Fighting For A Highland Rose (Defenders 0f The Highlands Book 1)

by Kenna Kendrick

“Would it no’ be better tae just go along wi’ it for now? It would get us out o’ the castle, at least, and maybe...”

  “No!” said Emily fiercely. “I will not marry him under false pretence. I will proclaim my marriage proudly before the priest and the witnesses, and no one shall be able to deny it.”

  “Here they come!” whispered Alice, and Emily thrust the paper down into the bosom of her gown.

  Clairmont looked like a cat about to devour a mouse as he stood in the doorway. Captain Nasmith told her in very few words what was about to happen, and Emily meekly allowed herself to be taken from the room by her father. Clairmont led them in silence down the corridors to the chapel, which lay on the ground floor not far from the kitchens and the dining hall. It was a small chamber, not nearly big enough for the large population of the castle. This was the officers’ chapel and only catered to the upper ranks. For the common soldiery, regimental chaplains performed services in the open. For the serving folk and other civilians, there was a large church in the nearby town.

  The chapel had no stained glass, and only the small altar, pulpit and forward-facing pews distinguished it from any other chamber in the castle. The windows were no more than slits in the stonework, more like gun loops for defence than windows for illumination. Instead, the light came from ranks of candle-branches lining the walls and balanced precariously on the pulpit.

  Clairmont entered the room followed by Captain Nasmith, holding Emily by the arm. Alice trailed at a short distance, unnoticed. The priest waited at the altar, his book open beside him with a look of professional pleasure on his well-fed face.

  “Welcome friends,” he simply announced. “Welcome! Now, let us begin.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  “Are you the father of the bride?” the priest continued.

  “I am.” Captain Nasmith stepped forward.

  “And do you consent to this wedding?”

  “I do.”

  “Very good! And you, sir, are you ready to perform your duties as a husband to this woman?”

  “I am,” Clairmont responded smugly.

  “Then, Captain Nasmith, I ask that you give your daughter’s hand to her prospective husband, and I will begin the ceremony.”

  “I’m married,” Emily’s words echoed dully around the small chamber.

  “Did someone speak?” said the priest.

  “I am already married!” Emily responded with more conviction.

  The priest blinked quickly.

  “Surely you are mistaken, my dear. Now come, there is no need to be nervous.”

  Clairmont looked at her coldly, a sneer of contempt on his lips.

  Captain Nasmith shook his head in exasperation.

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Emily, don’t be difficult. How can you be married already? What on earth are you talking about?”

  Emily drew herself up to her full height and glared at them with all the fury she could muster. Hooding up her hand, the beautiful gold and silver ring with the blue stone, glinted in the candlelight.

  “I am no longer Emily Nasmith. I am Emily MacPherson, wife to the heir of the MacPherson clan chiefdom, Murdo MacPherson of Glenoran! I am lawfully wedded in the sight of God and witnesses and will not be married again!”

  There was a stunned silence. For a moment the tableau held, before Clairmont broke it, laughing hard, long and bitter; full of scorn.

  “Pish!” he shouted. “Priest, continue the ceremony. There is no marriage. The woman is lying.”

  “I will prove it!” Reaching into her gown, she pulled forth the rolled piece of paper. Clairmont grabbed for it, but the priest already had it in his hands. Clairmont looked as if he was about to strike the priest but thought better of it. The priest unrolled the paper and looked closely at it in the candle-light, as the witnesses watched in silence.

  “Where was this done?” he demanded.

  “At the MacPherson’s house at Rowan Glen, some days ride from here.”

  “And by whom?”

  “A priest by the name of Father Colum MacPherson.”

  “In the presence of witnesses?”

  “You can see their signatures on the document.”

  “And are there any here who can attest to the truth of this?”

  Alice stepped forward.

  “I can, I witnessed the wedding. This woman is married tae Murdo MacPherson.”

  To Clairmont’s mounting outrage and disbelief, the priest handed the paper back to Emily.

  “I am very sorry, Major Clairmont, but I’d be prepared to swear that this paper is genuine. It is a serious crime – as well as a grievous sin – to perform a marriage under such circumstances. I will have to ask you to forgive me, but I will not be able to solemnise this marriage.”

  Clairmont raged. He clenched his fists, waving them in the air, shouting curses, which made the priest blush. The gentry called to witness the proceedings whispered behind their hands and pointed; the priest had taken his position and would not be moved. He crossed his arms on his chest and shook his head, looking down his nose with disapproval at Clairmont’s display.

  Eventually, Captain Nasmith tried to take the Major by the arm and whisper in his ear, but the Major shook him off, approaching the priest. The priest stood his ground, but Emily could see his fear in his stance. Clairmont stopped an inch or so away from him, glaring into his face.

  “You tell me that this woman is married already, to some Scottish vagabond, and therefore I may not marry her?”

  “That is correct,” the priest answered, stiffly.

  “Well, then man, under what circumstances could I marry her?”

  “Well, sir, if the marriage between this woman and her husband were to be annulled, through separation by agreement of both parties, then you would be able to marry her...”

  “What if he were dead?”

  The priest coughed genteelly.

  “Yes, sir, if the man were dead, then the marriage would be void, and you and the widow would be free to wed, providing she was willing.”

  Clairmont glared around triumphantly.

  “Dead, you say?” he shouted theatrically, “Dead? Very well!”

  He walked over to Emily and put his face inches from hers.

  “I’ll get you, you little bitch,” he hissed. “I’ll get you and your worthless rebel scum of a husband, and when I do, you’ll be sorry you ever dared to cross me!”

  He turned, addressing the room in a booming, rolling voice.

  “See here! I swear on all that is sacred and good, and in the name of God and of the King, that I, Major Henry Clairmont, will personally kill the rebel scum Murdo MacPherson of Glenoran, heir to the MacPherson clan, or die in the undertaking. Let all witness!”

  He leaned over to the priest again.

  “I shall bring you his head, will that do?” With a wicked grin, he turned and strode furiously out of the hall.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Things changed for Alice and Emily. The atmosphere around them hardened, and they were no longer allowed to wander freely in the castle, nor take their meals alone in their room together. They were obliged to eat in the great hall with Clairmont and Captain Nasmith and the other officers, and the meals were awkward and unpleasant. Clairmont made it clear that they were to be treated like genteel prisoners, but prisoners nonetheless.

  McCrimmon was no longer in charge of their needs, and a member of Clairmont’s staff was put in his place. This was an officious and unpleasant young fellow, the vain, overbearing type, and neither Emily nor Alice had any doubts that he was there to spy on them and would have no qualms reporting everything they did to Clairmont. His name was Wallace. Under Wallace’s supervision, they went from relative freedom to a strict regime of closely guarded semi-imprisonment.

  At the table, Captain Nasmith became reserved, and more than once, Emily caught him looking speculatively at her. She wondered what he was thinking, but they did not speak. They were always surrounded by folk, and there would
not have been a moment for a quiet talk with him even if she had desired so.

  He did, however, in his clumsy and ham-fisted way, send a letter to his daughter, delivered by the officious Wallace, who made no attempt to hide the fact that he had already read it. He stood over Emily as she looked at it.

  “Any reply?”

  “No, thank you,” Emily remained courteous despite his rude manner. “My father will be arriving here shortly and desires to walk with me in the courtyard. Kindly leave us, that I may dress in private.”

  Wallace withdrew from the room and pulled the door not entirely to. Alice and Emily retreated as far from the door as they could, and Alice helped Emily on with her boots and fixed a bonnet to her hair.

  “We hae tae dae something soon,” she hissed. “We must find a way tae get out of here!”

  Emily was about to reply when there was a rap on the door, and her father entered, his wig in place, and a look of acute discomfort on his face.

  “Well,” he said. “Shall we walk?”

  He desired that they should leave Alice and Wallace and walk alone. Clairmont would not allow this, and they were followed at a not-quite-respectable distance by four burly soldiers in uniform, with fixed bayonets and suspicious eyes.

  The courtyard was, in fact, a walled area outside the castle proper, where many years earlier, some hopeful soul had planted trees in the hope of creating a pleasant garden. It had not worked, and the stunted and haggard trees now reached like crooked hands toward the grey sky among poorly-maintained and weedy flagstones.

  Captain Nasmith paced slowly with his hands behind his back, and Emily walked beside him, waiting for him to speak. Eventually, he broke the silence with a cough.

  “Did you really marry him?” he asked as if he might have dreamed it.

  “Yes, father, I really did.”

  “Good God. What is he like?”

  It was so unexpected that for a moment, she did not know what to reply. The question was so unlike him that it put her off guard, and she found herself answering honestly and directly.

  “Well, he is kind and thoughtful. Sensitive. He is brave and very handsome, and his men look up to him. I do too. He is a good musician and a good dancer. He fights well, but I don’t think he enjoys it for its own sake. He is tireless on the road, and he cares passionately about his clan and his land. He is devoted to his father. And I love him very, very much.”

  He had stopped and was looking at her wistfully.

  “Sometimes, you remind me so much of your mother. We were so young, your mother and I, and it seems such a long time ago when she... left us. She would get that same look in her eyes that you do and have the same determination to pursue something she wanted. It’s so long ago, I rarely think of her these days.”

  He drew a deep breath and looked up at the sky.

  “I was going to ask you if you’d consider divorcing him. I have asked the priest, and he would be willing to oversee the process. It would just be a few forms, and then it would be done. He assures me there would be no problem. But then I saw that look of your mother’s in your eyes, and I remembered... well, there is no point asking you that, is there?”

  She shook her head slowly.

  “No,” he said, “I thought not. You are a fool, Emily, and you will live to regret this. You are barely old enough to tie your own boots, and you think you are capable of making a decision such as this. The Highlander will disappoint you, and you will find one day that it’s better to follow the certain, stable path than to pursue a pretty bauble along the way. I suppose it’s my fault – I should have raised you better.”

  “Clairmont will kill your so-called husband of course and marry you whether you like it or not, and in ten years’ time, when you are sitting at your ease in the Shropshire sun with servants to see to your needs and many children to keep you company in your old age, perhaps then you will thank me.”

  He turned on his heel and walked away.

  “He’s a monster!” she flung the words after him like stones. “A monster, a bully, a torturer who delights in the pain of others! ‘I’ll get you, you little bitch,’ that’s what he said to me! ‘I’ll get you, and when I do, you’ll be sorry you ever crossed me.’ You would marry me to a man who will delight in causing me pain! And for what? For money? For ease and leisure? I would rather live in a hovel with a nobleman like Murdo that be the queen of England to a man like him! And I am not a child, father, for God’s sake, I am nearly twenty years of age!”

  He slowed a little, but he did not turn. In a quiet voice, he said, “Emily, you shouldn’t make up silly stories, nor take the Lord’s name in vain. It’s unworthy of you.”

  Then he walked away.

  * * *

  “Ye need tae get some rest, man!” James MacPherson was not looking all that well-rested himself; his arm was in a sling, and his face looked pale and drawn, but Murdo was a picture of misery. They stood in the graveyard, near the freshly turned earth that marked the graves of their fallen warriors, and a little way off, under the spreading branches of a spring-green oak tree, lay the grave of Father Colum MacPherson. They had buried their dead with all the ceremony they could muster, but it gave them small comfort in the loss. They had suffered sorely.

  James and Murdo, father and son, stood side-by-side by the wall of the graveyard, looking out over the green expanse of Rowan Glen. The burials had taken place the day before, and they had feasted in honour of the fallen, but nobody had felt in the mood for it. Murdo looked like a ghost, and could eat little, and would not play the pipes for them. Eilidh MacPherson, considered the heart of the clan, was not present. She was languishing in her chamber, still woozy and confused from the blow to her head. James visited her regularly but knew she was a tough woman, and when she told him to go to see to his son, he listened.

  “I ken ye are hurtin’, Murdo,” he said now. “Well, dae I remember when yer mither was taken by the English raiders back in ’32, how my heart bled and my mind ached every minute o’ every day until we got her back. But get her back, we did! And we shall get yer Emily back an’ a’, aye, and our Alice Murphy too. Dinnae fash yersel’, man, an’ dinnae knock yer pan in by no’ sleepin’ nor eatin’. The men look up tae ye. I ken they look to me as heid o’ the clan, but when ye are about, ‘tis ye they look tae for guidance, no’ me. Damn it, man, dinnae let yersel’ go tae pieces ower this – it willnae help!”

  Murdo shook his head and banged his fists against his calves in frustration. He ground his teeth and James saw the great rage and frustration that was lurking there. This young man would need to master his feelings. Nothing would be achieved by fury, although channelled it could make a man unstoppable in pursuit of his goal. He laid a hand on his son’s arm and found the muscles bunched and hard as iron.

  “I wisnae there tae save her,” said Murdo through gritted teeth. “We just walked right intae their trap like blind men. We should hae seen it a mile awa’. O’ course, they came for the women. We should hae put men wi’ them, no’ just sent them awa’ intae the hoose wi’ naebody tae look efter them. And I just charged out o’ the front door like a fool and led a’ these brave men tae their dooms!”

  He gestured helplessly toward the newly-turned graves behind them.

  “If we had taken a moment tae plan, tae scout, tae think! Oh, no, but I had tae be the damned hero, and lead the men tae glory and fight the invader, and now... Oh faither, I dinnae ken whit I will dae wi’ my life if they kill her. It’s a’ my fault... how can I trust myself tae...?”

  “Enough!” said James sternly. “Enough o’ that! Good God in Heaven, will ye listen tae yersel’? Aye, I’ll agree ye behaved foolishly and allowed panic and fear tae tak’ the lead. As did I. As did Ewan, and Ben and a’ the other experienced fighting men, any of whom could hae... should hae... taken a moment tae think through a wee plan ‘afore we charged out. Then, maybe, fewer men would hae fallen, and the lassie's wouldnae be taken frae us.”

  “But listen, Murdo,”
he went on, gripping his son’s arms and looking into his tormented eyes, “we cannae change that now. I’m as much tae blame as ye are, but we willnae dae any good for anybody if we respond by punishing ourselves. I see ye, no’ eating, no’ sleeping, up sitting staring out the windae in the dead o’ the night. Can ye no’ see whit ye are daein’, man? Ye are punishing yersel’ for failing tae protect her, but ye risk everything by it. Ye and me, we havnae been tested in a crisis like this together ‘afore now. But I’ll tell ye something: when ye feel like this, ye hae a different kind o’ fight tae win, a harder kind. Ye must fight against yersel’, and if ye dinnae dae that, naething will work.”

  “Whit... whit dae ye mean, faither?”