Fianna Leighton - Tales of Clan Mackay

by Return to the Highlands

  Mackay? She had stepped back and laughed, a low mocking sound that made him wary. “Clan Mackay seems to have many members. I just married a foolish young boy last night. Any relation to you? His name is Hugh.”

  Nicholas had stared at her in shock. Hugh was only seventeen, far too young to marry, and especially to a woman like her. He struggled to rise but she kicked him back, leaving her foot on his chest. “Try all you like, lad, but the drug is potent. You won’t be going anywhere soon. I thought the boy more than he is. He swore he was the new laird of Clan Mackay, boasting to the men in the pub. I took him at his word, for he was not yet in his cups. Fool I for being taken in, but that is the way of things. I meet him tonight to travel to this godforsaken hole you live in. I’ll have my revenge for his lies.” She bent over him, digging a hand into Nicholas’s hair to lift his head. “And you, not much older than he is, I doubt you are the laird either.” She let go with a growl and Nicholas winced as his head banged hard on the floor. He thought she might have slit his throat had she the chance, but her men, more conscious of just where they were and perhaps the power of his name as well, kept her from it, dragging her away in a fury. Nicholas could not have stopped her, drugged from the ale, he could only lie there, useless, unable to move.

  He had woken bleary and foggy the next morning, penniless but for his armor and horse, thankfully left at the inn where he’d stayed the night before. He sought his brother and found him outside Stirling among more of the Mackay, a paltry guard Nicholas decided for boy of seventeen, even one intent on being a man. Hugh’s face when he saw Nicholas brightened but then the smile faded quickly at Nicholas’s stern expression.

  “So ye’ve already found out somehow,” Hugh had complained, dropping to a seat on a rock with a deep sigh. “I’ll not renege on my vows, brother. I’ve done it for good or worse.”

  “She’s not for you , Hugh. Let her go.”

  “Nay, I’ve spoken before God and the church. I’ll not break a holy vow. She’s a bonny lass, Nicky, she’ll be all right.” Hugh stood up and grinned, holding out a hand. “Glad I am to see ye, still. Da has sent me to bring you home, Nicholas.”

  But Nicholas had not gone back to Varrich. He had left Hugh to take his bride home, filled with misgivings but stubbornly refusing to return to the Highlands and Donald’s rule. He shook his head at the memory, sensing even now, fifteen years later, that Branwen remained vindictive. To find her well and still with Hugh filled him with apprehension. Perhaps she had put aside whatever had driven her, but Nicholas thought not, not when she appeared in such a fury, not when she clearly would still like to see him dead.

  “I belong here,” he said coldly, his thoughts returning to the present as Branwen gasped angrily. “As you never will.”

  She lifted the crop, but he caught the whip with his hand. “Do not strike me again, Branwen. Where is Hugh?”

  “Slobbering over your women,” she sneered. “Feeding our food to strangers.”

  “You have not changed at all,” Nicholas growled. “Tell me again why you married my brother when you so despise the Mackay.”

  She jerked free with a growl. “Go away, Nicholas. You have never belonged here. Varrich is ours.”

  He gathered the reins of her lathered stallion and mounted. “Varrich is Donald’s and if not, then it will be Sebastian’s. It will never be you .” He held out his hand. “Come with me or walk, it’s your choice.”

  She gripped his wrist and settled behind him. Had he a choice he’d have left her behind, but could not. He rode slowly, much to her irritation, allowing the horse time to settle down. Dismounting once inside Varrich, he lifted Branwen down to set her on her feet. She slapped him and then stalked past him to the stairs.

  Nicholas rubbed his jaw.

  “Some things never change,” Bastian said from the shadows. “She still holds a grudge against you, brother. She’s never forgiven you for considering her a thief and worse.”

  “She is a witch,” Nicholas complained. He frowned when he touched his cheek, at the heat beneath his fingers. He had only his word that Branwen had been the one to drug and steal from him. She had denied it, had somehow coerced Hugh into believing her. The thought still made him angry, wondering just how she had managed to wedge herself between him and Hugh. He sighed pushing aside those questions. Hugh had made his decision, one Nicholas might not have liked, but it seemed things had settled well enough between the pair if Branwen was still at Varrich.

  “Aye, she is. If we could prove it we’d have freed Hugh years ago, but she’s a canny bitch.” Sebastian held out a flask. “Whisky?”

  Nicholas accepted the drink and swallowed, coughing as the brew hit his chest, adding to the weight already there. “Damn, Bastian, where did you get that?”

  “Rory,” Bastian admitted. “He said it would help with the pain.”

  Nicholas coughed to clear his throat. “Bloody scot is trying to kill you.”

  Bastian snorted. “Nay, I’m feeling quite mellow, enough not to want to slap the wench like she did you.”

  Nicholas rubbed his jaw again. Mary would want to know why he was marked. He decided a few drinks of Rory’s brew would be more acceptable than explaining why another woman had slapped him. Women tended to band together. He shuddered at the thought.

  ***

  The woman striding into the hall was wild, so much like the land they were now in that Mary found herself feeling insignificant in comparison. Her hair windblown, she tossed a small whip onto the table and then removed a fine pair of leather gloves from her hands. Hugh, turning, smiled broadly at the sight of her. “There you are Branwen. Where did you go? I meant to introduce you to Nicholas’s new wife, and Fiona and Rory.”

  The woman smoothed her hair. “I am sorry. I was delayed.” She swept across the hall as if she owned the keep, holding out her hand to Mary. “Branwen Mackay,” she said.

  Mary felt as if she should bow to the woman, although she was sure as Nicholas’ wife her rank was higher. She stood up and hugged the woman instead. “It is so nice to meet ye. Hugh has said so much about ye.”

  Branwen jerked free abruptly. “I am sure,” she said. She glanced at Hugh. “Have you spoken with the servants about dinner?”

  “Nay,” Hugh said, a frown marring his brow. Mary decided of the three brothers, Nicholas and Hugh looked most alike.

  Branwen sniffed and turned around, but Donald lifted a hand languidly. “Be still Branwen. Everything is accounted. Mary has met with the cook and has things well in hand.”

  Branwen’s chin lifted. “I see. Forgive me for being late from visiting the ill and sick,” she declared.

  Hugh laughed and dropped an arm around her shoulders. “We saw Ben and his wife, the wee bairn is due soon. Branwen gave her some herbs to aid with the birthing. And Wesley, up on Ben Loyal broke his leg last week. Not sure how, we just had been by, but he was late in sending in his tithe. I told him to send it over when he was able.”

  “Not good enough,” Branwen said in a low voice.

  Donald looked at them both. “It was a good deed done, Hugh. Branwen, we have spoken of such things before. Perhaps you wish to change before dinner?” He stared at Branwen, gray eyes intent on the woman until she blanched and left the room.

  Hugh’s smile faded. “Ye don’t have to do that.”

  Donald lifted his glass. “I didn’t do anything, Hugh. She will come back in better spirits once she’s calmed down.”

  Hugh looked ruefully at Mary. “Forgive her. Branwen is a bit wild. She was just surprised that you had come. She does not like being unprepared.”

  Fiona snorted very softly.

  ***

  One small drink had become several after Rory had found them and produced another flask. He grinned at Nicholas. “Ah, one more drink lad before we face the women.”

  Nicholas held the flask upside down. “Erm, not a drop left, Rory lad.”

  “Damn,” Rory complained. He po
ked at Bastian who was sprawled on a hay bale, but didn’t move. “I think he’s out for the night.”

  “And tomorrow most like,” Nicholas agreed, pressing a hand to his temple. “What the hell is in that anyway?”

  Rory picked up the flask on the ground and peered sadly into the vessel. “Ah, but the water of life, lad. I’d get more, but I’d have to get to my bag inside.”

  Nicholas groaned. “God’s blood, you goat, anymore of that and I’ll be like Bastian. What do you think Mary would think of that?”

  Rory grinned wickedly. “Ye aint’ seen the lass angry yet.”

  “No?”

  “Ach no, not really.” Rory shucked off one of his shoes. “Nor Fiona for that matter. Why is it now that the wee lassies don’t see the value in a good drink or two?”

  Nicholas helped Rory out of his other shoe. “I have no idea.”

  Rory gripped Nicholas’s arm to stand up, if unsteadily. “Ain’t harming a wee soul, you know.”

  Nicholas picked up Rory’s shoes and then slid his shoulder under Rory’s arm. “You don’t have to explain to me,” Nicholas said, staggering under Rory’s weight. They reached the barn door and he kicked it open. “Damn, man, you need to lose weight.”

  “Ye can leave me with Bastian,” Rory said with a belch. “Fiona will find me.”

  “I think not, you are a guest. They don’t sleep in the shed.” Nicholas gasped as he dragged Rory to the stairs. He waved to a clansman passing by for help and together they got Rory to the front door. Flung open, the door showed the rest of the family at the high table. Everyone turned toward Nicholas.

  “Damn.” Nicholas squinted at the candle light. It was later than he realized. Fiona rose from her seat and hurried toward them.

  “Is it his leg,” she asked in a low voice.

  Nicholas swallowed back a cough. “Nay,” he said hoarsely.

  She touched Rory’s brow just as Hugh relieved Nicholas of his side of the burden. Rory’s head lolled backwards, his mouth open as he began to snore. Mary stared at them from the table, her face white. Nicholas stumbled back as Fiona spoke to Hugh and they began to haul Rory up the stairs.

  Donald coughed discreetly. “Close the door, Nicky, my boy.”

  Nicholas obeyed, dropping Rory’s shoes on the floor. Focusing on the room, he weaved to the table to sit heavily next to Mary. He smiled at her. “Sorry,” he said gruffly.

  She opened her mouth and then closed it, turning back to her plate.

  He reached for the ale but found her hand on his. “I think not,” she said in a low voice.

  Donald snorted, deeply absorbed in cutting his meat.

  Nicholas eyed the rest of the table and then his plate. It did not look appetizing at all. He picked up his empty goblet and held it out to one of the servants that passed by. “Water, please.”

  Mary’s lips twitched, he was sure, when he accepted the goblet back. Across the table, Branwen watched them intently. Nicholas swallowed half the water and then forced himself to eat. The rest of family resumed their meal, but the conversation remained stilted for some time.

  By the end of dinner, Nicholas had enough of the censure, both from Mary, from Branwen who continued to stare, and even from Hugh when he returned to his seat a few moments later.

  Donald ignored them all, lips set in an amused smile.

  When Donald rose, Nicholas followed suit, dragging Mary to her feet. “The journey has been long. I believe we will retire.”

  “Do you need help?” Hugh asked quietly.

  Nicholas turned, slowly to keep his head from pounding. “Help, brother?”

  “With the stairs, Nicky?” Hugh explained soberly.

  Nicholas gripped Mary’s shoulder. “Why should I need help with the stairs?”

  Hugh shook his head. “Just an offer,” he said.

  The stairway took far more concentration than he expected, but at least he did not trip over the steps as everyone seemed to expect. The hallway seemed to take forever, and Mary’s silence was daunting. Reaching his room, he slammed the door shut and then staggered to the seat near the fire. Sitting down he put his head into his hands.

  “I should have warned you about the whisky,” Mary said. “It’s quite potent.”

  “I’ve had it before,” Nicholas gasped. “I’d simply forgotten.”

  She slipped her fingers under his chin to look at him. “Tsk, Nicholas, how much did you drink?”

  “Too much,” he answered. That was quite clear.

  Her fingers gripped his chin and forced his head to the side. He could not resist; his temples pounded like drums in his head. “What is this?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Have you been fighting?”

  “No.”

  “Then who has hit you?”

  He drew back, pushing her hand from his chin. “Leave it go, Mary.”

  She stepped away, and he noted too late her face had grown pale. “So have I come between you and yer mistress?”

  He blinked foggily. “My mistress?”

  “God’s blood, Nicholas Mackay, it is clear someone has struck you. Who else but someone upset, and most logically, because you returned with a wife.”

  It was true, but not in the way she thought. He rose to his feet and caught her arm as she struggled to evade his grasp. Hauling her against him, he pressed his lips to her brow. “There is no mistress, woman. I have been gone nigh fifteen years. No woman would wait that long for me.”

  She pressed her forehead against his chest, fingers wound into his tunic. Nicholas inhaled her scent. “It is Branwen that is upset. You take care with that one, Mary. I do not trust her.”

  Mary lifted her face to look up at him. “Branwen? But she and Hugh…”

  He sighed, dragging her with him to the bed to lie down. “Branwen and I do not get along, love.”

  Mary sat up to lean over him. “She hit ye? In anger?”

  “Aye, Branwen has always been a peevish wench,” Nicholas complained. He yawned. His eyes were far too heavy to remain open.

  “Ye are not going to go to sleep on me,” Mary declared from a distance. Nicholas didn’t remember anything more.

  Chapter 13

  Nicholas woke abruptly when Mary poured the basin of cold water over his head. Sitting up he reached for her but she was too quick, moving out of his reach. “Damn it woman, why did you do that?”

  She held the basin against her chest like a weapon. “To wake yer sorry arse, Highlander. Sleep until noon will ye?”

  He stared blearily at the window and noted the sun was indeed quite high. “So what?”

  “Well ye’ve hogged all the bed most the night, and snored loud enough to wake the dead. I’ve had enough!”

  He wanted to argue that he did none of those things but again had to note he was lying across the bed, still fully dressed. A blanket on the seat showed where Mary had slept.

  “Ach, sorry lass,” he said instead.

  She scowled, still looking as if she’d like to smack him with the basin. “They’ve brought you a tray for breakfast.”

  He made a face, his stomach still complaining at the smell. “Lovely.”

  “Hugh has come by twice to check on ye. Rory is still abed. They found Bastian in the milking shed!”

  Nicholas eyed the woman blearily. “So?”

  “The shed, Nicholas? He is wounded. With the dirt and all, lying out there can’t be good.”

  “He would have slept there anyway. Donald gave Rory his room.”

  Mary blinked at him. “But there is a guest room, Donald said there was.”

  Nicholas pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose. “Aye, there is, but until someone cleans out all the things stored there, no one will find room to step inside the door.” He chuckled, remembering as a boy how he’d thought there were ‘treasures’ inside. “Can you take the tray away, lass?”

  She picked up the tray and glared at him. />
  “And not talk quite so loud.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “Or glare so…” Nicholas added, trying not to smile.

  “Bah, men!” Mary hissed and left, to his relief, with the tray. He fell back on the bed to rub his temple. He’d kill Rory for bringing the bloody poteen with him. Rolling to his side, he forced himself up so he could stagger to the side table where the pitcher still held water. Retrieving the wash basin from Mary’s seat, Nicholas filled the basin, and then holding his breath, plunged his face into the water. Lifting his head, he wiped his hand over his face. He needed a shave, had not done so since they’d left Perth. He stared into the mirror above the stand, blinking. He’d been clean shaven while at Drymen. He looked back at the door with a frown.

  He would have remembered her doing that, wouldn’t he?

  A faint memory of fingers in his hair made him blink again. It needed cutting now that it brushed his shoulders. He shoved a hand through the strands and sighed. It had been a rough start at Varrich with the rain and then the drink. Nicholas had hoped Branwen would be gone, yet Hugh seemed as infatuated as ever. Could he not see the witch as she was? It seemed not. Finding Branwen still here had been an unpleasant surprise

  Shaving was a trial. He thought twice about calling Mary back but resisted, cursing when he nicked his jaw. He pressed the towel against the cut trying to remember the last time he done so. Removing his shirt, he sniffed it, drawing back at the smell.

  Horses, dogs, and mud were not pleasant odors to entice a woman to forgive him. He threw the shirt into the corner and then left the room, still holding the towel against his chin.

  Mary looked up from the table where she sat with Fiona. They watched him cross the room without getting up. Donald looked up from his bench near the fire where he sat with a log of accounts most likely from Hugh. Nicholas stalked past them and flung open the door, striding outside.

  Hugh turned from the men he was speaking with, opened his mouth and then shut it much as Mary had done last night at his glare.

  Branwen smirked at him from the kitchen doorway.