Highlander of Mine

by Red L. Jameson

  “I love ye,” his ma whispered, then waved.

  She started to leave, but Duncan finally called back, “I love ye too, Ma.”

  She wavered, her back to him, but then she continued walking away. Bah, he couldn’t let her do that. He struggled to move away from Fleur as delicately as possible. It was while he did so that he finally woke up.

  It had been a dream. Such a vivid reverie.

  Lavender early dawn light poured through the opened windows, and Fleur’s opened eyes stared at him. She caressed his cheeks.

  “Hey, baby,” she whispered. “You were talking in your sleep.”

  Jesus, was it merely a dream? Panic prickled through his body.

  “Ma?” he hollered.

  Fleur swept aside and out of bed faster than him, her dark eyes so wide. “Helen?”

  “Ma?” he yelled as he raced for a plaid to cover him from the waist down.

  No response.

  “Ma!” His voice cracked from the strain as he sprinted down the hallway and into Helen’s chambers.

  She lay so still. So still.

  Duncan couldn’t move from the doorway, watching his mother’s chest for any movement. Fleur crashed into him, forcing him into the room. She flew to his mother.

  “Helen? Helen?” Holding fingers over his ma’s nose and mouth, Fleur closed her eyes, waiting, more than likely, for his ma to breathe. “Oh...God.” Fleur then traced the thin lines of his mother’s neck, trying to find a pulse.

  Something about the frantic way Fleur moved finally set him in motion again. “Ma?” he yelled.

  “Help me get her on the floor.”

  “What?” He could hardly understand Fleur’s words, her meaning.

  “Help me get her on the floor. I can do CPR. I can revive her.”

  He froze. Revive her. Lord have mercy, that meant...

  “No,” he shouted. “No, Ma, ye can’t leave.”

  Fleur shoved an arm under his mother’s back, jostling her too much. She flung aside Helen’s bedding, reaching under her legs. Carefully, he pushed Fleur away, then cradled his ma to his chest, picking her up gently. She was as light as a bird. A bird that had already flown away.

  “Oh, Ma.” Tears came from nowhere and blurred his vision.

  “Set her on the floor, Duncan. I can try to revive her.”

  He genuflected, not able to see where he knelt, still holding his mother in his arms, knowing that this was the cycle of life—when he’d entered this world his mother had held him like this, but now he held her as she left it. That knowledge was of little comfort though. His tears streamed down his face, enabling him to see for a few seconds. Fleur’s own face held silver streaks, but she was trying so hard to be brave and calm. She patted the floor, yet it didn’t seem right to put his mother on the cold wood.

  “Duncan?” Fleur’s voice shook. Then her gaze widened.

  Looking down, his mother’s eyes had popped open. She stared at Fleur. Against his hands he felt her take a weak breath, and he sobbed.

  “Ma,” he whispered.

  She kept gazing at Fleur. Her mouth moved, and finally her lips opened. “Protect my son.”

  Fleur nodded as tears rushed down her face.

  “Ma.”

  Helen slowly shifted her gaze. She stared right through him, her eyes so dead of color.

  “Ma, please . . .”

  As if it were a Herculean feat, she finally focused on him.

  Neither said a word. Duncan dared not, afraid if he did, she would stop looking at him. Except he needed to tell her what was in his heart. He needed her to know. “I love ye, Ma. Always have.”

  She didn’t say anything. Duncan didn’t expect her to. But she looked as if she were struggling, trying to find the words, trying to stay alive. She hadn’t taken a breath since she’d spoken to Fleur.

  Her eyes lost their focus. At first Duncan didn’t notice, but then his ma, his bonny mother, was no longer looking at him. He felt her fighting, even if she was so still, so still.

  He knew what he had to do. “I ken ye’re proud of me,” he whispered. “I ken it. And I ken ye love me. Ma, I forgive ye. For everything. I forgive ye. And I hope ye’ll forgive me.”

  He realized he really had. He hadn’t thought he’d held a grudge against her, but the reality was he held a grudge against everything. Even the town of Durness he’d hated because...for no other reason than it was where he’d grown up, where he’d once had dreams and wished upon stars, but then had all of that dashed away. Durness and the people in it had been the silent witnesses, whether they knew it or not, of his murdered dreams, and for that he’d hated it and the folks therein.

  He hadn’t thought that he’d held anything against his ma. After all, he understood why she had done what she had, marrying Albert. But his heart never had. However, at that moment he no longer felt the residual bitterness when he thought of his past. He thought only of the times he and his brothers had laughed, of when Helen would sneak into the barn with them and they’d play hide-and-go-seek for hours. He’d been a grown man almost, thinking he’d been playing for the benefit of his younger brothers, but he’d played because it was fun, because it had been filled with love.

  With the realization came a buoyant sensation, lifting all his muscles, feeling weightless and filled with happy sunshine. Helen’s eyes dimmed, and he felt her motionless struggle stop.

  Tears leaked down his face, feeling too cold and wet.

  Although his arms hardly heeded the difference, Helen was even lighter.

  “No!” Fleur hollered.

  Glancing at up at her, Duncan watched as she kept shaking her head.

  “But she’s recovering.”

  Duncan tried to tell her his mother had taught him how sometimes before a death there is a rush of energy, enabling the dying to finalize what was needed. He remembered she’d told him how she’d compared it to the times when a woman was pregnant. At the end of a pregnancy, the soon-to-be mother was energized to prepare for her bairn. It was the cycle of life, Helen had told him, his mother who should have been a physician if it weren’t for her sex.

  He was surprised he’d remembered, remembered everything she’d ever told him.

  Fleur suddenly gasped and reached over his mother to hold his cheek. “Oh God, Duncan, I’m so sorry. She’s your ma. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  He let out a choked sob. Then she wrapped her arms around him and Helen. She held them both.

  Duncan refused to release his mother for hours, and Fleur stubbornly refused to let him go. At one point she moved to sit behind him, her back against a wall, propping him up, so he could remain holding his mother. He held his ma, first hoping she might take one more breath, but when her body cooled, he lost that hope. Too soon her body began to harden. Duncan couldn’t hold his ma while her body transformed into a rigid statue.

  After Fleur had dressed herself and he, she sat him on the lumpy couch, the first thing he’d bought his mother, then told Mrs. McVicar of the news. The village people came and went, giving him their condolences, food, and flowers, seeing his dead mother for themselves. He wasn’t too sure what to do with the flowers, but Fleur placed them in vases here and there around the house.

  When they were alone, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him down to her chest where he cried. In his mind he heard Albert berate him for his tears, men don’t cry, but then Fleur would whisper how he needed to cry, to let go. And he did. Sometimes, though, he let Fleur hold him, wondering if she would disappear at any second. But by the time the undertaker took Helen away after dusk, after Duncan had said goodbye to his mother’s body, as the rusty sky turned midnight blue and black, he held Fleur because it felt damned good.

  He’d thought he couldn’t depend on anyone ever again. And there Fleur was, proving him wrong. He needed her now, and she gave to him. She let him cry on her without any judgment. She held him and cared for him. Although he wasn’t too sure if the fae would take her away or not, and
although he wasn’t sure how she felt about him, she gave to him when he needed her.

  He found himself in her bed, the bed that used to be his brothers’. He was somewhat undressed. His plaid was still on but not much else. And he lay on Fleur’s chest while she caressed his hair and sang a sad song, the words foreign to him. But he knew the sentiment. It was a song of missing the people who left. It was a song for him, for his heart.

  Chapter 29

  Rory mingled with the people from Durness at the impromptu gathering at Mrs. Cameron’s front garden, even if it was abysmally hot. Lord, would this awful and bizarre weather ever end?

  Apparently, the “earth laid upon the corpse” rite wasn’t enough for the townsfolk, for they lingered after Mrs. Cameron was buried. It was as if the dwellers couldn’t get enough of Duncan and Lady Fleur. They still fretted over the big man. All of the attention put a mighty stopper on his plans. Still, Rory wanted to go forward with his strategy.

  Jesus Christ, but those wee orphan lads who fancied Fleur were everywhere. If she asked for just a cup of water, they’d all race each other to get it for her.

  Rory nodded at some of his troops who gloomily smiled back at him. They were heartbroken for their lieutenant. And something in Rory snapped a cold warning. Did the young soldiers care for Duncan enough to ask about him if he went missing?

  Or were they here because he’d ordered them to be here?

  Whose allegiance would the troops bow to when the time came?

  Rory took in a deep breath, realizing worrying about his troops’ loyalty was for naught. In time the remaining men would bow to him, and if at first they didn’t, he’d have enough English soldiers at his command to force them.

  Aye, the deed was already done. Well, almost.

  Setting up the alliance with the captain of the English army had been easier than Rory had thought. Probably made that much easier since he’d sold several of the troops as indentured servants to them. What a lofty amount he’d made too. Then Rory had somehow talked his brother into leaving for France to visit their mother, ensuring when Rory leveraged his way to the lairdship hardly a soul would be in the way.

  Of course, he’d have to worry about Duncan. He would have some sense of loyalty to John, the laird. Or would he?

  Rory considered for a moment about having Duncan ally with him. He was a good soldier, already had years of experience, and if the huge mercenary guarded him as laird, and Rory was sure the coup would work, well then, he’d feel safe from his brother’s sure retaliation. Further, Rory wasn’t too certain if Duncan was loyal to much, which meant Rory could buy him. He’d been a mercenary for so long, surely that was how the man operated now—who paid the most.

  However, watching Fleur with Duncan as he sat on a rock a little outside Mrs. Cameron’s back garden, made Rory quake with jealousy. Rory had been there for the burial. He hadn’t thought anything untoward regarding Fleur and Duncan, but she was awfully attentive. She stood beside the big man, talking to him, although he stared at a piece of dirt. He didn’t nod, didn’t even seem to acknowledge her presence.

  Arse.

  If his mother died, Rory thought, he would never ignore the beautiful wee princess. Her dark hair swayed from whispers of a warm breeze. She wore it up, but those black tresses of hers always managed to free themselves, just a few, and framed her face, her neck, and her thin shoulders, making it difficult to stare at anything but her.

  “Captain MacKay, sir.” A lad stood beside Rory, making him jump slightly from the invasion. The young soldier of his didn’t seem to notice and continued. “Sir, I—er, sir, I was just wonderin’ when we should get back into trainin’?”

  This young man might be exactly what Rory had hoped for. Enthusiastic. Always good to have a few troops eager for more.

  He shrugged, affecting an air of concern. “I appreciate yer eagerness, I do. But I think we should wait for Lieutenant MacKay to grieve a bit more.”

  The lad nodded and glanced around Rory at Duncan. “’Tis sad, it is, his ma dyin’ and all. If my ma died, I’d...I can’ even think ‘bout it, sir.”

  The young man, probably no more than seven and ten, more than likely had stopped living under his father’s roof when he enlisted to be a soldier for Rory. Just a lad really. But, Rory considered, the lot of them should toughen up, stop crying for their mamas, as Duncan did. It truly disgusted Rory that the big man was such a bairn about his mother.

  Rory nodded though and forced a smile into place.

  Thinking of the multitude of excuses to take his leave, Rory felt a small tug on his shirt’s sleeve.

  And there she was. In all her dark glory. Fleur. Bonny Fleur. She smiled sadly up at him, and instantly he had his arms around her faster than he thought possible, faster than he thought of the consequences.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” she whispered, then released him too soon.

  Rory tried to stop touching her, but the skin of her wrists was so soft, like silk, the caress from her errant tresses beckoned to him. His cock tightened thinking of how good she felt, how good it would feel to have her whenever he wanted. To have her as his, once and for all.

  She turned slightly, and Rory saw past her to Duncan approaching. His red brows furrowed slightly, but when their gazes met the man nodded slightly, politely.

  Rory extended his hand to him. “Duncan, I’m so sorry for yer loss.”

  Duncan caught his hand and squeezed the dickens out of it for a spell, but then released it with a nod. “That’s kind of ye, sir.”

  “I’m so sorry ‘bout yer ma too, Lieutenant,” the lad beside him said timidly.

  Duncan shook his hand too. The young trooper pulled away from the shake, slightly wincing, flexing his fist as if to have the blood flow back into his fingers. So, Rory thought, he wouldn’t take it too personally that Duncan was a bit rough today.

  “I was just sayin’ to the captain that if it were my ma that died—if—I—er...oh.” The boy shut up, looking down at his feet, his cheeks about the same color as Duncan’s unruly hair. “I’m sorry.”

  Duncan clapped him gently on the shoulder. “Thanks for the sentiment, Charles.”

  The lad nodded, cheeks still aflame, gaze still affixed on the ground. “I...I think I’ll have more whisky.”

  “Oh, I have to get more,” Fleur said as if she were a common serving wench.

  Rory stared at Duncan. The man didn’t do a damned thing. Fleur could not retrieve the beverage. Duncan had to stop her. But he merely stood there like a troll.

  “I’ll get it from the cellar,” she sang as she walked away, smiling, as if she were fit for such a thing, fetching the whisky. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, this was spectacularly wrong.

  Now he was fairly certain he’d throw Duncan to the English dogs for that. Fleur was made for council, for her intelligence, and for that beautiful body to be worshipped on bended knee. She was not made for serving whisky.

  “What?” Duncan finally asked. “Where’s she goin’?”

  “To get more whisky,” Rory almost roared, but held in his disdain. Barely.

  “I’ll do that. Jesus, what am I doin’?”

  Duncan took a couple giant strides when the young man, Charles apparently, said timidly, “I ken. I—I lost my da when I was younger. And my ma was the same way. It’s hard to hear when ye’re grievin’, eh?”

  Duncan had twisted to look at the lad and slowly a smile grew on his somber face. “Aye. That’s right.”

  Charles looked up, his own foolish grin spread wide. “I ken it. We all understand, Lieutenant MacKay. Yer Lady Fleur is takin’ real good care of ye. She kens what ye need and the like, right? She kens it even though ye sometimes can’t hear, sometimes can’t talk. I was like that for my ma after my da died.”

  Duncan blinked and swallowed.

  Hell, damnation, and eternal unrest! Did the snot of a soldier just try to insinuate that Duncan had some sort of ownership of Fleur? Some sort of possessiveness? Yer Lady Fleur. Yer? What e
lse was Rory to think?

  He watched Duncan while he held his breath, wondering if he would murder the man right then and there.

  “Lady Fleur...she’s not...I...Lord, I need a drink.”

  The oaf then twirled away in his dark green plaid, stomping the same direction as Fleur. Well, what Duncan had said was vague, which made Rory worry, but then calm settled in. Duncan—hell, any man—would be proud to have Fleur as his. Except Duncan, it seemed, had tried to correct Charles for the assumption.

  Then a thought roiled through Rory’s stomach, one overlooked consideration: The idiotic English thought Indians were sub-human. They thought the majority of Highlanders were too, the self-righteous arses. But they were willing to deal with Rory, since Rory was selling them Highlander lads with the promise of no further rebellions. It was a steep price, peace, but Rory thought it worth the cost, especially considering the English were supporting him to become laird, and soon he’d sell enough of his troops to rebuild Tongue, mayhap begin building a home as lovely as Mrs. Cameron’s. Wait, with Duncan soon gone, he could have Mrs. Cameron’s home himself. That would be good payment for dealing with the bloody English.

  Rory knew that to continue the concord, he’d have to placate to the English’s backwards ways. So he’d have to keep Fleur, his love, a secret. Mayhap Cromwell’s cronies would eventually want him to marry some twit of an English lass, further ensuring peace. Well, he’d then be able to marry her. All the while Fleur would have his heart. And his cock. The English might have his brain and his allegiance, but Fleur would be all his.

  “Oh, sir, I—everyone is leaving,” Charles said, interrupting his thoughts.

  Rory nodded, noticing that the town’s people were in fact slowly departing. It made sense, since Duncan suddenly vanished and hadn’t been much of a host in the first place.

  With the promise that he’d return soon to exact his plans, Rory began to unhurriedly step in place with the crowd of well wishers. He felt like chattel, but soon enough he’d be their laird. He’d never walk with the people like this ever again. They’d follow him.