by Paula Quinn
“Do you think your uncle will ask me?”
It was Patrick’s idea to tell him he’d handfasted with Charlie in the presence of a priest just a few days ago. He didn’t mind telling an untruth every once in a while. It was Charlie he was worried about. According to her, she did her best never to lie. He hoped, if asked if they were already wed, she wouldn’t try so hard.
He wouldn’t keep her dishonest for long. If the priest were here, he’d make her his wife right now. If Duff wanted to remain in Camlochlin, Patrick would stay here as liege.
It meant responsibility. Duty to every one of his tenants, the weight of a village on his shoulders. But hell, he was strong. Built for fighting. And he wasn’t alone. He had her. This was what he wanted—the challenge of a new life with the only woman he ever loved.
Epilogue
Patrick stopped his horse at the crest of a deep sunlit vale, cradled beneath the vast slopes of Sgurr Na Sti. His gaze scanned the jagged horizon of the Cullians beyond and Bla Bheinn to the north. Many kisses had been shared by many generations on the braes of Bla Bheinn.
He turned when he heard a sound from Duff on his left. His cousin was staring into the vale where sheep and cattle grazed, and children played around stone-roofed cottages.
“Ease yer concerns, cousin. All will be well there.”
“’Tisn’t that,” Duff said and spread his gaze to the west of the glen and the frothy caps spilling onto a pebbled beach, where a lass had paused to dip her feet. “This could have been my home,” he said, his voice laden with regret.
Patrick didn’t worry too much over it. His cousin would be well here. Camlochlin had been built to heal. “’Tis yer home now.”
It was Patrick’s home and his heart swelled with love for it. More than the stone fortress with turrets rising from the mountain behind it, or the houses scattered around it, built by the masterful hands of the Grants, the land beckoned him home.
He turned to the braw lass saddled to his right. She’d crossed the cliffs of Elgol on her horse without so much as a peep, though she purged her lunch as soon as they were back on solid ground.
“Feelin’ better, m’ love?”
She turned to him and he was surprised to see her eyes moist with tears. “Camlochlin?”
He nodded and she turned back to the view before her and smiled. “You described it well. I don’t want to ride there,” she decided and dismounted. “I want to run.”
Dropping her reins, she lifted her earasaid and her billowy skirts beneath it, and set off over the crest and onto the wind-blown heather-carpeted hill. She spun around to aim her most radiant smile at him and then continued on her way.
She fired his blood and made his heart race. “Bring the horses doun, will ye?” he asked Duff while he dismounted and handed his cousin the reins. “I’ll wait fer ye at the bottom.”
Casting him a grin, Patrick took off after her.
Hearing him behind her, she turned and laughed, picking up speed. He let her run until she tired and then scooped her up and set her down over his shoulder.
Her laughter filled the braes and drew the attention of some of Camlochlin’s inhabitants.
“Patrick, put me down!” she shrieked and pounded her fists on his back. “I’ll not meet your family tossed over you like a sack of grain! Now, put me down!”
She’d learned a little trick from Nonie and promptly bit him on the shoulder.
He howled and tripped and they both landed with a heavy thud. After they retrieved the breath that had been knocked out of them, they sat up and laughed.
They became aware of the man standing over them. Charlie looked first, from his kid-skin boots, up his long, deadly Claymore, dangling from his hip, to the drape of his plaid over the expanse of his shoulders. She gulped and blinked up into a gaze as powerful as the seas.
Patrick smiled and stood to his feet, bringing a mute Charlie with him. Callum MacGregor still had the same effect on people.
“’Tis good to see ye, grandsire.”
“Patrick?” His aunt Davina rushed toward him on bare feet, leaving the whitecaps behind. “Is that you?”
The current laird’s wife reached them the same time Duff did. Seeing him, Patrick’s grandfather slipped his arm around her.
Ever the unflustered Lady of Camlochlin, Davina turned her wide gaze on Charlie. “Do we have this lovely maiden to thank for bringing you home to us?”
“Aye,” Patrick told her and presented Charlie to them. “M’ wife, Charlotte—and her brother, Duff.”
Callum watched Duff dismount with a scrutinizing eye. Patrick wondered, while Davina took Charlie by the hand and under her wing, if his grandfather saw the stark resemblance.
“Her brother?” he asked.
Patrick smiled. “I found him in Pinwherry, fostered by Charlie’s father, Allan Cunningham.”
Callum’s gaze slipped to him. Patrick’s grin faded. “’Tis a long story, grandsire. One which I will explain to everyone at supper tonight.”
Mollified, the Devil MacGregor returned his attention to Duff. “Yer faither will be happy to meet ye.”
Duff smiled for the first time in days. “Do I resemble him so much that you already know who he is?”
Callum nodded. “Ye’re Will’s.” He held out the crook of his elbow to Charlie. She accepted, looking suitably overwhelmed. “Though I dinna know how I feel aboot ye if ye let yer sister wed this wanderin’ rogue.”
“Wanderin’ no longer,” Patrick corrected, catching up, Duff just a step behind. “I’ve been hit with the fever and awaken from m’ bed each morning freshly delirious.”
Both his grandfather and his wife smiled at him.
Patrick entered Camlochlin the same way every one of her children who’d been away for any length of time did when they returned—with awe at its warmth and familiarity.
But being reunited with his father was by far the best part of being home. Patrick had much to tell him. Things he suspected his father would be glad to hear.
His mother, as beautiful as the day he’d left her, doted over Charlie, as did the rest of the women. His uncles and cousins greeted them and marveled at Duff, eager for Will to arrive when one of Patrick’s younger cousins was sent to fetch him from his home.
Duff was sharing a cup of brew with Callum when his father finally arrived.
After greeting Patrick with a great bear hug, and Charlie with a more delicate embrace, Will turned to Duff and smiled.
There was nothing unusual about Will’s lack of interest in the people milling about around him, staring and waiting like they hadn’t been fed in a sennight and food was on the way.
“Will Mac—” He stopped his introduction and gave Duff a more careful looking over. “MacGregor,” he finished. “Have we met?”
“Aye,” Callum said, and spotting his wife on the other side of the great hall, pushed off the wall. “He’s yer son.”
Charlie sat at a long polished table in the great hall. All around her sat MacGregors and Grants, young and old, laughing, bickering, toasting their cups to this thing or that.
She listened with one ear while Patrick told them her and Duff’s tale and everything that had happened with Kendrick. They asked questions, but soon their merriment returned. It was as if nothing beyond the water concerned them overmuch.
She watched her brother smiling while he spoke with his father, Will MacGregor taking in every word and smiling with him. She knew she’d lost her brother to their family before he told he didn’t want to go back.
She didn’t blame him. Why would any good man want to live in a cruel world? Patrick would. He’d return to Pinwherry with her and help her follow her heart and change the lives of the people who lived there.
And then they would return to Camlochlin, perhaps with Elsie and Shaw, and raise their bairns with a family the size of an army. She smiled thinking of it and felt her husband’s mouth caress her neck.
“Are ye thinkin’ aboot kissin’ me in the heather?�
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She giggled and slapped his arm but turned to him, her lashes low, her smile, promising. He made her insides burn. No other man would. “When can we leave?”
Lachlan MacKenzie, Dragon Laird of the Black Isle, will do anything to be reunited with his little girl…even kidnap Mailie MacGregor from her family at Lord Sinclair’s request. Grab the lass, deliver her to the man who desires her hand in marriage, and finally be reunited with his daughter—that’s Lachlan’s plan. But he never expected to want the beautiful, spirited Mailie for himself…
A preview of
Laird of the Black Isle follows.
Chapter One
Scottish Highlands
Early Spring 1712
A thin layer of mist from the Moray Firth drifted through the cold, still forest. A fine dew settled on the still, russet leaves of downy birch and ancient rowan and clung to the underbrush.
A lark soared above the canopy, but made no sound to disturb the serenity of silence around the man peering down the length of his arrow.
As still as the roebuck a few feet away, the only sign of the hunter’s presence was his breath against the morning air. His hooded plaid of dark and light green and brown blended in well with the forest. His bowstring made no sound as he pulled it back, the muscles in his arm bulging. His gaze was steady, his breath unchanged. It wasn’t until he thought about all the food the beast would provide did the buck lift its head.
It was too late. The arrow found its mark. The deer fell and the man finally moved.
The buck was large and would be heavy but the hunter’s shoulder was the only way to get it back.
He looked down at the fruit of his labor and was grateful for the deer’s sacrifice. During his station in the Colonies, an old Iroquois chief had taught him that every life had a purpose.
The buck’s purpose was to provide food—at least it was today. He often wondered what was his?
He bent his knees and with a solid grunt from his belly, he hefted the animal over his shoulder. He stood, steady on his hide-encased legs, and then took off running.
His boots crushed the leaf-carpeted ground as the sounds around him grew. Birds burst from the treetops at his disturbance, smaller animals scurrying out of his path.
He was in no hurry to get back to his life in Avoch, but the way he chose to live it required that he keep fit.
By the time he broke through the forest, his thighs burned and his breath came hard.
He ran past the harbor, giving no greeting to the men loading their fishing nets and no notice to the screaming gulls above. He didn’t slow, hoping to be gone before the rest of their families awoke.
His body nearly spent, he finally slowed his pace when he reached the sleepy village of Avoch. A cock crowed at the breaking dawn. He quickened his gait and pulled his hood farther over his head, hiding his face, lest he be recognized by anyone leaving his cottage to take his morning piss.
Just a little farther. He looked up at Avoch Castle perched at the top of the hill, its dark, jagged turrets piercing the gossamer mist that surrounded it. Built in stone nearly two centuries ago, the castle had many ghosts, but it was the last two to arrive who haunted him. Though it was in no state of disrepair, for he had made certain to fill every hole in every wall and maintain his privacy, the castle looked uncared for and deserted set against the bleak backdrop of a gray March sky. A shell, as lifeless as the man who lived in it.
Determined to his task, he kept moving and collided with a lad appearing out of the settling mist. The hunter’s solid form knocked the boy on his arse.
Watching the figure go down, he wondered if he should drop the buck and help. He maintained his position as the bucket the lad had been carrying in one hand hit the ground and rolled away. A younger lass, whose hand he held with the other, did the same.
The hunter’s dark eyes fell to her. She looked to be about six summers—the same age Annabelle would have been. Belle’s nose might have been as small as this one. He blinked and looked away.
“Look where ye’re goin!” the lad shouted at him. “Have ye no—”
His tirade came to an abrupt halt when a ray of light from the rising sun broke through the thick clouds and settled on the hunter’s face beneath his hood.
The lass gasped while the lad scrambled to his feet on shaky legs.
“Laird MacKenzie! Fergive me! I didna see ye, though I’ll admit ye’re difficult to miss.” The lad looked to be roughly nine, mayhap ten, and seemed to be bent on getting his master to smile at him. “I’m William. I was just fetchin’ water fer—”
Lachlan MacKenzie, Dragon Laird of the Black Isle, thought about removing his hood. The full sight of his scarred face usually silenced flapping tongues, but he’d already frightened the girl.
With a will of their own, his eyes fell to her again. She was staring up at him, her round face tilted—
“That’s Lily.” The lad moved toward her and bumped his elbow into her arm. “Lily, quit starin’.”
Lachlan stepped around them and continued on his way.
“D’ye need help with that buck? What are ye goin’ to do with all that meat?”
Lachlan wasn’t about to tell him, though William would discover the answer this eve. He scowled at the ground as he walked. He didn’t want the villagers to know any of the food he sometimes provided had come from him. He had no need for friends, or family. He’d already lost everything he had ever wanted.
For the most part the people of the Black Isle were self-sufficient. As earl there was little to do but attend stately gatherings from time to time. As laird, he was bound to his tenants and he did what was required of him.
He stepped through the short outer wall and turned to make certain William wasn’t following him. The wall should be higher. He’d work on it, he thought and stepped up to the thick, carved doors.
He didn’t think about his life beyond this point. He simply lived it, alone in a castle with twenty-two rooms.
He pushed open one of the doors and stepped inside, ignoring the ghostly cry of the wrought iron hinges and creaking wood. He pushed the door shut with his heel. The resonating boom stirred the empty halls and then died.
He carried the buck to the enormous kitchen, one of only three rooms in the castle in which he kept the hearth burning, and dropped the carcass on the carving table. He bent backward to crack his back and then unclasped his bodkin and removed his plaid. He picked up a large knife.
Butchering had stopped making him ill years ago. He’d learned how to hunt and prepare his kill during his time in the Royal North British Dragoons. It was how he’d found the men who’d killed Hannah, his wife, and their daughter, Annabelle, two years ago and put an end to them.
He scowled when a knock came at the front door. William. The lad needed to know that his laird wouldn’t stand for being bothered by anyone.
With his knife in his hand and his hands and shirt covered in blood, he went to the door and swung it open.
It wasn’t William.
“What can I do for ye?” he asked the man standing across the threshold. His unexpected visitor was several years older than Lachlan, and shorter by at least two heads. He wore a clean, un-tattered plaid and bonnet. One of the neighboring barons? Lachlan had never seen him before.
The stranger trembled once, and deeply in his polished boots as his pale eyes took in the sight before him.
Lachlan hadn’t become so unrefined that he couldn’t comprehend how he must appear. He thought about wiping his hands but there was little of him clean.
“Lachlan MacKenzie, Earl of Cromartie?” the man asked, backing away from him, his eyes fastened on the lacy scar marring the left side of Lachlan’s face. “I am…ehm…I am Robert Graham, emissary to Ranald Sinclair, Earl of Caithness.”
Caithness? What the hell did they want with him?
“Might I come in?” he asked, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. “There is a matter of great urgency I need to discuss with you.”
“I dinna concern myself with things so far off,” Lachlan told him. “Whatever Sinclair wants with me, my answer is no.” He stepped back to close the door.
The emissary held his hand up to stay him. “You’ll not want to say no to this.”
Curious by the man’s certainty, Lachlan stepped aside allowing him entry and tucking the knife into his belt. “This way.” He led his guest to his study. There was blood everywhere else.
Lachlan watched Graham look around, surprised by the books lining dozens of hand-carved cases, all softly lit against the light of a dozen candles and the deep hearth.
“Have a seat.” He offered the only chair in the room, placed close to the fire.
“You live here alone?” Graham asked while he sat.
Lachlan took hold of a poker and stirred the embers in the hearth. “Why does Sinclair disturb me?”
“He sends you an offer, MacKenzie.”
Lachlan thought about picking him up, carrying him to the door, and throwing him out. What offer was urgent? What kind of offer did this little worm think Lachlan could not refuse?
“What is it?” he asked, returning the poker to its place and coming to stand over the chair. He took no mercy on the emissary when Graham shrank back.
“Lord Sinclair…needs you to bring someone to him,” Graham sputtered. “For your trouble he will pay you something priceless.”
Impossible. Whatever was priceless in Lachlan’s life was gone. But his curiosity had been piqued.
“Why doesna he go fetch this person himself?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest. “Why is he making this offer to me?”
“You’ve been a Scot’s Grey for almost a decade, a colonel with—”
“That ended two years ago.”
“Aye, but you gained renown for your great brute strength and deadly proficiency with any weapon. Getting hands on this person requires a man of your expertise.”
“Why?” Lachlan asked. “Who is it?”