Quest of the Highlander (Crowns & Kilts Book 5)

by Cynthia Wright

  “I couldn’t say,” protested Fi. “I’ve never seen it before! It appears to have been hidden inside a secret compartment.”

  “Hidden, perhaps, but not by a Viking, unless doublets came into fashion much sooner than I thought.” Lennox recoiled from the direction his thoughts were taking, but couldn’t stop himself from saying, “This silver casket belonged to Ma.”

  Fiona picked up the lock of hair and held it next to his. The strands varied in hue from tawny to pale gold. “I’d swear this was cut from your head. I’ve never met another MacLeod with hair quite like this.”

  Turning to Ciaran, Lennox saw his brother’s face go pale. “Ye know who this is! I can see it in your face.”

  “I do not!”

  “By God, do not deceive me. Since we were bairns, I could always see it when a secret passed over your face.”

  Fiona stepped between them. “Ciaran, is this true? Do you know who this man is?”

  “Nay.” In a low tone of dread, he added, “But… I can guess.”

  “Ye must tell me, then.” Lennox’s heart was pounding as he grasped the front of his brother’s shirt and stared hard into his eyes. “I deserve to know!”

  “Aye.” Ciaran swallowed. “Ye should know the truth. But there is so much pain that comes with it.” He paused, sighed deeply, and continued, “Ma quarreled with Da when I was a bairn, and she took me away for a season or more. Later, when I was older, Ma revealed that ye were conceived during that time. Da has always loved ye as a son, but—”

  Lennox’s heartbeat filled his chest and echoed in his ears. Sweat broke out on his brow as he struggled to translate what seemed to be a foreign language. “Are ye saying that I am no MacLeod after all?”

  Pointing to the miniature, Ciaran said raggedly, “I suspect this man is your true father.”

  Fiona had come up behind Lennox, wrapping her arms around his chest. “This changes nothing,” she said, and began to weep.

  “How can ye say that?” Outrage boiled up in him. Turning, he held her at arm’s length. “It changes everything! I am not truly one of you. I don’t belong here. No wonder I have always felt it, deep inside. Perhaps I have always known the truth but couldn’t face it.”

  “You are still our brother!” cried Fiona. “And the bonds between us run deep. We have shared our lives, Lennox MacLeod! Nothing can change that.”

  “I cannot speak of that now. Ye must see how my life has been turned on end by this news.” Lennox pointed again at the face that so closely resembled his. “Who is this?”

  “Truly, I know not,” insisted Ciaran. “And Da swears he does not know.”

  “Why did ye not tell me?” The notion that the two of them had been sharing this secret, holding it from him, discussing it behind his back, filled Lennox with an indescribable rage and frustration. “Would ye have let me go to my grave believing this lie about my own life?”

  Ciaran began to pace, and Fi led Lucien away to the table, where she gave him a small dish of porridge. Lennox knew he should not have carried on in front of his little nephew, but a storm was raging inside him.

  “I could not bring ye such pain,” Ciaran replied at last. “I agonized over it with Violette. I feared one day the truth would come out, but I dreaded that time.”

  “So even Violette knew.” Lennox clenched his jaw and demanded, “Who else?”

  “Ma, obviously.” Ciaran winced slightly. “And Grandfather.”

  “Ach.” Lennox felt sick. “That explains it.”

  No one asked what he meant, for they must have known full well the subtle ways Grandfather had held Lennox at arm’s length. He’d told himself he didn’t care about winning the favor of the powerful clan chief, since he had no interest in becoming a true Highland warrior. If Grandfather had ordered him to take a position of power within the clan, Lennox would have refused, so he told himself it was all just as well that he was overlooked. Excluded. Not that Grandfather or Da were cold to him, but they’d always seemed rather relieved each time he announced he was going away.

  At least I now understand why I never felt comfortable in this world, Lennox thought. And yet his eyes stung, and his heart ached.

  When Ciaran pressed a cup of whisky into his hands, he drank, welcoming the sudden burn, the spreading glow, the easing of his torment. After a long minute of silence, Lennox said, “Ye have kept the truth from me since we were lads. How can I now believe that ye do not know who my father is?”

  Together, they stared at the miniature. “I want to swear on our bond as brothers, but no doubt that would cause ye to scoff,” Ciaran replied ruefully. “I can only tell ye what I know.”

  Fiona spoke up quietly from her seat at the table with Lucien. “I want to hear this as well. If there has been a secret, all our lives, I knew nothing of it!”

  Ciaran pressed a hand to his eyes. “When Ma took me away with her, I was so young, I can scarcely remember it—except that I was frightened. I remember being inside a great castle with Isbeil, our nurse, but little else.” He threw up his hands. “Ye may believe me or not, but I speak the truth.”

  Lennox turned to look at Fiona. “Isbeil never spoke to you of this while she was alive? Ye were closer to her than any of us.”

  “Nay!” she exclaimed, meeting his gaze. “And you well know Isbeil would have died before betraying any secret our mother kept.”

  “Then I must go to Dunvegan and demand the truth from Da. He doubtless knows more than he has revealed.”

  Ciaran seemed to swallow a protest. “All right, then. I will come as well.”

  “And so will we.” Fi stood up, holding little Lucien, and put out her chin defiantly. “Do not refuse me. I am still your sister!”

  Although Lennox wished he could use his pain to build a protective wall around himself, he was glad for Ciaran and Fiona’s support. They were, after all, the only family he had ever known.

  Chapter 2

  The morning’s wet, gray clouds had gusted away, and now a sunny breeze pushed Lennox’s small galley over the waters of Loch Dunvegan. In the distance, he spied the great rocky pedestal that held Dunvegan Castle aloft like an ancient crown. Adjusting the sail, Lennox glanced back at his family members. How many times over the years had the three siblings sailed together in this very boat, laughing, talking, utterly at ease as they approached their clan MacLeod stronghold? Now, however, he clearly saw how different he was from them. It was impossible to remain blind to the truth: Lennox stood out like a hound among a flock of sheep.

  “Mind the rocks,” warned Ciaran as he took the tiller. “Your thoughts are clearly elsewhere.”

  High on the stony plateau, guards were posted outside the castle’s sea-gate, but they waved at the sight of the three MacLeods. When Ciaran had brought the galley onto the shore and helped his sister and nephew to disembark, Fiona turned to Lennox.

  “Will you please carry Lucien?” Her blue gaze was penetrating.

  It pained him to look at the wee lad, for it felt as if the newly-revealed secret had carved out a gulf between them. “Aye.” Lennox opened his arms to the smiling bairn, forcing himself to smile in response. Lucien thought of him as his easy-going, kindhearted uncle, who was always ready to laugh and hoist him high into the air. Nay, Lennox could not punish the child for the sins of adults.

  Lucien leaned trustingly against his uncle’s broad shoulder and reached for the clan MacLeod badge affixed to his cap. Since he was a babe, Lucien had been drawn to the badge, and it had become a ritual between them. Often, Lennox detached it from the woolen bonnet and gave it to him to hold, but not today.

  Today, the very thought of the Hold Fast insignia was like a dagger in Lennox’s heart.

  When they had ascended the carved stone steps, passed through the sea-gate, and entered the shelter of the castle’s outer courtyard, Fiona came closer.

  “Wait.” She caught his sleeve. “I beg you, do not harden your heart against your family.”

  “Do ye imagine I can behave as
if nothing has happened?”

  “Lennox MacLeod, you are still my brother, even if it’s only Ma and a lifetime of shared memories that bind us together. I have not forgotten the words our mother spoke to you on her deathbed.”

  “I cannot bear to feel this now,” he said in a ragged whisper.

  Fi leaned closer, forcing him to look at her. “She called you her ‘beautiful lion’ and begged that you guard your tender heart.”

  “Can ye not see, everything I thought was real was a secret. A lie. I would be a fool to smile as before and open my heart to those who hid the truth.” He sent a fiery glance toward Ciaran, who was watching them from a short distance away. “Tell me ye know this, Fi.”

  She drew a shaky breath. “Aye. But Lennox—”

  “I’m going now to speak to Da and Grandfather.”

  “I have never heard so cold a voice from you,” Fiona protested. “When all the other men have buried their feelings, I could always count on you to show kindness. Caring. Tenderness.”

  Lennox shook his head. “I cannot feel anything now except pain—and anger.”

  With that, he set Lucien down to play with two of his little cousins and strode on ahead of the others, into the castle. He soon found his father in the cavernous hall, immersed in a game of chess with his half-brother, Tormod.

  Magnus lifted a weathered hand in greeting but did not look up from the ancient chessboard. Just two years ago, after the loss of their family castle to clan MacDonald, he had been a shell of his former self. His gradual return to health had been a source of deep satisfaction to Lennox, but all those warm feelings now seemed spoiled.

  “I would have a word with ye and Grandfather,” Lennox said without preamble. Even as he spoke, he realized with a shock that Alasdair Crotach was not his grandfather any more than Magnus was his da.

  “In a bit,” Magnus replied absently, fingering the berserker, one of the ancient ivory chess pieces carved from a walrus tusk. “I am on the verge of conquering Tormod for the second time today.”

  Ciaran approached the table and cleared his throat. “Da. Stop what ye are doing. This matter is more important.”

  This deliberate show of support from Ciaran only increased Lennox’s feelings of harsh confusion. Without a backward glance, he started toward the spiral staircase that led up to Alasdair Crotach’s chamber. He could anticipate every worn place in the broad stone steps, every arrow-slit window that let in the damp breeze from Loch Dunvegan, for he’d climbed these stairs since he was no bigger than Lucien.

  Arriving in the clan chief’s bedchamber, Lennox saw that the old man was sitting up in a chair, a warm plaid wrapped around his bony shoulders. He had lived more than nine decades and was the oldest person Lennox had ever known. It seemed to the proud members of clan MacLeod that Alasdair Crotach might never die.

  “I was near asleep,” the old man said in a raspy voice.

  Ciaran came to stand on Lennox’s right side, and Fiona appeared on his left.

  “Grandfather,” Ciaran said loudly, “Lennox wishes a word with ye.”

  Magnus came into the room then, still holding the berserker chess piece. “What the devil is this all about? I don’t trust Tormod to leave the board undisturbed!”

  Lennox raised a warning hand at Ciaran. “I do not need ye to speak for me.” He looked at Fiona. “Both of ye, leave us.”

  Fi again looked stricken, but she tugged at Ciaran’s sleeve and said, “We must do as our brother bids.”

  When they went out, Lennox closed the heavy door behind them and gestured for Da to take a seat on the bench near Alasdair Crotach’s chair. Both men were now regarding him warily. The emotions that surged inside Lennox, like fire in his heart, were so unfamiliar he felt a moment of terror.

  “I know now that I am not a MacLeod by blood, and ye two have kept this secret all my life.” he said harshly. “Today, I demand the truth.”

  Magnus’s hazel eyes widened with shock. “How did ye learn this?”

  Reaching into the leather pouch he kept belted to his plaid, Lennox withdrew the miniature and thrust it in front of them. “Ma had hidden this in the base of that silver casket she gave Fi before her death. We discovered it today.”

  All three of them stared at the exquisitely-painted miniature of the man in the jewel-trimmed doublet, who looked exactly like Lennox. The rasp of Alasdair Crotach’s breathing filled the tower room, while the blood drained from Magnus’s face.

  “So, that must be your true da,” Grandfather said at last. “A nobleman, from the look of him.”

  The words cut straight to Lennox’s heart. His true da. With a glance, he saw that Magnus’s eyes were wet. “’Twould seem so,” he agreed, wishing he could feel as hard as his voice sounded. “Who is it?”

  Grandfather glanced away. “If ye came here expecting me to have these answers, ye have wasted a journey.”

  It stung that Alasdair Crotach could dismiss this event that had shaken the very foundations of Lennox’s existence, yet it was not surprising. The old man had not maintained his rule of their clan for seven decades by dispensing kindness and sympathy.

  Lennox deliberately turned away from his grandfather, toward Magnus. “What have ye to say, Da? I know ye have held this secret every day of my life. If ye care for me at all, prove it by telling me the truth.”

  “I… I am as stunned as ye are to see that man’s face. It brings back a deep pain I’d thought was in the past,” Magnus said, his voice raw. “Lad, I have always loved ye as a son, for I thought ye were mine until after your fourth birthday.”

  Lennox pulled up a wooden stool, sat down, and stared at him. “Tell me everything.”

  “Ach! Ye would think no other bastard had e’er been born in all of Scotland!” scoffed Alasdair Crotach with a wave of one gnarled hand. A sudden warning glance from Magnus caused him to draw a wheezing breath and fall silent.

  Magnus addressed Lennox in beseeching tones. “I know how much ye loved your ma. I feared it would break your heart to know she had been untrue to me…and that I was not your true da.”

  “That is a poor excuse for living a lie and keeping me in ignorance.” Lennox leaned forward, filled with a steely resolve. “Tell me.”

  “Aye, I will, but I only know part of the story.” Magnus coughed. “I accept my share of blame for your ma taking Ciaran and leaving Skye. She was very angry with me.” His face went red with shame. “I dallied with a kitchen maid, and Ellie walked in on us. I was a fool.”

  “Where did she go?” he pressed.

  Magnus shook his big head. “She would not tell me—or speak to me at all. Her nurse, Isbeil, brought a brother to travel with them in one of our galleys. The day they sailed away, with little Ciaran sitting between them on the bench, I thought my heart would break.”

  Lennox mulled this over, imagining the scene and Magnus’s despair as he stood on the cliff outside Duntulm Castle and watched his family depart. Yet there must be more to the story. His mother, Eleanor, had been a strong, kind woman, and it surprised him that she would walk away without giving Da a second chance. “How long were they away?”

  “The full summer. When Ellie returned, she said she came back to me because she’d discovered she was with child and knew we must restore our family bond. I was overjoyed and did not question the notion that ye had been conceived before we parted. Later, when ye were born, everyone agreed ye resembled the long-dead, distant Viking ancestors of clan MacLeod.”

  Grandfather hacked up some phlegm, as if offering his opinion of that theory.

  “And then what happened?” pressed Lennox.

  “We were happy, all of us. Years passed.” Magnus sighed deeply. “One day, I discovered a letter hidden in your ma’s things. It was filled with words of love.” He pointed an accusing finger at the miniature. “From him.”

  Lennox’s heart pounded with a mixture of dread and anticipation. “And what name was signed to this letter?”

  “No name. Only an initial. R, I
think. And no matter how I raged, she would not reveal to me his identity.”

  Lennox’s mind spun at the thought of all the men in Scotland with a surname or Christian name starting with R. It was a useless clue! “How can I believe you truly do not know more than this?” He wanted to grab Da and shake the answers out of him. “Swear to me!”

  “Lad, I swear on the robe of St. Columba, on the memory of your beautiful mother, that I do not know who that man is.” Magnus swiped a hand across his eyes and pointed at the miniature again. “If I could tell ye, I would. But there is one thing I can say…”

  Lennox felt a spark of hope that Da would actually divulge a secret. “Go on.”

  “Ye may have that man’s blood, but I raised ye, Lennox MacLeod. I was the one who made a home for ye and taught ye to sail, to hawk, the way to wrap your first clan tartan.”

  “That’s well enough, but all of it pales next to the truth,” Lennox whispered. “I have felt for years that I was different from the rest of the clan, but I couldn’t understand why. Now I do.” Lennox paused to stare at Alasdair Crotach, who looked back under hooded lids. “This is the reason I have not been given a proper clan brooch, is it not?” He pointed to the circular brooch that fastened Grandfather’s plaid to his linen shirt. It featured the MacLeod bull’s head in the center and was inscribed with the clan motto: Hold Fast.

  Before Alasdair Crotach could speak, Magnus interjected, “Perhaps ye have forgotten that I too was misbegotten? I have spent my manhood standing in line behind the legitimate offspring of my own da, taking the leftover scraps tossed to me by William, Tormod, and the others.”

  “But it’s all different!” raged Lennox. “Ye are the natural son of the chief of clan MacLeod!” He pointed to the brooch that gleamed at Magnus’s shoulder. “Ye have every right to wear this, as does Ciaran. Your place in this family is rightful, but I am not even a true Highlander. Ma was born near Edinburgh.” Lennox brandished the miniature. “And this fancy fellow looks more like a member of the royal court than any Highlander we know!”