Beloved Impostor

by Patricia Potter

  “We need an heir.”

  “I have two brothers.” He had vowed never to marry again. He had lost two wives. He did not want to inflict a similar fate on another woman unwise and unlucky enough to accept him.

  Patrick would return. Everyone but Rory thought he was dead. Patrick was too strong, too wise, too loved to die. He had always been their father’s favorite. He had been the heir, something that Rory had never regretted. He’d always looked up to Patrick, always followed his lead. Until the day that Maggie died and he decided to carve out his own path. He had always been lured to the sea and the family’s source of wealth. Knowing his grief, his father had backed his maiden voyage as a trader. That was ten years ago.

  No sense in thinking about that now. He had responsibilities. But they would not include marriage.

  “I do not have to do anything I do not wish to do,” Rory reminded Douglas.

  “’Tis not a matter of wishes. We need an heir,” Douglas insisted.

  If he had not saved Rory’s life more than once, Rory would have cut him short. But tolerance did not mean compliance. “Then my brothers will have to produce one.”

  “We canna take that chance. If you die without an heir, the Campbells will smell weakness. We could not stand against them.”

  Rory silently, reluctantly, agreed. It was the one reason he’d returned. Not to sire an heir but to create a peace between the two clans. His father had been a strong laird who had held the clan together. But there were conflicting interests, disputed property, feuds even within the clan. And that weakness made them prey for predators. He wondered if now was the time to tell Douglas what he had heard, but it was still rumor. He needed proof. And he did not want to assume the position of laird.

  “I will not usurp Patrick’s place,” he said.

  “He has been gone three years now,” Douglas said. “There’s been no word, no message, no demand for ransom.”

  “I will hear no more of weddings and heirs. I am far happier at sea than I am in this cursed place. There are too many ghosts here. I tire of war, cousin. I tire of these feuds that go back centuries. I tire of vengeance creating more vengeance. I tire of politics and the constant shift of loyalties and betrayals. I want no part of them. I returned because you said the situation was desperate. Now I find you want an heir rather than a leader.” He couldn’t keep the disgust from his voice. He was ready, in truth, to mount a horse and ride back to Leith where his ship and crew awaited his orders.

  If he did not return within a month, Sven, his first mate, was to take command and sail to France with a cargo of wool.

  Douglas said nothing else, but Rory knew from his expression that he had not given up.

  Rory turned the conversation to another matter. “You said there have been frequent raids?”

  “Aye. Campbells burned several of our outlying villages and stole the cattle. I told our tenants that they would not be required to pay their rent this year. I hope you feel that is satisfactory. With no one here to guide me …”

  “No one but Lachlan has been here for two years,” Rory interrupted, “and you have managed well. I am not quite sure why it was so urgent that I return.”

  “The Campbells are getting bolder. I have sent protests to the king, but I do not have your influence. You are the designated heir. Not Lachlan. He would not have the authority, nor the allegiance of the clan. You must apply for recognition. Until you officially become laird, we have no real power.”

  “We have little power anyway, compared to the Campbells,” Rory said wryly.

  “That is why you must marry well. There is a lass, Janet Cameron, who would bring a strong alliance to our clan.”

  “She is to marry James Campbell. All of Edinburgh knows that.”

  “But young Campbell is in England. There is time—”

  “To steal another man’s bride? I think not.”

  “The Camerons have been friends in the past. They would no’ resist. If your brother or you had been here, it would have been a natural alliance.”

  Rory drove his clenched fist into the palm of his other hand. “I said no, and I will hear no more about the matter.”

  Douglas stilled, evidently realizing he had gone too far.

  “Then the Campbells. What should we do about the raids?”

  Rory knew what he said next would determine his leadership. If, in truth, he even wanted it. Which he did not. It was being foisted upon him, and on his infernal sense of duty.

  “Arrange a truce. Petition the king for peace. Even the Campbells would not defy him.”

  “They will not agree unless they feel we can bite as well. And our Macleans want vengeance.”

  “Then they will be disappointed.”

  “And the destruction of our villages?”

  “I am not going to destroy their innocents because they destroyed ours,” he said curtly. “Not if we can accomplish peace through negotiations.”

  “They will see only weakness.” Douglas paused. “It means more than that. Our people need those cattle. They will starve without them.”

  Douglas was right. He would need some threat to bargain with. He finally nodded. “But cattle only. I will have no killing.”

  Douglas nodded. “It will be done. I will arrange a raiding party tonight. Do you want to go?”

  “Aye.” It was necessary if he was to take the role of chief. Only then could he lead the Macleans into some accommodation with the Campbells. He had to prove himself. And he would ensure there was no repeat of the horror of years ago, a night that had never left his consciousness. Tonight no woman or child would be harmed.

  Perhaps he could make a truce with the Campbells, then retire to sea again. It was a lonely business, the sea, but the challenges took away some of the pain that was always with him. The loneliness. The regret.

  He never quite stopped thinking of Margaret—Maggie—his first wife, his love. She had been lovely. Small but capable of great love. She had been so excited about the birth of their first child. She would take his hand and hold it against her stomach, and they would rejoice in feeling its movement in her belly.

  But then something had gone terribly wrong.

  He had lost both of them. And his heart as well.

  He remarried for convenience, only to find an affection he did not expect, and another sorrow. One that turned his already wounded heart to stone.

  He had lived here with Maggie. The chamber he had shared with her still seemed to radiate with her presence. The scent of roses lingered even now, or perhaps it was imagination.

  He could not bear to stay there. He had moved to another chamber, the stark bedchamber of his youth that held no memories of her.

  But the corridors did.

  He did not want to stay here.

  Yet hundreds of clansmen depended on him. He couldn’t run again. He would do what he had to do, then leave again for the sea. He would find a way to have Douglas named laird until his brother returned.

  Patrick would return.

  Or else he would have to turn Lachlan into an accepted laird.

  Because he wouldn’t, couldn’t, stay here. And he most certainly would never wed again.

  When Felicia and Janet reached the stables the next morning, they were told that they could not ride, that orders had come from the captain of the guard that no one was to leave the castle grounds.

  The Campbells had raided the Macleans. There was bound to be retaliation.

  Felicia begged. “George, you know I ride every morning.”

  “Aye, I know, but William told me ye were not to leave the walls. ’Tis far too dangerous, he said.”

  William was her uncle’s steward and no doubt had orders from him. They would have nothing to do with her safety but everything to do with ensuring she would remain at Dunstaffnage.

  “Just for an hour. My mare needs exercise.”

  “Ye can exercise her in the bailey. Or I can gi’ her a ride. I can do no better for ye, my lady.”

&nb
sp; His stubborn expression told Felicia that nothing would move him. He needed the position as head groomsman.

  “I will talk to William,” she said, lifting her head and trying to keep her dignity. William was not a man to be challenged. He had her uncle’s full confidence, was empowered to conduct raids on his own.

  “What do we do now?” Janet asked as they walked back to the tower.

  “You are leaving in four days,” Felicia said. “You will have an escort.”

  “Aye,” Janet said, “but how will that—”

  “I will take your place. We have the same height. The weather is cold enough that no one would be surprised if you wore a cloak that covered your hair and a tartan your face.”

  “But my father’s men are very protective.”

  “I will find a way,” Felicia insisted.

  “But—”

  “I will make sure you are drugged, so no blame will come to you,” Felicia said.

  Janet stared at her as if she were mad.

  She probably was, but she had little choice. The very thought of coupling with the Earl of Morneith spurred her to desperate measures.

  “It cannot work, Felicia.”

  “It must,” she replied. “Please help me.”

  “I cannot bear the thought of you alone without protection.”

  “You know Jamie taught me how to use a sword and knife, and even a bow. I am not helpless.”

  “You may not have an opportunity to use any of them.”

  “Aye, you are right, but a small chance is better than none at all. I know Jamie will assist me when he knows. If only I can avoid marriage until I reach France. I know he will help me once I am away from Scotland.”

  Janet regarded her with wide eyes. “It is very dangerous,” she said. “I could not do that.”

  “You could, if faced with wedding Morneith.”

  “You are far braver than I am,” Janet said. “I just worry about you. I want you to be my sister. You are my best friend. My only true friend.”

  “Then will you help me?”

  Janet nodded reluctantly.

  “If only your escort appears in time. My uncle said he would send soldiers for me in a fortnight’s time.”

  “They will. My father dislikes inefficiency,” Janet said. “They will arrive as ordered.”

  Felicia reached out and took her hand. “I am so pleased Jamie chose you.”

  Janet smiled, her eyes lighting. “I know I am lucky that my father agreed to the match. He really wanted an alliance with the Macleans. If Patrick Maclean had not disappeared …”

  “The Macleans are said to be a brutal clan,” Felicia said. “Thank God that you and Jamie are pledged.”

  Janet shivered. “I am. I have heard about the curse your family placed on them. ‘No Maclean bride will be happy.’”

  Felicia shuddered. She had heard of the curse, too. And knew that disaster had befallen nearly every Maclean bride since it had been spoken. It was deserved, she knew. A Maclean had tried to drown a Campbell. But she never understood why the curse was against the brides and not the men, since it was a man who had been responsible for the villainous deed. It was unfair, but then everything about being a female was unfair.

  They both considered the injustice of it for a moment, then Janet took her hand. “I will do whatever needs to be done.”

  Douglas continued trying to convince his lord he should marry. On the fourth day, he agreed with Archibald that they should take matters into their own hands. “He refuses to consider a bride,” Douglas told the Maclean captain of the guard.

  Archibald sighed. “I feared that.”

  “It is important to the clan.”

  “Ye canna’ make a man do your bidding. Particularly a Maclean.”

  “If he has no choice …”

  “I do not ken your meaning,” Archibald said.

  “I hear Janet Cameron is visiting the Campbells. Word is she will be traveling home in four days. We can bring her here for Lord Rory.”

  “He will have none of it.”

  “But if she’s taken, she would be ruined,” Douglas said. “He would have an obligation. It is said Janet Cameron is a beguiling young lady. Beautiful, well-mannered and obedient. I know Rory. He will want to protect her.”

  “He will have our heads.”

  “He yells much, but he is no’ a cruel man,” Douglas said. “He would know we have the clan’s interest at heart. He is still mourning for Maggie. Perhaps he always will. And for the wife in Edinburgh. But we can help him realize he can be content, that the curse is naught but a myth.”

  “And we will have an heir,” Archibald replied.

  “We will have an heir, and take a measure of revenge upon the Campbells by taking young Campbell’s bride. Pick your men carefully and leave tonight after we depart for a raid across the border. Malcolm and I will keep our lord occupied elsewhere.”

  Chapter 2

  The night was perfect for a raid, though miserable for Rory and the men accompanying him. Freezing winds blew against their mantles and cloaks. Heavy, rain-swollen clouds shrouded the craggy hills in complete darkness.

  Clansmen, familiar with the area and experienced in stealthiness, led the way. Rory was second in the single file of riders. Malcolm, the man second only to Archibald among the Maclean soldiers, led. A scout had gone before them.

  Rory had been gone far too long. He knew he did not yet command the confidence of his clan. He would have to do that tonight. He had expected Archibald to accompany them, but the man was ill, and Malcolm had taken the captain of the guard’s place. The long ride had prompted too many memories, too much time for thought.

  Rory felt none of the anticipation he’d felt as a young lad embarking on his first raid. It had been an adventure then. Little had he known it was to turn into a nightmare.

  His stomach constricted at the memory. He’d been leader of what was to be a small, punishing raid of a Campbell village. But someone had seen them and alerted others. His party had been ambushed. Three had been mortally wounded, and in a vengeful rage, his clansmen had burned every croft. One had raped a woman and killed her child for defending her.

  Rory would never forget the sight of one of his own clansmen standing triumphantly over the body of a young lad who had tried to protect his mother. Nor would he forget the look of surprise on the man’s face when Rory had slain him as he turned on another child.

  He’d been but nineteen, a callow youth who thought he owned the world and was a warrior in the truest sense. He had changed that night and over the succeeding weeks, when he had been mocked and derided by his fellow clansmen. It ended only when his father and Patrick had supported his actions. He’d known that some among his clan did not understand, would never understand, his defense of a Campbell. Even a Campbell child.

  He remembered every moment now. He felt the sickness in his gut as he had then.

  He would have left Inverleith, his clan’s seat, had he not met and married Maggie. She’d brought magic into his world, as well as solace. She had understood his pain over that night and had told him that was why she loved him.

  That magic and happiness had lasted exactly fifteen months.

  He did leave then, and had gone to sea, finally marrying the daughter of the shipping master and becoming captain. It had been a marriage of convenience for both of them, and yet he had come to care deeply for Anne. It was not the magic that he’d had with Maggie, but he did care for her and tried to make her happy the few months he was in port.

  He had not brought Anne back to where Maggie had died. If he stayed away, mayhap the curse would not touch him again.

  But it had found him … and Anne.

  He’d still not returned, not until twelve days earlier, ten years to the day he had left. He had found a keep falling into ruin, a dispirited clan decimated by the feud with the Campbells and a household with few women. Many apparently had come to believe that the Campbell curse affected not only the chiefs of the clan
but all the Macleans.

  His brother Lachlan seemed to care more about his lute than management of the keep. And while an aging Douglas served as steward, a woman named Moira was responsible for housekeeping duties. She was a healer who had been forced into a position for which she had no aptitude or training. The few women servants she instructed were no more trained than she. Some were timid wives of his soldiers; some were daughters. Some cared, but most did not.

  Rory had kept his ship spotless. He knew discipline was vital to the well-being of his crew, and discipline began with keeping some measure of order.

  There was no order at home.

  Lachlan deserved some blame but not all. He was not a soldier, had no inclination to be one, nor was he meant to be a steward. He was too soft, too forgiving of the unforgivable. He had planned to be a priest and was well suited by temperament to be one. Rory hadn’t discovered yet why he had not pursued his vocation. Lachlan had avoided questions thus far.

  Rory only knew that once his father had died and his oldest brother disappeared, the clan had lost heart.

  The scout returned. Malcolm held up his arm. They stopped, dismounted, and spoke quietly.

  Rory was excluded. Though all appeared to respect and look up to him, it was obvious that they trusted one another more than their newly arrived chief.

  He turned to the scout. “You have found the cattle.”

  “Aye,” the man said cautiously.

  “How many guarding them?”

  “Four.”

  Rory turned to Malcolm. “I do not want anyone killed. It will only bring more attacks. I will take one man—the scout—and silence the guards. You stay here until you hear a whistle, then approach and take the cattle.

  “But my lord …”

  “There is no but, Malcolm. Those are my orders.”

  The other eight men stared at him in disbelief. And unhappiness. Blood lust was apparent. They all looked at Malcolm, who nodded. Reluctantly.

  He turned to the scout, “Nab. You lead.” The man seemed to have eyes that penetrated the dark, but then so did Rory. He had perfected that ability during his years at sea and the need to adjust his eyes to absolute blackness.