No Other Highlander

by Adrienne Basso

  As she entered the great hall, Joan’s mind turned to the reason for this gathering and she realized that Agnes had not told her. Most likely because she did not know.

  The one thing Joan did know was that the McKenna clan was coming—which meant she would probably see Malcolm McKenna again. Her nose wrinkled at the thought.

  It had been over a year since she had last been in his company; they had both been staying at Torridon Keep. She with her cousin Davina; Malcolm was there because of his younger brother, James.

  Both men had been suspicious and distrustful, doing little to hide their disapproval of her. Yet Joan hadn’t cared. She had finally escaped Archibald and the nightmare of her marriage; the negative opinion and clear distaste she felt from the two knights was hardly something to concern her.

  There was no denying that Malcolm was a handsome man, yet after living with Archibald, Joan had an inherent distrust of handsome men—well, any man, really. She did concede that Malcolm appeared more open and direct than others, but that meant little. During her stay, she had tried to avoid being in his company whenever possible and was usually successful.

  Hopefully, she would be able to do the same during this visit. And hopefully, whatever business the clans were here to conduct would be resolved quickly and they would depart.

  Then she would be able to turn her full attention toward getting rid of the incorrigible Lady Agnes.

  Chapter Three

  Two weeks later, Joan stood concealed behind the stone at the far edge of the battlement wall, anxiously waiting for the guests to come through the gates of Armstrong Castle. She was exhausted from all the last minute preparations and annoyed that her father had been so closemouthed with the details of this impending meeting.

  Even at this late hour, she had no idea how many men each clan would bring or how long they would be staying. Frustrated at the lack of information, Joan had taken matters into her own hands, deciding she would simply count them as they arrived.

  She had sent one of the pages as a lookout, instructing the lad to call her the moment the alarm bell was sounded and the first clan was spotted. He had done her bidding, but the gray skies and murky weather made it difficult to distinguish the number of riders in the distance.

  Hence, she was forced to wait, tapping her foot impatiently as a steady, light rain fell, dampening her clothes. After what felt like an eternity, the riders drew closer. Squinting, she could see the McKenna banner cutting through the thick, misty rain like a blade, flying proudly. Riding three abreast, the long column of mounted men behind it made an impressive sight.

  With little effort, Joan spied Malcolm McKenna in the lead. Surrounded by an aura of untamed energy, he sat tall and proud on his large stallion, his dark hair gleaming in the rain. It had been over a year since Joan had last seen him, but he appeared much the same—lean, fit, and dangerous.

  She appraised him with a detached air, conceding that most women would find him handsome. There was something about a square jaw, deep-set blue eyes, strong cheekbones, and a straight nose that females seemed to find irresistible.

  Except for her.

  Closing her eyes—and mind—to Malcolm McKenna, Joan began counting the men who rode behind him. She had just reached fifty when a commotion beyond the tree line pulled her attention away. Farther in the distance she could see another clan was fast approaching, gaining ground on the McKenna.

  ’Twas most likely the MacPhearsons, Joan assumed, though their numbers were considerably smaller.

  Suddenly, the second group halted. Joan leaned forward, wondering if they were preparing for an attack. Her breath came hard as she imagined a battle in the open field. She glanced down the battlements at the Armstrong guards standing on the wall. The tension in their stance told her that they, too, had observed the scene and were thinking the same.

  Joan’s nostrils flared as she watched, but the McKennas kept riding at a fast pace and the other clan never moved. ’Twas clear that they were deliberately keeping their distance.

  Sighing with relief, Joan tried to resume her counting, then cursed softly under her breath when she realized she didn’t know where she had left off. Determined to do better with the next clan, she planted her feet firmly and leaned forward.

  Finally, the second group advanced. Their banner also fluttered in the wind, but it was not the black and green of the MacPhearson colors. Nay, it was . . .

  Joan’s hands shook and a cold, deep fear seized her gut.

  It cannae be!

  She blinked hard, refusing to accept what her eyes were seeing. Sweat beaded on her forehead. She leaned far over the battlements, staring hard at the plaid banner this group carried, straining to confirm what she feared the most.

  She was so caught up in the intensity of the moment that she didn’t hear the footfalls as a female figure stepped out of the shadows.

  “Ah, I see that the Frasers have arrived,” Agnes said in a syrupy tone. “Splendid! They weren’t initially included, but I pointed out to yer father that it would be a grave insult not to extend them an invitation. Lord knows, with all the unpleasantness from yer marriage to Laird Fraser, the Armstrongs have already subjected them to enough humiliations. ’Tis past time to start building a truce between the clans. Don’t ye agree?”

  The dampness on Joan’s brow turned into a cold sweat. A truce? She had never been so foolish as to expect her father to seek retribution for the harm done to her by her former husband, even though other men, better men, would never have tolerated such mistreatment of their daughters. But to welcome the monster who had abused her so cruelly into his home—aye, that betrayal cut deep.

  “Is Archibald among them?” Joan croaked.

  “I believe so,” Agnes answered smugly. “He is, after all, their laird.”

  “Nay.” The denial whispered past Joan’s lips at the same moment her stomach knotted in a terror that thundered through her body. In her mind’s eye she saw the life she had so carefully built for herself and Callum being slowly torn to shreds.

  Agnes pressed her hand on Joan’s shoulders. “Why, Joan, I believe that ye secretly pine fer yer husband. Isn’t that sweet. Will ye not be pleased to see him?”

  A shiver of nerves flashing like a thousand knife pricks ran over Joan’s skin. Gasping, she pulled away. “Ye bitch!”

  “Och, there’s no need fer ye to be so vulgar,” Agnes gloated. “I do agree that it might be awkward between the two of ye at first, but hopefully Archibald has forgiven ye fer being such a wretched wife. I’m sure it will be a most tender reunion. Why, he might even welcome ye back into his bed.”

  Pain clogged Joan’s throat. Archibald wasn’t capable of tenderness. Hell, he didn’t understand the meaning of tenderness. Or gentleness. Or caring. He was a monster, a brute, and a tyrant.

  Laird Armstrong was well aware of the extent of Archibald’s violence toward her. The beatings Joan endured had come close to killing her. Yet her father had done naught to aid her. She shut her eyes against the painful edge of memory, refusing to let herself experience it all over again.

  Returning to the present, Joan snapped open her eyes only to find herself under unwelcomed scrutiny. Agnes’s gaze swept her face, taking in the distress etched on her features, clearly delighting in it. “In any case, I’m sure that Laird Fraser will be happy to see his son,” Agnes concluded.

  Joan lowered her eyes. The words infuriated her. Inwardly, she cringed at the thought of what Archibald might do to Callum. Yet she refused to give Agnes the satisfaction of seeing her anguish. Instead, she clamped her fingers on Agnes’s arm, hoping she was digging into the flesh hard enough to leave a bruise.

  “Ye are an evil, vile woman,” Joan said, her voice low with fury. “One day soon, I shall take great delight in sending ye away from this castle and back to the demon that spawned ye.”

  The barb hit the mark. Agnes’s eyes widened and her brows rose with indignation. Shaking off Joan’s viselike grip, she pulled away and absently bega
n rubbing her arm.

  “Ye cannae speak to me that way!” Agnes cried.

  But Joan had no time to spare. Callum was in danger; she had to protect her child. Gathering her scattered wits, Joan scurried away from the wall, knowing she needed to find Gertrude as soon as possible.

  Callum had to be taken from the castle immediately and hidden somewhere in the village. Somewhere close. Somewhere the lad would be safe from Archibald’s vicious eyes and cruel vengeance.

  * * *

  The clean smell of a gentle rain filled Malcolm’s nose as he guided his horse along the muddy path. With a weary sigh, he brushed away the misting rain dripping down his forehead, hardly believing this was an improvement in the weather. The McKennas had been riding hard for nearly a week and this was the first day they were not slogging through a downpour.

  His father had decided to bring a sizable contingent of men, no doubt as a show of strength. Malcolm appreciated the gesture, but was uncertain if so many men were truly needed. The ground shook from the pounding of their horses; the mud flew in all directions. None complained, but all were hopeful this wretched journey would end soon.

  As they crested a small hill, Malcolm squinted through the drifting layers of thickening fog, straining for a glimpse of the stone walls of Armstrong Castle. He had only been here once prior and had a vague memory of it. James had described it as a rather bleak place, but he had suffered a great tragedy while at the castle, so Malcolm reasoned his brother’s opinion was biased.

  They rode down the hill and up a second one and Malcolm’s heart skipped a beat when an austere, fortified stronghold came into view. Two squat towers surrounded by a thick curtain wall blended into the mist. There were no signs of life; no men to be seen on the battlements, no people milling about the gatehouse.

  A banner hung limply in the wind, looking dejected. Gray walls that matched the gray of the fog gave the structure an almost dour appearance.

  Startled, Malcolm heard the clanging sound of alarm bells and realized they had been spotted. Apparently, there was some life behind those thick walls. A part of him was hardly anxious to arrive and face the MacPhearsons, but a far stronger part wanted to confront the woman who had falsely accused him, deal with the matter, and then forget it. He fervently hoped things wouldn’t turn violent, since the MacPhearsons were known to be tough, vicious fighters.

  Then again, the McKennas gave as good as they got.

  The wrong words, a real or perceived insult, a dishonorable gesture or slight, and swords would be drawn. This peaceful meeting could quickly turn into a series of sword fights, or even one messy battle, if Laird Armstrong couldn’t keep the peace.

  That was what Malcolm feared most of all.

  He couldn’t fully understand why his father had asked the Armstrongs to intervene in this matter. Laird Armstrong was not an especially strong leader nor had he demonstrated any particular diplomatic skills. Hell, the man hadn’t been able to keep his own wife under control, and the willfulness of his daughter, Joan, was well known.

  Yet for some reason, his father insisted this would be the best way to handle the matter. Malcolm was not nearly as certain, but he knew the wisest course of action was to trust his father’s judgment. Laird McKenna had a sharp mind, along with an innate instinct for survival, and he was seldom wrong.

  And yet, Malcolm still felt grim, burdened by a heavy weight on his shoulders. If any harm came to his family or his clan, it would be his fault.

  “Ye look troubled, Malcolm.”

  Malcolm turned and found James riding beside him. His brother stared, concern crinkling the corners of his eyes.

  “Wouldn’t ye be, if ye were in my boots?” Malcolm asked.

  “Aye.” James grunted. “’Tis all a grand misunderstanding that will soon be set to rights.”

  Malcolm grunted. “From yer lips to God’s ears.”

  James’s eyes considered him thoughtfully for a long moment. “Is there any possibility that the lass speaks the truth?”

  Malcolm stirred uneasily in his saddle. “I dinnae think the babe could be mine, but I’ll not be certain until I set eyes on the mother.” He leaned toward his brother and lowered his voice. “I did spend a good amount of my time at the fete drunk as a lord and my memories of all the events aren’t particularly clear.”

  James’s eyes darkened. “I dinnae care how far in yer cups ye were—I know that ye’d never take advantage of a woman. If ye bedded the lass, then she was willing.”

  “Which means the child could be mine.”

  James shrugged. “A female who beds a man in that condition deserves little respect or consideration. Who knows, she might have set out to trap ye.”

  Malcolm rubbed his rain-soaked brow. “It doesn’t matter. The result still leaves a bastard child. An innocent life caught in a mess that was none of his making.”

  James’s mouth pulled into a grim line. “He’ll not be the first.”

  “’Tis a hard, sorry life. We both know how difficult it was fer Uncle Ewan when he was a lad,” Malcolm added, mentioning their aunt’s husband.

  The bastard son of an earl who refused to acknowledge the blood tie, Ewan had suffered physical and mental torment. To survive, he became an outlaw, raiding on his half brother’s lands. He was eventually caught—and would have been killed—but thankfully his skillful sword was needed by Robert the Bruce.

  “Aye, Uncle Ewan did suffer as a lad,” James agreed. “I believe that makes him appreciate all the more the love he found with Aunt Grace.”

  “Ewan was lucky and he knows it.” Malcolm could feel the lines deepen on his forehead as he furrowed his brow. “He was knighted by the king fer his service and given a small estate. Few bastards are granted such a rare privilege; many live a frustrating life of mockery and humiliation. I’ll not allow any son of mine to endure such a bleak fate. I swear to ye, if there’s even a small chance that the babe is mine, then I’ll claim it.”

  “And the mother?”

  Malcolm shook his head slowly. “I honestly dinnae know what to do about her. ’Tis true that I want to marry again, yet not under these circumstances. If we declare the babe is a McKenna, Father will want me to take him, so we can raise him properly. But a child needs a mother, as Lileas continues to tell me.”

  “Och, I cannae imagine her reaction if instead of bringing home the new mother she craves, ye return with a wee squalling babe in yer arms,” James said with a smile.

  Malcolm rolled his eyes. “My ears hurt just thinking of Lileas’s dramatic wails.”

  “If it comes to that, I’ll count myself lucky to be safe at home when Lileas hears the news,” James replied.

  “Ye should be home now,” Malcolm said, guilt invading his heart at his brother’s sacrifice. “Yer place is with yer wife.”

  James shook his head. “My place is at yer side.”

  “What of Davina? And yer child?”

  James smiled. “Davina would have my head if I abandoned ye. Anyway, our babe willnae be born fer several months. I’ll be home in plenty of time.”

  “We’ve got company,” one of the men shouted. “A good-sized contingent of men are forming behind us.”

  “The MacPhearsons?” Malcolm asked, twisting his head around for a better look.

  “Nay,” James replied. “I dinnae recognize the banner, but it isn’t the MacPhearsons.”

  “Father?” Both men called out to the McKenna at the same time, awaiting his command.

  “They fly the Fraser banner,” the McKenna answered. “Magnus and Duncan have dropped back to keep an eye on them. If they want a fight, we’ll be happy to oblige. But fer now, we’ll assume Laird Armstrong invited them, though I cannae understand why.”

  Malcolm grimaced. He had hoped this meeting would be a relatively private negotiation between the two clans, but alas, that did not appear to be the case. Mood souring even further, he turned his full attention toward the castle. The sooner they arrived and settled the matter, the sooner they
could leave.

  Under the watchful eye of the Armstrong men-at-arms, the McKenna men and their soldiers rode beneath the steel-tipped spikes of the raised portcullis. When they entered the bailey, they were greeted by a line of Armstrong men. Malcolm could feel their curious eyes upon him as he slowly dismounted.

  None met his gaze directly; he wondered if they knew the reason for this gathering. Well, if they didn’t know yet, they soon would; secrets were nigh impossible to keep in a castle, and a tidbit of gossip this salacious would be repeated over and over until there was no one new left to tell.

  Malcolm straightened his shoulders and stood tall, determined to appear unaffected by their stares. Leaving their men to see to the horses, Malcolm, James, and their father followed the servant, who nodded respectfully, then opened the door to the great hall.

  The rushes rustled beneath their feet as they entered. Laird Armstrong stood at the ready to greet them, a short, red-haired woman at his side. Malcolm briefly wondered why his daughter, Lady Joan, was not there, too. He had been under the impression that since her annulment, she ran the household.

  “Welcome to Armstrong Castle,” the laird said. “I hope that yer journey was a pleasant one.”

  His inane comments made Malcolm wonder how much his father had revealed about their feud with the MacPhearsons. Or perhaps Laird Armstrong was trying to appear impartial, as requested. Yet Malcolm had no doubt that the MacPhearsons had delighted in stating their side of the story. They were, after all, the aggrieved party in this instance.

  Or so they believed.

  “There was rain and mud,” the McKenna answered. “As expected when spring comes to the Highlands.”

  Laird Armstrong’s answering laugh was loud and forced. The McKenna’s glare was sharp. Malcolm felt a wee bit of the tension in his neck and shoulders ease. His father had never been a man who suffered fools gladly. It was an amusing distraction to watch him struggle to remain cordial and keep a tight rein on his famous temper under these circumstances.