Highlander’s Twisted Identity (Highlanders 0f Clan Craig Book 2)

by Shona Thompson

  “Nae, sir,” replied Wallace sharply. “What the maid says is true. Someone set a fire near her, although she never saw who… an’ I came to help…”

  “Really,” said Finlay critically. He ran his eyes over the lad in ridicule. “Yet just by the look of ye, ye were the one that had to be rescued from the fire!”

  Laughter rippled through the room, Robbie elbowing Brodie swiftly in the ribs and guffawing like a fool. Even Freya couldn’t hide a smirk.

  “Well come here, so we might see ye better, lad!” shouted out Finlay, now more curious than angry.

  Bristling with tension, Wallace pushed himself forward, into the heart of the room. The heat of the fire and that of the summer sun combined to make his already florid complexion even redder.

  “Dear God, someone give the lad a nice cool cup of caudle!” Finlay announced. Although his words were spoken caustically, Freya moved to pour a cup all the same.

  She offered it up to Wallace, pushing the cool china up against his chapped lips. With no hesitation, he gulped the sweet liquid down in one go.

  “Better?” enquired Freya sweetly. The way she attended to him surprised him. Wallace had only known her feisty side and all the tales that his mother told of her unfitness to succeed the lairdship. It was all at odds with the gentle way she conducted herself right now.

  Wallace nodded and turned to face Finlay. “It’s all true, sir, I swear!” he declared.

  Finlay turned back to Padraig, who—as Wallace was slowly becoming aware—was the chief advisor to the laird. Wallace tried to smother his distaste for the man that once was his father’s closest ally.

  He must be over sixty now, Wallace reckoned, noting the man’s sagging skin and silvery hair. He had a thick white beard and a jovial face, but Wallace did not allow himself to be tricked by the auld fella’s guileless demeanor.

  “An’ what were ye doing out there on yer own, anyhow?” Finlay questioned. “Are ye one with the clanless, who threaten an’ bring trouble to our peaceful folk?”

  At this, Freya raised her eyebrow encouragingly. Wallace needed no further introduction.

  “Sir, that is not the truth. I no longer live there; they rejected me,” Wallace repeated.

  “Really? Is that so,” Finlay said quietly.

  If they hadn’t been before, now all eyes were trained on him. In particular, Padraig’s hot gaze lay upon him, a quiver of fiery arrows. He didn’t stop looking at the lad once, making him drop his eyes for fear he would blow his cover.

  There he was—the serpent in their midst! Wallace bit down on his rising bile and resolved to take revenge as soon as he got the chance.

  “Aye sir, it is. The truth is, I have never been accepted by the village. They blame me for their misfortune. I cannot return.”

  “So, ye grabbed Freya out of the fire, but did ye see who lit it?” he asked. Then his eyes connected deeply with Wallace’s. “Now, ye say ye have no further loyalty to them…?”

  It was a testing question. But Wallace could only tell the truth.

  “I did not see their faces, sir,” he replied.

  “H’mm,” said Finlay, unconvinced.

  Then Padraig interrupted.

  “Sir, word in the village says there were men from the clanless acting suspicious around that time …” began Padraig. “A wild, unruly man with black curls came running away, seen by many…so it couldnae be this lad…”

  At the description, Wallace’s ears instantly pricked up. Hughie! The thick-witted lump that lived next door to them, to whom his mother had lent their precious tinderbox!

  Wallace struggled to hide his surprise. At the same time, Finlay could not contain his dissatisfaction with Padraig’s explanation. However, he did not get time to say anything just then.

  “Father,” implored Freya, a second time, but this time she was helped in her plight by Sine.

  “Come on, Finlay. Give the lad a break. He rescued our lassie from a fire. I’d say we owe him something…” her mother said.

  All this time, Freya had been listening quietly. It had taken everything she had to keep it buttoned in. But now, she felt her heart stirring.

  “I don’t doubt it,” Finlay replied quickly, then he looked keenly at Freya. Her beseeching eyes bowled him over. Even from across the room, her passion sparkled.

  “Och, alright, woman! The lad can stay here, I suppose. Padraig, tak’ the lad over to the far end croft. But just a friendly word—keep yer distance from the keep, an’,” here he paused for a moment, his amber eyes growing dark, “awa’ from our Freya!”

  “But Father,” began Freya, making her entreaty to Finlay. He strode out of the darkened hall and out into the blazing sun outside.

  Wallace had already been shown to his croft by Robbie, and by the tone of the laird’s voice, wouldn’t be returning anytime soon. Freya felt her heart fall to her boots as he had crossed the floor to leave. Frustration rose in her veins at the sight of her father, making light of her feelings. She felt like pulling him back inside and making him listen to her. “He pulled me from a fire and—”

  But Finlay was already halfway out of the room. Trying desperately to get him to reconsider his actions, she entreated him. “Father, that croft… old Gillies said it was nae good. Couldn’t Wallace stay here…?” she begged. It was true; the place was ramshackle. And then there was the location. Even for the highlands, it was in a particularly bleak spot, prone to flooding and snowdrifts in the winter, and fierce gales practically all year round.

  Her father just scoffed. Then he turned serious. “Nae, lass. Now listen to me. I’ve told the lad to keep his distance; now I’m asking ye. I want ye to keep away from him, do ye understand?”

  Despondent, Freya nodded. She could feel all her hopes dissolve under the weight of her father’s determined stare.

  “Good lass,” said her father, before disappearing off with Padraig, around to the stables. He took the trusted mentor aside to walk with him awhile. Freya could not hear their conversation, but from the looks on their faces, she as much as guessed it. Undoubtedly, her father was instructing Padraig to keep a watchful eye on Wallace. And knowing Padraig, he would diligently preserve his word to keep the lad away from her.

  As they spoke, Freya felt her heart pump painfully. She could not help but feel a dash of resentment at her father’s cavalier treatment of both Wallace and her sensibilities.

  Thoughts of defying Finlay crossed her mind, but for now, she rejected them. Maybe she could use her wiles to change her father’s mind, and he would come around. Picking up her embroidery, Freya sat at the window seat to her bedroom and dreamed.

  Wallace must have surely reached the wee croft by now, she thought with a heavy heart. She could just picture him now, the outline of his firm shoulders and contoured thighs striding across the glen purposefully.

  Giving a deep sigh, Freya resigned herself to not seeing Wallace again—at least, for the rest that day.

  Chapter Seven

  Freya sat propped up by the pillows of her box bed. Although the featherbed she was laying in was soft and divine, and the bed linen light, she was unable to sleep.

  Sweat poured from her brow, not abated by the shuttered windows which her father—always with an eye for security—insisted on.

  Freya sighed. Sleep was impossible in this heat. Besides, her mind was still reeling from her encounter with Wallace. In truth, Freya had thought about the lad many times since their first meeting, all those years ago.

  She felt a smile push its way to the surface of her thoughts. If only she could find some way to get her father to reconsider allowing the lad to stay in the keep.

  Looking out through the gap in the shutters, she could make out the silent, black night. It was midnight, and the air every bit as still as it had been earlier. But whereas before the sheer vigor of the sun had beaten the Highland landscape into a stupor, now the silver-gray moon shone like a new penny over the glen.

  Like a halo, its light cast across the s
ummer night’s sky, bright enough to see by. For a moment Freya steeled herself and allowed a thought to take hold.

  What if she were to creep out of the keep, over to the croft where Wallace was? Freya immediately sat up in the bed, enthralled by her thought. She could bring him a parcel of food, and maybe some homely comforts!

  A hot, prickly feeling burned its way through her, down to her underwear. It had been too hot to wear anything else in bed. At just the thought of seeing Wallace, she broke out into a cold sweat.

  Somewhere outside, an owl hooted, as if spurring her onto her plan.

  Before Freya knew it, she was up and dressing, pulling on her petticoats and arisaid. She wanted to be on her way before her brain caught up with her legs, well aware that if she thought about it for too long, she would think the better of her endeavor.

  Silently, Freya shimmied past the doors, down through the narrow corridor that led to the stair. She took particular care past the door where her father slept. The last thing she wanted to do was to wake him. But as she slithered by, a sound stopped her in her tracks.

  “Nae, nae, get off me,” her father’s muffled voice could be heard saying from behind the thick oak bedroom door.

  Freya stiffened, immediately believing him to be under siege. As she listened, it was clear there was no-one else there—only her mother’s rhythmic snoring, setting the pace for the evening’s slumber.

  “Nae, Wallace! Get off him—Father, I’m coming,” Finlay muttered loudly. Daring to get closer, Freya pressed herself up against the ajar bedroom door and leaned in, her heart beating double time.

  Surreptitiously, she spied her father, tossing and struggling at the bedclothes, wrung in sweat. His panicked eyes were wide open and bulging with alarm, but from the glazed look he gave her, it was clear that he could not see her.

  “Nae, Wallace… Seoras… dinnae hurt him…dinnae hurt my father!” he pleaded, through his sleep.

  Her mind reeling, Freya wondered exactly what it was that her father was dreaming. She drew her brow into a knot of concern. Her father often had nightmares, and this was not the first time she had heard him cry out in the night. By contrast, nothing on earth would raise Sine from her slumber until the cock crowed the next morning.

  Finlay was shielding his face with his hands as if blows were raining down on him. Instinctively, Freya took a step back and lingered a moment at the door, before suddenly diving out of the way as the bedroom door swung open.

  Shivering from behind her bedroom door, Freya listened for the sounds of her father’s footsteps, pacing around in the corridor and wondered where he was going—or if he was even properly awake.

  * * *

  Finlay thundered by, the contents of his head so loud, it was a wonder that Freya didn’t hear them. The remnants of his dream loomed large over his thoughts.

  “Halt there!” Finlay had called, sending a shard of ice into Freya’s heart and making her stop dead where she stood in her room. “Who goes there?”

  Finlay waited impatiently. He was sure he had heard something, a scratching at the window. Or was it the door frame? Either way, he could not see anyone now.

  The nightmare played on in Finlay’s mind. It had all been so confused; first, his father was under attack by Seoras, who had then morphed into Wallace, finally, the dream had ended with the lad finishing him off with a blunt object.

  Finlay shuddered perceptively as he saw the lad’s face contorted and sneering, clutching a small metal tinder box in the palm of his hands. As he brought it down on his head, Finlay read the inscription on its base: a name, Seoras Craig.

  Maybe it was only a dream, but it had left him uneasy. Then, hearing something, he tensed. Maybe it was nothing, but then again, maybe it wasn’t. Pausing only to check his dagger was still in its place, Finlay sped along the corridor, his heart racing through his ribcage. If there was one thing he was sure of, it was that no son of Seoras’ could be trusted.

  * * *

  Finlay burst down the shadowed corridor that formed the narrow passage to the keep and straight past the crouched shape that hid behind the door.

  In the dull candlelight, Wallace’s eyes managed—just—to cut through the fog, to see the silver glint in Finlay’s hair as it caught the pale light.

  The flickering flame also illuminated his face, making it leap and dance with expression—rendering him wild and unhinged. Wallace held his breath as the laird barged past him, his bare knees missing him by a hair’s breadth in his push to get to the door.

  Wallace pulled himself inwards, trying his hardest not to brush past the laird as he left and then he steeled himself, as he watched him go by.

  It was just him and Finlay, alone, on a dark night. Now he had left the confines of the keep, he was a target—vulnerable and on his own.

  Looking on as the laird paced across the barracks, Wallace reached for his dagger. This might be the only chance that he got.

  But just as he was about to follow the laird out of the doorway, a hand brushed him and settled on his shoulder.

  “Wallace?”

  The soft voice immediately got Wallace’s heart pumping. In terror, the lad turned around. Before him was an unexpected face.

  “Freya?” gasped Wallace. Even though he had been creeping around in the keep, he had not anticipated seeing her. “What are ye daein’ out of bed at this hour?”

  Freya simply regarded him with measured amusement.

  “Well, I could ask ye the same,” she said, casting her sparkling eyes sardonically over Wallace. “If I didn’t ken better, I’d think ye were up to nae good!”

  Wallace laughed self-consciously. “Och, nae!” he said. Then there was a pause. Freya’s eyes pressed for further explanation.

  Wallace’s mind turned somersaults, desperately trying to come up with a valid reason for being discovered creeping around the keep in the dead of night, but his mind drew a blank.

  Then, his stomach answered for him, letting out a long, embarrassing rumble.

  “Och, I see. Well, laddie, the kitchens are an awfu’ long way from here!” she twinkled, evidently amused by his subterfuge.

  “Ah, right. I, um, was only after a small piece,” muttered Wallace hesitantly. Freya took his hand and tugged him in the direction of the castle’s kitchens.

  “Fill yer boots!” Freya laughed, opening the creaking oak door to the vacant kitchen.

  “Egad!” Wallace exclaimed. Despite himself, as the door flung open, he could not help but marvel; this was undoubtedly the biggest kitchen he had ever seen. Although this wasn’t saying much, as his mother’s cooking facilities consisted of a single pot. “It’s so big!”

  Freya just laughed and led him across, past the fireplace, with the gleaming pots and pans. The heat from the fire could still be felt, although it had been extinguished by the scullery maid many hours ago.

  Wallace looked about hungrily, as Freya led them both down into the pantry, which ran adjacent to the kitchen. Under the flickering candlelight, Wallace’s mind raced, trying to get his bearings. Before seeing Finlay there, he had been about to sneak upstairs to the laird’s bedchamber.

  But now, as Freya poured him a cool ale and cut a generous slab of beef, an uncomfortable feeling passed through him. If he had gone ahead with his ambush of Finlay, then Freya would have walked in on him. At the thought of such a horror, Wallace almost choked on a lump of gristle.

  “Are ye alright, lad?” asked Freya, concerned. She patted him gently on the back, bringing a hefty burp up from the embarrassed lad.

  “Och, yes, ta,” Wallace murmured, his stomach clenched in stress. This was proving harder than he had thought it would be. Being unexpectedly ambushed by Freya had winded him somewhat.

  “Tuck in,” said Freya, as she sat watching the lad under the feeble light of a small candle. “Take it; take some more besides,” said Freya generously, also cutting him a fat slice of game pie, which she’d found hidden in a cupboard at the back of the larder.

 
A rush of guilt consumed Wallace, coloring his hot cheeks an ever-deeper shade of red. Deep inside him, he struggled to reconcile the kindness that this girl showed to him with the facts of who she was.

  She was the daughter of the man who had killed his father, and he was here for vengeance—for his mother, his father, for them all. But seeing Freya’s laughing face in the shadows, Wallace felt a deep grip of something he had never felt before—deeper than pity and more overwhelming than shame; a desire rushing through him for this lively maid. He might have stayed trapped in the moment, had Freya not exclaimed, “Ye look in need o’ a big bowl of porridge!”