Claiming His Highland Bride

by TERRI BRISBIN

  A marriage linking him to the powerful Camerons would give pause to the weaker MacNeills about making that claim and facing the wrath of the Camerons. If they knew that the Camerons would answer the call to defend their kinswoman’s home and family, they would hesitate to attack. But would it benefit the Camerons and especially his uncle? What did MacMillan offer to balance the bargain?

  So, Alan took a place and watched the interactions of those three and his uncle’s scrutiny of the whole scene. There was such a self-serving smirk of satisfaction in his uncle’s dark gaze that it made Alan uneasy. Brodie suspected something more was going on between these two and now, after watching, Alan had no doubt of it.

  But what? To anyone watching, it was the simplest and most common of all alliances—a marriage between clans. The tingling that crept up and down his spine as the feast continued confirmed to Alan that it was so much more. Who would know what was going on and if it would be trouble for the rest of the clan?

  Alan’s father might.

  * * *

  He waited a respectable two days after watching The MacMillan choose the well-proven but still young widow as his bride before he left and rode south to Tor Castle. His father served as castellan for the clan in a castle that they had taken from the Mackintoshes more than a century before during the years before their feud grew so deadly that a truce was sought. Alan offered to carry any messages his uncle had to his father or back to The Mackintosh in taking his leave. A cold blank stare was his uncle’s reply.

  Travelling along the lochs and rivers, he could make the journey to Tor in one day, so he set out in the morning. By the time he crossed the River Lochy and as the sun set, he reached the gates of the castle and was greeted by his cousin Culloch who stood guard. Entering this keep was easier than Achnacarry, for his parents made him welcome. When he reached the hall inside, they were waiting for him. Though the evening meal was done, servants stood at the table ready to fetch food and drink for him.

  ‘Mother,’ he said, as she wrapped her arms around him. ‘Father.’ He nodded in greeting at his father as his mother continued to hold him tightly to her. It had been too long.

  ‘It has been too long a while since you were here, Alan,’ she whispered, echoing his thoughts aloud.

  ‘Come now, Elizabeth,’ his father said as he gently pulled her from Alan. ‘You know Gilbert keeps him busy.’

  ‘Or away rather,’ his mother muttered. She stepped back and examined him from the top of his head to his boots. ‘You are not eating well,’ she declared. Pointing to the table that had been empty, but was now filled with all sorts of platters and bowls and cups, she waved him to it. ‘Come. Eat.’

  He had learned long ago not to refuse his mother’s orders and so he sat and let her force him to eat. After the bowl of well-cooked, well-seasoned venison stew and half a loaf of bread eased the worst of his hunger, he slowed down and leaned back on the chair. His mother, as always, watched him take, chew and swallow every bite and mouthful of food. Only when she relaxed her close vigil did he stop eating.

  ‘What brings you here now, Alan?’ his father asked. ‘I did not expect you.’

  Everyone said that Robert Cameron was a vision of Alan in a score of years. The same brown hair and blue eyes. The same muscular, tall build. Some of the same temperament, too, apparently, if kith and kin were to be believed. To know how he would age, he had but to look at his father to ken it, they said. But Alan never did see the resemblance that everyone spoke about.

  ‘Can I not simply wish to see my parents?’ His father glanced at his mother and then back to him. Then, as one, they both shook their heads. ‘I have been at Achnacarry,’ he began.

  ‘Has the MacMillan chieftain chosen a bride yet?’ his mother asked.

  Elizabeth MacSorley looked much as she did every time Alan saw her. Other than a few grey hairs mixed in with the brown and one or two new wrinkles at the edges of her green eyes, she had not changed in the years since he began noticing such things.

  ‘Then you know about it? You know that Uncle Gilbert’s betrothed died? And that now he seeks to bind the MacMillans to us by marrying Margaret to him?’

  He had not meant to blurt it out like that, but once the words escaped it was too late to withdraw them. His father stood then and held his hand out to his mother. The servants here were loyal to Gilbert and would report back to him if they thought it needed to be done.

  ‘Come, join us in our chamber and we can continue this.’

  Alan nodded thanks to the servants and followed his parents up the stairs in the round tower to their chambers. Instead of separate rooms for each of them, they continued to share one room and one bed even after many years of marriage. Once the maid poured wine for them and closed the door, Alan waited for his mother to sit before facing his father, who stood a few paces from him.

  ‘Did you know? Of either of his plans?’ he asked. Was his father complicit in whatever Gilbert was manoeuvring into place around them?

  ‘I knew of his seeking a betrothal to the MacMillan chief’s daughter,’ his father admitted. ‘I saw nothing amiss in it, other than the usual things for Gilbert.’

  ‘Robert!’ his mother whispered.

  ‘Alan understands what I mean, Elizabeth,’ his father said. ‘As chieftain, he has the right and the duty to seek a wife and heirs. He holds title to lands that must stay in the clan.’ His father let out a breath and shook his head. ‘I do not approve of his treatment once he marries, fear not.’

  His mother’s mutinous expression did not soften even with his admission. She had known how Alan had felt about Agneis and his plans that were crushed by her marriage. And how his spirit was crushed by her death.

  Worse for Alan was the powerlessness that proved total when it came to dealing with Gilbert. Once he ascended to the high seat of the clan, no one could touch him. Questioning his actions was tantamount to betrayal. And after having watched the Mackintoshes almost tear themselves to pieces, no Cameron would risk that within their clan.

  ‘Well, he seems to have put off marriage for the time being,’ Alan said. ‘I suspect he will commence his efforts once The MacMillan is married and whatever pact they have agreed to is in place.’

  ‘What do you think is the benefit?’ his father asked. ‘They are not especially wealthy or powerful. So what will Gilbert gain by tying us to them?’

  ‘What would happen if our truce, our treaty, with the Mackintoshes was broken?’

  His mother’s gasp did not surprise him. The deaths and destruction caused by the feuding was not so long ago that his parents did not recall the cost. She began wringing her hands and shaking her head.

  ‘I pray nightly that it never comes to that,’ she said. He realised then that she was not wringing her hands, but moving them as though praying. An image of Saraid doing the same thing crossed his thoughts.

  ‘As do I,’ his father agreed. ‘What made you even think on something like that, Alan? What have you heard?’

  Instead of answering or revealing anything he might know, he asked another question of his parents.

  ‘Does Gilbert have the support of the Camerons? Or do they fear him?’ Taking in and letting out a deep breath, Alan asked the question that worried him the most. ‘If Gilbert breaks the treaty, will the clan follow him down that path?’

  For a long minute, neither of his parents spoke a word. His mother sat back down and his father drank down his wine in two swallows before placing his cup on a table there. Crossing his arms over his chest, his father met his stare.

  ‘I think many will,’ he said. ‘Many will not want to, but are called by honour and clan loyalty to follow their chieftain.’

  ‘That is what I feared,’ Alan admitted. ‘Is he planning to do that, Father? Do you ken?’

  ‘I have proof of nothing,’ Robert Cameron said quietly. ‘But
I think that your loyalty and mine will be tested in the coming months.’

  ‘My loyalty?’ Alan asked. ‘My loyalty is to the Clan Cameron as it always has been.’

  ‘As is mine,’ his father said.

  His mother stood silently by, watching this exchange. She would be caught in the middle no matter what happened. As most women were in any conflict. As would Arabella and Eva and all those on both sides. Nodding at both of them, he knew his father would say nothing more.

  What Alan wanted was an explanation of why his father had not pursued the high seat or a place on the council when Euan Cameron passed. As an able-bodied male kin of the chieftain, he was eligible. He had the skills and experience needed to lead the clan and yet he had allowed Gilbert to take it without a challenge. Others had wondered the same thing, but Robert Cameron never spoke of his reasons for his actions, or lack of actions. Even when his uncle tried to shame him and put him aside, his father said nothing.

  Now, he was tanist and that chafed at Gilbert every moment he ruled without a male heir of his body. That was what drove Gilbert to marry and marry again, to relentlessly pursue a childbearing wife who would give him a son. A son would sustain his claim, would strengthen his rule and would reward him for all his actions.

  ‘I bid you a goodnight,’ Alan finally said. ‘Mother. Father.’

  ‘Alan,’ his mother began, taking a step towards him.

  ‘Worry not,’ he said, taking her by the shoulders and kissing each cheek. ‘I will be here in the morn and we can speak more.’

  ‘How long will you stay?’ his father asked.

  Alan wondered if it mattered. Would staying two days get him more answers than staying a sennight? If it would, he would stay as long as need be. But, in the end, his father had already given him the knowledge he needed.

  Robert Cameron would not rise against his younger brother and claim the seat that belonged to him.

  ‘A few days, I think.’

  ‘Good,’ his mother said as he lifted the latch on the door to let himself out. ‘We should speak on the matter of marriage.’

  He wanted, he wished he could, to misunderstand her words, but Alan understood she spoke of his marriage now and not his uncle’s. But, as he and Arabella had already realised, Gilbert would not allow him his own choice in it. For he was too close in kinship and could also be used to forge alliances where the chieftain wanted.

  ‘I am certain that my uncle will decide that once he has settled the question of his own next marriage.’

  He had not meant to be harsh and he regretted the way he’d spoken when he saw the colour drain from his mother’s cheeks. There was nothing he could say to ease the fear or worry for he’d spoken the truth. A truth both of them understood. A truth that confirmed his father’s choice those years ago that gave up his right to speak for his son.

  Alan left without another word, pulling the door closed quietly though there was a need within him to slam it until it fell from its frame and hinges. A rage burned deep inside of him, one aimed at the impotency he felt when it came to his uncle. As he made his way down to the chamber he used when here, he realised that he was also angry with his father. He’d thought he would grow to accept what he could not change. Instead, it festered within him, made worse every time he faced his uncle or his father.

  No wonder he felt more at ease at Drumlui among the Mackintoshes.

  * * *

  The next two days were filled with an awkward dance of avoidance by both him and his parents. They pretended that he’d said and asked nothing during their discussion and he pretended not to notice. He allowed his mother to fawn over him and it seemed to make her happy and less tense around him. His father studied him silently and would look away when Alan faced him rather than meet his gaze.

  So, even with the possibility of a growing threat to the peace in these lands and between the clans, his father would not act. That fact kept him awake for the three nights he stayed at Tor Castle. And it haunted his journey back to Glenlui.

  At times, he wondered if his uncle was right. Mayhap his father was the coward Gilbert accused him of being? Mayhap Robert Cameron was not strong enough to rule over the clan? And every time he even allowed those doubts in, he knew that his father would be a better chieftain than his uncle had been.

  As he travelled back with no reason to rush, he also discovered that all the thinking in the world could not solve the puzzle that was his father. Mayhap Brodie knew more of it? It was something he had never brought up to The Mackintosh before, but now, with the threat of war between their families, it might be the best time to do so.

  * * *

  He arrived at Drumlui Keep just as the news of Hugh MacMillan’s marriage did. Alan knew that pieces were being put into place and readied for a match that would pit old enemies and new allies against each other. Aye, the pieces were moving in a game that his uncle was playing. God help them all.

  The strange thing was that with each mile closer to Glenlui, his thoughts strayed from the concerns of his family and turned instead to the young woman who stayed with her cousin in the village. Was she already on her way to the convent? Would she be at Clara’s side when he visited? Would she smile at him in the way that made her eyes sparkle? Cursing himself a fool for hungering for a woman who had chosen God over men, he rode through Drumlui Keep’s gates and sought out the chieftain.

  Chapter Nine

  ‘Would you stay for supper, Dougal?’ Clara asked as Sorcha and Dougal arrived at the cottage after her visit to the keep.

  ‘I...’ Dougal hesitated in his reply.

  ‘I made the stew, Dougal,’ Sorcha said proudly. Had this been even five days ago, she would not have offered, but she’d learned so much these last few days.

  ‘Aye,’ Dougal said. ‘I would be glad of it.’

  It was the least she could do for his acts of kindness to her. He had not again mentioned her habit of getting lost on her way through the village. He just appeared at her side when she walked on her way to or from the keep each day and wordlessly guided her steps along the right path.

  They spoke of the village and all sorts of topics she experienced living here. His questions never strayed to personal matters, so she never truly had to lie to him. And they spoke of his father’s plans for the mill now that his two uncles had arrived to help with the expansion and repairs for it. And, sometimes, they just walked in companionable silence through the village.

  This was the first time Clara had invited him to stay and she watched Clara for some sign of her intentions. Helping to bring the bowls and spoons and bread to the table, she sensed nothing amiss. Jamie arrived and continued discussing some repairs of the mill with Dougal as she and Clara herded the wee ones to their places for the meal.

  The meal was filling and plain but pleasant. Several times, Sorcha looked up to see Dougal staring across the table at her, but he did not say anything when she glanced back at him. Inexperienced at such conversations and experiences with men, Sorcha waited for the same reaction to happen as it did when Alan stared at her so.

  Yet, it did not happen. No heat. No spark of excitement that moved along her skin when their hands touched while passing a plate across the table. Clara kept a conversation going with bits of news and gossip and questions, so that, by the time they finished eating, Sorcha knew much more about Dougal than she had before.

  He was the middle of three brothers and the only one who worked the mill with their father. He had a younger sister. He enjoyed his work. He respected his parents and wished to visit the other Mackintosh lands soon. And Dougal never gazed at her with the intensity she saw in Alan’s scrutiny.

  She startled at that and Clara cleared her throat, for she’d missed something that Dougal had said as she’d been remembering Alan’s way of staring at her.

  ‘Dougal asked if you were go
ing to the keep on the morrow, Saraid.’ Clara repeated his question.

  ‘Oh, your pardon, Dougal,’ she said. ‘I was thinking about something Father Diarmid said to me.’ And now praying for forgiveness for another lie told. ‘Aye, Lady Arabella asked me to speak to her on the morrow. After the noon meal.’

  ‘I will be there with Jamie in the morn,’ Dougal said, nodding to Jamie to confirm it. ‘Seek me when you finish if you wish to walk back together.’

  Clara wore a strange expression when Dougal finished speaking and she exchanged some glances with Jamie before standing and taking some of the plates from the table. She did the same, putting the bowls and spoons into the large bucket they used for washing them. In a few minutes, the table was empty and the children sleepy and ready for their beds.

  ‘See Dougal out, Saraid,’ Clara directed. ‘I will get the bairns to sleep.’

  Sorcha followed Dougal as he thanked Clara and Jamie for supper. Night had fallen while they ate and the village had quieted. He stepped away from the door and she watched as he turned back to her.

  ‘The stew was as good as my ma’s,’ he said with a smile. Though she had never tasted his mother’s cooking, she took it as a supreme compliment. For a son to say such a thing as that surely was one.

  ‘I am glad you enjoyed it, Dougal,’ she said. ‘Mayhap you can join us again? I am learning to make a new dish each day.’ She’d never explained why she was so late in learning to cook and he did not ask or look askance at her admission.

  ‘I would like that, Saraid.’

  He had finally stopped calling her Mistress the fourth time she’d given him permission to do so. Of all the things that were different, not being called ‘lady’ was one she’d noticed. And by using a different name, she sometimes would not realise someone was speaking to her until they repeated it twice or even thrice. The people in Glenlui were going to think her hard of hearing if she did not pay heed. Dougal took a half-step closer and began to lean in slowly.