“Well and I hope ye are the same,” he replied.
“Aye, Laird. We are happy to be returning home.” She hurried to a table and joined the family already eating.
Perhaps it was time to allow the people to be happy, he considered. His father’s death would be avenged, and he wondered who would be the avenger.
Malcolm had a strong feeling it would not be him.
The End
Clan Ross Series
A Heartless Laird
A Hardened Warrior
A Hellish Highlander
About Hildie McQueen
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Kilty Secrets
Clash of the Tartans
Book One
By
Anna Markland
Dedicated to my grandfather, Richard Gaskell,
aka Richard Wilson, aka Dick Lowe
~a man with secrets of his own.
“Life is under no obligation to give us what we expect.”
~Margaret Mitchell
Sacrificial Lamb
Roigh Hall, Inverness, Scotland, 1666 AD
Glad he’d received no invitation to sit, Ewan Mackinloch folded his arms and scowled at his cantankerous father presiding regally at the head of the Council. “After all the blood spilled o’er the last three hundred years between our clan and the MacCarrons, ye expect me to marry a wench from that cursed tribe?”
The elders gathered around the narrow table in the Chart Room flinched when Laird Duncan Mackinloch leaned forward and brought a gnarled fist down heavily on the scarred wood. “Such an alliance will seal the bargain struck last year at Clunes,” he growled. “How else are we to hold the MacCarrons to the deal and make sure they pay the rest of the seventy-two thousand merks they promised for Loch Alkayg? For hundreds of years we’ve proven time and again that land came to Angus Mackinloch in the year of our lord thirteen hundred and twenty-one, when he married Eva, daughter of…”
Ewan had lived and breathed the history of the feud’s origins his entire life and could recite the story in his sleep. He studied the rafters while his father droned on about Angus Mackinloch fleeing the wrath of the Lord of the Isles, the occupation of the lands by the MacCarrons, the Battle of Drumlui, the confirmation of Mackinloch rights by no less a personage than King David himself.
He clenched his jaw, reluctant to breathe the fetid air that reeked of too many nervous men, and did the unthinkable. He interrupted his father’s monologue. “If ’tis such a good idea, why are ye nay scheming to betroth my brother to the lass?”
“Come now, laddie,” his spluttering father replied, “ye ken only too weel we canna allow a MacCarron to be the wife o’ the laird o’ Clan Mackinloch.”
It was the inevitable answer he’d expected, yet it left a bitter taste. “I’m to be the sacrificial lamb, then?”
His Uncle Jamie spoke up. “It might not be so bad. They say the MacCarron women are bonnie.”
Despite his affection for his soft-spoken uncle, Ewan snorted. “Whereas the several friendly clans of our own Chattan federation boast few comely lasses.”
“No need for sarcasm,” his red-faced father retorted. “The MacCarrons are in agreement.”
Ewan narrowed his eyes. “And how did ye convince them?”
A chill settled on his nape when Duncan averted his eyes and mumbled—something he never did.
Frustrated, Ewan threw his hands in the air and looked to his uncle for an explanation.
“We agreed ye’ll bide a wee in Creag Castle after the hand-fasting,” Jamie told him, “until yer bride is comfortable wi’ traveling to Roigh.”
Ewan rolled his eyes. “Bide a wee? What the fyke does that mean? Ye’re talking hand-fasting now?”
“A twelvemonth,” his father spat. “As is usual.”
A glimmer of hope flickered. After a year and a day he’d be free to abandon his unwanted bride and return home. In the meantime, however, he’d be a hostage in enemy territory. The MacCarrons might not let him leave—alive. He’d have to take a fair-sized contingent of clan warriors. “And I’m to go alone?”
“Nay,” Jamie replied. “The MacCarrons will allow some o’ yer men.” He peeled muck out of his fingernails. “Two to be precise.”
Two!
Ewan bit back a blasphemous retort. “And when does my banishment begin?”
His father looked him in the eye. “Ye’ll leave on the morrow. We must show the MacCarrons we expect them to keep their promise to pay the compensation within two years. Three installments. I myself shared a wee dram and exchanged swords with their chief—dead shortly after, God rest his soul. We must hold his successor to the agreement.”
Evidently, the coin was more important to Duncan Mackinloch than his son’s life. Too angry to speak, Ewan turned on his heel and strode out, resentful he’d gone to the bother of donning his best plaid for the meeting. Arguing further would be a waste of time. He’d less than a day to find bodyguards willing to accompany him into the lion’s den—and one night to bid a fond farewell to his sweet Kathleen.
No Choice
Creag Castle, Highlands, Scotland
Shona stalked to the door of her uncle’s solar, then turned, fisted her hands on her waist, filled her lungs and shouted, “I willna marry a Mackinloch and ye canna make me. Ye’re nay my father.”
Seated in his favorite chair by the hearth, Kendric MacCarron sighed wearily. “I told ye, lass, I had to agree to a hand-fasting. And I am yer laird.”
Blood pulsed in her ears. She knew Kendric grieved the recent death of his older brother, but it was a bitter reminder that he had inherited the lairdship. She lost the last vestige of control and gave her anger full rein. “My father must be turning in his newly-dug grave. What worthy mon will want me after I’ve warmed the bed of a cursed Mackinloch for a twelvemonth?”
She hurried out before he had a chance to reply, slamming the heavy door hard. Panting with the effort, she kept the tears at bay until she reached the privacy of her own apartments a few paces along the narrow hallway.
She shoved open the door and from somewhere found the strength to slam it behind her. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed her auntie’s wide-eyed surprise. Jeannie struggled to extricate herself from the deep upholstered chair by the window as Shona flung herself onto the bed and wept into the bolster.
Her aunt hurried over to perch on the edge of the mattress. “Whatever ails ye, lass?” she asked, stroking her hair. “What has my foolish brother said to upset ye so?”
Shona found comfort in the familiar scent of rosemary. She rolled over and accepted the offer of a kerchief. Sitting up, she blew her nose, which helped clear her ears but seemed to make the hiccups worse. “He’s betrothed me,” she said hoarsely.
“Weel, ye’re of marrying age. Yer dear father would have done the same.”
Shona slid off the rumpled bed and readjusted her disheveled clothing. “Da would ne’er have betrothed me to a Mackinloch.”
Jeannie gasped. “A Mackinloch?”
Shona paced, the kerchief clutched tight in her fist. “Aye, and not even the laird’s eldest son. Some second or mayhap third in line. I didna catch his name. A nobody.”
Jeannie shook her head. “Kendric cares for ye. He must have a good reason for doing this. Yer father took part in the talks at Clunes. Perhaps…”
Shona appreciated the
difficulty of her aunt’s position. She owed loyalty to her brothers—one dead and one now laird. But Jeannie was the babe of that family, a bairn born to a woman thought past her childbearing years. She was closer in age to Shona, more a sister than an auntie, especially since both their mothers had died bringing them into the world.
She chose to ignore the possibility her father had gone along with the plan to wed her to a Mackinloch. “Kendric claims he had nay choice. The agreement with the Chattan federation has to be sealed. But he agreed only to a hand-fasting.”
Jeannie brightened. “Weel—”
“’Tis worse than marriage,” Shona wailed. “I’ll be soiled goods when yon Mackinloch abandons me after a year and a day.”
“Aye,” Jeannie whispered.
Shona was instantly contrite. Her aunt’s husband had supposedly abandoned her after a hand-fasting, citing fears his bairns might inherit the lazy eye that marred Jeannie’s otherwise beautiful face. It was a false excuse put forth by a coward. The bitter truth was he’d been banished from MacCarron lands by Shona’s father as punishment for his brutality.
“Forgive me,” she murmured as she sat down next to her auntie and took her hand. “I’m thoughtless. My mouth runs away with me.”
Jeannie forced a smile, the afflicted eye wandering more than usual. “Dinna fash. I’m nay sorry Ailig is gone. He was a cruel mon.”
It was the closest Jeannie had ever come to speaking of what she’d endured at Ailig’s hands, and Shona feared it might be an omen. Her heart sank. “Surely my uncle wouldna betroth me to a brute,” she whispered.
Andrew
Striding through Roigh’s dusty bailey, Ewan espied wee Andrew coming in the opposite direction. They fought an ongoing mock battle whenever their paths crossed. He loved the canny lad and it was of some consolation that at least his sister’s son would be sad to see him go.
His grinning seven-year-old nephew drew a wooden sword and challenged him. “Halt, scurvy knave.”
Ewan slowed his pace, but didn’t stop. “Sorry,” he replied, “no time to play this day.”
The smile had disappeared from the boy’s face by the time he caught up. “What’s amiss, Uncle?”
How to explain to a bairn that his life had fallen apart? He paused and hunkered down. “I’m to undertake a long and difficult journey, and I must gather companions to accompany me.”
“I’ll go with ye,” Andrew replied without hesitation.
“I wish it could be so,” Ewan said with a wry smile, “but I’m bound for MacCarron lands.”
Andrew braced his legs and brandished his toy sword. “I’ll help ye fight that evil clan.”
Ewan touched a finger to the wooden point. “I’d be proud to have ye fight at my side, but I’m going there to be wed, not to make war.”
Andrew frowned. “Wed? To a MacCarron?”
“Aye.”
The boy slashed the air with his weapon. “Who sends ye to such a fate? I’ll slay him.”
“The Mackinloch. Yer laird.”
The boy studied his feet as he put up his blade. “Oh.”
Ewan tussled the mop of red curls. “Dinna fash. ’Tis only for a year and a day, then I’ll return.”
“With yer bride?”
Ewan bristled as he stood. “I hae ma doots about that.”
Andrew hurried to keep pace with him as he set off again. “Who will ye choose as yer escort? I’ll warrant my da will go with ye.”
Ewan shook his head. “I’ll nay expect men with wives and bairns to bide a year with our enemies.”
Out of breath now, Andrew panted, “And I suppose men with sweethearts willna wish to go either.”
For the first time, the complexity of the task he faced struck Ewan—a problem a bairn had foreseen. Most young Mackinloch warriors boasted of a lady-love.
“I always thought ye’d marry Kathleen,” Andrew remarked.
Ewan looked askance at his red-faced nephew. He was fond of the sweet Kathleen, but marriage had never entered his head. Mayhap if they were to wed quickly, there’d be no question of hand-fasting a MacCarron.
It was a way out of his dilemma, and would surely infuriate his father. However, truth be told, he knew in his heart he didn’t fancy being married to a biddable woman. He wanted passion.
He stopped at the door to the barracks. “I think I prefer a feisty lass with a sense of humor,” he said.
Andrew eyed him as if he’d lost his wits.
Searching for Solutions
“We’ll be late to the hall for supper,” Jeannie cajoled, smoothing her skirts as she exited the boudoir. “Hurry and get ready.”
Shona paced the chamber, shaking her head. “I’ll nay sup with my uncle until we’ve thought of a solution.”
“The solution is that there’s no escape,” her auntie replied, tucking a wayward curl behind her ear. “I’m hungry and, besides, yon Mackinloch will be smitten as soon as he sets eyes on yer golden hair.”
Shona stopped abruptly, hands fisted on her hips. “We could stay locked in this chamber until the fellow gives up and returns home.”
Jeannie rolled her eyes—well, at least the one she could control. “Aye. If we dinna starve to death, we can then wait until the Mackinlochs descend on us with an army to avenge the insult.”
Shona chewed her bottom lip, reluctant to admit Jeannie was right. “I could pretend to be ill…afflicted with some noxious disease…the pox. Who’d want to wed a poxy woman?”
Her aunt headed for the door. “Ye’re daft.”
Shona couldn’t bear the thought of being left alone with her dilemma. “We’ll run away.”
“To where? And forget the we. This is my home.”
Panic tightened Shona’s throat. “We must have allies who will grant me sanctuary.”
Jeannie snorted. “We’re MacCarrons, or have ye forgotten? Any allies we may have willna risk the wrath of the mighty Mackinlochs. Besides, ’tis foolhardy to travel alone.”
“I would take Ruadh.”
Her auntie laughed heartily. “That hound is afraid of his shadow. He’d lead ye round in circles chasing his own tail.”
Jeannie’s broad smile reminded Shona of what many people said of the two of them, that they looked like sisters. It sparked an idea and she decided to try a different, more subtle plan of attack. “Ye ken, Auntie,” she wheedled, “’twould be prudent, would it not, to size up this Mackinloch afore I say yeah or nay to his suit?”
The smile turned to a frown. “And how do ye propose to do that?”
“If someone else were to take my place…”
Jeannie grimaced. “What are ye plotting in that wee head?”
“If I could watch him, but he doesna ken I’m…”
Her aunt yanked open the door. “Nay, lassie, running away was a better idea.”
Disheartening
In the late afternoon, Ewan left Liath munching oats in the stables. The gelding would have to carry him far on the morrow and he’d already ridden from village to village, across miles of Mackinloch lands. Weary and disheartened, he walked to Kathleen’s cottage outside the castle wall.
She rushed at him the moment he came through the door. He put his arms around her as she sobbed on his chest. Obviously, she’d heard the news, but her wailing set him on edge.
He stroked her hair, summoning the will to ask her to be his bride. The words lodged in his throat.
Once the weeping stopped, she turned her tear-streaked face to look up at him. “I’ll miss ye,” she said hoarsely.
He detected a note of insincerity and suspected she’d already cast about for a new patron. “A year will pass quickly,” he replied.
“Aye,” she sighed in a way that made him feel he’d already left.
It was her habit to take him by the hand and lead him to bed when he arrived. This evening, she pulled away and went to sit on the stool by the kitchen hearth. Strangely, it didn’t bother him. Any thoughts of coupling with her had fled. He supposed the un
certainty of what he faced at Creag Castle had dimmed his enthusiasm.
He wandered around the cottage for a while, picking up this and that—a plate, a comb, a brooch he recognized as a trinket he’d given her.
“Can I keep it?” she asked.
“As a memento?” he replied.
“Aye. Summat o’ the sort.”
He was tempted to remark that she’d likely have no trouble selling it, but held his tongue. Better to part as friends.
“How long will it teck to reach MacCarron lands?” she asked.
“Two days, three if the weather turns bad.”
“Will ye go alone?”
He bristled, recalling the frustrating day he’d spent trying to recruit men to accompany him. “Fynn Macintyre of Badenoch and David Shaw have agreed to come with me.”
“Not Mackinloch kin then?”
He clenched his jaw. “Men whose families are loyal to the Chattan federation nonetheless.”
“I wish ye safe journey.”
He went to the hearth, took her hand and kissed it. “Fare thee well, sweet Kathleen.”
“Goodbye, Ewan,” she replied.
She made no effort to rise, so he left her there, feeling an odd sense of relief as he walked up the hill to the castle.
Arriving back at Roigh Hall earlier than planned, he decided to check on Fynn and David. Mayhap they’d been successful in convincing other warriors to join them. Just because the MacCarrons had stipulated two men at the most didn’t mean he had to abide by their wishes. A man with one hand and a lad with a stutter were hardly an impressive escort for the son of a Mackinloch laird.
After a bit of searching he found them in the stables. Fynn was checking reins and bridles. He was dexterous for a man with a handicap, and fortunately it wasn’t his sword hand lost in a skirmish. However, his opponent had been a MacCarron, a warrior he’d cleaved in two with his last ounce of strength. It didn’t bode well.
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