Pride of the Clan

by Anna Markland

  But such carefree days were a thing of the past. A king lay dead. Queen Joan had declared herself Regent and now ruled for her infant son, but there were many who would seek to take advantage of weakness in the Scottish realm. The English would turn their greedy gaze once more to their northern neighbor.

  “Bluidy assassins,” he muttered.

  “Aye,” Margaret murmured.

  He’d a sudden silly urge to kiss the top of her head, to whisper reassuring words that all would be well. Instead he mumbled, “Not far now.”

  When they sighted the sturdy sandstone walls of his home, her body stiffened. It saddened him. Despite Tannoch’s antagonism, he’d been happy here, loved by his parents until their deaths. His mother had died birthing another bairn after Logan, a long awaited daughter who’d survived her mother by only a day; his father had succumbed to his grief not long after.

  Looking back on those dark days, Rheade had rebelled against the notion a man could miss a woman so much that life ended when she died. Or had guilt finished his father off? Isobel was years beyond what most considered child-bearing age when she fell pregnant with Màiri, and had lost eight bairns in infancy.

  He often daydreamed what it would have been like to have a sister—if Màiri had lived.

  “Dunalastair,” he declared proudly in an effort to lift his own spirits as well as Margaret’s. “Seat of Clan Robertson.”

  “It’s much grander than Ogilvie House,” she replied wistfully.

  His heart went out to this bonnie lass. She’d travelled far from home in hopes of wedding a man who’d turned out to be one of the most hated fugitives in Scotland. And when he was captured, the horror would only then begin. She might be homesick now. Dread filled him. She would soon rue the day she’d ever left Oban.

  ~~~

  Margaret was awed by the incredibly tall tower of Dunalastair. Someone with an eye for beauty had designed and built it. A rare burst of sunlight bathed it in light.

  “’Tis pink,” she declared with a giggle.

  Rheade chuckled. “Sandstone,” he explained. “That’s what causes the reddish hue. It was constructed two hundred years ago as a royal hunting lodge,” he went on. “Our clan has built onto it since then. Many kings have laid their heads here. Alexander, Edward of England, Robert the Bruce even.”

  His obvious pride warmed her heart. If only this place had been the home of her betrothed, and this the braw man she was to wed. She barely knew Rheade, and the circumstances were difficult, but she’d never felt more comfortable with a person of the opposite sex, with the exception of her brothers, of course. In her experience, men were easier to relate to than women. Mayhap it was the reason for the alchemy that drew her to him.

  She craned her neck to look way up to the top of the towers. Each tower had four narrow windows spaced at regular intervals. “Judging by the windows it must be four stories high.”

  “Aye. We climb up a spiral staircase,” he explained, making a circular motion in the air with his hand.

  Margaret’s head swam as her eyes followed the tip of his finger.

  A curtain wall, in the center of which was an arched gateway, connected the towers. “Impressive,” she said. “Although I wouldna like to be up there at the top. I’m afraid of heights. Looking up has made me dizzy.”

  She had taken pleasure in riding with him on his magnificent horse, but now his demeanor changed. “Unfortunately, where ye stay will be up to Tannoch,” he said stiffly.

  ~~~

  If it was Rheade’s decision to make, he’d whisk Margaret off to his own chamber, where they’d strip off their clothing and snuggle naked under the furs. He’d never felt such raw need of a woman. What had brought about this powerful attraction?

  “Mayhap in Mama’s dressing room,” Logan suggested, jolting him back to the present as they rode beneath the archway into the courtyard where Fion stood ready to greet them at the door of the keep.

  It never failed to amaze how the ancient servant sensed exactly when his masters were returning home. They hadn’t been expected back for days.

  But Logan’s remark had unsettled him. Tannoch would not approve of the traitor’s betrothed sleeping in their mother’s favorite chamber.

  He dismounted and reached up to assist Margaret. His clumsy hands almost spanned her tiny waist. Her face flushed as he lifted her down from Dubh, her dainty fingers gripping his shoulders. He wanted to gather her to his body, protect her from what lay ahead, but he kept her at arms’ length and set her on booted feet.

  “Yer drivers can bed down in the barn. Fion will send a man to show the way,” he said.

  Fion bowed and shouted an order to someone inside.

  “And my uncle and aunt?” she asked as Sir David dismounted and helped his wife from the wagon.

  He hated the nervousness in her voice. These people of good family had a right to expect the best hospitality the Highlands had to offer, but he feared Tannoch might consign them to the cells. The prospect of Margaret being in the filthy, rat infested place made him sick.

  He offered his arm and escorted her into the Great Hall. Her relatives followed, Lady Ogilvie still clutching the blankets, her eyes darting everywhere.

  He bade them be seated near the hearth, thankful someone had banked a fire. Fion no doubt. Again he marveled at the man’s uncanny foresight.

  Margaret sat in his mother’s favorite chair. She looked at home there, holding her palms to the warmth of the glowing peat.

  “That’s my place.”

  Rheade cursed under his breath. He had forgotten Glenna, Tannoch’s wife, Mistress of Dunalastair.

  God help us.

  Marriage to Tannoch hadn’t brought out the best in Glenna, but then he was a hard man to please. No one who’d known her when she first came to Dunalastair as a bride would recognize her now. The charming raven-haired beauty had become a stooped shrew with hair of uncertain color.

  Responsibility for the disastrous marriage lay on Glenna’s shoulders according to many because she had failed to conceive. Tannoch beat her, and not always in the privacy of their chamber. It was not suitable behavior for a chieftain, but none voiced the opinion aloud.

  Margaret was out of the chair in the blink of an eye. “I’m sorry,” she said, glancing nervously at Rheade.

  He wanted to strangle Glenna, but the woman had a difficult life. “May I introduce Lady Margaret Ogilvie of Oban, her uncle Sir David, and her aunt, Lady—”

  “—Edythe,” Margaret supplied the name.

  Glenna eyed the visitors with suspicion, still scowling.

  Rheade soldiered on. “Glenna is my sister-by-marriage, wife of our chieftain.”

  Margaret curtseyed prettily. “I’m honored, Lady Glenna. I’ve never met a chieftain’s wife before.”

  Rheade came close to laughing out loud. Glenna looked gobsmacked. He doubted anyone had ever curtseyed to her—certainly no one in Dunalastair for many a year—and she obviously didn’t know what to make of Margaret’s courtly manners. He had to hand it to the girl from Oban. She had averted an awkward situation seemingly without effort.

  After a minute or two Glenna closed her gaping mouth and softened her glare. “Aye, well. Welcome. To ye all,” she stammered. “Sitheedoon,” she insisted, gesturing to the chair she’d been protective of. “What are ye doing this far from Oban?”

  Rheade opened his mouth to explain, intending not to reveal the details, but Lady Edythe beat him to it. “She’s come to meet her betrothed,” the obese woman explained sarcastically, “who turns out to be the traitor, Robert Stewart.”

  Glenna’s mouth fell open again, then a grin split her face. “Does my husband ken this?” she asked.

  “Not yet,” Rheade replied through gritted teeth.

  Glenna cackled like a gleeful witch who’s unearthed an ancient recipe for turning men into toads. The cackle turned to a belly laugh, and by the time she staggered out of the Hall her laughter echoed off the stone pillars.

  NO HAR
M OR FOUL

  Glenna’s strange departure left an awkward silence in its wake. The indignant expression on Edythe’s face indicated she planned to say something else they’d all regret. The woman never did have any common sense. It was clear Rheade and Logan were ashamed and perplexed by Glenna’s behavior. No point making things worse.

  “I apologize,” Rheade said, his jaw clenched. “Our sister-by-marriage is—”

  Saddened at the distress on his face, Margaret smiled sweetly. “I expect the lot of a chieftain’s wife isn’t easy. Glenna must have many responsibilities. Unexpected guests are an added burden.”

  She thought wistfully of Ogilvie House and the warm welcome her family always afforded visitors.

  Rheade’s eyes widened as his jaw slackened. Apparently her conciliatory attitude had taken him by surprise. “Aye. That’s true. Tannoch is—” He glanced at Logan who cleared his throat loudly.

  “Who knows when our chieftain will return from the Grampians,” he said in an abrupt change of subject. “Logan had a good idea. I’ll instruct Fion to prepare our mother’s dressing room for ye, Lady Margaret, and have another chamber prepared for yer uncle and aunt.”

  “Excellent,” Uncle Davey exclaimed. “After a week on the road ’twill be good to sleep indoors in a comfortable bed.”

  He rambled on about the appalling conditions in the shepherds’ bothys in which they’d sheltered, making no mention of the tireless efforts of Shaon and Joss to alleviate the discomforts. Aunty Edythe made silly cooing noises of agreement, loosening her grip on the blankets.

  Logan’s frown worried Margaret. “Are ye sure?” she whispered to Rheade. “I dinna wish to upset yer brother. Will he approve?”

  He hesitated only a moment before replying. “Aye,” he said. “I’m sure it’s what my mother woulda wished.”

  ~~~

  Perhaps it was Glenna’s unspeakably rude behavior, or the obvious discomfort of these good people from Oban, but Rheade was suddenly sick and tired of worrying about Tannoch’s opinion.

  Dunalastair was his home as much as it was Tannoch’s. The Robertson clan had a stalwart reputation of nobility and good breeding. His older brother hadn’t inherited those traits from their father, but it didn’t mean the entire family had to behave like ignorant peasants. It pained him Margaret might be in danger in his home. “I will make sure no harm or foul comes to ye in this castle,” he assured her.

  “Why should we be persecuted?” Sir David asked. “We’ve done naught amiss.”

  The auld knight spoke the truth, yet the knot in Rheade’s belly refused to ease. However, he wanted to avoid alarming Margaret. “Mayhap it’s the dangerous times have me on edge. I’m confident Tannoch will welcome ye.”

  He glanced at Logan. His younger brother’s dour expression showed he doubted it.

  To his relief, Fion appeared, accompanied by maidservants bearing tankards of ale. Once again the faithful retainer had eased a tense situation with his sense of what was the right thing to do.

  “Thank ye, Fion,” he rasped. “I’d like ye to see to preparations for our guests.”

  “Lady Isobel’s dressing room will be ready for Lady Margaret shortly,” the Steward replied, “and the maids are airing out another chamber for her aunt and uncle.”

  A bemused smile lit Logan’s face as Fion retreated. “Ye might have known he’d have matters in hand,” he said.

  It sometimes occurred to Rheade the auld steward would make a better laird than his brother, but he wouldn’t share that with these strangers. His first loyalty was to his clan and its chieftain. He raised his tankard. “To yer health, Lady Margaret.”

  She lifted her tankard in response and took a sip of the ale. Dunalastair brew was strong, dark and yeasty and he wondered what she’d think of it. Her genuine smile of enjoyment had the predictable effect on his manhood, and the trace of froth gracing her upper lip tugged at his heart. He traced a finger over his own lip, his mind licking the creamy moustache from hers.

  She blushed and dabbed her mouth with a lacy kerchief. “’Tis a fine ale,” she said.

  “Nay as good as what we brew in Oban,” her uncle boasted, wiping a sleeve across his face, his tankard half empty.

  “Aye,” Lady Edythe exclaimed with a loud belch.

  Everyone laughed heartily. It occurred to Rheade that this is how life should be; pleasant camaraderie among folks of good intent sharing an ale. Things hadn’t been thus at Dunalastair for a while.

  It struck him like a lightning bolt. The Robertson brothers no longer had friends or neighbors who might come for a social visit. Tannoch’s belligerence had brought an end to friendly gatherings.

  ~~~

  Margaret’s mouth fell open when Rheade escorted her into his mother’s dressing room. “’Tis huge,” she exclaimed.

  “Aye,” he replied. “’Twas her favorite place in the whole castle. Her retreat, she called it. She had a bed placed here for the nights my father’s snoring drove her from their chamber. Fion makes sure everything’s as it was, in her memory.”

  This confirmed Margaret’s first impression that the long disused chamber had been kept aired and dusted, and mint scattered to deter mice and ants.

  She hoped the flush of heat surging in her veins wasn’t evident on her face. She barely knew this man who was sharing intimate secrets about his parents. Yet she laughed. “My mother had the same complaint,” she said softly, wistful at the remembrance. Uncle Davey and Aunty Edythe would soon make sure no trace remained of her mother and father at Ogilvie House.

  “Sounds like ye loved yer parents,” he said.

  With one finger she traced the pattern on the pale blue bedspread, reluctant to meet his gaze. “I miss them terribly. And my brothers.”

  Why she’d mentioned them she wasn’t sure. He frowned. “Ye’ve brothers?”

  “I had three. They drowned.”

  Unexpectedly, he took hold of her hands and brought them to his lips. “I am sorry, Margaret. I would be devastated if a similar catastrophe befell my brothers. How did it happen?”

  The warm moisture of his lips on her knuckles, the sincerity in his dark brown eyes, the sorrow in his deep voice, all conspired to send a jolt of desire spiraling into her womb. This behavior had to stop. She was betrothed to another, and while Robert Stewart yet lived, she wasn’t free to dally with Rheade Robertson, no matter how attractive he was.

  Her gaze settled on an unusual lacquered screen in one corner. It depicted foreign looking women with slanted eyes and hair piled high on their heads, fixed in place with sticks. They were elaborately dressed in Oriental garments, but they looked alarmingly seductive. If she made eyes at Rheade that way…

  She pulled her hand away. “Ye must excuse me, my lord, I am tired after the day’s alarming events. Perhaps I’ll recount the difficult tale another time.”

  She patted the bed, then feared her gesture might be mistaken. “I mean, what I meant was—”

  He arched his brows. She wished he wouldn’t smile the crooked smile that sent her heart fluttering. “I understood perfectly, Lady Margaret. Ye must nap. I will see to it ye’re called for the evening meal. And my name is Rheade. I am not yer lord.”

  It was a relief when he left, yet when she curled up on the sweet smelling bed she wished he had stayed. She’d liked being held in his arms after stumbling from the wagon. “I wish ye were my lord,” she whispered into the bolster, one eye on the exotic painted women.

  But there was still the matter of her disastrous betrothal.

  SPIES

  As the days passed with no sign of Tannoch’s return from the mountains, Rheade was reminded more and more of the happy times at Dunalastair when his parents still lived. It was true his older brother had always been the black sheep, but his father’s jovial nature and his mother’s love of fun had permeated their lives.

  On the fourth day after the arrival of the visitors from Oban, he and Logan were descending the stone steps from their chambers. “I look f
orward now to meals in the Great Hall,” he confided. “Something I havna enjoyed in a while.”

  “Me too,” his brother replied. “Margaret has reminded us of things we’ve let lapse in this castle since our mother passed.”

  Rheade chuckled, reminded of Margaret’s look of consternation when there’d been no bowl of scented water provided for washing hands before the meal. He’d quickly consented to her instructing the cooks in its preparation. Now the aroma of cloves clung to his hands when he ate. It somehow made the food taste better. Of course, he hadn’t known it was cloves until she’d told him.

  “Margaret could teach Glenna a thing or two about being a chatelaine,” Logan mused. “I hate to say it but mayhap the reason we’re more at ease is Tannoch’s absence. ’Tis embarrassing when he drinks himself into oblivion of an evening after berating every living soul in the Hall.”

  Rheade paused halfway down the steps. The notion of Margaret replacing Glenna as Mistress of Dunalastair might be appealing but—

  “Keep yer voice down. Our suspicious brother has ears in the walls.”

  Logan leaned back against the stone of the stairwell. “When our parents were alive, we didna worry people were spying on us. I dinna look forward to our brother’s return. ’Tis a terrible admission to make.”

  The knot in Rheade’s belly that had loosened over the past few days tightened anew. “He’ll nay be pleased about our visitors, that’s for certain.”

  Logan put a hand on his shoulder. “Especially if he suspects ye care for Lady Margaret.”

  Apprehension shivered up Rheade’s spine. “Why do ye say such a thing?”

  “Tannoch is jealous of ye.”

  Rheade shook his head. “What reason would he have to be jealous of me? He’s the chieftain, and he’s already married.” But as he said the words he acknowledged inwardly he’d often borne the brunt of his brother’s animosity.