How to Marry a Highlander

by Michele Sinclair

  Faden’s brows rose.

  With a sigh, Dugan went back to the table, but instead of sitting down he stood behind his chair and gripped the back. He had never told his story to anyone for it was none of their business. But he really did want Faden to be his dockmaster. Maybe it had not been intentional, but the man had told him about his own difficulties with his father. Maybe by reciprocating Dugan could build Faden’s trust in him.

  “I was born near the waist of Scotland on the coast where Highlanders and Lowlanders mingle daily. As a result, I grew up learning both Scots and Gaelic. I did not come from wealth, but my father had a steady job working on the docks, and when I came of age, I worked alongside him until he passed away. But a hard, tedious life on the docks was not what I wanted nor did I have a desire to become a seaman. I desired something different for my life. At that time, William Wallace was fighting for Scotland’s freedom and I wanted to join his men. I trained whenever I was not working, fighting anyone who would spar with me. Then, one day the dockmaster was murdered. Rumors flew about that I had done it for my dislike of the man was well known. My own mother was one of the first to believe all the vile gossip. Of course, I had not killed the man nor was there proof that I did. Still, my mother never stopped reminding me of the emotional damage I caused her.”

  Faden let go a low whistle of disbelief. “I’m not sure what to say,” he said softly. He had issues with his father, but there was a difference between callousness and utter betrayal.

  Dugan gave a single nod in agreement. “The one person who should’ve known the truth, who should have never doubted me, chose to believe the worst without even asking me if it were true.”

  “What did you do?”

  Dugan bobbed his shoulders. “One day, I made it clear how I felt about her still holding resentment; she yelled and slammed the door on my face and refused to speak with me. So I left and joined Wallace’s force. Years later, I lost the chance at lairdship of the Torridon nomads to Cole McTiernay, learned my best friend had thought I made a mistake in accepting the decision, and killed him when he tried to take the life of Cole’s wife.”

  “Lady Ellenor?” Faden asked in disbelief. He had been in the region for years, and yet this was news to him. Betrayed twice in such a way . . . things that had never made sense suddenly did. At first, Dugan came off easygoing and unnaturally calm. He was quick to crack a joke and often wore a smile, but it was rare it reached his eyes. Faden had known since their first meeting Dugan’s laidback attitude was a mask to hide the darkness within him. Everybody wore some type of facade for everybody had something to hide. Faden hid his failure to his father, and Dugan hid the part of him that found it hard to trust another soul.

  Dugan looked at him. “So be my dockmaster.”

  “You can trust me after what I just told you about why I’m here? Because you may not be Laird Mackbaythe, but my father still has the same demands of me.”

  “I’m betting that you are your own man. Your loyalty may not yet be with me, but it is with your niece, whom you have protected for years.”

  Dugan moved to swing his chair out and sit down again. When he did so, the chair leg clipped his ankle causing him to lose his balance. Dugan began to fall. Instinctively, he reached out and grabbed a nearby wall sconce, knocking off the candle, to regain his footing. But upon bearing nearly all of his weight, the sconce moved downward, making it clear the candle holder also served as a lever that lifted a portion of the wall hidden behind a tapestry just below it.

  Dugan let go and immediately heard a thunk as the stone wall fell back into place. He flung back the wall-hanging and could barely see where part of the wall had moved. If he had not seen the sconce move and heard the wall shift, he would have not thought twice about the odd divot.

  Curious, Faden jumped out of his chair. He came up and gave a quick tug on the sconce. When nothing happened, he yanked it once more, this time with significant force, and once again a portion of the wall moved. The opening was narrow and not quite waist high.

  Dugan leaned down. “It’s not a passageway, but it is deep,” he said, and reached in to drag out a large, very heavy chest from where it had been hidden. Behind it were two other similarly sized chests. Faden let go of the candleholder and the wall fell back into place.

  “Did you know about this?” Dugan asked.

  Faden shook his head, his heart pounding. “Nay. I’m not sure anyone did.”

  Dugan opened the lid and knew immediately Faden was right. Mackbaythe would have never told anyone about its contents. It also explained how Mackbaythe was able to afford a large mercenary force and probably bribe MacCoinnich so that he would not take over the small port. The chest was full of gold coins, on top of which was a bulky velvet bag.

  Dugan picked it up and peered inside. What he saw caused him to rock back on his heels in shock. He handed the bag to Faden. “Do you know what this is?”

  Faden fingered the crest on the outside. He knew exactly what the bag contained without even looking inside. For three decades, he and each of his brothers had been searching for this bag and its contents. Having found it, Faden was faced with the improbable decision of having to choose which family had his loyalty. Dugan was right. Family was a choice, and surprisingly, in his case was a simple one. Adanel and her clan were his family, and he was going to help protect it the best way he could.

  “It belongs to Adanel. It was her mother’s and should go to her,” Faden said, handing the bag back to Dugan. “Before we start talking about what that represents and what you intend to do with it, you should know, I’m accepting your offer of dockmaster.”

  Dugan looked up, his brows arched high in surprise. Then with a wicked smile, he said, “If that’s true, let’s put this back where it will be safe and go see Fearan. I’ve been looking forward to this conversation for some time.”

  * * *

  Fearan looked at each man around the table—the new laird, his McTiernay commander Loman, and Dugan’s recently appointed dockmaster, Faden. One by one each man returned his stare with a cold one of their own. Fearan snarled. If they thought to intimidate him, they should have picked another location. Here, overlooking the port, was where he felt most comfortable. In this room, he ran Bàgh Fìon. This was his world more than it was any others’. He knew the waters, the channels, and the hidden death traps. No one else did. What the new laird failed to understand, but soon would, was that Fearan did not need them. It was they who needed him.

  For more than two weeks now he had kept the ports closed to both outgoing and incoming ships, and that included fishing vessels. He did not like doing it, but it had been necessary for him to make his point. Captains and their crews would only navigate the channel if he brought their ships safely into dock. Otherwise they would be risking their boats and potentially their lives.

  Fearan had not made the decision to shut down local fishing lightly. It was a key food source for the village and many were feeling the effects. No one was starving yet, but disgruntlement was growing as hunting was becoming more difficult with the McTiernay army also hunting for their food. Fearan hoped their voices would become loud enough to persuade the new laird to see reason. All he wanted was to be left alone to do things the way they always had been done, which was his way and only his way. It had taken a similar strong stand to make Laird Mackbaythe understand his power, and just like him, this McTiernay would eventually have to acquiesce or fail.

  Kara, however, was worried. His wife agreed with him in principle—he knew the port best and should be allowed to run it. He was an honest and good man whom all knew and trusted. Dugan should have trusted him as well instead of sending in his McTiernay commander Loman to oversee everything he did and ask questions at every turn. But all Kara’s conversations with Adanel had his young wife concerned about his approach. Those who challenged the McTiernays supposedly lost... every time.

  If the McTiernays were a seafaring clan like the MacLeods, Fearan might have been a little concern
ed. But the clan only boasted of two small harbors, neither in key locations, and both were only used in support of local fishing.

  One of the few captains who secretly did a little trade with Cole McTiernay had met Dugan a few years ago and had sent a message warning Fearan against shutting down the port altogether. But when Fearan had witnessed Dugan slay two men the day he banished a third of the dock workers, he had feared their clan’s new laird was no better than the one he replaced. Learning that Dugan wanted to give Faden the job as dockmaster only confirmed his original opinion.

  Adanel loved the MacLeod soldier, but she did not know her uncle the way he did. Years ago, Fearan had caught him sneaking in and out of buildings, rummaging through items that were not his. Fearan had given him a warning, but Faden had continued. Never hearing of anything stolen, Fearan was forced to remain silent. Without anything to substantiate his claims, he would look the fool.

  Fearan bristled at the memory. Faden, a corrupt man in a corrupt position, was the one who should have someone overseeing his every move, not him. But Dugan had sent Loman to look over his shoulder. He, someone who knew everyone and was respected by all, was being followed around by a McTiernay soldier who knew nothing about ports, boats, or even the difference between sea and brackish water.

  Dugan may have wanted Fearan to prove his trustworthiness, but by the end of their talk, the new laird would learn that it was he who needed to earn his trust, not the other way around.

  Fearan drummed his fingers against the table. “Did you come here to persuade me to reopen the docks?” he finally asked, breaking the silence. “I will as soon as he”—Fearan pointed to Faden and then at Loman—“and he are gone. Leave me to do my job as I see fit. The harbor men trust me. They’ll work for me. If I trusted you, they would work for you, but I don’t so they won’t.”

  A slow smile curved Dugan’s mouth. “You seem to think that I need to earn your trust, Fearan. But let me remind you that I, not you, am laird of this clan, and it will be I, not you, who will run Bàgh Fìon.”

  Fearan paused his fingers at the implied threat and then began to tap them once more in a steady rhythm. “Do you know the real reason why the MacLeods or the MacCoinniches never tried to seize this port?” he questioned, not expecting an answer. “Two reasons. Both lairds hate each other, but they also need each other. MacLeod only makes money when his ships are hauling goods, and MacCoinnich needs ships to sell his clan’s goods at a profit to the Lowlands. Mackbaythe understood that and acted as buffer. But that was not the only reason they left this port alone.” He leaned forward and stared Dugan in the eye as he jabbed a thumb toward his chest. “It was because of me.”

  Fearan sat back and continued. “I brought the boats safely in. Every one of them. This is the only port for a hundred miles in which heavy goods can be loaded on and off from shore. Bàgh Fìon saves weeks of travel through the mountains and months if the destination is in the south. This port offers death to any ship trying to dock alone. Only one family has ever known the safe way to move up the channel, and with my father being dead, I am the only one left with the knowledge.”

  “For now,” Dugan replied, his tone, body posture, and facial expression all unfazed by the port master’s speech.

  Fearan swallowed. It was not the response he was expecting. He had thought to see a growing understanding cross the man’s face as he spoke, but either Dugan still did not understand the situation or nothing Fearan stated had been a revelation.

  “And,” Dugan calmly added, “there was a third and primary reason Mackbaythe had escaped attack. He paid them, just like he paid his mercenaries and his corrupt dockmaster. There’s something else you have failed to realize,” Dugan said in a tone pitched low and intense, brooking no argument. “We McTiernays don’t take well to threats.”

  Fearan sat very still. He had threatened Dugan. Not with physical harm, but with his power. And after weeks of no boats coming in or out of the docks, Dugan had to know the threat was not an empty one. Right now, Dugan was posturing for he needed Fearan and the power he wielded.

  “As far as you being the only one able to direct the boats in and out of the dock, Loman told me of the situation. He also explained that the passable channels were not mapped and their location was something you never shared. Interesting for a man whose actions are supposedly for the good of his clan.”

  “It is good for them!” Fearan barked. “That knowledge was the only thing allowing me to do what I needed to protect them from Mackbaythe and before him, his father.”

  “And what about now? Aren’t you using your knowledge to starve your own clansmen? All I ask is that you share this critical knowledge with others and yet you refuse? Do you not care about the impact it would have on this clan if you were to suddenly perish?”

  Fearan’s jaw tensed. He was far from dead and had decades left to live, but the port was a dangerous place. Accidents did happen. But it was a necessary risk that he, like his father, had taken.

  “Despite what you think, I do care for this clan,” Dugan continued, “and soon I won’t need you to direct the boats into the docks for I’ll have a new port master to do the job.”

  Fearan was incensed. He forced himself to speak slowly and deliberately to ensure Dugan understood just what would happen. “Adanel’s grandfather tried what you threaten. They watched my father and thought they knew the route, but days later ships sank from holes created by the rocky sandbars that litter this bay.”

  Dugan shrugged dismissively. “Those men were guessing. Mine won’t be.”

  Fearan’s bulging eyes studied Dugan’s expression, trying to gauge if he was bluffing or if the new laird actually meant what he had said.

  “I grew up near Dumbarton,” Dugan offered casually. “I spent my youth working every position there was around the docks. I’ve seen channels change after massive storm surges, and I know how port masters found them again. It takes time to send out boats with ropes testing the depths but, Fearan, I will do it,” he promised, his voice suddenly low and pitiless. “And I will find every sandbar, every deep path, and every crevice. I will know everything there is to know about that bay. It might take me all year, but I will have my men map every navigable sector of these waters, just like your family did many years ago. So think twice if you think you have power over me. Because you don’t. You hold no magic, just knowledge. And that knowledge can and will be gained by other means if necessary.”

  Fearan began to breathe deeper and quicker. This new laird was not making an idle threat. He was delivering a promise.

  “What’s more,” Dugan added while leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table so that he could form a steeple with his fingers, “if I’m sending men out to find and mark that channel, that means you decided it was not in your best interest to see this port thrive. When you and your wife leave these lands, I suggest heading south. Seek out a large port in the Lowlands like Orewin. They are always in need of those comfortable working around the docks. But whatever you do, don’t go north. The MacLeods will not be happy with the port down, and our ally the Mackays will definitely not welcome you as I plan to make every Highlander aware of your role in this port’s status.”

  “The MacLeods have shut down this port more than I. It’s of little use to you,” Fearan reminded Dugan, trying to remain calm and failing.

  “Only for now. The MacLeods are currently flexing their muscle. Soon though, it will be my turn.”

  Fearan knew he had made a mistake in underestimating Dugan. “I don’t take well to threats either.”

  “Good. Then stop making them, and I will do the same.” Fearan’s brown eyes locked on Dugan’s blue ones and suddenly widened in shock as he realized what Dugan had said. “The last several generations of Mackbaythe lairds have been either highly foolish or mad. Your grandfather did what he did to survive. Your father followed in his footsteps and, wisely, so did you. But I’m not a Mackbaythe laird and those tactics will not work on me.”

  �
��Just what do you want?” Fearan asked.

  Dugan raked a hand through his hair and in an exasperated tone, said, “I only want to help, Fearan. I sent Loman to assist you, not undermine what you were doing. He asked questions to learn and came to me when you refused to tell him anything. He realized you being the only one with knowledge of the channels was too large of a risk to be acceptable, but more importantly, he recognized that your job is too much of a burden for one man to bear. For years, your role as port master has been limited to that of guiding ships in and out of port, giving you little time to handle maintenance issues. But repairs desperately need to be made. After that, we need to expand the docks to allow smaller ships to load and unload on the northern side of the port near the Fortress. And this part of the dock needs to be doubled, if not tripled, in size. Right now, only one large ship can come in at a time and be docked.”

  Fearan blinked, no longer caring if the shock he felt could be seen clearly across his face. He leaned and pressed his finger down on the table. “If you are serious, then my knowledge is insufficient. The bay will need to be remapped for the current channel won’t support such an expansion.”

  “But I’m guessing you think you might know a way where we could expedite a mapping endeavor.”

  Fearan sat still for a moment before sitting back and crossing his arms. “I’ve wanted to do just what you have described for years, but I lacked the manpower or support to do it. I am almost positive there is another deep conduit just off the main channel, which could easily enable us to double our capacity. But there is a sandbar blocking the way. Mackbaythe ignored the possibilities.”

  “Do you have any ideas about how to break through?”

  Fearan gave Dugan a grudging nod and began to outline his plan, something he never dreamed of doing—especially with a man who less than an hour ago threatened to send him packing.