The Trouble with Highlanders (29 page)

“Yer own coffers.”

His father smirked.

It was brilliant, but it sent a chill down his spine. “She might have died over yer keeping that secret. Ronald was thinking to hang her.”

“Well, I did nae know that Fraser bitch was going to poison me. There's the reward I get for letting Gahan watch yer back, when I should have kept the man for meself,” he groused. “And do nae cross yer arms over yer chest like that, me lad. Ye'll nae brood over the matter. I was making sure the lass was nae after yer title, and ensuring ye were nae simply amused by the idea of having something ye thought I would nae approve of. Ye youngsters are bedazzled by the forbidden, and ye, me lad, are a proud one. It would nae have been the first time ye bedded a lass ye knew I'd disapprove of, just to remind me that yer respect for me ended at yer bedchamber door. Yet rightfully so.”

Relief poured over him, and Norris suddenly laughed. “I love ye.”

His father nodded. “Aye, and I treasure it. Now get that lass to bed, because I want the comfort of grandchildren in me old age.”

Norris stood and tugged on the corner of his bonnet. “I'll do me best.”

Lytge watched with pride the man his son had grown into leave his bedchamber. He was certain Norris would prevail, but he was also sure Daphne would give him a bloody hard time claiming that victory.

He cursed Sandra Fraser again for laying him in a sick bed where he wouldn't be able to watch the battle.

***

“What of Sandra?” Gahan had waited until they had left their father's chamber before asking.

Norris turned to his brother. “I believe I've discovered what they say about love to be true. It's turned me soft, Brother—at least when it comes to vengeance. I'm more interested in cherishing life.”

Gahan slowly smiled. “Then I suppose the matter falls to me, as the next-eldest son.”

“Only if ye want the duty. For meself, I do nae care. Me father can have her hung once he recovers. It is his right. We'll have to appeal to the king if we want to prove Bari had any knowledge of it. Nonetheless, I plan to make sure the man knows he is never welcome beneath me roof again.”

“Oh… he's welcome to come here… no promise on how he leaves,” Gahan growled softly and shot Norris an exasperated look. “Here I am, plotting vengeance, and ye can nae wait to get to yer lady's side.”

Norris nodded. He reached out and clasped his brother on the shoulder. “I pray ye feel the same someday.”

Gahan watched his brother begin climbing the stairs to the upper floors in the main tower. He waited until two retainers fell into step behind their laird's son before he turned and walked toward the oldest tower in Dunrobin. The stone walls were rougher there, the archer slits like large crosses, allowing the sunlight to hit the opposite wall in glowing signs of the cross. Fitting…

The wind whistled, almost moaning through the hallways and tugged at the edges of his kilt. The stairs were narrow, and some of the edges crumbling. The door at the top was narrow, too, but the retainer there opened the lock and pushed it inward for him.

“I was never here,” Gahan muttered and made sure Sandra heard him.

She sat up, reaching for the retainer. “Do nae leave me with him!”

The door slammed shut, and Sandra glared at it for a moment before she picked up the thin pillow the cot-like bed afforded her.

“Ye'll nae find it simple to smother me with this thing.” She threw it at him, and it landed with a soft sound against the bare stone floor.

Gahan studied her for a moment. Her chemise was fine linen with black-work embroidery around the neckline. It was a stark contrast to the bed. Little more than a cot, it was sturdy but lacking in luxury.

“A hundred years ago, this was the only tower at Dunrobin.”

“I do nae care. It is a hovel. The dungeon is likely better afforded.”

Gahan's eyes narrowed. “Something ye can easily judge for yerself.”

She sat up on her knees, pressing her hands on top of her thighs so her chemise was pulled tight across her breasts.

“Are ye sure, Gahan? Maybe ye should consider becoming me savior instead of me executioner. Why let Norris have everything, when ye can take it?” She licked her lower lip and leaned forward. “I could be very grateful.”

Gahan grinned, and victory flickered in her eyes. She leaned farther forward to give a look down her chemise. He kept his attention on her eyes. He moved closer, until he was only a single step from her. Sandra reached out, seeking the edge of his kilt, when he tossed her flower hair ornament onto the sheet beside her.

“Done,” he muttered as he stepped back. “Ye can show yer gratitude by relieving us of the chore of ending yer life.”

Sandra picked up the hairpin, and her face drained of color.

“I refilled it with something a little less exotic, but deadly nonetheless.”

He turned, and she launched herself at him. Gahan turned back, lifting his foot so that he kicked her in the center of her chest. With a muffled cry, she ended up sprawled on the stone floor.

“Me father will have ye hung unless ye do the deed yerself. I find meself unwilling to suffer touching ye. So those are yer choices.”

“Gahan… Gahan!”

Gahan never looked back. He watched the retainer lock the door and left. It was a better death than she deserved.

***

Bari Fraser heard his peregrine cry and waited for the animal to land. It glided to a stop in the wide window opening of the master's chamber at Seabhac Tower. The animal knew it was home, chirping happily as Bari relieved it of its leather pouch. Seabhac was Gaelic for raptor, and the land had been known for its birds for over a century.

He tossed the bird a piece of fish from a bowl on his table and unrolled the message. When Bari let out a howl of rage, the bird was startled and took the fish across to another tower to eat.
Damn
the
Sutherlands
to
hell!

Sandra was dead. His spy at Dunrobin could be trusted, but it still took time for the news to sink in. Once it did, he growled again, cursing Lytge with every fiber of his being.

The earl was to blame. Bari shook and wiped at the tears that spilled from his eyes. He would have his vengeance. He sat down to write a message. Lytge Sutherland had taken his sister, so he would make sure the man lost something of equal value. A bastard son was the same as a legitimate daughter.

Bari wrote quickly and placed the message into the pouch, but he didn't whistle for the peregrine that had brought it. Instead, he went down to the mews, searching among them for a bird trained to fly to Matheson land. His rage continued to boil as he set the peregrine on its way. With Sutherland retainers, he'd have grabbed up Matheson land and made it Fraser. Now, he would have to call on Achaius Matheson as an ally. Another thing Lytge would pay for, and Bari intended to make sure the cut was deep. The old earl had only three living children, two sons. Bari was going to make sure Gahan Sutherland died by his own hand. Sandra deserved as much.

He laughed, throwing his head back and startling the birds.

“Brother? Are ye well?”

Bari snarled and delivered a sharp slap to the young woman busy tending to the birds. She flinched but didn't make a sound.

“I have told ye never… never call me brother!” he raged at her. Anyone else would have backed away from him, but Moira stood steady, her blue eyes fixed on him. “Ye are me half sister!” He made a slashing motion with his hand. “Yer mother was common born. Sandra was me sister, nae ye! Get back to work!”

“Why do ye say Sandra ‘was' yer sister?”

“Because she is dead at the hands of the bastard Sutherlands, and I will have vengeance!”

Moira sighed softly as her brother left the mews. She far preferred the company of the birds to that of her sibling. Oh yes—half sibling. Strange, but she somehow didn't think Bari would appreciate how much comfort that little bit of knowledge brought her. Which was what made it so very amusing!

Well, she'd never get the chance to tell him. Bari did his best to ignore her, as if she were the lowest servant on his land. It was better that way, better that he hadn't yet tried to wed her to another person he had no intention of keeping his promise to. Bari Fraser was not a man of his word, and his neighbors knew it. Half sibling was certainly enough for her.

Enough of a curse!

***

“So, me fine husband, is the window going to remain open through the snowstorms?” Daphne trailed her fingers through the hair on Norris's chest. Alone at last, sated for the moment, she indulged herself in savoring the feeling of having him hold her. Bacchus was perched in the corner, eyeing her as though the raptor understood her question.

“If ye continue to call me husband, ye will likely get me to agree to anything ye ask of me.”

Daphne lifted her head, still slightly amazed to see Norris in bed with her. How had everything settled out so well?
Does
it
matter?

Her husband grinned and pressed her head down onto his chest again.

Nae, it does not…

“I love ye, Daphne MacLeod.”

That was what mattered! Indeed it was.

Read on for excerpts from Mary Wine's Scottish romance

Available now from Sourcebooks Casablanca

To Conquer a Highlander

Highland Hellcat

Highland Heat

The Highlander's Prize

From

Scotland 1437, McLeren land

Fire could be a welcome sight to a man when he'd been riding a long time and the sun had set, leaving him surrounded by darkness. But the sight of flames on the horizon could also be the most horrifying thing any laird ever set his eyes on.

Torin McLeren wanted to close his eyes in the hopes that the orange flames illuminating the night might not be there when he opened them again. He could smell the smoke on the night air now but didn't have the luxury of allowing the horror to turn his stomach. He was laird, and protecting his holdings was his duty.

Digging his spurs into his horse, he headed toward the inferno. Wails began to drown out the hissing flames. Laments carried on the night wind as wives and mothers mourned bitterly. The scent of blood rose above the smoke, the flickering orange light illuminating the fallen bodies of his clansmen. He stared at the carnage, stunned by the number of dead and wounded. He might be a Highlander and no stranger to battle, but this was a village, not a piece of land disputed and fought over by nobles. This was McLeren land and had been for more than a century.

A horror straight out of hell surrounded him. Mercy hadn't been present here—he'd seen less carnage after fighting the English. The slaughter was almost too much to believe or accept. His horse balked at his command to ride forward, the stallion rearing up as the heat from the blaze became hot against its hide. Torin cursed and slid from the saddle. Every muscle in his body tightened, rage slowly coming to a boil inside him. Hands reached out to him, grasping fingers seeking him as the only hope of righting the wrong that had been inflicted on them.

His temper burned hotter than the fire consuming the keep in front of him. They suffered raids from time to time, but this was something else entirely. It was war. The number of bodies lying where they had fallen was a wrong that could not be ignored. Nor should it be. These were his people, McLerens who trusted in his leadership and his sword arm for protection.

“
Justice…
”

One single word but it echoed across the fallen bodies of men wearing the same plaid he did. Every retainer left to keep the peace was lying dead, but they had died as Highlanders. The ground was littered with the unmoving forms of their attackers. His gaze settled on one body, the still form leaking dark blood onto his land, the kilt drawing his interest. Lowering his frame onto one knee, Torin fingered the colors of his enemy. The fire lit the scarlet and blue colors of the McBoyd clan. His neighbor and apparently now his enemy.

McBoyds?
It didn't make sense. These were common people. Good folk who labored hard to feed their families. Every McLeren retainer stationed there knew and accepted that they might have to fight for their clan, but that did not explain the number of slain villagers. There was no reason for such a slaughter. No excuse he would ever swallow or accept. McLerens did not fear the night, be they common born or not. While he was laird, they would not live in fear.

“There will be justice. I swear it.” His voice carried authority, but to those weeping over their lost family, it also gave comfort. Torin stood still only for a moment, his retainers backing him up before he turned and remounted his horse. He felt more at home in the saddle, more confident. His father had raised him to lead the McLerens in good times and bad. He would not disappoint him or a single McLeren watching him now.

“Well now, let us see what the McBoyds have to say for themselves, lads.”

Torin turned his stallion into the night without a care for the clouds that kept the moonlight from illuminating the rocky terrain. He was a Highlander, after all. Let the other things in the dark fear him.

From

“Come, my beauty, we shall see if we can impress anyone tonight with our skill.”

Brina patted the mare on the side of the neck, and the animal gave a toss of its silken mane. She smothered a laugh before it betrayed to those around just how much she was looking forward to riding out of her father's castle. She gained the back of the mare, and the animal let out a louder sound of excitement. Brina clasped the animal with her thighs and leaned low over its neck.

“I agree, my beauty. Standing still is very boring.”

Brina kept her voice low and gave the mare its freedom. The animal made a path toward the gate, gaining speed rapidly.

Brina allowed her laughter to escape just as she and the mare crossed beneath the heavy iron gate that was still raised.

“Don't be out too long… Dusk is nearly fallen…” the Chattan retainer set to guarding the main entrance to Chattan Castle called after her, but Brina did not even turn her head to acknowledge the man.

Being promised to the church did have some advantages after all. Her undyed robe fluttered out behind her because the garment was simple and lacked any details that might flatter her figure. There were only two small tapes that buttoned toward the back of it in order to keep the fabric from being too cumbersome.

“Faster…”

The mare seemed to understand her and took to the rocky terrain with eagerness. The wind was crisp, almost too chilly for the autumn. Brina leaned down low and smiled as she moved in unison with the horse. The light was rapidly fading, but the approaching night didn't cause her a bit of worry.

She was a bride of Christ, the simple gown that she wore more powerful even than the fact that her father was laird of the Chattan. No one would trifle with her, even after day faded into night.

But that security came with a price, just as all things in life did. She straightened up as the mare neared the thicket, and she spied her father's man waiting on her.

Bran had served as a retainer for many years, and he was old enough to be her sire. He frowned at her as she slid from the back of the mare.

“Ye ride too fast.”

Brina rubbed the neck of the horse for a moment, biting back the first words that came to her lips.

“What does it matter, Bran? I am promised to the church, not betrothed like my sisters. No one cares if I ride astride.”

If she had been born first or second to Robert Chattan, there would be many who argued against her riding astride, because most midwives agreed that doing so would make a woman barren.

Bran grunted. “It's the speed that ye ride with that most would consider too spirited for a future nun.”

Brina failed to mask her smile. “But I shall be a Highland nun, not one of those English ones who are frightened of their own shadows.”

Her father's retainer grinned. “Aye, ye are that all right, and I pity those who forget it once ye are at the abbey and training to become the mother superior.”

Bran turned and made his way into the thicket. Brina followed him while reaching around to pull her small bow over her head. The wood felt familiar in her grip. It was a satisfying feeling, one for which she might thank her impending future as well. Her sisters had not been taught to use any weapons. They were both promised to powerful men, and the skills of hunting would be something that those Highlanders might find offensive to their pride.

She snorted. Going to the church suited her well indeed, for she had no stomach for the nature of men. She could use the bow as well as any of them.

“At least I know that ye will nae go hungry.” Bran studied the way she held the bow, and nodded with approval. “Those other nuns will likely follow ye even more devoutly because ye can put supper on the table along with saying yer prayers.”

“I plan to do much more than pray.”