The Chieftain: A Highlander's Heart and Soul Novel

by Maeve Greyson

  “Oh, aye. 'Tis true.” Catriona’s quick agreement bolstered his spirits even more. She leaned toward him, her sweet smile lighting up her face. “Especially with ye and your brother weak as ye are from your wounds. A wise man would delay any travels 'til spring. The drifting snow in the passes can be verra treacherous.” She glanced away, turning aside as though checking on the servants cleaning the candlesticks lined along the top of the whisky cabinet. “We can only hope poor Calum returns home safe from wherever he’s gone.” Catriona’s tone did not convey the slightest sincerity or worry about her brother’s welfare.

  Alexander couldn’t help but laugh. “Agreed.”

  Since she’d been the one to speak the devil’s name, Alexander couldna resist prying. As they’d spoken each day, they’d worn through the words of polite niceties that were prim and proper, avoiding anything too personal. He tired of skating around the subject that truly piqued his interest. He wanted to know Catriona, and all that was her life. A pang of leeriness twitched through him. Was it ill-fated to get closer to the lass? Would that no' make his leaving all the more difficult? He swallowed hard and shoved the leeriness away. T’hell with it. He’d leave those worries for another day.

  “Tor Ruadh is a fine keep,” he said with a nonchalant wave of one hand toward the entire room.

  “I thank ye.” Although Catriona gave him a polite nod, Alexander didna miss the slight narrowing of her eyes accompanying her correct by society's standards response.

  “I understand your father is quite ill.” He’d ne’er been good at dancing around with words but he had to figure out a way to ask the woman why the blazes she hadna married and moved away from what appeared to be her own personal hell. He realized 'twas none of his affair but he wanted to know. Mayhap he could…help her. He’d heard rumors about Chieftain Gordon Neal and seen firsthand the cruelty of his son. Catriona still bore the fading bruise along her jawline that angered him every time he saw it.

  “Father has been unwell for some time. Seems to have started when my mother died.”

  “Mourning can do that to a soul.” Although Alexander doubted verra much that was what ailed the Neal chieftain—not if the rumors were true.

  “Doubtful. Mother died a little over nine years ago. Closer to ten.” Catriona frowned down at her folded hands nestled in her lap. A controlled sigh escaped her. “Some would say paying for one’s sins might cause one’s health to fade.” She cleared her throat and lifted her gaze, allowing it to follow the maids moving about the room sweeping and dusting. “But no matter. He bides his time in his rooms now, leaving everyone else in peace.”

  “Everyone but yourself.” Perhaps he shouldna have said that, but the words sprang forth as though he had little control of them. A sense of thankfulness washed across him when Catriona didn’t react, just acted as though she hadn’t heard him. “I’m surprised Calum hasna claimed the chief’s seat for his own.” She must no’ mind his prying. She hadna risen from her chair and stormed away. He had to find out more.

  Her scowl shifted to a perplexed look as she stared off into space. Catriona gave the barest shake of her head. “Calum willna cross Father—no' even in his ever-weakening state.” She turned and met Alexander’s gaze. “He fears him, I think, even now.”

  Alexander reached out, slid his fingers under Catriona’s forearm, then scooped up her hand and held it in his own. “Why are ye still here, Catriona? Why have ye no husband and children of your own?” There. He’d asked the question that had burned inside him, plaguing him more and more each day. He needed to know Catriona’s story.

  “I promised Mother I’d protect her clan.” Catriona stared down at her small pale hand that disappeared within his grasp. “I swore to it on her deathbed.”

  “Such a waste,” Alexander said then flinched. He’d not meant to speak the words aloud.

  Jerking her hand away, Catriona tucked it back into her lap. “An oath is an oath,” she said as she stared downward, head bowed as though in prayer. With a deep breath, she lifted her chin and gave him a look that sent a chill down his spine. “Besides—why would ye, a mercenary such as ye are, concern yourself with whether I’m wasted or no'? Ye will move on as soon as ye’re healed and the snow melts. Tor Ruadh and all who dwell within it will be forgotten.”

  She challenged him. He’d pried into her secrets, stirred her defenses, and now she challenged him. Time to tread with care. He shifted in the chair, laced his fingers over his middle, then tapped his thumbs together as he proceeded with caution.

  “Kindness is ne'er forgotten,” he said. He dared to meet her irritated stare. “Ye saved my life and the life of my kin. How could I ever forget such a thing?” He’d never forget her. Her kindness. Her caring. Her courageous fire. He kept his gaze locked upon her, memorizing every feature. The lustrous copper of her hair. The creaminess of her skin highlighted with a dusting of freckles. Those tempting curves. Such enticing softness. Her scent. Nay. He’d never forget her so long as he lived. “I’m indebted to ye, Catriona, and I thank ye for all that ye’ve done.”

  She didn’t say a word, just agreed with a polite nod and looked away.

  They sat in silence for what seemed like forever, their conversation stalled. Alexander cursed his ineptness at social chatter. If only I had Magnus’s gift with the lasses.

  Catriona cleared her throat. “Ye asked a great deal about myself, Alexander, but ye’ve told me verra little about your own life.” She gave him a smug look as though she’d baited a trap and felt sure he was doomed to step into it. “How did ye come by all those wounds that brought ye to my keep? Before ye woke from your fever, your brothers said ye were mercenaries but would no’ explain anything beyond that. They said ye would tell me.”

  “Aye. We are mercenaries for hire. 'Tis true.” He was too ashamed to tell her everything, but he’d tell her some. He owed her that much. “Unfortunately, with our latest quest, the odds were no' in our favor.”

  She watched him, silent as a judge. 'Twas clear she waited for him to continue so that she might weigh the truth of his words.

  “We come from Islay,” he said, staring down at his bandaged leg and the sickly bruised skin bordering the linen strips wrapped around his thigh. “Our clan, the MacCoinnichs, is gone.” It pained him to say such a thing aloud but there was no escaping the truth. “We, my brothers and two cousins, are some of the few of a once vibrant clan that made the best whisky ye ever placed upon your tongue.”

  “What happened?” Catriona asked in a hushed tone.

  “Putrid throat.” He remembered the malady well. The aching. The fever and then the sweats. Feeling as though well-honed blades had lodged in his throat. “My brothers, my cousins ye’ve met here, and only a handful of others survived.” He pulled in a deep breath and allowed it to ease out. “There wasna enough of us to bury the dead in proper graves. We did the best we could for them and remember them in our prayers, begging their forgiveness.”

  The soft, calming weight of Catriona’s light touch on his arm urged him on. Alexander nodded toward his men where they sat gathered at one of the long trestle tables on the other side of the room. “The seven of us agreed to band together and survive.” He shifted and looked at Catriona, his heart swelling at the compassion shining in her eyes. “The five or so others that withstood the scourge are scattered.” He shrugged with a shake of his head. “I reckon they’re settled now. Somewhere. 'Twas but a few distant cousins.”

  “I’m more than a little sorry for your loss.” Catriona squeezed his arm, her gentle understanding a balm to the wounds he’d never tended. She soothed his soul, somehow eased the painful memories. “But take heart—ye have your brothers. The lot of ye could rebuild Clan MacCoinnich. Who tends the land ye left behind?”

  “Campbells.” Alexander spit out the word. “The king gave it to them when they discovered the fate of Clan MacCoinnich.” 'Twas but another reason he and his brothers had jumped at the chance to serve the MacDonald of Islay, who was once known�
��and would always be known in Alexander’s mind—as Lord of the Isles.

  “M’lady?” A tall, stocky lass that looked stout enough to take up a sword and fight alongside any man came to a halt a few feet in front of them. “Mrs. Aberfeldy says Himself is ringing the bell for ye.”

  Catriona’s demeanor transformed. Gone was the kind, hopeful young woman, replaced by a tensed lass with dread straining her features. “Thank ye, Leona. Tell Mrs. Aberfeldy I’ll see to him right away.”

  The lass gave an obedient nod then lumbered off toward the kitchens.

  “I must go,” Catriona said, regret lending a heaviness to her tone. She rose from her chair, took a step forward, then paused and looked back at him.

  Alexander held his breath, unable to read her or discern what she was about to do.

  After stealing a glance around the room, Catriona darted to his side, pecked a quick chaste kiss to his cheek, and squeezed his arm again. “Ye can rebuild your clan, Alexander. Never give up hope when it comes to your kin.” Then she turned and fled before he could react.

  Alexander watched her scurry away, hand pressed to the side of his face she’d just kissed. “Never give up hope,” he repeated in a whisper. Hope. What dangers and heartache could something as simple as hope bring to a man’s life?

  Chapter 6

  “Nay, daughter. No light. Damn your callous heart! Ye ken how it pains me when I’m beset with the miseries. Bring me port and leave me be.”

  The stifling hot room reeked with the stench of rotting food, rancid wine and an overripe chamber pot. The thick noxious air spread a nasty greasiness throughout the space.

  Catriona ignored her father's pleas and yanked the heavy velvet curtain aside. She secured it to one side of the double set of windows, fastening it with a braided rope looped around an iron hook embedded in the stone wall. If not for the winter storm howling outside, she would’ve push the windows open wide for the relief of fresh air.

  With her basket balanced on her hip, she busied herself gathering empty bottles and soiled vessels littering the room. She spared a glance back at her sire. “The light of a winter morn is weak enough for your ailing, I reckon, and a bit a sunshine will aid in driving the miseries away.” She paused in her tidying and nodded toward the tray she’d placed on the table beside his bed. “Drink the tea. Elena steeped it extra strong this morn. 'Twill help ease the ache in your head.”

  Gordon Neal, chieftain of Clan Neal, shielded his eyes with one shaking hand while he made a weak attempt at pawing his other hand toward the tray. “Nay, ye have set it out of me reach, Catriona. I told ye me ailing is fearsome today. Why must ye test me so? Damned, if ye are no' as malicious as your vile witch of a mother.”

  “Verra true, Father. Catriona thinks only of herself. How many times have I told ye of her wickedness?” Calum said as he entered the lavish unkempt chamber. He strode to the side of his father’s bed and moved the tray to rest across the bleary-eyed man’s lap. “There now. Drink your tea and eat your parritch whilst it’s piping hot, aye?”

  A slow-burning rage simmered deep within Catriona like a cauldron about to boil over. Even though the ugly bruise along her jaw had faded, her thirst for revenge had not. Bastard. Alexander might have brought Calum to his knees for the unacceptable behavior but she’d yet to have her turn at teaching him a lesson. He had surprised her with the hit. She’d no' allow him that advantage again. He’d best shield his bollocks well. She was no timid maid afraid to fight back.

  A grunt escaped her as she hefted the basket filled with empty bottles and whisky skins over to Calum and dropped it square on his extended foot. Hard. With any luck, she’d smashed at least one of his toes. “Here. Take these to the larder when ye leave.”

  Calum wouldna dare lose his temper again and nor would he attempt any ill will toward her in front of their father. Father had looked almost fearful when he’d seen her bruise and sworn that Calum would be punished—horse-whipped, in fact. He’d mumbled something about Mother’s curse gaining strength and becoming worse if he didna take proper recourse. “Ye must never be touched,” he’d mumbled to her on more than one occasion. Then he’d always add, “Even though ye’re sorely hated and reviled.”

  Father had never attempted to hide the fact he despised her even more than he disliked his four sons. She figured that was the reason Mother had always bid her to lock her chamber doors. Perhaps Mother feared Father might try to kill his own children.

  Father's threat of a horse-whipping had not only been futile, but ill-timed. Calum had escaped punishment with his absence from the keep for over a fortnight, closer to a month even. But if dear brother lost his temper again, she felt sure Father would remember and react accordingly. Catriona blew out a heavy sigh. So hypocritical since the son had learned his cruel ways from the father. Sober, Gordon Neal was a brutish, indecisive man concerned with appearances and what others thought about him and his clan. He’d grown to depend on Catriona’s judgment regarding the managing and betterment of the clan but wanted everyone to think it was him. Drunk, Gordon Neal became vicious and tyrannical, treating everyone with the hatred and contempt he felt for himself.

  “Damn damn damn.” The Neal fretted and coughed, fluttering both hands above his bent shoulders as the entire contents of his breakfast tray dumped across the bed.

  “And that’s why ye dinna set the tray across his lap, fool.” Catriona hurried to mop up the spilled tea and parritch before it soaked through every layer of her father’s bedding.

  Calum didn’t respond. Just glared at her with contempt simmering in his eyes. He kicked aside the basket of empty bottles, strode over to the chamber door, and bellowed, “Orlie! In here now and tend to your master.” He slammed the door closed and blew out a disgusted breath. “Christ, this room stinks. What the hell do we feed those lazy maids for if they canna tend to their duties?” Facing Catriona, Calum jabbed a finger at her. “And I’m no' the fool in this room. I have news about your guests.”

  A chill stole across Catriona, twisting a knot of dread in her middle and prickling gooseflesh across her arms. Calum looked even more cold and calculating than usual. She hadn’t seen him since Alexander had choked him down to his knees. Where had he been and what in the name of all that was holy had he been doing? Calum had sworn revenge. Pray, what had he set in motion? She kept her brother in her sights as she gathered the upended teapot, bowl, and cup from her father’s bed and stacked them on the tray.

  “Dinna fill the tray over full next time and that willna happen, ye ken?” The Neal plucked at his linens with an agitated shake of his head. His thin legs worked back and forth beneath the covers, he struggled to scoot his skeletal frame closer to the edge and out of the path of the wet covers. He waved her away with an impatient jerk of his hand. “Leave it, girl, until Orlie comes. The bed be large. This edge be dry and the covers will dry soon enough. I’ll just lie here 'til then.”

  “Ye’ll do no such thing,” Catriona said, knowing he’d soon berate her for leaving him to lie in soiled bedclothes if she followed his orders. She turned to Calum where Duff and Hew, two of the devoted miscreants sworn to carry out his every cruel whim, had taken their posts beside him. With a tight hold of one of her father’s thin arms, she motioned toward his other arm. “Help me move him to his chair and one of ye see where Orlie’s gone to and fetch him to change the bedclothes and get our chieftain dressed, aye?”

  “I summoned the lazy wretch already. Did ye no' hear me? Where the hell is he?” Jerking a thumb toward the door, Calum sent Duff to find the servant then moved to his father’s other side. A look of disgust screwed his usual scowl even tighter. “Judas! He reeks of piss.”

  “I couldna make it to the chamber pot, boy. Dinna disrespect me, aye? I still be chief of this clan and master to ye. Ye will do as I order or rue the day. I’m no' too weak to punish ye, ye insolent bastard.” The frail old man, once tall and hulking, shuffled along between them, bent at the middle, his back humped between his shoulders
. They half-led, half-carried him to his prized wingback chair that Calum had brought for him all the way from England. Once they’d settled him in the chair, the balding man hugged and patted his bony arms around his middle with awkward jerking movements. “Stoke the fire and bring me a dram. 'Tis bitter cold in here. Be ye trying to kill me with a deathly chill?”

  Catriona fetched a clean wool blanket from the wardrobe, spread it across his knees, and tucked it up around his thin shoulders as she nodded toward the hearth. “The wrap will do ye. If we stoke the fire anymore, the soot will catch and burn down the keep as sure as we’re standing here. 'Tis already hot enough in here to roast a goose.”

  She straightened as Duff and Orlie entered the room. Without an attempt to hide her contempt, she clasped her hands at her waist and allowed herself a weary sigh. “Orlie’s here now to tend to him so speak your news, Calum. I can tell ye’re fair bursting at the seams with it.” Better get it in the open and face it head-on.

  “I want him to hear this,” Calum said as he pushed Orlie aside and took a stance in front of the Neal’s chair. He pointed at Catriona as he spoke. “Ye ken it was seven men she tricked ye into taking in right in the dead of winter, aye? Seven, mind ye. Extra mouths to feed. And some so injured that our stored herbs and tonics verra likely willna last 'til spring. I grant ye she didna tell ye all of that, did she?”

  “Not enough tonics?” the Neal muttered as he shifted his irritated squint-eyed gaze to his daughter. “Be the seven strangers drinking all our whisky and port, too?” The pale old man wet his thin lips and plucked at the folds of his blanket with trembling fingers. His head dipped and shook back and forth, stricken with the same tremors of his hands. “Why would ye trick me into doing such a thing, ye vile, useless girl? Why would ye risk the survival of our clan? We canna survive without our medicines. Be ye certain 'tis wise to house so many guests during the winter?”

  It took every ounce of self-control that Catriona possessed to keep a civil tongue in her head. She knew damn well that the keep’s supply of port, whisky, and ale was her father’s primary concern. A plan of reasoning came to her as her gaze lit on a small worn bible, a carved wooden cross, and several unlit candles on a small table in the corner. “I did it for the sake of your soul, Father. Be ye forgetting your scriptures? ‘Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares’ Hebrews 13:2." With his fear of her mother’s dying curse on his life and his diminishing health made all the worse by excessive drink, her father had become a very devout man when sober, fretting about the final destination of his soul with fear-filled obsession.