Claiming His Highland Bride

by TERRI BRISBIN

  ‘’Twas quite a surprise to me, as well,’ Jamie said. ‘The boy has more courage than I suspected.’

  ‘He has not taken notice of anyone since Fia left, has he?’

  Strange that. Both Dougal and he had offered marriage to Fia Mackintosh for different reasons and both had been turned down. Dougal had been taken with the lass and had offered out of true love. Alan had been responsible, in part, for Fia’s loss of honour and had offered in an attempt to help her. After all, they’d been friends since meeting in the camp of exiled Mackintoshes during the schism in the clan.

  Sent by Brodie to track her when she’d been kidnapped during an attack on their village, Alan had failed her—finding her, but not freeing her soon enough. Her ruination had been caused and redeemed by her current husband, Lord Niall Corbett, the man who had claimed her heart when neither he nor Dougal could.

  Now, a few years later and both Alan and Dougal found themselves circling another woman...again. Dougal, though, had already expressed his interest openly, while Alan had been trying to convince himself there was nothing there. In spite of it being the worst time to be distracted by a woman he could not have, he was.

  No matter how enticing and tempting the widow MacPherson was, it did not mean he would act on that attraction. He would not. Too many things were happening around him, in his clan and in the Mackintoshes, to allow an attachment to interfere with his concentration on the rising danger.

  ‘Nay, he has not, but I suspect he realises it’s time to seek a wife and make his own life. Though, I doubt he will get far with Saraid,’ Jamie admitted. ‘She is allowing herself time to grieve her loss before travelling on.’

  Somehow that news, the part about Dougal not getting anywhere with the widow MacPherson, cheered Alan.

  ‘So what brings you here at this time of night?’ Jamie asked.

  ‘I was restless after my journey and thought to share a cup of ale with you,’ he said. Jamie was a good friend. He truly needed no excuse to come to see him.

  ‘I can have one cup before Clara puts you on your way back to the keep,’ he said, laughing. ‘Are you sure you did not come for a glimpse of Clara’s cousin?’

  Alan would deny it, even if it were the truth.

  Because, if it were true, it held the promise of trouble. If he was interested in her, nothing could come of it.

  ‘Nay, I think I will leave the wooing to Dougal,’ Alan said, deciding that was the best he could say. Jamie answered with an incredulous frown. Alan would need to divert his friend’s attention to this growing fascination. ‘Well, let us have our one cup before your wife chases me away.’

  Jamie went inside and brought out two cups of ale. They walked back around to the bench, keeping their voices down now that most of the village had settled for the night.

  ‘So, if not to see Saraid, then what brings you here...this night, when we could speak on the morrow?’ Jamie asked.

  ‘My father.’

  ‘Ah.’ Alan looked at Jamie when he spoke that one word. One word that carried so much within it when pronounced as Jamie had.

  ‘When Uncle Euan died and the high seat was open, do you remember any talk here about why my father did not make his claim?’

  ‘It troubles you now, does it?’

  ‘Aye. More and more with each encounter and each conversation.’

  ‘And with each of Gilbert’s marriages.’

  Very, very few people could bring that topic up without Alan taking action, but Jamie could and did so now.

  ‘Observant, are you now?’ he said. ‘Aye. ’twould seem that does cause me to think on those matters. About what Clan Cameron would be like if my father was chief.’

  ‘But your father is not. Is it wise to worry over it?’

  Jamie was asking if it was worth the risks Alan was taking by speaking of it at all. Gilbert would see such things as treachery. Ironic when treachery was exactly what Alan thought Gilbert might be planning.

  ‘It may not be, my friend, but wondering, I am, and worrying, I am near to.’ They both drank deeply from their cups before he spoke again. ‘So, what was the talk when Gilbert made the claim instead of his older brother?’

  Jamie did not answer directly, he seemed to think about it as though sorting through the words he would parse in reply. But his pause told Alan that there had indeed been talk about it.

  ‘What you would have expected—your father being the elder, in possession of his mind and able-bodied, would have made the claim. That the elders and clan would have supported him. Surprise when it went the way it did.’

  Exactly what he’d expect would have been said.

  ‘Once it was said and done and Gilbert laid claim, Brodie gave his backing and no one spoke much about it at all.’ Jamie narrowed his gaze at Alan. ‘The better question would be—did you expect your father to claim the chieftain’s seat?’

  ‘Aye.’

  He’d never admitted that to anyone. But these days, all manner of things ignored or unspoken seemed to be examined and heard.

  ‘And you realise that to do that openly would question your own motives? You might be seen as second-guessing both your father and your uncle.’ Jamie shifted to turn towards him. ‘As though you might be craving it for yourself in the years to come.’

  Alan had not considered this before. Truly.

  Well, when his friend spoke it aloud, it did have the ring of authenticity. So mayhap the idea, the desire, for such a thing was somewhere deep within him. Had he tamped it down just as he’d tamped down the rage and the desires that seemed to be making themselves known these last weeks? Had he reached the point when he could no longer ignore these needs and this anger?

  ‘There comes a time when a man must make his stand. For better or worse. In spite of the risks. No matter the outcome. So, my friend,’ Jamie asked as he stood, ‘is this that moment for you? Is this the matter that will force your hand?’

  Jamie began walking back towards the cottage, not waiting for his reply. And those words were all Alan could think about the rest of the night. During the long, dark walk back to the keep and throughout the rest of the hours of the night.

  * * *

  By morning he understood that, nay, this was not his moment. He also knew to the marrow in his bones that the time was coming. With each new piece put into play by his uncle, something stirred within him. With each regret exposed and each desire awakened, he grew closer to that moment.

  What it would mean, who would stand by him and who would oppose him, he knew not. But he knew as surely as the sun rose on the next morning that it was growing closer.

  * * *

  ‘Did you know she can read and write?’ Arabella said to him as they ate the noon meal together. ‘Latin as well as Gaelic. I suspect French as well.’ Brodie was not here so the meal was informal.

  ‘Who can read and write?’ he asked back. Their discussion so far had been about horses and the weather and his parents. Did she refer to his mother’s skills?

  ‘Mistress MacPherson,’ Arabella said, nodding to the back of the hall where the woman stood.

  ‘I did not know.’ That was quite an accomplishment for any woman.

  ‘It does give her some choices that another woman without those skills might not have,’ his cousin informed him. ‘I have asked her to come speak to me.’

  ‘She told me she is determined to enter the convent, so I am not certain it will make a difference.’

  He’d taken a bite of roasted mutton and only noticed the silence when he swallowed it and drank some ale. Turning, he found Bella staring at him with a look of complete and utter astonishment on her lovely face. He reached up and closed her mouth since it hung open now.

  ‘When did she tell you that?’ she asked, sputtering out the words.

  ‘Cease, Bella,�
�� he said, reaching for a chunk of bread to sop up the juices on his plate. ‘I went to speak to Jamie when I returned last night and found Mistress MacPherson there. We spoke,’ he said, pausing for a moment to remember the way she looked in the moonlight and how much he’d wanted to kiss her then and there. ‘She told me she was planning to enter the convent...’

  Had she ever confirmed her intentions? Alan interrupted them before she could say so. But she had not denied it.

  ‘That is a strange conversation to have with a stranger,’ she insisted.

  ‘Well, I am kin of a sort of her kin,’ he said. ‘Not complete strangers.’

  Remembering it now, she truly had not confirmed her intentions during their encounter in the dark of the night. Alan would have discussed it more, but Jamie arrived and Saraid seemed reticent to continue. Glancing at Bella, he knew she would be able to offer counsel. Mayhap she already planned to do exactly that, hence Mistress MacPherson’s presence?

  ‘Is she waiting for you to finish?’ he asked.

  ‘I suppose so,’ Bella said. The lady of the keep looked to the back of the hall and then at him. ‘I wonder if she has eaten yet.’

  ‘I have a boon to ask of you, Cousin,’ he said, putting his hand on hers before she could have the woman brought forward. Bella stopped and watched him with some suspicion in her gaze. ‘I think she needs the counsel of someone like you.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Aye. You are educated. Can read and write. You are married as she was. You have faced your own collection of difficult if not impossible situations. I think your advice and opinions would matter to her and help her in this time of loss and grief.’

  He stopped short of voicing the growing suspicion of his own that Mistress MacPherson was either more than or different from what she presented herself to be. It was just a feeling on his part for now, so he did not wish to give Arabella something that was more whimsy than substance. Or give her a reason to fear the woman.

  The other thing he relied on was Arabella’s excellent talent at meddling in the lives of others. It was worse if you were kin or if she liked you. But anyone who walked through her gates was a possibility to her and she flourished truly when she was meddling here or there. He saw the flush rise in her cheeks and the glimmer in her gaze as Bella studied the widow MacPherson. With the slightest movement of her hand, Lady Mackintosh sent a servant to bring the woman forward.

  Alan watched as Mistress MacPherson made her way behind the servant. He was trying to decide if his opinion about her manners was correct or not. From here, her genteel movements were even more obvious to him as she moved along through those gathered for the meal. Though her gown was clean and her hair covered in the way of married women here, Alan could imagine her in the finest fabrics and jewels. Without even thinking, he stood when she reached the table and arrived behind Arabella.

  ‘My lady, ’tis good of you to speak to me,’ she said. ‘Sir.’ She nodded politely at him. ‘But I did not wish to interrupt your meal.’

  Her eyes were clear and bright as she looked at him. Clearly she had recovered from whatever worries or concerns had afflicted her last night.

  ‘Join us,’ Arabella invited. ‘Bring a chair for Mistress MacPherson.’

  Her servants being very competent, only a minute or two at most passed before the lovely widow was seated between them with a platter of food and a filled cup in front of her. Alan took his seat as she had.

  ‘So, did you spend the morn with Father Diarmid?’ Arabella asked her.

  ‘Aye,’ the widow replied. ‘I went with him as he called on those in need of his guidance and prayers.’

  ‘Is that something you have done before?’ Bella asked.

  ‘I visited the sick...’ For a moment that he might have missed if he’d been looking away, Alan saw the stricken expression in her eyes as though she’d made a terrible error. ‘I visited the sick in our village.’

  ‘Was that in Cluny?’ Alan asked.

  ‘Nay,’ she said, shaking her head and putting down the cup she’d only just lifted to her mouth. ‘We lived in the south, near my husband’s kin.’

  He was about to ask which branch of the MacNeills her husband called his when Arabella glared at him.

  ‘Alan, Mistress MacPherson and I would speak of womanly matters, if you would excuse us?’

  He had no choice really then to retreat strategically for the moment. Arabella had taken up his challenge, his invitation, and wanted to accomplish it her way. Having seen her methods in the past, he had no doubt that she would discover all the possible secrets that the widow MacPherson brought with her to Mackintosh lands.

  ‘I should find your husband, Lady,’ he said, standing and bowing to his cousin.

  ‘He is training with Rob,’ she replied. ‘You should find them in the yard for the next few hours.’

  Much as he did not wish a repeat of his last battle in the yard, he would gladly watch Brodie and Rob fight it out there. As he walked out, he glanced back to see the two women talking quite seriously and Alan was not certain if he felt anticipation over discovering more about the enticing Widow MacPherson or fear over her being left alone with his cousin.

  Only time would tell.

  Chapter Eleven

  Courage.

  Courage.

  Courage.

  The word repeated over and over in her thoughts as they finished the meal at table and as she followed Lady Mackintosh out of the hall and up to her solar above-stairs. With a discreet motion of her hand, she dismissed anyone who thought to follow or enter the room when they arrived. With the grace of an angel and the appearance of one, too, the lady crossed the chamber to a table and some chairs before stopping.

  This woman did not have the reputation of being the most beautiful woman in the Highlands, if not all of Scotland, erroneously. Though that reputation was born out of her lovely looks at an earlier age many years ago, neither ageing nor strife nor a marriage to one of the most powerful men in the land had diminished that appearance. Not one grey hair showed on her head and her skin and eyes carried the brightness of a much younger woman. The lady sat in one chair and, as befitted her new identity, Sorcha remained standing opposite her.

  ‘Father tells me that you have excellent skills in reading and writing, Mistress MacPherson.’

  ‘Aye, my lady.’

  ‘Those could be of benefit in some convents,’ the lady added.

  ‘Some convents, my lady?’ she asked. Sorcha’s mother had spoken of how few women, even noblewomen, had those abilities and how even fewer used them well. The convent would be the place where she could.

  ‘Some convents welcome women with skills and put them to use for the good of the Almighty and those whom the convent serves,’ Lady Arabella said. Sorcha nodded for that was exactly what her mother had told her.

  ‘But some convents, some orders of holy sisters, ignore any and all talents and spend their waking hours on their knees in prayer only.’

  That was not what Sorcha had intended to do for the rest of her life. She’d imagined herself spending time in prayer, aye, but also at other tasks as well. Possibly teaching others to read. Or...

  ‘Truly, it depends on the convent or monastery and the order that they serve. Clara said your kin—a cousin?—serves a convent on Skye?’

  ‘Aye, my lady.’

  ‘Do you know which order she serves?’

  ‘Nay, my lady.’

  Sorcha had not bothered to ask. She had only focused on following her mother’s plan and going to Skye. The rest had seemed so far away in both time and place that there was no need to worry over those details. She’d never thought on such things. Sorcha noticed that the lady was watching her closely now.

  ‘I confess, my lady, my only thought was to go to my cousin and handle the rest of t
he matter there and then.’

  Arabella stood then and walked to one of the open windows that looked out over the training yard from the sounds below. The lady leaned up on her toes and watched out at whoever was fighting. Without turning away from that scene, she spoke.

  ‘Did you ken that my husband’s uncle is The MacPherson?’

  Sorcha clenched her teeth together to prevent the terrible words she wanted to utter just then from escaping. Brodie Mackintosh was related to the MacPhersons. Could her luck be any worse? When the lady turned and smiled, Sorcha thought it probably could and it could right now.

  ‘If you would like, he could intervene with his uncle to make other arrangements for you? If you have somehow become estranged from your kin, would it help if he mediated the issue? I could ask him to do so.’

  Courage. Courage. Courage.

  Though her link to the MacPhersons was real and true, Sorcha could not have The Mackintosh or his wife contacting them and asking questions about their treatment, and seeming abandonment, of their widowed kin. That would take her one step closer to having Sorcha MacMillan rise from the dead. If Clara remarked on her resemblance to her own mother, others among the MacPhersons would do the same. Others who had seen her mother, and possibly her, more recently.

  Nay, she must keep Lady Arabella from doing this.

  ‘I beg your pardon, lady, if I have given the impression that The MacPherson or his clan have, in some way, shirked or resisted their duty to their kin. ’Tis not the truth.’ She inhaled and released the breath slowly, trying to calm her racing heart that pounded within her chest. ‘Entering the convent was my desire.’

  ‘And you would not consider other choices?’

  ‘Other choices?’ she asked. She could not help that her hands crept together. She clutched them tightly to keep them from shaking.

  ‘As kin to both Clara and my husband, you are welcome here. I could certainly use someone with your skills to assist me in my duties as Brodie’s wife in overseeing the Mackintoshes.’ The lady smiled then. ‘The children take more and more of my attention and, God willing, there will be more of them soon. To have someone I could rely on to carry out some of the tasks I do now would be more than just helpful, Saraid. ’Twould be a godsend, truly.’