by Paula Quinn
Ewan reined in his impatience. He had to survive a year of the stammer and already itched to shake the words out of the youth. “Did we recruit anyone else?” he asked.
David studied his boots. “N…n…nay.”
“Cowards, the lot o’ them,” Fynn growled. “Afeared o’ MacCarrons.”
Ewan worried about the man’s reasons for volunteering. “We’re going to meet my betrothed,” he pointed out. “Not to start another war.”
Fynn spat into the dirt. “Aye. Yer betrothed. I ken.”
The journey loomed like an ominous cloud in the darkening sky. Ewan might end up talking to himself on the way. “Get some sleep,” he said gruffly. “Be ready at dawn.”
David grinned. “A…A…Aye, my…my…my lord. Soon…soon…soonest…”
Ewan strode away lest he throttle the lad.
Accident
Shona pestered Jeannie about trading places as they made their way to the hall, but her aunt was having none of it. “Yer uncle will flay us alive if ye even suggest it,” she said indignantly.
“Not if I can convince him o’ the merits…”
The words died abruptly when a group of agitated clansmen appeared in the hallway, four of them bearing a stretcher on which lay her uncle, his leg in a makeshift splint, his scratched and muck-smeared face contorted in agony.
Memories of her father’s fatal accident constricted Shona’s throat as Jeannie hurried to her brother’s side. “What happened, Kendric?”
He gritted his teeth and shook his head.
“We were hunting to fill the larder for our visitors,” one of the ruddy-faced bearers hissed without breaking his stride. “His horse threw him. The physician’s on the way, but we must get him to bed. His leg is badly broken.”
“And he may have injured his back,” another frowning clansman confided once the stretcher bearers had disappeared in the direction of Kendric’s solar with their burden, Jeannie hurrying alongside.
Guilt swept over Shona. She’d been trying to fathom a way to keep her uncle ignorant of her plans, but hadn’t wished him ill. His injuries were obviously serious and, what was worse, the proud fool had sustained them while out hunting deer to serve to his Mackinloch guest. The visit was already bringing hardship.
She spent the next few hours dealing with distraught clan members and elders who descended on them like a swarm of buzzing bees. How news of the accident spread so fast was beyond her ken. She supposed they’d only recently become accustomed to a new laird, and now another terrible mishap had occurred. There were whispers of a curse. She shoved aside her own fears and repeated a litany of reassurances.
As she might have expected, the most persistent among the concerned relatives was Mungo Morley, a distant cousin who’d offered for her hand in marriage many times. Her father had deemed him unsuitable to be a leader, and Uncle Kendric concurred. The deciding factor in their refusal was that Shona thought him odd. He put her in mind of an overgrown weasel and such a high-pitched voice should never come out of the mouth of a giant of a man.
The physician’s arrival provided the opportunity to free herself from Mungo’s insistent probing as to Kendric’s condition.
“The vultures are gathering, I see,” Cummings said.
“Aye,” she agreed with a shudder, ushering him into the chamber. “Brings back too many raw memories.”
He patted her hand. “I ken, child. We must hope for the best.”
Reluctant to witness what she expected would be a painful ordeal for her uncle, she didn’t enter the laird’s chamber, deciding instead to seek the quiet of her own apartment.
She covered her ears to shut out the shouts of agony that echoed down the stone hallway, adding to her anxiety. When all was suddenly quiet, she plucked up courage and tiptoed into Kendric’s chamber, full of dread. Bees buzzed in her head when she espied him lying in the big laird’s bed that had once been her parents’—the bed she’d been born in, and where her mother’s life had ended. Her uncle seemed to have shriveled beneath a mound of blankets and furs. Mouth agape, he looked like he’d breathed his last. His normally ruddy face was as pale as death.
Her feet felt like they were nailed to the planked flooring. “He’s nay dead, is he?” she whispered to Jeannie seated in a chair pulled up to the side of the bed.
Her auntie glanced up sharply, though the lazy eye remained closed. “I didna hear ye come in, lass,” she murmured. “He’s sleeping.”
Her pallor worried Shona. “Ye need rest. Ye’ve been here too long. I’ll sit with him and send a servant if he wakes.”
Jeannie shook her head. “Cummings gave him laudanum when he set his leg, though he protested against the new potion. Wanted old-fashioned dwale, not opium. As ye see, the laudanum has done the job.”
“’Tis a blessing really,” Shona offered, not knowing what else to say. “At least he canna feel the pain.”
“Aye,” Jeannie said hoarsely. “I doot he’ll be in a fit state to welcome yer betrothed.”
The terrible accident had shoved Shona’s dilemma to the back of her mind, but she hadn’t forgotten it entirely. Perhaps her uncle’s drugged state was a good omen and Jeannie might be more easily persuaded now that she was exhausted.
She opened her mouth, but the stern set of her aunt’s jaw dissuaded her. She took Jeannie’s arm and coaxed her out of the chair. “Go to bed. I’ll keep vigil.”
Kiliwhimin
At dawn the day after the Council meeting, Duncan bade Ewan farewell with a gruff reminder of his duty. There was no handshake and no attempt at an embrace. Andrew’s mother wept and babbled reassurances she was certain all would be well. Her son managed to grit his teeth and swallow his tears until Ewan picked him up and hugged him.
His older brother offered a limp handshake. Colin tended to think he was already the Mackinloch laird. The five years’ age difference had stood in the way of them ever becoming friends.
Tight-lipped, Ewan was the first to ride out through the gates of Roigh Hall. There was no sign of Kathleen as he passed her cottage.
He wondered if he’d ever see the castle again. It was the place of his birth and he admitted inwardly he’d taken for granted the comfort and security of the only home he’d known. Few enemy clans had ever contemplated attacking the powerful Mackinlochs.
“Least of all the cowardly MacCarrons,” he grumbled, after taking a last look over his shoulder.
Reluctant to indulge in hours of idle chatter with his men, he stayed slightly ahead. For the first hour of the journey to Creag Castle, David tried without success to instigate conversation with Fynn, until the older man cut him off. “Ye mistake me for someone who has the patience to listen to yer stammering prattle,” he said.
After that, the trio rode in silence, which suited Ewan just fine.
When the weak noonday sun indicated it was time to eat, he reached into his satchel and found the heel of bread a tearful Alys Cook had packed for him. He bit into it, though his appetite had fled.
Chunnering over the likelihood Colin may have had a hand in the MacCarron agreement since he’d participated in the meetings at Clunes, Ewan didn’t bother to tell his men they’d have to eat in the saddle. Let them figure it out for themselves.
He finished the bread and a lump of hard cheese from which he suspected Alys had pared the mold. As he tipped the flagon of ale to his mouth, a loud shout from David caused him to spill some of the brew. “Loo…loo…look. An ee…ee…eagle.”
Wiping droplets from his plaid, Ewan peered at the bird of prey and its mate gliding effortlessly high in the sky. He inhaled deeply as his irritation fled. The rugged grandeur of the Highlands always filled him with a sense of peace. Resentment had turned his mind inward and he hadn’t paid attention to the magnificent beauty of the shoreline they followed as they traveled southwest. There was no more breathtaking vista in the whole of Scotland than Loch Ness.
Even Fynn stared open-mouthed at the birds, his good hand shading his eyes, the rei
ns wound around his stump.
As they resumed their journey, it struck Ewan he had a choice. He could wallow in self-pity or make the best of his fate. Mayhap Jamie was right about MacCarron lasses being bonnie, though how his uncle would ken such a thing…
He mused on the color of his betrothed’s hair—he liked redheads, or, better yet, golden-haired beauties. He cursed when it dawned on him he hadn’t paid attention to the name of his intended. “She’ll probably have a warty nose,” he muttered, “and be bald as a coot.”
“Yer par…par…pardon, I did…didna hear what ye said, my…my…”
“Nothing,” Ewan hissed.
Annoyed he’d again lost his temper, he looked to the sky. The eagles were faint dots in the distant clouds. The raptors didn’t worry about enemies, and neither should he. The MacCarrons wouldn’t dare murder him, lest they bring the wrath of the Mackinlochs down on their misbegotten heads.
Perhaps his conniving father hadn’t offered him up as a sacrificial lamb. Forcing the MacCarrons to hold to the bargain was important and he’d make sure they did. In the meanwhile, he’d get to rut to his heart’s content, and he could always keep his eyes shut if his bride wasn’t comely.
The sky suddenly darkened as it occurred to him he’d have to be careful not to sire a bairn in the process. A child would be an unwanted complication if he was to return to Roigh after a year and a day.
He looked over his shoulder. “We need to pick up our pace if we want to reach the lodge at Kiliwhimin afore the downpour,” he shouted, feeling the first drops on his face.
They went as fast as they dared in the uncertain terrain of the moor, but their plaids were soaked by the time they reached the small hunting lodge. Ewan had camped in the rustic cabin many times before and knew the friendly clan that owned it would have no objection to their seeking shelter there.
They took care of their horses in the wee stable, and fed them the oats they’d brought. Fynn soon had a peat fire glowing in the hearth. David fetched water from the loch and set it to heat on the hob.
When the lad disappeared without a word, Ewan assumed he was seeing to his needs. His spirits lifted when the youth returned a short time later, his long red hair plastered to his head, water running in rivulets down his face, and a plump rabbit in each meaty fist.
Fynn drew out his dagger and pointed to a small wooden table. “There,” he said gruffly.
David obeyed.
Fynn had the rabbits skinned and skewered on the spit in less time than it would have taken most men with two good hands.
Ewan spread his wet plaid out near the hearth, then sat cross-legged close to the fire to dry his wet hair, inhaling the tempting aroma already rising from the roasted game. A spark of hope glimmered in his heart that the two misfits might prove their worth after all.
Reluctant as he was to strike up a conversation, it seemed churlish to remain silent. He pointed to a roughly hewn wooden chest built into the wall. “They usually keep that well supplied wi’ blankets,” he said, hoping the caretakers hadn’t let things slide since the last time he’d been by this way. The unpleasant alternative was to sleep wrapped in damp plaids.
David eagerly thrust open the lid, pulled out a blanket, and grinned, holding it aloft. When he didn’t utter a word, Ewan worried he and Fynn had been too harsh on the lad.
“They might need a good shaking,” he advised, wishing he’d been more explicit when the air in the confined space filled with dust motes and several moths startled from the bedding.
“S…s…sorry,” David said sheepishly, carrying the bundle to the door and giving the whole lot another shake.
Fynn rolled his eyes when the wind blew more dust back into the cabin.
“Set them here close to the hearth,” Ewan told the lad.
David obeyed, then took over turning the spit.
With the heat of the fire on his face, Ewan closed his eyes, listening. Rain danced on the roof, flames hissed when grease spattered, the spit squeaked in protest.
It came to him as the chill receded and he relaxed that a melodious masculine voice was singing.
Nae doot ye’ve heard o’ Jenny Shaw,
Who lives doon by the burn;
That winsome lass few can surpass,
Who daily works the churn.
An’ tho’ she’s but a dairymaid,
She’s a’ the world to me;
She is my jewel, my Jenny fair,
Wi’ modest grace to see.
He hummed along through several verses of the well-loved tune, feeling the tension drain from his body. Sorry when the song came to an end, he opened his eyes, astonished to discover David was the singer.
He couldn’t help himself. “Ye can sing without stammering.”
David shrugged. “Aye,” he replied, apparently as unsure of the reason as anybody.
“Meat’s ready,” Fynn announced, deftly carving the food directly on the scarred table. Ewan pulled up a stool, took out his dagger and skewered a choice piece, his right as the laird’s son. Fynn and David waited until he’d savored the first bite and indicated his approval before taking their share.
“Well done, lads,” he said with his mouth full.
“Aye,” Fynn replied, licking the grease off his stump.
David nodded.
“I expect we’ll reach Creag Castle by the afternoon on the morrow,” he told them between bites. “From what I hear o’ the place, this might be our last good meal for a while.”
Fynn stabbed his dagger into the wood of the table.
David’s eyes widened and Ewan regretted alarming the youth. “Dinna fash, I meant it as a jest,” he explained.
A short time later, he lay on the dirt floor in front of the hearth wrapped in a musty-smelling blanket. Staring up at the rafters, he resolved to accept he’d be living in less than ideal conditions for a while. However, they were hardy men fulfilling an important mission for their clan. He’d tried to reassure David, but his expectations of Creag Castle were low. The MacCarrons weren’t wealthy.
Sleep proved elusive as worry tormented him. Once the MacCarron wench got her claws into the son of a Mackinloch laird she might not let go. He was, after all, considered an eligible bachelor by the lasses of Inverness.
His bride’s interest would wane quickly if he was missing a limb, like Fynn. He chuckled at the notion that if he stammered like David it would likely drive her mad.
First Meeting
While Ewan was still abed scheming, Fynn poached the three lake trout David had caught before dawn.
Drawn to the table by the tempting aroma, Ewan grasped the fish’s tail and pulled. The skeleton peeled away from the tender flesh.
“Right,” he told them, licking the sweet taste of the first bite from his fingers, “this is the plan when we reach Creag Castle.”
Fynn raised an eyebrow.
Lines of concentration furrowed David’s forehead.
“We’re all Mackinloch, nay Shaw, nor Macintyre. I dinna want the MacCarrons to harbor any doots about our unity.”
He preferred not to dwell on the fact no Mackinloch kin had been willing to accompany him, and both men nodded their understanding of his instructions without apparent malice.
“Day…Day…David Mm…Mmm…Mac…”
“Mackinloch,” Fynn shouted, banging his fist on the table. “’Tis simple enough.”
“Aye,” David replied. “Simple for ye.” His face reddened as he turned his attention to extracting bones from his half-eaten fish. Apparently, his retort had surprised him as much as Ewan and Fynn.
However, there were more important matters to tend to. “I want to size up yon MacCarron lass afore finding myself in a trap I canna escape, so when we first arrive, Fynn will play the role of the intended groom.”
Fynn’s face turned the same color as the grey stubble on his head. “Nay, laddie. Ye’re asking for trouble.”
“On the contrary, I seek to avoid a lifetime of it.”
“The
y’ll ken something’s awry. I’m too old to be ye.”
Ewan winked. “Let’s hope my bride thinks her intended groom is a greybeard.”
“She might fa…fa…fall in lo…lo…lo…love with Fy…Fy…”
Fynn’s sullen scowl turned to a snigger of amusement at such a nonsensical idea. “I see yer plan,” he said. “Ye’re hoping the lass will reject ye. Er, I mean me. Then the blame will rest on the MacCarrons and nay us. I mean ye.”
David scratched his head.
Ewan rose from the table and laid a hand on his man’s shoulder. “Exactly. Now let’s away.”
He’d more or less convinced himself his plan was sound when they reined to a halt a few hours later in sight of their destination. “’Tis strange to be in the place where the feud began hundreds o’ years ago,” he remarked, pointing to the massive tower. “The MacCarrons added on yon show of strength after they seized the castle from us, the rightful owners.”
“They cl…cl…claim it was deser…desert…deserted.”
“Bollocks,” Ewan exclaimed.
“Weel, they’ve agreed to pay now,” Fynn replied, “and we’re here to make sure they do.”
Heart pounding in his ears, Ewan stared at the castle wherein dwelt the woman he’d been shackled to, unless their ruse worked. “We’re clear on the plan?” he asked.
“Aye,” David said softly.
“’Tis lunacy if ye ask me,” Fynn added.
They rode unchallenged through the open gates and into the bailey.
“Lax,” Ewan remarked with disgust. “Just as I expected.”
Fynn stood in the stirrups and scanned the wide but almost deserted courtyard. “Odd, I’d say, that no one has come to greet us.”
As he spoke, a youth sauntered out from the keep, picking up his pace when he saw them. “My lords,” he panted, his eyes darting from Ewan to Fynn and then to David. “Forgive me. Our laird has been injured and I went inside for only a moment to see how he fares.”
Evidently taking his best guess as to the identity of the nobleman, he addressed Ewan. “Ye be the Mackinloch we’ve been expecting?”