brow. ‘They,’ he said concisely, are the neighbors you have been busy robbing these last eight years, the clans you have battled, the many women you have wronged, the very government of Scotland itself. Lachy’s honey-brown hair brushed the shoulders of the leather jerkin he wore, and his blue eyes looked almost serene in the dim candlelight. Lachlan, Dougal admitted, looked mild and harmless, the bonny sort of man with whom the lassies might get up to dance at the parties to which Dougal himself no longer received invitations. Lachlan raised thoughtful eyes to meet Dougal’s. And who are ‘they,’ who speak so ill of me? And he has been far more active in my life than any God.ĭougal drank deep from his cup of raw whisky, savored the bite as the liquor went down his throat, and shrugged. Where is He, then? Busy playing chess with the Devil, no doubt.

God? Dougal repeated the word in a harsh tone, and snorted. They are saying, Lachlan went on in a tone halfway between enjoyment and condemnation, your soul is damned and even God has washed His hands of you. Aye, well, the clansmen still stood with him. Heedlessly and persistently, he had banished whatever good feeling anyone in his world harbored for him: his sister, his raggedy slew of cousins, his father’s men at arms, and the other companions of his childhood.

Lachy had been Dougal’s closest friend-his one friend, would Dougal admit it-for as long as either of them could remember, and the sole person Dougal had not succeeded in driving away. He had no desire for his companion’s wild opinions, smiting his ears.īut no one had ever convinced Lachlan MacElwain to keep his opinions to himself. The wet night, foul and chill, had cast a pall upon the hour and unsettled him. Dougal MacRae-the Black Devil-narrowed his eyes and propped one booted foot on the hob, reaching for comfort he did not expect to find. The words hissed through the hush of midnight, competing with the voice of the wind rising outside. They call you the Devil Black: Diabhal Dubh.' 'Do you know what they call you? The monster without conscience the destroyer he who ruins whatever he touches.

Devil Black by Laura Strickland