Promised to the Highlander: A Scottish Time Travel Romance

by Blanche Dabney

  It showed the difference between the two clans. MacCleods knew when to cut their losses. They also had better technique. They trained hard every single day after turning ten. The MacDonalds did not.

  Callum yelled above the sound of swords slamming into shields. “Throw down your weapons and walk away with your lives.”

  There was no response other than ever more frantic sword swinging from the MacDonalds.

  “Suit yourself,” Callum said quietly, raising his blade above his head. As he did so, he heard an unexpected cry behind him.

  He turned in time to see something he never expected to see. Someone had thrown a dirk at Orm. That was where the scream had come from. The knife struck Orm in the chest and he was already falling to the ground.

  One of the MacDonalds saw his opportunity and thrust his blade forward. Orm was skewered on the end of a MacDonald sword, swinging his own at the same time, bringing down his attacker with the last of his strength. The two men collapsed to the ground together.

  Callum saw red. One of his oldest companions, Orm had been by his side for almost two decades. Felled by a MacDonald and not even in war, just by a stupid raiding party chancing their arm on the grain store nearby.

  Callum ran at the few remaining MacDonalds in a rage. They took one look at him and turned, sprinting up the glen like whipped horses. Callum’s roar was still echoing around the glen as the last of them vanished from sight over the peak.

  “Should we go after them?” Ross asked, wiping sweat from his brow.

  “Nay,” Callum replied, getting his temper back under control with some effort. “Could be a trap. Keep a sharp eye out though.”

  His sword dripped blood as he turned to kneel beside Orm.

  “To the devil with them,” Orm said with a grimace, prodding the dead man beside him. “I let my guard down. My own fault.”

  Callum managed a smile. “And I dinnae recall giving you permission to go to our ancestors yet. On your feet, laddie.”

  Orm coughed up blood that ran down his chin in a trickle. “I regret I cannae obey you, my laird.” His hand clawed up at Callum, his skin turning pale. “I dinnae want to die out here so far from my wife.”

  “I know.”

  “Tell Moira I love her, won’t you.”

  “Aye, I will that.”

  Orm’s eyes remained open but the spark in them faded with the last of his words.

  He was gone.

  Callum wasted no time. He stood up and faced his men. “We bring him back to Frazer castle with us.”

  None of them argued. The body would slow them down but not one man suggested leaving him behind.

  Callum hefted the body onto his shoulders and then made his way through the glen to where his horse waited beside the others. Loading Orm onto the beast’s back, he then walked beside it as tradition dictated. It would be the last journey Orm took, he was duty bound to ride it alone. As the man in charge of the patrol, Callum walked.

  The group headed back to the track they’d been following when they were ambushed. The MacDonalds were getting desperate. That could be the only reason for such a foolish assault. He had heard rumors their harvest had been poor enough to send them raiding but the bad weather affected all the highlands. He didn’t take his men on raiding parties into the land of rival clans. He tightened his belt and ate less so that what stores they had would last the winter.

  Rumor had it the MacDonald feasts were as large as ever despite the approaching winter. They were being led by a fool and men were dead because of it. Men like Orm.

  He shook his head at the senseless waste of life. The dead men would have been better utilized in the fields than in skirmishes. Now there were two dozen fewer MacDonalds to bring in the harvest. It was foolish logic the MacDonalds employed in their efforts to keep their people fed. Old Malcolm MacDonald would probably shrug when he heard and declare two dozen fewer mouths to feed was always the plan. He was the biggest fool of the highlands and isles.

  Callum’s thoughts turned to Orm. Deaths were not uncommon during patrols, that was always the risk you took protecting the clan. Somehow he had never thought Orm would be one of the fallen. He had seemed invincible, even when they were children. A wooden sword blow that would fell most would just have Orm laughing and spitting in the dirt with derision.

  “Remember when he shoved Tommy into the pig swill?” Ivar asked. “I nearly wept, it was so funny.”

  Callum managed a smile. He well remembered their old sword master coughing out bits of turnip peel and wondering how he’d been bested by a ten year old who was half his size.

  “Or when he jumped into the moat to avoid his lessons.”

  “Aye, couldn’t swim and would rather drown than mark a slate with his name.”

  “What about when he found out Moira was pregnant? Never saw him so happy.”

  More memories followed, the men laughing as they recalled all that Orm had done with his life.

  Callum remained silent. What hurt him most was the way it had happened. It wasn’t a noble war to push the Normans out or get the Northmen back to their ships. It was a foolish wee ambush by the weakest clan in the highlands and isles. Not just that but a knife to the chest and all because Callum didn’t check one of them was dead.

  “It’s not your fault,” Hamish said from the back of the group of riders.

  “Och, dinnae do that,” Callum replied. Hamish had an unnerving habit of being able to read his thoughts. “It’s not your place to say who’s to blame.”

  “I tell you something,” Ewan said. “He should have stopped patrolling when he wed his wee lassie. He let his training slip once he was married. Got fat.”

  A murmur of agreement from the other men. Callum turned from one face to the next, feeling a hint of mutiny rising.

  “He was bound by his oath to protect the clan,” Callum said. He couldn’t admit it but he agreed with his men on the matter. It was one thing to swear the oath but to continue patrolling once wed and with a pregnant wife waiting back at home?

  “Moira begged him to stay,” Hamish said. “He told her nothing would happen. ‘I’ll be back soon enough. We’ll go to MacLeod castle together when I return and stake out that farm together like I promised.’ No lass could manage that land alone. Such a waste. Married men should stay at home.”

  Another grumble of agreement.

  Callum looked at Orm’s body on the back of the horse. He thought about how Moira would take the news. A tiny part of him wanted to give the task to one of his men but he couldn’t do it. It was his job as laird’s son just as it was his job to walk so Orm had one final horseback ride through their land.

  “Married men should not patrol,” Ross echoed, bringing him out of his reverie.

  “Better that men who patrol do not wed,” Callum replied, bringing grunts of agreement from the others. “Orm was told but he wouldnae listen. Spoke of love like that mattered more than protecting our people. Now I must inform a widow with bairn on the way that her man is dead. The oath is no small thing. It does not fit well with marriage.”

  “What will you be telling your bride to be then?” Hamish asked, looking pointedly at him.

  Callum winced. “Dinnae remind me of that. I tell you what I told my father. I will never wed.”

  “I’d like to be there when you tell the laird you’re turning down his choice of bride.”

  Callum wasn’t looking forward to talking to his father again. He had told him before that he had no intention of ever marrying but that was before the wedding had been arranged. He had managed to put off the conversation before this patrol but she was already on her way from the mainland. Time was running out for him to get the matter dealt with before she turned up and started getting measured for a wedding dress.

  They reached Frazer castle at noon on the second day. Callum left his horse outside and entered alone. “Have you seen Moira?” he asked the first person he encountered, a wee slip of a lassie who was struggling across the courtyard with a
heavy tray of fresh smelling oatcakes.

  “Aye, in the great hall with the others. I’m to fetch these in for them.”

  “I’ll take them for you.”

  “You’re a noble. You can’t-”

  He interrupted. “You can barely move for the weight of them. How old are you? Twelve?”

  “Ten, my laird.”

  “I’m not the laird. I’m just his son.”

  “Just a laird’s son taking a tray of oatcakes from a kitchen skivvy.” She giggled as he lifted the tray from her arms.

  “Here,” he said, tossing her an oatcake. “You look like you need it.”

  He crossed the courtyard, taking the stairs up to the keep two at a time. Ducking his head to enter, he stepped straight through the open doorway into the huge room beyond.

  Inside it was heaving with people. He took in the scene quickly. There were petitioners lined up at one side, warming themselves by the fire. His heart sank as he realized there could only be one reason why so many people were waiting to be seen. His parents must have traveled from MacCleod castle and if that were the case, he doubted it was to visit the Frazer family. They’d come looking for him.

  “Callum,” a voice called out from the far end. “My son, what are you doing back here? I was told you were patrolling for another week.”

  “I was, father,” Callum replied, passing through the crowd so he could reach his parents who were sitting together on the dais.

  “Perhaps you might tell us why you have returned so soon, covered in blood, and carrying oatcakes like a serving girl. Were you so hungry you laid siege upon the kitchen.”

  A laugh went up among the petitioners.

  “We were attacked.”

  Silence fell upon the crowd. They all feared that war might return. It had been little over a year since William had bought his crown back from Richard of England and many thought Richard was sure to double cross the Scots sooner or later, bring his armies back north, perhaps as far as the islands. The truce held but only just.

  “Attacked by whom?” the laird asked, sitting upright on his throne. “The bastard King Richard?”

  “MacDonald men.”

  “MacDonald?” He spat into the dirt, arms folding across his chest. “Lose anyone?”

  Callum nodded. This wasn’t how he wanted the conversation to go. He wanted to speak to Moira on her own. He looked around, spotting her over in the corner, sitting with her ladies in waiting, dress barely concealing the swelling of her belly. Callum felt an immense wave of sadness wash over him. The bairn would never know its father, only hear tales of what a noble warrior he’d been.

  “What happened?”

  “They ambushed us at the fairy glen.”

  “Heading for the grain store no doubt,” his father said with a nod. “Did you leave any alive?”

  “Aye, father. Half a dozen.”

  “Why? Why not kill them all.”

  “They’re hungry like us. What good would it have done to slaughter them?”

  His mother looked at him, seeing his face and understanding at once. “Hold a moment, Alan. Callum, who did you lose?”

  Callum paused for a brief moment. Moira was not looking at him. She was looking at the children playing nine men’s morris on the floor in front of her, smiling as she pressed a hand to her bump. He was about to ruin her life and he desperately wanted to give her a few precious seconds before he did it.

  “Well?” his father asked. “Who died? Spit it out boy.” The room waited. Even Moira looked across at him.

  “Orm.”

  A scream from behind him. Moira fell to her knees, sobbing wretchedly, thumping the rushes with her fists. “My Orm!”

  “A good man,” the laird said quietly, stroking his chin. “May he rest in peace.”

  Callum watched as the ladies in waiting led the weeping Moira away. She turned as she went, glaring at Callum for a moment. He did not shy from it, taking her rage before she vanished out of the end of the room.

  “Tell me exactly what happened,” the laird said when she was gone.

  Callum told him everything. When he was done, the laird nodded. “Gillian, my love. Write a letter to Malcolm demanding parley. This cannot go on. We will have no stores left and he’ll have no men to raise armies when the English come.”

  “And if he doesn’t listen?” Gillian asked him.

  “I will make him, my dear.” He clapped his hands together and managed a smile. “Though it is under a cloud, I am glad to see you, my boy. I have some news about your bride to be.”

  Callum knew exactly what he was about to say. “I have no wish to marry, father.”

  “Now dinnae start that again. She is on her way to MacLeod castle and you will go there at once to await her arrival. Is that understood? No more sneaking out on patrol to avoid the inevitable.”

  “Do you no ken, father? I dinnae want no lassie to shriek over my death like Moira over Orm. I’m a warrior, not a family man. I wouldnae even ken what to do with bairns if they were put on my knee.”

  “This isnae about you, Callum. Maids raise bairns. You just do your duty to keep the clan line alive. Our alliance with the MacKays depends upon this wedding.”

  “My duty is to protect our people and I failed at that. I want to bury Orm, not put a ring on yon lassie’s finger.”

  “Enough!” The laird got to his feet. The entire room had fallen silent. That never happened. He never shouted.

  Slowly, he resumed his seat, his voice returning to normal. “You will go and you will be there when she arrives. So put your bloody oatcakes down and get moving before I shove my sword down your throat. I will take care of Orm’s burial. You go meet your bride to be and by thunder you better be good to her. There’s a lot riding on this, my boy. I cannae fight the Normans, the Northmen, the MacDonalds, and the MacKays all at once.”

  He put the tray down on the table beside him. As he did so his mother squeezed his hand. “You might like her,” she said. “Give her a chance.”

  He managed a curt nod. “I better be going, mother.”

  She let go of his hand, smiling warmly. “Give her a chance.”

  His men were waiting outside, Orm’s body laid out on the back of a cart next to them, tartan cloth draped over him. “I must go back to MacCleod castle,” he told them. “The laird will help you bury Orm. If you see Moira, tell her…just tell her she will want for nothing. The clan will see to that. And tell her I’m sorry.”

  He walked away, heading out of the castle to untie his horse from the hitching post. Climbing onto its back, he rode slowly north, a heavy ball in the pit of his stomach like he’d swallowed a lump of molten slag from the smithy pit.

  Marry a woman he’d never met to cement an alliance between two feuding clans? It happened all the time in the highlands but that was to other people. He was different. He wanted to remain single. He didn’t want to burden anyone with worry over what might happen to him whenever he went on patrol.

  What he needed was to think of some way to get rid of her that would not infuriate his father or the MacKays. He couldn’t just refuse to wed. Do that and he would be cast out of the clan, shunned by his own kin, a fate far worse than marriage.

  Perhaps he could persuade her to back out of the wedding. The thought comforted him as he tried to work out how that might be possible.

  Soon Frazer castle was far behind him but he barely noticed, he was too busy thinking. He had a day and a night until he reached MacLeod castle. Little did he know it but the tale that would become The Saga of Callum MacCleod had just begun.

  Chapter Three

  Kerry opened her eyes to find a highlander staring down at her. He looked a lot like the man from her childhood dreams, the man who’d come on horseback night after night to rescue her from dragons or cruel lords or from being locked away in some tower or other. Was this a dream too? Was she still asleep?

  “Hello,” she managed to say, blinking away the blurring of her vision, her throat too dry to
add anything to that first word. It couldn’t be a dream. Her throat hurt too much.

  “I willnae marry you,” the highlander said, folding his arms as he did so.

  “Sorry?” Kerry replied, coughing as she tried to sit up. Shuffling her arms up the bed, she managed to get half upright, taking a better look at the man staring back at her.

  He was tall and broad, bare chested apart from a tartan baldric across his chest. He looked a lot like one of the illustrations in The Saga of Callum MacCleod. No wonder she’d thought it was a dream.

  His hair was dark and close cropped though the ends were a mess, as if cut by knife rather than scissors. His eyes blazed as he stared at her. She felt as if she’d clearly done something to infuriate him though she had no idea what.

  Even angry he looked good, strong cheekbones, chest muscles she could ski off, legs almost splitting the hose that struggled to confine them. He was tall and broad shouldered, filling the room so much she was surprised the walls weren’t bulging outward to accommodate him.

  “You’re a fine looking lass,” he continued. “But it wouldnae be right. I cannae see you get left behind and hurt by me dying in battle. I will not have you weep like Moira for Orm. Get well and then get yourself home. I willnae marry you.”

  Kerry coughed again. “That’s good to know,” she said. “If it helps, I wasn’t planning on marrying you either.”

  “Dinnae mock me. I dinnae take kindly to jests.”

  “I’m not mocking you. I swear, right now marriage is the last thing on my mind. Maybe buy me a drink first? Or start by asking me my name perhaps?”

  He scowled at her attempt at humor, walking away without another word.

  The door closed and then she was alone. She sat up further, looking around the room, trying to remember how she’d got there.

  The last thing she remembered was being on the phone to her mom and then something had happened. What was it?

  The room itself was like something from a movie. She felt as if she’d wandered behind the velvet rope in a National Trust property somewhere, sneaking into a bed she was most definitely not supposed to touch. It was clearly hundreds of years old and yet it wasn’t at the same time. It looked new but that wasn’t possible.