Highland Hearts of the Clan Kincaid Box Set

by Elise Ramsay

  “If,” Gunn began, low and menacing, “If I brought this before my father and all of the other incidents which I have quietly dealt with on your behalf, he could do no other than to act. Do not make the mistake of thinking that you have the ability to hold my father in your pocket forever, for even you will one day push his kindness and his humility too far, Rory. Let me tell ye, I believe that day to be much closer than you might think!”

  Rory fell silent for some time, seemingly mulling over the young man’s words. Lifting his head, he made to rise, faltering in his attempt. Gunn offered his arm which, after an initial refusal, Rory had finally needed to take to get up on his feet again.

  An hour and a half later, and with the mumbled apology dealt with to the satisfaction of all concerned, barring Rory himself, Gunn returned the stumbling man back to his chambers. Later he would take a nice plaid to the girl and add his own apologies. Now, at last, he could head off to the farms and get on with the business of the day. He would keep the Gillies’ farm until the end of the day. Save the best ‘till last. He shook the thought away. What the hell was that? He liked the lassie at Gillies’ farm, Isobel. She was bright and funny, and he’d fought hard not to be stirred by her charms, but he’d tried to keep it at no more than that. She wasn’t the only lassie with charms around and about the keep. But she was the only lassie with fire and brains and fight in her. Maybe that was what kept him thinking of her at odd moments; moments where romancing was far from his mind.

  Isobel had fallen for him, too, this much he was absolutely certain of. Yet she was young, only eighteen just now. She would, at that age, be inclined to fall for just about any young buck in the Clan. What was more, she, like many other wee lassies before her, always fell for the Chief’s lad. He wasn’t going to be drawn into some lassie’s plans for her own future, and yet, maybe she wasn’t just one of the herd.

  No, until he could be sure of a woman’s true regard for him and him alone, he would not be getting wed to any of them!

  In the moment of his strongest resolve, an image of her rose up before his mind’s eye. Young and lively, pale skinned and with the richest, softest auburn curls which flew unruly as she went about her work. Her tall, slim body was nevertheless curvy and soft, in a way that made him want to reach out for her. She laughed without guile, and he pictured her as he’d seen her from afar, throwing her head back and laughing at some silly joke made by her sister, Moira, her flashing green eyes dancing in her face, luring him to her.

  Shaking his head, as if to shake the image of Isobel Gillies right out of his brain, Gunn set off for the first of his farm visits.

  Chapter 3

  Isobel was groggily aware of forward motion. Her head throbbed with pain and in the seconds that she could painfully open her eyes, she could see the earth. A dirt track raced along beneath her. Despite the blur and pounding, she was finding it hard to stay awake, but she knew she must. Something had happened. Yet her befuddled mind could not work it out. Thinking hard, she became aware of laying on her stomach and being roughly bounced along, her body intermittently thrashing against what?

  A horse’s back!

  Forcing her eyes open she saw the shaggy coat of a great bay bouncing in front her. As it surged forward, her head slapped against its muscled flank and, she lost consciousness again.

  The motion was back, and Isobel opened her eyes. She had been thrown across a horse! She felt sick and was unable to move at all for fear of agitating the pain in her head, and of falling to her death, and so she could not see who had taken her. She could smell the sweetness of wild scented stocks as they raced along. The rich beauty of the aroma was completely at odds with the fear and dread which had her entire body in its grip. For a moment, she tried to reach out, tried to fight whoever had her, but she could not move her arms. They were fastened down, tied beneath the horse. When she tried to kick her legs, she realized they were tied, too.

  Fear spiked through her, but she was too tired to feel it. For a while, the world faded away, and she was rocking gently.

  Then the pain and fear burst back into her consciousness. Somehow, she had to escape. An idea came to her, and she began to moan. Hoping to attract the attention of her captor, the man against whose crotch she was so tightly pressed. She needed to let him know that she felt sick and that he would have to stop and set her down for a moment. Moaning more loudly, she could feel the sound rumbling through her own chest, and yet the clattering of hooves had rendered her inaudible to the rider. As she moaned and breathed harder, she could smell the man’s sour stench and tasted bile. The stench seeped into her gut and alone with the bouncing caused her stomach to revolt. Dizziness, pain, and nausea engulfed her. Still, she fought hard against vomiting, tried to keep it down, but it was not to be. The horse leaped over a log and the resulting lurch was too much. She lost her battle and vomited down the horse's legs.

  She did not hear the man’s shout of complaint but felt the shocking blows he rained down upon her back. The pain was too much, and she cried out as stinging tears filled her eyes. Unbelievably, the man did not slow his horse, but kept pushing it on, cantering harder if anything. Her vision began to swim and, as nausea began to rise again, so did unconsciousness.

  Who has taken me?

  Rory reached for the goblet the very moment he took his place at the family table. The Clan elite sat at the very top of the hall, with the rest of the Clan, sat on long wooden benches in rows within the remaining space.

  Rory caught his cousin’s eye as he swung back his first full goblet. As always, he received a look of concern from his cousin. Rory knew that Lachlan cared, as he had always cared for him. They had grown up together around the castle and its keep and had run, played, and hunted together, man and boy. Rory knew what this particular bout of cousinly concern was about; it was the drink. Lachlan always managed to care for Rory in a way which spewed pity on him, and Rory despised his cousin for it. That and many other things irked the man. Rory had sat on feelings of discontent for most of his adult life, and all roads led back to Lachlan.

  If he examined the root cause at all, he would have known it to be the Chiefdom of the Clan which had first excited his veiled animosity. Both of their fathers had died in the illness which had eventually brought Lachlan the leadership of the Kincaid. As the son of the dead Chief, Lachlan was, he knew, the obvious choice to ascend, and yet, deep down, Rory hated him for it. Lachlan had been chosen by blood, and without test. Rory had always consoled himself that had they been tested in the fields of fighting and hunting, that he might have been chosen instead. It was a foolish belief, and all the while he knew in his heart that Lachlan was the better man in these and all manly pursuits. Perhaps it was this knowing, this inferiority, which had nurtured the breeding ground in which his hatred and resentment had so easily thrived.

  Rory reached for a bannock, to make a show of eating something, before lifting his goblet once more. Catching Lachlan’s eye, he smiled broadly, showing the bannock dough caught firmly in his gap-strewn teeth. Lachlan nodded back warmly, continuing his conversation with the still beautiful Effie, his adoring wife.

  Therein lay another bone of contention. Lachlan had Effie. That wee scrap of a lass he’d so stupidly rescued from the woodlands where she had hidden from her own kin. Better she had been left to be tracked by Ross Mackinnon’s men, and forced to marry that deviant, Tormod Sinclair! She should have been roughed up and cowed, yet here she was, smiling demurely at the table of a Clan whose very existence had been threatened from that day to this by the disobedient wench!

  That being said, what he wouldn’t do to spend a night in her bed! For she was still very much the lassie she had been. Tall and lean, despite three birthings, her golden hair only just beginning to fade. Aye, he could show her what was what in just one night time! Lachlan would be sorry for all of it then.

  Rory had never made a match for himself. He’d fallen into drink and lewdness at a young age. Around the time of Lachlan’s accession, Rory c
ould have his pick of the lassies, and often did just that. By the time he should have been looking to wed, most of the suitable Clans-women, not to mention their fathers, would not entertain him. There had been one fulsome beauty, a flame-haired, pale lassie, with quiet manners and an air of never having been touched, whom Rory had taken a fancy to. Much more, he had decided he would marry her. When she refused him, and her father had sided with her, Rory had taken the matter to Lachlan. Determined to have his way, he demanded that his cousin press the family and force the marriage. As Chieftain, Lachlan could make that happen but, of course, he had refused. Rory was furious and demanded to know why.

  “I will never,” Lachlan said, “be a party to pressing a woman to wed where she does not want to. How could I, when my own wife had been treated so badly when her father had tried to force her onto Tormod Sinclair? No, indeed, I will not hear of it.”

  The bannock in Rory’s mouth felt dry and bitter. He chewed and swallowed without pleasure, all the while eyeing the man he drunkenly felt to be his enemy. Lachlan had everything he didn’t, and Rory did not know how much longer he could live without some compensation. Leaning hard on the tall back of the rough and sturdy wooden chair, Rory smiled aimlessly at the ceiling, unaware of Lachlan’s intent stare.

  Chapter 4

  It was almost dusk by the time Gunn reached the Gillies’ farm. The last of the now weak sunlight was fading, and the air was chill. He had to admit to himself that he had been looking forward to this visit all day. His business with the other farmers had taken far too long, and yet his anticipation had built to a most enjoyable level. Still, he had no intention of letting his enjoyment seep out and into the lassie’s brain. She must not know it. Above all else, she must not know it!

  He tethered his horse to the post by the neat, well-kept outbuildings. He liked the Gillies. They were firm Clans people and good tenants. Their farm was as well run as any he’d ever seen, and their loyalty to the Clan was without question. Lorne Gillies was a very likable, very steady man. The age of Gunn's own father, Lorne radiated an attitude of calm and contentment that he always found very appealing and restful. He had spent many a long hour in the older man’s company, and always found it a fulfilling experience. Lorne was a true man of the land, respecting the earth and the seasons and coaxing both to work with him to produce crops and meat for his own family, as well as the castle.

  However, on this day, Lorne looked neither calm nor content. The older man came dashing out of his farmhouse to meet Gunn on the path. His face was a mask of ashen concern, and Gunn could not help but reach out to lay an arm on the man’s shoulder to guide him back into his home.

  “What is it, Lorne? What has happened?”

  “It’s Isobel,” Lorne said, simply, adding no further details as he looked upon his family. Mrs. Gillies and Moira were bustling about, yet actually doing nothing, like two people who knew that something should be done, but did not quite know what. Isobel’s brother, Duncan, leaned against the wall by the fireplace, trying to appear as if he were calmly thinking through a plan of action when, in truth, he looked as lost and concerned as the rest of the family.

  Gunn felt agitation rising within him. If something had happened to Isobel, he wanted to know, and he wanted to know right now. Still, this family he cared about looked so dreadfully worried that he could not force them.

  Gently, he continued, “Lorne, please, what is troubling you all? And where is Isobel?”

  “I don’t know where she is. There may be nay trouble at all, but she’s never been gone so long. She was taking herself out for a walk this morning and was to have been back by the afternoon. As you see, it is heading for nightfall, and still she is not home. She is verra late, and we are worried something crazy.”

  Gunn felt a jolt in his gut. This was unlike Isobel. It was true that she loved to roam and, more often than not, roamed too far and too alone for a young lassie. He had often seen her stomping along the valley tracks, or even striding up steep hillsides. She loved to walk, this he knew, and she was in love with the beautiful Highlands. To many, the terrain represented hardship and tough winters. To Isobel, every tree, hill, mountain and blade of grass represented beauty and life. She picked and ate wild blaeberries and gathered the tough, pretty wildflowers as she went. She was so much a part of the wild and beautiful landscape that Gunn could not conceive of her becoming lost, however long she had chosen to walk.

  So, some accident must have befallen her. Or worse, perhaps some roaming man... But he could not think of that. Instead, he chose to assume an accident, and a minor one at that, for, he realized, he could not bear to think that Isobel had come to serious harm. This wee lassie whom he was never going to fall for!

  Action was what was needed now. He needed to rally not just the family, but himself and some men from the castle.

  “Come now, Duncan. Get your horse ready and pack supplies. I’ll gather some men from the castle, and I will set us in pairs to track her. Wrap yourself well, it will be a chill night. I’ll be back for you.” Gunn turned on his heel and strode for the door. He felt a hand rest upon his arm and turned back to meet the eyes of the stricken father.

  “And me?” Gunn felt the older man’s need to go with them but knew he must crush it.

  “Lorne, your wife needs you here.” They both knew what Gunn was really saying. The Highland countryside at night was no place for him. He would hold the rest of them back. Lorne, as choked as he was, felt gratitude towards the younger man for not saying it. How like his father he was. He would make a fine Chief when the time came.

  The gathering of riders was large. Some sixteen men in total had turned out, all eager to be on the hunt. Many of them wondering how they would feel if their own daughter was alone on the hills. It would be a cold night, and the men were to be divided into eight pairs by Gunn. All of them good trackers, he had confidence in each and every one of them. There was, however, none better than Gunn himself, and he knew this. Gunn had been trained by his own father, who had taught him that the most important thing of all was to be calm and observant, to clear his mind of all other thoughts when he concentrated. “Lookin was nay gid, if ya did ni see.” His father’s voice still sounded as clear as a summer’s day, and he wished he was here right now. How hard it would be now to clear his thoughts of Isobel, but he must try if he was to have any chance of finding her.

  Gunn chose Duncan, Isobel’s brother, as his tracking companion. Duncan was not a trained tracker, but Gunn did not need the skills of another man. Rather, he thought that Duncan would provide insight into his sister’s walking habits, and this could be invaluable. Also, he knew the young man must represent his whole family in the search for his sister.

  “I believe Isobel often sets off first in the direction of the Glannoch Valley?” Gunn said, trying not to appear too familiar with Isobel’s recreations.

  “I believe she does, though where she goes from there, I could ni say. I never go with her, you see...” Duncan’s voice trailed away, guilt-laden that he did not walk his sister everywhere and protect her at every turn.

  Gunn liked Duncan. At twenty years, he was what appeared to be a very likable older brother to Isobel. She certainly seemed to admire him well enough, while still taking her opportunities to tease him when she could get away with it. Duncan’s fondness for his sister was clear to Gunn. He had often seen them laughing together on his approach to the farm and had wished he felt such close relations with his own siblings. His own two brothers were a little younger than Gunn, and the unspoken question of accession to the Chiefdom seemed to hang silently between the three of them. Always, he thought, power overrides all sentiment; all actions. Perhaps it was easier to live a life on the outer edges, rather than right in the center of it all. On the outer edges, the resentments were fewer, or at least, smaller.

  He thought of the kinship between Rory and his father. Although cousins, they had been raised as brothers. Gunn knew by instinct that Rory hated his father. He wondered tha
t his father could not see it. In all things connected to Rory, Gunn’s beloved father seemed to be blind. Gunn wondered what would become of his own two brothers when he became Chieftain. Of course, they would remain in the castle, an elite part of the Clan, and would want for nothing. Their lives, in all practical ways, would continue much as they had done, but would that same resentment Rory felt creep over them? Would they roam the castle corridors, molesting wee lassies and drinking themselves into a stupor to numb the unseen wounds of misplaced inferiority? He hoped with all his being that this would not be the case. He had a deep caring for both of his brothers but, as the boys had become young men and the realities of Clan hierarchy became apparent to them, Gunn felt a widening void opening between them. He would have liked to have had a competition-free relationship with them, such as there was between Isobel, Duncan, and wee Moira.

  However, now was not the time to go over old ground, he needed to find Isobel. It was almost fully dark now, and he would need his wits about him to track her. Try as he might, Gunn could not help but picture the beautiful flame-haired lassie at the bottom of a steep drop, or terrified and screaming in the hands of someone who would do her the worst kind of harm. It was enough to make his blood run cold and yet flame his brain with anger. That would not do, if he were to find her, he needed all his wits about him and all his canny skill as a tracker.

  Chapter 5

  Isobel’s eyes flicked open and closed for several seconds as her mind fought a terrible confusion. Exhaustion was like a heavy cloak that seemed to smother her with its weight, but she fought it back. There was danger here, and she must be aware of what was happening. Must find out where she was. Taking a slow breath, she assessed her condition. Pain radiated from her back, and her head felt tender and bruised. Although she was able to reach up and gently assess the large, throbbing lump on the back of her skull, she was not able to reach her arms about herself to search for the source of the pain in her back.