The Truth of Her Heart (Highlander Heroes Book 5)

by Rebecca Ruger

  “You won’t need that,” he’d said when he’d come to her borrowed chamber after their vows. He’d pointed dismissively at the dressing gown she’d donned only moments before.

  Elizabeth had kindly helped her ready herself for her wedding night, her face grim and her words few, which had only heightened Maggie’s unease.

  Apprehensive about stripping bare before him under the light afforded by many softly glowing tapers, Maggie had hesitated. That had been a mistake. Her new husband, with little patience and even less finesse, had rent the gown cleanly from her body with one quick and forceful swipe of the fabric at the neckline.

  Her fears, all her trepidation over her wedding night, had been justified, she’d learned quickly enough. Their first coupling as husband and wife had been horrendous, Kenneth Sutherland proving swiftly that he lacked any shred of human decency, and that he held a very low opinion of his new bride.

  In the light of day, with her husband riding his own steed and not confined to the vehicle with her, Maggie chose not to review every gory detail of her initiation to sex or even the next night when the nightmare was repeated. When next she cried, it was with a tremendous amount of dread, that she’d closed her eyes through much of the ordeal, and that she’d brought to mind the image of Iain McEwen. At the time, she’d considered it necessary; it might have been the very thing that had seen her through it. In hindsight, however, she was very afraid that she had attached that awful act to Iain merely by invoking his image that she might hold onto something good, something sure and safe.

  After quite a lengthy span of fitfulness, Maggie glanced out over the moving scenery, though had little appreciation—indeed, little awareness—of the snow-capped hills or trees or the gently rolling pastures. Kenneth Sutherland saw no need to inform his bride of their travel plans, that Maggie had only learned from Elizabeth that they had been summoned by someone named MacDouall, and that Kenneth was to bring a large portion of the Sutherland army with him for whatever purpose.

  “But why must I go with him?” Maggie had asked dear Elizabeth. “Why would he want a woman anywhere around an army?” She had to assume that some campaign, related to the on-going war with England, was their destination.

  Elizabeth had grimaced at Maggie, but did not mince words, “He is newly wed. He will want to avail himself of his new bride.”

  Maggie couldn’t at this time have said what her response might have been to that. But she recalled well Elizabeth’s pinched face look, as if she were sorry for her, but also anxious to rid herself and her household of all the wretchedness that was Maggie’s marriage.

  Chapter Eleven

  May 1307

  MAGGIE PRETENDED SHE was sleeping for the first several hours of the trip. It was simply easier than either the effort she would need to expend to ignore her traveling companion or worse, actually making conversation with the woman.

  She’d not dared to show any emotion to her husband when he’d announced she’d be sent to Blackhouse while he remained in Carlisle, but oh how she had cried with joy inside.

  A few days had passed since then, and she’d begun to fear that he might have changed his mind. She hadn’t asked if this was so, not of a mind to fuel any irritation in the man, something she’d learned quite early on she would be wise to avoid at any cost.

  Why he’d ever brought her to Carlisle with him would forever be a mystery to her. It had been a miserable few months, where she’d rarely been allowed to leave the rooms they’d let in the city, only made slightly more bearable by the one sitting across from her now.

  Maggie finally opened her eyes and immediately met the dark gaze of Ailith. They traded unblinking stares, never having much cause for conversation. Ailith, with her pouty lips and raven black hair, was her husband’s leman, and thought herself better than Maggie. Ailith’s gown was made of a soft plum linen, the sleeves and bodice embroidered prettily with golden threads. Over this she wore a mantle of red, lined with soft yellow sindon, while Maggie owned no mantle at all, donned still the same gray cloak she’d known and had worn for years. Of course Maggie did not like her, but she could never argue that Ailith’s presence in her husband’s life had taken some pressure off herself—not all, certainly not as much as Maggie would have liked, but the woman did serve a purpose. Honestly, Maggie had no cause to feel any acrimony toward her, save that Ailith always behaved so abominably toward Maggie.

  “It’s all your fault,” Ailith said now, “that we’ve been sent away.”

  “I’m quite sure you’ve set your own path, Ailith, as have I,” Maggie said. It was only her own wretchedness that made her add, “Mayhap you didn’t work hard enough to keep his attention away from the good ladies of Carlisle Castle. You gave up fairly quickly, to my thinking, with the coming of those English ladies.”

  “You are his wife,” Ailith shot back. “It was your duty to assure he had no use for those monsters.”

  Maggie smiled grimly at her. There was no point in arguing with her. Ailith had proven more than once that she was capable of physical violence against Maggie; she had no wish to repeat any of those occasions. She did dare to ask, as she had often wondered, “Why did Kenneth not marry you, Ailith? You’ve been his whore for years, if I understand correctly? Have several bairns, do you not?”

  Ailith clamped her lips and skinnied her eyes, possibly wondering if any animosity attended Maggie’s’ query. When she didn’t answer, Maggie said, “I was only curious. You seem to have some feeling for him, or at the very least a desire for his company, his interest.”

  “I haven’t any lands, of course,” she finally answered curtly.

  Maggie nodded, having suspected that. “But I am not your enemy. I neither sought nor wanted to be married to him.”

  Ailith favored her with a scornful frown. “How could you not? He’s handsome and monied. He’s a fine bedmate.” She pursed her lips while considering Maggie. “Aye,” she said with a smirk, “he said you dinna like it, dinna ken how to please a man. Said you squealed and cried the first time—you ken that only riles him up, aye?”

  I know that now, Maggie thought dispassionately. “I only wanted to impress upon you that you and I want the same thing. You want him and I don’t.” An idea, which she’d toyed with for weeks, was put into words. “Our wedding gave him—and the Earl of Sutherland—the lands my father traded, but honestly what other use does he have of me, but to torment me? Bairns? He can have those by any woman, as you’ve shown. Perhaps if I were away, he might now wed you?”

  Ailith gave her another long stare. She was many things, but she was not obtuse; she knew exactly what Maggie was proposing.

  She smiled finally and Maggie slowly released her breath.

  “You want me to help you escape?”

  Maggie nodded. Her hands fisted in her lap.

  Ailith nodded in return, her smile becoming oily. “I’ll be giving that some thought.”

  Only allowing a small sense of hope to blossom within, Maggie inclined her head and closed her eyes once again, settling in for the remainder of the drive to Blackhouse.

  As happened so often, when she closed her eyes, she saw Iain McEwen. Possibly, the image of him, the memory of him was all that had kept her sane these last few months. Not only him, but his men as well. Those few days with those seven men had, inexplicably, been some of the happiest of her life. This bespoke of one of two things: either that her little life was so woefully pathetic that being trapped in a snow storm with seven strangers had seemed wonderfully idyllic to her, or that Iain McEwen’s kiss had been a larger experience in that dreary life than she’d known at the time. Perhaps both were true.

  His eyes are blue, and his hair is dark. His smile is beautiful, and his arms are safe.

  Sometimes she chanted this in her head, to keep it alive. She bemoaned the staleness of memory, that each day brought her further away from something so amazing. At this point, many months removed from him, she feared she recalled only that being in his arms, however
briefly and sleepily, had felt warm and solid and right, but she could no longer imagine those strong arms around her, could not feel him press his lips to her forehead anymore.

  Of all the things she missed, things she’d lost since marrying Kenneth Sutherland—her innocence, her sometimes fearlessness, her sense of self, hope—she was most sorrowful over the loss of memory.

  She recalled some mention of an unfinished matter between them, her and Iain McEwen, but could not rightly bring to mind the exact words; she remembered Hew’s earnest face watching her, and Archie’s grin when she’d sung a song for him; she knew that the twins were beautiful, but could not recall if it were Daimh or Donal who had carried her up to the third hut; flashes of Iain’s blue eyes were strong thankfully, but she could no more call to mind the exact shape of his smile, was only teased by some memory that suggested it was lovely.

  However would she manage sanity when it was all gone?

  They arrived at Blackhouse shortly before dark. Maggie had actually dozed, which allowed Ailith to scamper first out of the carriage. There were few to greet them, Blackhouse having been left almost completely vacant when the chief had taken his leave months ago. Maggie alighted and saw Ailith rushing over to a rotund and bald man, speaking quickly to him, pointing a finger at the man with some intent. The man lifted his gaze to Maggie, eyes thinned under his heavy scowl, at whatever Ailith was saying to him.

  Several soldiers, who seemed not to be guarding anything, appeared from the barracks. Maggie cast her gaze around the bailey. ’Twas a sloppy yard, mud puddled in so many places and piles of chopped wood stacked so lazily that it accounted for much more ground space than it needed; a walkway above the hall, which overlooked the bailey, was missing several rails and one cut timber of the rail, having lost its hold at one end, dangled precariously close to the door that one would have to skirt it to avoid walking into it when entering the hall.

  They approached, Ailith and the heavyset man. Neither of their expressions suggested Maggie should not suspect some trouble brewing.

  So much for hope.

  Maggie straightened her shoulders and announced, “I am Lady Sutherland, sir, and I—”

  “She needs to be locked away,” Ailith cut in, “as she has plans to run from our chief and their marriage.”

  “Escape your laird?” The man said, with a tsk-tsk that made Maggie’s stomach turn. “We cannot allow that. You might have the right of it, Ailith, under lock and key to protect what belongs to our chief.”

  Cringing inside at what this might mean, Maggie felt soldiers move around her and at the plump man’s behest, take hold of her arms. She went meekly with them, having learned over the last few months that her screams would go unanswered.

  June 1307

  FOUR MEN GATHERED ROUND the table in the great hall at Berriedale, the first time they’d met as such in many a month. No one spoke while they waited on Artair. Duncan stood at Iain’s side, his arms crossed over his chest, his mouth tight while he stared out at nothing. Donal hovered near the end of the table, seated, pointing his dagger this way and that to catch and reflect sunshine from the windows. Archie sat near Iain, the chair pushed back, his elbows rested on his knees, head bowed.

  “We should expand your officers’ field,” Duncan said after a while.

  Iain did not turn, seated at the chief’s chair, his forearms on the table, his gaze on the hearth across the hall. He’d thought as much recently. Since their numbers had dwindled, he would need to replace what they’d lost. He needed a tracker and a logistics man, among other things. “Bring up whomever you regard fit,” he said, leaving the matter to his captain. He thought to intercede only so much as to command, “But no’ Rhys. He gets under my skin.” He tapped his tankard absently on the smooth wooden table top.

  “Too much ale in that one,” Archie added, seeming to concur.

  “Boyd had spent some time with Craig,” Duncan mused. “Might be growing pains, but he’ll do fine for tracking.”

  “Eideard’s got a good head,” Archie noted, fine praise from one who rarely offered any.

  Iain and Duncan nodded, and they were silent again, the very need for this discussion souring them further.

  It was another ten minutes before Artair joined them, his leather binder of notes in hand.

  “What news, Artair?” Iain asked of his steward, straightening in his chair.

  He’d charged the man with putting out discreet feelers to find out where Kenneth Sutherland was at this moment. It had been a hell of a few months, gone from one battle to the next, it seemed. After their near siege on Blackhouse in early February, they’d been summoned by the king and had managed to locate and join Robert Bruce’s force. The king’s army, at the time, had been comprised mostly of men from the Isles, and what few dozen he’d gathered, having returned to his Carrick lands. The Bruce had been all too pleased to welcome the Mackays and a few other smaller chiefs into his fold, which more than tripled his numbers.

  Sadly, they’d not been with the Bruce but days when they’d received the sorry news that the king’s own brothers, having returned to the mainland from Ireland, had been met by the hostile force of that damn MacDouall—likely Sutherland, too. Their small force had been quickly overwhelmed by MacDouall and company, the brothers captured and taken to the English in Carlisle. It had been weeks before they’d been given the grim news of the sad and grisly deaths of Thomas and Alexander Bruce, under the order of Edward I.

  At the time, they’d had some intelligence that suggested that Kenneth Sutherland had been a party to the transport, but they had lost track of him since. Thus, upon his return to Berriedale last week, Iain had set Artair the task of finding Alpin. Over the years, Artair had said repeatedly that information was power, and had once confessed to having what he called rows of crows, covert sources of intelligence throughout Caithness and further south, which had sometimes played a vital role in the safety and security of Berriedale.

  “Kenneth Sutherland,” Artair told Iain and his men, setting his papers down on the table before him, “and the Blackhouse Sutherlands did indeed conduct the Bruce brothers to Carlisle, alongside a party of MacDoualls. It is my understanding that Sutherland found favor with Edward I and some liking of Carlisle Castle and has remained there.”

  This was not the news they’d wanted to hear. They’d hoped to return to Berriedale and continue the pursuit of Alpin.

  Artair folded his hands into his sleeves, as was his way, and added, “There was some news—its reliability cannot be verified—that young Sutherland sent his bride home to Blackhouse, possibly as long as a month ago.”

  Duncan, Iain, Archie, and Donal exchanged glances. That she was married to Sutherland was old news by now, Artair having managed to get that and other information to Iain while he’d been with the king. It sat no better with him now, even months removed from first hearing of it.

  Duncan put out what many were thinking. “So the lass is now at Blackhouse and her husband hundreds of miles away.”

  “That may be correct,” Artair allowed, his tone filled with caution, which not one man heeded.

  “Sutherland’s no’ at Blackhouse, but we could be,” Archie suggested, “in half a day, if we ride hard.”

  “Wouldn’t need the whole army,” Donal reasoned, “if only the lass and only a small retainer returned.”

  Iain glanced around the men, assessing the willingness of each one, which he found to be equal to his own. He nodded and just like that, the decision was made. The men quickly disassembled, anxious to be about the business of readying for the excursion.

  Artair gave him a stoic nod, knowing he would go to Blackhouse, with or without his approval.

  “This, then, would have nothing to do with the apprehension of Alpin,” Artair reasoned when the men had departed the hall. “Is she worth the risk? You canna expect to steal a man’s bride without reprisal.”

  Iain shook his head, not quite knowing how to justify their obsession with saving Maggie
Bryce. He tipped back the rest of his ale, setting the tankard back down with uncommon slowness.

  Thoughts of Maggie Bryce and the image of Maggie Bryce, the very sound of her velvety voice had been with him for months. He’d waffled between anger over her lies to him, regret that he’d let her go with Sutherland, and admittedly, some acknowledgment that he’d been right smitten with the lass. His emotions regarding her were all over the place. At some point, months ago, he’d convinced himself that his sentiments concerning her would not have been so dramatic if she’d but remained with them, that it had been the loss of her—and knowing with whom she’d ridden off—that had accentuated everything he’d felt. But then Hew...

  He shook his head now.

  Looking into Artair’s solid gray eyes, he explained as much as he understood. “Seems our lives are split into two halves: before Maggie Bryce and after. But I canna figure the why of it.”

  Artair nodded thoughtfully and moved around the table. He took the chair beside Iain, pushed out a bit so that he faced Iain with his elbows on his thighs, his head bowed as Iain stared still across the hall.

  In his low and calm tone, Artair said, “Of course, I did not have the privilege of meeting the girl, but I hope to one day, as she cast quite a spell upon you...all of you. Likely, you felt as if you failed her, mayhap thought you lost something when you couldn’t pull her from Sutherland’s grasp before it was too late. That was the beginning of a number of unfavorable turns. And then you rode off to your king’s side and you lost Hew at Glen Trool and Craig and Daimh at Loudon Hill. More loss. It weighs heavily, I imagine.” Artair sighed. “And it has not escaped my notice that the unit—your close circle, the officers—are not at all the same. They are, all of you, more somber...different men, every one of you. Even Archie—I didn’t think he had but one or two emotions, truth be told—is more complex these days.”

  Of course, the loss of Hew and Craig and Daimh weighed heavily upon Iain, more so than had any deaths from earlier battles over the last decade. But how was it related to his inability to free the lass? Iain could not understand. Hew’s death, with thoughts of Maggie as his last, had indeed returned Maggie to the fore of Iain’s thoughts, as if clinging to the memory of her somehow kept Hew close as well.