MacGregor's Daughter_A Scottish Historical Romance

by Gwyn Brodie

  Ceana removed the pouch from the saddle and slipped it into a pocket inside her cloak. She wanted to keep safe the only thing she had left, just in case the camp resident happened to be untrustworthy. Once Cree had quenched his thirst, she turned him in that direction.

  A man, of perhaps forty odd summers, with long gray-streaked red beard and hair, sat beneath a rocky overhang at the mouth of a cave. His clothing and boots were well worn, but of fine quality. He was whittling on a stick and looked up when Ceana rode into his camp. He slowly got to his feet. "Might I help ye, lass?"

  "Aye. I'm very hungry and wondered if I might share your meal. I'll be more than happy to pay you."

  He shook his head. "No need, lass, but ye're welcome to the fish."

  "Much thanks. I've not eaten in some time." Her mouth was watering as she slipped off the horse and brushed snow from a large stone opposite him, before taking a seat.

  Grasping the ends of the stick, he lifted the fish from the fire and carefully handed it to her. "Ye can have this one. I'll catch another fer m'self."

  She frowned. "Nay, I only wish a small portion."

  He smiled. "I'll be back afore ye ken it," he said, heading farther down the loch.

  Ceana bit into the fish, and though it was hot and burned her tongue, it was the most delicious thing she had ever tasted. And by the time the man returned with a cleaned fish in tow, she had eaten most of it.

  He chuckled. "Ye were hungry indeed, lass." He found another stick with which to hang the fresh catch over the fire.

  She smiled. "I'm most grateful, and 'tis very delicious. Might I ask your name?"

  "'Tis Art." He reached into his pack and pulled out a half-full bottle of whisky. "Would ye care fer a dram?"

  She nodded, for her mouth was full of fish.

  He took a cup from his pack and carefully filled it, then handed it to Ceana.

  She took a sip of the amber liquid, feeling its warmth spread throughout her body. "I thank you for your hospitality, Art," she said, before eating the last of her fish.

  He nodded. "Ye're welcome. I'm glad fer the company. Dinnae get much out here. What are ye called?"

  "Ceana MacDougal."

  He studied her for a long moment. "Ye're more than welcome to stay the night, Ceana. I'll do ye no harm. I had a daughter once, but she died when she was yet a wee lass, and her mother not long after, God rest their souls," he said, crossing himself.

  A sharp pain stabbed at her heart. "I'm sorry for your loss." She knew all too well how it felt to lose someone you loved. The death of her parents and indeed her entire clan weighed upon her like a heavy dark cloud almost suffocating her, but she could not tell him of her profound loss. She had been abandoned to life, forced to live when everyone she loved had died.

  "Much thanks for your kind offer, which I gladly accept." She was thankful for a place to sleep, and there was something about Art that made her trust him. Besides, she did not really have a choice, did she? As exhausted as she was, she was not certain she could sit a horse for very much longer without falling off.

  Once he had taken his mare to the back of the cave, Art went to get Cree, but stopped when the stallion snorted and stomped the ground. "Perhaps ye should see to yer horse, lass. He's not taking a liking to me."

  She smiled and took Cree inside. She pressed her forehead against his massive head. "Much thanks, Cree. I'd never have escaped without your strength and endurance," she whispered, watching his ears twitch, as he listened to what she said.

  The stallion whinnied softly as she walked away.

  After banking the fire for the night, Art built a second, smaller one just inside the mouth of the cave and insisted on dividing his bed of dry pine needles with her. She drew her cloak around her and lay down near the fire. Almost immediately, she fell asleep.

  ACROSS FROM CEANA, Art watched the firelight dance over her lovely face. Her brown eyes, dark curls, and full lips were features belonging to her mother. But the slight tilt of her head and quick smile—those belonged to her father. She's my only brother's daughter. The moment she had ridden into his camp, he had thought it was so, but when he heard her name, he had been certain she was his niece. He rolled onto his back and laced his fingers beneath his head. Why would she be wandering about the countryside in the snow? And riding such a monstrous and bad-tempered stallion? Surely a mare would be more appropriate for a young lady. Why would his brother allow her to ride such a horse? He had not laid eyes on Ceana since she was a wee lass and was not surprised she had not recognized him. Besides, he bore little resemblance to the man she had known back then. Perhaps she was now married and escaping a cruel husband, and 'twas his unfriendly warhorse she rode. Which interestingly enough, acted a different horse with his niece.

  Then an even more disturbing thought struck him—James and Eliza were dead. His heart lunged against his ribs. That would be the only other reason for the lass to not be in her own bed at Teineaer on such a night as this. His heart ached for the brother he dearly loved and his beautiful wife. He and James had met in secret many times over the years, not wishing to be found out to be MacGregors, which could have meant certain death to both them and those they loved. Had someone spilled their secret, as well as their blood? He prayed he was wrong, but feared he was not. At least the lass had the wits about her to not admit she was a MacGregor. He had kept his own identity hidden for many years. No longer was he Artagan MacGregor, the second son, and brother of a laird of great wealth, but Art Grant, a man who laid his head where he found it. Should he reveal his secret to Ceana? Or keep it to himself? A war waged within him, as he drifted off the sleep.

  WHEN CEANA WOKE THE following morning, Art was adding more wood to the fire at the mouth of the cave, where a large trout cooked over it. She sat up and stretched, surprised at how well she had slept. Exhaustion and a full belly had a lot to do with it, she suspected.

  "Morning, lass. Did ye sleep well?" He sliced off a portion of the fish and placed it on a wooden plate, which was adorned with intricate carvings of thistles along its border, then handed it to Ceana.

  "Aye, I did," she said, taking the steaming food from him. She blew on it to cool it, then took a bite, studying the elaborate pattern on the dish. She felt certain she had seen it before. "'Tis lovely."

  He smiled sadly. "Belonged to m' wife."

  "I'm certain she treasured it."

  "Aye," he said, staring into the fire while he broke his fast.

  Her mother's favorite dish had been a large ceramic platter painted with bluebells. The memory brought tears to her eyes, blurring the remainder of her meal. Once she had finished eating, she rose to her feet and went to fetch Cree from the back of the cave. She tethered him to a nearby oak branch and went to find a place to relieve herself. Thankfully, the snow had stopped falling, and when she returned to the cave, the horse was happily nibbling at a bit of green he had exposed by pawing at the ground with his massive hooves.

  Art returned to camp dragging a large limb, which he left near the fire to dry out.

  She handed him two coins.

  He shook his head.

  Even though he had naught, she realized he was a proud man. "I wish you to have them. You've been more than kind to me. I would be most pleased if you would take them."

  He hesitated for a moment, then took the coins. "Much thanks."

  She smiled. "You're welcome. I bid you farewell, for I must be going."

  He glanced up at the gray sky in the distance and frowned. "A storm isnae far off. Perhaps 'twould be best if you waited until the morrow to move on."

  She sighed. If only she could. "I'll take care," she said, leading the stallion to a log so she could mount.

  "Then take this with ye, lass." He wrapped the remainder of the trout in a fine linen napkin, painstakingly embroidered with lavender thistles, and handed it up to her.

  "Where did you get... nay, I cannae take this. It must have belonged to your wife."

  "'Tis but an old napkin," he
said, with kindness in his eyes.

  "Much thanks." She took the small bundle, fearing if she did not, he might be upset, and he had been so very kind to her. First the ornate plate, then the fine linen napkin... Had he once been someone of high status, who had lost everything—much as she had?

  "Farewell," she said, turning the horse down the loch, and the direction she had been traveling for the two previous days.

  "Hav' a care," he shouted after her.

  She knew he was worried, for he had watched after her until she could no longer see him, when she looked back.

  As she rode along, Ceana kept a close eye on the clouds, remembering what Art had said. The sky directly above them was blue, but in the distance, it was dark and foreboding, promising more snow. She prayed she would find more shelter before the storm struck.

  She was not certain where she was headed. She only knew she had to put as much distance as possible between herself and the Campbell chief who had murdered her parents and taken over her home.

  Around midday, she stopped to rest and quench her and Cree's thirst. After chipping away ice at the edge of the loch, she and the warhorse drank their fill, then she allowed him some time to forage for food. As for herself, the fish would have to do, as there were no berries or fruits to be had, as would have been at other times of the year.

  A light snow had started to fall by the time she was ready to continue with her journey. She glanced around for something on which to stand and found a log, partially submerged in the loch, but with a couple of feet remaining out of the water. Seeing nowhere else to mount, she brought the horse alongside it. "Steady, Cree," she said, gently patting his nose. Before mounting, she took the heavy pouch from her cloak and fastened it to the saddle. Then she stepped up on the log, but her foot slipped, and she ended up knee deep in icy water.

  Shivering, she crawled out of the loch and sat down on the log to remove her boots. "I'll freeze to death now for certain if I dinnae find shelter soon," she mumbled to herself and the horse, as she poured out the water. The wind cut through her damp stockings like a sharp knife. After squeezing out what water she could, she quickly replaced her boots, and carefully scrambled onto the stallion. She pulled down the hood of her cloak and turned Cree back onto the path.

  Nightfall was upon them, but desperation had set in long ago. Ceana knew she was in dire need of a warm fire and wished she could build one herself to thaw out her frozen feet and hands, a feat which would be nigh on impossible in such strong winds—even if she did have the means to do it, which she did not. Please help me find shelter, Lord, she prayed over and over, as she frantically searched for some form of protection from the harsh winter weather.

  A heavy snow had been falling steadily for a good while, and even the massive warhorse was struggling to push through the drifts. The wind picked up, its icy fingers stabbing through her damp clothing like hundreds of tiny daggers. At first, the pain in her feet had reminded her of needle pricks, but now, she felt only numbness, and chided herself once again for falling into the loch. Fear and hopelessness dug their sharp talons into Ceana, clinging to her as the falling snow did the branches of the great pines. Tears welled up in her eyes and were quickly dried by the cold north wind. If she did not find shelter soon, she would not live through the night—and neither would Cree.

  ART'S MARE WAS NO MATCH for the stallion his niece was riding, but the horse did her best to plough through the snow drifts. Less than an hour after Ceana departed his camp, he had put out the fire, packed up all his worldly goods, and gone after her. What would James have said if he had known his brother had left his only child to manage on her own? And in such weather? He chided himself for not telling her who he was as soon as he had realized who she was. By the saints, he would make it up to her. MacGregor blood ran through both their veins. They were family, and family took care of one another.

  He had been tracking Ceana as best he could, but it would not be long before the stallion's tracks were well-hidden beneath the steadily falling snow. At the loch, he found where she had pulled herself from the water. He frowned. She could catch her death in such weather—even without being soaked to the skin. But being wet would make much quicker work of her. By now, she would be in dire need of a warm fire. He kicked at the ground and cursed himself out loud, for having allowed her to leave without him. After permitting the mare a quick drink, he continued his search for her, praying she still lived.

  ALONG WITH THE NIGHTFALL came the total darkness of a moonless night—and a drastic drop in temperature. Exhaustion and the bone-chilling cold had taken a great toll on Ceana, and she had long ago resigned herself to the fact she might very well die. At least there was one consolation—it would not be at the hands of Lyall Campbell.

  For the third time in a short while, the howl of a wolf cut through the gale, and was quickly answered by several others. The beasts were much nearer now than before, and she feared they were tracking the horse. She patted the magnificent animal beneath her and squinted into the falling snow. The orange glow of a fire in the distance seized Ceana's attention, and she quickly pointed Cree in that direction. As she drew closer, she realized it was not a single flame she saw, but the flickering of many castle torches in the wind. Even though she was yet a good distance away, seeing them gave her a thread of hope and set her heart to racing. The snowfall was growing heavier, and the icy wind howled and moaned through the ancient pines. With her teeth chattering and her body shaking, she knew she was in imminent danger of dying. She could no longer feel her feet, and her hands pained her greatly, even though the gloves had provided some protection from the wet snow, and she had tried to keep them hidden beneath her cloak whenever she could.

  Perhaps if she called out, someone might hear her. "Help me!" she shouted at the top of her lungs. "Please, help me!" she screamed, then listened, but heard naught, save the barking of dogs, which brought to mind her own two wolfhounds, Ross and Duff. She wondered what had happened to them, and prayed they were safe.

  Ceana leaned down close to Cree's neck. "'Tisn't much farther now, lad," she promised, patting his snow-crusted coat. She could clearly see the castle now and ached to hold her frozen fingers over the torch flames, to feel their warmth against her numb nose and cheeks. Surely the laird there would grant her hospitality—if she kept it to herself she was a MacGregor, otherwise he might toss her back out into the snowstorm on her arse—or worse.

  A short distance from the castle gate, Ceana suddenly felt faint. She twisted her fingers in the horse's thick mane to keep from falling off, but the next thing she knew, she was stretched out in the snow, with Cree standing over her. He whinnied softly and shoved at her shoulder with his nose. "Help me," she screamed again, holding tightly to the stallion's reins. Get up or die, a voice inside her warned. With the last of her strength, she tried again, but this time the world around her faded, and she sank into the cold, deep snow.

  Chapter Three

  The fierce north wind howled and moaned through the nooks and crannies of Blackstone Castle. In the library, the laird, Alexander MacPherson, poured another dram of whisky for Drostan MacKintosh, a close friend since childhood, and heir apparent to Willowbrae Castle in Inverness.

  After tossing back another whisky himself, he added more peat to the fire, walked to the window, and opened the shutter, then peered out into the dark night. The bitter cold seeped through the glass, chilling him to the bone and sending a shiver through him. By torchlight flickering in the bailey, he watched the steadily falling snow, while the fire crackled and popped behind him.

  The winter storm had started earlier that day, and it had been steadily snowing ever since. Thankfully, it had been a plentiful harvest year, and the storerooms stood full, as well as the byre and storage sheds, with more than enough food to last the people, horses, and milk cows of Blackstone throughout a long and cold winter.

  "Tis no fit night for man nor beast to be out," Drostan said, before draining his cup a third time.


  Alex closed the shutter and pulled the window coverings to shut out the cold. "I'm most glad you arrived before the worst of it." His friend had beat the storm by a matter of hours.

  Drostan ran his fingers through his long fair hair and nodded. "Aye, as am I. When did you last see your bonnie sister?"

  Alex eyed his friend. Surely, he was not still smitten with Sorcha. He chuckled. "She's a married woman, lest you've forgotten."

  "Nay, I've not forgotten. Remember, I was at her and Galen's wedding. I but wondered about her welfare."

  He grinned. "Very well, I'll tell you then. The twins, Aiden and Alie, take up much of her time, but Galen is a fine man and treats her as if she were a queen. If he didnae, he'd have me to answer to."

  Slowly Drostan nodded, raising a brow. "And myself as well."

  A blast of wind slammed against the glass, rattling it against the iron bars that held it in place. "Have you any prospects for the future Lady MacKintosh?" He enjoyed teasing his friend, who had sworn long ago he would never marry until his father lay on his deathbed.

  Drostan snorted. "Nay, but it appears my mother has taken up the task of finding me a suitable wife herself. Whenever I go home, young women appear to burst from every nook and corner of Willowbrae."

  Alex doubled over with laughter.

  "'Tisnae funny, Alex. Apparently, you've never been in a sound sleep, only to be awakened by the screeching of two females outside your bedchamber door, each more determined than the other to become your wife."

  "That truly happened?" he asked, shaking with amusement.

  "Aye. A pair of feuding tomcats would have made less noise. The mere thought of spending the rest of my life with either of them made me want to cringe in my bed and shake with fear."

  Alex grinned. "What did you do?"

  He shrugged. "The only thing I could do. I got dressed, and when I could no longer hear their bickering, left my bedchamber, slipped down the servants' stairs, and got the hell out of there."