by Raina Wilde
The crowd, intent on their own ends, let them go.
***
“And so..?”
Frances' voice was lazy, filling the tower room. Duncan, rolling over in the bed, smiled to hear it.
“So, my lady?”
“You think we should sell this place?”
They were sitting at that moment in bed in the tower room in Castle McNeil, overlooking the sea. After Laird McNeil fled the country to escape the crowd's ire, the governance of the estate fell to his lawful wife, as his next of kin.
“We might be happier somewhere with less...memories?”
Frances stretched, easily. A slow smile crossed her gentle face.
“We might,” she started drowsily, “but I do like the views.”
They both smiled. Duncan wrapped his arms around her, and together they looked across the bay, watching the white-foamed waves break on the rocks, so far below.
Duncan's fingers stroked along her shoulder. She leaned back and kissed him.
Frances smiled at him, looking up, and lying back on the bed. Their bodies entwined. His knee moved into the space between her thighs, and her legs wrapped around him, entering her.
They moved together slowly, sating their passion gently now; exploring new ways of making each other reach a peak of pleasure.
After, when they lay in each other's arms, their sweat cooling softly in the evening air, Frances smiled lazily at Duncan.
“If we sell this place, we could buy Long Manor. And with what was left over, we could give Jess and Arthur Loudan Park.”
Loudan Park was a beautiful acreage, bordering the land Jess and her husband were gifted by her father. Not only did it have a woodland for hunting, but also the best pastures in the region. Jess and her husband had longed for it.
Duncan smiled. “Let's do that.”
They kissed again, smiling into each other's eyes.
THE END
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Bonus 7: Deception in the Highlands
Lady Catríona, the sole surviving heir to Clan Sutharlainn, crosses the Scottish highlands in disguise to complete a mission that she has been plotting for the last ten years. She has one driving force: revenge for the death of her beloved father.
Cat must infiltrate the most dreaded and isolated of clans, the MacConaills. She knows that the Laird and his sons had a hand in poisoning her father and Catríona intends to inflict upon them the same terrible death. Can she complete her task and survive to tell the tale? Or will she find that there is more to the MacConaills than meets the eye?
Her mission brings her close to the future Laird of the enemy clan. But Cat soon finds that Greum is not as brutal as she had been led to believe. When sparks fly, Lady Catríona must decide between avenging her father, or following her heart. Is it possible that she can do both?
Deception in the Highlands
Catríona Sutharlainn crouched in the undergrowth on a rocky ledge at the edge of the forest. The small village surrounding Castle MacConaill appeared functional and quiet to her critical eye. She could not say specifically what she had expected, but the quaint community and lively townsfolk were much too friendly for Catríona’s nerves. Perhaps it was an act, she thought, meant to draw in unsuspecting visitors. Perhaps, in their homeland, the MacConaills were not as ruthless and brutal as their reputation with the other highland clans foretold.
She seethed as the knowledge of this clan’s depravity collided with the reality that was before her. Catríona could not imagine how men brutal enough to murder a Laird in his own castle could return home to live such peaceful and… if she were being perfectly honest, natural lives. Maybe, she thought, the true evil was housed within the castle, and these poor townsfolk were also subject to the whims and torments of the Laird and his family.
Ten years ago, in the summer of her eleventh year, Clan Sutharlainn had hosted a gathering with all the clans of their alliance. The gathering had included Clan MacConaill. At the time, the Sutharlainns were the only clan who maintained a peace with the MacConaills, a risky move for any clan, her uncle Donnal later informed her. Catríona’s mother had been the only child of the war chief of the unpopular clan. Her loving marriage to the Laird of Clan Sutharlainn had sealed the treaty between the two clans.
When her mother had died in childbirth, the alliance had remained intact, despite the displeasure of certain neighboring clans. That all changed upon the death of her father. Laird Sutharlainn had trusted the MacConaills, against his brother’s counsel, thinking that the memory of his wife would be enough to maintain their loyalty. Catríona doubted that the Laird MacConaill and his beastly sons had ever been truly loyal to the family of an unrelated daughter who had married away.
At the first opportunity, the MacConaill men, particularly the sons, had gathered around her father as his guests of honor. She vaguely remembered sitting beside the eldest MacConaill son, who was six years her senior, and thinking that he would grow to be a fine man. The teenage boy had been the epitome of propriety, a trick she now recognized as the deception they had used to lure her father into complacency. She had been distracted that night, awaiting the gift that her father had promised to bestow at the end of the feast. A gift that she had never received.
The traitors had shared his food, his drink, his entertainment… and paid him back with a poison so foul that his face had turned purple and his eyes had bulged from his head right there at the long table. Murder, in cold blood. There was no better description for the death of her father, Laird of Clan Sutharlainn.
She remembered being pulled away from her father’s body by her kind uncle, his eyes filled with tears for his lost kin. He had extricated her from the midst of the MacConaill men and protected her from their treacherous grasps. Yet, here she was today, about to enter the very den of the beasts.
Catríona would never forget that day. She could never forgive these brutal men for the death of her beloved father, the only parent she had even known. From that day on she had been called Lady Sutharlainn. And from that day she had vowed revenge, and revenge she would have.
Catríona had slipped away from her guards and advisors a fortnight ago. She wore the bedraggled garment of a chambermaid and carried nothing of her own except for a small dagger that was tied around her ankle. She slipped her hand under the edge of her skirts to feel the comfort of the cold metal against her skin, reassuring herself that it was still there.
Up the road, to the left, she could see the approaching caravan of traders with whom she had been traveling these past six nights. It would not be long before they expected her to rejoin their group before entering the city. She would need the cover of their ranks to disguise her as the traveling seamstress that she claimed to be.
Catríona slipped down the hillside and circled the caravan from behind. She jogged up from behind, adjusting her long skirts as if she had merely taken the opportunity to relieve herself.
“Catlin!” snapped a wrinkled old crone who sat, wrapped in shawls, atop a wooden cart. She used the false name that Catríona had given them. “I told you, lass. You cannot be wandering the woods on these MacConaill lands. There’s dark magic and creatures that roam these forests.”
“Oh, Ainsley,” She laughed, walking beside the slow moving cart, “I’m sure your magic and creatures are nothing more than ruffians and thieves.” When the woman did not look convinced, she continued. “Aye, these are dangerous lands and I shouldn’t have wandered off. Though, I think we approach a place much more dangerous than the wood.”
Ainsley nodded. “We’ve never traded with Clan MacConaill before, but it’s been rumored they have a surplus crop this year and we cannot miss an opportunity like that. My son says we’ll only stay a week at most.” She turned her glassy blue eyes on Catríona. “Will you be travelling with us again?”
Catríona shrugged. “I’m hoping to find more permanent employment, if they have need of it. I can’t say for sure yet.” The truth was, she might need to make
a quick escape with the caravan in a week’s time. She only doubted that a week would be enough time to infiltrate their ranks and execute a plan. No, Catríona guessed that she would need to stay longer, though how she might escape at that time she had no idea.
Ainsley grunted her disapproval. Catríona heard the old woman mumble something under her breath that sounded very much like… work for the McKinnons before I’d stay here.
When they entered the small town Catríona noticed that they were met with wary, but not unfriendly looks. It was immediately clear that visitors were uncommon in these parts, especially a caravan of thirty or more. They must have been spotted a long way off because Ainsley’s son, and the other men grouped at the front of the caravan, were met by a formidable line of MacConaill men waiting at the gates to the castle. They must have been given permission to set up camp on the edge of the town because it was not long after that the cart began to move again and the tradesmen began to unpack their wares.
Catríona did not wait around to help the others, she would only have been in their way. Instead, she scooped up her bundle and went in search of the apothecary or priest, whichever she might find first. Both, in her experience were central hubs of the gossip mill in any community. They were bound to know if her services would be welcomed in any household. Catríona knew that she would need to become engrained in the community before she would ever get near enough to the Laird and his sons to slip them the ruthless poison that rested in a small vial in her pack.
She happened upon the priest in the muddy town square. He was counseling an anxious group of townsfolk about the arrival of the caravan. She heard only a small bit of the conversation when, upon her arrival, the crowd dropped silent. Catríona’s heart beat painfully in her chest. Had they been planning an attack on the caravan? They did not look aggressive, merely frightened themselves.
“Excuse me, Father, I did not mean to interrupt.” She began. Catríona reminded herself that she would need to be careful to disguise her highborn upbringing. She relaxed her shoulders into a gentle slouch and lowered her eyes to the ground in a way she had been taught never to do.
“Go on, child.” The priest approached with his arms spread wide. “Speak openly and show the women of our town that you’ll be no stranger.” Stranger? Catríona thought. They were worried of the danger of a group of strangers, when their clan was feared above all others?
“I’ll be no stranger, Father. It’s only… I’m here in search of employ.” Catríona struggled against the urge to raise her gaze. She must appear meek and in need. Pity would be her ally here. “I’ve a fair hand at cleaning a house and I can mend and sew just fine. The gypsies allowed me the protection of travelling with them but I’ve no desire to continue any further. If it’s all the same, and if there is work for me, I’m looking to stay on after they leave.”
There was a murmur of surprise that drifted through the crowd.
“Why would a young lass, such as yourself, want to remain behind? Surely you could do better with another clan along the way.” Catríona had expected this argument. In fact, she agreed that a seamstress would do better anywhere else than holed up with this reclusive clan. So, she had prepared what she hoped would be a suitable explanation, one that would perhaps, due to its sensitive nature, encourage the townsfolk to avoid raising additional questions. Her traveling companions had accepted it with ease and she could only hope that this situation would be no different.
“To be honest, Father,” She began her speech with a false tremor in her voice, “I came here to escape a matter most personal. I discovered that I was to be married, against my will, to a violent drunkard who had already had two wives pass under suspicious circumstances. I ran, in fear for my life, but had nowhere to go. Where could I hide that I couldn’t be followed? Every day I moved on, fearful that he would come after me.” The women in the crowd were making sympathetic noises and Catríona knew that she had struck their hearts. “I’m tired of running, Father.” She allowed her voice to crack with emotion. “I want a home again. I want to stay in once place without fear of being found out. This is the only place where I can think to do so.”
Two women ran over and began petting Catríona consolingly. She allowed it, pretending to very much need their support and kindness. In the back of her mind, she wondered how many of these people might have had knowledge of the plot to kill her father.
“My child!” the priest erupted. “Of course you may stay within the safety of the lands MacConaill. It is an evil world outside of our borders and we will always welcome those in need.” Catríona thought it strange the way that the man spoke about the other clans. Did they really think that they were protecting themselves from an evil? Catríona did not think that there was any evil that could compare to that which resided only a short ways away, behind a high ring of stone walls. “What is your name, lass?”
“Catlin.” She gave the same name that she had been using since she left home. It was a common name, similar enough to her own that she still responded promptly to its call. “My family used to call me Cat.” The old nickname from her father would remind her of her mission, not that she had any fear of forgetting her purpose.
For a short time afterward the townsfolk rallied with the priest to decide where best she could be put to use. They had almost decided to allow her to assist the midwife, a task Cat could not say appealed to her, when a tall woman with brilliantly orange hair came sprinting up the road toward them.
“I’ll take her, Father Kendrick!” she panted when she finally came to a halt. There was a murmur of assent through the crowd, as if they all thought that this was an acceptable solution. Catríona immediately took note of the faintly green tinge of the woman’s hands. She smiled. This would be the woman who dyed the fabrics. It was likely that she also participated in the spinning and weaving of all cloth in the village. “Ever since old Gwyn died I’ve been behind on my mending and making. If I can have the girl, I’ll give her a roof over her head for helping with the chores, and anything she makes from her stitchin’ can be hers to keep. If she’s even the least bit skilled, I could use the extra hands.”
Father Kendrick gave a nod and the deal was done. As the crowd quietly dispersed, Catríona was surprised at how easily her first goal had been achieved.
Ten days later, Cat could barely contain her satisfaction with how easily she had slipped into the villager’s lives. Upon discovering that she was by far the most skilled seamstress they had ever encountered, Cat’s days were quickly filled with requests for both new and mended items. She explained the skill away by claiming to have once worked as handmaiden to the wife of a bonnet laird, a man who often made gifts of her finery to his own Clan Laird. The truth was that she had only had the best of tutors when learning from a very young age, a privilege not available to the simple woman that she claimed to be.
The only drawback of her time so far was that she had seen neither hide nor hair of the Laird and his sons. Perhaps they were even more reclusive than she had ever thought. She was beginning to think that this was going to present a problem when it came to exacting her revenge, when early one morning she began to hear a riot of cheering on the street.
Cat rushed out of the door to join the waiting crowd as a stream of riders began to trickle from the forest. She had never seen men so large in her life. Most of them would crack their foreheads on the beams of the doorways in Castle Sutharlainn. Though Catríona was not considered tall compared to most men, she would be dwarfed by the riders who were now passing through the village on their way to the castle.
Man after man rode past her, each wearing the MacConaill kilt of burgundy and green. A boy in his teens came through with his own kilt tied awkwardly around his waist. A woman near Cat snickered.
“I see Birk is still tearing his clothes.” One laughed.
“Aye,” another whispered, casting a glance her way as Cat pretended not to hear, “I told his mother he better learn quickly or the seamstress is going to start
wondering why our men can’t keep their clothes about them. She said she’s mending them herself for the time, at least until the new bairn arrives. It’s the red hair, I tell you. Always takes them longer to control themselves.”
Cat had just begun to wonder what they were talking about when all thought suddenly fled from her mind. There he was. She would recognize the eldest son of Laird MacConaill any day. His face was the last she had seen before looking into the eyes of her dying father. Behind him were what must have been his two brothers, because the resemblance was definitely there, but none were as captivating as Greum MacConaill.
He sat astride the horse as if he owned the world. Cat stared at the man, hating him for all his good looks. Why could he not have the mangled face of a monster, rather than the pleasant features of a strong brow and chin. The locks of curls that fell across his forehead were black as the moonless sky. The dark brown of her own hair would pale beside his rich hue.
Catríona watched the firm set of his shoulders, the way his men seemed to instinctively swarm around him. Her eyes narrowed as she stared at the three brothers. Each had been present on her father’s last day. Each had slipped away under the cover of night with the rest of the MacConaill men, only to later claim, by letter, no involvement in the crime.
A young girl nearby sighed.
“When do you think he’ll choose his bride?” she said in a breathy voice.
“It’s true, he’s no longer a cub, girl, but I’d wager you’re a bit too young for him yet.” Laughed her mother.
“Greum!” The girl cried anyway, waving her arm in the air for his attention.
His gaze shot over to his admirer and he gave a small nod of acknowledgement. Cat was standing almost directly behind the girl so, when he looked over, she shifted uncomfortably. The only part of her plan that she was uncertain of was if she might be recognized. They had only met one night, yet Greum’s face had been branded as part of a memory that she could never forget. She hoped that the same did not hold true for him. Cat tried to console herself with the knowledge that a woman changes much more from eleven to twenty-one, than a man from seventeen to twenty-seven.