Claiming the Highlander

by Mageela Troche

  When Caelen joined her, she said, “I shall never leave this bed.”

  With one arm, he yanked her tightly against him. Her head was tucked under his chin. He threw his leg over her bent ones. She smoothed the hairs on his arm. His body heat seeped into her back. Her eyes grew heavier. Her last thought before slumber overtook her was that the only way to sleep was in Caelen’s arms.

  Warm air carrying the smell of smoke burned her nostrils. She pawed about for the covers. Feeling nothing but wrinkled linen and coldness, she opened her eyes. Caelen was gone. On bare feet, she tiptoed her way to the window. She threw open the shutters.

  Silhouetted against the night sky were three ships, their sails unfurled. The flames of arrows pitched against the near black sky, casting eerie shapes on their descent. A raid. The proper thing would be for her to lock the shutters. She scanned the shore. All she made out was the rocks under the moonlight. From this distance, no sounds reached her, swept away by the lap of the loch’s soft waves. She hung half out the window. Her toes skimmed the chilled floorboards.

  Chapter Eleven

  The MacCleods of Skye stormed the shores where the three lochs and the calm waters lapped at the clattan. Men stormed from their homes, bearing pikes while the women and children ran up the slope of the mountains. Thor stampeded his way into the fray. A MacCleod fell back. Raemon drove his claymore into the falling man’s face. Thor bit at men standing in his way and kicked out as he was trained to fight in close quarters. Caelen arched his claymore. The MacCleod warrior shifted his stance and those swords swashed together. Caelen yanked Thor about and charged the man again. Three men ran before Thor. His mount reared up and fell sideways. Caelen jumped out of the way before he was pinned beneath him.

  The MacCleod man charged him with a roar. He parried. The blow shook up Caelen’s arm. The sword blades screeched as they slid across the keen edges. With his shoulder, Caelen knocked him off. The man stumbled. Caelen kicked him to the ground. He kicked away his sword and then planted a booted foot on his chest. He raised his sword and plunged it in his chest.

  Caelen ripped his sword free, tearing up more muscle and blood. At his shoulder, he felt a blade slid into his muscles and slam into bone. Warm blood poured down his back and chest, and blended with his sweat. His natural instinct set in and he spun around, protecting his injury.

  The raiders called a retreat. The horn call blasted through the clattan. Caelen raced after them. His injured muscles twisted with each stride and slowed him down. Waist deep the men gave a final pitch attack. Then the islemen rowed to the boat.

  “My lord, ye harmed. Those devils stabbed ye in the back.” Raemon jutted his chin toward the wound.

  Caelen slid his claymore in its scabbard and blasted the air with a string of curses. He pulled out his dirk. He cut off his sleeve. Raemon tied it about his shoulder.

  “Keir thinks you are the worst under his command. Tonight you proved yourself skillful.”

  “He favors Manus an’ his men. We dinna really try fae him.”

  “What are you all called?”

  Raemon pointed to each man. “Miach, Uilliam, Jock, and Keddy.”

  “Let’s return. Most of you still look in your cups.”

  Miach burped, shaking his barrel chest. Jock and Keddy shared a grin.

  “Aye, my lord. I am a thinkin’ I need anither caup,” Keddy said, his voice was deep and thick, not matching his short stature.

  Caelen swung up onto Thor. The ride back jostled his shoulder. He grinded his back teeth and was sure they would turn to dust. He rode into the courtyard and handed Coinneach his horse. “You still have the egg.”

  “Aye, it hasna broken.”

  Caelen had to choose which smelled worse, the stench of blood or the egg. “Get rid of it. It’s time to get you a training sword.”

  Coinneach jumped in the air and threw the egg away. “Thank ye, my lord.”

  Caelen made his way into the great hall. He grabbed a flagon, sniffed the oaky drink, and took a long swig.

  He spun around at the scream. Brenna raced to him. Her hair flapped out behind her. She wore the thinnest garment that molded against her body.

  “Good God, woman, you are indecent.”

  “And you are bleeding. Get me water and needle.” She ordered to the servants. She snatched the flagon from him.

  A soft groan escaped his lips. “You shall go upstairs.”

  “You shall come with me.”

  Caelen turned her around and headed to the chamber. The pain lessened as long as he kept his arm cradled to his chest.

  Once in the chamber, he plopped down on the bed’s edge. Servants filed in, bringing water, candles, linens, and more medicine jars.

  “Please sit here.” She patted a stool.

  He pushed himself to his feet and went to it. “There.”

  She poured water in a bowl and washed her hands. She dried them off. “Now, let’s see.” She pushed aside the ends of his hair. Her fingertips brushed softly against the nape of his neck. She untied the piece of fabric and let it drop on the floor. Between two fingers, she peeled the leine off the wound. He hissed as dried blood stuck the fabric to his wound.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  She dabbed at his wound. Her touch was gentle. “Those bastards, attacking on this night. Do they have no respect for the dead?” She dipped the linen in the bowl and wrung it out.

  “I would have done the same. Men’s attention turned away from their duties, and in their cups or fooling with the ladies. The perfect night for a raid.”

  She wiped the linen across the wound, once, twice and then two more times. The water trickled down his back. The water in the bowl turned pink. He peered over his shoulder.

  “Turn back. It is bleeding again, but it isn’t that deep and quite small. Whoever stabbed you only pierced you with the tip.” Her breath brushed against him.

  He looked up at the door opening. His mother rushed in. “What happened?”

  “I was stabbed. A paltry wound, Mother.” She peered over his shoulder.

  His muscles constricted as Brenna poured the alcohol over the wound. “A warning, woman.”

  She made a sound of agreement. She wasted good uisge beathe, drowning the needle and thread in it.

  “This is the painful part.” She pinched the muscles and slipped the needle into his flesh.

  An itch started and he wanted to roll his shoulder.

  “There. All is complete. Now for the medicine.”

  Caelen rose. “Never mind that.” He circled his arm, stretching the skin.

  “Cease that or you will break your stitches.” Her touch stopped him.

  She placed a kiss on his back. “All is well.”

  Mother took a look as well. “Are you sure it was one of the islemen who did this?”

  “I had thought the same. I cannot say that they plotted alone.”

  “You think my father had a hand in this.” Brenna washed her hands though not one drop of blood remained.

  “I don’t discount it.”

  Brenna paled. ‘He wasn’t there.”

  “It does not mean he didn’t play a part in the planning.”

  His mother motioned to Brenna with a flick of her head. “Before we let our imaginations run about, we should learn more. Caelen, be careful next time.” She presented her cheek for a peck. “I am glad you are not harmed.”

  Brenna looked wild as his mother left. “Not harmed…you could have lost your arm, or can yet die of infection. Are you feverish?” She slapped her palm against his cheek.

  He peeled her hand away. “Brenna, calm yourself. Come to bed and let’s sleep.”

  “I cannot rest after this.”

  “You must. If you do not, I shall not heal properly. Rest is the best for the wounded.”

  Caelen spread out on the bed and patted the space beside him.

  “Do you think Tavish could have done this? His way of revenge.”

  * * * *

  This was w
hy Caelen hated tubs. He never fit. He had to stand up and douse himself.

  “Why am I wet?” Brenna sat up. She tossed her tangled hair off her face. “You are flinging water all over the place. I do not know how you did it but you managed to bathe me.” She tossed aside the covers.

  She zigzagged by him, avoiding the wetness spread across the floor. He stepped from the tub and added to the puddles of water.

  “How is your shoulder?”

  “Sore and tight but functioning,” he answered. “Hurry and dress. We are to see your father off together.”

  “You wish to show him that I stand with you.”

  “Do you stand with me?” He froze, the drying linen hung from his fingers as if he was a modest maiden. He couldn’t move. His life depended on her answer.

  “I do.”

  He tossed aside the linen and swept her up instead. A warm glow shined from her. She cupped his face. He placed a peck on her palm.

  “I have to dress and you have my father to toss out, then we must…”

  He turned to where his leines hung as if he could turn away from what he must do. Caelen vowed to never tell the truth. He had done his best to forget that night. Dairmad should have followed orders instead of breaking off on his own.

  Caelen tried to forget the part he played. Still within him, he felt he had acted justly but should have brought about justice differently.

  He tied the leather strings of boots. He opened the door and waved Brenna to proceed. He followed her into the great hall. Laird Grant stood at the foot of the stairs.

  “I am departing.”

  “Farewell,” Caelen said.

  “Father, I ask you to cease with treating us as enemies.”

  He paused. “I will do what I must for the clan even if that means I lose my daughter.”

  Brenna angled her head in a noble angle, and in the most even tone said, “Farewell.” She swept away.

  “While she is wed to you, you will care and protect her.” He fixed his stern gaze on Caelen.

  “I shall.”

  Grant parted without a glance. Caelen remained inside, not seeing him off and knowing guards would escort them to the land’s boundaries.

  He went off to search for Brenna. Turning to the rear door, he found her squeezed in the corner.

  “I tried to stay.” She pushed off from the wall. “Oh, I just wish the king gave him the position and let it be.”

  “If anyone could convince the king, it would be you.”

  Slowly, her eyes brightened. “I could.”

  Caelen aimed a finger at her. “You will not petition the king.”

  “Do you think I could convince the king to grant it to my father when others have failed? I have duties to see to and you do as well. Will you gather everyone?”

  “Nay,”

  “But you had said—”

  “They do not need to know what happened. I am the leader of this clan. He can climb to apex of Ben Nevis and scream his tale. Highlanders will scoff at him and make him look a fool. If I ever share what happen, it will be my choice. Break your fast, and see to your duties.”

  Brenna claimed her chair. She ripped the high table bread in half. With her dirk, she stabbed a hunk of cheese.

  The top of Finian’s head shined from the thin coating of sweat. He kept on smacking his lips as if he had a foul taste in his mouth. Gilroy’s usually bushy beard was limp and his eyes were red.

  No one spoke, mindfully taking bites of their bread and cheese. That pleased Caelen. Tavish approached the dais, his sword at his side.

  “Do ye prepare for another raid?” Gilroy asked.

  “I am departing frae the castle.”

  “Wat do ye mean?” Finian craned his neck to look at Caelen. “My Lord?”

  “Ask him about his betrayal,” Caelen said.

  Tavish narrowed his eyes. He twisted his hand about the grip of his sword.

  “Explain, you should not be ashamed of your actions,” Caelen said.

  Gilroy shot his gaze between Caelen and a silent Tavish. Finian wore a confused expression. Tavish drew in a deep breath and began. Caelen sat back, watching the play of disbelief and anger spread across the two men’s faces.

  Finian slammed his hand down on the table, setting bowls and platters to shake. “Ye ha’e disgraced this clan. Yer son is dead. Men die in battle.”

  “He soldna ha’e gaen in the first place. Ye pushed him, Tavish.”

  “Dairmad was just as skilled as he.” He pointed at Caelen.

  “He mae ha’e had skill, but he lacked sharpness.” Finian shook his head.

  “Lies—he died because he was runnin’.”

  “I did not run.”

  At Caelen’s low voice, a stillness fell over everyone. They were too afraid to move and halted at Caelen’s telling.

  Years later, he could still smell the blood and the horses of that night. “Dairmad broke off from the group, failing to follow orders, as he did. I went to find him.” He felt the spongy ground beneath his feet. “He had killed an old man and boy. He was violating a lass. I pulled him off and from behind him, she came and buried his own blade in his back. I did nothing to stop it, aye, but that was what he deserved.”

  “Lair!” Tavish drew his sword. The point aimed at Caelen.

  He sprung to his feet. The chair slammed to the ground. Gilroy and Finian chased after Tavish.

  “My son wod ne’er. Ne’er.” Spittle flew from the corners of his mouth.

  Guards ran forward and disarmed Tavish. The man crumpled in their arms. He turned ashen, letting out dry heaves. “He sod ne’er gaen along. He wanted ta gae because ye were ‘ere frae MacLean’s. Diarmad told me, he had missed the night before and wodna again. He ne’er followed on ither raids.”

  “Why did ye not tell us this before?”

  “I did not want Tavish to know. He deserved a better memory of his son.”

  Gilroy whispered to one of the guards. Caelen had no care what he said. He watched the guards drag the defeated man away.

  Caelen stormed away to the demands of where he was going. He accelerated as he left the castle and halted at the tip of the isle. He was sure he knew what was right and could bring Dairmad along, keep him under control. Caelen had MacLean men—more boys than men—under his command.

  He hadn’t kept him under control, though, and because of his pride, a family laid deep within the ground, Dairmad was dead, and Caelen had banished himself.

  What would Father Murray say? Confession is good for the soul. All Caelen felt was exposed. He had borne than secret as his own hair shirt, propelling himself to be better, and with the truth revealed, he didn’t know the man he was.

  “My lord, my lord,” Coinneach called out as he ran toward him. He pumped his arms so it looked as if he was punching himself in the head. He skidded to a stop. “I’m ready to train.”

  Raemon and his men appeared, carrying training weapons and their targes.

  “Grab a sword and a targe. I want to see your sword work. You—” he pointed to Coinneach, “—will be learning how to handle a sword.”

  A child’s sword rested among the cluster of weapons. Caelen had one of these. His father had taken the other one and fought with him, even letting him win. When Caelen stabbed him, Father would groan and fall to the ground.

  “This is your weapon.”

  Coinneach clasped the grip. His round eyes grew. His mouth gaped.

  “Let’s start.” Caelen held up his own. The child’s sword looked ridiculous in his hand. It was the length of his forearm, and his hand was too large for the handle.

  “Me an’ ye?”

  “You will train with the other boys soon enough.”

  “Once I beat the commander,” he said, positive of his triumph.

  Caelen sparred with the boy, correcting his stance and form. Coinneach turned out to be a dedicated student.

  “You have some strength.”

  “Carin’ fae the horses. Ye ha’e to be strong to do
the chores too.”

  “I want to improve that. Each day, I want you to run about the isle. You can start now.”

  Red-faced, he took off. He didn’t put down his sword.

  Caelen turned his attention to the men. He had trained men before, turning out skilled warriors. That had held importance for him. He expected these men to obey, but be able to think on their own. Recklessness was a trait he did not except in his men. Diarmaid taught him that.

  Neacal appeared at the top of the hill and watched from a distance. He drifted closer, and then marched forward. “My lord, I ha’e cam to offer ye my assistance.”

  Caelen waved the men to continue with their drills. “How?”

  The thud of training sword lessened.

  “The same as I did wit yer father.”

  As Caelen stared at the man, his conviction sharpened his face and steeled his eyes. “I want these men faster, and not listening when they ought to be training.”

  Coinneach came running from the castle. “My lord, ye’re needed.”

  * * * *

  The three days passed since the laird was buried, and Brenna now had a mountainous task. She had to replenish the stores. Carts had been arriving. The wine merchant departed very pleased and without any goods. The fishermen were soon to arrive, bearing their catch and bringing the smell. Men were out seeking more meat. Grain was arriving. The day was a whirlwind. There was much more that required her attention.

  She was entering the number of eggs when the lairdess came in. “The stores are not as bare.”

  She glanced about the dim room where half of the stores were still empty. “It should be replenished in another day or so.”

  “Still more to do?” she asked, looking over Brenna’s shoulder to the household rolls.

  “Aye, you can help if you wish.”

  “If I wish.” She straightened.

  Brenna looked up sharply.

  “I can do anything I wish. This is still my home.” She flapped a hand about.

  “Most certainly,” Brenna said in a small voice.

  “My husband may be dead but I have run this household for more years than you have lived. It has thrived under my care. I do not need your pity.” She stormed out.