Fianna Leighton - Tales of Clan Mackay

by Return to the Highlands

  Nicholas wondered for how long? Highland loyalties ran only so far as they did. Feuds broke out amid allies and enemies. Hostilities handed down generation to generation. Power struggles over land, cattle, women; it was a dangerous time in which to live. Nicholas smiled at the thought. Mary would find Varrich a wild place indeed.

  He stretched and then stood up. “I’m going to walk, if you don’t mind.”

  Donald lifted his cup. “Go on, boy. Yer mother will be in her garden no doubt.”

  Nicholas nodded faintly. “I will pay my respects to Ann on the way.”

  Donald’s brows drew together but said nothing more. Nicholas retreated from the keep in a long stride that took him out the door and into the sun. He blinked at the bright light, the mist burned away to leave the day brilliant in contrast. Chickens squawked beneath his feet, a goat stood nearby eating something unnamable, while men milled about their duties. A low wooden building held the kitchens, situated a fair walk from the keep itself, nestled amid the craggy rocks of the hillside. Several fires crackled nearby, one holding a large cast iron pot for washing clothes with lines rigged behind the pot to dry them. He passed several children as they ran screaming in play, nodded at the blacksmith who had turned in surprise and then finally rounded the back of the keep to where the gardens lay.

  He pushed open the gate and stepped inside, overwhelmed for a moment by the smell of lilacs. It reminded him of Mary. He closed his eyes to savor the smell, the image of Mary on their wedding night curving his lips into a smile.

  “There you are, Nicholas.”

  He sighed as the memory abruptly faded. “Aye, here I am.”

  Ann Mackay laughed sourly. “Not here by yer wish, I suppose?”

  Nicholas opened his eyes. The wife of Donald Mackay knelt on the grass, a long knife tucked into her belt, a basket of cuttings lying at her side. She stared at him, still lovely after all the years, her hair still dark as night, drawn back behind her head in a long braid without any touch of grey. Rumor hinted that her family had gypsy blood, and if looks were to tell, Ann was proof. She held out her hand. “Help me up, Nicky.”

  He caught her gently and lifted her to her feet, allowing her to kiss his cheek. “Why do you hold the grudge so long, lad?”

  Nicholas stepped back. “I do not.”

  “Liar,” Ann replied with a smile. “Ye are still gruff and distant as you always were. I hear that ye’ve done just what you’ve despised me for. Ye have taken a lass from her home, Nicholas Mackay, against her will. How do ye expect her to react?”

  Nicholas held out his arm. Ann laid her fingers on his sleeve and allowed him to lead her to a stone bench set near the wall. “It is true, but she has taken it well enough. Events occur that we cannot always control.”

  “Indeed,” Ann agreed as she smoothed her skirts.

  “So I am here to admit that I know nothing happened between you and …” He paused when she turned to look at him, shoulders stiff.

  “Does it matter, Nicholas? Fitzgerald took me against my will to demean your father, the clan and me. What could I do? Should I have taken his dagger to my heart to leave all that I love behind?” She stood up abruptly to walk away but he held her wrist, holding her fast.

  “Nay, perhaps I wanted that once,” Nicholas admitted.

  Ann looked down at him, fingers clenched in anger. “And now?”

  “I have learned many things while I was gone. Patience for one thing, forgiveness even as amusing at it sounds.”

  “Ye were always honorable, Nicholas,” Ann replied.

  “No, not always, not with you.”

  “Ye had clan loyalties to fault for that, and a weak heart to believe the stories that were told.”

  “I know you love Donald,” Nicholas said.

  “I always have, lad, and always will.” Ann smiled at him and relaxed, sitting back down. “No matter the things that passed between us, I still love ye as well.” She brushed his hair from his forehead. “You would not let me touch you like this before.”

  Nicholas sighed and looked away. “No, I was always full of anger.”

  Ann laughed softly. “Aye, you were, at me, at your Da, at the clans. Angry at everything some days it seemed. Bastian held you back many a time when I thought you would lose yer mind to the temper. But ye are different now, I can sense it.”

  “I’ve spent a lot of that anger a long while ago.”

  “And now what, lad?” Ann reached out to touch the locket at his neck. “Did you leave a lass behind?”

  He undid the chain and pulled the locket free. “Not in the way you think. This is a reminder only to remember how stupid I can be.” He chuckled and put it in Ann’s hand. “Would you take it as a gift, an offering to assuage my guilt in all that I’ve done to you?”

  “Ach, you have not done anything so harsh that you must give me a token that means more to you than it might to me.” Ann put it back into his palm and then curled his fingers around it. She touched the ring on his finger. “This tells me that you were always here in heart, Nicky, to see you still wearing a clan token.”

  He smiled. “Aye, it was always another reminder not to forget completely that I am a Highlander.”

  “Ye ken that you never would, don’t you? It’s always there in yer blood.”

  “Aye, one that was heated once again by clan loyalties on the way here,” Nicholas said. “We met up with Sutherland and a Macleod.”

  “Aye, Bastian said as much when he came in. The Drummond lad is a burly one, he is.”

  “Aye, and a pea to match the wee lass at his side.”

  “How long will the man stay?”

  “Until he’s sure Mary is settled, in case the lass wishes to return home.”

  “So you aren’t sure she’ll stay?”

  “No.”

  Ann patted his hand sympathetically, her gaze knowing. “It’s like that, is it?”

  Chapter 12

  Mary woke up abruptly, sitting up as the vestiges of her nightmare faded, leaving her unable to remember anything except how frightened she’d felt. Blaming the Highlander, Mary slid off the bed. Someone had come while she slept to lay a blanket over her while her meager baggage sat near the fireplace yet to be unpacked. She crossed to the window, a high narrow opening set into the wall, with a single multi-paned glass panel that creaked alarmingly when she pushed it open. The fog and rain had lifted and what met her eyes was not what she expected at all. Far below a wide expanse of deep blue water sparkled in the sun. Mountains swept up from the kyle, rugged and beautiful at the same time, colored in pink and purple, green to their rocky tips. Wind moaned past the window, but brought the smell of roses and lilacs, of green things freshly growing. Mary blinked in surprise and closed the window. She picked up her cloak and pulled it over her shoulders to make her way back down the stairs.

  The main room was empty, its square bulk emphasized by the symmetrical placing of several tables across from the front door. Four benches sat in front of the fireplace. A large skull hung above the mantle, the antlers attesting to the great size of the animal. Thin tapestries covered the white washed walls, and a fine rug covered the slate stone floor beneath the seats at the fireplace.

  “It is not much,” Donald Mackay said quietly. “You’ve probably seen better.”

  Mary turned to face her new father-in-law. “Aye, but they do not have the warmth yer keep holds.”

  Donald lifted a brow and then waved her to a bench. “Sit. Would you care for something to eat?”

  Mary nodded and he stepped away near a side door to speak to a servant. He returned to Mary and sat next to her. “They’ll be along with something shortly.”

  “Where is Nicholas?” She had expected him to return long ago, but he had not.

  “Once returned, it is hard not to visit all those places one treasured as a child,” Donald replied with a smile. “Nor avoid all those who wish to see him and say hello.”

  M
ary smiled faintly. “I see.”

  “He will be back before the sun sets.”

  A young woman hurried in, leaving a tray on a small table in front of Donald. He motioned toward it. “Help yourself. We are casual in such things. Dinner will be served once all have returned, but I am sure you are hungry.”

  Mary took a plate, loaded with fruit and cheeses, a few small seed cakes and then the ale Donald poured for her. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “None of that now, it will be Donald,” her father-in-law insisted.

  “If you like,” Mary agreed.

  “I do,” Donald declared firmly. He took a bit of cheese and sat back to watch the fire.

  “How is Bastian?” Mary glanced at Donald from the side, watching him carefully. The chieftain seemed relaxed, his gaze on the coals in front of his feet.

  “Well enough. I sent him off to rest a few minutes ago.” Donald leaned forward in his seat to poke at the peat. “How is it between you and Nicholas?” he asked softly.

  Mary looked away as color heated her cheeks. They had had little time alone since they’d left Perth. It was hard to say how it was, they were still testing the waters as it was. “Well enough,” she said, echoing his words.

  Donald smiled briefly. “You don’t agree on things?”

  “We have had little time to know if we disagree or agree on anything,” Mary said. “But so far, things are good.”

  “He will treat you with respect, you know it?”

  “Even after stealing me away?” Mary could not resist saying and then thought better when Donald’s lips tightened into a thin line.

  “I agree it was not a particularly good idea of his,” Donald said.

  “That’s because it wasn’t his idea but my brother Rory’s.”

  Donald arched a brow curiously. “Why would yer brother do such a thing?”

  Mary shrugged. “The only reason I can think of is to keep me from the man Maelcolm Beg intended for me.”

  “Aye, that’s true in some respect,” Rory said from the door. He thumped forward, waving off Fiona who hovered at his elbow. He shifted his crutch from under his arm and then dropped onto a bench beside them. “And I know something ye don’t about Nicholas.”

  Donald waved Rory toward the food. “Aye, and what is that lad?”

  “He was a man wanting, nay, needing to go home,” Rory said quietly. “He only needed a good reason and that became Mary. Once wed, he had little reason not to return. The Highlands have been calling at his heart for a number of years, but the man is stubborn as a goat.”

  Mary giggled at the image.

  “Ye gave him quite a gift,” Donald remarked ruefully.

  Rory looked at Donald and then at Mary. “Aye, that I did,” he agreed.

  ***

  Fiona tucked her hand beneath Mary’s arm as they stepped outside. The sun had set to the west, a bright orange glow on the horizon. Shadows lengthened in the courtyard, the sky overhead remained a bright blue, untouched yet by the sun’s setting rays.

  “It is a pretty place when the sun is out,” Fiona said.

  “Aye, Varrich is much like Drymen.”

  “Ye didn’t tell Donald that,” Fiona surmised.

  Mary laughed softly. “No, he thinks I am used to far better. This is very nice,” she said.

  Fiona drew her down the steps and they moved carefully through the drying mud past the outer buildings. Nodding to a clansman standing guard, they passed beside him to walk down the road. Geese scattered in front of them. A woman carrying blackberries in a basket smiled as she passed. A pair of horses appeared further down the road.

  “Who do you think that is?” Mary wondered.

  “I don’t know,” Fiona whispered. They moved to the side of the road when the horses reached them. The man leading slowed when he saw them and the horse, disliking its pacing changed so abruptly pranced sideways and then around in a circle while the young man cursed.

  “Bloody animal has a hard time remembering who is the master,” he complained cheerfully when he finally had control. He gripped the reins firmly, dressed in a blue tunic and cloak, his dark hair cut close to his head. He had fine eyes, green much like Nicholas had, with the same dark lashes. Another brother, Mary decided.

  He smiled. “Tis a wonder to have such a fine pair of ladies on my road. News travels fast here, so you must be the Drummonds?”

  Mary nodded. “I am Mary Drummond.”

  “Mackay now,” Fiona whispered, laughing. “I am Fiona Frazier Drummond, sir, and you ?”

  He dismounted fluidly. “I am Hugh Mackay. A wonder then, the story is true. Ye’ve brought Nicky home?” He caught Mary in a hug that took her breath, and then set her on her feet to hug Fiona.

  “Aye,” Mary said, shifting her gaze to the woman behind Hugh who had remained astride her horse. “Nicholas is back. My brother Rory has come with him as well.”

  Hugh caught their arms to pull them with him back toward the keep. “And a few more I am sure, and here I am not at home to greet you .” He glanced behind him at the woman. “Come along Branwen, we have much to celebrate. Nicholas is finally home!”

  Mary looked back. Branwen continued to sit on her horse, her expression one of dismay. Noting Mary watching, she slapped her reins against her horse to ride back the way they had come.

  ***

  Nicholas crouched on the rocky outcrop, the wind tugging at his hair as he looked over the lands of the Mackay. The bens sat hallowed by the setting sun. Meadow and field rolled beneath him to the banks of the kyle. He turned his head. Beside him lay more steep hills, Varrich nearly hidden behind them, with only the roofline visible from his vantage point. The sun slanted low just above the hills, soon to drop out of sight. It would turn cold swiftly as darkness descended. Mary would be worried, uncertain to her place even with Fiona there for support. He smiled at the thought of her, closed his eyes to imagine her waiting and decided it was prudent to return quickly. He intended to renew their brief romantic explorations once dinner was done.

  Nicholas would be glad to have Mary to himself, the week had seemed long after the brief night they’d had alone. He had to admit he looked forward to seeing her. He slipped down from the overlook, springing easily from rocky ledge to rock until he was in a narrow valley, dark with shadows. He shifted the plaid over his shoulder and tucked the ends of it under his belt.

  How long had it been since he’d been in this place? Too long, he decided.

  He hurried down a small streamlet toward Varrich until he reached the road, where walking would be easier and faster toward home.

  The sun had just set when the woman appeared, hair flying behind her in her haste, the horse lathered from hard riding. He caught the horse as she passed, dragging its head down to pull the animal up short, while the woman shrieked, raking him with the crop she carried in one hand.

  “What the devil?” Nicholas roared, lifting an arm to block the next blow of her whip. He dragged her off the horse, fingers tight around her wrist as she continued to berate him in a language he’d not heard in some time.

  It was Welsh, similar to the Scots spoken locally, but twisted so that much of it sounded incoherent. It told him who the woman was, however.

  “Branwen, leave off, it’s me Nicholas.”

  Chest heaving, the woman jerked back from his grip. She was as pretty as he remembered and just as sinister.

  “Why have you come back?” she spat. Her hair fluttered wildly in the wind. “You should be dead!”

  Memory flooded back, memories he wished to have forgotten forever.

  Branwen was a stunning woman. Tall with the slanted eyes of the fey, she’d drawn both his eye and his lust from where she’d sat in the tiny pub in Stirling. A woman surrounded by men yet seeming unconcerned to be so. Her dark hair loose to her waist, dressed in a low cut shift pulled off one shoulder, her laces loosened from her stays, she’d left Nicholas no doubt as to why she was there. E
xpecting nothing more than that, he’d approached her with coin in his pocket, while the men watched him without concern.

  She’d smiled at him, her dark eyes assessing. Dressed as she was, her clothes were still of high quality, a noblewoman fallen on hard times perhaps. He had no idea and cared less, her beauty made him more than willing to pay whatever price she desired.

  “Are you free,” Nicholas had asked, dropping the coin purse to the table with a metallic thunk.

  Branwen had looked at the purse and then slowly at him, lips curled suddenly into a sneer. Taken aback by the expression, Nicholas had stepped back while the men around her laughed.

  “He seems to think you a trollop, Branwen Ap Rhys,” one of her men had chuckled.

  Nicholas frowned as Branwen glared at the one who had spoken. “I am no such thing,” she growled and then turned back to Nicholas. “I am cousin to the Welsh prince, fool man.” She leaned forward, for a noblewoman giving Nicholas a fine view of her breasts tucked high above her stays. “But you are a handsome man, I’d forgive you the insult.” She’d fluttered her lashes and Nicholas, without female company for some time, decided he’d sit at her invitation. He should have left when he’d the chance for things grew far worse from there.

  He accepted the ale she pushed toward him with a smile, drinking it quickly. She made small talk all the while watching him with those dark eyes that brought a nagging sense of unease to his mind. The ale diffused the instinct, until things began to grow fuzzy and Nicholas could not have lifted a hand to his sword had he wanted to. Realizing she’d drugged him, Nicholas had stood up, but his legs had given way leaving him lying on the floor. Laughing, the men surrounded him to drag him out of the pub.

  He had no idea what she’d said to the innkeeper, or if anyone really cared.

  He had passed it all off as a simple attempt to steal his coin, until he’d mumbled his name, trying to find some semblance of dignity while unable to rise at all.

  Mackay.

  She had repeated his name, standing over him with his coin, her hair a fall of shadow beside her.