Logan persisted. “Ye are more like our father than he’ll ever be. Folk like and respect ye. Tannoch can only rule by fear, even in his marriage. Ye’ve only to look at Glenna.”
Rheade considered the consequences if Tannoch thought he coveted the chieftaincy of Clan Robertson, which he never had. “But it’s not my right to usurp him as chieftain.”
Logan clenched his jaw. “Tannoch doesna trust anybody. Just dinna let him see ye’re attracted to Margaret.”
“Obvious is it?”
Logan winked. “Aye. And I dinna blame ye.”
Rheade thanked God he had one brother he trusted. “I admit I am drawn to her.”
Logan laughed. “Drawn! Ye practically drool over the lass.”
Rheade frowned. “I’ll have to be more cautious. If ye’ve noticed, then others have too.”
Logan tightened his grip on Rheade’s shoulder. “And we can only surmise what Glenna will report to Tannoch if she thinks it will give her some advantage with him.”
They continued to the Great Hall. Rheade’s heart lifted when he caught sight of Margaret already seated at the table, but he tempered his hearty smile lest Tannoch’s spies were watching.
~~~
Margaret smiled when Rheade arrived in the Hall. Despite the difficulty of the situation, she had enjoyed his company over the past few days. Warmth cocooned her; what she felt was more than enjoyment. She wanted him. Desire for a man was a curious notion she’d never given much thought to before, but she fell asleep every night imagining she was wrapped in his strong arms, listening to his husky voice murmuring words of love. The intensity of her longing astonished her.
It was sinful, lusting for a man when you were betrothed to another, but there was no prospect of a marriage with Robert Stewart now.
Hopes had stirred that Rheade was attracted to her. He’d been very attentive. Indeed Aunty Edythe had scolded her for encouraging his interest. But now his smile disappeared quickly as he came to sit beside her.
“Good evening, Lady Margaret,” he said as he took his seat. His tone had changed. He seemed aloof, preoccupied.
“Good evening, Rheade,” she replied, worried when he edged away from her on the bench. He’d been in the habit of pressing his thigh against hers. She missed the warmth of that intimate touch. Perhaps something had gone amiss since she’d seen him at the midday meal. “All is well with ye?”
“Aye,” he replied gruffly, his attention seemingly on the venison a servant was heaping onto his trencher.
Uncle Davey, seated to her right, leaned over and said, “Ask him when we can return to Oban.”
She clenched her fists under the table and gritted her teeth. “’Tis nay a good time,” she hissed.
“Now is as good a time as any,” he retorted loudly.
“As good a time for what?” Rheade asked.
A maelstrom of emotions swirled through Margaret. She didn’t want to return to Oban. Her uncle would concoct some way to oust her from Ogilvie House, unless she secured a husband. The likelihood of that once word got around she’d been betrothed to a murderer was non-existent. Exile to a nunnery loomed large. She’d rather be dead.
Rheade was the man she wanted, but she was unsure of his feelings about her betrothal, indeed about her. She hoped he found her attractive.
She didn’t want Uncle Davey and Aunty Edythe to remain in the east, any more than they wanted to stay, and Shaon had a family.
However, it would be Tannoch, not Rheade who would determine what happened to them.
“Ask him,” Uncle Davey insisted.
She wanted to bring her heel down firmly on his foot, but she turned to Rheade, dismayed to see he’d tucked into his venison without serving her a morsel as he usually did. “My uncle and aunt must return to Oban soon. Shaon and Joss—”
She faltered when Rheade narrowed his eyes and asked, “Do ye wish to return to Oban?”
She averted her gaze from those perceptive brown eyes. “It is my home,” she murmured. “I suppose—”
Uncle Davey coughed loudly. “What she means is Ogilvie House was her home, but there’s nothing for a bonnie young lass in Oban. She’d be better off staying here.”
Anger seethed in Margaret’s heart. Her uncle might as well have said he wanted to be rid of her. “But the future here is uncertain,” she said hoarsely, her throat dry as dust.
To her pleasant surprise, Rheade took her hand. “If the decision were mine to make, ye could stay at Dunalastair or go home to Oban, but my brother rules here. We must await his return.”
A chilly wind suddenly gusted through the Hall, bringing grit swirling in its wake. A bone-jarring bang drew every eye to the door. A massive man stood there, his long red hair a nest of serpents that metamorphosed into a thick beard. It nigh on covered his whole face. A deep scowl furrowed his brow and Margaret’s racing heart told her this ferocious Highlander was the chieftain.
“What have we here?” the giant boomed.
Servants who’d been loitering around the tables scurried off to the kitchens.
Glenna leapt to her feet and rushed to the newcomer’s side. “Welcome home, husband.”
He looked at his wife briefly then shouldered her away. “Who are these strangers?” he shouted, striding towards the head table.
The odor of acrid male sweat assailed Margaret’s nostrils. Tannoch’s plaid was soiled and torn, his léine filthy, his socks bunched around his ankles. This was Rheade’s brother? He looked like a wild barbarian.
Despite the fear leaping about in her belly, she remained seated.
Rheade came to his feet, but didn’t let go of her hand. She was glad of his strength, though she feared he might crush her fingers. “Our guests are from Oban,” he said, his jaw clenched. “Sir David Ogilvie, his wife Lady Edythe and their niece Lady Margaret—”
Glenna trotted to her husband’s side. “Lady Margaret is betrothed to the traitor Robert Stewart,” she pronounced loudly.
TANNOCH'S RETURN
Tannoch brought his fist down on the table, causing trenchers and utensils to dance. “Harboring traitors are ye, brother?” he spat at Rheade.
Members of the search party had followed him into the Hall. Among them Rheade recognized a handful as his brother’s cronies, men of similar disposition to his own. The scowls on their faces bespoke the failure of the hunt for the assassins. It would take only a word from the chieftain for them to descend on the Ogilvies like ravenous wolves. “Our guests,” he asserted loudly, “are not traitors. Lady Margaret is an unwitting victim of Robert Stewart’s crime.”
He glanced at Margaret as he spoke, loosening his grip on her fingers when her face twisted with discomfort. He was impressed she had held her ground and remained seated. It took guts to withstand Tannoch’s temper. Her courage was admirable, but the fear marring her lovely face angered him. “She was unaware of the assassination,” he insisted.
Tannoch flattened both hands on the table, leaned forward and glared at Margaret. “How could she nay ken? All o’ Scotland is aware our king was slain.”
To Rheade’s surprise, it was Sir David who replied. “I must protest. We spent the previous sennight travelling from Oban, encountering nary a soul. How were we to hear of it?”
Tannoch wasn’t known for welcoming strangers and reacted predictably to the auld man’s words. “And how are we to be sure ye didna come east at the behest of Robert Stewart when he believed his dastardly scheme to take the Crown would be successful?”
“That’s hardly credible, Tannoch,” Logan said, shaking his head. “These are worthy folks caught up in a deadly web not of their making. They are horrified by the murder.”
Tannoch glared at his youngest brother. “And ye are such an expert, Logan. Barely out of breechclouts.”
Logan clenched his jaw, but said naught.
Tannoch’s ragged appearance and slurred speech led Rheade to believe he had already imbibed more than enough whisky on the journey home, probably in an effor
t to blunt the frustration of failing to capture the fugitives. The Grampians in winter were hard enough on a man. Reason wouldn’t prevail. Time for another tack. “Ye are our chieftain, brother. We took it upon ourselves in yer absence to act as hosts on behalf of the clan and to extend the traditional Robertson hospitality. If we were wrong, I apologize.”
Tannoch’s scowl softened. He evidently wasn’t sure what to make of a polite apology. A voice in Rheade’s head told him to remain silent, to allow time for his words to settle in his brother’s befuddled brain.
But the voice wasn’t loud enough. “Lady Margaret has appreciated the comforts of our mother’s dressing rooms, and—”
Tannoch brought his fist down on the table again, his blotchy face reddening further. Rheade had never seen a volcano, but recalled the tales of Crusaders who witnessed the awesome power of Vesuvius while journeying home from the East. He half expected fire and smoke to burst forth from his brother’s ears.
“The bluidy cells is where they should be,” Tannoch shouted, his nose inches away from Margaret’s face. “Not in my bluidy mother’s bluidy dressing room.”
Anger knotted Rheade’s gut. He hazarded a glance at Margaret. The color had drained from her face. She trembled like a sapling in the teeth of a mighty gale as she came to her feet. The stench of Tannoch’s whisky laden breath was overwhelming.
She gripped Rheade’s hand like a vise, but her voice was steady when she replied, “I will of course obey yer commands, since ye are chieftain of this clan. But I must assert my innocence in this matter.”
Grumbling murmurs wafting through the Hall suddenly fell silent as folk gaped at the wisp of a girl who had challenged Tannoch Robertson with such calm assurance.
The gloating grin left Glenna’s face as her eyes darted about. “Rheade’s taken with the woman, that’s why he’s lodged her in yer Ma’s chambers. Who knows what’s been going’ on there. See how they cling to each other.”
Margaret gasped, staring in frowning disbelief at the chieftain’s wife.
Rheade was used to censure from his brother, but now pure hatred darkened Tannoch’s narrowed eyes. He feared nothing he might say would calm his brother’s temper, but he had to try. “I can assure ye Glenna’s accusations are false.”
“Philandering with a traitor’s whore?” Tannoch bellowed.
“Now look here,” Sir David protested.
“To the cells with the lot o’ them,” Tannoch shouted, gesturing wildly.
The desperate plea in Margaret’s eyes as Tannoch’s bullies dragged her and her relatives from the Hall would haunt Rheade forever. Disgust rose in his throat as his brother lost his balance and keeled over in front of the dais, loudly demanding more whisky. Logan hurried over to help him rise. Rheade hastened from the Hall to do what he could to ensure Tannoch’s prisoners were treated humanely. He suddenly had a glimmer of understanding of the traitors’ motives. A cruel and tyrannical leader shouldn’t be allowed to rule.
~~~
Ogilvie House had no dungeon. There were store rooms in the cellar where miscreants were confined while they awaited Duncan Ogilvie’s decision regarding their punishment. Her soft-hearted father didn’t keep anyone incarcerated there long and Margaret had never ventured into those dank places.
Fear and disgust swamped her as a foul-smelling burly Highlander hoisted her over his shoulder and embarked on the descent of a narrow stone stairway.
Despite her terror, she momentarily wondered how they would wrestle her aunt down the narrow steps. Edythe’s screeching echoed off the stone walls, drowning out Uncle Davey’s protestations. It was a nightmare from which she hoped she’d soon waken.
The deeper they went, the darker it got. She held her breath against the stench, shivering as the damp chilled her bones. Metal squealed.
She clenched her jaw, expecting to be dumped unceremoniously, but the brute carrying her was surprisingly gentle as he slid her from his shoulder and lay her on what felt and smelled like a pile of stale straw. It didn’t lessen the shock of the cold stone floor.
Davey was silent, but Edythe wailed. She assumed they were in the same cell.
A metal door clanged shut. A key clunked in the lock.
Heavy footsteps, the jangling of keys and grunting male voices gradually receded, leaving them in a black silence broken only by scurrying sounds she preferred not to identify.
She scrambled to her feet, trying to steady her breathing, and teetered on shaky legs, arms held out in front until she stumbled into the barred door. She curled her fingers around the cold metal and peered into the gloom beyond.
Nothing.
“A pox on Robert Stewart,” her uncle shouted.
“And a pox on Clan Robertson,” Edythe sobbed hoarsely.
Margaret wanted to protest. The Robertsons had treated them and their servants well until the arrival of their drunken chieftain, but she was afraid the bile constricting her throat might cause her to retch if she tried to speak. She absent-mindedly rubbed the sweet bag nestled at her breast, clinging to its fragrance like a lifeline.
A question plagued her. Why hadn’t Rheade intervened?
She gripped the bars more tightly, startled when warm hands covered hers. Even in the dark, she knew it was Rheade before he spoke. The ice in her veins warmed to his touch.
“Margaret,” he whispered. “I am ashamed for my clan. I promise on my honor ye won’t be down here long, and I regret with all my heart you’ve been forced to endure this indignity.”
As her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, she saw his face pressed to the bars. His breath warmed her fingers. His nearness floated like a lifeline in the sea of despair in which she was drowning. She leaned against the cold iron, barely able to touch her forehead to his. “Rheade,” she murmured with a sob that shuddered from deep within.
“Margaret,” he rasped in reply.
STARTLING REVELATIONS
Rheade left the cells with a heavy heart. Margaret’s imprisonment was more than a blow to his growing personal feelings for her; it was an affront to the reputation of the clan. Tannoch had behaved like an ignorant barbarian, not a Highland chieftain.
Hoping to sort out the emotions swirling in his mind in a quiet and peaceful place he ascended the stairway to his chamber. To his surprise, Logan was waiting for him, slumped against the doorframe, his knees drawn to his chest.
Loud snoring echoed from the laird’s chamber further down the hall.
“He’s asleep then?” he asked.
His younger brother came to his feet, brushing the dust of the stone floor from his trouzes. “Aye. Passed out cold. His mates carried him up, though most of them were barely able to stay upright. Two o’ them are sleeping it off with him.”
Rheade pushed open his door. “At least Glenna gets a reprieve for the night.”
“Bitch,” Logan muttered, shoving the door closed behind them.
“Canna blame her,” Rheade said resignedly. “For her own preservation the woman has to devise ways to stay in Tannoch’s good graces.”
Logan sat on the edge of the mattress. “Our brother’s behavior is a travesty. We’ve got to do something.”
Rheade unpinned his plaid, threw it on the bed, and carefully put the treasured gold pin his father had given him into the armoire. He rolled up the sleeves of his léine. “I agree. We cannot allow Lady Margaret to remain in the cells. It’s a place not fit for rats.”
“But how can we get her out? No one here will defy Tannoch, and where would we take her?”
“There are two people who I’ll wager would be willing to help,” Rheade replied. “They are probably already scheming.”
Logan frowned, but then seemed to understand. “The driver and the simpleton.”
“Exactly, but I dinna believe Joss is as stupid as we think,” Rheade said, possibilities jumbling in his fevered brain. “He’s big enough to help us get the three of them out of the cells, and his brother is wily enough to get the wagon ready without anyo
ne realizing what he’s up to.”
“But they willna get far in a wagon. Tannoch will easily track them down.”
Rheade stood to face his brother. “I have a plan, but I dinna want ye involved in this, Logan. Treachery against a chieftain is no trivial matter.”
Their gazes locked. For a moment, his father’s eyes looked back at him, but a light tapping at the door caused them both to swivel their heads.
Logan came to his feet. Rheade put a finger to his lips as he strode to the door. He opened it a crack, surprised to see Fion in the corridor. The auld man looked uncharacteristically nervous. “May I enter?” he asked.
Once inside, the steward made straight for the hearth, seemingly interested in the fire. “I see ye have enough peat for the night,” he murmured.
Rheade eyed him curiously. “Ye already knew that, Fion. There’s another reason ye’re here.”
“Aye,” the servant replied with a heavy sigh. “There’s something I must tell ye. Something someone ought to hae told ye a long time ago.”
Rheade and Logan exchanged a cautious glance as Fion ushered them to the chairs by the hearth. “Ye’ll want to be seated whilst I tell ye,” he said.
Rheade sat, hoping it might ease the lead weight lodged in his belly. He’d never known Fion display any emotion, but the man’s face was ashen. “What is it?” he asked.
Fion clasped his hands together and rocked back and forth on his heels. “I had hoped to take this secret to the grave, but I must speak.”
Logan frowned. “Secret?”
Fion raised one eyebrow. “Aye, laddie. Dinna interrupt or I might not summon the courage to tell ye the tale. It concerns yer parents. Specifically yer mother.”
The deafening pulse of his own heartbeat drummed in Rheade’s ears.
“’Twas a terrible, lawless time when yer parents were first wed. We lived in constant fear o’ raids by other clans.
Pride of the Clan Page 4