Highland Seer

by Willa Blair

  Leaving Bram behind had been an inspired idea. Let her deal with him while Donal was out of the keep. Perhaps her fixation on Donal as the man in her dream would fade. Bram looked enough like him to cause her to wonder, or so Donal hoped. He suspected she’d be angry he’d left with no word, but Bram could do anything Donal could do, nearly as well. His chest tightened. Anything.

  The possibilities that ran through his mind made him pause and clench his hands into fists. He dropped his head to the horse’s withers. Heat and horse-scent filled his nose, soothing the sudden jaw-clenching fury at Bram that swept over him. Jealousy. Gods. He wanted Bram here to distract Ellie and yet he was so jealous he had to fight back the impulse to strike out at his friend.

  At that thought, Donal almost changed his mind, but nay. He’d just proved that Ellie MacKyrie might be consumed by her interest in him, but he could not get her off his mind, either. Or out of his heart? He must get away from her, if only for the time it took to escort the wagons. The scalding flare of jealousy over the idea of Bram lying with her gave him all the proof he needed. Donal mounted his horse and rode to the lead wagon. Another of the oldsters, Billy, held the reins loosely. Two of the youngsters from the fight in the great hall the other day sat beside him.

  “Are ye ready?”

  “Aye, we are.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  Billy flicked his reins over the backs of the Highland coos, encouraging them to start pulling the heavy load. They shuffled in place as he flicked the reins again, then began moving.

  Donal saluted Bram with a rueful grin, glad the other man didn’t know what was behind it. He canted his head at the other three Lathans. “Let’s ride.”

  He turned his mount and passed through the outer gate ahead of Billy’s wagon.

  Chapter 15

  Ellie awoke troubled despite the bright sunshine streaming in her windows. After tossing and turning all night, she’d slept little. When she did, she dreamed of a snowy field covered with ravens. Black and shiny, they had lifted from the snow in a mass and flown away as if they were one bird. Soundless. No cawing. No rush of air from their many wings. Eerie silence.

  Ellie rubbed her eyes. Ravens? Ravens were very smart birds. A single raven could be a sign of wisdom, of coming enlightenment. But an unkindness of ravens, the flock deep black against the blinding white of snow? Contrast. Some sort of significant change. Trouble. Aye, that had to be it. They had to be a portent of trouble, despite the clear day her windows revealed. Ellie shivered at the memory. A deep shadow on clean snow. But why had they made no sound? Trouble then, with no warning of its coming?

  She sat up and kicked away the covers. If the weather stayed fair, the wagons were due to leave early this morning. The sunshine told her they must be preparing to go. She had to get downstairs before they left. To warn Donal. His men and her people would be in danger.

  Would they meet more bandits? Would the Lathan escort be enough to protect them?

  She dressed quickly without bothering to stir the embers in the hearth to warm the room. She needed to see for herself that the wagons were ready to travel, well armed and prepared. And she wanted to talk to Donal. If more trouble was coming, she needed him more than ever. She hurried from her chamber, boots slapping on the cold stone floor.

  Last night convinced her a direct approach would not work with him. Her talent made him uncomfortable, yet he accepted that it was real. That acceptance gave her hope. On the other hand, he believed he had a duty to protect her not just from the other dangers surrounding her clan, but from herself and if need be, from him, She’d failed to convince him she knew her own mind. That she didn’t need or want protection from him. His damned sense of duty to the Lathans kept him aloof. That and his damned idea he was somehow unworthy of being the consort of a Laird. Of her. A woman who’d never thought to be in this position. Who’d never been expected to be Laird. Who, when the news had come of the losses her clan had suffered, never wanted it either. She’d been a younger daughter, married for an alliance that had not survived Flodden. She had inherited the lairdship by right and custom, not because she sought it or ever expected to hold it. Or been trained for it. Somehow, she had to break through Donal’s resistance to convince him. If she could go from younger sibling to ruling her clan, he could as well. She needed him. It was clear to her. Why couldn’t he see it?

  She slowed her pace as she reached the stairs. No sense risking a fall, especially as distracted as her dream and thoughts of Donal made her. Instead, she watched where she placed her feet on the worn treads. After so many years, the stone dipped in the middle where thousands of feet, bare to booted, had trod. Some day the clan would have stone masons to repair or replace the worst worn steps. When she had a strong consort and men enough for the work that needed to be done.

  She didn’t care if Donal lacked land or a title. She had to convince him her clan was rich enough already—or would be again once there were enough warriors to keep it safe and enough whisky stored away to replace the casks lost at the distillery. That she didn’t need land from him. That this glen and its surrounding mountains and all they contained, were more than enough for anyone.

  And Laird was title enough. The obligations that came with a royal title from the Crown had destroyed many clans across Scotland. Her father’s pursuit of one had nearly destroyed the MacKyries. She clenched her fists as the old anger and grief warred within her. In his attempt to gain favor, he’d answered the King’s call with nearly all of the fighting-age men MacKyrie possessed. Just look at the result. Better to remain merely a laird in the Highlands, far from court intrigue.

  Men with land and wealth had tried to claim her, without success. She hadn’t wanted them. Nay. But for the first time since her husband died, she wanted a man. She wanted Donal. She lifted her chin, determined to succeed.

  Despite her disquiet, seeing the sunshine beaming in the windows cheered her as she made her way to the great hall. After days of clouds and snow showers, the brightness lifted her mood a bit. By this hour of the morning, Donal should be nearly done breaking his fast. She could talk to him before he began the morning training with the lads who were not going with the wagons. But the hall was empty save for two lads sharing a bench, finishing their porridge.

  “Have ye seen Donal MacNabb?” she asked them, glancing about as if she had simply overlooked him, not that she ever could, or that she expected him to appear from a dark corner.

  “He’s gone, Ellie,” Harry told her.

  “Outside to start the training, aye? Why aren’t ye lads out there, too? I saw yer sword fight yesterday. Ye’re getting better, but ye still have much to learn.”

  “No’ outside, Ellie,” Davy piped up, nearly bouncing in his seat. What had happened to make him nervous?

  “Where then?”

  “He went with the wagons at first light,” Harry told her solemnly. “He switched places with the one called Bram.”

  What? Nay! Her body stilled and she could only stare blindly past them as her heart broke. Donal had gone with the wagons? Why?

  But she knew why, didn’t she? She’d pushed too hard. Backed the great warrior into a corner he couldn’t fight his way out of. And now? Would he return? Was this the trouble her dream foretold? Her keep left defenseless because she tried to seduce him into wanting her? Caring for her? Marrying her and remaining with her and her clan?

  Nay, he hadn’t left them defenseless. Donal had left another Lathan in charge. Given that he’d left Bram, his message could not be more clear: either of them could be the man in her visions. He wanted her to spend some time away from him, to get to know the other man. To see what he was capable of without the distraction of Donal’s presence. To be sure of what she wanted.

  Donal still pushed her away, but Bram’s presence gave her an odd sense of comfort. If Donal wanted her to be certain she chose the right man, then he must truly care for her, too. His sense of honor must be demanding that he give her the time, the space, the
opportunity, to make the right choice. Before he took her, made her his. If he didn’t care, he would have taken her those times she tried to throw herself at him, used her for as long as he remained here, then left as soon as the terms of the treaty were satisfied. Ellie took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of the wood and peat smoke in the nearby hearth, the lingering scent of the roast served at last night’s supper. The familiarity of her hall steadied her. Donal would return to set everything to rights. Despite the ravens in her dream, aye, all would be well.

  “They’re sure to be back safe and sound with such a capable escort,” she told the lads, though her heart sank at the thought of days or weeks ahead without Donal’s presence. But when he returned, he’d have no more excuses. He would have had time away to think about her and what she offered.

  She would have spent time with Bram and proven to herself, and to Donal, that Bram was not the man in her dream. Aye, by the time Donal returned, she’d be ready for him.

  ****

  Lachlan MacDuff took his time walking the battlements of his keep, looking over his holdings and out across MacDuff territory. Beautiful. But harsh. Made up mostly of foothills leading up to rocky crags, little was arable. They did some mining for iron ore and raised Highland cattle and sheep, but the memory of the MacKyrie glen stayed with him. So rich, even without the distillery. Farmland, timber, grazing lands. Above all, he wanted that distillery. And the secret of the MacKyrie whisky—a prize worth all the risks he took. His marriages had brought him wealth, but it was never enough, given his many children and the needs of his clan. His ambitions. While his latest wife still lived, he’d had no means by which to approach the MacKyrie heir with an offer, but with his wife out of the way, he had no intention of letting slip the opportunity that a marriage-made alliance with MacKyrie would give him.

  Other clans had approached her with sons and more sons, preferring an alliance through marriage to killing off the rest of her menfolk and taking over. They feared, as did he, the loss of the secret of the MacKyrie whisky. Who knew how many in the clan held it? There could not be many left. Perhaps only the master of the still and the MacKyrie herself. None of the other clans would risk that. Nor could he, despite his thinly veiled threats against her people. So far, they were only that—threats. How much longer dared he wait before some one else captured her affections? One of those Lathans, for instance.

  He paused and studied the men practicing at arms below him in the bailey. She needed a man, a strong man with experience ruling a clan. A man who commanded the kind of men—like his—who could control and defend a holding like MacKyrie. A man with proven ability to get sons on his wives and mistresses. A man like himself.

  He shook his head and resumed stalking the battlements. Not that all those brats had brought him anything of value. Not yet. The oldest were getting to marriageable age and would bring in useful dowries from their brides-to-be. But none was likely to be as rich as the dowry Ellie MacKyrie would bring.

  The youngest, pah, it would be years before they could provide anything useful. In the meantime, they were an expense, both in resources and his time. He should have drowned them at birth, along with their mothers.

  He’d thought waiting had been a good strategy. The MacKyries would be more desperate for help by now, overwhelmed by the responsibilities of running their keep with so few able-bodied men. Beset by disputes with clans all around them. But those disputes had died with the elders at Flodden. No one, it seemed, had the spleen for a proper Highland feud any more.

  Well, another Highland custom would suit as a last resort if the MacKyrie would not cooperate: bride stealing. However, he would not carry his bride away. Nay, he’d force her into marriage in her own keep. He’d take it and everything belonging to her for himself.

  His spy had finally come through with some useful information. The Lathans had left with the whisky wagons. Guarding them. They would be gone for days, maybe weeks, depending on their route and the unpredictable winter weather

  He leaned his elbows on the outer wall and watched heavy clouds scud across the sky.

  He must make his move now. He’d waited long enough.

  He’d ride back with enough men to intimidate anyone foolish enough to object to the marriage. His men would control the remaining clan members until he established his leadership by marriage, legal and consummated.

  Oh, aye, consummated. He’d enjoy that part. Ellie had said she could not imagine enjoying lying with him. He cared little for that. He’d have her. He’d take her, again and again, until he got her with child and no one could deny his rightful place as laird. Then while she increased, he’d work his way through all those husbandless lasses. They’d been so long without a man, they’d likely lift their skirts at his slightest attention. Oh, it would be grand: a playground for one with appetites such as his.

  He’d let them keep their brats by their long-dead MacKyrie men. After all, the clan needed many hands for working the fields and the distillery. Even his mines, here on MacDuff land. In fact, some of the smaller ones could be put to work there right away. They’d be perfect for getting into some of the tighter crevasses to search for ore-bearing rock. They could save his men a lot of labor, digging unproductive shafts.

  Aye, taking over MacKyrie made sense in so many ways. Why had he waited so long? Why had he let Ellie MacKyrie push him away? She would never do that again. When he arrived, she would quickly learn who her master was. The Lathans or any other clan that tried to interfere could be damned for all he cared.

  It was time to send word to his spy to be ready to open the gates. The MacDuffs were coming, and this time, he would not be denied.

  ****

  Two days later, Ellie watched Bram put the lads through their paces in the courtyard below the solar’s window. The quality of the light outside told her midday approached. Heavy clouds hung low over the glen, swirling wind-driven snow through the air. The weather had been getting worse all morning. Good thing the wagons had gone when they did. If they’d waited a few more days, the pass might have become completely blocked again. When they were ready, would they be able to get back? This storm looked capable of dumping enough snow to block the pass for weeks. She consoled herself with the thought that even if they had to abandon the wagons outside the pass, perhaps they’d be able to break through on horseback or on foot. Donal would come back to her.

  She tried to put that worry out of her mind. She could do nothing about the weather—or Donal. Instead, she turned her attention back to the man below her.

  How like Donal he looked, and yet how not. She could find no fault with his methods, yet he worked differently with the lads. To her eye, he lacked the same level of quiet confidence in his own abilities that Donal projected with every movement and every word. Aye, the lads listened to Bram and followed his instructions to the best of their improving abilities, but Ellie had no doubt left in her. He was not the one she had dreamed about, the one she had Seen.

  She sighed and wrapped her arms around her middle. The one who had left her. She lifted her gaze to the dark clouds scudding by, lashed by a fierce north wind. Where was he? Was he safe?

  A momentary pang of conscience assailed her. She should be concerned about her people and the MacKyrie whisky they carried to market, too. Not just Donal. Aye, she was. But she held only one man in her heart.

  She missed Donal. She missed his long strides as he approached her. His icy, assessing green gaze when he caught her watching him work with the lads. The quirk of his lips that sufficed for a smile as he turned back to his charges—as though her notice pleased him but he refused to show it. The steel band of his arms around her and the scent of MacKyrie whisky on his breath as his mouth claimed hers. Aye, she missed him something fierce. She lifted her hand to the glass as she had the day that—something—had arced between them, trying to see him down there, in Bram’s place. Then she clenched it by her side.

  Bram was cordial and an entertaining companion at dinner while Mich
eil sat silent and sullen on her other side. Micheil’s behavior puzzled her. He seemed to have lost his wicked sense of humor since their conversation in the dark hallway, yet he didn’t avoid her. In fact, he continued to share meals with her as they customarily did. But he had little to say of late, so Bram’s humor and story-telling were a welcome diversion. Though he could not replace the man she wished were here. Donal.

  Aye, one resembled the other, but their effect on her was vastly different. With Bram she relaxed and laughed. She tried not to imagine adjusting the length of his hair, the intensity and color of his gaze, or the shape of his mouth to look more like his older clansman. He was pleasant enough, unfailingly polite to her, but his gaze did not hold her in thrall like Donal’s. She didn’t crave his touch or his ready smile, or the sound of his voice. She wanted the fleeting glimpse of Donal’s rarely used grin. The thought of it made her heart lift, if only for a moment.

  Aye, the lads liked Bram well enough. Their training seemed to be in good hands in Donal’s absence. Bram took his responsibilities seriously. He oversaw the night watch in addition to the morning training sessions. She’d seem him pacing the battlements at all hours, stopping to talk to the lads on watch, making sure they stayed alert. She wondered when he found time to sleep.

  Never mind that dreams of Donal interrupted her own sleep. She’d toss and turn, finally get out of bed, go to the window and look out, hoping to see him riding up through the village, returning to her. Instead, she’d see Bram, ever vigilant. Another determinedly responsible Lathan. Bless them.

  Aye, they’d given her hope that there were solutions to the problems plaguing her clan. Help to be had, without conditions that she could not suffer, such as the MacDuff would demand of her. Capable men to guard her keep, escort her whisky to market, perhaps even till the fields, run the cattle to their spring and summer pastures, fix what needed fixing in the village crofts and in the keep. A stonemason, a skilled smith. Her list was long, and growing longer. But with the Lathans’ arrival, she’d gone from despair and desperation to confidence in her future.