Highland Scandal

by Mageela Troche

  “Mistress, all is ready for ye. I left ye food, clothes and added a couple of more plaids. I’ll miss ye. Be safe. If ye dinna need me…”

  Rowen looked to Margaret. “Please go about your duties.” She knew that she had a husband and five boys to care for. “Thank you.”

  “If ye e’er need me, let me ken.” Margaret left after that. For some reason, the two had bonded when Rowen first arrived, heartbroken, scared, and lonely. Eacharn was here and did all he could to be at her side. When he wasn’t with her, Margaret was there. She had taken a liking to her and Rowen was most grateful. She just saved Rowen and Kenny’s lives.

  “I go down.” Kenny squirmed so he was almost upside down in her arms. She set him on his bare feet. He ran across the room to where his two carved wooden knights laid upon the floor. He snatched them up.

  Rowen watched him as he galloped around the room, running his toys along the walls. He made neighing sounds that no horse would have ever recognized.

  She had to protect her child. Very few Murrays accepted her, especially after Eacharn’s death, a death they believed she brought. She saw the fearful glances, the way they avoided her, and the charms. No help would come from that quarter. With winter here, there were no drovers upon the road, hawking their wares. She couldn’t wait for a visitor to arrive so she could beg assistance.

  The laird said Caelen knew about her new status, but with snow upon the ground and roads that were no more than animal trails, she doubted news had reached him. More than a fortnight had passed. And if he had, he would have arrived here. Time had run out.

  She must plan her next move.

  They would not kill her son.

  * * * *

  Lachlan clamped Cormag on his shoulder. “We shall have masses said for her.”

  Cormag dipped his head. “I’ll leave on the morrow.”

  “If you wish,” Lachlan said. Cormag’s mother had died and he had three younger brothers and two sisters to care for. “Remember if you require anything, you must come to me or the Laird. I will help in every way.”

  Cormag went off to his quarters to prepare for his journey home. Lachlan would have to talk to Ailsa about finding his father a new wife. There was widow Beitiris who might fit into the family.

  He ambled to the table. He snatched up his cup and sat down. His mother rushed to the forefront of his mind. He couldn’t remember her face or her voice. She was the last of his own blood. His father never counted. The one favor the man did was sending him here. That was a blessing. He gulped down the remnants of his drink. Both were gone.

  Smoke faded into a mist from the frosty air circling the hall. Hearing male voices, he set down his cup. He would hear their reports then set out the duties for the morrow. Instead of his men, an old man approached.

  “Come and warm yourself,” Lachlan offered him.

  The man inclined his head and stiffly walked to the hearth. He rubbed his gnarled hands together before the fire. The man shouldn’t be traveling in this weather. Lachlan sent a man to get MacLean. Turning back, he offered him a drink.

  Lachlan poured usiage beathe. He held out the cup to him. His cloudy eyes roved over his face as if he searched for recognition.

  “You are Lachlan.” His voice boomed and seemed at odds with his lithe, lanky frame.

  “Aye.”

  He raised the cup to his mouth.

  When Lachlan was about ten, Duncan had dared him to sneak into auld Hamish’s cottar and not get caught. Sneaking into a cottar wasn’t a difficultly. The challenge was not to get caught by him. Auld Hamish was an old and craggy man. He had the second sight and the same hoary eyes that never saw anything, yet the man always knew who was around him.

  With the boastful pride of a boy, he had climbed through the window. Auld Hamish sat on his low stool around the hearth in the center of his home. Lachlan’s was charged with stealing one thing from him. He planned to be triumphant and best the others who called him bastard. Inside, Lachlan took every precaution. He rolled his foot from heel to toe, kept his breathing easier and didn’t lick his lips though his mouth was dry. He had taken a half a dozen steps when auld Hamish said, “Lad, can ye hurry an’ leave. I’m a needing sleep.” The same chilled tremor he felt on that day, he shivered through him now.

  MacLean came from the stairs. Lachlan leaned back in his chair.

  The old man turned around and bowed to Duncan. “Laird MacLean. I am Semias from Clan Gordon.”

  Lachlan stiffened.

  “What has brought you here?” Duncan motioned to the empty seat besides the laird’s chair.

  Semias lowered himself stiffly. “Thank you. I have come to inform you that Laird Gordon is dead.”

  Lachlan should have had a reaction to the news. Shock? Relief? Instead of this nothingness echoing through him. He felt more interested in discussing the weather. He blinked. The Lairdess stood in the archway, watching him. He focused his attention back on the conversation.

  “How did he die?”

  “He was stabbed in the back.” Semias fixed his misty gaze on Lachlan.

  Lachlan snatched his dirk from his side and stabbed it into the table. “It wasn’t my knife.” The handle shook from the force.

  Semias watched the hilt twitch. Lachlan swore that his mouth twitched.

  “That is not the only reason to travel such a distance,” Duncan said.

  “As you know, all of Gordon’s tanists have perished before their father. I have been sent here to present the position to his other son.”

  Lachlan rocked on his heels, feeling the blow of his words in the center of his chest. He swallowed the bile surging in his throat. His breathing increased. Hell, he could hear his puffs over the rapid drum of his heartbeat.

  “The clan council voted upon it and has approval from his majesty.” He dipped his hand inside his bearskin mantle and pulled out an officially sealed roll. He held it out to Lachlan.

  He stared at the rolled edge.

  Duncan curled his fingers around it.

  “Do you know how to read?” Semias stared at Lachlan.

  “Of course, I can write, add, and speak French, English, Latin, and Gaelic.”

  Semias bowed his head. “I always knew you were a smart one.”

  This man knew him.

  Lachlan felt the weight of Duncan’s gaze on him. MacLean’s face remained passive but for the slight shift of his eyes. Lachlan pinched his brows in confusion. But from Duncan’s face, it was true. Him, laird of the clan that tossed him out, banished him.

  “Shall you come and take your place?”

  Duncan rose. “He shall inform you tonight after the evening meal.” He motioned to a servant. “She will show you where you may rest your head.”

  Semias bowed and followed Brigid from the hall.

  Ailsa peeked around the archway. Seeing they were alone, she raced over. “Get that out of my table.” With both hands and a low grunt, she pulled it out. “How could you do that?” She brushed at the hole.

  “He had a point to make, my love.”

  She brandished the dirk about in a wavy arc. Light glinted off the blade. “He didn’t have to make it in my table. You are not getting this back until I say so.” She emphasized her threat by jabbing the dirk in his direction.

  “Fine. However, when you do, please bury it in my heart. It might get it to calm.” Lachlan crumbled in the seat.

  “Lachlan, you have to take this position.” Duncan jabbed a finger on the table.

  “Aye, you must,”—Ailsa emphasized her comment by jabbing the table with the knife—“but you don’t wish to. I shall leave this with you.” She pointed the knife at her husband.

  “She seems more skilled with a blade. Been training her?” Lachlan asked.

  “She’s a MacLean. It comes naturally, but she was free with its movement.”

  “She couldn’t decide who to stab first, you or me.”

  “Lachlan, she wouldn’t stab me. She loves me and that would be disrespect to h
er laird. You are laird.”

  “I cannot lead them. I hate them.” Lachlan shook his head. “At least, I should.”

  “You will be raised to a position of power. You could become a baron or an Earl. You have led my men since I took my position. You shall return as their laird, not the bastard-born.”

  “I shall think upon it.”

  * * * *

  The risk was great. This endeavor could end with her and Kenny free and safe or with them both dead. She had no other choice. Not to save herself, but the life of her son. Children died more than they should at this age. They sickened, accidents befell them, and if Murray succeeded with his plan, her accusations of murder would only be the ravings of a mad, grief-stricken mother. It would be so easy to rid themselves of her.

  For the past days, Margaret had been concealing items necessary for her survival…until she was safe in Lachlan’s arms. When news had reached her about Lachlan’s advancement, she had bowed her head and gloated with a most wicked smile. She hadn’t let her thoughts wonder at what could have been if Laird Gordon died before…Nay, those threads of ideas had her feeling sour. Then there was Eacharn. Better to leave that particular knot tangled.

  She had waited long enough. Tonight, she would escape. She knelt, crossed herself, and prayed. As per routine, her meal was brought to her chamber.

  “Come my wee one. ’Tis time to eat.” She perched Kenny on her lap.

  He rubbed his tired eyes. She held out a piece of salted beef. He twisted his mouth away and groaned. She hadn’t let him nap today. It was better for him to sleep through the escape as much as possible.

  “Na, ma.” He pushed back his deep sorrel hair.

  “You have to eat. Otherwise, we cannot have our adventure. Don’t you want to have fun?”

  “Aye.” He opened his mouth wide. She popped in the piece. Bite for bite, they finished the meal.

  She dipped a linen in the washbowl. Kenny curled up on the chair. His lashes fluttered as he tried to fight sleep. His lashes were thick. The nearly black roots lightened at the tips and seemed more reddish than brown across the soft, blue veins underneath his thin skin. A rushing surge of love filled her.

  She crouched before the chair. He didn’t fuss as she wiped his face or his hands. She brushed back his fine, brown locks. She placed a peck on his temple and breathed in his sweet scent, a blend of peat smoke and the sweet child scent that was his alone. She filled with so much love that it expanded within her and outside. She scooped him in his arms. He rested his head against her breast. Beside the bed, she held onto his a little longer before putting him beneath the covers.

  She pushed herself away from the warm comfort of the bed. She stayed away from the fire, too afraid the heat would soothe her into slumber. She pulled back the skin from the window to let in the winter air.

  The candle melted to a nub and the flame flickered before puttering out. The only light radiated from the hearth.

  Time had come. She gathered up the necessary things for her survival. She wrapped the deerskin around her. She felt bulky since she had donned two plaids as well as the skin. But staying warm was the most important. She did the same with Kenny.

  She clutched him to her chest. Rowen never bothered looking back. She made her way unseen from the top floor to the stable. Alexander the groom would be gone, tucked away in the garrison thanks to drink. She rested Kenny on a bale of old grass and saddled her horse. Surprisingly, her hands were steady. She didn’t fumble with the cinches and bridles.

  With her palfrey ready, she scooped up her son and ventured into the night. She tucked Kenny tighter to her to shield him from the crisp, cold air. The trampled snow had turned the frozen earth to slippery mud. She couldn’t walk out from the gate, but went through the postern gate. The laird never stationed guards since the width of the gate was too small for a horse to pass, but her palfrey squeezed between the thick stones. The castle walls cast long, deep shadows across the landscape. She left tracks in the snow, but was counting on the coming snow to conceal any trace.

  She slipped into the copse of trees and found the items Margaret left behind for her. She secured the packs to the saddle. Once she had everything, she mounted. Even with Kenny in her arms, she had no trouble. Mothers must learn to do things with one hand. She tucked him under her skin and set off.

  The ride was slow along the animal trail. She used the shelter of the trees to block wind and shield them. The bare branches stuck out like eerie claws scratching at the darkness. The eerie cry of the wind carried the din of the night animals and the heavy breathing of her and the horse.

  Her eyes were as wide as an owl’s and she searched for any lurking danger. This was a dangerous, foolish endeavor between the beasts and the roaming bands of men. She jumped at every noise and craned her neck behind to check they weren’t being followed. Her fear kept her at a ready and banished any sensation of cold that racked her.

  She rubbed her chin against her fur to rouse some heat. Her nose went from cold and runny to numb, but it continued to run. Her hands had frozen around the reins. She straightened them, feeling as if she broke the ice covering them. She never let go of the reins.

  She hugged Kenny tighter against her. She winced at the needling pain shot through her arm. She rode onward as the world darkened so even the horse’s mane was undistinguishable.

  She yearned to sleep. Her limbs felt heavy and as if she had no control over herself even her gloved fingers were blundering about to hold onto her son. Was exhaustion or the cold? She shook her head. She switched Kenny’s sleep heavy body to her other arm. He squirmed and mumbled before he nestled back in her arms. At least all her muscles ached and reminded her she was alive.

  Dawn was breaking. The pallid light gleamed through the mist and blurred the world so she couldn’t make out what lay before her. Even with straining light, she rode faster. She hadn’t put enough distance between herself and the Murrays.

  Kenny stirred as the sun hovered over the mountaintops. She parted the deer fur and peered down at his flushed face.

  “Morn, my angel.”

  He pushed up so she set him before him on the saddle, making sure to tuck him snug. “Ma, me wanna make water.” He squirmed and cupped his boy parts.

  She flexed her thighs, signaling to the palfrey to halt and swung him down to his feet. He lifted his leine and gave a sound of relief. Rowen swung down to her feet. She held onto the saddle as her muscles protested, beating her from the inside out, and blood rushed to her toes. She swallowed her gasp of pain.

  Rowen looked behind her. Murray lands loomed too close for her to ease her tremors. The men could come upon her. She had to hurry. Not that her body cared, and she collapsed in the snow.

  Kenny ran to her. “Ma!” His wails bounced in her ears and through her skull.

  She forced herself to clasp his hand. “I am well. Do not fret.” Her voice was thick with exhaustion.

  “Ma, I wanna go home.” He tugged on her hand.

  “Nay, we are off to visit a friend. We have need of him.” She struggled to smile.

  “I dinna wanna see him.” He tugged at her plaid. “Home.” He slammed his hand into the snow.

  “Soon, my love. First, let’s eat.” She climbed to her knees and drew bread and cheese from the bags. She ripped a chunk of bread and cheese.

  “I wanna porridge.”

  “Later. But you must eat this for now.” She held out the bread. His little teeth dug into the day-old bread and ripped off a piece. He chewed it with a pout on his face. He looked like his father.

  She took a bite. “Come here. I do not want you sitting in the snow.”

  “You are.” He came and plopped down on her lap. She dizzied. She held onto him to steady herself.

  “Ma, ouch!” He squirmed in her arms and went straight and stiff. “You dropped cheese.” He picked it up and blew off the snow.

  She took deep breathes through her mouth. Tears welled in her eyes. She ached, feeling as if she had been
clawed, torn to shreds. She swore she must be bleeding, feeling wetness then realized it was the snow soaking through her garments. She lifted her plaid about her head to capture some of her heat.

  There was a way to go, through mountains and across rivers. “Kenny, come along. We must get going. Eat in the saddle like a true highlander.”

  “Aye, ma. I’m Murray.” He puffed his little chest. With the scant reserve of strength and mostly, MacKenzie will, she lifted him into the saddle and tucked him among the skins. “Do not shrug them off, keeping them tight about you.”

  She saw his baby-fat rounded chin move in agreement. She grabbed the reins and walked alongside the horse. “I’m cold.” She halted and tucked the skins tighter about him. “Ma, you ride horseee?”

  “Not now.” Rowen needed to stretch her legs and rid herself of the stiffness. The snow had eased some pain, but she felt the wetness against her skin.

  “Ma, where are da men?”

  “Do you see the eagles flying overhead?”

  He tilted his head back to see. “I wanna un. Seanair promised.”

  She tensed as he spoke of Laird Murray. Kenny spoke with all the warmth and affection a grandson held for his grandfather. That man wanted to kill this boy…this innocent boy. The same boy Murray had held close and wiped away tears from at Eacharn’s funeral.

  “Aye, it shall be great fun.”

  “I want a dog.” He kept up a steady stream of conversation about everything and anything. He pointed out the oddest things. The way a Scot Pine’s trunk looked like a crooked old man or a face. He asked why it snowed…why it was cold…why his hands turned red…why his breath steamed up…and more.

  “Ma, why are you stopping?”

  “There is the river.” In mere hours, she would ride up to Gordon castle. She swung up behind her son and with a surge of energy, she sent her palfrey across the icy crossing. The peaty water splashed up from the fast moving current. Shingles and rocks littered the bed and the shore and once back on land. Rowen breathed a little easier.