Terri Brisbin Highlander Bundle

by TERRI BRISBIN

  And how he’d dragged her into this mess.

  ‘Jocelyn, I’d like to speak to our son now,’ his father said, softly. His tone disarmed whatever objections she might have raised.

  ‘Listen to your father, Aidan,’ she said, lifting on her toes to kiss his cheek. ‘His counsel is wise.’

  Aidan smiled as he saw his father’s brow rise as his mother walked by him. They watched as she left the chamber, closing the door behind her.

  ‘So,’ his father began, filling a cup with ale from the pitcher there and holding it out to him, ‘did you suggest Gowan for the assignment to get him out of your way, then? So you could pursue his wife?’

  He would not lie. ‘Aye.’

  Aidan waited as his father drank deeply before meeting his gaze. ‘And did you? Pursue her?’

  ‘Aye.’ The word came out on a whisper and echoed across the emptiness between them.

  ‘You have not failed in that kind of pursuit before.’

  Now it was his turn to raise a brow at that remark. How closely had his father watched his amorous exploits?

  ‘As your mother will no doubt tell you, there is little or nothing that happens in my family or on my lands that I do not know about.’ His father laughed then. ‘And it was not so long ago that I was a young man chasing any young woman who would share a few moments of pleasure with me.’

  ‘And marriage made you stop?’

  His father’s faithfulness to his mother was well known, but was considered an eccentricity among most other families. A man could have a wife and a leman if he could support both and a wealthy, powerful nobleman such as his father could afford as many as he’d want. Yet he neither sought nor kept any lovers since, according to the stories, his marriage to Jocelyn MacCallum.

  Connor MacLerie’s marriage stood as an example and many men in the clan followed his lead, finding happiness in the beds and hearts of only their wives. Duncan, Rurik and others remained steadfast to their vows.

  ‘Not marriage so much as love,’ his father explained. Though his father’s first marriage had ended in disaster, rumours said he had loved his wife. ‘That is why I want you to focus on your marriage. If you find a wife like the one I found in your mother, this restlessness will pass.’ His father put his cup down and sat once more. ‘So, how do you plan to proceed in this matter between you and Gowan?’

  ‘When he returns, I expect he will punish his wife as he sees fit and he will issue a challenge to me.’ That much he knew for no man would allow such an insult, whether real or perceived, to go unanswered. And Catriona would bear the brunt of Gowan’s displeasure over his actions.

  ‘And you will decline it? Handle it privately?’

  Aidan shook his head and put the cup down. ‘Nay. I see no way to handle this in private since word has spread. I will accept his challenge and allow him to win. His honour will be satisfied and my transgression will be looked at as a youthful escapade.’ He used Catriona’s words to describe it. A pang of true longing struck him then. ‘Is Gowan a cruel man? A fair one?’ he asked, now contemplating what actions a man could or would take against a wife who shamed him...even if she had not.

  ‘I am glad to see you are finally seeing the results caused by your lack of control and lack of discretion,’ his father said.

  The heat of embarrassment crept into his face. He’d been wrong, oh, so wrong, to pursue her and had never given it much thought. Before this, he would have taken his pleasure and never thought on the consequences. Now, an innocent woman who’d stood firm for the vows she’d taken would be chastised and, most likely, beaten for his actions.

  Very much as it would happen in the future when he inherited the titles, lands and people of the Clan MacLerie. His word and his actions would send men to war, deprive others of their lands, direct marriages and contracts, both binding and severing relationships—and he would bear responsibility for it all.

  The image of a humbled Catriona, beaten down both by her husband’s hand and the scorn of the villagers, horrified him more than he could say. To see the spirit and the passion within that woman be less than the woman he knew she could be, would be, bothered him more than he could explain.

  ‘So? How would you take him to be?’ he asked once more, glancing from under his brow to watch his father’s reaction.

  ‘I think he will do only what he deems necessary to restore his honour. I will speak with him as well.’

  Aidan nodded. His father’s words would carry weight with the warrior to mitigate Catriona’s part in this. Feeling less burdened now, knowing that this would all be worked out, each of them playing their part in getting past the gossip he’d caused, Aidan thanked his father and turned to leave.

  ‘Once we return from Athdar’s wedding and decide on your own betrothal, I think you should take over the running of Ord Dubh. Move there. Make it to your own liking. Take your pick of the men and establish it as your holding. ’Tis time, ’tis past time, really.’

  Ord Dubh, black hammer, was a small stone keep that sat on a round hammer-shaped hill at the southernmost spot on MacLerie lands. It was a choice parcel of land and a good place to prove himself to be his father’s heir. So, while his newly betrothed wife was living here and becoming accustomed to the ways of the MacLeries, he would be preparing their home, his home, in the south.

  Away from the temptation named Catriona MacKenzie.

  With these plans in place, all that need happen now was Gowan’s arrival home to sort through things with him and see Catriona settled back into her husband’s regard. No matter that he could easily see her standing on the stone balcony that Ord Dubh’s keep boasted, watching his return and waiting there for him.

  Not with Gowan. Not another woman waiting.

  Catriona. His.

  Shaking off thoughts and dreams that could not be, he held out his hand to his father.

  ‘My thanks for your support, Father,’ he said, shaking his hand.

  Leaving the chamber, he made his way to the small room he claimed as his in the other tower and went to bed. His dreams were filled with the lush images of Catriona, naked in his arms, on his bed, in his keep. Her brown hair pouring over them, shimmering in the light of candles. Her eyes so icy blue they burned as she gazed down at him, her legs tight around his hips as she rode him. Until they both cried out in pleasure.

  He awakened, sweat-covered and hard, unable to find a way back to a peaceful sleep with such dreams yet tormenting him.

  Hopefully, Gowan would arrive home soon and take Catriona out of his thoughts and dreams.

  * * *

  Catriona sat near the small window, using the sun’s weak rays to light the clothing she was mending. Her back ached from the position, so she welcomed the knock at the door, knowing only it gave her the opportunity to stand and stretch out the tight muscles that complained even now. She lifted the latch, expecting Muireall to be there, on her daily errands and with wee Donald on her hip. Instead she found Lady MacLerie. Dropping into a deep curtsy and remaining there, she could not think of why the lady would be standing at her door.

  ‘My lady,’ she said, without lifting her head. ‘How can I serve you?’

  ‘May we speak inside?’ the lady asked. Cat stood and moved back so the lady could enter. Though for what reason, she knew not.

  ‘There, Peggy,’ the lady said, pointing at the table.

  Cat then noticed the girl standing behind the lady and the basket she carried. With a nod to her, young Peggy hefted the basket on to the table. Still puzzled over the lady’s reason for visiting her, she watched as Lady MacLerie whispered some instructions to her maid and waited for her to speak. Though a common sight in the village, visiting the sick, speaking to villagers to ask after their situations and conditions and other duties expected of her, Catriona had not met or spoken to her.

  ‘May we sit?’ the lady asked.

  Cursing her own lack of manners under her breath, she pulled out the two best stools from under the table and waited for the
lady to settle herself on one of them before sitting next to her. When the lady reached out and took her hand, patting it gently, alarm and fear set in. Shaking her head against the reason for this visit, Cat waited to hear the terrible words. For the other reason the lady visited here was to...

  ‘I am so sorry to tell you that Gowan has died.’

  It could not be. He was an able soldier and had been on many dangerous missions and fought in many battles for the MacLerie. His assignment this time was not one of those. This must be—

  ‘—A mistake, my lady. Gowan was at one of your holdings, training some men. Munro said he is on his way here...to...’ She stopped, noticing the way the lady’s gaze slid away from hers for a moment, acknowledging the shameful incident without saying a word.

  ‘He will arrive in a day or so,’ she said, deciding she needed to look out the door to see if her husband approached even now.

  But the lady’s grasp on her hand tightened, not allowing her to rise. When she glanced at the face of the woman who’d tamed the Beast of the Highlands, she read the truth of it—Gowan was dead.

  Gowan was dead.

  ‘I’ve brought a few things you might need over the next days and will send some of the servants to help you when his body arrives. My husband said to expect that to be later this day.’

  Cat could not find words to speak. Gowan dying was simply not possible. He was older than her, but as strong a man as any around. He never lingered abed and was never ill. He could not be dead. She shook her head, denying the lady’s claim.

  ‘Here now,’ she said, putting her arm around Cat’s shoulders. ‘’Tis hard to think of anything at this time. The news is such a shock to my husband as well. Gowan always served him well. But you must gather your wits and do what is expected. We must do what is expected of us at times like this.’

  ‘Aye, my lady,’ she mumbled, unsure of exactly what she should be doing now.

  All she wanted to do was curl up on the floor and die with him. He’d saved her life and had asked for little or nothing in return. Now...now...all was black before her. Lady MacLerie helped her to her feet and pushed open the door.

  ‘Some fresh air will help clear your head,’ she advised. ‘Do you have kin here? Or some friend I can summon?’ As they stepped out of the door, Cat dragged in a breath and felt her vision clear a bit.

  ‘Muireall,’ she whispered.

  ‘Gair’s sister?’

  ‘Aye, my lady.’

  ‘Peggy, go and seek out Gair’s sister. Bring her here,’ she said to the waiting maid. ‘Know you the way?’

  With a nod, the girl ran off. After a few minutes in the cold air, she let go of Lady MacLerie and stood on her own. Looking around, she saw some of the villagers were noticing them now. Shivering from the shock of the news, Cat went back inside and wrapped a shawl around her shoulders.

  If Gowan was dead, she should....

  Glancing around the small cottage that had been her world for two years since they’d moved to Lairig Dubh, Cat realised that none of this was hers. It was Gowan’s. She stood in the centre of the small world and knew nothing could be the same again. Gowan was dead.

  ‘Cat?’

  She looked up, surprised to find Muireall standing before her now. She’d not heard her friend arrive or noticed the lady’s departure, but both had happened.

  ‘Cat, we must get ready now,’ her friend advised. She just could not work out what the words meant. ‘Come, we need to put water on to heat.’

  She must have followed her friend’s directions, but she later had no memory of it. Soon, she watched the large cauldron heating over the fire. A pile of cloths sat alongside a large jar of soap. A clean shirt and a length of tartan. A large, plain burial cloth that would wrap around his body.

  Gowan was dead.

  The tears came then, the sorrow poured out of her. Muireall sat with her, holding her and rocking her, and Cat held on to the only person other than Gowan to ever be her friend. Her grief stabbed deep, worse now for knowing that he thought her unfaithful in his moment of death.

  * * *

  By the time the commotion outside her door told her of his body’s arrival and need for preparation for burial, Cat knew that she could not fail him in his death as she had in his life. She pushed all the pain and grief aside and stood to receive his body back into the cottage they’d shared here.

  Her only glimpse of Munro was just then, as the men carried Gowan inside and placed him on a large, flat piece of wood. His friends stood beside and behind him, watching. And the earl was there as well, for both father and son served him.

  Muireall and two servants from the keep stayed with her, but only she cleaned and washed him, preparing him for burial in the morning. The strange thing was that he looked as though he slept. No marks marred his body to tell her how he had died. No signs of recent injuries. Cat stared at his face, willing him to open his eyes and tell her this was all just a mistake.

  But he did not.

  As she touched the cloth to his jaw, she remembered the first time this lumbering giant of a man stood before her. The scar that ran in a jagged line down his cheek had terrified her, but not more than facing the fate her father had planned for her. She smiled now, cleaning that mark of a previous battle as she thought on how he staged another battle that day—this time for her.

  Married once against her will to a brutal man who had died the way he’d lived, she ended up back in her father’s control and faced whatever fate could help to fulfil her father’s ambitions. Still recovering from the beatings that ended not only a pregnancy, but also her ability to bear children, her father auctioned her to the highest bidder though not for a marriage this time. This time she would simply be whored out to pay for her father’s whims and wishes.

  Lifting up his hand, she washed between his fingers and up his arm. His sword arm. The tears flowed freely now as she went about this intimate task.

  He’d been travelling through the edges of MacKenzie lands, where the chief’s power thinned and waned, and witnessed some of it, He learned more by questioning her neighbours and kin. Then he walked into the middle of the haggling, tossed a sack of coins at her father and drew his sword and dagger, daring anyone to stop him from taking her.

  Cat traced the cloth down the length of his leg, washing off the dirt and then drying his skin. The other women stood silent witness to her ablutions and none tried to speak as she moved around her husband’s body. They handed her a clean, hot cloth when she needed one and she continued this task. She washed his other leg and dried it.

  His long strides had covered the distance between them and she half-expected her life to end when she glimpsed the fury in his gaze. He dragged and carried her out of the clearing and back to his horse. They did not stop until they’d reached the rest of his group of MacLerie warriors. There he’d offered her a meal and a choice—marriage to him or she could go wherever she wanted.

  Finished with washing him, she began to dress him in the plain shirt and tartan. When he was clean and dressed, Cat took her place, sitting at his side, and the door was open for those who wished to pay a call—though with the recent accusations against her, she doubted anyone would want to enter the cottage while she was there.

  The earl and lady visited first, greeting Munro, who remained outside, and then entering to speak about Gowan with her. They were brief, but their presence honoured his memory. Though she heard many people speak to Munro, only some of the men entered and said a word or two to her.

  * * *

  The rest of the evening passed in a blur. Muireall handed her food and drink, she thought. A few people even spoke directly to her, she thought. Nothing else sank through the wall of grief that surrounded her. Though Muireall saw her to bed before leaving, Cat could not sleep. For the first time since...since... She could not think on that now, but Munro slept elsewhere and only appeared at dawn.

  * * *

  Men from the earl’s warriors, the keep and the village car
ried Gowan to the cemetery. The thick fog that morning swirled around them, their steps leaving eddies in the mist. Cat knew the priest prayed for his immortal soul, she knew the earl said some words of praise and knew that Munro tossed the first handful of dirt into the grave on his father.

  But her thoughts were as opaque as the fog that morning, so she drifted along, doing what she was told to do until she found herself walking the road back into the village. She had almost reached the path leading to her door, Gowan’s door, when it happened.

  An older man, someone who’d fought with Gowan and drank with him, too, spat in the dirt at her feet as he passed her by. Only when another and then another repeated the insult did she realise it was aimed at her. Then the whispered words and curses followed. Loud enough for her to hear, but not so that they could be heard by others walking ahead of her.

  But the stone that struck her in the back frightened her into crying out. Standing there, seeing the frank disgust in the gazes of those around her. Those who did not stare, turned away, not willing to intervene or be for her.

  As she hurried back to the cottage, Cat understood that they had waited only for Gowan’s burial to treat her the way they thought she deserved. Out of breath, she slammed the door behind her and leaned against it and only one thought filled her mind.

  Gowan had returned to Lairig Dubh and he could not save her again.

  Chapter Eight

  Catriona curled her body up and pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders. With little between her and the packed dirt floor beneath her, she shivered there, just waiting for dawn to arrive so she could rise without disturbing the others sleeping in the small cottage. As the coldness seeped deeper into her bones and in spite of it, she offered up a prayer of thanks that she, at least, was sleeping inside and not out in the relentless storms that blew through Lairig Dubh as the seasons changed here in the Highlands.

  The small pallet in the corner held four small bodies, all lying askew, arms and legs in a jumbled mass, in the way of children. They slept with no regard for yesterday nor the morrows that yet waited for them. If only she had that luxury. From the sound of the echoing snores that filled the chamber, they would be asleep for a while. If only she could fall into the sleep of the innocents.