Highland Flame (Highland Brides)

Highland Flame

by

Lois Greiman

Copyright
©
1996 by Lois Greiman

To Cindy Hartwig,

who, with a couple of ratty fur coats,

could make a dancing bear.

Thanks for being the best sister a

little girl could possibly hope for.

Prologue

The year of our Lord
—1497

“She is still the verra image of her mother."

With red-rimmed eyes, Arthur MacGowan, stared at Flanna and she stared back, amazed at the changes four years had wrought in this man she had once thought invincible. His face was ghostly white. His breath rattled harsh and loud in the darkened room.

"Ye had hoped she would sprout a red beard like yers?" asked Troy Hamilton.

"Dunna mock me! I am still laird here!" shouted the old man. But his words were reedy, and the fist he raised as a symbol of power shook with weakness. "Aye." He nodded once, letting his arm fall to his velvet coverlet. "I am still laird here, and I am dying."

For the first time in a long while, Flanna felt her hands tremble. She clasped them more tightly as memories rushed in on her. Memories of a small girl holding a shattered mirror and crying. But she would not cry now. Not this time.

"Whether she is the image of her mother or nay, she is yers," Troy said. "Like the acorn is the oak's, she is yers. And yer heart knows it."

"My heart!" The old man laughed, but the sound gasped into a cough. By the light of the single tallow candle, Flanna could see that the spittle at the corner of his mouth was flecked with blood. "My heart, like all those I trusted, has betrayed me."

" 'Tis ye who has betrayed, MacGowan. First the mother and then—''

"Dare ye criticize—" shouted the old laird, but a spasm stopped his tirade. He squeezed his eyes shut and grappled at his chest for a moment before lying still. "Aye, ye would," he whispered finally. "Few others have dared find fault with me. And though we are but distant cousins, we were like brother, ye and me. But all is behind me now, Troy. All past." His head moved weakly from side to side on the pillow, and when he opened his eyes they were bright with unshed tears. “ 'Would that I could call back the days and start anew. Mayhap I could right the wrongs. Mayhap I could gain my lady's love."

"Ye had her love," Troy murmured. "But it couldna survive yer jealousy."

The bloodshot eyes closed. "What of her bairn?"

Troy was silent a moment, then in a voice as dark as the room he said, "He, too, died, as ye well ken. Buried in Bastia beside his mother."

"Scotland's lad buried in foreign ground," murmured Arthur. "How old would he be now?"

"It has been twelve years since her death and his."

The old man opened his eyes. Even now, Flanna could see a hint of the old rage in them. Even now, she could remember her sobs as she beat on the lid of the trunk that imprisoned her while she was being sent to France. She had begged to be let out, begged to know what she had done wrong. She had vowed to be good, to be the perfect daughter if only he would not send her away, if only he would cherish her again.

"Ye have counted the years?" the MacGowan asked, his tone suspicious.

"Ye still wrong her," Troy rasped. "Soon ye shall have ta face her again, and ye still slander her name."

"Dear God!" The old man turned his face into the pillow. "I could think of na other woman even when I was in another's arms. Why did she na age? What pact did she make with the devil to draw men's eyes ta her, ta make them want her? Even ye, me faithful friend..." He stopped again, gripping the coverlet in gnarled hands and fighting for breath.

"Have I brought the lass from France after all this time only ta hear yer accusations again, old man?" Troy asked.

"I am dying," the MacGowan croaked. "My people need a leader. Ye ken well why I called ye here."

"I will not marry," Flanna said. Her tone was tight and abrupt in the still air of the room. She hadn't thought she would have the power to force the words past her fear. But suddenly it seemed as if she were not herself. Instead, she stood apart from the scene, watching the straight, tall figure beside the bed, hearing the iron-cool steadiness in her voice, and marveling at this woman who was nothing like the terrified girl she knew herself to be. "Whoever he is, I will not marry the man you've chosen. Not even to give the clan MacGowan a leader."

The room was silent for a moment as the old man turned his gaze to her. "So Troy, ye have na told her why I called her here."

"There are things she must hear from her sire and none other," Troy said.

The old man nodded and motioned her closer. Strangely, foolishly, Flanna thought, she obeyed.

"Ye think ta defy me wishes again?" he asked.

Flanna didn't answer. Indeed, she feared she could not, for terror gripped her in a clammy hand. But she fought it down and managed to raise her chin.

"So ye hate me, lass." The words were not a question. "I offered ye a chance for happiness. Yer mother said ye were na meant for the life of a convent. She begged on her knees," he murmured as though even now he could see her, "and so I negotiated a marriage for ye. 'Twould have been a good match, but ye refused. Why?"

Flanna didn't answer. Long ago, shame had tortured her, causing her to refuse to give him her reasons. Perhaps pride kept her quiet now. Or perhaps it was merely that she knew her answer would matter little.

"Why?" Arthur demanded again, but in a moment he gritted his yellowed teeth and swore. "Ye need na say, for I ken the truth. Ye shunned the match I found for ye because ye had already taken a lover. Ye were determined ta disgrace me just as yer mother had. But this ye willna refuse!" Suddenly, he grasped her wrist. Flanna winced but her body moved forward of its own volition and her gaze remained hard and cold on her father.

"So!" said the MacGowan. "There is na longer a woman's softness in ye. Na longer tears. They have been replaced by fire in yer eyes, lass. Fire!" the old man croaked, then suddenly released his hold. "And it is good, for ye will na longer be a woman. Nay, ye will rule my people in my stead. Ye will be the Flame of the MacGowans."

Chapter 1

The year of our Lord—1499

The night was as black as the sins of the Forbes. Thunder rumbled an ominous warning. Mist rolled up on silent, invisible wings. But the Flame's stallion carried her through it, his rapid hoofbeats muffled by the wet heath, his pale, dappled body shrouded by the swirling mists.

A hillock rose before them, and they raced heavenward. At the knoll's crest, Flame straightened. Below them, the castle of the Forbes was wrapped in the protective, swift-flowing arm of the river for which it was named. Bathed in the silver light of the three-quarter moon, it looked like a mystical citadel with its roots planted in the mists that roiled about it. Here was a place of magic, where pearl-horned unicorns might cavort amidst the revered Sidhe of yore.

"By the saints," Flame murmured. Fear mingled with awe in her breast. It was not too late to turn back. She sat erect, barely breathing. Perhaps Troy had been right, mayhap this was a fool's errand. But the Forbeses' sins were many and damning, and she could avoid vengeance no longer.

She would not turn back. She was the Flame of the MacGowans, sworn to protect her people. And although the Forbeses were formidable adversaries, they would surely pay for their betrayal, for she had planned her revenge well and carefully. Curling her fingers into Lochan's mane, Flame touched her heels to the stallion's sides. Without further encouragement, he leapt across the hilltop and toward the castle. The drawbridge was down. Flame pressed Lochan onto the heavy wooden timbers and pulled him to a halt. Although the portcullis stood as protection against the outside world, the bridge beneath them had been lowered as tangible evidence of the Forbeses' all-consuming arrogance. How dare they pillage her land and kill her clansmen, then think themselves safe from retribution?

Anger and fear surged within her. "Let me in!" Flame's voice sounded shrill and frantic to her own ears, just like the voice of the simple, terrified lass she pretended to be.

No answer. Beneath her, Lochan fidgeted, rattling his bit.

"Please, for pity's sake, let me in," she pleaded again. Her words were louder now, but her tone was no less desperate.

" ‘Tis help I come ta beg."

Through the beaten, iron grills of the portcullis, Flame saw a flicker of light. She held her breath, waiting, feeling dried sheep's blood crack across her knuckles as she tightened her fingers on the reins.

A gnarled figure stepped forward, nearly hidden behind the metal squares. "Who comes to the gate of the clan Forbes?" The gruff voice was barely audible above the rush of the water below.

For a moment, a wave of terror held Flame silent. This mission must succeed for she could no longer pacify her people with words of peace.

"Who's there, I say?"

"Please." She forced uncertainty from her mind and pushed the word past lips stiff with dried blood and fresh fear. "I need help."

The guard raised a lantern, casting a hesitant light on her. "We let none save our own enter these gates past the sun’s setting," he said, squinting into the darkness. "Come back in the morn."

"Nay, I canna!" Flame called.

"And I canna let ye enter, lass, so take yerself to yer home until the dawn," ordered the guard and turned away.

"But me sister! She will surely die before the break of day."

The man turned back. "What's that ye say?"

"I have heard of the miraculous wonders worked by yer Lady Fiona. Please. I come to beg her mercy."

The lantern was lifted, though it illumined little more than the guard's woolen cap and heavy, downswept brows. "What be yer name, lass?"

"Cara of the McBains. Yer allies. For pity's sake let—"

"Who rides with ye?"

"I come alone. Please sir. If she dies ..." She let her words choke to a halt as her mind searched for chinks in the armor of her plan. She could not fail.

The lantern lowered, then, "I shall let ye enter, lass, though I canna promise assistance."

The creak of the rising portcullis scattered Flame's thoughts and seemed to speak of her death. She sat un-moving, trying to force her muscles to do her bidding, trying to capture the renowned courage of the Highlander. But she was only a trembling girl come to do a warrior's job.

The protective grill rose above her head like the iron teeth of a ravenous monster. Safety called from the shadows behind her, but Lochan dragged the reins through her fingers and stepped forward, undaunted.

His hooves rapped against the thick timbers and then against the hard-packed soil within the confines of the dark courtyard.

"Ye say yer sister's taken ill?" asked the gnarled guard, lifting his lantern again and squinting up toward her. "Jesu!" he rasped, "what has happened ta ye?"

" 'Tis me sister's blood," she lied. "I must see the lady of the hall."

The guard remained mute, then nodded sharply, not drawing his gaze from Flame's face as he spoke to his unseen partner. "Finlay, take the lass ta the lady."

"But—"

"Na buts, man, or our Fiona willna forgive the delay, babe or na babe." There was a moment's pause, then, "Hurry it up now. Canna ye see she be in great need?"

It was only a short distance to the hall, and yet Lochan's footfalls seemed to go on forever. It took all Flame's courage to dismount and leave the stallion's protective presence behind her.

The huge door groaned as the man called Finlay dragged it open. Flame's knees trembled as she stepped into the room. Against the wall, a hound rose and whined, treading on its companions and pulling at its tether. Its shadow stretched, wavering in the fickle light cast by ensconced tallow candles.

"Finlay?" A man's voice broke the silence. Flame gasped, darting her gaze to the speaker who appeared suddenly in the dimness. "Be there trouble?"

"The lass begged entrance," explained Finlay. "Said she must see the lady."

"Fiona? Why?" The man drew nearer, seeming to grow as he approached. "Step into the light, lass," he ordered, but before she could force her legs to obey, he drew a sharp breath and halted. "Gawd's wrath, what has happened to ye?"

"I be fine," she whispered, her voice weak. Who was this man and why was he here? She had come for Fiona and none other, for the lady was known for assisting those in need no matter the danger to herself.

"Fine?" Without warning, he reached out, grasping her arm in a firm hold and pulling her toward the candles' wavering light. "What foolishness is this?" He grimaced, searching her face for the source of the blood. "Ye are in need of ministering. Come lie down," he commanded, but she pulled sharply from his grasp.

"Nay! I canna stay."

He scowled at her. Flame swallowed her fear and concentrated. Whatever this man's name, he was tall, strongly built, and spoke with authority. But he dressed as any Highlander might, in a simple saffron shirt and earth-toned plaid. He was only another guard, she assured herself. For the Forbes brothers always rode with their warriors. Surely they did so tonight, for Flame's men had started a blaze large enough to be seen from Normandy. She had smelled the smoke from where she had hidden in the woods, had watched the Forbeses race from their gates toward the fire her men had set to attract them. She had known they would go in large numbers, for the notorious brigand band roaming the countryside was becoming bold and ruthless enough to alarm even the great Forbeses. She had watched them leave, had waited in the shelter of the trees until the last man had vanished into the night.