by Annis, Dawn
“I am no troubled,” she lied. “I simply desire to ride alone this morn.”
John’s eyes narrowed, and he thrust his chin out. His lips curled with menace. Thea brought her free hand to her mouth and took a step back. His features smoothed into a charming smile.
His mercurial moods had always disoriented her. Those moods only worsened when her father had ordered John to no longer court her.
“O’ course. What pleases ye pleases me. Shall I ready yer horse?” John offered his arm.
Thea’s chest tightened as she allowed him to fold her arm in his and walk her to the stall to retrieve her mount.
John’s reaction to her riding alone troubled her. For a moment, she’d questioned whether he would hurt her.
’Tis nothin’, my eyes playin’ tricks.
After saddling her horse, John held the reins of her black gelding, Destiny, as Thea walked with him to the mounting block. Thea scrunched her nose in disgust at the sight of the sidesaddle. She hated it but couldn’t convince her father or brothers riding astride gave her more control. Sidesaddles were what ‘ladies’ used. Living with her family was damn exhausting at times. Thea took over the reins. ”I am grateful.”
“I wish ye would reconsider and allow me to accompany ye. I would be devastated if ye came to harm.” John grabbed her hand, stroking it a bit too hard.
Thea pulled her hand from his grasp as gently as she could. An unease niggled at the base of her neck.
Dinna be daft.
“I have ridden the fields my entire life. Why would I come to harm?”
“Och, my sweet lass, no reason. No reason at all. Canna a man no worry over the woman he loves?”
John helped her onto the saddle and waved as Thea set her horse to a cantor out of the yard.
She slowed Destiny’s pace through the copse of trees. Her father had spoken his mind and that would be the end of it.
“I am to find a husband or one will be found for me,” she told Destiny. “Trouble is, all the men I may have interest in have been rejected by my brothers. Mayhap I will have to search farther abroad from my wee world o’ choices. However, I ken my brothers. They will object to a man they dinna ken. An impossible situation.” A situation Thea wasn’t sure how to solve.
Once she reached the fields below the manor, Thea urged her horse into a gallop. She needed to clear her head, and what better way than at a full run. She loved the freedom, the wind on her face so strong her eyes watered and her cheeks burned with cold.
This particular problem may take more than one ride to solve.
Breathless, she came to the end of the large field and reined in her horse. She gazed at the beautiful vista of rolling hills and lush valleys she called home.
She filled her lungs. “I love this land, Destiny. The people I call family and friends alike. Mayhap ’tis why I havena found a husband. A piece o’ me is hesitant to leave my home and family. I certainly have yet to find a man who has inspired me to do so.”
Thea turned and headed the way she had come, urging her mount to a thrilling pace once again. At a full run, Destiny stumbled, catching his hoof. The horse’s shoulder dipped to an alarming angle, and Thea’s knee slipped from her sidesaddle. She struggled to remain upright and grabbed for Destiny’s mane. Just as she gained control, the saddle’s cinch broke. The saddle, with Thea still in it, slid from her horse and dropped to the ground like a stone. She landed on the hard ground with a thud. A bolt of lightning flashed from the clouds. The hairs on Thea’s arms stood up. A clap of thunder followed, instantaneous and deafening. Destiny screamed and bolted for the safety of the stables without a second thought for Thea.
“Coward.”
Thea stood, stamping on the sodden grasses. Her back had taken the worse of the fall. Bruised muscles aching, she turned to try to see her backside. A wide streak of mud stained the back of her shirt and riding skirt where she had so unceremoniously been dumped. Her sticky, wet clothes clung to her body. Her tonnag had loosened when she fell and laid spread out wide at her feet on the grass. She snatched it up.
In a childish fit, she kicked the saddle, succeeding only in hurting her toe. Shite. She bent to pick it up by the small horn, and she noticed a cut in the leather cinch. No doubt Timothy would have harsh words with the lads who took care of the tack.
Thea’s family would be concerned when Destiny rode in without her. Her father would be anxious for her safety. Her brothers would be annoyed with her for worrying their father.
A drop of rain fell on her head with a fat splat.
Just my luck.
“Why couldna it hold off a wee bit longer?” Thea mumbled.
Soon, the rain fell in earnest. Thea tried to shelter her head and shoulders with her cloak, and then gave up. Wrapping it closely around herself, she stomped through the mud, lugging the saddle. “Bugger!”
She didn’t normally curse. Though she’d learned some of her finest curse words from her brothers.
They could curse.
All right, she rarely cursed out loud, and she wouldn’t dream of using some of the words her brothers did, but every once in a great while a good string of curse words somehow made her feel a little bit better. This was one of those situations.
Ballocks. Bugger. Damnation.
There, that felt good.
She was cold, wet, and bruised from her fall. Her gown stuck to her, muddied and ruined. Her hair, soaked and straggling, had fallen from its pins and hung down her back in a clump, dangling just short of her waist.
The wind picked up, whipping pieces of hair across her eyes. She struggled to keep her cloak wrapped around her for what little warmth the garment gave. Her muddied boots grew heavier with each step, the saddle an unyielding weight as she slogged toward home.
Chapter 3
His mother, Fiona MacLeod, was a tough woman. She put the Sassenach women to shame, yet she could be a sweet, grand lady of the parlor if required. She was a classic.
His father’s death racked her with sorrow and grief. He heard her in his parents’ chamber sobbing when he walked by. He stopped, contemplated knocking on the door, but what relief could he give? With his eyes gritty and his head aching from his own private tears, he trudged to the hall.
Callum sat on a cushioned seat and ran his hands through his hair. He leaned over and put his elbows on his knees.
Lettie, his bonnie sister, was no longer a lass.
I should have been there for her, to show her how to ride a horse properly, throw a punch if necessary. Tease her until she cried, to wipe away her tears. I needed to be with her when lads broke her heart and when she chose the lad she would marry. Had too many years passed?
Her grief tore at him, heavy on his heart. He’d missed the chance to gain her trust and help share her sorrow. She let him hold her briefly but pulled away when she could.
He thought about the last decade and what he had made of his life, a life of decadence and loneliness. Wasted. He hadn’t realized how lonely until he reached the shores of home. Should he stay and live the life he had been born to, or would he turn his back from the people who depended on him again? His dream told him of his father’s forgiveness, and he held onto its comfort. Callum couldn’t be sure he would forgive himself. Though in his heart, he began to long for the comfort of his clan.
The Clan MacLeod had a rich, proud history. The past generations of one’s family were taken for granted by the young and appreciated so very much by the old. He knew his family’s history by the countless stories he’d heard as a lad. Only now did he see their value. The origins of the clan could be traced to Leod, born in the beginning of the eleventh century, the younger son of Olaf the Black, King of Man and the Isles. As a lad, Callum imagined a large man with a flowing black beard wearing a great gold crown. Leod married the daughter of MacRaild
, a Norse Seneschal, in the year 1220.
As a wee lass, Lettie had sighed at the romance of it all and begged to hear more of the tale.
Through Leod’s sons came the MacLeods of the Isle of Skye. Their motto, ‘Hold Fast,’ Callum knew to be true. The clan was known for its fierce loyalty to one another and their commitment to defend Dunvegan castle should the need arise. A loyalty he had denied.
Callum leaned his arms on the table and shook his head. The morning sun shone through the stain glassed windows. He remembered when his father came home with a glass man to make those windows. His mother, thrilled, sat down at once with the man to draw out the design she’d set her heart on.
He ran his hand through his hair and rubbed the grit from his eyes. Rising, he approached the sideboard and poured himself a whiskey. He swallowed the amber liquid and grimaced at the burn as it traveled down his throat. He contemplated the MacLeod clan future and his place in it. Restless, he paced as he thought about the Laird of the MacLeod’s duties. Not one family but a collection of families, and now they were his responsibility if he chose to take on the duty. The families of MacCrimmon and MacNichol were septs to the MacLeod and answered to the Laird of the Clan MacLeod.
The MacCrimmon clan were the hereditary pipers to the Clan MacLeod. The pipers played at every meal and gathering. They would play for the new MacLeod. A piper had arrived earlier. Callum had sent him home.
The MacNichol family took charge of the large herds of long-haired cattle roaming the MacLeod lands. Anthol MacNichol conferred often with Callum’s father on breeding and expanding the herds, creating a healthy and robust livelihood for them all. Now he would expect to meet with Callum.
Weary, Callum called for a horse.
“Where ye off to?” his mother asked as she descended the stairs. Her red-rimmed eyes tore at his heart.
“I must speak with the chiefs o’ the sept clans. ’Tis important they ken o’ the laird’s death.”
“Ye are the laird now, son.” Her chin trembled. “Let the knowledge keep ye braw.”
Callum kept his distress and his indecision from his mother. He gave her a smile, kissed her cheek, and strode out to the readied horse. After mounting his ride, he headed north, traveling the few miles to the Clan MacCrimmon. Letting the horse pick its way around the rocks on the narrow trail, he took in his surroundings. He smelled the heather, so sweet. The moors in his dreams could not compare to the rocky crags he saw before him. The vivid blues, greens, and purples of the countryside shamed his memory.
His thoughts returned to the responsibility before him, knowing it would be the first of many.
The chief of the MacCrimmon clan, Henry MacCrimmon, met him on the front steps. Callum dismounted, giving the reins to an eager lad.
“Lad, ’tis sorry I am to see ye,” the MacCrimmon comforted as he wrapped an arm around Callum. “Did ye have a chance to speak with yer da before he died? I ken ye only just returned.”
“For a moment. He kent I was there.” Callum lowered his gaze. His throat caught, his chest tight. He didn’t tell the MacCrimmon of his dream. Even in a land where haunts, superstitions, and faeries were commonplace, it was too personal to share. “We will lay him to rest on the morrow.”
“Yer da cared for his people. He protected us in time o’ strife and rejoiced with us in prosperity. He will be deeply missed. We will be there to give him a proper send off and leave the rest to the gods,” the MacCrimmon pronounced fiercely while shaking his fist to the sky.
Callum raised his own fist and shouted, “Aye.” The simple act released his tension. He no longer heard the gods in his heart as Henry did, but he breathed easier.
“Come, have a bit o’ drink to ease yer throat. I can see the toll ’tis takin’ on yerself.”
“Nay, I have the MacNichol to speak with.”
“O’course. Tomorrow morn ’tis. We will play until our lungs burst. Ye couldna ask for a better laird. A good laird.”
He patted Callum’s back. Callum wanted to shake the man’s hand off. He didn’t deserve the gesture but realized the MacCrimmon grieved not only for him but for the clan’s loss. For the grief of his clan, he was grateful for the compassion.
The men clasped forearms, and Callum mounted his horse. The chief of the MacCrimmon clan stepped back, a man of few words, and there were no more to be shared.
As Callum rode through the courtyard and out the gates, the pipers played a song on their bagpipes, a song of love for their laird. The pipes spoke of their sorrow and loss. Callum’s loss.
He bowed his head and remembered the close relationship he’d shared with his father, loving until Callum wanted to leave. Precarious tears that had threatened throughout the morning slipped down his cheeks. He wept.
Callum headed to the seat of Clan MacNichol. He thought of the MacCrimmon’s words. Did ye speak with him before he died? If Callum had known the night before would be his father’s last, he would have apologized for his hurtful words when they’d parted. Why had he foolishly assumed there would be more time? Another mistake, another failing, another regret.
Callum rode the twenty minutes south to the MacNichol stronghold, thinking of his mother and sister. Who would care for them if not him? What would happen to the Clan MacLeod?
The MacNichol clan had a rich history on the Isle of Skye. They’d lived on the isle for more than seven hundred years. The chief traditionally made his home at Scorrybreac, near the harbor of Portree. The MacLeods had gained a great deal of their wealth from an auspicious marriage to a MacNichol heiress in the fourteenth century. The clans had been tied to one another since.
He gained control of himself and rode into the manor’s yard, his stomach churning. He dreaded telling Anthol MacNichol of his father’s death. No one would question Callum taking the position of laird, of course, yet he wanted the old man’s approval. If he chose not to take the role of laird, Anthol’s disappointment would gut Callum. Anthol had been a close friend to his father, and he knew of Callum’s decision to leave, no doubt as the defection it was. Should Callum decide to stay, he would need Anthol’s loyalty and support. Anthol understood the significance of Callum’s lineage and the weight the former MacLeod had placed on it.
Dark clouds overhead during his ride promised a deluge. Callum counted himself lucky he had arrived ahead of the rain.
Hadrian, the chief’s eldest son and next in line for laird of the Clan MacNichol, greeted him, engulfing Callum’s hand in his own. He was a bear of a man, serious and single-minded when it came to the responsibilities of the clan and its welfare. “Och, my friend,” Hadrian laughed, “I missed yer company.”
“I thank ye for yer warm welcome. ’Tis too long since we have spoken, and I have missed our friendship,” Callum agreed, shaking Hadrian’s hand.
“’Tis good to see ye. I wondered if we would see ye agin.” He threw his arm around Callum and leaned in.
“I wondered it m’self, Hadrian.” Callum was not a small man though his knees threaten to buckle under the weight of his friend.
The two had spent many an hour together when they’d been lads. When the thoughts of freedom lurked in Callum’s brain, he had not shared them with Hadrian. Even as a good friend, Hadrian would not have understood. Hadrian never questioned his place as heir to the leadership of the Clan MacNichol. It had not occurred to him to go down a road other than what his family had desired for him. His friend did not mind the role he was to inherit. No, his duty was clear to him, one he embraced. Callum had not discussed his decision to leave the isle with him all those years ago but always suspected Hadrian had known of his desire.
“Come, greet Da. Let us sit down with an ale by the fire. Ye can tell me what ye have been doin’ with yerself all these long years.”
Callum would not be telling Hadrian of his years in England. The longer he stayed on th
e isle the more ashamed he became.
He let Hadrian guide him over to his father, Anthol.
The gray-haired man sat at a table close to the fire, talking with the smithy.
Callum had rehearsed his words on the journey to Scorrybreac and now once again while the men talked. The time had come. He took in a breath to control his emotions. He set aside his grief, a show of strength critical. He didn’t fear the chief of the MacNichol, but given Callum’s indecision, he would have to tread carefully.
Anthol turned and stood. When he saw Callum, his eyes widened. He stepped forward and thrust out his hand. Callum took the old man’s hand into his own, and as he did, Anthol pulled him to his chest and embraced him in a fatherly hug. When he released him and stepped back, tears glistened in Anthol’s eyes.
“’Tis good to see ye, lad,” Anthol said quietly. “I wondered if I would see yerself agin.”
“’Tis too long I have been awa’,” Callum said in an equally hushed tone. “And I have come with sad news.”
Anthol grimaced and shook his bowed head wearily. “I can guess what ye have to say. I am saddened more than I can tell ye.”
Callum lowered his head and stared at the ground. Hadrian put his hand on his shoulder. They stood in silence.
Callum spoke softly. “We will lay him to rest on the morrow.”
“We will be there, lad,” Anthol said. “We will all be there. ’Tis good to have ye home. Yer rightful place will no be challenged.”
Anthol offered Callum a seat at the table closest to the fire next to Hadrian. Before long, Geoffrey and Michael came to join them. Anthol told them of the death of the MacLeod.
“’Tis a shame.” Geoffrey placed his hand on Callum’s shoulder where Hadrian’s had rested before. “Yer da will be missed.”
Michael stepped up next. “I grieve for yer loss.”