Sighing heavily, Knox walked towards him.
“May I?” he asked, gesturing to the chair opposite.
Dougal nodded slightly, still staring into the fire.
Knox studied him. Dougal had grown a full beard, which was streaked with grey. His dark eyes rarely turned to engage with anyone anymore. It had been like this since the Maid had escaped, all those years ago.
Knox still remembered it like it was yesterday. It was branded on his mind, like a tattoo.
The fruitless search for her. Dougal, crazy with pain. Knox had never seen him so angry; he had torn all the gowns he had bought her to shreds. The servants had cowered in fear, thinking their laird had lost his mind.
They had searched for weeks, but she had disappeared. They had sent spies out, next, but they too, returned with nothing. And then, suddenly, Dougal had stopped the search.
He drew inward, isolating himself.
And so, it had been, ever since. The man he once was, seemed to have vanished along with the girl.
He wanted to hear nothing of her. If he overheard anyone mentioning her, he banished them. The castle learnt to not speak of the Maid of Caithness – ever.
Knox was happy with this. He desired nothing more than to put the whole sorry business behind them, and look to the future. But Dougal didn’t share his vision. Dougal seemed to want to wallow in his pain, privately.
The great warrior was gone. And so was the laird, before he really had a chance to establish himself as one.
“What was she like?” Dougal’s voice was hoarse.
Knox started out of his reverie. “Who, laird?” he asked, bewildered.
Dougal pointed to the portrait of his mother, on the opposite wall.
“Her. My mother,” he said.
Knox looked at the painting. “She was a great beauty,” he said slowly. “But, of course, you can see that for yourself. The painter captured her likeness perfectly.” He paused. Where was this leading?
“She was kind,” he continued. “Always helping people. She loved your father – they had known each other since they were children. I remember she was very sad, for a while, after they wed, when it seemed she couldn’t conceive. And then you came.”
“Was she happy, when I did?” Dougal continued to stare into the fire.
“She was overjoyed,” Knox said. “She loved you so; she couldn’t bear to be parted from you. That was why you were there – the day that it happened.” Knox lowered his voice. He still didn’t like to talk of that day.
“The day that my mother was killed, you mean?”
“Aye. You really shouldn’t have come, in my opinion. You were too young for such a long journey. But she insisted. It was just very lucky for you that your nursemaid had taken you for a walk, before it happened.”
“Fenella,” Dougal mused, picking up his whiskey glass and swirling it around. “She was a good woman.”
“Aye,” Knox agreed. “She doted on you. And she saved your life.”
“But she died.” Dougal drained his glass. “Just the same as my mother. It seems that every woman in my life leaves me.” He laughed, bitterly.
Knox was at a loss. His laird was in a strange mood.
“You know, don’t you, that she married again?” Dougal turned his gaze on Knox suddenly.
“Who? Fenella?”
“No, man!” Dougal slammed his fist into the table beside his chair, making the glass jump. The hounds whimpered at his feet.
“Her. The Maid of Caithness. The Jewel of the Highlands! How many other titles does the damn woman have!”
Knox shook his head, slowly. “No, I didn’t know.” He paused. “It doesn’t matter now, laird, even if she did. So many years have passed.”
“So many years have passed,” repeated Dougal. “And yet I still cannot get her face out of my mind! She haunts me, day and night. I can’t lie with another woman – she spoilt it for me. If I couldn’t have her, I wanted no one!”
His eyes flashed. “Well, I have had enough. For years, I wanted to not think of her anymore. She was dead to me. But her face…” He shook his head, as if in pain. “Her face is tormenting me, again, more than ever! It must end.” Suddenly, he stopped.
“Knox, I want you to get a regiment of men ready,” he said, standing up.
Knox was confused. “For what purpose, laird?”
“We will ride on Caithness. I will have her again, and kill her husband to do so. If I die trying, I no longer care.” He turned to the man at his side.
“It will be better than living in this hell.”
***
Caithness Castle lay ahead of them. The horses whinnied, stamping their feet.
“There it is,” whispered Dougal. “Her lair. The place she cared so much about she had to run away the night before our wedding.” He spat on the ground.
He turned to the men. “We will ride on my command,” he said. But once in the castle, I act alone.”
“But, laird…” Knox was anxious.
“I mean it, Knox.” Dougal set his mouth determinedly. “I will find her, and kill her husband, myself. No one can intervene.” He smiled, grimly.
“That moment is mine.”
Chapter Sixteen
It was dark by the time he found his way to the laird’s chambers.
It had gone well, so far. They had stolen into the castle, taking the garrison by surprise. Knox and the other men had secured them, tying them up. The castle slumbered on.
But not for long.
He had held a knife to a guard’s throat to find out where to go. Up the stairs, and to the right.
He crept, keeping one hand on his scabbard. His senses were on high alert; the hairs on the back of his neck were prickling.
He turned the door knob slowly.
There was no light in the chamber, but he could make out the shape of the bed.
He crept further, until he was almost upon it. Very soon, he would see the shapes of her and her husband. The thought of her lying with another man made the blood rush to his eyes.
Steady, he told himself. Don’t ruin it now.
He drew his sword, brandishing it above his head.
But there was only a man in the bed. And no sign of Heather.
Confused, he paused for a moment.
Suddenly, he was on his back. The man had leapt from the bed, knocking him to the ground.
He lay there, winded, grasping desperately for his sword which had fallen from his grasp.
But the other man was too quick. He picked up Dougal’s sword, aiming it at his heart.
“Prepare to die,” the man said.
Suddenly, the door burst open. It was Heather, panting heavily, carrying a candle.
“What is going on?” She swept upon them.
“Stand back, mother! This man is about to die.”
Heather approached, holding the candle higher. Her eyes widened in astonishment.
“Alban, no!” she screamed. “Don’t kill him!”
Alban looked at her, confused.
Dougal was staring up at her, his eyes beseeching. “Heather,” he whispered.
Heather started crying.
“Alban…” she wept. “Alban…he is your father!”
She set the candle down, turning to the man on the floor, embracing him tenderly.
Alban slowly lowered the sword. “My father?”
“Aye,” Heather wept.
Dougal looked up at her. “It is you,” he said, in wonder. He reached to stroke her hair. “Your hair…it is still the same.” He felt a lump in his throat.
“Sit up,” said Heather.
Alban had collapsed on the side of the bed, bewildered. Dougal slowly turned to him, studying him carefully.
“Did you say I am his father?” he repeated. His eyes raked over Alban.
“Aye,” Heather said. She couldn’t stop the tears from falling. “He is your son.” She lowered her head. “I was with child when I fled from Dunnottar.”
; “My son,” Dougal repeated. Suddenly, he smiled. His dark eyes overflowed with joy.
“My son!”
Alban was staring at him, not knowing what to do.
“My love,” said Heather, tenderly. “I will explain everything.”
***
Half an hour later, they were all seated in the main hall.
A fire had been lit, and whiskey procured. Dougal had sent word to his men to stand down.
Dougal felt like he had come home, at long last.
He and Alban talked for a while, and then Alban excused himself. “I think you two have a lot to catch up on,” he said, looking lovingly at his mother.
He held out his hand to his father, who shook it. Then Dougal grabbed him, enveloping him in a bear hug. They stayed that way for a while. Dougal stared at him.
“We will talk, tomorrow,” he said. Alban nodded, leaving.
“I thought he was your husband,” Dougal said, watching him go.
Heather looked askance. “Whatever made you think that I had a husband?”
Dougal stared at her. “I heard there was a new laird at Caithness Castle,” he replied. He looked down. “It has been many years, Heather.”
“Aye,” she agreed. “But I could never…”
“What?” he pressed.
“I could never marry.” She shook her head. “You must know… how much I love you, Dougal.”
“Then why did you leave me?” he cried.
“Duty. Because I had been conditioned since I was a babe that I had to supply an heir for the clan Gunn.” She felt tears falling, again.
“I have never stopped loving you.”
Dougal felt overwhelmed. “I have never stopped loving you, either,” he said. “Oh, I tried. I tried very hard. For years, I wouldn’t even let your name be spoken. But lately…I keep seeing your face…”
Heather trembled. “Oh, my love,” she whispered.
They embraced, caressing each other. He looked into her face, searching.
“Can we start over?” he whispered. “You, me…and our son.”
She nodded, slowly. “Oh, yes,” she whispered.
She had to pinch herself. Her dream had come true. Dougal, the love of her life, had sped through those castle gates to claim her again.
She reached for his hand, taking it in her own.
Staring into each other’s eyes, they knew this time, they would never let go.
The End
The Highlander’s Revenge
©2018 by Blair Keith
All rights reserved. No part of this may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are a product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, events or locales is completely coincidental.
Chapter One
Ewan leaned his head back for the final drops of lager that had made a well in his wooden cup. His muscled core felt stretched by the feasting and drinking that had been the theme of the celebratory evening. But it was done. He was Laird now, and the Clan Chattan gave him his due honor.
For eighteen years, he had waited for this. In his drunken state, he rested his head on the pillow, his toned arm propping it further, and recalled the night of attack.
As a ten year old boy, he had hidden behind the barn where his family was slaughtered by Clan Cameron, who remained bitter that their land had been revoked hundreds of years before. The centuries of rivalry over a slight offense had escalated into cattle theft and misdemeanors until this one night of full assault. Despite the guards posted throughout the land, none were prepared for the culmination of hatred that crept through that one night.
The screams of his father and mother, Hamish and Nanette Macintosh, still echoed in Ewan’s mind. The echo would not be silenced.
His two sisters, both his elders, and his younger brother had been taken, but were later discovered among the dead. Survivor’s guilt had wracked Ewan’s young mind until the bitterness of vengeance became his closest ally.
Ewan ran his fingers, calloused by years of labor, along the dark ginger scruff sprouting from his sharp jaw. His head boasted a crown of thick, toasted auburn, but his beard had always carried the memory of his father’s fiery shock of hair. Now that he was Laird, he wondered if he ought to let the hair grow and mature his appearance.
He mused as to whether or not Wallace had heard yet. Despite claiming Lairdship of Clan Cameron ten years before Ewan’s new station in Clan Chattan, Wallace remained a fragile child in his mind. Only months ago, Wallace became Chief when his parents died of Inbred Fever, the rattling of their chests being that last sounds the earth heard of them, and their daughter Iona the only other remnant of their memory.
Iona. The only person in the world left to Wallace, she was his prize. His heavily guarded prize.
Ewan had no family left to lose. But for Wallace, the pain could still be inflicted.
“I cannae do it,” Philip declared as he waited for the beauty to join them. The five guards stood at the door, crassly arguing over which of them could win her affection.
“Course you can. Just drop your purse beneath her. When you bend to pick it up from the ground, you can accidentally touch ‘er ankle. It’ll be no problem for you,” Stewart replied.
They quickly hushed at the sound of delicate feet approaching. Iona descended the stairs and came through the doorway, glancing at each of the men with a nutmeg-colored brow half raised and a coy smile tugging at her lips. Then she faced forward, allowing the swish of her waist-length ginger braid to brush against Philip’s arm.
“Shall we?” she motioned forward. The six made their way toward the forest as they did each morning for Iona’s walk. She nimbly skipped a few paces ahead of the men, and they quickened their step to keep stride with her.
After they entered the thick trees, Philip began to work up a sweat in anticipation of the thought of brushing the ivory ankle of Iona. It would be the only chance a man like him would ever have to touch the sister of a clan leader, especially one so beautiful as the woman before him.
Finally, he made up his mind. He would do it. He deserved it after the years of watching her blossom into the eighteen year old maiden she now was.
He quietly untied his change purse and allowed the strings to slip through his fingers and land at the hem of his lady’s dress. The sound of coins against the ground caused Iona to pause.
As if in slow motion, Philip bent forward, grasping the change purse. With only a breath between his fingers and her skin, he was struck by the sound of an arrow wishing through the air and implanting itself in the top of his skull. His body landed as a mound on the earth, and the puddle of red stained the ground beneath him.
A dozen more arrows soared around Iona as she began to scream. The four remaining guards drew their swords, but in an instant, the invisible source of the arrows had defeated all but Stewart. The bear of a man stood before her, skillfully deflecting arrows with his broadsword before the lucky shot came from the right, pinning itself just between the ribs underneath his left armpit and striking through to his heart.
Iona stood shaking, completely unable to move and wide eyed at the bloodbath encircling her. All was silent, and the forest was still.
A quivering breath released from her rosebud lips. She felt suddenly cold, violently cold. A piercing pain shot upwards through her body. Her knees quaked and then gave way as she fell unconscious to the ground, surrounded by the flora.
----
Four days had passed since Iona had been brought to the tower at Cameron Castle. She knew that her brother must have sent his entire force of guards to search for her, and assuredly they discovered the bodies of her personal guards. Would they know where to begin looking for her? She felt confident they would try.
The room was small and barren, save for the straw on which she slept and the bucket in the corner. The
re was a hefty lock on the door and a slot near the bottom where her meager portions of food were inserted three times a day. The boredom and isolation were nearly unbearable, so she sat braiding and unbraiding her copper curls with little else to do and no energy to plan an escape.
It was still difficult for her to stand, though some of the ache of her body was beginning to ease. The scrapes and cuts on her arms and legs were finally beginning to heal beneath the scabs, but the wound on her foot, which she had no recollection of getting, seemed to be from the arrows that had initiated the attack. Whether from shock or memory suppression, Iona did not remember the arrow piercing her flesh.
Even if she had been able to stand, the shackles around her once desirable ankles were linked too closely to the wall for her to go far, barely long enough to reach the food being slid beneath her door.
She tried to move toward it, but her strength left her, and a sharp pain shot through her foot, so she remained, immobile.
As the days had passed, she found herself less and less able to function. Her thoughts grew cloudy and the weakness of her body contributed to a waning of her already limited morale. Any hope she had had of release or escape faded completely into darkness.
----
“Janet is here to see you,” said one of Ewan’s men the next morning.
“Bring her in,” he ordered with a smile. He took a swig of wine and settled comfortably in his chair. His men backed away and retreated to their own spaces in the corners of the room.
Janet entered Ewan’s chambers, her jet black hair descending her back and deep brown eyes trained on his flirtatious grin. Her face was stunning, with angular points and high cheekbones, a straight nose sharply tipped.
“Are you well, my Laird Macintosh?” she asked seductively, preening forward.
“Always,” he replied, gazing at her shapely figure.
“I hear you achieved a great victory in the days since I saw you last,” she praised.
“My victory will not be fulfilled until I have had occasion to take from Wallace what was taken from me. His sister remains in the tower only until I can have her head,” he said vindictively.
Historical Hearts Romance Collection Page 37
