Highland Yule: A MacLomain and MacLauchlin Hogmanay Tale

by Sky Purington

  About the Book

  Following a trail of mysterious letters left by her deceased betrothed, Rona joins his brother on an emotional yuletide journey to uncover the truth. Can they reach a place of forgiveness and reignite their long lost love? Or are some wounds too deep to ever heal?

  COPYRIGHT © 2020

  Highland Yule

  Sky Purington

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Edited by Cathy McElhaney

  Cover Art by Tara West

  Published in the United States of America

  Contents

  About the Book

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Just Curious?

  Exclusive Invitation

  The MacLomain Series: End of an Era

  Highlander’s Pact

  Previous Releases-Best Reading Order

  Family Trees

  About the Author

  Highland Yule

  A MacLomain and MacLauchlin Hogmanay Tale

  Sky Purington

  Prologue

  Coastal Argyll, Scotland

  Late December

  1345

  “’TIS ALL RIGHT, LADDIE.” Rona rubbed her horse’s neck and tried to calm him as they trudged through the wind and snow. “’Tis but a storm, Torin. Nothing ye havenae conquered before, aye?”

  “Aye,” her first-in-command Aaron grumbled, his wary eyes to the dark woodland. “Whilst in battle, lass. This that comes is stealth rather than a fair fight.”

  “Dinnae scare the lass,” Aunt Brighid chastised then shot Rona a grim look that spoke volumes.

  She did, in fact, very much need to worry.

  Someone lurked beyond.

  Raised to defend herself, Rona gripped the hilt of her dagger and scanned the forest. They had come across little strife on their travels from the Sinclair’s holding to MacLomain Castle, but that was just pure luck. Staying true to Scotland’s Auld Alliance with France, the majority of their countrymen were off fighting alongside King David II against England. This left Scotland more vulnerable to miscreants than ever.

  Nevertheless, she wanted to go home for Hogmanay. Even if her betrothed Bróccín would not be there to marry her. She wanted to be amongst kin again. To at last visit her beloved’s grave and say goodbye.

  If they made it home alive.

  Blade at the ready, Aaron’s bushy white brows furrowed. He lifted his hand a mere fraction. That was the signal. Someone lurked in the woodland. They must ready themselves to fight. Rona unsheathed her blade and looked at her aunt. Aunt Brighid nodded, her own dagger at the ready too.

  Seconds later, the forest exploded with activity. They were under attack. Trying to remain calm, she shifted Torin closer to Brighid’s horse and kept her weapon in hand, but it all happened so fast.

  Cries rang out.

  Weapons clashed.

  Blood spattered across the white snow.

  “No,” Rona screamed when she was torn off her horse.

  “Dinnae move, lass,” came a gruff voice against her ear.

  She was dragged backward with a knife to her throat. Worried about the others, she struggled to see through the driving snow.

  Was Brighid all right?

  Torin?

  Aaron?

  Suddenly, a grunt resounded behind her, and the man holding her vanished. Losing her balance, she stumbled back before she fell and hit her head.

  She blinked, trying to see clearly, but everything grew blurry then dimmed.

  Moments later, all swirled away, and darkness consumed her.

  Chapter One

  “She’s stirring,” came Aunt Brighid’s relieved voice from her left. “Just now. I saw it. Her eyelashes fluttered.”

  “It could be she but dreams,” Aaron grumbled from off to her right. “Ye’ve a way of seeing what ye want to see, lass.”

  “Och, nay, I saw what I saw,” Brighid assured. “Our lassie is coming to.” A cool hand touched her forehead. “She doesnae have a fever. That is verra good.”

  “She hasnae had a fever since he brought her here,” he reminded. “So I dinnae know why ye keep looking for one.”

  Who brought her where? Rona struggled to open her eyes but remained immersed in darkness. Not the best place to be when Brighid and Aaron bantered. They could drive a person mad. She knew the source of it, though. The two had loved each other for years but knew naught how to express it beyond bickering.

  “See, she just fluttered her lashes again,” Brighid exclaimed. “Clear as day.”

  “I didnae see a thing,” Aaron admonished. “She’s as still as dew on morning grass.”

  “Still as dew on grass?” Brighid snorted. “’Tis not still if ye’re trompin’ through it.”

  “And I am nae stompin' through it,” he huffed, “so ‘tis, in fact, verra much still.”

  “And what of the wind blowing the grass?” Brighid scoffed. “It moves the grass and in turn the dew so ‘tis not still then, aye?”

  Please, let her wake up. Or at the very least slumber. Anything but this. The good Lord knew they could go on for hours. In answer to her prayers, a third very masculine voice came to her rescue.

  “Ye should let the wee lass rest, aye?”

  “And ye shouldnae be in here,” Brighid chastised. “’Tis indecent.”

  “No more indecent than getting her undressed and into my bed.”

  Undressed?

  His bed?

  Who was he?

  “Och,” Brighid muttered. “’Twas most certainly indecent, Laird MacLauchlin.”

  Oh, no. Not MacLauchlin Castle. But how could the chieftain be here? The last she knew he and his two brothers were off to war.

  “I am nae laird,” the man replied gruffly. “But his cousin.” He set something down beside her. “Ma mixed a concoction and wants Rona to drink it upon awakening.”

  Cousin? Her betrothed Bróccín had been the chieftain’s cousin.

  But then so was his older brother.

  Could it be? Had he returned? Was he here?

  As if he reached into the darkness and yanked her out, her eyes shot open. She blinked several times and focused on the man standing beside her. The curtains were drawn, and only a few candles burned, but she could see him clear enough.

  Colmac.

  Tall and broad shouldered, he was even more handsome than she remembered. His dark hair was interwoven with small braids and his strong chin lightly bearded. His thickly lashed sea green eyes still possessed quiet wisdom yet now, not surprisingly, sadness haunted them. He had adored his younger brother. Though it had been nigh on a year now, she suspected like her, he still mourned.

  “She is awake,” he said softly. His gaze lingered on her for a moment then he strode out with a slight limp, saying over his shoulder, “See that she drinks ma’s concoction.”


  No, ‘hello, how are ye? It has been too long,’ but then that was Colmac, wasn’t it?

  Once upon a time, she had fancied herself in love with him. She’d been good friends with both he and Bróccín. Colmac, however, made her heart race the older she got, stirring longings with nary a touch.

  He was also the one who eventually paid her no mind and barely glanced her way.

  Bróccín, as it turned out, did the very opposite.

  “Ah, indeed, the laird is right, she is awake!” Ever the mother hen, Brighid fussed with Rona's blanket, needlessly tucking it around her here and there. She tossed Aaron an I-told-you-so look then beamed at Rona, her plump cheeks rosy. “How do ye fare, dear one?” She waved her hand in front of Rona’s face. “Can ye see well enough?” She glanced heavenward and shook her head, tittering along. “Ye took a mighty fall, but by the grace of God, ‘and some braw fightin' men,’ she said out of the corner of her mouth, “ye’re still with us!”

  Since Rona’s parents died when she was young, Aunt Brighid had treated her like the child she never had. A kindly sort with a tendency toward gossip and a wee bit of a temper on occasion, Brighid had always been there for her. Not just during the years Rona remained at MacLomain Castle after losing her parents but the last four winters at Sinclair Castle.

  “He’s not the laird,” Rona said hoarsely, reminding Brighid of what Colmac had said. He was likely in charge in the laird's absence, though. So despite what Rona said he would remain chieftain to Brighid's way of thinking.

  Her aunt cocked her head. “Who’s not the laird?”

  “Colmac,” she whispered, exasperated not to mention parched.

  Her aunt waved away the details. “He might as well be with his kin off to war.”

  “Kin that is actually laird to this castle,” Aaron reminded. “So ye may want to say things straight lest they think ye daft.”

  Like an uncle to her, Aaron had watched over Rona all these years just like Brighid.

  “Did ye just call me daft?” Her aunt’s hazel eyes widened at Aaron. “’Tis not daft to have a wee bit o’ foresight!”

  “Och, the man saves our lass’s life, and ye put his kin in the ground already when ye call him laird!” Aaron shook his head, baffled. His brows shot up so high his forehead creased several times over. “’Tis poor that!”

  Colmac had saved her?

  “Please,” she rasped, eyeing the cup he had set down. While she wanted water, whatever that was would do. “So thirsty.”

  Aaron sniffed it and grimaced. “’Tis foul smelling.”

  Brighid snagged it from him and did the same. “Och, what did the witch concoct then?”

  “Dinnae speak that way of Mistress Mórag,” Rona whispered. “She has a way with the herbs, and well ye know it.” She gestured weakly at it. “Please, Auntie. I need some.”

  It just so happened, her aunt was not referring to the dark arts of witchcraft but Mórag’s unfortunate disposition. Mother to Bróccín and Colmac, she was once a stern, sharp-tongued woman. From what she had heard, though, that changed after sickness swept through the clan. Not only did it take her husband and youngest son but Mórag in a way too. She’d been left frail and weak, never leaving the castle.

  Brighid sniffed the concoction again, took a small sip and flinched. “’Tis bloody awful!”

  “Och, lass,” Aaron exclaimed. “’Tis meant for healing, not sampling!”

  Evidently having faith enough in Mórag, he took it back and carefully tilted it to Rona’s lips. As forewarned, it tasted awful, but she managed several bitter swallows before exhaustion overwhelmed her, and she rested her head back.

  “Is my horse all right?” she said. “And the men who were traveling with us?’

  “Aye, lassie, everyone is just fine,” Brighid assured. “Now ‘tis time to rest.” She stroked Rona’s hair, soothing her. “I will stay close lest ye need me, aye?”

  “Nay, ye should rest,” she murmured before everything faded away once more. When next she awoke, dim daylight filtered through the arrow-slit windows and her kin were gone.

  Yet she was not alone.

  Arms crossed over his chest, Colmac sat in the corner sound asleep. She had no recollection of him entering. Had he watched her sleep? Embarrassment warmed her cheeks at the thought.

  Her gaze drifted to the small tapestry of a mighty pine tree hanging across from him. She’d begun weaving it after Bróccín died as a means to work through her grief. Located behind this very castle, she had sat beneath that tree many times with Bróccín and Colmac. Why was it hanging there, though? Obviously, someone took it out of her satchel and hung it.

  Beyond a dull throb in her head, she felt considerably better but still thirsty. Thankfully, a cool glass of water sat on the bedside table...along with something else. Her name was written on a scroll tied with a festive red ribbon accentuated with a sprig of green holly.

  Mayhap it was from Brighid telling her all was well and to join them in the great hall to break her fast? Unlikely. Her aunt would insist on walking her down there. She looked at Colmac. Mayhap it was from him then? She shook her head. Why would he leave her a letter when he could speak to her upon waking?

  Fortunately, she, Colmac and Bróccín had all learned to read and write at MacLomain Castle in their youth. A privilege that few enjoyed. Done speculating, and beyond curious, she drank the water then carefully unraveled the scroll, shocked by what she discovered.

  “Bróccín?” she whispered.

  Without question, it was his handwriting.

  She glanced at Colmac again. Had he left this for her? He must have. Bróccín had to have asked him to give it to her.

  She read, and tears welled.

  My Dearest Lass,

  I cannae tell ye how much I longed to see yer bonny face again. To watch the sunlight ignite yer locks to pure fire as ye picked thistle. To feel the warmth of yer hand in mine. I dinnae think a lad could be any luckier than I was to have ye...To have known ye. Do ye remember the first time we met? What I showed ye? Might I show ye again?

  Yers,

  Bróccín

  She wiped away a tear. Where was the rest of the message? Why did he leave off like that? She frowned and glanced at Colmac only to find his steady gaze on her.

  “I dinnae ken,” she managed, her voice wobbly. “Did ye leave this?”

  Surely, he must have. Bróccín certainly had not.

  “Nay.” His words chilled her to the bone because he clearly spoke the truth. “And since yer kin left, nobody has been in this chamber but me.”

  Chapter Two

  “Who is it from?” Colmac was not only alarmed by the letter’s mysterious appearance—more specifically that someone had snuck in here without him being aware—but by the tears in Rona’s eyes. Though tempted to close the distance, he had long trained himself not to. “Tell me, lass.”

  Rona’s gaze dropped to the letter, lingered then slowly rose to him again. It had been nearly seven winters since last he saw her, and she still stopped his poor heart with her beauty. Rich auburn hair fell in soft curls around her shoulders, and her soulful eyes were the color of amber sparkling in the sun. With delicate features and soft ivory skin that seemed aglow, her loveliness was unparalleled.

  “’Tis from Bróccín.” Her slightly arched brows drew together. “But surely ye knew that.” She sat forward, insistent. “Surely, ye left this for me to find.”

  Colmac shook his head and ended up closing the distance. He gestured at the letter. “Might I see it?”

  “Aye.” She handed it over.

  He read it and shook his head again. It was most certainly his brother’s handwriting. But when had he written such? And what, as the letter indicated, did he want to show her again?

  “I will speak with ma.” Troubled, he handed it back to her. “Mayhap she kens how it got here.”

  She must. There was no other explanation.

  “Please do.” Rona rolled the scroll carefully and retie
d it. “Mayhap ye recognize the ribbon?”

  “Nay.” He frowned, perplexed. “I havenae seen it before.”

  “’Tis lovely,” she whispered, fingering it. She set aside the scroll and met his eyes.

  Just like that, he was frozen in time again. Whisked back to the day his brother spoke about. The day they first met. After all, he had been there too.

  “Do ye remember it then?” he said. “The day ye first met us?”

  “Aye.” A soft smile curled her mouth. “I was but a bairn and ye saved me from a small boar. Bróccín lobbed it with many a rock but ‘twas ye that downed the foul beastie with several arrows.”

  He remembered it well. She had been eleven winters old exploring the backside of the castle and came across the animal. Fortunately for her, he and Bróccín had been following the pretty lass visiting from MacLomain Castle. One way or another, they never stopped following her over the years until the day his brother told him he had fallen in love with her.

  “I was thankful then for yer valor,” she went on. “And I am thankful now.” Her eyes never left his. “Thank ye for saving me when we were attacked.” She touched the back of her head, glanced at the window then looked at him again. “However long ago that was.”

  “’Twas over a day ago.” He shook his head. “’Tis a verra dangerous time to be traveling this way with so few men.”

  Something he had already spoken with Aaron about at length. Yet the man was as stubborn as Rona, determined to see her home for Hogmanay. In memory of the vows she would have taken with Bróccín, she wished to attend MacLomain Castle’s yearly ritual of handfasting then marrying before midnight. Though typically handfasting meant being betrothed for a year and a day, the MacLomains had made it a more official exchange of vows years ago.

  “What happened when we were attacked?” She peeked under the blanket at her shift, and a blush stained her cheeks. “And why did ye take off my dress when Aunt Brighid should have?”

  “She did.” He had never felt such fear. People often did not wake from Rona’s sort of injury. “But help was needed and I wouldnae have ye jostled about too much with yer head injured.”