The Rebellious Red

by Rosamund Winchester

  The man raised his hands as if to show her he meant no harm. She snorted. Better than anyone, she knew harm came in all forms.

  It was why she’d never allowed herself a moment’s calm. Or peace.

  “I dinnae want yer bauble, lass, I only mean that I want tae know more ’bout where ye got it,” the man remarked, dropping his hands to wrap them around his completely full tankard.

  Narrowing her eyes, she answered, “I’ve always had it.”

  The man took her answer and swallowed, his expression thoughtful.

  “Do ye know where ye got it?” he asked, and she realized she was actually answering the man rather than placing a knife-point at his throat.

  “My parents,” she answered. Her parents…two people whose faces and names she couldn’t even conjure in her mind. “’Tis the only thing I have from them.” She swallowed down the circling sorrow, knowing it would offer nothing but darkness. “Why?”

  The man eyed her, his dark gaze taking in all that Rose allowed others to see. And, once again, his gaze dropped to her locket.

  “What if I told ye somethin’ ye dinnae know ’bout that bit o’ gold ’round yer neck?”

  She shrugged, using every bit of her self-control to keep from wrapping her fingers around the man’s neck.

  “You can say what you want, stranger. I won’t pay you a shilling.” She wouldn’t part with her hard-earned money for all the information in the world. Her gold was the only thing she could count on.

  What about the Rees? She shut off those thoughts with brutal precision. The Rees weren’t her blood, but they were more family than any blood relation she could remember, which was one single person: a father she only remembered in the moments before waking.

  “I dinnae want yer money, lass…” the man replied, his large hands rubbing at his chin.

  “Then what do you want?”

  “Nary a thing, lass. Naught but tae reunite a family…” The man stopped talking, and it felt as though the very breath in her chest froze, filling her body with ice and foreboding and fear.

  Fear was no better than remorse. It was useless. A weakness.

  I am never weak.

  “What do you mean, stranger?” Aye, what did he mean?

  The man’s lips quirked once more.

  “I’ve seen that image before, lass. The rose wound ’round the thorn. ’Tis the crest o’ a clan far north o’ here.”

  A clan in the north?

  “Scotland?” she asked, her heart pounding—and she didn’t know why.

  The man nodded. “Aye.”

  Rose looked down even as she lifted the locket from her cleavage for her own inspection. A rose, its stem twined around a thorn, the sharp end pointed directly at her heart.

  Suddenly, her body was heavy, the blood in her veins like lead. Her mind, her heart, her very soul, told her that moment was a break in the road, one that lead in one direction and the other, another.

  But which one to take?

  Swallowing her fear—that useless emotion—she drawled, “Tell me what you know.”

  Chapter Two

  Gleneden Castle

  Home of the Laird MacPherson

  Kinloch Rannoch, Scotland

  Dubhach “Thorn” MacPherson barely noticed the door to his study slamming shut as another lying schemer hurried away in a snit. As with the other women he’d vetted and dismissed over the last four years, since returning to Scotland, the woman had begged him to give her the chance to prove that she was who she said she was. There was no need for a second chance, though, and he’d told her so.

  They never got what they wanted…because he never got what he wanted.

  A grin curled his lips as he finished straightening his tartan. The pleats were perfect, though he still smoothed them with his hands. He didn’t know why, but since that morning, there had been an unruly nervousness suffusing his body. He couldn’t sit still, he couldn’t focus on any one thing, and he felt the overwhelming need to get on his horse and ride to the loch.

  Of course, as the laird, he couldn’t just leave, jaunting off to do whatever he wanted. He had a responsibility to his people, a responsibility that he took as seriously as death.

  Striding to the table beside the immense stone hearth, Thorn poured himself a sizeable amount of whiskey, raising the tumbler to his lips. The scent of it burned his nostrils, and he welcomed the burn. It was one of the few things lately that could clear the fog from his head. A fog he’d been fighting off since his father’s death.

  Sighing, Thorn eased his large frame into his oak and leather seat, kicking his feet out and stretching his long, thick legs out before him. The heat of the blazing fire warmed the soles of his feet, drawing the tension from him.

  At least for a short while.

  A loud knock on the door made him turn, calling for the blackguard to enter.

  His best friend and the biggest pain in his arse pushed the door open, stepping inside. He closed the door behind him and strode to where Thorn was lounging.

  “There was another one,” Garrick drawled, dropping into the high-backed chair on the other side of the hearth. He kicked his feet up, planting them on the pile of wood, and leaned back to peer at Thorn contemplatively. “We sent her on her way.”

  Thorn nodded, sighing, before leaning back in his own chair. Flexing his long, thick legs out before him, he took another gulp of whiskey, appreciating the burn as it slid over his tongue, down his throat, and into the hollow place in his chest.

  “Why didn’t you summon me?” Thorn asked, tipping his head to watch his friend’s expressions. For a man as brutal as Garrick was in battle, the fool couldn’t hide his thoughts worth a piss.

  Garrick sniffed. “Ye were already busy with the other lass, dinnae think ye’d be up tae it.”

  Thorn chuckled humorlessly. “Then you know me well, man. One a week is enough, but they are coming two to three every seven days now. ’Tis like they are crawling from a pit in the earth where schemers are grown.”

  Garrick arched an eyebrow, his lips thinning. Thorn knew the man disliked dealing with the flood of women who’d come to Gleneden over the last four years, but Garrick wasn’t the one who had to wade through the thickening sludge of women who’d come to his threshold, begging for an audience with him, only to tell him lies.

  “Are ye no’ tired of it?” Garrick asked, and Thorn chuckled again.

  “These women come here to lay claim to something they have no right to, lying to my face about who they are. Of course I am tired of it, but what choice do I have?” Aye, what could he do? Since his fourteenth year, he’d been promised to marry—a contract written, signed, and sealed between his father and his father’s closest friend. He’d been a mere lad when he’d first set eyes on the babe he would one day marry. “Ye are bound tae her, lad. And I have sworn tae her da that ye will make a wife o’ her and ye will protect her…” He could so easily remember his father’s commission: marry, protect.

  And I will not fail him.

  What did it matter that his betrothed had fallen overboard during a shipwreck or that she hadn’t been heard from in twenty-one years. He knew she’d survived—another survivor had helped her ashore before he’d fallen unconscious and lost sight of her—but he had no idea where to begin looking for her.

  And what a fool he’d been to ask for help finding her. Now, there were young women pounding on his door at all hours, seeking him out to tell him they were who he’d been searching for.

  Liars, the lot of them. Thankfully, it was easy enough to disprove their claims, but with every one sent on their way, another weight pressed down on his shoulders.

  “How many more do ye think will come?” Garrick asked, his shoulders drooping in fatigue.

  Suddenly, the weight pushed on him, squeezing a grunt from his chest. He closed his eyes, the burn of frustration behind his lids.

  “I am seeking my long-lost betrothed…” It had begun as a way to include his people in his search for the wo
man he was determined to marry. But, it had degenerated into something he couldn’t have possibly expected.

  He grunted again at the memory. His own bloody idiocy had utterly buggered him. He’d been a fool to think that he, a wealthy laird, could embark on his search for a wife and not have women eager for wealth and security see it as a challenge.

  “What if ye married someone ye know?” Garrick broke the tense silence, making Thorn’s head snap up.

  “You mean for me to marry your sister?” Thorn didn’t like what Garrick was suggesting.

  A look of horror passed over Garrick’s face. So, not his sister, Marbeth, then.

  “Ye, yerself, said that Briar is a fine lass, and she has been pinin’ after ye since she was nae taller than her da’s knee.”

  Briar MacPherson, with the long black hair, striking dark eyes, and curvy hips. Aye, he’d noticed her every once in a while, especially when she was throwing herself at him in those quiet moments when she could get him alone. So far, he’d fended her off, thinking she was more a distraction than a solution.

  “You mean that I would marry Briar to finally end the nightmare of turning away countless lasses who lie to my face at every opportunity?” Would that be so difficult, to marry, end the parade of schemers, and find some peace?

  Nay! Briar wasn’t the woman he’d been promised to marry. His father had practically written that marriage contract with his own blood…but his father was dead, and so was the man he’d sworn to.

  “I can smell yer thoughts from here, braithair,” Garrick remarked, his nose scrunched up as if he’d scented something repugnant. “Briar is a MacPherson, she will tend ye well. And then, ye could end the parade o’ tarts that have been turnin’ the castle intae a fair o’ horrors.”

  Marry to end it all. His body stiffened as the thoughts sank deep. It could work. Even as the voice crying out to honor his father rose, he silenced it. It was possible that, after twenty-one years, the lass he was promised to wed was already dead. Was it fair to him, to the future of his clan, to wait for someone who would never come, to search for someone he’d never find?

  Garrick’s eyes narrowed as if in consideration. “T’would have tae be a quick engagement, otherwise they will continue tae come, poundin’ on the door.”

  Thorn nodded, a smile slowly spreading over his face.

  Tapping his chin in thought, Thorn considered Briar. She was a lovely, buxom wench, the daughter of his father’s second cousin. She’d been raised in the castle after her father died at war with the MacDougals more than twenty years ago. Since his return, she’d acted as the chatelaine, and while she’d run the castle with swift and exacting efficiency, she wasn’t so skilled at hiding her jealousy. Every time a new “betrothed” came knocking, Briar’s dark eyes would glitter, her lips would thin, and she’d always be underfoot. In the beginning, he’d found it somewhat humorous, because he’d never considered her more than the daughter of a cousin. But, as the years wore on, he’d become inured to her antics.

  And now you are considering marrying the woman.

  She was lovely enough, already knew how to run his household…would it really be so difficult to bed her? To beget bairns with her?

  Sighing, he let the thoughts and questions stir in his mind until, finally, he said, “I will think on it. In the meantime, secure the castle gates. I am not in the mood for another night of fending off pretenders.”

  Garrick snapped a nod and departed.

  Left alone once more, Thorn retreated to his bed, lying down to stare up into the familiar ceiling overhead.

  “What if I make the wrong decision?” Just then, his mind surged with worries. What would his people think if he married someone other than the woman his father had bound him to all those years ago.

  Surely, they will understand. Little Rosette MacDeargh had been lost long ago, and the chances of her having survived on her own for so long were… He shuddered, once again feeling the prick of guilt at the thought of her tragic death. She and her family had been on their way to Wales, to him, when their ship had gone down.

  If that man were right, and he had pulled Rosette from the sea, there was always the slim chance that she could be found, that she could find her way home to Gleneden.

  Swearing, Thorn realized that he’d never been one to leave much to chance.

  Chapter Three

  Kinlochbern Castle

  Home of Laird MacDougal

  Two weeks later…

  The thick oak door held together by gleaming iron ties slammed shut, the sound reverberating throughout the great hall.

  Barton MacDougal, the captain of the guard, strode to the dais where his laird was sitting, finishing his late afternoon meal.

  Studying the man as he approached, Malcolm MacDougal dropped what remained of the roasted grouse leg and wiped his mouth and hands on a bit of linen. He might appreciate the warm, sticky, thick caress of blood—every once in a while, but the sensation of grease from roasted meat made his stomach turn.

  “Barton,” he said just after swallowing his last bite of grouse, “What have ye for me?”

  Barton dipped his head a fraction in a clipped but acceptable sign of submission to his laird.

  “Our associate within Gleneden was given explicit instruction tae watch and report, but tae continue their duties as usual,” he replied, his cold eyes giving nothing away. “MacPherson is playin’ right intae our hands, and once the noose ’round his neck is fitted perfectly, ye can draw it tight and hang him with it.” The large man grinned a little at that, though his smile looked more like a grimace, one MacDougal had seen on that man’s face more often of late. So what if Barton didn’t quite appreciate his laird’s plans; it didn’t matter to MacDougal.

  MacDougal sat back in his chair, his hands flat on the table before him. Relief nudged aside the wariness clinging to his every thought. At one time, not long ago, he believed his plan stalled, indefinitely, but then things turned around. It was a sign from God that he was in the right in seeking his vengeance against the hated MacPhersons, and all who allied with them over the years.

  “Good, good,” he drawled in clipped response to Barton, his tone lacking real pleasure. “And what of our deal with the Welshman?” The damn Welsh were unpredictable at best, but they were loyal, at least to those who offered them the most money, and this one had a skill set MacDougal had wanted in particular.

  Barton nodded once, never one to waste a movement. “He is awaitin’ yer summons, my laird.”

  “He damn well better be,” MacDougal sneered, slapping the table with his palm, which made his whole hand tingle. “I willnae allow anyone tae ruin this for me…I have come too far, given too much.”

  Barton simply stared, and MacDougal suddenly hated how the man rarely showed a single sign of what he was thinking—except on those occasions when he was ordered to do something he considered untoward. It was disconcerting, though MacDougal knew that the man’s utter lack of emotion was intimidating to the enemy. He was a tool, a weapon to use against that damn Dubhach MacPherson and all the blasted MacPhersons.

  “If that is all, be gone. I have better things tae do than stare at yer ugly face any longer,” MacDougal snapped, a shard of spittle flying from his mouth to land on the nearly empty trencher before him.

  Again, without expression, Barton dipped his chin a fraction, then turned and strode from the room toward the kitchens, where MacDougal was sure he would snag a bit of leftover mutton pie. The man had many appetites; food, wine, women, and battle.

  Grunting as he rose, pushing his chair back, MacDougal made his way from the large, empty, and echoing great hall to his private chambers. There, he took a piss before walking to his armoire and opening it. The inside was mostly empty save for an altar of sorts, where nearly spent beeswax candles, a rosary, and a small silver urn were placed just so. The urn contained the ashes of his son, his beloved son, the son killed by the eldest son of Dairmaid MacPherson. The man he meant to ruin, just before burni
ng everything he loved to the ground. Too bad the bastard died before MacDougal could finally find justice for his son. Then again, if a MacPherson still lived, there was still a chance at bloody recompense—he would make each of them pay.

  Easing to the floor to kneel, he lit the candles and grasped the rosary, his heart aching as it did every day, every moment. His breath shuddering, he closed his eyes, the burn behind them a familiar sensation.

  “Och, my boy…” he cried, “I mourn ye, I miss ye, the only true joy o’ my life.” He bent his head, his chin nearly touching his chest. A sob built in his throat and he allowed it release. “Ye will be avenged, my boy. I willnae rest ’til yer murderer knows the pain o’ loss. Until he suffers as I have suffered. There will be an outcry like nae other, and all o’ Kinloch Rannoch will hear the wails from Gleneden, and they will know that God has given us justice.”

  Just a bit longer, maybe another fortnight, and Malcolm MacDougal would watch as the MacPhersons were wiped from the earth, their history tainted with the blood of those they had destroyed on their way to wealth and power. There was no one alive who could stop him, he wouldn’t allow it.

  “Och, Bruce…if ye were here now, I would have ye smile. And we would both dance on the corpses o’ those who have wronged us. I will see it done.”

  MacDougal rested there for long moments, his thoughts on his son, dead these twenty-two years, and when he finally rose to his feet, his heart was lighter. His soul was burning hotter than it had been for months.

  All was in place, his plots and schemes finally coming to head, and he could not wait to see the look on Thorn MacPherson’s face when he thrust the point of his sword in the blackguard’s heart.

  Sighing, MacDougal quit his chamber, making his way to the courtyard where several of his men were sparring. He watched from the parapet over the open area of packed earth, which had turned to mud because of the relentless rain. But today, the sun was shining, the sky was blue, and nary a cloud in the sky. He took it as a sign that Bruce was smiling down at him, as eager and pleased about his father’s plans as his father was.