The Highland Chief

by Dana D'Angelo

  The Highland Chief

  Scottish Strife Series - Book 1

  Dana D’Angelo

  Copyright Information

  Copyright © 2015

  http://www.dana–dangelo.com

  All rights reserved. This book, in its entirety or in parts, may not be reproduced in any format without expressed permission. Scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book through the Internet or through any other type of distribution or retrieval channel without the permission of the author is illegal and is punishable by law. Please obtain only legitimate electronic versions of this book and do not engage in or encourage piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  The characters, places and events portrayed in this collection of fictional works are a result of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarities to real events, locales, or people, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Thank You Gift

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  About The Author

  More Titles By Dana D’Angelo

  Glossary

  Chapter 1

  England, 1560

  What was that?

  Darra Berchelaine’s eyes opened abruptly. Rolling over to her side, she pushed herself to a seated position. Her hand rose to her chemise, clutching the material as she waited for the pounding in her chest to subside. She blinked a couple of times, her lungs expanding and contracting rapidly with each breath she took. Then slowly her breathing returned to normal. She dropped her hand onto the cool bed-clothes, and stared at the thick velvet curtain that surrounded her bed.

  Straining her ears, she could detect the splattering of rain on the shutters, the noise like hard pebbles scattering across wooden panels. And just beyond the castle walls, she heard thunder rumbling, the reverberation rolling into her chamber, making it feel small and claustrophobic.

  She licked her dry lips, wishing that she had some ale to quench her sudden thirst.

  “’Twas a terrible dream,” she whispered to herself.

  But even as she told herself this, she wasn’t comforted by the words. While she didn’t remember the exact details of her dream, the feeling of dread lingered, digging its icy fingers into her flesh.

  Darra pushed the damp hair from her face, and hooked the loose strands behind her ears. It was likely the storm that had awoken her. Harvest time was drawing to a close, yet the autumn storms continued to unleash its wrath on them.

  A sudden gust of wind shook the shutters, causing her to shiver. When she had awoken, a thin sheen of sweat had formed on her forehead, but the crisp night air cooled it, leaving her feeling clammy and chilled. Even the velvet curtains surrounding her bed were ineffective in keeping out the cold air, or the terrors of the night. Each time her maid Fyfa closed the thick curtains, Darra usually felt safe and secure.

  But not tonight.

  Scanning the hanging fabric, she searched for any holes in the protective barrier. She frowned when she couldn’t find any obvious breach. Shaking her head, she tried to cast aside the strange sense that something was not right. Whatever dark dream that haunted her had somehow passed into her consciousness, leaving her shaken and scared. The only small comfort she had was that her maid slept just on the other side of the curtains. She held her breath for half a second, listening to the maid’s soft snores. But her relief was brief. Somehow her mind continued to race at a warped speed, and she found it impossible to fall back asleep. Pulling the woolen blanket up and wrapping it around her shoulders, she knew full well that it wasn’t warmth that she sought. For some reason her world felt insecure. Nay, she corrected herself, her world was insecure for a long while now. And she blamed the shaky foundation on her father’s untimely death. Her mother, while she lived, drifted through the castle in a trance, as if she pined for the day when she would join her husband. The grief that covered Lady Venora Lochclay was like a great shroud, and no one could penetrate the barrier, not even Darra.

  Before tragedy struck, her mother was the castle healer who was renowned and revered. She was willing and eager to assist anyone that sought her help, and people from near and far came to see her.

  Her father was a brave and loyal knight who lost his life while fighting to serve his king. When Sir Arthur Berchelaine died in battle, his funeral was well attended by the local gentry and even a royal representative was present. He was given the fanfare that was due to a respected knight who died in honor of his king. But that honor did nothing to change the fact that he was dead. Her mother had shut down emotionally, and left Darra to fend for herself.

  She clenched the blanket, remembering the loneliness, despair and anger at how her parents had abandoned her.

  A week after her father’s death, Fyfa found her in the solar. “The people are waiting for ye in the great hall, milady.”

  Darra turned away from the window. She had cried enough to fill the moat that surrounded Lancullin Castle.

  “Why are they here?” she said tiredly.

  The maid creased her brows and frowned slightly. “They’ve come for healing of course.”

  “Well, tell them that I cannot help them.” She went back to staring out the window. “They will have to wait until my mother is well again, or they can go seek help from the town healer.”

  “The witch has taken ill, milady,” Fyfa said, chewing at her bottom lip. “And besides, I’m only a servant; the people will nae listen tae me. Ye will have tae go tell them yourself.” She wrung her hands together, as if she debated whether she should speak her piece. Then finally, she said, “Go tae them, milady. At the moment, ye are their hope.”

  Darra’s eyes fastened onto the hills in the horizon, although she wasn’t seeing anything. She didn’t want to be anyone’s hope. Not when her own life felt so wretched.

  The hands in her lap curled into fists. She was aware of the tightness across her shoulder blades and the tiny fear that festered beneath her breast. “My mother is the healer,” she said in a low voice. “I am only seventeen years old, an apprentice. My lady mother has not taught —”

  “She has taught ye enough,” Fyfa said, interrupting. “Ye have the blood of great healers running through your veins, milady.” She gentled her voice. “As ye ken, your mother is felled by grief. She cannae heal others when she cannae heal herself. Now ‘tis your duty tae care for the sick.”

  Darra was silent.

  “Please, milady,” Fyfa said, laying her hands on Darra’s sleeve. “Your mother needs more time. Someone must lead us while she heals from her heartache.”

  But what about my heartache? she wanted to ask. Do I not need more time to grieve as well?

  Fyfa pressed her palms tightly together in front of her chest, an imploring expression on her countenance. Two times a month, Lady Venora opened the castle gates to the sick, and they came in droves, seeking remedies for their many ailments. If Darra didn’t go below stairs, the people would be rebuffed and some of them would die.

  “You are right,” she said, letting out a long sigh. “Someone must take charge. But once Mother is recovered, I will withdraw.”

  But that was a year ago, and Lady Venora was still not recovered. And since someone h
ad to continue healing the sick, the responsibility fell on Darra’s shoulders. After a time, she found the work satisfying, and took pride in helping the sick become whole again.

  The only worrisome consideration was her mother. Lady Venora persevered to flit through the castle as if she was a ghost, however lately she had also become obsessed with death and dying. Her mother’s insistence in speaking about the subjects truly frightened Darra. People were known to commit suicide while in they were in the throes of grief. Was her mother at this juncture? All at once, she felt an urgency to find a cure for her mother’s despondency. She wasn’t certain whether it was possible to treat the illness of spirit, but she owed it to her mother to try. After all, her mother was the only family member she had left.

  With her mission firmly set in her mind, she spent the entire day pouring over the old manuals that were stored in the solar. She went through every herbal book, searching for that elusive antidote. And when she was about to give up on her search, a passage struck her.

  Sol terrestris: A treasured plant for healing deep inner wounds.

  She traced her finger over the golden petals of the drawing, its stamens radiating like the rays of the sun. Why not? The author didn’t specify the type of inner wound in which it was used. But even though her mother’s wounds weren’t physical, they still ran deep. Perhaps this little plant was the healing elixir that she was searching for.

  Closing the book with a thud, she tucked it under her arm and ran to find Fyfa. While she wasn’t allowed to leave the castle grounds without an escort, she soon found a guard willing to take them to the meadow just outside the castle gates. With her book in hand, she bent at the waist, scouring the land in search for the flowers. And when she saw the plants sticking out of a mound of earth, its yellow petals opened to catch the sun’s warmth, a giddiness came over her. She was certain that this plant would help lift her mother’s spirit. And then finally, she would have her mother back.

  When Darra collected enough of the delicate petals, she took them to the castle kitchen. Stealing a pot from the cook, she boiled the blooms in sweet wine. When the golden hue from the petals seeped into the liquid, coloring it into a rich, coppery amber, she strained it into a waiting bottle. Then with a light heart, she took her gift to her mother.

  Except her mother didn’t want her gift, and ignored Darra’s outstretched hand. All the excitement she experienced earlier crashed to the floor, shattering at her feet.

  “Why will you not try the medicine, mother?” she asked, fighting back the wave of disappointment, yet it still managed to creep into her voice.

  “I do not need it,” her mother said, her voice wane. “I am fine.”

  You are not fine! she wanted to scream, but she refrained herself. She placed the bottle on the side table. A healer’s creed was not to force a remedy onto a person. That was the one thing that her mother drilled into her during her apprenticeship. And it was something that she had to respect. In her experience, she saw how ineffective a remedy was when a person was forced to take it.

  A loud clap of thunder suddenly sounded in Darra’s chamber, jerking her out of her thoughts, and reminding her of her present circumstance.

  Letting out a long breath, she flattened her hand on the blanket and smoothed out the wrinkles. How odd it was for her to be contemplating her mother at this ungodly hour. Barely a few hours ago she saw Lady Venora at the Michaelmas feast in the great hall. Now the reveling and festivities were finished, everyone, including her mother, should be in bed, fast asleep. Clearly there was nothing wrong here. There was no reason for her to be dwelling on her mother.

  Still, the strange and persistent urging was hard to ignore, and she crawled over to the edge of the mattress. It was doubtful that she could return to sleep unless she satisfied her curiosity and determined that everything was all right.

  When she parted the curtain that surrounded the four-poster bed, the chilly air blasted her and almost sent her back into her protective cocoon.

  The fire in the hearth was long dead, but she could make out the dark outline of her maid sleeping on the pallet next to her bed. Her gaze slid past the maid, searching for an alternative explanation as to why her sleep was disturbed. But there was nothing.

  Dropping her foot down over the edge of the bed, she felt for the slipper that was usually placed there. The cold air skimmed her exposed calf, forcing a hiss to escape from her lips. She could almost convince herself that she was worrying needlessly, and that she would be better off crawling back under the covers. Except the voice inside her head continued to push her forward. When her foot slipped into the other slipper, Fyfa stirred and flipped onto her side, facing Darra. As if she somehow sensed that something was amiss, she opened her eyes and sat up abruptly.

  “Milady?” she asked, her voice still groggy with sleep. “What are ye doing out of your bed?”

  “’Tis nothing Fyfa,” she said. “Go back to sleep.”

  Fyfa stretched her arms in the air and let out a big yawn. “’Tis too late, I’m already awake.” Her tone became suspicious. “Are ye going somewhere, milady?” she asked.

  Darra sighed. A number of possible answers entered her head, but Fyfa wouldn’t believe any of them; the maid knew her too well to be fooled. Fyfa had become a constant, loyal companion from the moment she entered into the family’s service. She was four years older than Darra, and helped to alleviate the seclusion of living without the friendship of girls her age. But of course because of her familiarity, she spoke candidly and without censure. Such as now.

  “Well?” Fyfa asked.

  “If you must know, I am going to see my mother.”

  “At this time of night?” Doubt crept into her voice. “Lady Venora would be asleep — just as ye should be, milady. Besides, your mother would have barred her bed chamber door.” She plopped her head back on her pillow as if the discussion was over, and she fully expected Darra to go back to bed.

  “Sometimes Lady Venora leaves her door unlocked,” she said, tugging the woolen blanket off her bed and draping it over her shoulders. “I will check on her. If her door is locked then I will be back soon enough.”

  Fyfa groaned, pushed herself to a standing position, and dragged her blanket across her thin shoulders as well. “Milady, ye ken I cannae allow ye tae go by yourself.” She let out another loud yawn. Staggering over to the side table, she fumbled to light the candle there. Then gripping the pewter candle holder, she moved past Darra. “I will go first tae light the way.”

  The silence was almost deafening as they entered the dark corridor, while her thoughts became loud and unrelenting. Why was she wandering around in the middle of the night? If her mother was awake, she would likely be displeased to discover Darra in her chamber. But Darra had already gone so far, and it seemed foolish to turn back.

  When they finally arrived at the oak door, Fyfa lifted the candle holder so Darra could find the handle. She was about to push at the door open when she paused at hearing the murmuring voices from inside. She gave Fyfa an alarmed glance.

  “What is it, milady?” Fyfa whispered as she bent closer, her wide eyes illuminated by the candlelight.

  Darra waved a hand to silence the maid. Putting her hand on the rough panel, she leaned in to place an ear at the door. She took a sharp intake of breath and abruptly jerked back.

  “Get the guards,” she hissed. “There is a man in Lady Venora’s bed chamber!”

  Chapter 2

  “But what will ye do, milady?” Fyfa asked, gripping the candle holder tightly. The glow of the candle lit her face, magnifying her fear.

  “I need to know why there is a man in my mother’s bed chamber,” Darra said tightly. “I told you to fetch the guards.”

  “I dinnae think ‘tis a guid idea tae go in there,” she said, once again ignoring Darra’s command. Her maid shifted uncomfortably on her bare feet, sending a look of longing at the direction of Darra’s bed chamber. She gathered the edges of her blanket to her neck. “Per
haps ‘tis a trick of the mind, and ye are tired, milady. After all, ye attended mass early this morn, and then ye had tae partake in the Michaelmas festivities…”

  Darra shook her head, not wanting to waste time in idle conversation while her mother was in possible danger. Whether or not it was wise to enter the chamber, she didn’t care. It was out of character for Lady Venora to entertain men in her room. Perhaps other widows did this, but not her mother. Without waiting to see if Fyfa left to do her bidding, she pushed at the door handle. She let out a hiss of relief when there was no resistance. Her mother had forgotten to bar her door again.

  Her palms felt clammy and cold although it wasn’t the cool night air that affected her. For a moment she stood still, clutching at the blanket that was wrapped around her shoulders. The sound of the blood rushing through her veins and the thunderous roar of her pounding heart filled her ears. The noise was so loud that she feared that the intruder inside would hear it. But even as she took a step forward and slipped through the door, no one accosted her.

  Relief flooded her, and she surveyed the bed chamber, which was dimly lit by the candle on the dressing table near her mother’s bed.

  But then Darra saw him, and she staggered back against the wall, her entire body pressed flushed against it. Of all people to find in her mother’s chamber, he wasn’t what she had imagined at all. He wasn’t dressed like an ordinary Englishman. In fact, he wasn’t English at all but a devil Scot. And he was large, larger than any man that she had ever encountered. At the moment he was turned the other way. She could see his flame colored hair and his broad, muscular back, where a menacing claymore was strapped. Part of his great kilt draped loosely along his masculine back, while the lower portion of the plaid hugged his narrow hips, dropping to the back of his knees, and exposing strong and powerful calves. Even from this vantage point, she could sense the air of lethal danger that crackled around him, an air that clearly marked him as a warrior. What sort of defense did she have against a brawny man of this magnitude? The deadly brute could snap her and her mother as easily as if they were twigs. She swallowed hard, and prayed that Fyfa would hurry back with the castle guards.