“Laird and Chieftain Latharn MacUisdean,” the man said, giving him a respectful bow. “I’m Gormal; I’ve been the one corresponding with ye.”
"Gormal," Latharn said, giving the man a wide smile, though he felt disconcerted at Gormal already referring to him as laird and chieftain.
Gormal had once served as a close advisor to his father. He’d fled MacUisdean lands after his murder and had taken up work as a steward in the manor of a noble on the adjoining lands of Clan Creagach. He’d known Latharn’s adoptive parents, and was one of the few people who’d known that he was alive. His uncle had killed his older brothers, and it was assumed that Latharn, who'd been just a babe, had died, but his birth mother had managed to smuggle him out of the castle.
Latharn had contacted Gormal by letter after learning of his true identity; Gormal had arranged to secretly house Latharn on the outskirts of MacUisdean lands as he prepared to gather men over to his side.
“Many of us have never given up hope that ye'd return tae claim yer birthright,” Gormal was saying now. “Welcome home, my laird.”
Latharn had to stop himself from correcting Gormal, reminding himself that the title was his birthright—the title he’d come to claim.
“I thank ye,” Latharn said gruffly.
"This is Horas, he'll serve as yer guard until ye have more men on yer side," Gormal said, gesturing to the man who had taken his horse.
Latharn stilled in surprise as Horas stepped forward, withdrawing his sword and kneeling before him, giving him a solemn look.
“As yer father had my sword, ye’ll have mine,” Horas pledged.
Latharn just gave him a nod, uncertain of how to respond to such fealty.
“And this young lassie is Aoife, she'll serve as yer personal maid until ye're back in the castle where ye belong,” Gormal said, gesturing to a mousy, straw-haired lass who hovered by the entrance of the cottage.
Latharn almost wanted to tell Gormal that he didn't need a personal maid but held his tongue. He would soon have a host of servants; it was something else he'd have to get used to.
“’Tis not much,” Gormal said apologetically, as he escorted Latharn inside the cottage. “I had to give up my finer home once yer father was overthrown; my family and I once lived here. My wife and I now live in our grown son's former home; he moved down tae Edinburgh. My wee bairns have all grown, but I’ve kept this cottage for their use when they come tae the Highlands.”
Latharn took it in. It consisted of a large main room with a hearth and an area for dining, two other doors that led to small bedrooms, and a shuttered window.
“’Tis more than enough,” Latharn said, waving away his apology. It relieved him that he was staying in a simple home; it was what he was used to. He had grown up in a cottage that didn’t look too different from this one.
“’Tis not what ye deserve as our true laird,” Gormal returned, with a fierce scowl. “I will do whatever I can tae help ye; ye have my word. A man I trust has taken over my post while I work with ye tae reclaim yer titles. Yer parents—the ones by birth, and the ones who adopted ye—were good people. ’Tis an honor tae help their son claim his birthright.”
Gormal gave him another reverential look; Latharn made himself hold his gaze. Would he ever get used to such unbridled loyalty—the same loyalty he’d shown the man he’d served, Artair Dalaigh, during his years as a servant? He knew from what his mother had told him that his birth father was a good man: a strong warrior, admired and revered. How could he hope to follow such a man? A man he’d never known?
Ye will, he told himself. Ye must. He needed to push aside his stirrings of doubt and act the part of a leader, even if he didn't yet feel like one. It was what he needed to do if he expected men to follow him.
“I thank ye,” he repeated, wishing he had something more profound to say. “Once I get settled, I’ll need tae speak tae—”
“I’ve already handled it,” Gormal interrupted. “As soon as I got yer letter, I started tae plan. There was contention over which of Steaphan’s sons would become laird; many in the clan whisper of Padraig’s cruelty. I feared there would be a battle over it. But the lairdship went tae Padraig, the oldest son, despite his lack of honor. I’ve kept yer arrival hidden; Padraig doesnae ken ye’re here, and I’ll make certain it remains that way until ye're ready tae fight him for yer titles. A clan noble by the name of Baigh—who’s still loyal tae yer father—will visit ye here on the morrow. I’ve also arranged for a couple of servants I ken at the castle tae spy on yer behalf. Ah, we have much tae do, my laird. But for now, I urge ye tae rest. Aoife has already prepared yer bed and will make ye a meal,” Gormal said. “And Laird MacUisdean,” he continued, his voice wavering with emotion, “’tis good tae have ye home.”
Latharn felt overwhelmed by this onslaught of information, but merely gave him a polite nod. Gormal left him alone after giving him another bow, and Aoife began to silently move about the small cooking area to prepare him a meal.
Resisting the urge to help her, Latharn moved over to the window, opening the shutters to look out at the lands that was his by birthright: vast glens lightly bit by frost, a line of forests on the horizon, snowcapped mountains in the distance.
If he succeeded, he would rule over these lands and the people who dwelled here. MacUisdean Castle would be his. Again, doubt constricted his chest. There was much he needed to learn about the intricacies of leadership. He had watched his laird Artair Dalaigh run his manor and the people who worked for him. He'd learned to fight under Artair's tutelage and then with the MacGreghor clan. But it wasn't enough to know how to fight, to have observed a fine leader. How could he learn to be a laird and chieftain when he’d only known life as a servant who followed others?
He thought of the family he’d always known: his adopted parents, who’d loved him as fiercely as if he were their own blood, and his four younger siblings—Crisdean, Iain, Anabal, Sineag. He was the closest to his younger brother Crisdean; he’d only told Crisdean his true name and what he intended to do. He’d made him swear not to tell their siblings yet. Latharn knew that all of them, even his two sisters, would want to fight on his behalf. But they had their own lives now, and he wouldn’t allow any of them to come to harm on his behalf.
Latharn looked down, gripping the silver-gilded brooch he’d pinned to his tunic.
“It belonged tae yer birth father," his adopted mother had told him, when she’d given it to him. "A gift from his father, and his father before him. Yer birth mother wanted me tae give it tae ye when the time was right."
He fingered the delicate filigree design of the brooch, wishing he could recall anything about his birth parents or the brothers who’d died. His mother had given him as much details as she could: his parents liked to laugh together, they were deeply in love despite their marriage being an arranged one. His father had been formidable yet well liked; his mother made certain that the castle servants were well cared for, especially during the harsh winters of the Highlands. His brothers, who were still lads when Steaphan had them murdered, had been fine hunters and jovial lads who enjoyed making their parents smile with their jests.
But hearing about those details didn't compare to having known them himself. Rage pulsed within him; if only he’d always known whom he truly was. If only he could have properly avenged his parents and killed Steaphan MacUisdean before he'd died of natural causes and old age—instead of spending his years in servitude.
Ye can avenge them by claiming the titles they bestowed upon ye, he told himself. Ye can still make them proud.
He returned his gaze to the lands that stretched beyond the cottage. The task that lay before him was daunting, but he would succeed. There was no other choice.
He would succeed in claiming his birthright—or die trying.
Chapter 3
Evelyn’s back ached as she scrubbed the wooden counters, fighting to keep her eyes open. It had taken her hours to get to sleep; three of the chambermaids had gossiped th
roughout the night, and the straw of her bed pallet had dug painfully into her skin. She’d briefly fantasized about her plush, twenty-first century king-sized mattress, paired with a fluffy comforter and pillow.
But she’d pushed away the thought. Her mother, as if sensing that Evelyn would one day journey to the past on her own, had taken a young Evelyn on many camping trips and encouraged her natural athleticism. Evelyn had spent countless nights on hard earth in uncomfortable sleeping bags. Sleeping on a hard pallet was something she could get used to, and she’d already observed what life was like in this time.
During her first solo trip to the past, she’d spent a couple of weeks in the year 1382, absorbing the ins and outs of the fourteenth century, staying in an inn where she’d told the curious—and suspicious—innkeeper that she was awaiting her husband. Attempting to locate her father’s family was out of the question; her mother had told her they’d never approved of him marrying a Sassenach and had refused to even acknowledge their marriage.
She'd taken in day-to-day life with awe: peasants tending to their farms, merchants hawking their wares at the markets, the strange timbre of their accents. She'd taken in everything she could about the time period, knowing she'd one day return. Though she knew she was far better off in her own time—healthier and better educated—she couldn't help but wonder what her life would have been like in this time. Would she be married already with children of her own? Would she be the lady of a manor if her father hadn’t been murdered? What would she spend her days doing?
Evelyn took a break from scrubbing, wiping her brow and forcing her thoughts back to the present. She just needed to get to the bastard who had killed her father, Steaphen MacUisdean, and make certain she hand delivered him a meal doused with the hemlock she’d brought. After she told him who she was and watched him succumb to the poison, she could return to her own time, secure in the knowledge that she’d destroyed the man who'd destroyed her parents.
Once the counters gleamed, she dropped her rag into a small bucket, casting a subtle glance around. She needed to find out where he was in the castle—and learn his schedule. No one had spoken of the laird since she’d arrived; she’d have to get someone to talk. She needed, she grudgingly admitted to herself, to make friends. Preferably with one of the gossipy chambermaids who popped into the kitchens every once in a while.
As if on cue, one such chambermaid, a petite brunette named Aimil, entered the kitchens, her face flush with excitement. Aimil approached one of the kitchens maids, a sour-faced woman named Marsail, as she chopped and prepared a pile of vegetables for a stew.
“I overheard two of the stable boys talking,” Aimil told Marsail in a low whisper.
Evelyn lowered to her knees to scrub the floor, her ears pricked.
“Aye?” asked Marsail, not sounding remotely interested.
“Aye. They were saying that Laird Seoras MacUisdean’s son has returned—and he’s staying somewhere on MacUisdean lands.”
“All of the former laird’s sons are dead,” Marsail returned, still sounding bored. “They’ve been dead for years. Everyone kens that.”
“Not so. They’re saying the youngest son—Latharn MacUisdean,” Aimil continued, her whispered voice dropping even lower, “was smuggled away when he was a babe. Laird Steaphan assumed the babe was dead; he never kent the lad was alive and went tae his grave thinking so. But somehow, Latharn lived—and now he’s back tae claim his title from Laird Padraig.”
Marsail snorted. “Yer gossip used tae at least be truthful, Aimil. ’Tis not possible that—”
“Ye both need tae get back tae yer duties,” Floraidh interrupted. “There’s enough work tae be done without yer gossiping.”
Aimil scurried out of the kitchens, and Marsail resumed her chopping, but Evelyn had gone still, her heartbeat thundering so loudly that for a ridiculous moment she wondered if the others could hear it.
Two revelations in under five minutes. Steaphan MacUisdean was dead; his son Padraig had taken over. Latharn MacUisdean, his nephew and the rightful heir—was alive.
She'd tried to find any records on Steaphan MacUisdean during this time frame, but she’d found nothing, coming here on the hope that he was still alive. She thought that she’d feel more regret, more frustration over the fact that he was already dead. But relief swelled within her.
Deep down, she didn’t think she was capable of poisoning someone, even if that someone deserved it. Shame roiled through her gut; she’d never told her mother that she planned to kill Steaphen MacUisdean. She could only imagine her mother’s disappointment in her had she known. But the knowledge that he was already dead in this time lifted a weight from her shoulders.
Her thoughts shifted to Latharn MacUisdean. His name had come up many times during her mother’s stories about the past. Her parents had been friends with Latharn’s parents—her father had died in the same coup that had ultimately killed Latharn’s parents and forced her mother’s return to the present.
Her mother had told her that Latharn, who'd just been a baby at the time, had died along with his older brothers during the coup. If Aimil’s words were true, and Latharn was alive and had returned . . .
“What is the matter with my servants today?” Floraidh snapped, pulling Evelyn from her haphazard thoughts. “Why are ye just sitting there like a fool, Eibhlin? Get over here and help prepare the stew.”
Evelyn obliged, her mind still racing. As she worked, she recalled the sadness and anger in her mother’s voice when she’d spoken of the betrayal of Seoras MacUisdean. If Latharn had come to MacUisdean lands, he could only be here to claim his birthright. Since Steaphan MacUisdean was already dead, perhaps she could avenge her father in a different way—by removing Steaphan's son from power and helping Latharn take his rightful place as laird and chieftain.
She helped one of undercooks sort dried barley into several boiling pots for cooking, her hands shaking as she worked. She needed to find out more information from Aimil. As a chambermaid, she could only guess that Aimil spent most of her time on the upper floors. Evelyn didn’t want to risk waiting until night when the other servants were nearby. She needed to get Aimil alone and question her.
But how? She looked around, noticing a male servant struggling with a sack of grain—the same man who'd confronted her when she'd first come to the castle. Taking a deep breath, she approached and helped him lift the sack. He scowled, looking insulted at her assistance.
“I can handle this, lass,” he grunted.
“It looks tae me like ye’re struggling with it,” she returned. She gestured behind her at the busy servants. “The others are busy with their tasks; no one cares that a lassie's helping ye." As he continued to scowl at her, she expelled a sigh. “I can make it look like I’m struggling and ye’re helping me—not the other way around—if yer pride willnae allow ye tae accept my help.”
The man's lips twitched, and Evelyn could have sworn it was a smile, before it was gone again. He nodded and gave her a grunt of agreement.
Together, they made their way out of the kitchens. Once they deposited the sack of grain in the waiting cart in the courtyard, he muttered his thanks and introduced himself as Tulach.
“There are three more sacks I could use help with,” he continued, with a sheepish look.
“I’m happy tae help,” Evelyn said with a grin, and this time, Tulach openly returned her smile.
As they carried out another sack of grain, she spotted two broad-shouldered men sweep out of the great hall. A retinue of servants and nobles alike trailed them. She nearly dropped her half of the sack. They were either high-ranking nobles—or Steaphan's sons and heirs, Padraig and Neacal. They were both dark-haired, with the same sharp, angular features.
One of the men, the taller of the two, turned. His eyes met hers, and she froze. His stormy gray eyes were hard as they trailed up and down her body in a way that made her skin crawl. She quickly averted her eyes, continuing down the corridor with Tulach.
W
hen she and Tulach deposited the second sack of grain into the waiting cart, he turned on her with a scowl.
“Ye need tae be careful, lass,” Tulach hissed.
“Wh—what?”
“I ken it wasnae yer intention, but ye donnae want tae catch Padraig’s eye,” he said. “Ye’re a bonnie lass. That’s all I’ll say.”
Evelyn stared at him, a slow burning rage filling her gut. Tulach’s meaning was clear. His words told her all she needed to know about Steaphan’s sons.
Her mother had told her that Seoras MacUisdean showed his servants kindness; hence their loyalty to him. Steaphan’s sons had to have learned such behavior from somewhere—their father. Her determination to find Latharn was renewed.
You’re not a twenty-first century woman. You’re a fourteenth-century humble servant, she reminded herself, as Tulach continued to hold her gaze.
“I’ll keep out of his way,” she said, forcing herself to look chastened, when she really wanted to tell him that Padraig would be lucky to be alive if he attempted to assault her, given the fight training she’d undergone in her time.
Tulach looked satisfied, and they resumed their tasks. This time, she kept a keen eye out for Aimil, spotting her during their third trip from the kitchens to the courtyard.
“There’s a message I need tae pass along tae Aimil. From Floraidh,” Evelyn told Tulach, thinking quickly.
Evelyn hurried after Aimil, trailing her into an empty chamber. Aimil whirled, yelping in startled surprise at the sight of Evelyn.
“What are ye doing in here?” Aimil demanded, pressing her hand to her heart. “Ye gave me a fright. Donnae ye work in the kitchens?”
Evelyn swallowed hard and closed the door behind her. She turned back to face Aimil, deciding to get right to the point.
“Aye, I do. I’m here because I need tae ken something. If Latharn MacUisdean is alive and on MacUisdean lands . . . I need ye tae tell me where he is.”
Latharn's Destiny: Highlander Fate Book Six Page 2