by Ava McArthur
Highlander’s Lurking Threat
Ava McArthur
Contents
Prologue
1. A Tragic Homecoming
2. Elspeth
3. A Funeral
4. Wedding
5. First Lesson
6. Wrestling
7. Learning to Be a Lady
8. The Elders Arrive
9. Meeting the Tenants
10. Fever
11. Hope
12. Another Death
13. Questions
14. Blackberries
15. A Mystery Solved
16. Answers
17. Resolution
18. Reunited
19. Happy Ending
Afterword
Highlander’s Trapped Siren
Prologue
Chapter 1
Prologue
Elspeth stared at the parchment in her hand, her heart racing. She had known this day would come since she was a child, but it did not make things easier as she received the news that her betrothed of ten years, Craig McClaren, had finally made up his mind to marry her. Granted, she had long wanted to leave her own home and her cruel father, but this summons, although expected, was still terrifying.
She had never even met him, but she was being expected to share a bed with him, allow him to take her virginity, and give birth to his heir as if she were a broodmare. Now she was on her way to meet the man who had her future in his hands, and she could only hope that he was not a monster.
It was a tiring, seemingly endless journey from her home to the home of her betrothed; Elspeth was exhausted but relieved that they were nearing their destination. Inverness was proving to be as cold as Moray, if not more so since it was damp and freezing.
“I wonder if he feels the same way,” Elspeth mused. “Marrying a woman he has never met.”
“Mistress, many young ladies an’ gentlemen are forced tae do the same thing,” Catriona pointed out. “I’ll wager he feels just the same as—”
Suddenly there was a bone-rattling thud, and the carriage lurched sideways, throwing them both against the door. Catriona squealed as her head hit the door, and Elspeth just managed to avoid the same fate.
A moment later, the carriage driver opened the door and looked at them both fearfully. “I am sorry, milady,” he said regretfully, “but there was a great muckle patch o’ soft mud an’ the wheel went in it. I cannae fix it myself, so I will need tae go an’ get help.”
“Do what you have to do,” Elspeth instructed firmly. She was not a person who panicked easily, and so took charge instinctively. The driver helped them both out, and they stood outside the stricken vehicle for a few moments.
“Fortunately, it is not yet noon,” Elspeth remarked. “And the weather is dry, Catie. Things could have been worse.” She put a comforting arm around her maid’s shoulders. Catriona nodded but looked unconvinced.
The driver was unhitching one of the horses, and they had resigned themselves to a long, freezing wait when they heard the sound of hoofbeats approaching.
Two horses appeared around a bend in the road: a giant jet-black destrier, the other a slightly smaller chestnut. The bigger horse was ridden by an equally big man whose shoulder-length reddish-brown hair flowed behind him. The smaller man was dark with curly black hair and looked like a foreigner. They both reined in beside the women, dismounted, and bowed politely.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” the tall man said in a deep voice that sent a thrill through Elspeth. “I am Niall, and this is my friend Stuart. Can we be of any assistance?”
Elspeth stared at the man’s impressive stature. “I am Elspeth Barbour, and this is my maid, Catriona McBride. As you can see, we are stuck, so if you can help us in any way, we would be very grateful.”
Niall, Stuart, and the driver bent to look at the damage and had a brief discussion, then the tall man stood up and smiled at her, his gaze sliding over her boldly. “The wheel is not broken,” he said, “but it is cracked. We will have to lift the carriage very carefully.”
“Do you need any help?” she asked. “I am not very strong but—”
“I would never ask a lady to do a man’s work!” he said indignantly. “And any lady of quality would never ask such a question.”
She bristled, and her eyes narrowed. “Then clearly, I am not a lady of quality!” she snapped.
She left the statement hanging, and for a moment, they glared at each other.
Niall stared into her stormy gray eyes, which were now almost black with anger. “So you would prefer to fix the wheel yourself?” he suggested. “Then you will not need our help after all.”
He turned away and went to mount his great black warhorse, but Elspeth realized that she and Catriona could not manage on her own, even with the driver’s help, so she grabbed his arm, feeling the hardness of solid muscle under her fingers.
“Wait!” she cried. “I am sorry. Please help us.”
He looked at her with an unreadable expression for a moment, then grinned wickedly. “For a price,” he said softly.
“I am not carrying much silver,” she replied, “but I can give you—”
“A kiss,” he demanded, moving close to her, so close that she could feel the heat of his body. “Just one kiss.” His eyes were a fierce gold, and now they glinted threateningly as they looked into hers.
Elspeth’s cheeks flushed with rage. She straightened up and glared at him. “My betrothed is the laird of Tweedsmuir Castle,” she growled. “And when he hears about this—which he will—you will find yourself in the dungeon for a very long time.”
Niall stared at her, shocked, then backed away. He turned, summoned his friend and the driver, and a short while later, Elspeth and Catriona were on their way.
Elspeth sighed with relief. Little did she know that worse was to come.
When they drew up at Tweedsmuir Castle, an old retainer came out to meet them, his face a mask of distress. “Milady Elspeth,” he said, bowing. “I have grave news. Laird McClaren took tae his bed yesterday wi’ a high fever an’ the healer says he isnae likely tae live through the day. He told me ye should come tae him as soon as ye got here. Please follow me.”
Elspeth and Catriona exchanged glances, then followed the old man up a long staircase to a grand bedroom with a guard on each side of the door. He led them inside, where they saw a magnificent bed, its sheets soaked with sweat. A man was lying in it, his head thrashing on the pillow, his cheeks flushed crimson. He was obviously in a high fever, but there was an enormous blaze in the fireplace, and the two women began to perspire as soon as they entered the room.
“Why is it so hot in here?” Elspeth demanded. “Surely, you need to cool him?”
The healer, a small, fair-haired, blue-eyed woman, curtseyed and shook her head. “No, milady,” she answered. “His fever must break, an’ he needs tae sweat as much as he can, but there is little hope. I have summoned the priest.”
Just then, the young man in the bed spoke. “Milady Elspeth?” he asked, stretching out his hand.
Elspeth cautiously went to him, unsure if his illness was catching or not, but she avoided his hand, pretending she had not seen it. She curtsied. “M’Laird, I am sorry to see you so unwell,” she said, frowning anxiously. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Listen to me,” he croaked. “I have not long to live, milady. You and I will never be wed, so please marry my brother instead. He is younger than I and a good man—” He was stopped from speaking by a painful, hacking bout of coughing. The wise woman lifted a cloth to his mouth, and it ca
me away stained with blood. Finally, he spoke again, his voice thick and wheezing. “Marry him now...do not mourn for me. Marry him now...swear it to me.”
“But M’Laird, why so soon?” she asked, mystified.
“Promise me,” he said again, his voice much weaker.
Elspeth looked into his dark, desperate eyes. How could she deny a dying man his last wish? “I swear,” she said, crossing herself as tears began to course down her cheeks. She heard his sigh of relief and watched as the priest gave him extreme unction. Moments after the last prayer had been said, Laird Craig McClaren closed his eyes and drew his last breath. It was over, and Elspeth’s destiny had passed into the hands of another man.
1
A Tragic Homecoming
Niall McLaren was exhausted, grimy, and irritable. Although the English and Scots forces had signed a peace treaty some years ago, it seemed that remnants of the Auld Enemy’s army were determined to keep trying to impose their will on the ever-intransigent Scots. Their two kings might have laid down their arms, but the roving bands of stragglers and ne’er-do-wells from the English army were still harassing the Scottish people, stealing livestock, poaching game, and helping themselves to anything else they could get their hands on—including their women.
As the second son of the McLarens of Tweedsmuir, the dangerous task of finding and exterminating them fell to Niall. His elder brother, Craig, was laird, but he had neither the stature nor the spirit to take on the job himself. Niall was not resentful; each man did the job his Creator had fitted him for, and Craig’s caring nature was much more suited to looking after his tenants and balancing the estate’s accounts, while Niall was a natural warrior whose idea of a good time was reddening his sword with his enemy’s blood.
But as Niall came into the courtyard astride Rex, his warhorse, he felt that something was wrong. He was puzzled to see that every man and woman who worked in the castle was dressed in black. He dismounted quickly and strode inside. The butler met him and bowed deeply, looking sorrowful.
“What has happened, Andy?” Niall asked worriedly. “Has someone died?”
“Aye, M’Laird...yer brother,” the old man replied. “A fever took him, an’ he was gone in less than a day. I am so sorry for yer loss, M’Laird.”
Niall was stunned. He had left two days before, and Niall had been there to see him off, worried as he said goodbye to his beloved younger brother…
* * *
Niall was brave to the point of foolhardiness, and he had so many scars on him from English swords that Craig sometimes wondered how he was still alive.
“I wish the Sassenachs would all just disappear,” Craig said. “They have a country of their own, after all.”
Niall put his hands on his brother’s shoulders. Craig was half a head shorter than him and wiry rather than muscular. He was cautious and meticulous by nature, and he made no secret of the fact that he adored and admired his younger brother for having all the qualities he could never have himself.
Niall kissed Craig’s forehead. “Do not worry, wee man,” he laughed. “The Sassenach has not been born who can best me in battle, and these creatures are vermin. I will see you in two or three days leading a string of them by halters, and I should be just in time to meet your betrothed.”
Craig sighed. “My betrothed,” he said heavily. “I had forgotten about her.”
“You make it sound like a death sentence!” Niall laughed.
Just then, the captain of the guard called for Niall, and Craig gave him a brief hug.
“Look after yourself, Niall,” he said, sighing. He hated seeing his brother ride off into danger.
Niall gave him a wicked grin, then leaped onto Rex and waved to Craig; he spurred his horse into a canter and rode off over the moat.
It was the last time they ever saw each other.
Niall had intended to see Craig and pay his respects, but the butler informed him that the village ladies were still laying out his body. In a way, he was relieved, since he was not sure he had the courage to see his brother without breaking down completely.
Although he was grief-stricken, Niall’s physical being had its own needs, so he washed and then realized that he was ravenous, although he felt ashamed of himself for thinking of his stomach during a time like this.
He made his way to the dining room, where a few very subdued and respectful staff attended to his needs. Each one expressed their condolences, and their concern warmed him. He finished his meal and sat back, replete, but he knew that the clan elders had been sent for, and now he was about to find out the terms of Craig’s will. He hoped his duties as laird would not be beyond his capabilities.
The clan chief, Colm McLaren, was a tall, imposing man who was so fair that he looked like a Norseman. His light blue eyes were keen and shrewd, and his entire demeanor spoke of power and command. Three men, other elders of the clan, came in behind him, but it was obvious who was in charge. This was not a man to be trifled with.
He came into the dining room, where Niall was finishing his breakfast, and the two men bowed to each other politely.
“I am sorry for your loss, M’Laird,” the chief said. “I met your brother a few years ago, and he was a good man who cared for his people, his estate, and his family. He will be sorely missed.”
“Thank you, sir,” Niall answered respectfully.
“Now, here are the terms of the will,” the chief began. “As ever, your brother thought ahead and planned for every eventuality, even his early death. He wants there to be a smooth passing of power from him to you so that the estate and the tenants are disturbed as little as possible. He wants no special ceremony at his funeral and as little expense as possible; he states that his body is only a shell now—his words, not mine, M’Laird. He leaves the entire estate to you since there are no other heirs. Now, let me come to the most important matter in the will.
“Your brother had been about to marry, but the terms of his will indicated that if anything were to happen to him before the marriage could take place, his brother Niall should wed his betrothed in his stead, so as well as giving you his worldly possessions, he is also giving you a bride. He stipulated that the wedding should take place as soon as possible after his death, and no mourning period should be observed. He was very definite about this.”
Niall began to protest, but Colm held up his hand for silence. “He realizes that this will come as a shock to you, but he had chosen a bride from one of the best families in Scotland, and he foresaw a comfortable future for them both.” The chief looked up again. “This is quite normal practice, M’Laird, and should come as no surprise. The girl was to marry the laird, and now that title belongs to you.”
Niall gaped at Colm, shaking his head. “But nobody can force me into a marriage I do not want!” he protested. “This woman was my brother’s choice—not mine!”
“That is true,” Colm agreed calmly. “But if you want an heir, you will need a wife, and there are none hereabouts whose clan will ally with ours. Listen to me, Niall. You have a chance of siring an heir with this woman, which will keep two clans from each other’s throats, and who, I am told, is a very lovely lady indeed. Make the most of a dire situation and take the gift that has been given to you. You are a fortunate man.”
Niall’s head was swimming with confusion. “Let us suppose that I decided to pursue this course,” he said grimly. “Who will defend the estate? Who will keep bandits off our land? I hardly think a wife who wants to give birth to a child—and who will inherit a proud family name—is going to be happy letting her husband ride into danger, sometimes for days at a time.”
The chief sighed patiently, frowning. “You have a very capable company of men that you trained yourself, M’Laird. You do not need to handle everything by yourself.”
Niall sighed. This was true; his garrison was famed for its ferocity and ruthlessness. He had told himself many times that they would not work so well without him, but he knew he was giving himself too much credit. Fe
rgus Baxter, captain of the guard, could do just as good a job, and the men were as loyal to him as they were to their laird.
He stood up, running his hand back through his hair in agitation, and walked to the window. After a few moments, he turned around and glowered at the chief. “Very well,” he said heavily. “When will the wedding take place?”
“The day after tomorrow,” Colm said calmly.
“That is too soon!” Niall protested. “It seems extremely disrespectful to my brother.” He walked around the table and faced Colm, who neither looked away nor stepped backward. Niall had to admire the man’s nerve; most others would have backed down.
“Nevertheless, that was his wish.” Colm held out the parchment so Niall could look at it. Niall snatched it from him and glanced at it briefly, then threw it down impatiently.
“I will do my duty for the clan, the estate, and my brother,” he growled. “But do not expect me to like it!”
“My laird,” Colm ground out, leaning forward until their noses were almost touching, “I could not care one iota what you think or feel. I will be at your wedding as a witness to see that everything is done properly, and after that, I expect you and Lady Elspeth to produce an heir. Thereafter, you will not see me again unless you bring disgrace on the McLaren name.”
With that, he turned on his heel and swept out, his cloak billowing behind him. Niall poured himself a glass of whiskey and emptied it with one swallow, and then banged the glass down on the desk and marched out. He went to the stables and saddled Rex, and galloped furiously off of the castle grounds. God help any Sassenach who got in his way today. He was just in the mood for beheading someone.