Lachlan grabbed handfuls of the thatch and climbed up on the roof. With the spade’s metal edge, he chopped at the weeds. Pieces flew up and scratched across his cheeks. He did not stop. He roared with each strike. He kicked off chunks.
He narrowed his eyes to block against the rising smoke. His throat was raw from coughing and smoke. The inside of his nose burned and he was drenched with sweat. Exhaustion soon nipped at his muscles. He called on his stubborn will, not wanting to lose another home or possibly a life.
From the other side of the roof, he heard a lass’s terrified screams. The roof was aflame. A cow rushed back inside. The lass jumped to follow the stupid beast. Lachlan wasted no time. He sprang off the roof and landed on his feet. He sprinted to the door and pulled the girl away. He tossed her to someone and dove into the smoke interior.
“You stupid coo, where are you?” He lifted his leine’s neckline over his nose and mouth. His eyes burned. He found the stupid beast in the byre. Its eyes were wide with fear. He gripped its hair and hauled the beast out. Near the doorway, Lachlan slammed his hand down on its rump and watched the animal run away. Overhead he heard a groan from the wood. Thatch rained down on him. Embers scorched into his hair and leine. A flare jumped. Lachlan jumped out, chased by the scorching heat.
Without wasting time, he plunged into the fight. The night went on and as dawn broke, the fire died down and all that was left were ruins. Shocked, soot-blackened faces stared ghostly at the remnants of homes.
“Any lives lost?” Lachlan asked, his voice thicken and scratchy.
“Nay, Laird. A few people are hurt, but nothing more.”
Lachlan nodded. “What started this?”
The man shrugged and looked to those beside him for an answer. “’Twas the banshee.” Lachlan heard a woman’s whisper.
“Who said that?” He glared at each person. “Who, damn you? Tell me. No one can speak up. She is not a banshee. Rowen is not a fairy. She would never hurt another soul.”
“But, Laird, who else would do this?”
“A twisted act of fate,” he offered.
“Ye are under her spell.”
“Her spell…” His snort turned into a hacking cough.
“Nay, Laird. It wasna fate or a banshee.”
“Who said that?”
A lad about ten and six came forward. “Me. It was Jonty. I saw him and his men light the first house.”
“Jonty. Is this the man you wish to follow? The man who burns you from your homes without a care to your lives and those of your clan?”
* * * *
Rowen woke in a cold bed. Lachlan had vanished during the night. Kenny seemed to have gone as well. Someone had brought the fire back to life and heated the chamber.
She rolled over and ran her hand over the spot Lachlan had occupied. Last night, she had held him. Beneath her touch, she felt his muscles shift, stiffening, and then softening as his inner struggles ceased. Rowen had wanted to do some much more—swoop in and protect the lad he had been, erase his hurt, anything—all she could do was stand by his side and hold him, so she did.
His arm slipped around her and he turned toward the castle. He hadn’t let go until the stairs forced him to relinquish his hold. His hand had remained on her, firm on the small of her back. Once in the chamber, they had undressed.
“Would you mind terribly if I just hold you?”
“Never.” She had climbed into bed.
Lachlan crossed to Kenny and knelt down beside him. He rested his hand on Kenny’s back then bent down and kissed his son on the head. She watched him bury his nose in his hair and breathe in his sweet baby scent.
Lachlan climbed into bed and pulled her close. Snuggled together, she put her leg over his. She ran her toes along his calf. The short strands covering his legs tickled her.
“Thankfully both you and he survived. I wish I had been there.” His hand stroked her shoulder absentmindedly.
She squeezed him and received a kiss in return. In silence, they laid there. His hand stopped and she heard his even breathing that comes from sleep, and then closed her eyes.
“Mistress, ye must come. The clachan is on fire. We need ye help.” Mistress Cullen held out her leine, shaking the garment for emphasis.
She threw off the covers and threw on her wrinkled garments. Without, wasting time, she hurried to the hall. On her way, she gave orders and listed the items that were needed. Servants rushed off see them fulfilled. Her head was spinning as she was pulled in different directions as questions were put to her.
“Let us pack these items, and then we shall head to the clachan to be of help. And those that are remaining behind have everything prepared. I think tonight’s meal shall be something easy, yet fulfilling.”
“Aye, Lairdess,” Mistress Cullen said.
Her comment stayed with Rowen as she left the castle and started to the clachan. She walked alongside the cart with the others. She answered their questions without much thought. They saw her as their Lairdess and Rowen found she yearned to be more than anything. Yet, she couldn’t put their lives in danger. She would sacrifice her happiness so others may have peace.
The horse bucked as a waft of smoke reached its nostrils. The drover forced him onward with a curse and a short snap of the reins. Rowen had supervised the preparation of foods, medicines, and clothing for those burned from their homes. The cart had been packed. Even now, a line of castle folk walked alongside Rowen to assist. She wagered she was not the only person praying that no lives had been lost.
On the smoky wind, she caught the deep, rich tones of Lachlan’s voice. He must be shouting orders. As they neared, she saw the villagers gathered together. The people on the edge of the crowd looked back at the crunch of the wheels. They stared at her from their soot-blackened faces.
Rowen froze. She shouldn’t have come. Lachlan barreled through the press and straight for her. He grasped her by her upper arm and dragged her before the crowd.
“You all believe this woman brings death. None have perished.”
From the right of the group, Rowen heard someone mumble.
“What did you say? Speak.”
The man gulped then said, “She could ha’e brought the destruction.”
“The only thing she has brought is supplies for you to survive, not the auld lairdess who fights with the man who caused this. She is but a woman. Her hair is blonde, her eyes are naught but blue. She is fair-skinned, as is her family. She has Norse blood and Celtic blood nothing more.” He pointed to a man in the crowd. “Like you have red hair and you have brown. Enough of this foolishness! She is but a lone female and soon to be your Lairdess. If you fear her, then gather your belongings and leave, you are not welcomed here.”
Lachlan dropped her arm. The people cleared a path for Lachlan. Rowen gathered her voice.
“Where are you going?”
“To kill a man.”
She raced after him. Behind her, the crowd surged forward. Rowen was a tall woman but Lachlan had a longer stride. He hadn’t stopped no matter how many times she called to him. The day was cool, with a sweet breeze not that it stopped sweat from beading on her.
“I am thankful, but I will not marry you.”
“Aye, you shall.”
She glared at the back of his head. “You think your announcement changes anything?”
He halted at his horse where it was tethered and munching on the first buddings of grass. “I do not care what it does. You will be my wife. You will cease hiding behind this banshee nonsense. You have never hidden from me, and it is time you stop. I will not hurt you. I love you, woman, and that is that.”
He swung on to his horse and galloped away.
His comments raced through her mind. She fisted her hands as she raged against his accusations. She was not afraid. She was cautious. He hadn’t understood how painful it was to be thought of as a mythical creature, to see the fear, hear the taunts, and be judged without the benefit of an introduction.
But
Lachlan had. He was the only one who understood the heartache one lived with when you had a mark against you. Three boys of middle years began unloading the wagon. She noticed the glances darted her way, but it seemed as if the atmosphere had changed.
She turned around and joined the others. She grabbed a basket of food. A woman about Rowen’s age stepped into her path.
“We ha’e the children by the stream. I’m thinking we should feed them first. I can do it if ye like.”
“Aye, thank you.”
She nodded. Rowen gathered more items and set off.
“’Tis na proper for a mon to pronounce a marriage. A lady needs to be asked and courted,” a woman said.
“Aye, If my husband tried such a high-handed way with me,” she tsked. “
“Do ye wanna marry the Laird?”
“Aye,” Rowen replied from deep within her heart.
“Weel, dinna tell him. Make him tell ye some sweet words and such then marry him.”
“An dinna let him stop romancing ye. Men forget such things.”
Rowen listened as the women went on sharing their marriage advice while complaining about the men they loved. Scottish hospitality was legendary, and for the first time, Rowen felt it here. Women spoke to her without trepidation though she glimpsed their looks of guilt. She learned much about the clan folk and their families. The best part was when the ladies shared jokes with her. For the first time, Rowen felt a part of something.
Lachlan all but commanded that they marry. She couldn’t do that and put these people at risk from the Murrays. That was not over.
As the sun lowered, Rowen prepared to return to the castle with the members who would be residing within its walls. Most of the people had found a place with others who hadn’t lost their home, so there would not be many guests.
Rowen was ready to fill her belly, wash, and slip into bed. The yearning grew with each step and she almost ran when the castle walls rose high above her. Once in the great hall, Rowen washed and changed. The smell of smoke still hung about her, but it would blend with the hall’s fire, so she did not care. Kenny was not in the chamber, so she searched for him.
She scoured the castle grounds from the kitchen and its garden to the Lairdess’s Garden to the stables. The groom sent her to the buttery where she was told he had been near the castle smithy who told her he return to the castle. She ventured to the kitchen, but he wasn’t there. She returned to the great hall, promising that Kenny’s hide would be reddened by the end of this day. She entered the Laird’s Chamber and found his sword on the floor.
“You disobeyed Lachlan. You are not supposed to forget this.” She snatched it up. As she raised her head, she caught a glint from the corner of her eye. In the center of the bedpost was a blade with parchment hanging from it.
Murray thanks me for the return of his grandchild.
She ripped it free and raced from the chamber, screaming for Lachlan. Domhnall came running.
“Wot is it?”
“My son has been taken. Where is Lachlan?”
“He has ridden out to kill Jonty. I dinna ken wen he’d be back. Wat can I do?”
“I do not know.”
Chapter Thirteen
Lachlan chased Jonty and his band further into the glen. The galloping thunder of his men bounced off the mountain’s slopes. The face of the ben hung its shadow over the land. Snow slowly receded from its slopes. Flat, hazy clouds veiled the sky. None of that helped, as Jonty hid from Lachlan. But not for much longer.
Lachlan counted down to the moment when they would be snagged like salmon in his net. Lachlan leaned low over Wulver. Wulver’s mane brushed against his nose. Wulver’s hooves flew over the ground. He ate up the distance.
Jonty neared the narrow edge of the glen where the trees thickened. MacKenzie men appeared in a line before them and blocked their escape.
The band pulled up. The horses’ cries were an exclamation to the men’s shouts. Some horses twisted and fell, tossing aside their riders while the men on foot rushed to the trees. Jonty screamed for his men to regroup. The men gathered again. Left with no other option, Jonty turned to face Lachlan. Jonty charged at him. His face twisted in an ugly grimace.
Lachlan straightened in his saddle. His sword was held aloft, prepared for the coming strike. The blades met in a clash. His muscles tightened at the blow rumbling up his arm. Lachlan pushed back and sent Jonty off balance. He punched him in the face. Knuckle and cheekbone pounded against each other. Jonty tumbled to the ground.
Lachlan leaped to his feet. With his targe in his right hand and his sword in his left, he charged Jonty.
The damn scourge rolled away and climbed to his feet. Jonty attacked, lashing his sword at Lachlan’s targe. The strikes drummed against the wood. Boom. Boom. Boom. The thumping matched his heart rate.
Tired of the ineffective blow, Lachlan swung his arm, catching the sword and pinning the sword downward. He cut Jonty’s exposed arm. The blow sent him stumbling to the side with a scream. Lachlan let out a war cry that matched the roar in his head. Jonty shoved a man in his path. He scurried away, his arm tucked to his side.
“Face me, coward.”
Men clashed before him, blocking his escape. Jonty threw aside his targe and switched his blade to his other hand. “Ye bastard.”
“I’ll kill you.” Lachlan took his stance. He might be out of his mind with rage but he was collect enough to let Jonty come to him.
“Na this day. I’ll run my blade through you like I did yer father.”
“First, I’ll have to give you my back.”
Jonty swung. It was ineffective, half his strength lost and the rush of energy that propelled a man forward in a fight drained from him along with his blood.
Lachlan raised his sword upward and blocked the blow. He put his strength in his arms and shoved him off. Jonty cut in a frenzy. Lachlan jumped back and dodged the strike at his gut. The blade sliced his leine.
Lachlan lashed out, forcing Jonty back. Jonty swung his sword around in a wide arc. His right side was exposed. Lachlan switched his broadsword to his other hand and buried the thick blade in his side, where it stopped in his gut.
Lachlan jerked his sword free and wiped the blood on Jonty’s plaid. His men fled. Lachlan cast a glance about the glen. His sweat dried, giving him a chill. His ears pounded. He could hear nothing. Slowly, that changed until a heavy silence weighed down and made his ears hurt more.
He wiped his hand across his face, smearing blood across his face and the back of his hand.
The MacKenzie commander came over to him. He was smiling. Blood and dirt were caught in the creases. “Naw, ye ha’e to wed Rowen.”
“The problem isn’t me. That woman is stubborn.”
“Aye but that be yer problem naw. Wat ye wanna do wit him?” He kicked at Jonty’s lifeless foot.
“Leave him to the animals. I have to get married.”
“Guid, MacKenzie wants it done quick.”
* * * *
Rowen had returned. She slinked her way through the courtyard’s shadows. Her plan was simple—get her son even if that meant her life. She’d do all she could to avoid falling into Laird Murray’s hands.
Three days had passed since the Lairdess had stolen Kenny. She forced herself to cease the terrifying images of his limp, bloodless body from flashing in her mind. She hadn’t been successful and the images rushed to the forefront of her mind. As it did now. Her stomach flipped. Her chest pinched and she gagged. She swallowed back the bile, but the shaking did not stop.
Covered in cold sweat, she slipped into the castle. The kitchen was empty. Embers shown in the hearth. The soft sounds of slumber came from the kitchen boy. She made her way down the corridor. As she neared the archway, she struggled to draw in air. She dragged her hand along the wall for support.
No matter her gut-wrenching terror, Rowen would get her son back alive. She touched her thigh, bolstered by the feel of the blade against her skin. She hesitated, and then stepp
ed in the great hall. The square space was empty. She climbed the stairs. The wooden stairs creaked beneath her feet.
“Welcome home, dear.” Laird Murray stood at the top of the stairs.
Rowen squeezed the handrail. Slivers of wood dug into her palm. “Where is my son?”
He descended, his wide girth forcing Rowen backward.
“Ye must be parched. A cuppa is just wat ye require.”
A tremor of disgust rolled through her. From the corner of her eyes, she marked the changes to him. He seemed to have a calm insanity about him. His eyes shined brightly and darted about. He had not bathed, and she caught the foul odors of body sweat and urine about him. His lips were cracked and crumbs hung from the corners of his mouth.
Rowen bumped against the table’s corner. Laird Murray rapped his hand against a chair’s back, a silent order to sit.
With no other recourse, she perched on the hard edge. He filled two cups with wine.
He set a pewter cup before her. He took a sip as he sat in his own chair. In the firelight, she saw the creases of his face deepen, seeming to have cut deep into his flesh. A thick smear of blackness encircled his eyes.
“’Tis good to ha’e ye back. Ye belong here.”
“My son,” she bit out.
“Ye willna take him. Eacharn loved him. He is all I have left. Eacharn was such a joy to me. He was a good man,” he said.
“Aye, he was.”
“Why did he die?”
“I…I cannot answer that.”
“Why did ye na warn him? Ye must ha’e ken being a banshee.”
She did not bother to deny it. “If I could have warned him, I would have done it.”
He slammed the flat of his hand against the table, sending the cups shaking. “Ye dinna. Ye na be leaving he’e.”
Bran crept out from the shadows with the Lairdess behind him. He walked up to her and put his hand on her shoulder.
“Welcome.”
Highland Scandal Page 20