by Ruth Langan
Dillon’s gaze was riveted on Leonora’s face. His voice trembled with feeling. “No reward is necessary, my lord. It is enough to know that the lady is safe.”
At the roughness of his tone, both his brothers turned to study him. This open display of emotion was something they had never before seen in their brother. But Dillon was unaware of anything except the pale young woman who stood quietly beside her father, returning his look with a hunger that matched his own.
“Well.” Lord Waltham cleared his throat, uncomfortably aware of the highly charged emotions between Leonora and Dillon. “We will take our leave of this scene of death and destruction. I have long waited to welcome my daughter back to her rightful place in my home. I am certain you are just as eager to return with your brothers to your Highlands, Dillon.”
Dillon stood very still, watching as Leonora was led to a waiting horse and wrapped in an elegant, sable-lined cape before being helped into the saddle.
Anthea and her children made their way to Leonora’s mount.
“Thank you, my lady,” she said. “It would seem that we are once again in your debt.”
“Nay,” Leonora said softly, “it was your courage and your clever use of herbs and plants that saved us all.”
“You are too modest,” Anthea said. “I merely did what you suggested. But it was you, my lady, who showed such courage. Without you, none of us would have survived.”
“There are no more debts between us.” Leonora said. “Only a deep and abiding bond of friendship.”
As she made ready to leave, Dillon crossed the distance between them and caught her hand in his. At once, a flicker of hope leaped within her. At last, he had found his voice. He would not, could not let her go.
“Farewell, my lady,” he murmured.
“Farewell, Dillon?”
“Aye. We both know it must be so. But know also that I will think of you always, Leonora Waltham.”
She swallowed. “And I you, Dillon Campbell.”
Oh, Dillon, Dillon. Tell my father how you feel, she thought. Ask me to stay, her heart begged.
She felt tears spring to her eyes and cloud her vision, and still he stood, watching her in that silent, watchful way he had. He infuriated her. She hated him. She loved him. Oh, sweet heaven, how she loved him. And there was no way to speak of the things she held in the deepest, darkest recesses of her heart.
“Godspeed, my lady.”
“And you, my laird.”
A call went up from the head of the column of soldiers, and they began moving out at a smart pace. Lord Waltham wheeled his mount and returned to his daughter’s side.
“Are you ready, my dear?”
“Aye, Father.”
With a last, lingering look at Dillon Campbell, she was forced to follow the line of soldiers. At the top of the meadow, she turned for a final look. He was still standing where she had left him. He lifted his hand in a salute, and, her heart breaking, she waved and turned away toward home and England.
“Ye’re not hungry, m’laird?”
Mistress MacCallum stared at the perfectly roasted venison, the tender vegetables from the garden, the brandied pudding. All untouched on the laird’s plate.
He had been this way ever since he’d returned home with his brothers. Instead of the rejoicing they had all anticipated, a dark pall seemed to hang over Kinloch House.
“Nay, Mistress MacCallum. I have no appetite.”
“But—”
“Let it be, Mistress MacCallum,” Father Anselm said softly.
With deep sadness, they watched as Dillon pushed away from the table and summoned the hounds, who trailed eagerly as he led the way to his chambers. Once there, he closed the door, shutting out the sounds of laughter between Sutton and Shaw, closing out the sounds of life. He wanted no part of life or laughter. They merely reminded him of what he had lost.
He had not lost her, he reminded himself sternly as he crossed to the balcony. He had sent her away. His damnable sense of honor had cost him the only woman he had ever loved.
Leaning a hip against the ledge, he glanced toward the tower and could make out the silhouettes of Rupert and Gwynnith, feeding the doves. The little servant spent an inordinate amount of time these days up in the tower with Rupert. The lad’s wounds had miraculously healed, and to hear Mistress MacCallum tell it, it was all due to the love and devotion of the young servant.
Love and devotion. Perhaps they were some sort of miracle. They were indeed rare. Without them, life was little more than bleak existence.
The two silhouettes turned toward each other, the taller head bent, the shorter head lifted. Then the two merged and Dillon turned his gaze away, feeling like an intruder.
The land below was a sight that had always stirred his blood. These fierce Highlands had never failed to thrill him. The weather had gentled, leaving the countryside bathed in brilliant colors of summer. Vivid purple heather covered the meadows. The leaves of the oak and alder, pine and birch were deepest emerald green; the lochs a clear, clean blue. And yet…he turned away, unable to bear the beauty of the scene below him.
From his chaise, he idly lifted the tapestry Leonora had discarded…how long ago? Could it really be a fortnight? He and his men had remained in the Lowlands, helping Brodie of Morayshire rebuild his cottage. It had postponed, for a few more days, his return to the emptiness of his life in the Highlands. But every day, Anthea had talked endlessly about the English lady’s courage in the face of danger. She had described Leonora as the most magnificent woman she had ever met.
Magnificent. Aye. The thought of her brought a fresh stab of pain.
Dillon studied the heavy tapestry of rich crimson and gold. The stitches were fine and even, the images amazingly lifelike, depicting a man and woman on horseback. The woman wore a gown of deep purple, and above her head was the seal of England. The man wore the rough garb of a Highlander and carried a jeweled sword. Dillon glanced toward the sword hanging above the mantel. She had captured it perfectly.
The tapestry told the story of her abduction from her father’s home to a Highland fortress. There were the English soldiers in the forest, and the crofter’s cottage in the Lowlands. With needle and thread she had drawn Flame, riding bareback across a meadow, Rupert and his doves, sweet Gwynnith and plump Mistress MacCallum, surrounded by the servants. Each intricate detail had been meticulously embroidered.
Dillon closed his eyes, imagining her as she had sat, fighting the loneliness of her imprisonment here in his chambers. Though she wore the simple white gown of a peasant, with her hair falling long and loose to her waist, her beauty had rivaled that of a queen.
If only his sister would be content to pass the time in such a sedate fashion. The lass worried him. So foolish. So headstrong. So determined to imitate her brothers. If only she had been blessed with a sister like Leonora, the lass might have learned the art of being female.
Ever since his return, Flame had been as moody as he. Though her wounds had healed, she had been sulky and petulant, riding the hills at breakneck speed, staying out at times until almost dawn. Come to think of it, he had not seen her at table. He shook his head. How could he fault her for avoiding meals when he did the same?
He set the tapestry on a table and crossed to the fire. Tossing another log upon it, he stood and leaned a hand on the mantel, watching as the flame licked along the bark.
How could he bear the long days and nights, the endless years without his beloved Leonora? When would he be able to put aside the pain and get on with his life?
As the dark brooding thoughts swirled through his mind, he ignored the loud tap at his door. “Nay, Mistress MacCallum. I have not found my appetite. Leave me.”
The tap sounded a second time, and the hounds leaped up and began to whine. Flame’s muted voice could be heard through the closed door. “I have ridden long and hard, Dillon. I will not be shut out.”
“Go away, Flame. I am in no mood.”
“Nor am I. Now open this
door.”
As the pounding increased, he tore across the room and threw open the door. “Have you no respect for my privacy?”
“Nay. None.”
The smile on her face was so galling, he could not bear to see it. He turned away in disgust, muttering, “You are a heartless wench.”
“Aye. And you are a fool, Dillon Campbell,” she said to his retreating back. “But one of us had to atone for your mistakes.”
He stared dully into the fire. “What nonsense do you speak?”
“You shall see.” Her voice faded as she slipped from the room.
He turned back, intent upon locking the door against any further intruders.
He blinked at the vision who stood before him. She slid the hood of her ermine-lined cape from her head to reveal a mass of dark tangles. Her cheeks were the color of fresh apples, as though she had been riding a great distance.
“Leonora.” He stood very tall and straight, afraid to move, lest the vision disappear. “Are you truly here?”
“Aye.” She took a step toward him, and the skirts of a crimson satin gown swirled around her ankles.
“I have not dreamed you?”
“Nay, Dillon. I am no dream.” She moved closer and touched a hand to him. “I am real.”
“But how—” He stopped, then tried again. “Why have you come?”
“Flame brought me. She said she feared for you, Dillon. Feared that your poor heart might never heal.”
“She was right to fear it, for I feared the same. Ever since I returned, the memory of you here in Kinloch House has haunted me. Everywhere I look, I see you. Even in sleep, I find no release from the pain. I feel lost and lifeless.”
“Aye,” she whispered. “I have felt the same way. Oh, my love, what are we to do?”
“What can we do?” He clenched his hands at his sides, afraid to touch her. For if he did, there would be hope for them. “’Twould break your father’s heart if you were to renounce your land and live here with me.”
“It will break my heart if I do not, Dillon.”
Her words, spoken so simply, stunned him. “You would leave your father’s home? The home of your birth?”
“Is that not what women have done from the beginning of time, my love? Is it not right that I embrace all that you love, and make it my own?”
He lifted an open palm to her cheek, touching it lightly before drawing his hand away abruptly. “I would not wait for approval from your king, nor the blessing of your father, Leonora. I could not bear to send you back to England until proper arrangements are made. I would demand that we wed at once.”
Because of his stern demeanor, she tried not to laugh. “I would expect no less, my laird.”
“You have thought this over carefully?”
“Very carefully.”
He sighed deeply, feeling a welling of passion that threatened to swamp him. “Ah, my beloved Leonora. I had given up all hope of having my dream fulfilled. And now…” He framed her lovely face with his hands and pressed a kiss to her lips.
At once, the heat danced between them, and he drew her into his arms, kissing her with a hunger that startled them both.
As he took the kiss deeper, she whispered, “We will notify Father Anselm that we are to be wed at once.”
“Nay.” As she started to pull back, he dragged her against him and savaged her mouth with kisses. “The morrow will be soon enough to go in search of the good priest.” He dropped to his knees, pulling her down with him. “As for tonight, I have far better plans, my love.”
With a sigh, she gave herself up to the pleasure of his love. Love. It filled her heart, her soul. She would not question how it happened, nor when. She knew only that she would love this savage Highlander for a lifetime. And beyond.
Epilogue
“A rider just arrived bearing a missive from your father.” Dillon hurried into his chambers, then stopped in midstride to savor the view of his wife, seated in a chair by the fire, holding the tiny infant to her breast.
He crossed the room and knelt beside them, lifting his hand almost reverently to stroke the small round head covered with a thatch of dark auburn curls.
Leonora smiled and Dillon was reminded of a portrait of a Madonna and Child in Father Anselm’s chapel.
“Shall I read the missive?”
“Aye.”
He unrolled the parchment and began to chuckle. “It says that your loving father will be arriving within a fortnight to welcome Modric Alec Waltham Campbell, his new grandson. He carries greetings, as well as many gifts, from a grateful king, and looks forward to a long visit.”
“I am glad that summer has come to our Highlands,” Leonora said. “I want my father to see this land at its loveliest, so that he will love it as I do.”
Dillon smiled at her use of the term “our Highlands,” and wondered again at this wondrous gift he had been given. The lad who had been stripped of home and family, and taken in by monks, had never dreamed of finding such happiness. All he had wanted was justice. Instead, he had been given so much more. A place of his own in this proud, free land. A clan who trusted his leadership, and in return gave him unquestioned loyalty. Family and friends who returned his affection. And most of all, this woman who had given him his most precious gift of all—a son named after the one whose death had begun this long, arduous quest. This woman, who had turned her back on her own proud heritage to embrace his, owned his heart and soul, and filled his life with a love that would endure beyond the grave, beyond time, into eternity.
HIGHLAND BARBARIAN
Ruth Langan
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
To my mother, Anna Beatrice Curley Ryan,
In case I’ve forgotten to tell you lately how much I love you And, of course, to Tom.
Always to Tom
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter One
Scotland 1561
The line of mourners stretched as far as the eye could see. The men, women and children of the MacAlpin clan waited patiently to pay their respects to their fallen laird, Alastair MacAlpin. Dressed in simple peasant garments of rough wool, their hands callused from lifetimes of hard labor, they had left their fields and herds and trudged for miles to the manor house of their chief.
Seventeen-year-old Meredith, his eldest daughter, sat beside his body to greet her people. Her thick dark hair, the color of mahogany, had been brushed into silken waves that fell to her waist. Her green eyes occasionally misted with tears that were quickly blinked away.
Beside her sat the younger ones, sixteen-year-old Brenna, with hair the color of a raven’s wing and eyes that rivaled the heather that bloomed on the hill, and fourteen-year-old Megan, whose copper hair and gold-flecked eyes gave her a glowing radiance that shamed even the sun. Though it was Brenna’s nature to be serene in the eye of the storm, it was the first time Meredith had ever known her youngest sister, Megan, to be so subdued.
One by one the people paused to offer their condolences and to pledge their loyalty to Meredith, the new clan chieftain.<
br />
“You had a fine teacher, lass.” The gnarled old man, Duncan MacAlpin, wiped a tear from the corner of his eye and placed a bony hand on the girl’s shoulder. “You’ve learned your lessons well. You’ll do the MacAlpin proud.”
“Thank you, Duncan.” Meredith steeled herself against the pain. There would be no public display of weakness. What her people, and especially her younger sisters, needed to see now was strength, dignity, hope. Later, when she was alone with her grief, she would give in to the overwhelming need to weep.
The clatter of horses’ hooves sent the chickens squawking and clucking in the courtyard. The door to the manor house was opened to admit Gareth MacKenzie and a dozen of his men. The MacKenzie land adjoined the MacAlpin land to the north, then stretched for miles until it met the river Tweed.
“My condolences, Lady Meredith.” Gareth MacKenzie bent low over her hand, then turned to study the still form of the MacAlpin. “You know, of course, who murdered your father?”
“Aye. Cowards. Highwaymen who struck under cover of darkness and hid behind masks. Duncan here said there were more than a dozen.”
“You saw them?” Gareth turned a piercing gaze on the withered old man.
“I was bringing Mary back from a birthing at our nephew’s farm. By the time I realized what was happening, they were gone. And the MacAlpin was drenched in his own blood.” The old man choked back a sob before adding, “Mary and I brought him here in our wagon. But even my Mary’s medicines could not save him.”
“Did you get a good look at any of their horses?” Gareth’s hand hovered inches above his sword, and Meredith was touched by the vehemence in his tone. Though their lands had been adjoining for generations, she had never before been witness to Gareth’s concern for her father’s welfare.