by Aileen Adams
Iain, always aware of how to best alleviate a tense situation, spoke up. “What was the business of the meeting, then? You said you would spend the entire fortnight away.”
“Aye, the road was easily traveled. And there was a matter I needed to bring home with all haste.”
Moira placed a mug on the table before him and filled it as he liked—to the brim. She had already borne the weight of his hand against the side of her head after not filling it near the point of overflow.
And she never made the same mistake twice.
Jamie sat opposite their father. He and Iain both would inherit Kin’s height and rangy build—the twins were already taller than the sister ten years their senior—and he made a show of folding himself into his seat as his father did.
Another sign of the man he believed himself to be.
“What did you need to bring home?” Jamie asked. “Is there to be a war?”
“Perhaps.”
When Moira glanced over her shoulder in surprise, she found her father sneering. At her.
“For what reason do you smirk, then?” she asked, turning with the paring knife still in her hand.
“There might very well be a war, my sons.” Rather than answer her question, he turned his attention to the boys. “For there are many types of war, and not all involve men and their swords and blood-soaked land.” He turned in the chair, stretching his long legs toward the hearth.
Moira studied him, eyes narrowing. “Out with it, then, Kin Reid. I know you speak of me.”
“If yer to speak to me, lass, you’ll speak with the respect a father deserves.” He tapped his meaty fist against the table, nostrils flaring as he hardly concealed his bitterness. “I know not who gave ye the notion that speaking to me in such a manner was acceptable, but ye ought to know by now how I’ll strip the hide from yer flesh over it.”
“Why do you speak of our sister?” Iain asked. For all of Jamie’s bravery and his saucy demeanor, it was Iain who possessed the courage to speak over Kin in such moments. The man might just as easily have slapped him hard enough to swell his eye shut. It was a great risk to take.
Kin held Moira’s gaze for another moment before turning back to Iain. “Because she is to be married.”
Even the fire in the hearth ceased to crackle in the silence which followed.
Iain and Jamie froze, likely terrified of what was to come.
Only Kin’s eyes moved, sliding from his sons to his daughter. Watching. Waiting.
Moira’s fist tightened around the handle of the knife.
“That is what you think,” she whispered for the second time that day.
4
“Do try to understand.”
Fergus glared at his father, then turned his back to the man. “How could ye do this thing? To me? Your own son!”
Tavis tried in vain to suppress a cough—he was ill, truly, only not nearly as severely so as Fergus’s cousins had led him to believe. They had been part of the deception, too.
To think he’d greeted them as friends.
He had no chance to confront them on their treachery, as they were both married men with land and titles of their own as a result of well-planned marriages.
Well-planned if a man cared for such things, which Fergus never had.
They had not continued to follow him to the house but had instead gone home and trusted him to reach their father on his own. The cowards.
It appeared as though he was vastly outnumbered as he stared out the window of the bedchambers assigned him. The sun was nearly on the rise and not a single part of the situation in which he’d found himself made greater sense than it had upon arrival.
Tavis sat on the bed with a heavy sigh. “There was no other way to be certain of your arrival.”
“It was cruel.”
“It was your uncle’s idea.”
“Which makes it no less cruel.” He looked at his father over one shoulder and noted the gray tint to his skin. Even so, his heart was unmoved. “Ye will never know how I suffered the entire ride. What I put myself through.”
Tavis’s already downturned mouth pulled further at the corners. “I am grievously sorry.”
“It matters not.” Fergus turned away once again, staring out at the horizon but seeing nothing. There was no making sense of it.
“It matters greatly,” his father insisted in a soft voice.
“So greatly that ye conspired behind my back to arrange a marriage ye must have known I would never consent to?” He turned away from the window to face his father, folding his arms over his chest as he did.
Tavis held up both hands. “Allow me to explain.”
“Ye both did more than enough explaining already,” he snarled. “You’ve talked for hours—or, rather, he did.”
“Your uncle?” Tavis chuckled without humor, shaking his head. “He is many things, I suppose, but a great diplomat is not one of them. He might have explained better than he did if he had the skill to do so.”
“Perhaps ye ought to do it for him, then,” Fergus suggested with scorn. “I am truly interested in knowing why my father and my uncle feel it within their rights to secure a bride for me without my knowledge.”
“Once he explained it to me, it made sense,” Tavis insisted. “His sons are married, while mine is not.”
Fergus waited for more—when it was clear his father would offer no further defense, he said, “What possible difference can that make? What does it matter? I am not his son. I am your son.”
“You are half Campbell, and therefore the vows you exchange with a member of another clan will unite the two clans.”
“And benefit Luthais Campbell,” Fergus spat. “How could ye allow yourself to be so easily…” He did not finish the statement, as he too had fallen for the trickery posed by his cousins.
“He did not deceive me,” Tavis insisted. “Ye will be a laird upon marriage to this lass. Ye will defend the border between Reid and Campbell territory. It will be yours.”
Had the man any idea of how pitiful he sounded? How empty his defenses?
“I have never cared for titles and the like—and I did not believe ye did,” he added, raising an eyebrow.
“That was not at all the same,” Tavis argued, straightening his spine and throwing back his shoulders. “I had no chance of claiming a position in the MacDougal clan, born as I was. No one was going to make me a laird.”
“I see. But ye held the wish all along that ye might one day be a laird, or some grand thing.”
“Nay, son.” Tavis stood, his body fairly shaking. Whether the shaking was a result of illness or emotion was not for Fergus to say. “I wished for ye to hold such a title. I wished for ye to have a life, a true life. With a family and stability.”
“That was never for ye to decide! Ye know nothing of what I desire.”
“Neither do ye, lad.” It was Tavis’s turn to cast a doleful eye. “If ye did, why would ye make your living as ye do? Why ride about the highlands with no home, no family, no promise of where your next purse would come from? Your life is nothing, son.”
Silence fell between them, with Fergus uncertain as to whether he wished to pummel his father or throw him from the window.
He wished to harm the man, regardless of the method used.
“Now that I know for certain how ye think of me,” Fergus muttered as he strode to the door, “ye are more than welcome to leave. As I rode throughout the day, thinking ye were dead or dying, I am in need of sleep.”
As though sleep was a possibility after this.
Tavis’s face crumpled, and suddenly Fergus was looking at a broken man. An ill, broken man. “Son. Please. I did this for ye.”
“For yourself,” Fergus corrected. “Not for me. I am more than content in the life I’ve chosen for myself, even if it does not meet yer approval. I have no desire to marry this…”
“Moira Reid.”
“Moira Reid, or any other woman. Now, go. Before I say anything I might regret
later.” He looked at the floor as his father shuffled from the bedchamber, slower than Fergus had ever seen him move before.
He softened, but only slightly. His father had betrayed him, no matter how ill he might be or how well-intentioned his efforts.
He’d never forgive him for it.
He would also never forget his father’s slow, broken shuffle.
Though he did not expect to sleep, Fergus peeled off his shoes and garments before sinking into the feather bed. By far the most comfortable thing he had stretched out upon in over a fortnight.
A rather pitiful thing to take away from the journey, but it appeared as though the condition of his bedchambers would be the most impressive part of his visit to Ben Macdui.
The bedchamber was comfortable on the whole and might have made a pleasant place to stay were it not for the circumstances around him.
He closed his eyes rather than stare up at the brown tapestry stretched out across the bed’s four posters. If he were not so utterly exhausted, he might make his escape and take the chance of outrunning the guards.
Then again, his horse was as exhausted as he, likely more so. It would be unfair to press it into such service so soon after his ride to the house.
Rather than slip from the place, then, he allowed himself to slide into sleep. A clear head would be what he needed most if he hoped to avoid falling further into his uncle’s trap.
He knew not whether five minutes had passed or five hours when a sharp knock at the door sent him shooting straight up in bed.
“Aye?” he called out, confused at first as to where he was before the betrayal came rushing back.
“Men to see ye.”
“To see me?” He pulled on his clothing and flung open the door to face a timid little lass who all but trembled at the sight of him.
He ran both hands through his snarled hair on his way down the corridor, following the shaking lass who walked with eyes downcast. His dirk was on his right hip, beneath his tunic, and it would be a matter of the blink of an eye before he withdrew it at the sign of danger.
Had Luthais decided to press him even further? He might have hired men such as Fergus and his friends to see to it that his nephew obeyed orders.
On catching sight of the two men standing just outside the door to the place, he saw how correct he’d been. Not that his uncle had hired anyone, but that the men who had arrived were indeed just like Fergus.
“What brings you two here?” Fergus asked as he stepped out, smiling in spite of fatigue and the heavy bitterness resting upon his shoulders.
Rodric looked at him as though he’d gone mad. “We had a visit from your cousins. They told us how ill your father is.”
“We’re deeply sorry to hear it,” Quinn added. “Brice wished to join us, but Alana’s time is nigh.”
“It meant a great deal to him that he might be here with ye,” Rodric murmured. “We accepted a job from old Murphy which placed us in the area, to begin with, so we assured him we would pay a visit on the way to check on ye.”
“It matters not,” Fergus snarled, glancing from side to side before motioning for the two of them to follow him away from the house. No telling who might be listening. They walked across the stone courtyard and past the stables, the blacksmith, the smokehouse. He did not stop until they reached a sharp drop-off which led down to the river winding through the estate.
“What do ye mean, it matters not?” Quinn asked, eyes wide. “He truly wished to come along.”
“It is not my brother who enrages me. It is our father—who is ill, aye, but not dying. Not yet.”
Rodric frowned. “Your cousins…”
“My cousins were lying for my uncle,” he explained. “They lied to me as well and retreated to their lands and homes before I could confront them. The cowards.” He spat near his feet before muttering a handful of obscene oaths.
“They brought ye here under false pretenses?” Quinn asked, his brow furrowed.
“Aye. All of them. What they truly intend is for me to go through with a wedding to a lass from Clan Reid. I’m to be made a laird.”
He watched his friends closely for any hint as to their thoughts on this.
Quinn barely suppressed a laugh. “Ye cannot be serious.”
“A laird?” Rodric snorted.
“Ye might not be quite so insulting,” Fergus muttered.
“We do not wish to insult ye,” Rodric insisted. “If anyone would make a strong laird, it would be ye.”
“I agree,” Quinn added, swallowing hard, still battling laughter.
Fergus plucked a large stone from the river’s edge, throwing it in for lack of any better way to express his frustration. “No one thinks it is more ridiculous than I,” he assured them. “Laughable. Unthinkable. I have no intention of marrying anyone. Especially not the bossy Moira Reid.”
“Ye know the lass, then?” Rodric asked.
“Aye. I did when we were children, at any rate. Her father brought her to a clan meeting at the Campbell house years ago. The border between the Campbell and Reid territory was to be renegotiated, and for some reason, my uncle wished for Brice and myself to be present. I would not be at all surprised if he was already plotting to bring us into his clan from the time we were wee lads.”
“A young lass at a meeting of two clans?” Quinn asked.
“I did not think to ask about it at the time,” Fergus smirked. “All I remember of her is a snippy, bossy, mouthy thing who kicked me in the shins in front of at least a dozen lads I was trying to impress.”
“That sounds to me as strong a beginning to married life as any,” Rodric chuckled.
Fergus rewarded him with a sour look
He added, “Remember, Caitlin, and I began in much the same way. I believe she kicked me somewhere other than the shins, however.”
“And see how happy they are together,” Quinn chuckled, barely ducking Rodric’s slap to the side of his head.
“While I know ye only try to cheer me, it is not worth yer effort,” Fergus muttered, staring out across the river.
“Ye do not have to stay.” Rodric clapped him on the back. “Leave. Simply go. Be your own man, as ye always have been.”
It would be easy, would it not? To simply leave and not look back. To go on as he had before. He need not return with his friends, either, so as to avoid his cousins or his uncle’s men finding him as easily as they had already done.
He might take his horse and ride away as swiftly as he had ridden to the house. This time, it would be for his sake rather than his father’s.
His father.
“It would crush him,” he murmured. “If I were to never return. He is already ill; there is no telling how ill. He looks older, gray-skinned, he coughs terribly and is weak. I cannot.”
“What other option have ye?” Quinn asked. “Certainly, if ye do not wish to marry the lass…”
“I do not know for certain,” he admitted. “But the two of ye have a job to do and wives to return to. I shall take care of this as best I’m able.”
Would that he knew just how to do that.
A shout from the house turned their heads. Fergus had not taken note of the approach of three riders who waited at the door, still on horseback.
His uncle had taken note of them, however.
The man’s face had gone nearly purple as he shook and shouted.
As the three of them hurried to the house, Rodric muttered, “I do not know Luthais Campbell well, but I would say he’s upset over something.”
5
Moira rocked back on her heels, drawing the back of her arm over her sweat-slick forehead. It had been far too long since she’d scrubbed the wood-plank floor Kin was so proud of. He saw it as a sign of his important place in Clan Reid, the fact that his home did not have a floor made of hard-packed earth.
Never mind the fact that the children who’d come of age in the house had never enjoyed a minute of his full attention.
Never mind that a wood floor
needed scrubbing, unlike an earth floor.
She opened the front door, allowing the damp pre-dawn air to cool her overheated skin as she emptied the bucket of filthy wash water. One more chore taken care of, and nearly the last.
No one could accuse her of leaving her brothers in a home with a dirty floor.
Her back ached terribly upon straightening, a reminder of the thrashing Kin Reid had treated her to upon her refusal to wed. He’d taken his belt to her back, shaming her most terribly in front of the brothers who tried admirably to stand between their father and their sister.
Only when he closed his fist to them and swung did Moira step forward to take her whipping. The boys did not deserve a beating merely because she refused to accept orders from her father, or in fact any man.
It was during the thrashing, between blows of the belt against her back—he’d allowed she should wear her kirtle rather than stripping down to her chemise, which she’d considered a small blessing—that she’d decided her course of action.
For she’d found early on in life that pain could provide great clarity of thought. It tended to strip down one’s mental processes until nothing more than the barest singular images remained, in stark, unflinching shape and color.
She had accepted her fate that night.
Though it was not the fate Kin Reid had planned for her.
Her back was much better, more than a week later, a week full of cleaning and preparation for leaving the boys. The knowledge of it was all which caused her true pain. Her twins, who she loved as her own children.
Even if the impossible should happen someday and she should bear children of her own, she would always consider them her firstborn. They had taught her all there was to know of motherhood short of the carrying and bearing of wee bairns, and they’d taught her sacrifice and devotion to something other than herself.
They were her life’s greatest blessing.
To find herself ripped from them in such a cold, sudden fashion was beyond understanding.
The floor dried, she entered the house and returned the table and chairs to their proper positions, then built a fire to ward off the morning chill. Spring was well upon them, but mornings were still uncomfortably cool.