by Alisa Adams
"Aye but such men are beasts," Athol said angrily. "But I came to discuss something else that concerns him."
"Come and have some ale or wine? Whiskey perhaps?"
"Too early," Athol said and laughed. "And I have very little time. Do you not have servants here that used to work for McShane, or are my servants wrong? The servant's grapevine is usually very efficient."
'The servants' grapevine' referred to the gossip-mongering among the staff, which usually leaked out and provided a reliable source of information for everyone from the scullery maid up to the Laird.
"Yes, I do." Jamie frowned, puzzled. "I took them on because of family connections to some of my other staff. Why?"
"Why did they leave him?" Athol persisted.
"They said he was brutal and would punish them for the least transgression." Jamie took a sip of his ale, then said, "Athol, what is this about? I sense a dark mystery here, something not quite right."
"May I see the staff?" Athol asked.
The two women were brought to see them. They were mother and daughter, one in her late teens and the older woman around forty, Athol guessed. They were both quivering and terrified. Athol put them at ease, promising that nothing they said would be held against him or would leave the room. He interviewed them gently since they had obviously both seen something neither of them would ever forget. After they had talked, both women were tearful but smiling. Athol gave them each a silver shilling for their help and they left, delighted.
"How can a' lairds no' be like him, Jeannie?" the mother asked, sighing.
"I dinnae know, Mammy, bit it warms my heart tae knaw that some are."
Jamie was not delighted. "I have a good mind to call the whole thing off!" he shouted, "this is monstrous!"
"Jamie, leave it with Grant and me," Athol said grimly. "Will you tell him we will call on him tomorrow evening for a game of dice?"
"I will, Athol, and I promise to say nothing until then." Jamie's face was like thunder. "But at the least provocation, I will throttle him!"
Baron McShane was tall and ruddy, with gray-streaked brown hair and small dark eyes. His bulging abdomen pushed out his shirt and hung over his kilt. All the men thought him a particularly loathsome specimen of the male sex. "Call me Malcolm," he said with an oily smile, "all my friends do. My wife used to call me Malky, but do not call me that, please," he sighed, "it brings back memories."
They had been sitting down for an hour or so when he invited them to use his Christian name. Now Grant had an opportunity to broach the subject that was on all their minds.
"I hear that you lost your wife not so long ago," Grant sympathized, "my condolences, Malcolm."
"Aye, she was a fine woman," Malcolm sighed, "I miss her very much."
"Tell me," Grant asked curiously, "I heard two different versions of her death. One is that she killed herself and the other is that she fell off the roof by accident."
Malcolm swelled with indignation. "It is a very impertinent and insensitive question, sir!" he barked, "but if you must know, she fell over by accident while trying to catch her cat. He was very dear to her. And now, if you do not mind, the subject is very painful to me and I would appreciate it if you did not speak of it again."
Grant threw the dice again, then speared Malcolm with a hostile stare. Then he put on a sympathetic face. "Aye, Malcolm, I know how you feel," he sighed, "I lost my wife in childbirth last year. It was heart-breaking. She was so young."
The Baron sighed. "It is a common story, Grant," he said, throwing his die, "but all women face that danger. It is the way God made them in order that they might atone for the sin of Eve."
"Do you have any children, Malcolm?" Athol asked casually, as he smiled and picked up his winnings. "My wife has just given birth to our first child, a son."
"Alas, my Mairead was barren," the Baron sighed. "A great tragedy for both of us, and I am not getting any younger. But I trust my new wife will be fertile. She is young and healthy, bonny too. I look forward to our betrothal." He smiled unpleasantly.
I wager you do, Athol thought furiously.
"Oh, I forgot, I heard another version," he said in a casual, conversational tone. "I heard that you killed her, pushed her off the battlements of your castle." He waited a moment for this to sink in.
* * *
The Baron jumped to his feet, while Grant and Athol sat calmly watching him. "That is a scandalous lie!" he cried, thumping his fist on the table. "Apologize at once!"
Grant stood up and moved around the table so that he was nose to nose with the baron. The man took a step backward and collapsed on his chair. "I have witnesses," Grant said silkily, "two of them."
"Servants, no doubt," Malcolm's voice was scathing. "Their word is worth nothing."
Grant knew that this was probably true. "I have four lairds who will back them up," he said calmly.
"You are not a laird," said Malcolm, scathingly.
Grant ignored him and went on. "We know that you wanted to marry Maura McKay because you loved her very much, inasmuch as you are capable of it. Your wife Jean was unable to bear your children, and therefore useless. But Maura did not want you, because you too had a crumbling estate and not too much money, so she married me, under the impression that I would inherit Ruaridh Anderson's estate when he died. She also liked handsome men, and sadly, Malcolm, you are not one of them.
“So, you set your sights on Rhona Wishart, who was young, beautiful and probably very fertile. You even had her virginity tested, did you not, Malcolm? But you were still married, so your wife had to disappear or die. She died because you pushed her over the edge of the turret one night. You thought you had got away with it, but you were seen. Your servants were too terrified to stay so they left and came here, through references from relatives at Athol's castle. Then the story came to him and then to me. The servants have not and will not be named."
Malcolm had stood up again in order to look Athol in the eye, but Grant pushed Malcolm back onto a chair, which almost overbalanced with his weight. Athol righted it.
"I will tell you what will happen now." Grant folded his arms and looked down at Malcolm. "You will be taken from here to my castle where you will wait in my dungeons until the justices come to try you and judge you. Maybe you will hang, maybe not, but I promise you that my dungeons are old, leaky, and very, very cold."
Malcolm opened his mouth to protest but was silenced by a backhand slap across his face from Grant.
"Not a word," he hissed, "or there will be worse to come."
Malcolm spent three miserable months in the dungeons at Craiglochan before he was taken away. Witnesses flocked to the court to tell of other crimes he had committed, including a rape and another murder. Eventually, he was hanged and was buried in a pauper's grave because no-one would pay for his coffin. Grant had worried about starting a new relationship but found it impossible to stop thinking about Rhona. He asked her to stay with the Pattersons a while longer and began to court her.
Grant found that beyond the red hair, Rhona bore no resemblance to Maura at all. She was calm, quiet and eager to please, not because she was afraid of him, but because she adored him, and he found that he adored her too. She was tender, and when he told her the story of Ruaridh's terrible death she listened calmly until he had finished, then she sighed.
"You loved her very much and were willing to overlook her faults in order to keep her from punishment. I know it was wrong and so do you, but it is done and you have been forgiven. My love, you will have to live with this for the rest of your life, and that is your punishment. But I will not judge you. I love you too much."
Grant wrapped her in his arms and kissed her fiercely. This love was new and right and clean. There would be no more secrets. Rhona loved Grant for his strength and protectiveness. She had found a champion, and knew that the Baron McShanes of the world could not touch her now. Rhona and Grant were officially betrothed three months after they had first met.
The betrothal ce
remony took all of ten minutes, then the feasting began. As a betrothed couple they were accorded many of the rights of married people, and they were going to take full advantage of them. An hour into the feast, Grant seized Rhona's hand and began to make a run for the bedroom. She followed him, giggling as a great cheer went up. They made for the stairs to the bedroom and arrived there breathless and laughing.
When he undressed her, she was trembling. He was behind her, undoing the laces on her cream dress, and he planted little kisses on the nape of her neck and down between her shoulder blades before peeling it off. Then he turned her around and looked at her, his eyes traveling from her head to her toes. She put up her hands to cover herself, but he gently pulled them away.
"Don't be afraid," he murmured, "never be afraid of me. Rhona. I love you." He laid her on the bed and stripped off the rest of his own clothes. then Rhona knew what it was like to be worshiped.
"Touch me," he murmured, "anywhere you like."
"Anywhere?" Her voice was a squeak and he laughed.
So, she did. He wriggled in delight and began to stroke and kiss her too until she felt something she had never felt before. It was a desire so strong, so forceful that it overwhelmed her, yet she had no name for it. But Grant knew. He saw the hunger and helplessness in her eyes as he ran his fingertips down the insides of her thighs and over her breasts.
"Please…" she moaned.
Grant gently eased himself into her and Rhona waited for the pain, but there was none, just a gentle friction that built and built to become something else. She hung onto his shoulders, digging her fingertips into his flesh, her head arched back on the pillow, as wave after wave of ecstasy washed over her. Finally, they stopped and she realized that she was finally in Grant's arms, in Grant's bed, which was just where she wanted to be.
He had made her his.
They were married two weeks later, but it was a formality. As far as Grant and Rhona were concerned, they had been married since the night they first gave themselves to each other. A visiting priest, Father Michael, was officiating, and the ceremony lasted an hour. Rhona was impatient; she wanted to be back in Grant's arms again, but Grant was trying to cultivate the art of waiting. Somehow, he knew that Rhona, the love of his life, would be with him forever.
And so it was. They had three strapping red-haired sons and one lovely dark-haired daughter. Grant never spoke Maura's name again.
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Prologue
Bryan Pressley glanced around anxiously. His heart beat rapidly in his chest and the hand holding his sword trembled, although that was more from fatigue than anything else. His eyes darted about furtively, and behind him, squeezing his hand, was Catherine.
Whenever he looked at her he was filled with love, but unfortunately that wasn’t the only thing residing in his heart at the moment. It was also filled with fear. If anything should happen to her he didn’t know what he would do. All he wanted was to protect her, and he would give anything he had, even his life, to keep her safe.
Perhaps that was what it would take.
“Where are we going next?” she asked, her words breathless and trembling. Bryan wracked his brains. He was tired of depending on the kindness of strangers, and he knew that such kindness had its limits.
“We could go north, to the mountains. They might not follow us there. We could lose them,” he said, although Catherine didn’t much like that plan. She was a hardy girl, but she wasn’t made for such an extended stay away from the comfort she had known from home. Bryan’s mind worked a hundred miles an hour, trying to think of a way to escape the soldiers chasing them, but the chase was wearying and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could endure this terrible lifestyle. It wasn’t what he had wanted for either of them, moving from village to village, town to town, begging for the hospitality of strangers, constantly moving so that the hunters wouldn’t catch up to them, but it was only a matter of time. It had always been a matter of time.
Seeing his picture hanging on the walls of taverns made him burn with anger. He had been branded a criminal…and perhaps that was truly all he was in the end, and the love he had for Catherine was just something that cursed them.
He felt a pull on his arm. She was panting and needed to stop for a moment to catch her breath. She placed a hand on her narrow waist and looked him in the eyes.
“Perhaps this is the end of it, Bryan. Perhaps I should turn back and give myself in. If I tell them the truth they may believe me, and I could buy you enough time to get to safety. I could tell them all the wrong information, say that you’ve gone to the ends of the country, or doubled back into England. I could make sure that they never find you.” Her words were frantic and there was panic in her tired eyes.
Bryan pursed his lips as he stood before her and cupped her cheek in his hand. She closed her eyes as she enjoyed the gentle caress of his touch. His cloak billowed in a soft breeze, and in his eyes was utter anguish.
“And what would I dae without ye?” he asked. “What would be the point of living without ye? Catherine, ye cannae leave. I could nae gae on,” he said earnestly. Catherine’s head dropped and a tear trickled down her cheek. She sniffed and kissed his palm.
“I don’t know what else to do. This seems impossible. Where can we go where they won’t find us? I don’t want to lose you either Bryan, but I’d rather know you were alive out here than dead.”
“Being apart from ye would be nae better than dying,” he said. He pulled her in close and gave her a passionate kiss. The moment their lips met he was filled with a sweet warmth, and he felt as though he could do anything. “I’m with ye until the end Catherine.”
She smiled sadly, her bright blue eyes swam with tears, but she smiled.
“We hae tae keep moving,” Bryan said urgently, although there was nothing he would have liked more than to stop in the shady glade and sip from the honeyed delight of her body and her love. However, fate had other plans in store for him at that moment, for he heard a rustling in the trees and knew that they had found him again. He exchanged a worried look with Catherine, wondering if this was the final time they would be together like this, then he let go of her hand and gripped his sword with two hands, raising it before him, ready to defend himself and the woman he loved.
Chapter 1
Many moons ago…
* * *
Bryan Pressley sat by the stream. He dipped his hands in the water and brought them up to his face, splashing it over himself. He shook his face and the water dripped down. It was cold and fresh, and made him feel like a new man. He looked down at his belongings, which were all contained in one small sack, aside from his sword, which was the only link he had to his past. The rest of the sack contained some bread and cheese, a small knife, and a smooth, round stone he had found on his travels. He hadn’t been sure exactly why he had picked up the stone, but it had seemed to him one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen. It was perfectly smooth unlike so many other stones he had come across, which were all jagged and harsh. It seemed remarkable to him that something so pure and smooth could have come from nature, so he had carried it with him everywhere he went.
His possessions were few and there wasn’t much to his name. Bryan was a wanderer. He was in his mid-twenties and he had never known a home. For a number of those years he had known only loneliness. Of course, when he stayed in taverns he could be the life of the party and enjoy the vigorous charm of the locals, but he always moved on, never setting down roots, for he was a man without a home.
It had been the same ever since he had been born.
Sometimes it felt as though he didn’t need a home, and he tried to convince himself that while he was here the entire world was his home. He could go anywhere and do anything he wanted. He had complete freedom—the freedom that a lot of people would have longed for, but without a central place
to return, without something calling him back, he felt as though he was drifting through the world without purpose and without meaning. Yes, he could go anywhere, but to what end? All his life he would be wandering, never settling anywhere, when all he wanted was everything that had ever been denied to him.
Of course the girls in the taverns liked the fact that he was a stranger and they often saw him as exotic and brooding, but flings like that never lasted. He wanted something more substantial. He wanted a lady, someone he could look to and love with pride, but he knew he could never get anyone like that. He was just a Highland brute with no home, no land, and no hope. The best he could hope for was to find some farmer’s daughter somewhere who could take him in, but he wasn’t sure the farming life was for him. He knew nothing about how to tame the land, only how to survive in it, and he had no idea how to go about courting a lass either. There were many things his father hadn’t taught him, many things his father hadn’t even been able to teach him.
In a way, Bryan hated thinking about his father because it only ever brought back painful memories, but whenever he thought like this he immediately felt guilty. His father was the greatest man he had ever known, and it was a tragedy that he had died without ever having land or redeeming the family name. The only thing he had to pass down to Bryan was his sword. It was a great sword, and the blade and hilt were intricately carved with depictions of mythical monsters like dragons and griffins and great beasts that rose from the sea. His father had always told him that this sword had slain them all, had been used by mighty warriors of the Pressley clan to ward off evil and defend the land from all manner of enemies. The hilt was gold, and at one point there had been jewels embedded into the hilt, but a long time ago they had been pried away by some inscrutable people who hadn’t had the same respect for the past as Bryan and his father shared.