Her Highland Destiny

by Leanne Burroughs

  “He said naught of import,” Duncan interrupted, carefully avoiding her eyes.

  “Then what has you troubled? Do not tell me you are not upset.”

  Duncan inhaled and exhaled deeply. He didn’t like having such possessive feelings, didn’t want to care. He glared at Catherine. “He wants you.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Dinraven wishes to take you away from me,” Duncan clarified. His eyes turned dark. He reached down and pulled Catherine to her feet. “I’ll not have it, Cat. I will not be made a cuckold again.”

  Catherine gasped. “He said that? He told you—”

  “Of course not,” he shot back. “He did not have to. I saw the way he looked at you.”

  “Duncan, I would never—”

  “Would you not?” Duncan growled. “If a handsome, wealthy man such as Dinraven asked you to leave with him, you tell me you would not willingly agree?”

  Catherine’s eyes held a disturbing combination of anger and hurt. “That is exactly what I am telling you, Duncan MacThomas. I would never dishonor my vows—and that you have such low regard for me is intolerable.”

  Her face set, she grabbed a robe and started for the door. “I knew you did not want me, but I thought you respected me. I thought...”

  She got to the door and started to open it when Duncan reached her and slammed it shut. He grabbed her arms and swung her around.

  Catherine opened her mouth to rail at him at the very moment he pinned her between his hard body and the heavy wooden door.

  A strangled cry of rage threatened to erupt from her throat. It faded at the feral look in his eyes.

  Scant heartbeats passed before he crushed her mouth with his own.

  Catherine placed her hands flat against his chest and pushed.

  He didn’t budge, but pressed her harder again the door.

  Keeping her pinned to the wall, he released her mouth, moved his head back and looked deeply into her eyes.

  “Cat?”

  Catherine saw the pain in his eyes. She raised a finger to his lips to silence him. “I shall never leave with another, Duncan. I believe you already know that about me. It matters not who he is—a great Chieftain like Dinraven or even the king of Scotland when we have one. I made my vows before God the day we wed, and it goes against the tenants of my faith to dishonor them.” She rubbed the backs of her fingers against his cheek. “I heard what your first wife did, but I am not Helen.”

  Duncan lowered his mouth to hers, breathing easier. The kiss didn’t have the urgency it had only moments before.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Catherine grimaced when Tory brought a quaich to the table and set it down before her while breaking her fast with Duncan. Noticing the face she made, he picked it up to smell it and promptly set it down, making a face.

  “What foul smelling potion is this?”

  “Something she should drink for a while,” Tory evaded answering. “Do not fret. Catherine looked a bit peaked and these herbs should help.”

  Catherine wrinkled her nose after sipping the liquid. “She has made me drink this every day since she and Grant arrived.” She grumbled and made a face at Tory. “It tastes as horrid as it smells.”

  “Fares she well?” Duncan’s eyes slowly searched his wife’s face, his hand rising to lightly caress it. “Should we...?”

  “You need do naught. She just must drink this each day.” Tory rushed on, “I prepared enough herbs for her to take once Grant and I leave.” A smug smile played across her lips. “No questions. Just ensure Catherine takes this after we return home in a few days.” She whirled on her heel and walked away.

  ~ * ~

  Although he’d rather be anywhere else, as Chief of Clan MacThomaidh, Duncan’s father had the right to know the recent trouble Grant had heard regarding Robert’s bid for king. The next day Duncan went to see him.

  Grant chose to accompany him.

  To their surprise, Tamara met them at the door. She’d been crying. “Da’s ill.”

  Duncan hesitated a heartbeat to let his sister’s words sink in, then strode upstairs to his father’s bedchamber. His step faltered at the sight that greeted him.

  His burly father—the man he’d hated for so many years—appeared as weak as a newborn bairn. He lay abed, bolstered by pillows.

  A hint of a smile crossed his lips. He raised a hand and motioned Duncan to sit beside the bed.

  His breath shallow, it appeared he forced himself to speak. “Now I know I am dying. Either that or something brews. Which is it that brings ye to my bedside after ignoring me these past years?”

  The lump in Duncan’s throat grew, but he finally spoke. “I must tell you the battle may grow close.”

  His father’s eyes slid past him to the doorway. “Young Grant accompanies ye. The news must be worse than ye let on. Only thing I can think that bad is news o’ Robert Bruce, Lord Carrick’s pending bid as our country’s king.”

  Stunned, Duncan’s mouth dropped open. “How did...?” He stopped mid-sentence.

  “Did ye really think to keep me in the dark? Och, ye should know better than that.” After recovering from a coughing fit, he continued, “I know everything that goes on around me—everything that affects our country. I also know everything ye do, have fer years. Just been too bullheaded to admit it.”

  Duncan stared at his father, but said nothing.

  “I dinnae have much longer, son. ‘Tis time we clear the air. I cannae go to my death without admitting the truth.”

  Duncan stood. He didn’t want to hear this. Over the past moons Catherine kept insisting he needed to mend the rift with his father. It wasn’t possible. Yet there was something healing about being in this room. He couldn’t explain it.

  “Sit, lad. ‘Tis much we needs must speak of and I tire.”

  Duncan remained standing.

  “Ye dinnae have to listen to me as my son, but as Chief of Clan MacThomaidh I can command ye listen. I would rather you sat as my son.”

  A coughing fit again sapped the old man’s energy. He removed a cloth from his mouth and Duncan noted specks of blood. He tensed. Did his father have it aright? Was he dying? After but a moment’s hesitation, he did as bid without arguing. From the corner of his eye he noticed Grant disappear from the doorway.

  “Tamara has been here fer days. She has been sad too long since the death o’ her husband. I feared she would never allow her heart to love again. Now I see a spark in her eyes. Someone has caught her fancy. Mayhap she will yet wed and have a child o’ her own someday.”

  Duncan grimaced without thought.

  “I am sorry. I dinnae mean to dredge up sad memories. I am sorry fer the loss o’ yer child. Ye have Meghan, though, and she couldnae be a more delightful child. I have missed her. She was a ray o’ sunshine to my days when she lived here.”

  Surprisingly, Duncan believed him.

  Grant returned. “I fetched ale. I thought you both could use it.” He turned to Duncan. “Catherine is not here, so she cannae fuss at you this time. I believe she and my Tory have taken some oath to get us both to quit drinking.”

  He took MacThomaidh’s to him then handed the other quaich to Duncan. He patted Duncan’s shoulder before once again leaving the room.

  Duncan turned back to face his father. Memories flooded over him. He’d been right to feel the anger he’d harbored over the years. So why suddenly feel defensive? He sensed his father meant to bring up a subject he didn’t wish to discuss.

  Within the space of several heartbeats, his father said, “We needs must talk, son. I dinnae have the luxury o’ time anymore to hope we can work this out slowly.”

  “There is naught to work out,” Duncan said gruffly. His chest felt tight and it was difficult to breathe.

  “Och, there is and well ye know it.”

  Duncan rose and headed for the door.

  “Dinnae walk out on me, Duncan MacThomaidh. When I meet my Maker I wish to go with a clear conscience.”
<
br />   Duncan turned and swore. “A clear... How dare you suggest such a thing? You abandoned me.”

  There. He’d said it. After all the years of holding it inside, he’d finally revealed his innermost feelings to his father.

  MacThomaidh looked overcome by remorse. He admitted, “Aye, I did. And I have fere’er regretted it.”

  Duncan stared at his father, never expecting that admission.

  “I realized years ago I erred, but by then there was naught I could do. The damage had been done. Ye were grown and wanted little to do with me. I dinnae blame ye.”

  “You expect me to forgive you now?” A flush of anger rose up Duncan’s cheeks. “You will not die. You are too mean.”

  Duncan stood resolute. The auld man brought this upon himself. He’d vowed years ago never to forgive his father.

  “I knew this would not be easy. I hoped with time we might grow closer.” Duncan raised a brow at the declaration. “Ye have softened some since wedding the lass.” MacThomaidh tried to catch his eye, but Duncan refused to look at him.

  “Duncan,” MacThomaidh thundered. “We needs must talk.”

  “We have naught to talk about.” Duncan’s tone was hard.

  Behind him, a melodic voice said, “Please Duncan, listen to Da. He means what he says. He told me his regrets years ago, but made me promise to hold my tongue. He wanted to work it out in his own way, his own time.”

  Duncan spun on her. “You talked about me?”

  “Because we love you, you great lummox.”

  “You love me.” Motioning to his father Duncan added, “He—”

  “Loves you as well,” Tamara interrupted before he could finish.

  His senses reeled. How could Tamara do this? She knew what their father had done.

  True, men fostered their sons out to other clans to learn the art of warfare—but they didn’t forget about them. He vowed his sons would never... Duncan drew his thoughts up short. He’d never have sons, never have the one thing his father had squandered—a son’s love. He’d lost that chance forever when Catherine had been beaten and miscarried. The English chirurgeon had proclaimed Catherine would never have another child.

  From the massive bed, MacThomaidh watched his son. How could he have been so daft as to throw one of his children away? That was what he’d done. No matter what excuse he’d made at the time, he’d freely given away his own son. Surely there could be no greater fool on the face of the earth.

  Aching emptiness overtook him. So many years lost, never to be returned. Why hadn’t he listened to his wife? She’d not wanted Duncan to leave. She’d pleaded to let him stay.

  He’d turned a deaf ear.

  Now he’d give anything to have Duncan’s forgiveness, but doubted Duncan would give it. Whether Duncan admitted it or not, he was much like himself. Having made up their minds, it wasn’t easy to change.

  MacThomaidh’s temper flared. Curse it, he’d not give in this easily. He was clan Chieftain. He’d fought all his life.

  “Duncan, sit,” he commanded.

  Duncan’s eyes narrowed. “Do not order me about.”

  “Sit,” MacThomaidh again ordered. “Ye will hear me out.”

  “I have to do no such thing. You gave up that right—”

  His father shook his head sadly. “I know, I know, years ago. Ye repeat that oft enough. Have ye made no mistakes in your lifetime ye wish ye could change?”

  One sprang immediately to mind. He’d left Catherine.

  He said nothing.

  The old man smiled. “Och, I thought so. None o’ us are perfect—even though we act like we are.”

  “I never claimed to be perfect,” Duncan huffed.

  “Good, and as much as it pains me to admit in my auld age, neither am I.”

  MacThomaidh sat forward and looked into Duncan’s eyes. “I made mistakes raising ye, but there is naught I can do to change that. I only hope someday ye can forgive me. Until ye do, I believe ye will always hold part o’ yerself away from yer beautiful wife.”

  “My beautiful wife?” Duncan frowned suspiciously. “I thought you did not like Catherine.”

  “She is perfect—and ye know she is.”

  Understanding hit Duncan like a pike. He let loose a stream of curses. “Again you manipulate my life?”

  “Ye left her,” MacThomaidh groused. “Were ye not wrong to do so?”

  “That is my concern, not yours.”

  “There ye are wrong,” his father shouted. “My newest daughter is my business. Especially when I see ye making the same mistakes I did.”

  Duncan’s eyes narrowed. “What are you blethering about?”

  “Ye left her just as I left ye . Ye disappointed me when ye did that. I never thought to see ye make the same mistake I had, and could not let ye continue to do so. What I did was wrong, but yer actions were just as wrong. I knew if ye thought I dinnae like her, ye would stay with her to spite me. Just like ye left because I chose her. I hoped if ye spent time with her, ye would realize she is perfect fer ye.” He held up his hand when Duncan opened his mouth to interrupt. “And ye did.”

  “That is why you comforted her when she fell over the ravine?” Despite himself, past events fell into place.

  “Aye,” MacThomaidh admitted, embarrassment flooding his face. “I could not let the wee lassie die. Ye had not admitted it, but I realized how much ye needed her. As much as she needs ye now, because o’ that one mistake, she too is too proud to admit it. Deep down she still believes ye dinnae love her.”

  Duncan wondered why his father’s words made sense. Och, had Catherine turned him soft? He shouldn’t listen to his father.

  He fell silent and shook his head.

  MacThomaidh pressed the issue. “Soon ye shall be clan Chief and will be a verra good one. I have every confidence in yer abilities.” He blinked back tears. “I am proud o’ ye, son. That admission comes many years too late, but I want ye to hear it. I have prayed fer guidance from above on how to tell ye this. As was yer dear maither, God rest her soul, I am verra proud o’ the man ye grew to be. The fact I can claim no part in building yer character causes me great pain.”

  Duncan’s chest grew tight, expanded. The barrier he’d spent years building around his heart came crashing down.

  He rose and ran from the room before his father could utter another word.

  Jumping onto his horse, he raced home.

  ~ * ~

  When he threw open the door and strode inside, Catherine took one look at his face and paled. “Your father?”

  Duncan found it difficult to speak. “He lives.”

  She rushed to him and wrapped her arms around his massive body. “Then what is wrong? You look as if you saw a ghost—or had a vision.”

  Duncan rested his chin atop her hair. The light scent of roses wafted up to his nose.

  When he still didn’t speak, Catherine drew back and looked into his face. She took his hand and led him to a chair by the hearth. “Sit, tell me what happened.”

  Hearing Catherine order him to sit, just as his father had so recently done, moved him to tears. Like a child who’d fallen and injured his knee, Duncan wept. He felt a fool. Men didn’t cry.

  Catherine wrapped her arms around him and kissed the top of his head.

  His men quietly exited the Hall, clearly unable to face the torment on their young laird’s face.

  Catherine placed her hand beneath Duncan’s chin and turned him to face her. He looked haggard.

  “You finally realize your father loves you? He does, you know. As you have been unable to forgive him, he has been unable to absolve himself for the way he treated you. However”—she stopped and smiled—“I have it on good authority he loves you very much.”

  “What authority?” he challenged.

  “Why your father, of course.”

  Duncan roared, “You spoke to Da about me?”

  Catherine shrugged. “Mayhap a time or two.”

  Duncan rose and paced the room. “
When did you plan to tell me?”

  “I did not plan to mention it. ‘Tis between you and your father. ‘Twas not my place to meddle.”

  Duncan laughed. “You meddle into everything else in my life. Why should this be different?”

  “Do not yell at me, Duncan MacThomas—and I do not meddle.” She stopped to form her words. “I merely help situations along sometimes.”

  “Well there is naught to help. He wishes to ease his conscience before he meets his Maker. I have no intention of helping him.”

  “Duncan you must—”

  “I need do naught. He abandoned me, left me with Clan Kerr.”

  “He but meant to foster you,” Catherine soothed. “He knows now being worried about your health was wrong.”

  “Worry about my health?” Duncan choked. “Is that what he told you? He cared naught about me, thought me an embarrassment. ‘Tis the reason he left me.”

  “But—”

  “But naught! Have you never wondered at the scars on my back?” A sob broke from his throat as he said the words and tore off his shirt.

  “Of course. I wanted to ask about them many times, but feared you would be angered. I thought you would tell me when you were ready.”

  “Well, I am ready. These scars are a gift from my father.”

  “Duncan! Surely your father never beat you.”

  “He did not have to. He let someone else do it for him.”

  Catherine placed her arms around him as he sat. “I do not believe he would do that.”

  “He left me with Clan Kerr’s chieftain. I know not why the man hated me, but he did. When he was not starving me, he beat me. Recall me sharing how I hated mazes? When I was but a small lad, and so sick, he beat me until I could not stand. Then he carried me to the center of Castle Kerr’s maze and left me there. I would have died had Laird Drummond not come upon me and taken me to Drummond Castle.”

  Sucking in his pain, he raised his face to the ceiling as if seeking an answer there. “How could Da let him do that, Cat? Why did he hate me? I tried to be the son he wanted. I couldn’t help that I was sick. I even tried not to cough when he was about, but that only made my illness worse.”