Highlanders for the Holidays: 4 Hot Scots

by Glynnis Campbell

  Iain sighed. His only son and rightful heir was nearly a man now, fueled by the fears of a little boy. He felt far more comfortable with the notion of passing down his legacy to his daughter, Liana. At least he knew Liana had an even temper and a level head. He watched Malcom go, torn between his unwavering love for his firstborn child and fear for the future of his clan. Only once Malcom was out the door did he turn to address the youths presented before him.

  “I stand by whatever judgment you make,” Aidan said and Iain felt a surge of relief.

  Kellen had no need to turn to look at his father to speak. He peered up at Iain and said, “I love her and I will wed her here and now, if you please.”

  Chapter 4

  “Great gods who create and bring forth life, we ask your blessings on this day of celebration.”

  A sea of faces stared up at the wedding couple, but Lìli was not among them to see her firstborn son take his vows. Aidan imagined all the possible ways he could die at his wife’s hands. She was an accomplished alchemist, and with Una’s help, she was bound to know a few ways to make him suffer hideously before he departed this plane.

  For his part, Kellen looked far more pleased than he had a right to. The lad stood next to his bride, grinning broadly. The girl was merely fourteen, Kellen sixteen, and both were little more than babes to Aidan’s eyes.

  He remembered the day Kellen arrived at Dubhtolargg, with those deep-brown eyes. He’d given the lad a safe haven, and as a result Kellen lived a far less guarded life than most. Aidan had to remind himself that his own parents were already wed by this age—the difference being that neither of these two young folk had ever met ere now.

  Alas, mayhap Lìli would see it as a boon; that he was bringing home yet another soul to love.

  It could be worse; he could be leaving Kellen as he had Cat.

  And then he would surely die.

  “You will join hands,” the old woman called Glenna commanded the pair.

  Eager to see the ceremony done, both Kellen and Constance rushed to do the woman’s bidding. Aidan must confess, they looked quite please with the turn of events.

  Glenna held in her hand a number of ribbons and she looped one over their joined wrists, binding them together, as Una had once done for Aidan and for Lìli. Despite the hasty ceremony, the memory brought a wistful smile to his face and he longed to hold his wife, wanting little more than to be with Lìli now.

  “Constance and Kellen, do ye come forward of your own free will to make this union?”

  “I do,” Kellen said quickly, and loudly enough for everyone to hear.

  “And you, Constance,” the auld woman continued.

  “I do!” Constance replied happily. She was a lovely little thing, and the excitement in her voice was genuine. Aidan recognized the look of love—or if not love, precisely, the seeds of love. Nurtured properly, it might grow into something as glorious and extraordinary as a rose.

  Glenna first looked to the boy’s uncles—Broc and Iain both—respectable lairds in their own rights. They could do worse than to be bound by blood to these men.

  Each gave a nod. And then Glenna looked to Aidan; Aidan did the same. Glenna gave a nod in return, acknowledging their grace.

  For better or worse, this union was now blessed. If these two young folk would not deal well with one another, they would discover it soon enough.

  Dressed in a pale blue dress, with goldenrod and sage in her hair, Constance looked radiant and resolved.

  “This hand fasting will bind you together for the period of one year,” Glenna explained. “During this time, Constance and Kellen, will you honor and respect one another?”

  “I will,” said the pair in unison.

  The old woman then wrapped yet another ribbon around their wrists and continued, “Will you forever aid each other in times of pain and sorrow?”

  “I will,” both said once more, and once again, the old woman looped another ribbon about their joined wrists.

  “Will you be true to one another that you may grow strong in this union?”

  “I will,” Kellen said at once.

  “I will,” agreed Constance. She gave Kellen a lover’s glance, albeit one filled with such innocence that Aidan realized his son had spoken truth. Kellen did not bed this girl as yet. The two had simply hied away to do what young folk were wont to do—whisper sweet nothings into each other’s ears and maybe steal a kiss or two.

  “As your hands become withered, will you now reach out only for each other?” the old woman continued, and Aidan wondered if Kellen realized exactly what she’d meant. Not only that he must he confide in his bride, forsaking all others, but he must also never swing his willie near other lassies. Thankfully, Kellen was his mother’s son, kind and respectful of others.

  “We will,” said the two in unison, and for a fourth time, a ribbon was looped about their wrists.

  “Is it your intention to bring peace and harmony to these united clans?”

  “It is.”

  “When you falter—and you will—will you have the courage—and loyalty—to remember the promises you have made to one another?”

  “I will,” Kellen said, smiling brightly.

  “With all my heart,” Constance agreed. She gave Kellen a smile that brought one to Aidan’s face as well. The sight of the two warmed the cockles of his heart.

  “Verra well, “ Glenna declared, “Constance and Kellen, now as your hands are bound, so too are you bound to one another. Kellen, you may bestow a kiss of peace upon your bride.”

  Timidly at first, looking toward Aidan and then to Broc and then to Iain—as though he were asking for permission—Kellen leaned in with puckered lips. But he’d closed his eyes and when his lips touched upon his bride, they’d missed their mark. He planted a rather chaste kiss upon her eye. To the girl’s credit, she merely smiled.

  The gathering laughed quietly.

  Red-faced, Kellen reached out to hold his bride’s cheeks, as though to keep her still for his kiss and then, with eyes wide open, he gave the kiss another try. Before he could accomplish his mission, Constance thrust her hands out eagerly, pulling her new husband close—much too quickly and the two knocked chins, moving away from each other with startled yelps of pain.

  The gathering laughed once again, a few old men not so politely as before.

  Finally, Kellen pulled his bride into his arms, and kissed her sweetly, lips still closed and Aidan thought mayhap it was past time to have a talk with the boy. His shoulders shook gently with mirth.

  Now pleased with himself, his son turned to raise their bound arms for everyone to see and a cheer rang throughout the gathered crowd. And that swiftly and thoroughly the handfasting was done. The sound of music lifted at once, and Kellen embraced his bride. The sight of them together once again quickened Aidan’s smile.

  “She’s a verra lovely lass,” his sister whispered at his side.

  Aidan turned to look at Catrìona, marveling how well the years had treated her. Her hair was full with lively red curls, and her cheeks were blooming still. “That she is,” he agreed, taking Catrìona’s arm into his, and pulling her close so he could whisper in her ear. “Are ye still pleased with your mon?”

  She nodded quickly, and Aidan peered over at his brother by law. “’Tis a good thing ye’ve loved my sister well, Mac Brodie.”

  Gavin chuckled. “Och, mon, dinna think for one instant she would have it any other way.”

  Aidan laughed over that truth. None of his sisters were weak or timid, he acknowledged. Each had her own manner of strengths. As yet, only Caitlin and Sorcha remained unwed, although Caitlin would have it otherwise if Aidan would simply give her leave to wed the man she craved. However, Aidan could not quite bring himself to do so. As yet, she had not actually used that word, and so far as Aidan was concerned, that simple fact left him wondering if she harbored some doubts. But this was a quandary for another day. Today, his youngest son was wed.

  With bawdy shouts, the c
rowd made way for the Kellen and Constance as they moved down the hill, half dancing to the music as they went. All banter was soon swallowed by the uproar. Ribald laughter followed the wedded pair. Little ones tossed late blooming flowers at their feet. Despite the haste, it was a lovely wedding, and as far as Aidan was concerned, this visit far surpassed his last. He found himself clapping his hands as the festivities carried them toward the night’s bonfire—a massive undertaking that had been built to honor the Mother of Winter. Tonight, it would honor the bride and groom as well.

  Catrìona fell behind, walking with her husband arm in arm. “He likes ye,” Aidan heard her say. “Dinna fash yersel’, Gavin.”

  Aidan smiled, realizing they must be speaking about him. He wanted to laugh, and turn and put the man at ease, but such an act did not come easily to him. It was quite enough that Cat could reassure him, and this much was true: he valued any man who could bring such unrepressed joy to his sister’s heart, whether or not he was an outlander.

  * * *

  The fire spat glowing cinders against a twilight sky.

  ‘Twas said the winter solstice was a time for rebirth, a time for growth, a time for atonement. For those who believed in faeries and brownies, it could easily be said that for any who came ill prepared for the long winter, the solstice would be the hour of reckoning. On the other hand, if one did not believe in faeries and brownies, it could also be said the hour had come…

  Afric smiled.

  The fire had been a ruse, a means to draw his prey out into the open. If, in fact, it had been his intent to devastate the entire clan beyond restitution, he would have killed them all whilst they’d slept in their beds. But nay, he already had a long list of souls he wouldst need make amends for, and he had no desire to add to that list unnecessarily.

  Earlier, as he’d stood inside the hall—a stranger in their midst—listening to the laird’s son attempt to convince his father that there must be foul play at hand, Afric worried his opportunities would all be lost. But then the MacKinnon dismissed the lad, and here they were, none the wiser.

  Celebrating like filthy Pagans, no one appeared to care that flames destroyed half the village little less than a week before. In his arrogance, the MacKinnon had ordered yet another bonfire, one that was even bigger than the last.

  Of course, it was easy enough to believe all was right with the world, when neighboring clans all came together this way.

  For an instant, it left Afric with a guilty pang…

  For only an instant.

  These were not his people. Given the opportunity, they would mete him the same fate. Survival depended upon which side you were on—and Afric was most assuredly not on theirs. Neither was he on Hugh’s—stupid bag of wind.

  Did Page truly believe their father’s apathy was reserved only for her?

  Nay. He treated Afric as he did all his bastards—with very little regard, ordering him about like a common servant. He couldn’t even be bothered to read his own letters—a fact for which Afric would be eternally grateful, because he still had not heard the news…

  Everything was going according to plan.

  It was simple enough to hide amidst so many faces, old and new. Afric could come and go as he pleased. No one had the first notion who he was, or whence he hailed.

  Not even Hugh had yet to spy him. His father was a doddering old fool, far too easily deceived. Whilst he’d run about gathering supplies and men for the journey north, Afric had ridden ahead, under the pretense of racing toward France. Instead, he’d come here, and set the stage to see his mission done. Once he was rid of his competition for Hugh’s lands, and Hugh, as well, then he would go to Lyons-la-Foret and claim his prize.

  Smiling, despite the fact that they’d lost nearly everything save the clothes upon their backs—poor dumb Highlanders—the clansmen all ate, drank and made merry, kicking up their heels and singing obnoxiously to the accompaniment of the pipes.

  Oblivious.

  Obnoxious.

  Obligors.

  Once they heard the news, all else would pale in the face of it. Music would end in a discordant note. The skies would darken with the dimming of hope. The air would chill with heralding fate… Henry Beuclerc was dead—poisoned some might say.

  Upon the king’s death raged the winds of war. Agents had been disbursed at once, like a sickness transmitted unto the lands. All pawns were now in place, and everyone who’d sworn fealty to Henry’s shrewish daughter Matilda would mete their makers one by one—including the man who’d impregnated his mother.

  Even this very instant, the King’s nephew, Stephen of Blois, was moving to seize the English throne and David of Scotia—Henry’s ally in the north—would needst fight to hold all he owned. No Davidian supporter would be allowed to assume control in Normandy, and that included the baronetcy of Aldergh. No one was left but Hugh’s estranged daughter who might take his place, and Stephen would never endorse a woman.

  On the other hand, were Henry’s daughter to sit her arse upon England’s throne, she’d no doubt sanction Page’s claim. Albeit, if Page were dead, and the baronetcy forfeit after her father’s death, that would weaken Matilda’s claim in Normandy, and most conveniently ’twould leave control of Aldergh… perhaps to someone who’d facilitated its end.

  Thinking of all the things he would change once returning to Aldergh, Afric tamped his foot merrily as the bride and groom came dancing near. None of Hugh’s men would even think to question him when he came to seize control, for Hugh was stingy and mean and one good turn with these Highlanders would hardly buy him indulgences.

  “Long life to ye,” he shouted at the happy couple, raising a toast to the pair. Little did they realize it was a flout in their faces.

  “Thank ye kind sir!” exclaimed the bride. She rushed over to kiss Afric upon the cheek, her breath warm and sweet.

  All too easy, he thought to himself. How fortuitous this would be… in one fell swoop he would rid himself of father and daughter both.

  “’Tis a bonny pair they make, dinna ye think?”

  Careful to hide his accent—for his mother had been a Frankish maid—Afric nodded to the man who’d spoken—the Montgomerie laird, he surmised, for he wore the Lion-head livery beneath his blue tartan cloak. His lovely wife stood at his side, unmistakable in her beauty, her face the inspiration for bard’s tales for leagues around.

  Some day, Afric could have a wife like that—bought and paid for with his father’s gold.

  Piers de Montgomery stared at him a bit too long and Afric realized he was waiting for him to speak. “Indeed,” replied Afric. “To you and yours, sir.” He raised another toast.

  Lyon Montgomery smiled uncomfortably and so did Afric as he took a heaping swig of his uisge—the only good thing to come out of these Highlands. Although he must be careful not to drink over much, or he’d end up again in a pile of limbs. Moving slowly away from Lyon Montgomerie, he watched and waited for the opportunity to strike…

  * * *

  Amid laughter and drink, Malcom’s warnings were already forgotten, though he wasn’t so much angry as he was frustrated. He did realize his Da had reason to question his intuition, but he had good cause to feel the way he did…

  He had very nearly become a prisoner of a cold war. That he was a free man now was in no small part due to the piggishness of Page’s Da, who’d valued his king over the love he’d born his own flesh and blood.

  His father so often said, “If ye’re no’ fighting for the ones you love, who the devil would ye be fighting for, son?”

  Even so, not once had Page ever spoken a cross word about her father, despite that Malcom had spent enough time at Aldergh to know how her father had valued her—which was to say, not at all. The oaf had ignored Page, leaving her to sup at the lower tables in the great hall. In fact, he’d sometimes give Malcom a seat at the high table—the son of his enemy—sharing his trencher, whilst his daughter scraped her morsels from the bottom of the pot.

  A
ll in all, Hugh FitzSimon had treated his daughter more like the daughter of a servant, leaving her to wander free without aim. Even at the tender age of six, Malcom had felt sorry for Page.

  Peering over his shoulder, he watched as his father took her now by the hand, luring her away from the celebration.

  A tentative smile returned to his lips, pleased to see them happy, even after all these years. But more to the point, with his father’s attention now on Page, Malcom was free to follow his gut… he didn’t need his father’s men. He could search the woodlands alone.

  It might have simply been rotten luck—the direction of the wind and the trail of kindling that had been so conveniently left between huts, but something about the fire raised Malcom’s hackles. Coincidentally—or perhaps not so coincidentally at all—the flames had remained clear of the woodlands. Had the fire but swept the other way, there would have been far more to lose, for it would have burned through the lands of three adjoining clans—the MacLeans, the Brodies and Montgomeries. Yet it left the woods untouched, despite them being so near, and that was rather fortuitous, Malcom thought, although his suspicions were not so much drawn toward the neighboring clans. Nay, for they were at peace now, had been so for more than ten years. It was more the fact that it left a perfect hiding space in full view of their village. Yesterday he’d examined the burn line, and the fire seemed to have halted in a perfectly straight line, as though its boundaries had been set beforehand. This, and something about the quality of the air left Malcom ill at ease. No matter what his Da believed, it had little to do with the company they were keeping—strangers though many might be.

  Something was amiss.

  With or without his father’s blessings, Malcom intended to discover what it was. At twilight, when the darkening sky descended into the treetops and the fire’s glow swallowed the light of the sun, he slipped into the woods, leaving the sound of music and laughter in his wake. As Glenna had said he must do, he let intuition be his guide…