Lachlan's Heart: Book Two of The MacCulloughs

by Suzan Tisdale

  “I will nae be held responsible for my son being a burden to anyone.”

  Realizing there would be no arguing with the woman and worried she might take matters into her own hands and harm the lad, Lachlan went to the bed and scooped the boy up into his arms. “Then ye no longer have a son.”

  And with that, he stormed out of the cottage and back to the keep.

  “There is naught to be done for him, I am afraid.” The healer, or a man who claimed that position, was looking down at little Gylbeart as if the boy had an arrow lodged in his heart. “He is quite doomed.”

  Lachlan lowered his head and rubbed the space between his eyes with his finger and thumb. “Ye cannae be serious?” He was growing weary of asking that question.

  The healer, a short, squat man named Albert, who Lachlan estimated to be near to forty, grabbed up his basket of supplies and tucked it under his arm. “I am. ’Tis broken, just as his mum told ye it was.”

  “But ye can mend a broken arm,” Jamie said.

  “To what end?” Albert asked with a scrunched brow. “He will be a burden if it doesn’t heal proper.”

  Thoroughly disgusted, Lachlan looked to Jamie and Fergus. “Remove him from my presence before I gut him.”

  They were all too happy to do his bidding. Forcefully, they grabbed the man by his upper arms and all but dragged him from the keep.

  He was left alone, in a small bedchamber above stairs. Gylbeart appeared both baffled and sad. He lay in the center of a soft bed, the light from the fire in the hearth and candles casting him in shades of gold. A precious, innocent little boy. Lachlan had covered him with a fur and propped a few pillows under his arm earlier.

  “I told ye he would nae fix it. ’Tis my own fault for climbin’ the tree.”

  Lachlan sat on the stool by the bed. “Gylbeart, all children climb trees. Some get hurt and that is all right, lad.”

  He swiped away a tear and shook his head. “I dunnae mind goin’ away. ’Tis my duty.”

  “Yer only duty right now is to get better. And not to worry. We will get that arm of yers fixed and ye will be well soon enough.”

  “But I dunnae want to be a burden,” he replied in a whisper.

  Rolling his eyes, Lachlan did his best to reassure the child. “Ye are nae a burden, lad. Nae now, nae ever. I insist ye quit worryin’.”

  The boy said nothing as he stared at the hearth.

  “Lad, when people are sent away, where do they go? Do ye ken?”

  Gylbeart nodded as another tear streamed down his cheek. “To the Black Forest. ’Tis haunted, ye ken.”

  Why anyone would want to terrify a child with being sent to live in a haunted forest was beyond Lachlan’s comprehension. Why they would send anyone away was an even greater mystery.

  “Does it pain ye much?” he asked.

  With a slight shrug, as if to say it mattered not either way, he said, “Only a bit.”

  Lachlan had a sneaking suspicion the boy was trying to keep a brave face. “Ye are a brave lad, I will give ye that.”

  Cocking his head to one side, Gylbeart said, “Brave? Me?”

  “Ye climbed the tree, nay?”

  He nodded in affirmation.

  “And I have yet to see ye wail or carry on from the pain,” Lachlan said. “Aye, I would call ye verra brave.”

  They chatted on for a while, about inconsequential things until Jamie and Fergus returned. They had one of the MacDougall men with them.

  Thomas the Brown he was called. A tall man with wide shoulders and a beard that very nearly reached his belly. Tucked under one arm was what appeared to be a large leather bedroll. A fur cloak was tied around his neck, making him appear as large as a bear.

  His size alone was intimidating. But when he spoke? The deep baritone of his voice was enough to make Lachlan take a step back. “I hear we have a lad with a broken wing?” He grabbed Lachlan’s arms and began inspecting them. “I find no broken bones here,” he said with a bit of mirth.

  Prepared to reprimand the foolish man, he was stopped with a wink and a nod. Jamie stepped forward. “Thomas the Brown is a healer,” he explained. “I assumed ye did nae want a Chisolm near the lad after what we learned this day.”

  Lachlan was in full agreement and thanked Thomas the Brown for coming to their aid.

  Thomas looked at the boy in the bed. “I was told there was someone in dire need of healing. But all I see here are hale and hearty men and one wee lad who looks fit and strong.”

  Gylbeart giggled. “I broke my arm,” he said, sounding far more at ease than he had only moments ago.

  Glad to see the lad smiling, Lachlan stepped to the opposite side of the bed. “Just a wee broken bone,” he informed Thomas the Brown.

  “Och! Is that all?” He clucked his tongue and shook his head. “And here I was thinkin’ ’twas a man on the verge of death.”

  Belying his bulk, he was able to sit on the bed without jostling the boy around. “Let us see what we have.”

  With great gentleness that also belied his bulk and intimidating size, he examined Gylbeart’s broken arm. “There is no bone pokin’ through the skin.”

  “Is that good?” Gylbeart asked.

  “Aye, it is,” Thomas replied. “For if it were, it would be a bloody, ghastly mess and I cannae stand the sight of blood.”

  Gylbeart scrunched his brow. “I thought ye were a healer?”

  “I am,” said Thomas. “But I still cannae stand the sight of blood. So for that, I thank ye, young man. Ye have made our jobs much easier.”

  “Our jobs?”

  “Aye, laddie,” Thomas said as he placed the leather roll on the bed. In quick order, he had untied the leather bindings and carefully unrolled it, revealing the contents. Small jars and bottles filled with herbs and concoctions. Clean bandages were neatly folded and tucked into pockets. There were sharp knives and other instruments Lachlan didn’t recognize.

  “Our job,” he said giving a slight inclination of his head to the other men in the room, “is to fix that broken arm of yers.”

  “What’s my job?”

  “Yer job is to sleep while we do it.” He removed two small bottles from the leather satchel. Speaking over his shoulder, he said, “We will need some warm cider and some whisky.”

  “Ye’re going to give the boy whisky?” Jamie asked incredulously

  “Of course nae, ye eejit. The whisky is fer us for when we’re done.”

  It had taken nearly two hours to reset the poor boy’s arm. The four men had waited until he was sound asleep before they began their careful work.

  “I pray to God that someday, someone invents a way to see inside a body,” Thomas said as he pulled on Gylbeart’s arm.

  Gylbeart groaned, his face twisting in pain, but he was unable to open his eyes. Jamie held a comforting hand on the lad’s shoulder while Fergus and Lachlan assisted the healer.

  “I also pray we can find better ways of helpin’ people without bringin’ them more pain or sufferin’.”

  Once he was satisfied the bones were back in place, he quickly set the arm in a sturdy splint. “When he wakes, he will be in a good measure of pain,” he explained.

  “Can we give him more of the tincture?” Fergus asked.

  “Nay,” he replied. “If we give him too much, we risk killin’ him. We will have to wait at least eight more hours before we can give him more.”

  Once his work was done, Thomas stood to his full height and stretched his arms out wide. “I have done all I can for him,” he said in a grave tone. “Pray the poor child does nae get a fever.”

  Fevers, as they all well knew, could be deadly. ’Twas a fever that took Lachlan’s mother from him when he was not much older than Gylbeart. A sense of dread fell over his heart.

  Thomas withdrew another bottle from his leather roll. “Put a few drops of this into cider every few hours,” he said as he placed the bottle on the table next to the bed. “That will help ward off the fever, but ’tis nae a guarantee.�
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  Lachlan and his men stood and stretched, all the while they kept a watchful eye on their patient.

  “Why did ye nae call on the Chisolm healer?” Thomas asked as he poured whisky into four mugs. He handed one to each of the men.

  Lachlan explained everything they had learned earlier. When he was done recounting the story, Thomas whistled low and shook his head in dismay. “I have ne’er heard the like before,” he said. “A bunch of backward eejits if ye ask me.”

  There was not a man in the room who disagreed.

  Thomas left more instructions before quitting the room. Jamie and Fergus left with him to see about getting something to eat. Moments after they left, there came a knock upon the door.

  Cautiously, as he still hadn’t gained the fealty of these people, Lachlan opened the door with his sword drawn.

  ’Twas Murdoch standing on the other side. He raised one eyebrow when he saw Lachlan’s sword at the ready. Raising both hands in the air, he said, “I am unarmed.”

  “What do ye want?” Lachlan asked gruffly. He was in no mood for nonsense from any of the Chisolms, let alone the man who’d been a thorn in his backside ever since his arrival.

  He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. In a low whisper, he asked, “Did ye mean what ye said earlier? About no one bein’ sent away again?”

  “I say what I mean and I mean what I say,” Lachlan told him. “The practice of sending the less fortunate away stopped today.”

  Murdoch glanced to his left then his right as if he were afraid of being seen talking to the new laird. “What about those who were already sent away?”

  Lachlan hadn’t had time to consider that. “Come in and let us discuss it.”

  Lachlan poured two cups of whisky, handed one to Murdoch before taking a seat near the hearth. The two men faced one another and spoke in low tones. Gylbeart slept, albeit peacefully, nearby, and Lachlan did not wish to wake him. “Tell me about this being sent away nonsense,” Lachlan said as he sipped on the whisky.

  Murdoch leaned forward in his seat, rolling the mug between his hands. “I am nae sure when it began,” he said. “It has been happenin’ for as long as I can remember.”

  “Has it always been this way?”

  “Nay,” he replied as he took a sip of whisky. “I can remember my grandfather speakin’ of the times before, as he called them. If I remember what he said correctly, it all began with Maitland’s father, Randall the first.”

  Lachlan leaned forward and listened intently as Murdoch explained things as he knew them to be.

  “Somethin’ happened long ago betwixt Randall the first and an older member of the clan. What that somethin’ was, I dunnae ken. From what grandfather said, ’twas nae long after and the man disappeared. Randall the first told the clan the man went away because he was auld and dinnae want to be a burden. Soon after, Randall started suggestin’ that others go away. All for the betterment of the clan.”

  Lachlan sat in stunned silence, almost mesmerized by the story Murdoch was telling him.

  “Before anyone realized it, all sorts of people were bein’ sent away for all sorts of reasons. Some went voluntarily, ye ken. But for many, ’twas a not-so-polite suggestion. After several years, there remained no elderly, save for my grandfather.”

  He fell quiet for a long moment, reliving memories only he could see. Lachlan left him to his quiet reverie.

  “My grandfather was a strong, braw man. A fine warrior. A man with a good heart.” He took a long pull of whisky, draining the mug. “They sent him away because he might someday become a burden. But I kent the truth of it.”

  “And what was the truth of it?”

  Murdoch blew out a long, heavy breath. “Because he was the last who remembered the times before. He knew too much.”

  Lachlan thought about what Murdoch was telling him.

  “Get rid of those who remember so that ye can change yer own history.” He shook his head, loathing the thought.

  “Aye, now ye have the way of it.”

  “But how could the people accept this?” For the life of him, he couldn’t quite grasp how the people of this clan allowed such a thing to happen.

  “Because we were in times of plenty,” Murdoch said. “And Randall the first gave one fat sheep and a few chickens to each member of the clan.”

  “Their fealty was purchased?”

  “I suppose it was,” Murdoch replied.

  Both men fell silent for a long while, each lost in his own thoughts. ’Twas Murdoch who broke the lengthy silence. “They all went to the Black Forest. ’Tis about two miles from here. No one ever ventures there. They avoid it like the plague.”

  Lachlan nodded his understanding. “That is why they believe it is haunted. All the souls they sent there to perish.”

  Murdoch rubbed the edge of the mug with his thumb. “I dunnae believe all have perished.”

  “What makes ye say that?”

  “Because I have actually gone there.”

  Why did this not surprise him? Murdoch had proven since the beginning that he was not the sort to just bend to anyone’s will. Lachlan was starting to see the man in a slightly new light. Nay, he wasn’t ready to put his full faith and trust in him, but mayhap he wasn’t quite the bloody bastard he’d thought him to be.

  “And what can ye tell me about the Black Forest?” Lachlan asked, his curiosity growing.

  “I can tell ye it is nae haunted,” Murdoch said with a wry smile.

  “I never believed that it was,” Lachlan told him. “Am I to assume the ghosts and banshees are those who have survived bein’ sent away over the years?”

  “Aye, ’tis safe to assume that, laird.”

  ’Twas the first time he’d addressed Lachlan as laird. “Is yer mother one of those survivors?”

  Murdoch leaned back in his chair and stretched out his feet. “She is. And she is doin’ quite well.”

  “How many are there?”

  “A few dozen,” Murdoch answered.

  “I want ye to go to the Black Forest and bring yer mother back. And ye let everyone ken they will be welcomed back into the clan. No one, from this day forward, will ever be sent away for any reason other than treason. Ye tell them their new laird has ordered it so.”

  Just as Lachlan was beginning to see Murdoch in a new light, Murdoch was seeing his new laird quite differently. “As ye wish, laird.”

  When Murdoch left, Lachlan hoped this was the beginning of something new that would eventually bring this clan together.

  “What do ye mean we own a brothel?” Lachlan all but shouted the question.

  Jamie and Fergus were doing their best not to laugh.

  Walter was quaking in his boots. “Just that, laird. The clan owns a brothel.”

  A deep ache began to form at the base of Lachlan’s skull.

  “’Tis how the clan has survived most of our lean years, laird,” Walter explained. “’Tis quite profitable.”

  Lachlan’s thoughts immediately turned to Keevah. He could not, in good conscience, remain the owner of a brothel, when the woman he loved was a former prostitute. Lord, what would she think of me? Nay, he could not allow the clan, whether it be Chisolms or MacCulloughs, to run such a venture.

  “Get rid of it,” he ground out.

  Walter was so astonished that his eyes bulged as his mouth fell open. "Get rid of it?" He stammered.

  "Aye,” Lachlan said. “We will nae be the owners of any establishment whereby we earn coin off the backs of women.”

  Walter looked to Jamie and Fergus for help, but they were too busy looking at the floor at their feet.

  “But, laird, we cannae do that.”

  Lachlan scowled. “I believe we have already established the fact that I am laird. My orders are nae to be questioned or contradicted. Is that clear?”

  “Aye, laird, ’tis perfectly clear,” Walter said.

  Satisfied, Lachlan was just about to dismiss the man to do his bidding when he said, “But nae in
this particular circumstance.”

  Frustrated, Lachlan got to his feet. Before he could order the man be hanged for his insolence, Walter began to explain the why of it. “’Twas a gift from David’s grandsire.”

  “David who?” Lachlan asked with a biting edge to his tone.

  “King David,” Walter said before swallowing hard again. “King David’s grandsire, Robert de brus. He gifted what most people call the Tickled Pickle to Randall Chisolm, the first, some fifty years ago.”

  The ache in Lachlan’s skull intensified.

  Jamie and Fergus nearly fell to their knees. “The Tickled Pickle?” Jamie asked, gasping for breath.

  A tic formed in Lachlan’s jaw.

  Walter did his best to ignore the two men. “It will be owned by the Chisolms in perpetuity.”

  “But ye are no longer Chisolms,” Jamie pointed out.

  “No matter what we call ourselves, the Tickled Pickle will be owned by whomever occupies this keep.”

  Fergus, always the stalwart and logical thinking of their group, couldn’t contain his laughter. His body shook as his eyes watered. Lachlan glared with the intention that his fierce scowl would quiet the man. It had the opposite effect.

  “Would ye please stop callin’ it that?” Lachlan said to Walter. To his men, he said, “I dunnae ken why ye think this is so amusing.”

  Neither man could answer, for they could barely catch their breath.

  “Laird, as much as I would like to do yer biddin’, I cannae do it. ’Tis impossible.”

  “Nothin’ is impossible,” Lachlan said derisively.

  Walter had to ask him to repeat himself for he couldn’t hear over Jamie and Fergus’s belly laughs.

  “For the love of Christ!” Lachlan shouted. “If ye cannae control yerselves, then leave.”

  They laughed all the way out of the study. Lachlan waited until the sound of their amusement was nothing more than a faint echo before turning his attention back to Walter.