Lachlan's Heart: Book Two of The MacCulloughs

by Suzan Tisdale

  To the east was a massive forest. This morning, the land was painted in a thousand shades of green.

  The MacCullough keep could have fit into the bailey with room to spare. He’d never seen the like of it before.

  He couldn’t believe his cousin trusted this treasure to him. A momentary sensation of dread tugged at his insides. Lord, how he wished Keevah was here to help wipe away the doubts creeping into his mind.

  “I have never seen the like of it before,” Jamie whispered in a near reverent tone. “I doubt Edinburgh castle is that large.”

  Lachlan chuckled. “Nae, Edinburgh Castle is larger,” he assured him. He’d seen it once, years ago when he was a lad. Before his father died, he’d taken him along with him on that journey. ’Twas one of the many fond memories he had of his father.

  “Close yer mouth, Jamie,” he said with a smile. “Lest the Chisolms think we are ill-bred and uneducated.”

  With a twinkle in his eye, Jamie said, “But we are ill-bred and uneducated.”

  “Aye, but they need nae ken that just yet.”

  The infamous Fiona MacPherson met Lachlan and his men just inside the first gate. There was no mistaking who she was. ’Twas the first time Lachlan had ever seen a woman in chainmail and armed to the teeth. Aside from that, she was just as beautiful as Richard had described.

  “Lachlan MacCullough?” she called out as the men approached. Lined up behind her were at least two dozen McDunnah warriors. They too, were dressed for battle and well armed. The sight made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

  “I am he,” Lachlan replied as he steered his horse toward her. Dismounting, he gave her a slight bow from the waist.

  “I am Fiona McPherson-McDunnah,” she said - as if the woman needed any introduction.

  “Ye seem prepared to do battle,” he said with a raised brow and nod towards all the armor and weaponry. “Are we at war?”

  “Aye, I fear we are, MacCullough.”

  MacCullough. It was going to take him a long while to get used to being referred to in that manner. “With what clan?”

  A small band of young lads came to retrieve their horses. “Jamie, ye and Fergus are with me. Have the rest of the men tend to their horses, then get something to eat.”

  Jamie gave the order then hurried to catch up to his laird and Fiona.

  “Not clan, but clans,” she said as she began leading him toward the second wall in hurried fashion. Jamie and Fergus fell into step behind their laird. The McDunnah warriors followed alongside them.

  Good lord! He’d only just arrived and now he must prepare for war with not one clan, but two. Mayhap more. “The Farquars?” They were more of a nuisance than any great threat, but they were the first clan that came to his mind.

  Fiona laughed. “Nay,” she said. “They ran like frightened rabbits when they saw us coming a week ago.”

  The gates pulled open as they approached and the large group spilled out into the bailey. Save for the warriors and a few scraggly looking dogs, the space was empty.

  The keep was even more impressive up close and for the first time since he was a lad, he felt rather small.

  “Then who?” he asked as they splashed through puddles heading toward the stairs.

  “The MacGregors for one,” she said.

  The MacGregors. “They have been life-long allies to the Chisolms,” he said. “One of my and Richard’s biggest concerns were how they’d respond.”

  “Caelen believes they’re simply worried over their future. With ye, us, and the MacDougalls, they are probably shittin’ their trews worried we will try to take their lands.”

  ’Twas a shock to hear a woman speak in such a manner. But then, Fiona MacPherson was not a typical woman. She said not another word as she led the group up the steps and into the massive keep.

  Fiona led the way down a long corridor and through a set of tall double doors. Within was one of the largest, grandest gathering halls he’d ever seen. I have fought on smaller battlefields, he mused as he took in the enormous space.

  Large stone fireplaces lined the walls to his left and right. Overhead were six, heavy black iron chandeliers with dozens of candles blazing in each. A long, wooden high table, lined with benches sat on a dais in front of the fireplace on the eastern side of the room. Over the mantle hung the MacCullough banner. It appeared to have been torn in several spots and mended back together. It angered him to think someone would have torn it thusly, but he was thankful to whomever mended it.

  Caelen McDunnah sat at that high table in the only chair. War braids lined both sides of his scarred face. ’Twas difficult to tell if he was amused or perturbed; both expressions were often similar. Two men were leaning in, speaking to him in hushed tones. Neither man looked pleased.

  As Lachlan and the others approached, their heavy footfalls echoed off the walls and arched ceiling, drawing Caelen’s attention away from the two men who were speaking to him. As soon as the man saw his beautiful wife, he smiled. Or leered. ’Twas difficult for Lachlan to tell. Either way, he did appear quite pleased at seeing his wife.

  Now, Caelen McDunnah was legendary. He was known to start a fight simply because he enjoyed fighting. Ruthless and unforgiving on the field of battle, it was widely accepted throughout Scotland that Caelen McDunnah was the meanest, most relentless and ferocious son of a whore that ever walked God’s earth. He was a terrifying man.

  His wife, however, was not of that same mindset as the rest of the world. She bounded up the steps as he pushed himself away from the table. Lachlan watched as the two people shared a warm embrace. The public display of warmth and mutual admiration went against everything Lachlan thought he knew about the either of them. Love, he reckoned, could change a person. Thankfully, it hadn’t softened Caelen’s fighting abilities.

  Caelen finally turned his attention toward Lachlan. “Ye look like death warmed over,” he said by way of how-do-you-do.

  Lachlan shrugged his shoulders. “It has been a long five years.”

  They grabbed each other’s forearms in greeting. “How long has it been since last we’ve met?” Caelen asked.

  “At least eight years,” Lachlan said.

  Caelen nodded, stepped aside, and pointed to the ornately carved chair. “’Tis yer seat now, MacCullough.”

  My seat.

  Reluctantly, he stood behind the chair. This was the seat of power, so to speak. How many generations of lying, cheating, conniving Chisolms had sat in this very chair? Too many to count.

  With one hand, Lachlan picked up the chair and called Jamie forward. “I am a MacCullough,” he declared loudly. “I will nae defile the skin of my own arse by sittin’ in that. The Chisolm clan is no more.”

  Uncertain just what he was meant to do with the former seat of power, Jamie gave a slight shrug of his shoulders and carried the thing out of doors.

  Caelen chuckled loudly before giving Lachlan a firm slap on his back. The blow came close to knocking the air out of his lungs, but he wasn’t about to let anyone know that.

  “I like ye, MacCullough. Ye have bollacks, that’s for certain.”

  Forgoing the formalities of the dais, the two men stepped to the hearth. Caelen waited for his wife to sit before taking the seat beside her. Lachlan sat opposite them.

  “Richard sends his thanks and regards,” Lachlan said.

  “How are his brothers?” Fiona asked.

  “They fair well.” While Raibeart and Richard were healing nicely and would make a full recovery, Lachlan worried over Colyne. The young lad had been through hell and back. God only knew if there would be long suffering effects of his imprisonment. He kept those thoughts to himself for a wide variety of reasons. Mostly because that was a private family matter. And God only knew how riddled with ears the walls of this keep were.

  “Fiona tells me we are at war,” Lachlan said, wanting to get to the heart of the matter. The sooner he dealt with whatever problems there were, the better off he and his men would be. And h
e could get to the business of taking over.

  “Aye,” Caelen said as he scratched his stubbled jaw. “Ye be at war, all right. On two fronts.”

  “Fiona mentioned the MacGregors,” Lachlan began before being interrupted by a serving maid bringing refreshments. A pretty lass of no more than four and ten he assumed, with fiery red hair, bright blue eyes, and freckles that dotted her nose. She carried a tray with three mugs. Caelen and Fiona declined, but Lachlan happily took a mug of ale from her tray.

  “Ye might want to have someone taste that first,” Caelen warned.

  He paused, the mug a mere inch from his lips. “Ye jest.”

  “Nay, I dunnae jest.”

  The serving girl looked nervous; her eyes darting back and forth between Caelen and Lachlan.

  “Meet yer new laird,” Caelen told the frightened girl. “And take a sip of that ale in his honor.”

  She was horrified; tears began to fill her eyes. She’d been caught and knew it. Without uttering a sound, she fled from the gathering room.

  Fiona carefully took the ale from Lachlan and poured the contents into the hearth. The flames sizzled as a cloud of smoke and steam rose up.

  “I would nae eat or drink anything I did nae prepare myself,” Caelen warned Lachlan. “Else ye will find pissed-filled ale, shite filled meat pies, or worse yet, poison.”

  Lachlan sat in stunned incredulity.

  “I take it they have nae been too keen on havin’ ye here,” Lachlan said.

  Caelen grunted as he shook his head. “That, lad, would be a monumental understatement. Thus far, we have put down three insurrections, a mutiny, and have tossed more Chisolms into their own dungeon than I can count.”

  Lachlan had been prepared for some troubles in the beginning, but this? Poison? Insurrection? All of that in a week’s time?

  Nay, he hadn’t prepared himself for those things. However, he felt that with the right leadership, he could get the Chisolms to come around.

  “I warn ye, MacCullough, the road ahead of ye will be rife with deceit and outright hostility. Apparently, their former lairds were all loved beyond measure, to hear them tell it.”

  Fiona gave a quick nod. “Aye, ye cannae find anyone who will say a bad word about Maitland or Randall Chisolm. They were adored.”

  “I dunnae give a damn about adoration. I care about fealty and honor,” Lachlan told them. “I will nae settle for anything less.”

  Caelen leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out towards the warm fire. “Dunnae say I didn’t warn ye.”

  As long as he had the MacDougalls and MacCullough men alongside him, Lachlan firmly believed he could quash any further troubles from these people. “And I thank ye for the warnin’,” he said. “Now, besides the MacGregors, who else are we at war with?”

  Caelen threw his head back and laughed. “Lad, have ye nae been listenin’? Ye are still at war with the Chisolms.”

  “Thus far, in the five days we have been here, we have put down three insurrections, two attempts to challenge the chiefdom, and detained five individuals who attempted to kill us through poison, arrows, and or a dirk to our heart,” Caelen explained. “We have put so many people in the dungeon that it cannae take another. We have had to resort to keeping at least a dozen people locked in rooms above stairs.”

  Lachlan knew the transition of power wasn’t going to be easy. But this news was beyond what he had anticipated. It was abundantly clear that the Chisolms were adamantly opposed to the idea of the MacCulloughs ruling over them.

  “How many Chisolms have come to our side?” Lachlan asked, afraid he wasn’t going to like the answer.

  Caelen chuckled and shook his head. “None.”

  None? “I ken that should nae surprise me …” Lachlan let out a frustrated breath.

  “It surprises the hell out of me,” Caelen said. “One would think that at least a handful of people would see the rightness in givin’ ye their fealty,” Caelen said.

  “Until these past few days, I never thought I would meet anyone more stubborn that a McDunnah,” Fiona began, “but I have been proven wrong more times than I care to admit.”

  Caelen laughed at his wife’s blunt honesty.

  “Were it yer clan now in charge, what course of action would ye be takin’ to gain the fealty of these people?” Lachlan asked. He had a few ideas of his own, but he was ever open to listening to the wisdom of others.

  “I’d have hung every last one of them,” Caelen admitted. “Save for the women and children, but even they cannae be trusted at this point.”

  To Lachlan’s surprise, Fiona readily agreed. “While I do like the notion of hanging the bloody bastards, doin’ so would nae do anything but make them hate the MacCulloughs even more than they already do.”

  “I am nae lookin’ for their love or adoration,” Lachlan said drolly. “I only want their fealty.”

  Caelen nodded in agreement. “Then ye have a long and treacherous road ahead of ye.”

  Lachlan pushed himself to his feet. “Then I should get started as soon as possible.”

  “Then ye’ll be wantin’ to speak with their leader,” Caelen informed him as he too, got to his feet. “Murdoch Chisolm.”

  Two of Caelen’s men led the way out of the gathering room and down a long and winding dark corridor. Lachlan, his men, along with Caelen, followed behind. As they walked down the corridor, their shadows danced in the torchlight along the stone walls.

  Caelen’s instincts were on high alert, one hand resting on the hilt of the dirk he kept in his belt. The hallway was far too narrow for sword battle, but one never knew when someone might attack.

  As soon as the door was pulled open, odors from the dungeon swept through. Musty air, blended with the scent of urine and feces was enough to make Lachlan’s eyes water.

  One at a time they took the twisting stone staircase, into the bowels of the keep. The smell only grew worse as they descended the damp, moss covered stairs.

  The dungeon was not at all as he had expected considering what he thought he knew about the Chisolms. There were no torture devices, no man in a black hood who would mete out punishments or try to extract information from enemies. Nay, ’twas a small space with only four small cells lined with heavy, black iron bars.

  But those rooms were filled to capacity with men. Men who bore particularly furious expressions aimed directly at those they considered to be interlopers. Men of varying ages and sizes glowered at Lachlan’s group.

  Lachlan made his way to the front of the line. “Which one of ye is Murdoch Chisolm?”

  One man, who Lachlan estimated to be in his late forties with a beard that went to his waist, stepped forward. He pressed his face between two iron bars. “I be Murdoch Chisolm,” he declared. His hands and face were grimy, his dirty long hair fell way beyond his shoulders.

  Lachlan didn’t believe him for a moment. Neither did he believe the dozens of other men who stepped forward to declare themselves to be the man he was seeking.

  “Pipe down, ye bloody bastards,” one of Caelen’s men shouted as he went to the last cell on the left. “Back away,” he ordered the men lining the iron bars.

  At first, the men refused. But the threat of castration made them part the seas so to speak.

  There, in the far corner, was Murdoch Chisolm. Lachlan was certain ’twas he, for he was the only one not claiming the identity. Murdoch sat with his back against the wall with one leg stretched out across the dirty stone floor. He had one wrist resting on the bent knee, his free hand picking invisible lint from his filthy brown shirt.

  “Him,” Lachlan said to his men with a nod toward the one he assumed was Murdoch. He said nothing more as he turned and left the dungeon.

  Once they were back in the gathering room, Lachlan’s men pushed Murdoch into one of the chairs by the hearth. Unfazed by their open hostility, he simply smiled up at them.

  “I am Lachlan MacCullough, cousin to Black Richard MacCullough,” Lachlan said as he stood by th
e hearth.

  “And where is the MacCullough?” Murdoch spit on the floor defiantly.

  Lachlan ignored both the question and the insult of spitting on the MacCullough name. “I am the MacCullough. I am actin’ on Black Richard’s behalf. I will be yer laird and chief.”

  ’Twas quite apparent that Murdoch was unimpressed. “Just because ye say it is so does nae mean it is.”

  Lachlan had to admire the man’s fealty to his own people, for he felt much the same way when the Chisolms took his own keep all those years ago. But the situations were vastly different.

  “When Maitland Chisolm raided our keep nearly six years ago, he assumed ‘twould be the end of the MacCulloughs.” Lachlan leaned against the table and crossed his arms over his chest. “But he was wrong.” He took a moment to study Murdoch closely. The man was close to his own age, with dark brown hair and pale blue eyes. Eyes that were, at this very moment, filled with malice and hatred. “When the former MacRay laird broke their generations-old alliance with the MacCulloughs, they too, thought ’twould be the end of us. And when Randall left Raibeart MacCullough for dead after kidnapping my cousins and friend, those too, were grave mistakes.”

  Murdoch yawned and stretched. “What be yer point in this walk down memory lane?”

  “My point is that many a Chisolm before ye has underestimated the fierceness, the tenacity, and the will of the MacCullough clan.” He let the words sink in for a long moment. “Bigger, wiser men than ye have nae lived to tell the tale. Consider this a warnin’, Murdoch: dunnae underestimate me or mine. To do so is akin to signin’ yer own death warrant.”

  Lachlan left no doubt in Murdoch’s mind that he meant what he said. He gave the order for his men to round up every last Chisolm and bring them to the courtyard forthwith. There was no better time than now to inform these people who he was and what their choices were.