To Love a Highlander (20 page)

He clearly cared for Maili.

He also had no wish to discuss the stranger with her.

“I’ve no idea who the man is or what he wants.” His words proved her wrong. “As you said as well, he’s a warring sort. Like as no’, he’s an old enemy I’ve forgotten. Or a paid fighter employed by someone I’ve grieved. Either way, I’m expecting a scuffle with him. So”—he stepped close again, once more placing his hands on her shoulders—if you hear of aught happening to me, stay near to your father and his guards. At the worst, if Sinclair plagues you after you leave here, send word to Alex Stewart, the King’s brother, up in Badenoch. He has a fierce reputation, but is great of heart and loves women. He’d no’ hesitate to rid you of any problems Sinclair might give you. Indeed, he’d make sure the bastard would ne’er trouble anyone ever again, male or female. Remember that, if I dinnae return.”

He took his hands from her shoulders, stepping back. “Though I fully expect to, ne’er you worry.”

“I wasn’t.” She knew he’d be back.

She also had the strongest feeling the Highland warrior’s wish to speak with him had nothing to do with fighting.

She didn’t feel it was her place to say so.

But she did wonder about one thing. “How will I know when you’ve returned?”

“Och, you’ll know. Everything will unfold as you desire.” He took her hand, lifting it to his lips. “Leave it to me.”

Before she could ask what he meant, he squeezed her fingers and then strode off into the mist, leaving her to stare after him.

Much later, but in a distant place, far from Stirling and many other places as well, hard rain lashed at the stout stone walls of a clifftop stronghold. The wind also rose, howling past the towers and rattling window shutters. Somewhere near, thunder rumbled, deep and bold, as if the floor-shaking booms
came not just from the dark, angry heavens but also the bowels of the earth. Such days of wild wind and icy, spitting rain were common in these parts.

Some claimed the sheer, soaring peaks that held the stronghold needed fierce weather as sustenance. That such cold majesty could thrive only on gray, bleak days and nights of impenetrable blackness.

That the gloom even stole the light out of Scotland’s shimmering summer skies, daring the sun to shine.

Others whispered the darkness was a curse. Punishment rained down on the laird for his many transgressions and sins.

The truth would likely never be known.

Few visitors made the treacherous journey, so not many men had opportunity to ponder the possibility.

Regrettably, the clan who dwelt here had a long history of being at odds with their neighbors, far off as most of them were. That sorrow was slowly changing. Leastways some erstwhile foes had visited at the last Yuletide.

Otherwise, those who called this place home mostly walked alone.

For the stronghold was Duncreag, “fortress of rock,” though its aging chief, Archibald—Archie—MacNab thought of it as a castle of sorrow.

The most charitable description of Duncreag was a massive, wind-lashed eyrie, daunting and formidable. It was perched high atop a sheer, rocky crag, and clouds and mist often hid the stronghold from view. Unlike other, similarly situated holdings, Duncreag lacked a stone stair leading to its lofty door. Anyone wishing to visit had to climb a threadlike goat track that wound its way up the treacherous bluff.

That being so, not many would-be guests bothered.

And that suited Archie fine.

For he knew he was cursed. With the wisdom that comes
with age, he regretted his sins and had no wish to burden others with his ill fortune.

It didn’t matter that he was lonely, a shadow of the lusty, life-loving, always-smiling man he’d once been.

He’d reaped what he sowed, after all.

And he had only himself to blame that he now sat alone at his high table, Duncreag’s vast great hall empty save for the ever-smoking torches and the scores of hounds who, remarkably, loved him despite his damnable past.

Firming his jaw, for it shamed him too much to show his sorrows, even when no one saw, he sat straighter in his high-backed laird’s chair and continued feeding tidbits of fine, roasted beef to his dogs.

Slipping his meals to his much-loved and trusted four-legged companions made the beasts happy. Besides, who would care if lack of food shriveled him to bone?

He was fine with turning into one of the ghosts he was sure haunted his cold and stony stronghold, so full of darkness and gloom.

Of course, there were a few exceptions…

A small number of garrison men, Mackintoshes mostly, were currently gathered in one of Duncreag’s solars, drinking ale and casting dice. Duncreag men for the now, the Mackintosh warriors were good-hearted souls from Nought in the neighboring Glen of Many Legends.

Led by Grim Mackintosh, a battle-hardened warrior if ever there was one, the Nought men were generously helping Archie rebuild his lost garrison. Some of the Mackintoshes had agreed to stay on at Duncreag indefinitely, claiming an affinity to the territory’s rocky bleakness. Others were here only until Archie’s few remaining kinsmen, young lads mostly, had been trained as stout enough fighters to adequately defend the formidable stronghold.

It’d fallen once, taken by a now-dead dastard, Ralla the Victorious, and his war-band.

Rough, clanless men, they’d slaughtered nearly all of Archie’s kin and left the proud stronghold a shambles. Even Archie’s beloved wife, Rosalie, had perished. Mackintosh warriors from Nought, led by their chief, Kendrew, and his captain, Grim, had used stealth to gain the stronghold walls, reclaiming Duncreag for Archie.

Unfortunately, no one could repair his broken heart.

So Archie took a long, deep breath—he wasn’t as strong as he’d once been—and pushed carefully to his feet. Slowly, so as not to trip over the dogs clamoring after him, he crossed the hall to the lovely harp that had once belonged to his late wife, Rosalie.

Archie set his hand on the harp, stubbornly pretending he didn’t need its support.

He also knew it was the smoky haze from the hall torches that stung his eyes, making them water. His fool throat wasn’t thickening simply because he’d dared to pluck a harp string.

“You’re all I have left of her, eh?” He touched another string, then blinked hard when his vision blurred, making it difficult to see.

Not that he needed his eyes to appreciate the harp’s grace and beauty.

A wedding gift he’d ordered specially made for his bride, the harp was carved of beautifully polished wood and stood at a respectable height. Its tallness had delighted Rosalie, as her first harp had been a small, hand-held instrument. This one had twenty-four gut strings, enabling her to play the most enchanting music of an evening.

Blissful nights that were no more and never would be again, as the sorrow in Archie’s chest dutifully reminded him.

Truth be told, everything brought back his memories.

He couldn’t even sit at his high table, in his own laird’s chair, without remembering how, at night’s end, he and Rosalie would walk arm in arm from the hall. How they’d
climb the turnpike stair, often pausing at the alcove on the third landing for a long, deep kiss, a joy they’d allowed themselves even when his hair had started to turn gray and the first fine lines began appearing around her eyes.

Theirs had been a love like no other.

Didn’t he know, having loved so very many women?

Leastways in the carnal fashion!

That wildness, his youthful follies and sins, along with the terrible consequences, was the reason he was cursed. That he knew, and he would never believe otherwise. Not in a thousand lifetimes.

Just now, though, he was an auld done man.

And hadn’t he been foolish to cross the hall without his walking stick?

But pride didn’t diminish with age and hardship, not even with heartache.

So there was nothing for it but to return to his chair the same way he’d reached the harp, one slow and tedious step at a time.

He was halfway to the dais when his world’s only ray of sunshine burst into the hall. Breena, she was, a young Irish lass taken during Ralla’s raid on her village. She’d stayed on at Duncreag after the Mackintoshes reclaimed the stronghold for Archie. She’d married Grim, the Mackintosh chief’s captain of the guard, now in charge of rebuilding Archie’s fallen garrison.

The union between Grim and Breena pleased Archie greatly.

He didn’t wish to pester them, but was eagerly awaiting bairns.

Duncreag had been empty and silent too long. The laughter of children would do the old, cold-steeped stones much good. And Archie as well, though he was reluctant to admit any such hankering for wee ones.

He was cursed that way, after all.

His own sons, all six of them, were dead, cut down by Ralla’s sword.

His one daughter…

His heart clenched, warning him not to think of what Ralla and his men did to her.

Breena was like a daughter now. So he stood as straight as his aching bones would allow and gave her the best smile he could muster.

“I didn’t think to see you this e’en,” he greeted her as she neared. “Wasn’t Grim due back from Nought this day? I’d have thought you’d be up at the highest tower window, watching for his return.”

“Oh, he’ll be away a while yet, he will.” She stopped before him, her lilting voice as always a comfort. “His chief, Kendrew, is keeping him busy, last I heard. I don’t truly mind.”

“Tired of him already, eh?” Archie knew that wasn’t so.

“Not at all.” She winked. “The longer he’s away, the happier he’ll be to see me.”

“That he will.” Excepting his sweet Rosalie, Archie could think of no finer lass a man could come home to.

Lithe and lovely, Breena had a cascade of burnished red hair that shone like autumn leaves in the sun and the creamiest skin Archie had ever seen. Her eyes were deep green and, in certain lighting, gleamed with golden flecks. She moved with grace, loved to dance, and Archie was hard put to say which was more beautiful, her singing voice or the music she made when she put her talented fingers to Rosalie’s harp.

Old and feeble as he was, Archie would break Grim’s bones if ever he hurt the lass.

“He’d best be hieing himself back here soon.” Archie swelled his chest a bit, trying to appear lairdly. “I’ve seen some of the other braw Mackintosh warriors eyeing you when Grim wasn’t looking.”

“You haven’t!” Breena saw right through him. “Even if
one of them did fancy me, they’d sooner cut themselves than cast a glance at Grim’s lady. Aren’t I blessed to be her?”

“Humph. I’m saying that’s him.”

“He’s fond of you, too.” She hooked her arm through his and began leading him gently across the hall, back to the empty high table. “It’s a fine night to be inside, enjoying a well-burning fire.”

“I haven’t noticed.” Archie would sooner crawl naked to Glasgow and back than admit he did appreciate the huge fire roaring in the hearth.

He also loved the howling wind and the rain battering Duncreag’s wall. An affection for wild weather came with being a MacNab.

What a pity there were so few left of them.

“One night is as much as the other,” he grumbled, pausing when his favorite dog, Rufus, trundled over to lean his bulk into him. He reached down to rub the old dog’s head. “I scarce note what day it is, much less if it’s a good one for hall-sitting.”

“I do not believe you.” Breena leaned round to kiss his cheek.

Archie kept on petting Rufus. “I cannae make you, can I?”

“Indeed, not.” She laughed then, the light, airy sound secretly delighting him.

His Rosalie had a similarly pleasing laugh.

He missed her cheeriness, he did.

He missed his sons and his daughter. And—he shut his mind to their loss—he wasn’t going to think about them anymore this night.

“You miss your family terribly, don’t you?” Breena’s soft voice made his fool throat ache again. When Rufus pushed away from him, letting out a long, mournful old dog’s groan, his eyes began to sting as well.

There were times he’d swear the beast could see into his soul.

Hadn’t he reared Rufus from a wee whelp? Rosalie had hand-fed him spoonfuls of mush when the poor mite’s mother died when Rufus and his littermates were just days old. Only Rufus survived. The two of them were nigh inseparable. The old dog knew him well, including his secrets.

Sometimes Archie needed to speak of them, and Rufus made a good, and safe, listener.

Rufus didn’t judge, either.

Dogs only loved a man. And wouldn’t the world be fine if folk were as accepting?

Archie scowled, knowing that wasn’t so.

If he was silent long enough, Breena wouldn’t mention his family again. It was a trick he’d perfected with her, learning quickly that she felt a need to comfort him. She just didn’t understand that his way of soothing his sorrows was to ignore them and keep to himself.

“I lost loved ones, too.” She paused before the dais, waiting for him to set his foot on the first low step. “Ralla and his men killed nearly everyone in the village, burning everything. Yet through his bringing me here, I met and married Grim.”

“I know, I know.” Archie let her help him into his laird’s chair, not even grousing when she smoothed a plaid over his knees. “Fate is inexorable.”

“So it is.” She stepped back, dusting her hands. “My people believe that.”

“That’s because you Irish have so much Viking blood.” Archie bit back a smile, imagining her as a Valkyrie.

She had the heart of one, for sure.

But slight and graceful as she was, he could better see her as a Highland wood nymph. Or perhaps a water sprite, sitting high on the rocks beside a tumbling waterfall, the glistening mist haloing her as she played her harp and sang. Such an image fit her well.

“Scots have no less Norse in them.” She winked as she
poured him a cup of ale. “Vikings raided near and far, eventually settling the lands they’d first plundered. They intermarried everywhere.”

“Humph.” Archie lifted his ale cup to his lips, took a long sip.

He wasn’t of a mind to think of marriage, Viking or otherwise.

Not with Rosalie so heavy on his mind.