The Maclean Groom
Authors: Kathleen Harrington
Highland Lairds Trilogy
The MacLean Groom
With love to my “good-sister”
Leona Curtis.
Your sweet presence has brightened
all of our lives.
O, my luve is like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June.
O, my luve is like the melodie,
That's sweetly played in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonie lass,
So deep in luve am I,
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.
Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' th sun!
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only luve,
And fare thee weel a while!
And I will come again, my luve,
Tho' it were ten thousand mile!
R
OBERT
B
URNS
Rory MacLean stood on the quarterdeck of the Sea Dragonâ¦
Surveying the formidable forty-foot stone wall, Fearchar grinned mirthlessly. “Welcomeâ¦
Later that evening Rory entered his new bedchamber, nearly certainâ¦
The men sent to Mingarry Castle returned the next dayâ¦
Rory paced the sloping embankment, counting his steps aloud asâ¦
Rannoch Mill sat on the confluence of the River Levenâ¦
That evening, Joanna sat cross-legged on the chest at theâ¦
Thunderstruck, Rory gazed down at Joanna.
Rory joined his family in the solar early that afternoonâ¦
Rory's family stared at him, scarcely able to believe theirâ¦
“Blowing out candles isn't going to save you, Joanna.”
The morning of the wedding bloomed as sweet and delicateâ¦
Seated beside Rory at the wedding breakfast, Joanna looked aboutâ¦
Widening his stance, Rory pulled Joanna into his arms, liftingâ¦
Following supper, Rory's brothers stole the gold buckle off hisâ¦
Rory opened the door of their chamber to find Joannaâ¦
The next morning Joanna came slowly awake, not by theâ¦
Dropping to her knees in the loft's clean hay, Joannaâ¦
They found the friars near Rannoch Mill. Their bodies layâ¦
The monstrous, diabolical, green-eyed avenger left Joanna dangling over hisâ¦
Joanna knew she should jump out of bed that veryâ¦
At her aunt's words, the wooden spoon Raine had beenâ¦
Rory had learned in his years of warfare that timingâ¦
The wind sweeping across the loch carried the smell ofâ¦
“Your Aunt Isabel wrote that you may know the whereaboutsâ¦
They bombarded the sea walls methodically, testing the strength ofâ¦
“The incompetence of your guards at Innischonaill cost me myâ¦
Rory caught Joanna's elbow as they climbed the stone stairwellâ¦
W
ith a low groan of frustration, Rory grasped Joanna's slender wrists and brought them upward, where he held them imprisoned against his naked chest. She looked up in surprise, innocence glowing in her marvelous eyes.
She belonged to him by the king's command, and no one could say otherwise. Not even Joanna. The fact that she'd attempted to hide herself from him gave Rory all the more justification for taking her at once and without the benefit of clergy.
But first, Rory wanted to win her affection. Though he didn't believe in romantic love, a bride should display some tender esteem for her groom. He knew with demoralizing certainty that if he attempted to seduce her tonight, he'd become the villain in her preposterous make-believe tale.
He refused to play the role of the monster.
She waited, looking up at him in bemusement. “Milord?”
Her soft whisper seemed to compress Rory's heart into a tight leaden lump.
He knew they had to stop.
September 1496
Finlagan Castle, Isle of Islay
Inner Hebrides, Scotland
R
ory MacLean stood on the quarterdeck of the
Sea Dragon
and watched the flames leaping from saw-toothed holes in the walls of Finlagan Castle. His gaze followed the billowing smoke that drifted lazily across the cerulean sky, then returned to the scorched, blackened stones with satisfaction.
It had taken a week of steady pounding from their long-range cannons before they'd breached Finlagan's barbican. Once inside the outer bailey, they'd stormed the island fortress, cutting down the rebels with great two-handed claymores like wheat before the scythe.
Rory turned from the sight of the smoldering wreckage to glance indifferently at the captives who stood nearby, watching their stronghold burn. Then he met the pale blue eyes of his chief mate. Unlike his cousin, Rory's own eyes were a deep, dark green. And while Fearchar came close to seven feet in height, Rory stood a mere four inches above the six-foot mark. Though not a giant like his kinsman, he still looked down on most men. And his strength in combat had been proven many times over.
“'Tis done, what we came to do,” Rory said. “Let's return to Edinburgh and make our report to the king.”
Fearchar MacLean grinned, the wide gap between his front teeth giving him a boyish air despite his sharp, battle-scarred features, fearsome black eye patch, and huge frame. “'Tis done, Captain,” he echoed jubilantly. “And we wouldn't want these treacherous whoresons to be late for their own hangings, would we?”
The clank of heavy chains brought Rory's attention back to the two prisoners about to be taken below. Iain Mor, known to the English as Sir John Macdonald, would be turned over to the Prosecutor for the Scottish Crown and tried for treason. His kinsman, Somerled Macdonald, the notorious Red Wolf of Glencoe, would be executed for murder.
Rory met Iain Mor's gaze, untroubled by the hatred burning in his bleary, deep-set eyes. With a snarl of disgust, the laird of Finlagan Castle spat on the deck. “The King's Avenger! Pah! May your merciless soul be damned for what you did in this place.”
Neither the sobriquet given him by the Scots people nor Iain Mor's contempt marred Rory's sense of accomplishment. He and his half-brothers, Lachlan MacRath and Keir MacNeil, had crushed the rebellion in the South Isles with the ease of a mailed fist smashing a slug.
“The fault for what happened on that island lies at your feet, not mine,” Rory replied. “'Twas you who risked the lives of your family and clansmen to protect a fugitive from the king's justice. I've no pity for traitors.”
Iain Mor's bearded chin lifted arrogantly. “We fought for the rights of the chieftain of the Glencoe Macdonalds.”
“The Red Wolf has no rights,” Rory told him. “He relinquished them the day he killed Gideon Cameron and ran from the law.”
Despite the irons that bound him, Somerled glowered with the ferocity of a cornered bear. The Red Wolf of Glencoe had a great beak of a nose, shoulders as wide as a yardarm, and a massive chest. Beneath the full gray beard that hid his craggy features, his mouth curved in a taunting smirk. “You're naught but a landless beggar, MacLean,
with no home except this paltry ship. You hope to ease the sting of your shame by destroying the castles of honorable men, but greedy bastards like you aren't fit to lick a Macdonald's boots.”
In less than a second, Fearchar's dirk pressed against Somerled's throat. “You'll not talk to The MacLean that way, you miserable worm,” he warned with a low growl, “or I'll split your gullet easier than filleting a fish.”
Rory laid his hand on his cousin's arm. “Leave the fellow be,” he said calmly. “Let's not cheat the king of a legal execution. They'll both be hanged in due time. Now send them below.”
As the prisoners were led away, Rory gazed across the water at the two warships awaiting his orders. “Signal the others to weigh anchor,” he told his chief mate, then added with a wry smile, “It's time to show my younger brothers which of us is the finest sailor. We'll leave both ships floundering in our wake before nightfall.”
Fearchar shook his head, his flaxen hair whipping about in the salty air. “Keir's got half a league on us already, and he's carrying the castle's women and children. With all that caterwauling going on, he'll be spreading every inch of canvas he's got. We won't have a chance to catch the
Raven
.”
“Damned if I'll let Keir make port first,” Rory replied with a good-natured laugh. “No one outsails the
Sea Dragon
, not even my cocksure baby brother.”
The command to get under way sent the nimble-footed seamen scrambling up the ratlines to loose the sails. Nearby, the
Sea Hawk
returned the
Dragon's
signal and prepared to come about. The
Black Raven
replied from a greater distance, her topgallants already unfurled in the strong breeze.
“Light out to windward!” Rory ordered the helmsman. “Full-and-by!”
The
Sea Dragon
leaped forward, her sails full and close to the wind.
In tight formation, the three galleons sailed out of the
Sound of Islay, heading for the open sea. The full-rigged ships sliced through the gray water in a fiercely competitive race that pitted brother against brother. Sails bulged and boomed as they caught the gusts blowing over the curling whitecaps. Rigging creaked and tall masts shuddered. Each crewman knew his captain would award him an extra fifty crowns, if his vessel reached port first.
Then, after their doomed cargo was discharged and their stores reprovisioned, the three men-of-war, commissioned by James IV to protect Scottish merchantmen from Dutch and English pirates, would set sail for the Continent and the untold booty that awaited them.
May 1498
Kinlochleven Castle
Western Highlands
S
urveying the formidable forty-foot stone wall, Fearchar grinned mirthlessly. “Welcome to your new home, laird.”
Rory's scowl deepened. “And 'tis a damn strange feeling I've got about it.”
If he'd hoped to find festive banners and a joyous celebration to welcome Kinlochleven's future laird to his castle, Rory would have been sorely disappointed. Not given to flights of fancy, he rode across the lowered drawbridge with a wary gaze on the ramparts overhead and his hand on his sword hilt.
The lack of resistance made him edgy.
An heiress's fortune wasn't a prize easily relinquished to a foe, and he hadn't expected the Macdonalds to submit to the king's decision without a fight. He'd brought along fifty of his kinsmen, armed and ready for battle, in the event he'd have to force his way into the fortress. If a long siege was required, he would send to his uncle's castle in Appin for reinforcements.
Damn it to hell, marrying into a nest of treasonous vipers hadn't been
his
idea. The preposterous scheme to bring the Glencoe Macdonalds peaceably under the authority of the
Scottish Crown had been hatched by James IV.
Once through the arched gateway and inside the eight-foot-thick sandstone walls, Fearchar seemed to feel the same disquiet. His gaze moved constantly about, skimming the outer bailey for any sign of a trap.
But the inhabitants of Kinlochleven barely looked up from their tasks at the large party of horsemen. The blacksmith continued to swing his hammer, his brawny apprentice beside him at the fire. A cooper sauntered leisurely across the grassy courtyard with an ale barrel perched on his shoulder. Two dairymaids ducked into a barn with frightened backward glances, as though sighting Satan and his legions on Judgment Day. From the bakehouse, the tantalizing aroma of fresh, warm bread lingered on the still air.
Not a blasted soul offered a word in greeting.
At Rory's signal, his men dismounted and followed him into the keep's dim vestibule, where a man in his early sixties, with thinning brown hair and stooped shoulders, appeared to be waiting for their arrival. He rose from a carved bench the moment he saw them. The fellow suffered from what appeared to be an old leg injury and moved with an obvious limp.
“I'm Kinlochleven's bailiff, David Ogilvy,” he told Rory as he inclined his head in a brief salute. His gaze quickly assessed their strength, and his bristly brows met in a frown over his slightly protruding eyes. “Please follow me, laird.”
With a brusque nod, Rory motioned for Ogilvy to proceed. The bailiff led them with a slow, shuffling gait up a flight of stone stairs to the castle's upper hall, where the Macdonalds stood waiting in small groups, their weapons sheathed. About twenty were men-at-arms, the rest, castle retainers along with a handful of menservants. A thin, ascetic priest stood at the edge of the gathering, his hand on the shoulder of a dirty-faced lad.
Brilliant colors adorned the vaulted timber ceiling; rich tapestries covered the walls. Ornately carved cupboards
held silver tankards and jewel-encrusted plates. Even the floor boasted thick carpets from the Levant, as glorious as any made for an Ottoman's harem.
To a man used to the spartan furnishings of a ship, the magnificent display of household comforts in a Scottish castle should have been a pleasant surprise. But the setting's opulence only increased Rory's uneasiness. Anything this fine had to come at an exorbitant price. And as the new laird of Kinlochleven, he wasn't about to pay with his own bloodâor that of his kinsmen.
With a flick of his hand, he signaled his men to be prepared for an attack from all sides.
At the far end of the hall, a middle-aged lady in a gold-trimmed black headdress sat waiting, her embroidery on her lap. She shifted nervously in her chair as they approached. Standing next to her, a maiden about the age of Rory's bride-to-be cradled a plump white cat in her arms.
“Laird MacLean,” the woman said before they'd quite reached her, “welcome to Kinlochleven Castle. I am Lady Beatrix, Lady Joanna's cousin.” Without offering her hand for his salute, she added briskly, “I'm sorry that my husband isn't here to greet you. The king's letter arrived only yesterday, and Laird Ewen remains at Mingarry Castle, unaware of the proposed alliance.”
As Rory inclined his head in curt acknowledgment of the chilly greeting, he studied the younger female from the corner of his eye. The king had told him the heiress favored her notorious grandfather. Her large nose, square body, and frizzled hair made the resemblance to Somerled Macdonald unmistakable.
Having no lands of his own to bring into the marriage, he was scarcely in a position to quibble about the lassie's face and form. But somewhere in the back of his mind, Rory had always hoped his future brideâchosen for prudent reasons, of courseâwould be easy to gaze upon.
His wife-to-be's English blood was another disappointment. Her father, Alasdair Macdonald, had married Lady Anne Neville, whom he'd met in London while trying to
enlist the aide of Edward IV against the former King of Scotland, James's father. And the lass herself had spent half her life in Cumberland. So now Rory was forced to mate with the offspring of a traitorous devil and a Sassenach witch.
But here he was, at Kinlochlevenâthe dutiful future bridegroomâready to present his gifts to the bride-to-be.
Hell, he hadn't come expecting a bonny lassie, any more than he'd expected a festive welcome. Rory glanced up at the resplendent ceiling. For a castle such as this, most men would gladly marry a toothless hag. Determined to get the worst over, he turned to greet the heiress.
“Laird MacLean, this is my daughter, Lady Idoine,” Beatrix said.
For the first time since he'd entered Kinlochleven, Rory smiled. “Milady,” he said warmly.
Idoine froze beneath his gaze. In her obvious fright, she squeezed the cat, and the outraged pet scratched her hand and leaped down. “Ouch!” she squawked, kicking out at the scurrying ball of fur with the toe of her silken slipper. Her lumpy features darkened in a sullen glower as she watched the feline scamper across the hall and out the door to freedom.
With a sense of relief, Rory looked about the room filled with men and boys. “And the Lady Joanna?”
“My cousin isn't here,” Beatrix answered brightly.
“
Not here?
” His gaze snapped back to the woman. “You said you received the king's letter yesterday. I expected the maid to be waiting to welcome her future husband.”
Beatrix's eyes glittered suspiciously beneath his glare. Twin spots of scarlet stained her cheeks. “And s-so she should be, laird,” she replied, her voice high-pitched and quivering, “b-but I'm afraid that's not so. When the contents of the letter were read to Joanna, she immediately disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
Beatrix looked to her daughter for verification, and Idoine nodded vigorously. “She's gone, laird.”
Rory stepped closer to tower over the two cringing females. “Just where did Lady Joanna go? Mingarry Castle?”
“I have no knowledge of my cousin's whereabouts,” Beatrix answered with a nervous flutter of her ringed fingers. Her embroidery hoop slid to the ground, and she reached down to retrieve it, then reluctantly met his gaze once again. “We searched everywhere for her, once we discovered her missing. But when the lass is upset she frequently vanishes without an explanation, only to be found later, wandering about the forest or glen in a daze.” Beatrix touched the middle of her forehead with the tip of one shaky finger. “Joanna's a little slow. I'm sure His Majesty warned you about that.”
“I was given no such warning,” Rory growled.
Directly behind him, Fearchar moved restlessly. “Shall we search the castle?”
“Oh, please do!” Beatrix exclaimed. “I worry about the poor dear when she's missing like this. Sometimes we can't find her for daysâtill she's half-starved and caked with dirt. She's as helpless as a child, you know, without someone to care for her.”
Rory drew his sword with an oath. His men immediately followed his lead, showing the steel of their broadswords and dirks. He turned to face Lady Joanna's kinsmen, and his words rang out in the still hall. “I am The MacLean. By order of His Majesty, King James of Scotland, this fortress now belongs to me, as does all the property and goods of my future wife.”
The Macdonalds watched him with sullen faces, but made no attempt to draw their swords. Clan MacLean's reputation for savagery in battle was known throughout Scotland. The hall's fancy carpets would be soaked with Macdonald blood should they try to resist.
“Take their weapons,” Rory ordered. “Then search all
the buildings within the castle walls. I want every blasted female in Kinlochleven brought to this chamber at once.”
Â
The women and girls spilled into the upper hall from all directions, like a flock of sheep driven before a pack of hungry wolves. Clearly terrified of the large, ferocious MacLeans, many buried their faces in their aprons and wept. Others held the hands of the frightened children they'd brought with them, or drew the halflins close to their skirts with maternal protectiveness.
“Line them up,” Rory said as he jammed his sword back into the scabbard.
Hands locked behind his back, he marched up and down the rows of females, searching for a lass of about seventeen with the beak nose and grizzled locks of the Red Wolfâand the empty eyes of a simpleton.
They came in every shape and size. Tall, thin household servants with pursed lips and pointy chins. A cook and her daughter, both round as haystacks. Middle-aged women who sewed and bleached linen. Dimple-cheeked dairymaids whose work-roughened hands proved their occupation. Hook-nosed crones who did the spinning and weaving. And fresh-faced lassies with long braids and freckles who tended the ducks and geese.
Rory stopped and asked each her name and position in the household. Most of them were bawling so hard, he couldn't understand a word they said. When he asked them to repeat their answers, they averted their eyes, as though addressing a fiend from hell.
“Jesu,” he muttered to Fearchar, “I've never seen such a gaggle of puling, timid-hearted wenches. All this wailing is enough to unnerve a man.”
“'Tis true,” his cousin replied, his teeth flashing in a cheery grin. “Ten of them together wouldn't equal one MacLean woman in her dotage.”
'Twas easy to see that not one of them could be the mistress of this splendid castle. The king had told Rory that the future bride's maternal grandparents were the Marquess
and Marchioness of Allonby, and along with her aunt, she was their co-heiress. As part of her inheritance, Lady Joanna had been awarded Allonby Castle in Cumberland. Dull-witted or not, Lady Joanna would have all the haughty pretentiousness ingrained in the Sassenach nobility.
“This is all of them?” he asked Fearchar, who nodded glumly.
Rory strode back to where Idoine stood clutching her mother's arm and studied her. Of average height, the coarse-featured young woman looked to be about nineteen, but she could be younger. Her stubby fingers showed no sign of toil, and the gown she wore was rich, its red velvet sleeves and ermine trim fit for the wardrobe of a queen.
Beneath his inspection, Idoine broke into a nervous, high-pitched giggle. She clapped both hands over her mouth, and her watery blue eyes glistened with fear.
His hopes sinking, Rory realized that Lady Idoine was the only female in the castle of the right age and rank. And she clearly resembled the Red Wolf of Glencoe.
Yet the obviousness of such a trick made him cautious.
There'd be no righting the error, should he wed the wrong lady at his own insistence. Once having taken the maiden to bed, he might be obliged to honor the marriage contract, regardless of her true identity. The girl's real terror would be understandable, considering his anger if he found out later that he'd been deceived.
Rory reached a quick decision. Since his future bride's kinsmen thought of him as a fiend from hell, he'd act like one. He caught hold of a child about two years of age and dragged him out of his mother's arms. The woman let out a startled yelp, then covered her mouth to smother her cry, lest she frighten the wean.
Drawing his dirk, Rory brandished it near the innocent head. “If Lady Joanna doesn't reveal herself at once, the laddie dies,” he told the shocked assemblage. He repeated the threat in English, uncertain if the Maid of Glencoe could understand her native Gaelic after so many years in Cumberland with her Sassenach relatives. Surely, if she
were listening from a place of concealment, she'd now give herself up.
Though Fearchar must have been as stunned by Rory's brutal announcement as the rest of their men, he calmly folded his arms and stared straight ahead of him. From the look of boredom on the giant's face, with its scars and sinister black patch, it appeared as if the two of them habitually hacked up wee bairns for the sheer pleasure of it.
The other MacLeans held their tongues as well. Rory had purposely chosen a laddie so young, he wouldn't understand what was being said, nor have dreadful memories to haunt him.
An agonized silence descended on the hall, broken only by the muffled sobs of the frightened mother. Motionless, the Macdonalds gaped at him. Every violent tale they'd ever heard about the King's Avenger must have rattled through their empty brains.
For a long, torturous moment, no one spoke. Then at the back of the hall, a bedraggled serving lad stepped forward from his place beside the priest. His cheeks covered with soot, his deep blue eyes wide with fright, he held out one dirty hand in a pathetic bid for mercy. He opened his mouth to speak, but appeared too terrified to form the words.
“Wait!” Beatrix shrieked. “Wait! I'll tell you the truth. Don't harm the baby.”