The Truth of Her Heart (Highlander Heroes Book 5)

by Rebecca Ruger

  Maggie nodded vigorously, wordlessly, truly terrified by the vengeance promised. With one more sneer, he pushed her away with such force that she was knocked off her feet, landing on her backside on the timber floor.

  Her soon-to-be husband towered over her, still a snarl about his face. “We are not even wed yet and I am disgusted with you. You would do well to make sure my mood improves.”

  Late that night, Maggie stared out the lone slim window in her chambers. ’Twas a fine view, over the picturesque winter landscape of rolling hills and forests, but Maggie’s heart was heavy. She pictured the McEwen chief and his men riding home to that place called Berriedale and cried for most of the night that she was not with them, and never would be again.

  Chapter Ten

  THE REMAINING DRIVE home to Berriedale was tedious, and for so many reasons. They did not make good time, Donal’s horse having gone lame that they were forced to put it down and the brothers rode Daimh’s horse together, which slowed them down yet more; it began to snow again, late in the afternoon, that Duncan raised his fist to the sky and shouted, “What now, you fecking bitch?” seemingly addressing the mother of nature, exposing his own sour mood; and Hew’s temperament had not improved and the lad was often found lagging far enough behind that they were twice compelled to stop and await him catching up. After the second time, Archie grumbled heatedly to the lad, “We’ll no be waiting again. Get over your fecking snit or find another destination.”

  They barely spoke, hadn’t said much after Iain had convinced them that it was only begging for their own deaths if they charged after Alpin and the Sutherlands now. They needed to get home to Berriedale and regroup, call up the McEwen army, send notice of Alpin’s identity to Donald Mackay, and make a plan first.

  Iain wrestled with his thoughts regarding Maggie Bryce for quite some time, vacillating between believing her as innocent as she appeared and truly intent upon escape, and wondering if there was any possibility that she might be working with Alpin. Did she lay traps with her bewitching smile and winsome personality? He wondered if any of his men also grappled with the same irrational thought that because of her falsehoods she had somehow betrayed them, that it was personal.

  However, by the time he rode through the gates of Berriedale, Iain had settled all the disquiet in his mind, had categorized each component of the day and all this new information. He’d exonerated Maggie of any complicity in Alpin’s crimes. He excused her lies and her flight as self-preservation. And he knew he must somehow save her from Alpin even while he destroyed the monster. All of this was considered and decided with some back-of-the-mind certainty that if they’d not discovered that her betrothed were Alpin, he’d have purposefully wiped his memory clean of her, unable to completely exonerate her of her falsehoods, even as he was able to justify the reason behind them.

  They did not reach Berriedale until just before midnight, pushing on when the sun set, rather than wisely hunkering down somewhere as they had the previous three nights. The hour precluded any great reception, for which they were all privately thankful. The men went off in different directions, the twins and Hew to their mams in the village, the others to the soldiers’ barracks, and Iain to the keep.

  Artair was the first person Iain saw in the morning. The old man had served as both bailiff and steward to Berriedale for longer than Iain had been alive. Iain did not ever recall a look upon the man’s weathered face that was not tranquil, and this was no exception, as Artair showed no surprise to see his laird returned and breaking his fast quietly and contemplatively within the hall.

  Folding his hands into the voluminous sleeves of his customary gray robe with the wide cowl, the perpetual ledger within his arms, Artair only shifted his direction upon spying his master and came to stand before Iain at the family’s table.

  Iain acknowledged the steward with a nod, taking a swig of the ale to chase down the sweetbreads, which seemed a veritable feast to him after so many months on the road.

  “Your mother will be pleased for your return, Chief,” the old man intoned gently, “as will all.”

  “Aye, and I’m sure you’ll be wanting some time with me, Artair, but I’ll beg a few days to set some other matters to rights first.”

  “As you wish, lad.”

  Only Duncan, Archie, and Artair could get away with calling their chief lad. Ian thought only Archie’s age, almost double his own, granted that man leave to use so informal an address; Duncan’s permission came nobly and hard fought, mostly at Iain’s side; Artair’s use of the label had been earned by way of his steadfast loyalty to any McEwen and the constant poise in the face of so many challenges to Berriedale and its family over the years.

  “You are solemn today, lad,” Artair commented. “I take it your quest did not end well.”

  Iain considered Artair with a big sigh. There was something reassuring in the man’s quiet presence, the very familiar gray eyes and thinning hair. The top of Artair’s balding head was wider and rounder than his cheeks and chin, which narrowed to a square point. There wasn’t anything about the man that did not suggest patience and an aged wisdom, in which Iain normally found great comfort.

  “It did no’ end well at all, truth be told,” was all that Iain said just now. He wasn’t of a mind to discuss the entire disastrous news, the identity of Alpin, and the ramifications that must follow. Not yet.

  His mother shrieked when she saw him as she entered the hall a short time later. Iain smiled at her and allowed himself to be engulfed in her embrace, acknowledging how truly wonderful it felt, this time returned. When she was done squeezing him, she took his cheeks in her hands and looked him over with misty eyes.

  “Too long gone, my darling,” she cooed.

  Iain covered his mother’s hands with his own. “You dinna know the half of it, Mother.”

  She was an amazing woman, who still had the uncanny ability to make him feel five years old even while she mostly championed and applauded his decision-making and ruling style.

  Glenna McEwen, sister to the great Donald Mackay, was tall and willowy and shared the same blue eyes as her son. She somehow managed to look a full ten years younger than her half a century of years, improbable for the harsh life she’d known thus far; her husband had been gone for more than ten years; she’d buried two children, one a babe, another a sister Iain barely recalled as he’d been naught but a child himself when Anna had been taken by a fever; and Glenna herself had suffered some misfortune years ago, which she never discussed, but that had left her with a pronounced limp and a brutal scar across her left cheek.

  He spent some time then with both Glenna and Artair, mostly listening to their updates of Berriedale, pleased that no specific issue called his attention immediately, as his mind was yet occupied with retrieving Maggie Bryce and apprehending the criminal, Alpin. When his mother departed, intent on some business in the kitchens, Artair brought other news to Iain.

  “I’ve since burned it to preserve security,” Artair said, “but there was a missive from the king.”

  This captured all of Iain’s attention.

  “He will return, as we suspected, and hopes the McEwens will be available to him. Our king will arrive further south but plans to set his brothers down at Loch Ryan with eighteen galleys. Bruce will reach out once he’s landed.”

  “Do you have any sense of timing?”

  Artair consulted the topmost sheepskin parchment in his file of papers. “The missive is now fourteen days old. Of course, there was no date given for his arrival, but my sense was that it would have been within the month.”

  Iain nodded. “And that was all?”

  “That was all, lad. Needs only waiting further instruction.”

  “We have identified Alpin and will want to have a go at him.”

  This seemed to impress Artair, who lifted one gray brow. “Can it be done inside a week?”

  Iain shook his head. “I’m no’ sure.”

  “Thus, you must qualify: your king or the se
rpent, Alpin.”

  “Always king,” Iain believed.

  Artair nodded. “And yet Alpin has wreaked havoc here in Caithness to rival that of what the English have done in the south.”

  Iain considered this. “Alpin is but half a day away. If we go and are delayed, we might quickly be summoned if the king reaches out for us. But aye, my only advantage over Alpin just now is that he dinna ken that I am aware of his identity.”

  “An advantage that will be lost if you are called away in the midst of your pursuit.”

  “It’s a risk worth taking, I’m thinking,” Iain deliberated aloud. “The Bruce might no’ call for a month and how many others would die by Alpin’s hand in that time?”

  “I agree.”

  There was some comfort in the old man’s accord, though it would prove meaningless if what they feared—the king summoning the McEwens while they hunted Alpin directly—came to pass.

  He asked Artair to stay when Duncan and the others joined him in the hall shortly thereafter. This family table, at which Iain and Artair now sat, had seen its share of military and political discussions over the years.

  Iain was surprised when Daimh—not Hew—pressed almost instantly, “We’re going to retrieve the lass, aye?”

  Iain nodded, but made it very clear, “Presently, we have three priorities.” He ticked off on his fingers. “Robert Bruce. Alpin. Maggie Bryce.”

  “The king?” Archie asked.

  “Aye,” answered Iain. “We’ve had a missive from the Bruce, with some instruction to be available for his coming. He wants to move against the English at his signal; thus, whatever we decide about Alpin, we must act quickly. Alpin is no’ to be left unchecked, but our first priority is to our king.”

  “We can hit up Sutherland’s Blackhouse,” Archie surmised, “assume a two to three day stance unless we were lucky enough to catch ’em completely off guard. Chances are, if successful, could be gone and back inside a sennight.”

  “You want to lay siege to Blackhouse?” Hew threw up his hands. “With Maggie within its walls?”

  “Hundreds within the walls,” Archie argued. “No’ all of them guilty of Alpin’s crimes either. Always casualties, lad.”

  Hew faced Iain. “How can you be so cavalier about her life?”

  With some frustration for the lad’s mistaken assumption, Iain thought first to defend, “I’m no’ cavalier about any life, no’ the monks at Wick nor those poor bastards near Helmsdale that we buried.”

  Into the charged air that followed this, Artair wondered, “Who is Maggie Bryce?”

  Iain would forever wonder why so much silence had followed Artair’s simple query, why he and Hew only seethed at each other, as if waiting to see how the other might explain Maggie Bryce. Or why Donal and Daimh ducked their heads to avoid Artair’s moving, questioning gaze, or why Duncan blew out a frustrated sigh.

  Who was Maggie Bryce? What was she to them?

  It was Archie who finally answered, his voice gruff, “She’s a wench we met up with along the way. Turns out she’s set to marry Sutherland...Alpin.”

  “Aye, and now she’s merely a wench.” Hew threw up his hands.

  Duncan scoffed at this as well. “Not at all a pitiable creature,” he mocked. “We should spare her no thought, aye, Arch? Obviously, the lass took to the road sheerly out of spite and malice, to do naught but aggrieve her betrothed. Aye, she braved a storm, and on foot, and begs to hie to St. Edmund’s,” his voice grew in both speed and anger as he continued, “and her face turns that shade of white when the man finds her, that the only thing remained of color were those damn freckles!”

  Iain wasn’t sure why the last of Duncan’s fury was directed at him; nevertheless, he felt the need to point out, “I’ve said we’ll get the lass. But it has to be done right, has to be planned properly.”

  “Canna just charge in there, willy-nilly,” Daimh concurred.

  “You met her on the road?” Artair desired clarification.

  It was Donal who spelled out the particulars of how they came upon Maggie Bryce. “We found her near frozen solid in the bothies, and she stayed with us for those few days we camped out there. Told us she had visited friends but was planning on walking to St. Edmunds to take the cloth. Never said she was betrothed to Sutherland, dinna ken that part until the man and his army of fifty found us out near Glut.”

  Artair turned his speculative gaze to Iain but said nothing.

  Duncan clarified gruffly, for Artair’s sake, “We dinna ken Sutherland was Alpin until after he’d ridden off with the lass.”

  “He let her go,” Hew accused of Iain, adding scornfully, “Wouldn’t allow us to chase after her once we ken who Alpin was.”

  Iain stepped forward and jabbed his finger into Hew’s chest. “That’s the last time you make that remark. It would have been death, for every one of us.”

  “He understands that,” Duncan said on a sigh. “Frustrated, that’s all.”

  Silence reined for several long seconds.

  Artair spoke again then. “So many of the persons inside the walls of Blackhouse will be innocent, of course. Arch speaks true, there are always casualties. I’m not sure an exception should be made for one person, when so much is at stake.” When there was no response to this, he added pointedly, “No matter the impression she made upon you.”

  Quiet scowls were all that confronted Artair at these words.

  “You dinna ken her,” Hew said quietly, shaking his head.

  “Make a decision,” Duncan prodded Iain.

  Nodding, Iain said firmly, “We’ll commit to some reconnaissance aforehand, ascertain if there’s any chance to get her out before we lay siege.”

  While the soldiers nodded in unison their agreement to this, Artair advised, “You’ll want to clarify that you might well make an attempt to save this lass, but that the capture of Alpin must take precedence.”

  Iain met Hew’s bright blue gaze, while his own jaw tightened. “Aye.”

  He couldn’t very well commit his men to saving the life of only one person—no matter the impression she made upon you—and likely he wouldn’t have to coerce half of these here now. Privately, however, Iain vowed that he would do whatever was necessary to get Maggie Bryce away from Kenneth Sutherland.

  IT TOOK TWO WHOLE DAYS to gather the number of men Iain required to pursue Alpin and prepare the logistics of their travel and their plan for the assault on Blackhouse Manor. Iain was generally a patient person, understanding fully that mistakes were made when the preparation was hurried, but even he bristled with exasperation that they did not—could not—ride out of Berriedale sooner.

  When they did finally march toward Blackhouse, Iain led an army of over one hundred men. Behind him rode some of the best warriors in Scotland and the personnel necessary for the possibility of a long siege—the best archers, skilled carpenters, blacksmiths, and Berriedale’s own engineer, who would oversee the building of any war machine on site. Carts laden with thick, freshly chopped logs plodded along at the rear of the moving pack, followed by a dozen more carts that transported all necessary implements and gear.

  The snow was no more a hindrance, having shrunk further in the last few days; yet they were committed to a ponderous journey across the rugged landscape, owing to the number and weight of those burdened carts. Iain, Archie, and Hew rode on ahead, intent upon spying upon the keep to evaluate their options for their twofold intent.

  Watching the keep from atop a low hill, it didn’t take long for them to realize that Blackhouse was deserted. Dumbfounded and angry, Iain stood tall from his crouched position and squinted with fierce recrimination at the manse. And it took everything he had to await the arrival of the rest of his army before he charged through the open gates of Blackhouse.

  They found only a few persons milling about the keep. Blackhouse’s steward gave up information, at Archie’s persuasive coercion, that all who were housed inside Blackhouse had been removed to another Sutherland property, Halliwel
l. Further, vigorous interrogation revealed that this unlikely move had been prompted by Kenneth Sutherland having been called up by Dungal MacDouall to make war against Robert Bruce and his cause.

  “Where is Maggie Bryce? Is she gone to Halliwell?” Iain wanted to know.

  The middle-aged steward, Oswald, sent frightened eyes to Iain, holding his hands up defensively before Archie. Trembling, he shook his head and cried out, “I dinna ken a Maggie Bryce.”

  Archie leaned into him. “Margaret Bryce, betrothed to Kenneth Sutherland!”

  Only slight relief tempered the man’s features, for his understanding. “Aye, aye. The lass he’s to wed.” Fear climbed again into his face. “But I dinna ken where she’s kept.”

  “You’re steward to the man and dinna ken where his bride is?” Iain barked with skepticism.

  Archie tightened his fist in the man’s cowl.

  The steward cringed, tugging at Archie’s hands helplessly. “I dinna ken, I swear. I never met the wench. The betrothal was only announced a sennight ago.”

  “She’s no’ a wench,” Daimh sniped at the man before taking leave of the stables, where they’d found the steward hidden.

  “Find out what he knows about Alpin’s activities,” Iain said, and he left the stables, and the matter, to Archie and Donal and Craig, who remained.

  Iain glanced around the empty courtyard of Blackhouse, taking long and deep breaths to calm himself. A muscle ticked in his neck, and another pulsed near his temple. Where in the hell was Maggie Bryce?

  MAGGIE HUDDLED INSIDE her heavy wool cloak, stiff and cold, but using all her remaining strength to not glance back with any hope or even despair as the Gordon keep faded into the distance. She wanted to cry, again, but could not. Apparently her body had exhausted all its tears in the last forty-eight hours, even if her mind had not.

  They been married two nights ago, and it had taken her new husband but a short amount of time to show her exactly what kind of monster he was.