The Laird's Return: A Highland Festive Romance Novella (The Immortal Highland Centurions)

by Jayne Castel

  The crackling hearth cast a warm glow over the laird’s solar. A large lump of peat burned there. It gradually warmed Robert’s chilled limbs, his numbed fingers and toes.

  Sighing, Robert reached for the cup of wine at his elbow before meeting the eye of the woman seated across the table from him. “That,” he said with the barest hint of a smile, “was the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”

  Elizabeth smiled, and he found himself staring at her full lips and the dimple on her right cheek. “I recall that pottage and oaten dumplings were always a favorite of yers,” she replied.

  “Aye.” Robert took a gulp from his cup. “As is bramble wine.”

  “It was a good year for brambles,” she replied, still smiling, although her midnight-blue eyes had a guarded, watchful look to them. “The hedgerows were overflowing this year. We had brambles with every meal for weeks … they’re Robbie’s favorite.”

  Elizabeth halted here—it was the first time she’d mentioned their son. Since they’d come upstairs to the solar, the pair of them had spoken of inconsequential things—the weather, Yuletide preparations, and their meal.

  It was as if they were strangers.

  Robert had deliberately kept her at arm’s length since their meeting in the stairwell. Even if seeing her again had stripped him of breath.

  Robert lowered his cup, his gaze taking his wife in. When he’d told her she’d barely altered, he’d meant it. Truthfully though, the woman was even more beautiful than he remembered. She wore her thick dark-blonde hair unbound, and the dark-blue kirtle she wore suited her coloring, accentuating the loveliness of her skin and the brightness of her eyes. It also highlighted the lush curves of her body, curves that were perhaps more generous than he remembered, but only added to her loveliness.

  Eight years had passed since he’d seen this woman—and his gaze couldn’t get enough of her.

  And yet, he held himself in check. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her how much he’d missed her—how it was thoughts of her that kept him going over the years, before hope had turned to ashes.

  Instead, his voice was cool and detached when he finally asked, “And how is Robbie?”

  “Growing faster than a weed,” Elizabeth replied, smiling once more. And yet once again, Robert noted the reserve in her eyes. “He just had his tenth birthday.”

  “The fifteenth of December,” Robert murmured.

  Elizabeth’s gaze widened. “Ye remember?”

  He inclined his head. “Of course.”

  Elizabeth cleared her throat, while Robert took another sip of wine. God’s teeth, it was awkward between them, and he couldn’t seem to find the words to ease things.

  “Cassian told me how David died,” he said after a lengthy pause. “But he said ye’d fill me in on the rest.”

  Her full mouth thinned. “It happened in 1301,” she confirmed. “While Edward Longshanks held Stirling, yer brother went there with the purpose of bending the knee.”

  Robert scowled. “What?” His brother had been a snake, but he hadn’t thought he’d kiss Longshanks’s arse.

  “It was a ruse,” Elizabeth assured him hurriedly. “Wallace was in hiding here at the time, and he wanted to know what Longshanks was planning … and I wanted to make a plea for yer life.”

  Robert went still. During his lost years at Warkworth, the only news from the world beyond that had reached him was the death of William Wallace. His guards had crowed over it. Discovering now that Wallace had been sheltering at Dunnottar wasn’t hugely surprising—after all, the freedom fighter had once liberated the stronghold. Instead, he focused on the fact his wife had spoken directly to Edward of England on his behalf. “Ye did?”

  Elizabeth frowned. “Ye sound surprised,” she observed. “Did ye think I’d just leave things as they were?”

  Robert took a sip of wine, in an attempt to mask the discomfort that now washed over him. Aye, in the end he had. “I was locked away for a long while, Liz,” he said after a moment. “When the years passed and I didn’t hear from ye … I thought ye’d moved on.”

  Silence fell between them then, broken only by the crackling of the hearth.

  “Longshanks agreed to send ye a missive from me,” Elizabeth said stiffly. Hurt flickered across her face. “But after David’s assassination attempt, I imagine he set fire to it.”

  Her words hung between them.

  The knowledge that his wife had pleaded to Edward to deliver word to him should have brought Robert solace, but instead the urge to accuse her of giving up on him writhed within him. That incident was years ago. Had she never tried again?

  Although she’d greeted him warmly, Robert had seen the shock in his wife’s eyes, followed by an uncharacteristic reserve.

  He was a ghost from her past.

  Robert’s throat constricted. Once again, he felt as if he was intruding. His wife hadn’t exactly been pining for him. Before he’d entered the keep earlier, Cassian had been full of praise for how well she’d ruled Dunnottar since David’s death.

  “It’s nearing Robbie’s bedtime, but would ye like to see him first?” Elizabeth broke the brittle tension between them by wisely changing the subject.

  Robert shook his head, weariness descending upon him. He wasn’t ready to see his son. Robbie had been halfway through his second summer when Robert had been captured—barely more than a bairn. His conversation with Elizabeth had shredded his nerves; he didn’t want another reunion tonight.

  He suddenly felt bone-tired—as if he could sleep for a week. He was sore, both of heart and spirit, and just wanted to crawl away and lick his wounds.

  “Not tonight,” he replied, downing the last of the wine.

  III

  SEPARATE CHAMBERS

  ELIZABETH TENSED, HER fingers curling around the cup of wine she’d barely touched.

  The man opposite her—the husband she’d longed for to the point of pain over the years—had just refused to greet his child.

  His son.

  For a moment, she merely stared at him, waiting for him to rethink his decision.

  But when he didn’t, anger quickened in her breast.

  “Robbie has indeed grown while ye were away,” she said, her voice turning cold. “He was barely more than a babe when ye left … and is now almost the same height as me.”

  Robert tensed, his gaze shuttering. And when he replied, his tone was also wintry. “Ye speak as if I’ve been away on Crusade, Liz.” His gaze fused with hers. “I didn’t ‘leave’. I was captured.” A nerve flickered in his cheek, before he put down the pewter goblet he was holding with a ‘thud’. “The lad has gotten used to living without a father. One more night won’t make a difference.”

  Elizabeth sucked in an angry breath, heat flushing through her. The man she remembered had been proud and arrogant—a warrior to the core—but he’d also been warm, with a ready smile. Before his capture, Robert De Keith had readily shown affection for his wife and son.

  Elizabeth didn’t recognize the man before her now. He was so cold, so distant.

  Her throat constricted. His behavior reminded her of the argument they’d had before he left Dunnottar years earlier. She hadn’t wanted him to go on that campaign. The urge to broach the subject bubbled up inside her, yet she swallowed it. Tonight wasn’t the right time for such a conversation.

  Robert then dragged a tired hand down his face. “I’m exhausted,” he muttered. “I shall withdraw to my chamber.”

  Elizabeth went still. She’d noted the inflection on the word ‘my’. He was retiring for the evening—alone.

  The laird and lady of Dunnottar had always had separate quarters, each with a solar, dressing chamber, and bed-chamber. Elizabeth’s chambers looked south over the coast and the sea, while Robert’s held a commanding view of the cliff-top and green hills to the west. But before his departure, Robert had spent his nights in his wife’s bed-chamber. They’d rarely slept apart.

  A chill settled in the pit of Elizabeth’s belly, dousi
ng her anger. Her joy at seeing her husband alive and well faded as she realized they weren’t going to be able to pick up where they left off.

  There was a high curtain wall between them now. One Elizabeth had no idea how to scale.

  Robert reminded her of his younger brother tonight. David De Keith’s scornful attitude to the women in his life had always angered Elizabeth. During his six-year marriage to Gavina—who was now happily wed to Draco, and pregnant with their third child—Elizabeth had hardly ever seen him treat his wife with anything but scorn.

  Robert had always been so different, and just a little part of her had been smug at how fortunate she had been. Like most well-born Scottish lasses, she’d had little choice in her husband—but she’d found happiness with Robert De Keith.

  Before his capture, he’d been devoted to her.

  Silence hung between them now, and when Elizabeth didn’t answer, Robert rose to his feet. “Goodnight, Liz.”

  He didn’t move across to her, didn’t favor her with a smile or a kiss on the cheek.

  Instead, he crossed the wide solar and disappeared, the door closing softly behind him.

  Robert stood before the hearth in his bed-chamber, his gaze upon the large lump of peat that glowed there.

  His chamber was exactly as he remembered it—a large space with deerskins covering the cold flagstones and a huge bed draped in fine blankets and furs in the center. The room was largely unadorned. There was only a table by the bed, where a bank of candles burned and a wash bowl sat. The stone walls were plain, save for the huge claidheamh-mòr hanging opposite the bed. Robert turned from the fire, his attention settling now upon the weapon.

  His father’s sword. The great blade had a nick in it, the result of an axe blow during one of the many battles his father had fought in.

  Robert’s mouth curved in a humorless smile. He came from a long line of warriors. Sometimes it seemed as if he’d come out of the womb fighting.

  Tonight he felt drained by it all—by life itself.

  Turning back to the fire, he began to undress, unfastening his mail shirt and unbuckling his belt.

  He’d offended Elizabeth.

  A sigh gusted out of him as he recalled how her dark-blue eyes had narrowed, her beautiful mouth flattening. She’d always been strong-willed, yet tonight he didn’t have the energy to spar with her.

  And nor had he the energy to meet his son.

  Ten winters old.

  In a few years, the lad he remembered as a toddling bairn would be a man.

  Another warrior who would one day take his father’s place as laird.

  Robert draped his clothing over the back of a chair and padded naked to the bed. A groan escaped him as he slid under the blankets. It had been a long while since he’d slept in a bed, let alone one as comfortable as this.

  His narrow cot in his cell at Warkworth had been better than the damp stone floor many prisoners had to deal with. Even so, it had been an uncomfortable bed, with rough, scratchy blankets. And then, there had been unwelcome bed-fellows: the spiders and rodents who’d sometimes crawled onto the cot while he slept.

  In comparison, this bed was paradise.

  The only thing missing was a woman’s warm body.

  Robert stared up at the rafters, his thoughts turning back to Elizabeth. She was truly lovely to behold—bright sunshine after a long, bleak winter.

  But he’d seen the chagrin in her eyes when he’d announced he was going to bed—alone.

  She likely remembered that he’d always preferred her chamber. The air in that room was always warm and lightly scented with lavender. Colorful tapestries covered the walls, and soft cushions lay scattered about. Robert wondered if the space had changed over the years.

  Perhaps not, but Elizabeth had. She’d grown more confident, competent. She had gotten on with her life, as she should have. He knew he shouldn’t judge her for doing so, and yet he found that resentment still smoldered in his gut.

  He’d changed too—had turned into a bitter individual who couldn’t even feel joy at being reunited with his family. Right now, he was disgusted with himself.

  It’s not her fault. Robert clenched his jaw. I’m not the man I was. Perhaps I should have done everyone a favor and stayed away.

  Nonetheless, he’d returned home, and that meant facing his wife. Given time, he would seek to ease the tension between them, even if he wasn’t sure where to start.

  Elizabeth felt oddly tearful as she readied herself for bed. Her maid, Morag, had helped her undress and was now brushing her hair in long, hard strokes.

  Gritting her teeth as the hog-bristle brush caught on a knot, Elizabeth blinked rapidly, glad that her maid’s roughness distracted her from the tightness in her throat and her blurring vision.

  What a bitter disappointment this evening had been.

  She’d been giddy with excitement earlier, asking the cooks to prepare supper for the laird; fortunately, there had been left-over pottage from the nooning meal. She’d also dressed carefully, in her finest blue kirtle that matched her eyes.

  He didn’t even notice.

  Not that it mattered though—for the general awkwardness between them made the effort she’d made seem foolish and vain.

  “That’s it, My Lady,” Morag announced. “Yer hair is done.”

  “Thank ye,” Elizabeth replied, cursing the husky edge to her voice.

  “Will that be all, My Lady?”

  “Aye.”

  Morag was a dour older woman who’d served Elizabeth for years now—after her previous maid, Jean, met an unfortunate end. The lass, who’d secretly been David De Keith’s lover, had died on the journey back from Stirling. They’d been fleeing for their lives after David had tried to assassinate the English king.

  Adjusting the lace that did up the neck of her night-rail, Elizabeth rose from the stool and crossed to the hearth, letting the warmth seep through the thin material. Behind her, she heard Morag shuffle from the room.

  She couldn’t believe how badly her conversation with Robert had gone.

  First he’d all but accused her of not caring what happened to him, then he’d refused to say goodnight to his son. And to complete things, he’d gone off to his own bed rather than sharing hers.

  She’d been angry afterward, but now that she was alone, Elizabeth’s throat constricted, despair welling within her. Perhaps it was best they slept apart now—for she wasn’t sure she could weather more awkwardness between them.

  What had happened to her loving husband, the man who used to tease her, his brown eyes gleaming with mischief?

  She didn’t recognize the cold stranger who’d returned to her.

  A tear escaped, trickling down Elizabeth’s face. What did the English do to him?

  IV

  SPARRING

  ROBERT STEPPED OUT into the lower ward bailey and drew in a deep breath of gelid, salt-laced air.

  The smell of Dunnottar, how he’d missed it over the years. The stench of Warkworth dungeons still lingered in his nostrils. He wondered if memories of the place would ever fade.

  The cold bit into the exposed skin of his face—yet Robert welcomed it. He’d spent too many years trapped indoors, the world beyond limited to the tiny window high above.

  Wrapping his fur mantle around himself, Robert crunched through the snow, past the stables on the right and the chapel on the left, to the blacksmith’s forge that lay against the eastern walls. The castle’s steward, Donnan De Keith, had let him know his son would be there this morning, helping the smith.

  A frown creased Robert’s brow as he approached the forge. His father would have smacked him around the head for spending time with the castle’s smith.

  A laird’s son had better things to do with his time.

  The clang of a hammer greeted him. Robert ducked inside to find a burly young man bent over an anvil, hammering out a sword-blade. Behind him was a lanky lad clad in leather braies and vest. The boy had his back to him.

  Neith
er of them had yet noticed the laird’s arrival, and so Robert observed his son for a few moments.

  Elizabeth was right, the lad was growing like a weed. Robert had been like that at the same age—all long, gangly limbs—before his body filled out with muscle.

  A mane of light brown hair fell over his shoulders as he finished stoking the forge and straightened up. Turning to speak to the smith, the lad suddenly realized they were no longer alone.

  A face that was far more like Elizabeth’s than his own stared back at him. The lad had De Keith eyes though: the color of weathered oak.

  Robert stilled, and the same misgiving that had surfaced earlier that morning, when he’d told himself he needed to seek out his son, revisited him once more.

  He had no idea what to say to this lad.

  The blacksmith glanced up then, his gaze widening. “De Keith?”

  Robert met his frank gaze. Of course, this man hadn’t been smith when he’d last lived here. Blair Galbraith had worked this forge then—an ill-tempered brute but highly skilled all the same.

  Robert had been shocked when Donnan told him that Galbraith had betrayed them all seven years earlier by informing Longshanks that the Wallace was sheltering at Dunnottar. A siege had followed, but fortunately the English king had been called away by an uprising to the south, sparing the fortress.

  Struck dumb momentarily by the tale, and irritated that Elizabeth hadn’t informed him of these events the night before, Robert had eventually asked the steward if Galbraith had ever paid for his treachery. He had. Word had reached the castle a year after Edward’s siege that Comyn had sent men to Fintry to deal with Blair Galbraith. He’d not lived long enough to savor his vengeance upon the De Keiths.

  Robert pushed aside thoughts of everything he’d missed in the past years and favored the smith with a tight smile. “Ye must be Connell?”

  “Aye … pleased to finally meet ye,” the man replied with a grin. He then gestured to the lad behind him. “Someone’s been looking forward to seeing his Da again.”