No Other Highlander

by Adrienne Basso

  “Lady Brienne, what can ye tell us?” Laird Armstrong asked.

  She paled. Her frightened eyes sought her father’s, searching for assurance. The MacPhearson nodded.

  “The man I lay with at the fete was Malcolm McKenna,” she whispered, so low that many strained to hear her. “He’s the father of my babe.”

  Though this accusation was known by all who stood in the chamber, her declaration brought a grumble of surprised chatter among the men.

  “Did he force ye?” Laird Armstrong asked.

  Brienne’s cheeks flushed. “Nay, he was gentle and kind. He called me his sweet posset and promised that we would be wed as soon as the proper arrangements could be made. I hoped that would happen when the fete ended, but he said he needed more time. Though disappointed, I returned home, my heart filled with joy. When I discovered that I carried his child, I hid my condition from my family, believing that all would be put to rights, but he never came fer me.”

  Brienne sniffled and wiped her eyes. Malcolm could feel the bite of contempt aimed directly at him as several of the men made low sounds of disapproval.

  “Malcolm?” The McKenna turned to him with questioning eyes.

  Malcolm didn’t flinch at the hard glares the others sent his way. “God’s truth, Father, I’ve never seen the lass before today.”

  Laird MacPhearson slapped the tabletop in anger. “Och, well, isn’t that convenient.”

  “There are plenty of witnesses that saw ye in yer cups more than most during the fete,” Gordon Kennedy remarked. “’Tis understandable that yer memory of the lass fails ye. Many a man doesn’t remember much after a night of strong drink.”

  “I’ll not deny that I enjoyed my share of good wine and whiskey,” Malcolm admitted. “But Lady Brienne is a pleasing and gentle maiden. She is not someone I would easily forget.”

  “Many of ye were also at the fete. Do any of ye recall seeing my brother and Lady Brienne together?” James asked.

  The men exchanged looks, all shaking their heads. Feeling the tide of opinion turning his way, Malcolm let out a slow breath.

  “He was too clever to be caught courting her openly when he never intended to marry her,” MacPhearson cried. “Instead he used honeyed lies and trickery to seduce and dishonor her.”

  “I would never treat an innocent young lady so cruelly!” Malcolm exclaimed defensively.

  “Ye express regret only because ye’ve been caught,” MacPhearson said bitterly. “I wager if ye’d been captured and brought before me, ye’d be singing a far different tune.”

  James hissed out a warning. “And ye’d be facing an army of McKenna warriors out fer blood.”

  Malcolm reached out and grabbed his brother’s arm. “Laird MacPhearson’s anger is justified, however misplaced,” he said. “I have a daughter. If any man were to treat my Lileas in such a disgraceful manner, I’d cut off his balls.”

  “A fitting punishment,” Laird Kennedy interjected.

  Malcolm lowered his voice, his tone sincere. “If I believed the child was mine, I would marry the fair Brienne willingly, but I dinnae see how it’s possible.”

  “Och, so the word of a MacPhearson lass isn’t good enough fer ye?” Laird MacPhearson shouted. “She made her confession to the priest the night she gave birth. My daughter isn’t lying.”

  Lady Brienne sniffled again and for the first time turned her attention toward Malcolm. Her lips were quivering, her shoulders shuddering. She looked frightened to death, the dark circles under her eyes attesting to her lack of sleep.

  Not knowing what else to do, Malcolm gave her a polite, respectful nod.

  Her eyes widened and the last thread of her poise visibly crumbled. She let out a gasp, then clutched her heart. Without further warning, her legs gave way and she fell to the floor in a dead faint.

  Chapter Six

  One of the MacPhearson men rushed forward, but it was Brienne’s two sisters who managed to catch her before she hit the floor.

  “Bloody hell, McKenna!” Laird MacPhearson shouted, his face reddening. “Ye’ve upset the poor lass so completely that she’s fainted.”

  “Malcolm has done nothing but state the truth,” the McKenna retorted.

  “Nay, he’s denied the truth and shamed my Brienne. I demand justice!”

  The chamber quickly filled with the sound of angry male voices as they each shouted their opinions. Ignoring them, Joan moved forward to stand with the MacPhearson women. Agnes, she noted, chose instead to move closer to Laird Armstrong.

  “I dinnae understand why ye are all so concerned,” Archibald sneered. “Women are weak, flighty, emotional creatures. She’ll recover quick enough if ye show her the back of yer hand.”

  Joan’s temper flared at her former husband’s cruelty. “By the saints, ye would be the one to advise striking her while she is down,” Joan interjected bitterly.

  Archibald’s expression tightened. He turned angry eyes in her direction, and for an instant she cowered with fear. But pride rescued her. She sent him a withering glare, then reached down to help the MacPhearson sisters lift Brienne, who hung limply near their feet.

  The lass was out cold. They patted her cheeks and fanned her brow and gradually Brienne’s eyes opened. She blinked with confusion, her eyes widening when she realized what had occurred.

  Horror edging her words, Brienne began muttering. Joan caught only one phrase, though it made little sense: He said his name was Malcolm McKenna. Brienne grew more restless, frantically clutching her sister’s arm, her eyes wide and confused as she continued to mumble.

  “Hush!” the taller sister commanded. “We will speak of this later, in private.”

  With Joan’s assistance, the three women managed to steady Brienne on her feet. Her face was pale, her breathing shallow. She looked so lost and forlorn. ’Twas pitiful.

  “She needs time to recover,” Joan announced, moving toward the door.

  All turned to Laird Armstrong for guidance, but he was glaring at Joan, his lips white from being pressed together so tightly. Joan knew her father was furious with her for interfering, but honestly, someone had to take charge.

  Joan poked the taller MacPhearson sister in the ribs to get her attention. They exchanged a glance; Joan was relieved to see the other woman’s eyes light with understanding—and gratitude. She nodded, indicating that she would follow Joan’s lead. Together, the four women exited the chamber before any of the men had a chance to gather their wits and stop them.

  “My bedchamber is the nearest,” Joan said. “This way.”

  Joan shut the door the moment they were all inside, sliding the bar across for good measure. At the sound, Brienne began sobbing so hard that she choked and hiccupped. Her sisters guided her onto a chair as her wailing grew louder. Her raw pain affected all of them—even Joan.

  One of her sisters stood beside her, stroking her back, trying to soothe her. It seemed to have little effect. Brienne’s hands were shaking, her teeth chattering. She could barely sit upright in the chair.

  Joan poured water into a wooden bowl and doused a cloth. Wringing it out, she handed it to one of the sisters, who ran the cloth over Brienne’s brow.

  “Dinnae fret so, Brienne,” the other sister said. “All will be well.”

  “She needs a dram of whiskey to settle her nerves,” the tall sister decided.

  “Nay!” Brienne shook her head. “I need my babe. Where is my son? Where is my precious Liam? Bring him to me. Please.”

  “We cannae leave ye,” the sisters said simultaneously.

  “I’ll fetch him,” Joan volunteered.

  She hurried down the hallway and up the stairs to the chamber assigned to the sisters. Once inside, she discovered the nurse they had brought along dozing by the bed, her soft snores filling the chamber. Joan approached unchallenged, staring with curiosity at the tightly wrapped bundle lying in the middle of the bed.

  Someone had fashioned a cozy place for him by propping pillows on either side of his sma
ll body, so he wouldn’t fall off if he rolled over. Joan leaned down, surprised to discover the quiet babe was awake.

  His eyes were open and curious, and he seemed content chewing and suckling on his fist. Though she was a stranger, he looked at her trustingly when she leaned closer, kicking his legs in excitement and dislodging his bunting.

  “Aren’t ye a nice, plump lad,” she cooed, rubbing his belly.

  He cocked his head at the sound of her voice, released his fist, and favored her with a toothless grin. She cooed again and his smile widened, creating a dimple in the corner of his chubby cheek. Fascinated, Joan traced the indentation, marveling at the feel of his soft, smooth skin.

  He was a handsome babe, with a sweet face, a button nose, and large, round eyes the color of spring grass. She leaned closer and caught a whiff of that special, magical scent that only babes could produce. It instantly filled her heart with memories of when Callum was an infant.

  Those were dark days. Archibald was unreasonably jealous of any time she spent with their son and she feared he would turn his fists toward the helpless babe. Fear for her son made her realize that no matter what the cost, she had to escape Archibald, if not for her own safety, for her child’s.

  Joan picked up the babe, surprised at the hefty feel of him. He was heavier than he looked—a sturdy, solid little lad. He was a bairn any man would be proud to claim as his own.

  “Yer mother will surely cease her crying when she holds ye close,” Joan said as she rewrapped the bunting.

  She shifted Liam in her arms and turned to leave just as the nurse awoke.

  “What are ye doing?” the woman screeched. “Put the young master down at once!”

  The loud noise caused the babe to start whimpering. Joan began bouncing him up and down and patting his back, all the while shooting daggers at the servant.

  “Quiet!” Joan cried. “Or I’ll tell yer mistress ye were sleeping instead of keeping a sharp eye on the child.”

  “He was asleep, too,” the woman protested, reaching for Liam. “There was no danger.”

  Joan turned away, refusing to relinquish him. “His mother has need of him. I’ll bring him to her.”

  Joan left the chamber with the huffing nurse trailing on her heels. All three women looked up anxiously when she entered the chamber. Brienne’s sniffles turned into a relieved sigh of contentment when the child was placed in her arms. She kissed his head and nuzzled him close to her breast, which quickly produced a few whimpers.

  “He smells yer milk and now wants another meal,” the nurse warned. “Best give him to me.”

  “Och, I fed him barely two hours ago,” Brienne replied with a small laugh.

  “Ye mustn’t spoil the greedy lad by giving him the teat anytime he wants,” the nurse insisted, reaching to take the child.

  Brienne’s expression sobered as she protectively gathered the babe closer. He immediately started rooting anxiously, his tiny fist grabbing at his mother’s breast. “A few sips will quiet him and comfort me.”

  “Nay,” the nurse replied.

  “Aye,” Joan added, giving the nurse a commanding stare. “’Tis best fer mother and bairn.”

  With uncertain eyes, Brienne gazed first at Joan and then at her sisters, striking Joan anew at how young she appeared.

  “Go on,” the taller sister encouraged. “Feed him.”

  Brienne nodded. She unlaced the front of her gown, pushing it off one shoulder. The babe latched on the moment her nipple was bared. Brienne smiled again, her face visibly calm as the infant suckled.

  The sight gave Joan a pang. She had wanted to feed Callum herself, but Archibald had refused her that maternal joy, insisting that only peasants nursed their babies. Without consulting her, he had installed a wet nurse, a slovenly creature, overly fond of men, ale, and wine. Joan had despised and resented her from the first.

  Yet she had used the woman’s vices to her advantage. Whenever the wet nurse had been preoccupied with men and spirits—which was often the case—Joan had secretly nursed Callum. Those precious stolen moments had forged an unbreakable maternal bond between mother and child and given her the courage she needed to flee Archibald’s tyranny.

  Joan’s memories faded as she heard the sisters talking quietly among themselves. She stepped closer, hoping to learn more.

  “He’s such a sweet, innocent bairn,” Brienne said softly. “He rarely fusses or cries, always smiles. Poor lamb, what’s to become of him?”

  “We must pray fer guidance,” the shorter sister said.

  The taller sister scoffed. “The Lord has forsaken Brienne these many months. We must rely on our wits and cunning to save her.”

  “Father will be furious,” the shorter sister warned.

  “He might take Liam from me,” Brienne said woefully. “If he does, I know I shall die of grief.”

  “He’s a strong, healthy bairn. Surely Laird MacPhearson is proud to have such a fine grandson,” Joan suggested.

  “He’s a bastard,” the taller sister said.

  Brienne cringed. Her eyes filled with tears as she tenderly stroked the babe’s head, the love she carried for him displayed on her face.

  “He’s a beautiful lad with such pretty eyes,” Joan marveled. “I’ve never seen such a color.”

  “His green eyes are just like his father’s,” Brienne said proudly before bursting into another round of sobs.

  Her two sisters gathered close, pushing Joan out of the way. She easily stepped aside, her mind playing and replaying Brienne’s words. ’Twas yet another piece of a mysterious puzzle that continued to baffle.

  His green eyes are just like his father’s.

  Joan had heard it clear as day. Yet how could that be?

  Malcolm McKenna’s eyes were blue.

  * * *

  Joan sat at the window in the women’s solar, a piece of embroidery resting idly in her lap. She had come here after leaving the MacPhearson sisters, wanting some time alone to ponder all that she had discovered. Again and again her mind twisted and turned as she tried to decipher the meaning of Brienne’s words, tried to understand the implications of what she had overheard.

  He said his name was Malcolm McKenna. . . . His green eyes are just like his father’s.

  By rights Joan knew that she should bring this information to the attention of her father. Or the McKennas. But she felt pity for Brienne and was not about to expose her until she was certain of the truth.

  Experience had taught her that rash actions led to foolish behavior, and the lives of too many people could be affected if she acted rashly.

  The door opened and Lady Agnes entered the solar. Joan’s hopes for just a few more minutes of peace and quiet were shattered, but she dare not let her disappointment show on her face, knowing it would give Agnes great pleasure.

  “Och, so this is where ye’ve been hiding,” Agnes said shrilly.

  Uninvited, she came closer, her feet crushing the dried rushes underfoot. The pleasant scent of herbs filled the air, but Joan’s expression remained sour.

  “What do ye want?” Joan asked.

  “There’s much to be done before the evening meal,” Agnes said in an irritating, nasal tone.

  “I’m confused, Agnes. One moment ye are crowing with delight and declaring yerself the chatelaine of this castle and the next ye are coming to me begging fer my help.”

  “I’ve never begged fer anything in my life!” Agnes retorted, her eyes blazing with indignation.

  Joan wrinkled her nose as though she had stepped in a pile of horse dung. “I’ve neither the time nor the interest to discuss this, Agnes,” Joan said, smiling coolly. “Be gone.”

  Agnes turned away in a righteous rage, but halted after taking a few steps. “Yer father willnae be pleased to learn that ye are neglecting yer duties. No matter what the reason.”

  “I am not neglecting my duties,” Joan insisted.

  “Ye are and I know why. Ye protest loudly about wanting to avoid Laird Fraser, yet �
��tis obvious to me that ye pine fer his attention,” Agnes declared snidely. “Though some might think yer plan clever, I’m uncertain it will work. The man is not a lackwit.”

  “What are ye babbling about, Agnes?” Joan asked wearily.

  Agnes arched a mischievous brow. “No need to be coy with me. I see clearly what ye want and exactly how ye think to get it. And, since the end result would be yer leaving Armstrong Castle, I’m not entirely opposed to lending ye a hand.”

  Joan rubbed her temples vigorously. “I’ve neither the inclination nor the patience to unravel yer riddles. Speak plainly, or not at all.”

  Agnes’s eyes darkened, but her temper held. “I am speaking, of course, of how ye are using yer son to capture his father’s attention. I’m sure ye believe that if the lad somehow gains Archibald’s affections, the laird will look more kindly upon ye. He might even welcome ye back to his castle, though I doubt he’ll marry ye again. At least not right away.”

  Joan blinked. She had to be imagining the glee in Agnes’s face. “What?”

  Agnes smiled broadly, yet it was a decidedly unfriendly grin. “Some might think it unseemly to use yer child as bait, yet it is difficult to argue its affect. I’m sure by the end of the day Laird Fraser will be quite smitten with the lad.”

  Joan’s heart filled with cold distrust. “Archibald has neither seen nor spoken to my son.”

  “Oh, but ye are mistaken,” Agnes said lightly. “I saw the lad walking into the stables with Laird Fraser not more than ten minutes ago.”

  Joan’s heart gave a hard tug of panic. “Ye’re lying.”

  Agnes’s eyes flashed. “Och, I understand. Ye wish to keep all this a secret. Well, I’ll not say a word to anyone.”

  A muscle ticked in Joan’s jaw. What game was Agnes playing now? Callum was safely hidden away with Mistress Claire. Joan had left strict instructions that he was not to return to the castle until all the visitors had departed.

  Agnes angled her head and stared at Joan expectantly. Joan searched her face, desperate to know the truth. Was it possible that Callum had come back to the castle? Worse still, was it possible that Archibald was with the child this very moment?