Highlander Unbroken (Highland Adventure Book 8)

by Vonda Sinclair

  "You're a highly skilled warrior, Neacal," Bhatar said, his voice raspy.

  Neacal ground his teeth, waiting for his great uncle to continue. Was he buttering him up for some reason?

  "And you're a fine chief," Bhatar went on.

  "What is it you two want?" Neacal asked, forcing himself to remain patient.

  Bhatar gave him a look that was both bold and mischievous. "Cha laidh na siantan anns na spéuran." The storms rest not in the skies.

  "I'm well aware," Neacal snapped. He knew what the old man was saying—that conflict would always exist, and he should find a better way to deal with it.

  "As part of the clan council, and your advisors, we're concerned about…" Hugh trailed off.

  A long pause followed.

  "What? My sanity?" The words burst from Neacal's mouth. His pulse pounded at his temples and in his ears. "Are you here to boot me from the clan?"

  "Nay, 'tis not that at all," Bhatar said in a placating tone.

  "Do not mollycoddle the lad," Hugh grumbled.

  Trying to force the hot, turbulent anger away, Neacal inhaled deeply. "You think I'm not suited to be chief?"

  Hugh tapped his cane upon the wall walk. "I'm not certain."

  Neacal wanted to curse and throw things. Instead, he dug his fingers against the hard stones of the battlement and forced himself to speak with patience and control. "The clan and all of you elders agreed that I should be chief. If 'twas not so, why did you go along with it?"

  "I've had concerns from the first, but Bhatar and the rest convinced me to give you a chance. I was outnumbered," Hugh said.

  "And now my chance is over because of swordplay practice?" Neacal asked.

  Neither man responded. In the moment of silence that stretched out, Neacal drew the cool, salty air into his lungs and thought of his da—the only reason he stood here grasping at the threads of control. The only reason he wanted to be chief… and his only reason to go on living.

  "You both kenned my father well. What would he say?"

  "He would wish you to be chief," Bhatar said with confidence.

  "We need allies," Hugh declared in a determined tone.

  "Nay now," Bhatar said softly, as an aside to his comrade. "We can discuss that later."

  "But we decided—"

  "Aye, but it will keep 'til later," Bhatar announced jovially, forcing a smile.

  Hugh narrowed his eyes at having been cut off.

  Neacal frowned. What the devil were they up to? "We have allies—the Camerons."

  "Bah!" Hugh said. "We don't need them coming here."

  Neacal's rage threatened to return. "I trust Colin Cameron more than anyone. We were foster brothers."

  "Aye, well… there are many more Camerons besides him. The chief for instance."

  "You don't like Colin's father?"

  "'Tis ancient history, Hugh," Bhatar warned gruffly. What he was talking about Neacal hadn't a clue.

  "If we need allies, 'tis either the Camerons or the MacKenzies. Or both," Neacal said.

  Hugh grimaced. "The MacKenzies are powerful, but I'll nay forgive them for killing so many in our clan."

  Neacal shook his head. "Elrick must take the blame for their attack, because he captured a MacKenzie hostage."

  "Aye, I'm well aware. I was here! I saw what happened."

  "You like none of our allies. You're impossible to please!" Neacal said.

  "Come, Hugh, let's leave the lad to his thoughts." Bhatar started toward the stairwell, turned back and said, "Tuitidh á chraobh a bhithear á sìor shnaidheadh." The tree that is constantly hewed at will fall.

  Neacal ground his teeth even as Hugh followed his fellow elder.

  Neacal was no tree, nor did he intend to fall.

  Every day was a struggle to control the rage that simmered beneath the surface. He hadn't been like this before the damnable torture. He no longer even liked himself. 'Twas no wonder everyone feared him or nagged at him to change.

  He wished he could change.

  But more than anything, he wished he could go back in time to right all the wrongs he'd sparked off. Since that wasn't possible, he had to help the clan in some other way. Although Hugh had discouraged him from contacting Colin Cameron, Neacal knew this was his best option at the moment.

  Over two dozen men had been killed in the recent siege. But even before then, the garrison had diminished over the years, while his father was chief.

  Though Neacal didn't like admitting it, he needed help in the event Sleat returned with a large force and tried to seize the castle. Neacal had hired on a few new guards, but he needed more in order to protect the clan and castle adequately.

  He headed downstairs to his solar. At the desk in the corner, he took a seat in the wooden chair. After dipping the quill into the ink, he quickly penned a missive to his foster brother. Colin Cameron was one of the few people Neacal had trusted since he was a lad. Neacal had fostered with the Camerons for a few years to strengthen their clans' alliance. Colin had spent much time at Bearach as well. He would know where to find dependable soldiers in need of a clan and perhaps even loan a few of his own men in the meantime.

  He would have Lawler and Roth deliver it to Colin on the morrow. He hoped Colin would arrive before Sleat had time to gather more forces and return.

  ***

  That evening, Neacal dressed for supper and readied himself to go downstairs, no matter how much he hated the socializing aspect of meals.

  "Come, Dunn."

  The wolfhound rose from the rug by the fireplace and followed him.

  When Neacal entered the great hall, several people watched him warily, but as soon as his eyes met theirs, they averted their gazes. 'Twas his own fault. Although he tried each day to gain their trust, he had taken a step back today because of simple swordplay practice. He knew the difference between practice and actual battle, but sometimes the lines blurred. And thanks to Sleat, his temper had been riled far more than normal. He hated when he could not control his anger.

  He took his chair at the high table beside Uncle Bhatar.

  No one sat on his other side and he was glad for it. He hated nothing more than idle, meaningless conversation. But then, that was part of the problem, wasn't it? 'Twas why there was a distance between him and the clan. He wanted to close that gap but did not yet ken how.

  He and Uncle Bhatar ate in companionable silence, for which Neacal was grateful, but at the same time, he realized how alone he was, despite being surrounded by dozens of people. No one truly knew him anymore. No one kenned of the nightmares or how difficult it was to fall asleep at night. How mortified he would be if they saw how he kept his hearth fire burning bright to chase away the demons that lurked in the darkness. No one heard how he whispered to the spirit of his father in the night, asking for his forgiveness and his guidance.

  Midway through supper, the minstrels started playing their instruments. He did not pay much attention until a high, clear voice rose above all the earthly music. Neacal's gaze sought out the lass who sang the haunting ballad, Griogal Cridhe. Beloved MacGregor.

  'Twas the same every time she sang—a hush fell over the great hall and Neacal's breath halted. Anna's voice could be called nothing short of divine. It cut through his soul with such aching beauty, all the darkness inside him threatened to come pouring out at once.

  He could not believe it when he glimpsed tears glistening upon Anna's face. But, of course, the song was exceedingly melancholy, for it was written by the grieving widow of the MacGregor clan chief who had been executed by her father, the Campbell laird, after a long and bloody feud. 'Twas obvious Anna put her heart and soul into the song… so much emotion that it scraped along his nerve endings. His muscles ached to hold her and comfort her… dry her tears. But it was something more which sent a spear though his soul.

  He could not understand it, nor could he abide it in the midst of dozens of people. Shoving his chair back, he arose from the table and strode from the room, up the steps.<
br />
  His heart thundered within his chest. Alone on the dark stair, he paused, his head pressed against the cool stone. He could not escape her voice. Nay, he wished to, but it lured him, dared him to keep listening. A battle raged within him. The demons of anger and fear fought against some unnamed force of good which slid through him with her voice.

  Clawing his way up the stairs to the laird's lug, the tiny chamber over the great hall designed for chiefs to eavesdrop on the happenings below, he tried to maintain control. Inside the room, her voice echoed just as loudly as it had in the great hall. He closed the small door and slumped against it. His eyes burning, he ground his teeth. 'Twas not sadness. He didn't ken what it was. As her voice rose and circled him, it lifted his soul toward the heavens. Was he dying? Nay, during the time he thought he would die from the torture, he had never felt like this.

  Good God, what was happening to him? Was he truly losing his sanity altogether?

  Applause roared, filtering up through the gaps between the stones from the great hall, and then the angel started singing again.

  Sitting on the stone floor of the tiny dark room, he absorbed the sound of her voice and all within him calmed. He breathed slowly, steadily. Her voice was like a celestial light shining brightly through him.

  The sound of scratching and whining brought him back to himself. Dunn? He opened the door. The wolfhound entered the room, then licked his face. Neacal wrapped his arm around the massive dog.

  Dunn lay down while Neacal stroked his rough fur. In the great hall below them, a lovely violin tune filtered up to him. After that, Anna sang again. He had not even introduced himself or talked to her specifically, although he had talked to their leader. What would he say to her? Could he tell her the truth, that her voice bewitched him? Surely, she already thought him mad and wished him to keep a good distance from her.

  He knew not who she truly was or where she came from, but he wished he could do naught but listen to her singing all night and all day. How daft was that? He was a warrior and chief, for God's sake; he should not be enthralled by some woman's voice.

  But he was.

  As he continued to listen, relaxation overcame his body and his mind… and he drifted to a peaceful place he could not remember visiting before.

  The next thing he knew, pounding awakened him. Opening his eyes, he saw that he lay before the door in the laird's lug, his head on Dunn.

  "Are you in there, chief?" a male voice yelled outside the door.

  His joints stiff and aching from lying on the cold, stone floor, he arose and opened the door to peer out. "What is it?"

  "We searched for you all over, m'laird." Leith appeared distraught.

  "Aye, well, I am here. Is there a problem?"

  "You were gone most of the night. 'Tis just before dawn. We thought you'd left the castle again."

  "Ah, I see," Neacal said. "I must have fallen asleep." After coming out, he closed the door and proceeded to his bedchamber, Dunn following. Sitting on the bed, he ruffled the fur on the dog's head. "What the devil happened, Dunn?" he whispered. "Did the lass's song lull me to sleep?"

  Neacal lay back on the bed and Dunn leapt up to join him. Strange, Neacal now experienced more peace than he'd ever felt in this room. 'Twas his father's chamber and he did not deem himself worthy of occupying it.

  When next he opened his eyes, morning sunlight streamed through the window. He sat bolt upright. Was his mind playing tricks on him, or had he actually gotten a good night's sleep for the first time in months? Normally, he could only sleep when he'd exhausted himself physically.

  Anna's song echoing in his head, he washed his face and hair in the cold water of the basin. He needed a good swim in the loch. When he'd been living in the crofter's hut on the island, he'd made a practice of going for a swim in the bay every morn when it wasn't below freezing.

  After cleaning up a bit more, he put on clean clothes.

  When he opened the door to exit, Eonan, stood there. "I was going to help you with your clothes, m'laird."

  "'Tis fine. I'm covered decently enough." On the island, he had no one to help him dress. He could accomplish it himself.

  Eonan gave a brief bow. "As you wish, m'laird."

  Neacal descended the steps. When he entered the great hall, the tables were filled with his clansmen breaking their fast. All eyes turned to him and conversation quieted. He took his place at the high table and a male servant placed a trencher of food in front of him. As his gaze traveled casually over those seated at the lower tables, it landed on her. Anna Douglas. She often wore a cowl or coif over her blond hair, as she did now. She glanced at him briefly, the mossy green of her eyes making him visualize the cool wood near the cliffs. Soothing, refreshing.

  She turned back to her food and he shook his head. He was not only mad, but also foolish. He focused on devouring his food as quickly as possible and tried to forget she was there. But 'twas impossible, for his eyes kept straying back to her. Was it simply her voice which had enchanted him, or was there something more?

  She shyly peeked at him again, then averted her gaze and pretended to ignore him. What was she thinking? He only knew two things about her—her name was Anna Douglas and she could sing. Was she a maiden? A widow? Was that why she wore mostly dark colors? Or was she married to one of the other minstrels? His gaze ran over her companions. One was but a lad, a few years younger than her. The other was old enough to be her grandfather. But the third musician, the piper, was around thirty—Vardon, they called him. Neacal had never noticed her paying him any special attention. She treated him as she did the other two. Was he her brother?

  Damnation, why the devil should Neacal care whether she was married or not? He had no interest in her in that way. 'Twas only her singing which captured his attention. But even as he thought it, he knew he was lying to himself, for her green gaze bewitched him.

  He did not need a reminder of how dangerous a sweet, lovely woman could be… if she was secretly treacherous. One such charming lass had lured him to destroy his life. He could never trust a woman again. Of a certainty, he would have to marry and sire an heir, but beyond that he wanted naught to do with a woman. He would not marry for love. In a year or two, he would start searching for an amenable lass from a strong clan he could count as an ally. The elders would have their opinion on the matter. But Neacal was certainly not ready now. First, he had to train the men and strengthen their defenses.

  ***

  Though she would've preferred to take a walk along the loch's shore in the fresh air, Anna was unsure how safe it would be to venture outside the castle walls alone. Instead, she had slipped onto the castle's ramparts while the men practiced in the bailey. They went at it hard from morn 'til gloaming, their chief demanding much of them.

  Suppertime was nigh. The sword clangs and men's shouts were diminishing now.

  "Your singing is exquisite," a deep male voice said behind her.

  Anna jumped and spun to find the chief waiting there. Good heavens! She bobbed a curtsy. "M'laird."

  His cool blue eyes assessed her in a neutral manner—he neither smiled nor frowned. He simply appeared… curious. She was certain her own expression was curious as well, for he was a highly intriguing man. The pink scar that marred one side of his face didn't bother her, for her sister had a similar, though smaller, scar upon her face. The servants had murmured he'd received it when he'd been tortured.

  The chief observed her closely, making Anna's stomach knot. Did he recognize her? She had never met him before—that much she knew. Did he suspect she was on the run? The intensity of his blue-flame gaze unsettled her every time she caught his attention directed her way, which was often. He never smiled, winked, or gave any indication he was flirting. His gaze was almost resentful at times as if she annoyed him somehow. Maybe he was lying and indeed hated her singing.

  Last evening, during the meal, he had shoved back from the table and strode from the room during her song. Only the clan's enthusiasm, and their m
ultiple requests, had kept her going.

  "Calm yourself. I'm not the devil they make me out to be," he said with a wry smirk.

  He knew the things they said about him? "They?" she asked, pretending she didn't know what he was talking about.

  "Aye, the servants and some of the clansmen."

  Finding it beyond difficult to hold his potent gaze, she lowered hers. Although he was a most attractive man, she knew naught about him, except what his clansmen whispered about madness, and what she'd seen him do in the bailey during practice. Could he lose his grip on his sanity and toss her from the ramparts? Icy fear snaked through her. She walked around him. "I should be getting back and preparing for the evening's entertainment."

  "I'm glad you and the other minstrels came." He moved to the waist high wall and gazed out over the loch. "I've never heard music so… enchanting."

  She paused, staring at the back of his head, the shiny dark hair that brushed his wide shoulders. The massive brown wolfhound crept close to his leg and sat down. The chief's hand idly rubbed the dog's furry head as they both stared out over the water into the colorful sunset.

  He turned, his intense blue gaze pinning her to the spot.

  She stared at the dog, trying to remember what he'd said. Oh… that their music was enchanting. "I thank you, m'laird. I'm glad we can offer you and your people a pleasant entertainment."

  "'Tis more than that," he murmured. "I didn't realize how much I missed music."

  She frowned. "No one else here plays?"

  "Aye, here at the castle, but… I was away for a while."

  "I see," she said, though she didn't see at all. Where would he have gone that had no music? Near everyone played music or sang, skilled or not. She dared another glance at him and was struck dumb by the glimpse of anguish she witnessed in his eyes. Her own pain reflected there as if she were looking into a silver mirror. He had suffered greatly. What had happened to him?

  "I am sorry," she whispered.