by Amy Jarecki
Return of the Highland Laird
A Novella
~Book Four: Highland Force Series~
by
Amy Jarecki
Rapture Books
Copyright © 2014, Amy Jarecki
Jarecki, Amy
Return of the Highland Laird
Print ISBN: 978-692248065
AISN:
First Release: August, 2014
Book Cover Design by: Kim Killion
All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work, in whole or part, by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, is illegal and forbidden.
This is a work of fiction. Characters, settings, names, and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination and bear no resemblance to any actual person, living or dead, places or settings, and/or occurrences. Any incidences of resemblance are purely coincidental.
To Christine and Caroll, the best critique partners a girl could have!
Chapter One
The North Channel, off the coast of Scotland, March, 1587
The gale hit with destructive force as Alexander’s small birlinn rounded the Mull of Galloway and sailed into the Irish Sea. With a crack, the rope steadying the rudder snapped and whipped through the air, smacking him across the face with the power of a bullwhip. Clapping a hand to his bloody cheek, Alexander reeled back. A gust of wind blasted in from the starboard side. His grip slipped from the sail line. He tightened his fist, but the hemp rope cut through his palm like a slicing dagger.
His wounds stung, but if he wanted to live, he’d best fight the sea.
The square sail collapsed and flapped, resembling bed linens hung out in a storm. Angry white swells crashed over the bow and the boat listed from side to side. If he didn’t gain control soon, the birlinn would capsize for certain. The boom groaned and swung toward him with deadly speed. Alexander ducked and dove for the rudder.
Slippery from the driving rain, he steadied the long oaken handle under his arm. It took all his strength to keep the boat on course. Peering over the bow, he could see nothing but rain and waves so high they could swallow him into the icy depths at any moment. Though late afternoon, the clouds dominated the sky, making it dark as midnight.
A lightning bolt flashed and streaked into three fingers, followed immediately by a deafening roll of thunder.
His heart pummeling his chest, Alexander planted his feet against a rowing bench and pulled back with all his strength, roaring with the agony of exertion. The boat listed portside. Alex countered with the rudder. Rain and saltwater funneled into his eyes, but he could spare not a heartbeat to wipe them.
On and on he fought the sea, damning himself to hell while lightning streaked and thunder boomed above. He’d been a fool to sail from Raasay alone. He’d been a fool in so many ways. He had no right to be laird of Clan MacLeod. If only he’d been the one who’d fallen from the curtain wall and not Ilysa. She’d never done anything to incite the wrath of God. But Alexander had. He deserved punishment worse than death.
A rogue wave crashed from the starboard side. Timbers cracked. The boat listed so far to port, Alexander clung to the rudder and closed his eyes. Have mercy on my soul.
With his next breath, the birlinn buoyed upright. Alex squinted through the rain. A light flickered in the distance. He blinked and it was gone, hidden by the deluge and enormous swells. Had he been mistaken? He hoped to God he hadn’t and bore down on the rudder, praying his course was sound and the shore was near.
Though a robust man, every muscle burned while he fought the powerful current. The birlinn had twisted and turned so much, he could very well be on a course to the open sea—a folly no skilled sailor would ever make. If his father, the great Laird Calum MacLeod, were to see him now, he’d shake his head and turn away. Alexander had once thought he could follow in the wake of his father’s success, but he’d failed.
Miserably.
His entire life, tragedy and destruction rained down upon him akin to the tempest now threatening each breath.
Ahead the light flickered again. Alexander’s every muscle trembled with fatigue while he strained to see it. Brighter now, he spotted the glint each time the movement of the waves dipped. The birlinn bobbed with the sea and thrashed erratically. Alexander licked the salty sea water from his lips and strained to make out the shore. Sailing into rocks or cliffs would tear the boat into splinters. But the unrelenting rain refused to pause.
He kept the birlinn on course, convinced the light was a beacon calling to him. And then he saw it. The grey sands of a beach lay ahead, and yonder, a large whitewashed building—an inn for certain. Praise the heavens. He held fast to the rudder and set the course straight for the sand. When the boat skidded to a stop, Alex dropped anchor and jumped over the side into thigh-deep waves. The icy water was no colder than the plaid and shirt that clung to his skin.
The wind cut through him while he marched through the surf. Adjusting his sword belt, he ran his fingers over his dirk. He still didn’t have his bearings. If the birlinn had sailed due south, he’d be on English soil. The thought made a shudder slither up his spine.
***
Jane battened the window shutter with a cross-board and turned to face Mr. Cox. “Please have a seat whilst you wait out this nasty squall.”
“Thank you, my lady.” The elderly man slid onto a bench at the table. “I haven’t any idea where this downpour came from. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky when I set out.”
“I suppose ’tis the way of things in spring.” She placed bowl on the floor to catch yet another dripping leak. “Soon it will be nice enough to mend the roof.”
“I wish we could hire a laborer for the task.”
“But we cannot.” She reached for a ewer—at least the rain slapping upon the roof drowned out the water dripping into the pails and bowls strewn throughout the cottage. “Will you have a cup of watered wine while you wait?”
“My thanks.” He sucked in a sharp inhale while she filled his cup. “It pains me to watch you serve me with your own fine-boned hand, Lady Whitehaven.”
A familiar twinge of pain tugged her heartstrings. “You must stop calling me that.”
“Why?” Mr. Cox made a show of casting his gaze around the tiny cottage. “No one will overhear us hidden so deep in the wood.”
She poured for herself and sat. “True. Especially now the priory’s closed.”
“Disgraceful Reformation.”
Jane smoothed her fingers over the cross pendant she wore. “At least things have settled since Queen Elizabeth sanctioned the Church of England.”
Mr. Cox sipped. “Yes. If only the bloodshed would stop, along with the constant hunt for heretics.”
“We must conform. ’Tis the only way.” She forced herself to smile. “What news of Buttermere Castle?”
“I’m surprised you care, my lady.”
She cast her gaze to the Whitehaven crest above the mantel—the one thing in the cottage that reminded her she once lived a life of privilege. “But I do care very much. I reigned as countess within its walls for eight years.”
Mr. Cox’s jowls jostled when he shook his head. “Miserable years they were, I’ll say.”
“Not entirely bad. Occasionally Roderick would travel to London, and I would have peace.”
He raised his wooden cup in toast. “I cannot believe how you always choose to remember the good.”
“Alas, the bad times are far too painful to speak of.” She reached for a plate of kettle scones, pushing memories of beatings back to the locked recesses of her mind. “Tell me, how is the new Earl
of Whitehaven settling in?”
“John Drake is not much better than your Roderick. I’m afraid the entire line of Whitehaven earls is spun of the same tainted cloth.”
Jane clasped her hands to her stomach. The mere thought of the callous family she’d married into made her stomach clench like a stone. She jumped at a surge of rainwater splashing from the eaves. Thunder rumbled overhead, putting her further on edge. “If that is the case, I shall pray he remains unmarried.”
Mr. Cox frowned and studied his boots. “God forbid another woman would suffer at the hands of the Earl of Whitehaven as did you, my lady.”
Jane stood and crossed to the hearth, staring at the accursed family crest. “I cannot bring myself to think of it.” She flicked her long tresses back and used an iron ladle to stir the pottage. True, for the past few months life had grown lonely—a tad tedious, even, but she would choose this reclusive existence over her past. She pushed the articulating arm to situate the cast iron pot closer to the flame. “How are the servants?”
“Same as always.”
She stirred with more vigor. “In good health?”
“Yes, aside from Thomas. Sometimes the farrier doesn’t know when to keep his opinions to himself. Lord Howard had him whipped but two days ago.”
Jane stopped stirring, though she kept her face turned away. More beatings? Did my sacrifice do nothing to bring them peace? “I am sorry.” Her voice trembled. “Is it bad?”
“He’ll recover in a sennight or two.” Mr. Cox didn’t sound as convincing as his words.
Her heart twisted. She loved the servants, of whom she’d grown ever so fond at Buttermere. “If there were only something more I could do.”
“But you cannot, must not.”
She hadn’t brought it up in some time, but with the news of renewed brutality, she had to ask. “Are the townsfolk still blaming me?” She regarded Mr. Cox over her shoulder.
The kindhearted valet had withered in the years she’d known him. His careworn face paled. “Now more than ever, I’m afraid. Lord Whitehaven has increased the bounty for your capture—says you’re a murderess.”
Jane shuddered. “I am.”
Mr. Cox stood and crossed the floor. “With all due respect, my lady. I must disagree.” He placed his palm on her shoulder. “You were defending yourself.”
“If only the Whitehaven sheriff could see it that way.” She faced him, biting her lip. “I might gain a pardon.”
Mr. Cox removed his cloak from the peg by the door. “That would be ideal, but until then you must remain here.” He fastened the clasp at his neck and picked up the bulky parcel from the floor. “This wool is first quality. It will bring good coin and soon your larder will again be full.”
From the sound of the splashing outside, the rain hadn’t eased. “Are you sure you will not stay a bit longer? I’ve plenty of pottage for us both—besides, ’tis still spitting rain.”
“I’d best be heading back—wouldn’t want anyone to become suspicious of my absence.”
Jane’s chest tightened as she moved to the door. Max rose from his mat beside the hearth and joined her, wagging his tail as if anxious at the prospect of venturing outside. “Stay, Max.” Jane placed her hand on the latch and regarded Mr. Cox. “When will I see you again?”
“I shall return with your supplies in a fortnight or two.”
She wanted to reach out and embrace him, tell this grey-haired old man how much he’d grown to mean to her, but it wouldn’t be proper. Though if he hadn’t spirited her away the night she’d stabbed Roderick, she would no doubt be dead. Jane did, however, place her hand on his forearm. “I cannot thank you enough for all you have done to help me.”
His eyes rimmed red. “If only it could have been more, my lady.”
Swallowing back the tightness in her throat, she opened the door and a gust of cold March air blew in with a sheet of rainwater. Mr. Cox clutched his cloak closed and strode outside. Jane reached for him, but he proceeded beyond her grasp.
“Close the door,” he called over his shoulder.
Max sniffed the air and backed further inside. The little spaniel had no intention of trotting out into the squall. Jane shut the door and looked at the dog. “’Tis just the pair of us again.”
The chamber had a chill to it now Mr. Cox had gone. The head valet at Buttermere Castle, he was allowed some liberty, though he had been right when he said he would be missed if he stayed away too long.
At least Jane had Max to keep her company. She would have gone mad by now but for the dog. She even allowed the spaniel to sleep on the bed with her. He might not be as large as some, but he was warm and provided comfort when she lay awake listening to the nightly sounds of the forest. Every rustle of leaves, whoosh of wind and crack of thunder—it all seemed so much louder at night—so much more frightening.
Chapter Two
Alexander pushed through the inn’s heavy door, met with a soothing whoosh of warm air. Water streamed from his plaid and bubbled out his boots as he strode toward the bar.
Beady eyes shifted his way and the noisy banter of the patrons ebbed to a hum. Alex glanced sidewise. There wasn’t another plaid in sight. All the men wore leather breeches and a mixture of grubby black doublets and moth-eaten mantles. From the filth, this inn could very well be a den of thieves.
Above the bar was emblazoned a red Tudor rose with a crown over it. The royal badge of England. Blast me miserable luck. He splayed his fingers over his sword’s hilt, itching to grasp it, but one errant move and he might have a nasty brawl on his hands. A fight he’d relish, but presently cared not for the odds.
At the table to his left, someone shook a set of dice then let them roll with a clatter of wood on wood. Ahead, a bear of an innkeeper stood with his fists on his hips, sporting a disagreeable scowl beneath a thick black beard.
Alexander aimed to procure a room, order a meal and keep to himself. The last thing he needed was to mix with this unsavory lot. As he neared the bar, the banter behind him rose in volume and a relieved whistle slid through his lips.
The innkeeper raised his chin and narrowed his black eyes.
Alex had to stoop to rest his elbow on the bar—a common problem for a tall man. “A pint of ale.”
The innkeeper stared as if contemplating his next move then he placed his hands on the bar and leaned forward. “I’ll give you one, and then I expect you to be on your way.”
“Oh?” Alexander reached into his sporran and slapped down two pennies. “I was hoping ye might have a room. The squall blew me birlinn off course, and I need a place to camp for the night.”
Without a word, the man turned to the barrel behind the bar, pulled the spigot and filled a tankard. Behind, chairs scraped the floorboards, followed by the door creaking open and slamming shut. Alex stole a backward glance—good, he was surrounded by fewer Englishmen.
“What do they call this village?” Alex asked.
“St. Bees.” The man plunked the pint in front of Alexander and snatched up the coins.
“Hmm.” He rifled through his memory. “I do no’ recall ever hearing of a saint named Bees.”
“That’s probably because you’re a daft Highlander.”
Alex had taken an instant disliking to the innkeeper when he stepped inside. As any Highland laird, he wore a sword at his hip, a dirk in his belt, daggers in his hose and up his sleeves. How he would have enjoyed palming a wee blade and flinging it into the bastard’s neck. He hated bloody England. All she was good for were ships ripe for the plundering. Alex kept his eye on the black-bearded bear while he sipped his pint. Christ, it tasted worse than piss.
He skulled the ale and wiped his mouth with his wet sleeve. Mercy, he was bloody cold. “What about that room? ’Tis only for the night.”
“None available. Not for the likes of you.”
Alex glanced over his shoulder. About a dozen patrons sat around tables, all looking as poor as beggars. He doubted a one had paid for a bed. “Ye have someth
ing against Scots?”
“Bloody oath I do.”
Alex rolled his eyes to the cobweb-encrusted rafters. He didn’t need a fight, but now he’d had a drink he was shivering to his boots. Next, his teeth would start chattering. The thought of weathering the night under a tarpaulin in the birlinn was none too appealing. Perhaps if I tried a different tact. “I can pay two crowns. That’s twice what ye’d get from yer own countrymen.”
“I said I’ve got no rooms, you bloody sheep-stealer,” the innkeeper bellowed. “Now be off with you.”
Alexander pushed away from the bar. The banter in the room stopped. When he turned, all eyes watched. Miserable English hospitality. His footsteps sloshed over the floorboards as he headed to the door. When he grasped the latch, a gale whipped it open and practically blew the thing from its hinges.
Normally Alexander would have clutched his cloak closed at the neck, but that luxury remained behind on the Isle of Raasay. He’d sailed off in such a hurry. All he had were the birlinn, the clothes he was wearing, his weapons and a sporran heavy with coin. At the time, he’d thought it plenty to take him away.
Away? Where in God’s name is that?
Rain pelted from the sky while he walked through the muddy lane. Aside from the inn and a few cottages, St. Bees wasn’t much of a village. Alex peered down the main road—didn’t even see a church. What kind of wretched lost souls live here?
He didn’t aim to find out. He always stowed a few things in the birlinn—a canvas tarpaulin and a handful of bully beef. That’d see him through until morning if the wind didn’t blow him back out to sea.
A clap slapped water behind him.
Alexander’s hackles stood on end. The wind and rain made a racket, but the sound wasn’t droplets hitting puddles, nor was it from the rush of the wind.
It came again.
Then a hiss. He’d heard that sound hundreds of times, and it made his blood run cold.