The Sins of the Sire: Dark Highland Passions, #1

by Emily Royal

  Even at the end when defeat threatened to engulf him, she had fought his remaining assailant with her bare hands, savage in her own way; biting, tearing at the enemy who had threatened her own mate.

  The shame at his treatment of her momentarily obliterated by his animal lust, he had taken her on the forest floor, the raw power of the earth driving him inside her, their bodies fusing together, hers willing and open.

  They were made for each other, fashioned by nature; the moment their eyes had met in the garrison two years ago, he had known it. His ma had always said that each human soul was an incomplete half made complete by the missing piece, a piece unique to each person—their true mate. The instant he saw those animals closing in on her, he finally admitted what his heart and mind had whispered to him. Elyssia was his mate.

  Though he hated her family, the English, everything she represented, a deep corner of his soul wanted to lay itself at her feet and worship her. His body craved her.

  He must not let his heart follow, but he would tear to pieces anyone who threatened her.

  Yet he had been the one to destroy her!

  “…destroyed her…”

  Blinking, he shook his head to dissipate the image in his mind as Duncan’s voice splintered his dreams.

  “…streaked in mud, face scratched, dress ripped down the front. Tavish, what happened to your conscience? Are ye worse than Morcar’s men now? Have ye descended into barbarism?”

  Morcar!

  “Morcar’s men were there, Duncan.”

  “In the forest? So close to here?”

  “Aye.” Tavish’s voice was hoarse. “They’ve never come so near or attacked one of our own.”

  “The Englishwoman?”

  Tavish’s voice broke. “Duncan, they were going to rip her to pieces! And I-I couldn’t help myself. Sweet Lord, what have I done to her!”

  “Isla’s tending to her now,” Duncan said, “but you must tell me the truth about her.”

  “I know not what you mean.”

  “Do you not, Tavish? I’ve seen the way you look at her as if you battle with yourself. I also see how she looks at you.”

  “She only looks at me with loathing, Duncan, and well she might.”

  “Nay, my friend. She fights a battle of her own. A connection exists between the two of you. Not just that of captive and captor, but something else, as if she knows you and understands what you are doing to her.”

  Tavish sighed. Duncan was a trusted friend. His keen eye, powers of observation, and ability to sense danger had saved Tavish’s life on many occasions. Tavish’s own capture at the hands of the sadistic Lord Allendyne was primarily due to Duncan’s absence at the time.

  Allendyne—the man to whom Elyssia had been betrothed; the man who tortured him; who Elyssia had defied in order to save Tavish’s life, at great risk to her own. Aye, much existed between Elyssia and him.

  “You’re right, Duncan. Elyssia and I have a past. I first laid eyes on her two years ago, though I knew not who she was.”

  “Two years ago? When you were in captivity?”

  “Aye, Duncan. Did you never think to ask how I came to escape?”

  “You escaped in a fire, did you not?”

  “Aye, but it was Elyssia who set me free. She protected me against Allendyne and freed the prisoners when the fort was on fire. Were it not for her, I would be dead.”

  “And this is how you repay her?” Duncan’s expression creased into one of loathing. And well it might, for it mirrored the loathing Tavish felt for himself. “Ye gods, man! You must stop what you’re doing and set her free.”

  “To go where Duncan? Her father would not take her back now she’s ruined. Though she’s the enemy, I want her, but the clan expects me to fulfil my duty.”

  “The clan would understand, Tavish,” Duncan said. “You’re their chief. They must abide by what you say. It won’t be easy, but if you’re determined to keep the woman, I won’t stand in your way.”

  “What of Margaret? I cannot cast her aside. I have known and loved her since childhood.”

  “I’m not suggesting you do anything of the kind,” Duncan replied. “Marry Margaret as you intended. There are other ways you can take care of the Englishwoman. Give her a home here.”

  “They’d never accept her. Look at Callum—or Angus. Hatred for the English, de Montford in particular, runs too deep. Elyssia’s very birth stands against her. There’s nothing I can do.”

  “They’ll come round in time, Tavish. Even Callum. Why, look at young Finlay. He’s smitten with the sister. Even the children are fond of her.”

  “That’s because she’s a half-wit, Duncan. They like her out of sympathy.”

  “They’re fond of her because she’s gentle and kind. Aye, she’s afflicted, and men like Angus will always hate that which they do not understand. But many of us understand it’s no sin to love the daughter of your enemy.”

  Love—what a foolish notion! He could never love his enemy; his clan came first. Margaret. He loved Margaret.

  Tavish closed his eyes, picturing Margaret’s sweet face, her delicate features, but opened them again as the image of violet eyes filled his mind.

  “I love Margaret,” he whispered.

  Who was he trying to convince? Duncan—or himself?

  * * *

  He did not send for Elyssia that night. Guilt gnawed at him, magnifying when he saw her accompany the servants during the evening meal, serving ale to the men, weathering their taunts. The scratches on her face had dried, leaving thin trails on her cheek to accompany the scar where he had cut her with her knife. Though in a fresh, clean gown, the bruise under her left eye was an ugly reminder of her ordeal in the forest.

  She needed protection—his protection. Duncan had scoured the surrounding terrain and had nothing to report. The barbarians in the forest must have been a small isolated band, searching for opportunities to raid and plunder before moving on. They would not trouble him again. But Elyssia also needed protection from Tavish’s own men.

  Summoning Isla, he instructed her to take the Englishwomen back to their chamber and let them rest. If he wanted Elyssia to stay, the only way he could protect her would be to establish her as his mistress.

  Isla nodded, the look in her eyes telling him of her compassionate nature and more. He had seen the servants’ demeanour change towards the two captives. Elyssia’s passionate protection of the bastard child Conall and the tender way she cared for Alice had attracted the notice, and compassion, of the household. She worked hard in the kitchens and around the castle, tending to the sick and injured—and coming to the aid of anyone in distress. Why, not two days before she had rushed to the aid of one of the kitchen maids who’d scalded her hands and was in too much pain to continue with her work. Elyssia had noticed her before the others, binding the girl’s hands and taking over her duties. Like it or not, she was earning the respect of some members of Clan MacLean.

  The next morning, on his way to train with the men, a soft voice stopped him.

  “My love.”

  Margaret’s delicate features smiled up at him, and he took her hand. She deserved to be loved, and he did love her. He must. Though not a burning, uncontrollable passion, it was a gentle, deeply rooted love for a girl he had known and played with since boyhood. They were destined to be together, and she would give him strong Highlander sons. A gentle soul and loyal wife, she would support him in all that he did—including his decision to have Elyssia stay. Many clan chiefs kept mistresses, though they did not live in the castles out of respect for their wives. Margaret would accept it, in time. He had no wish to break her heart and would do everything he could to make it up to her.

  “You look uneasy, Tavish.” Margaret touched his hand, her slim fingers curling around his wrist, her skin soft, so unlike Elyssia’s skin which had roughened from two months’ hard work at Glenblane Castle.

  “I trust your conscience does not trouble you.”

  She tipped her face up
for a kiss, offering her lips. He kissed her chastely on the forehead, ignoring her sharp sigh of frustration.

  “It pains me to see you thus,” she said. “You’re too good a man to undertake such a task.”

  He had no need to ask what task she referred to.

  “Surely the Englishwoman can be given to others?” she continued. “Angus would be willing to ease your burden, and he has the right to avenge the losses he has suffered at the hands of the English. Give her to him.”

  “Margaret, I cannot.”

  “I’m thinking of you, my love.”

  “It’s my burden to bear.”

  “Then what of me?” Margaret’s voice raised a notch. A flash of anger streaked across her eyes, but she blinked, and their usual benign expression returned. “Forgive me, Tavish, but we’re soon to be married, and I have no wish to be scandalised. Already the men whisper in the corridors and passageways. They say you enjoy relations with an English whore, the daughter of the man who caused you such misery. And when we marry, you’ll come to my bed already tainted by her flesh.”

  “You should not listen to idle words, Margaret.”

  “Oh, Tavish, I also listen to my heart!” she cried, her voice catching. “I understand you want vengeance for Flora, but I have no wish for this to come between us. I want us to be happy, but our future together must wait until you have finished with her. I cannot bear it!”

  He took her in his arms as her body trembled and she cried into his chest while he stroked her hair, shushing her.

  “Forgive me, Margaret. I’ll think of something. We’ll be married and will live in peace, whatever happens to the Englishwoman.”

  He brushed his mouth against hers before resuming his path to the courtyard. Her lips were soft and pliant, but his body remained cold. He felt none of the heat which surged in his loins when Elyssia was near.

  Elyssia—always his thoughts returned to her.

  Her voice floated across the air. At first, he thought it was an echo of a memory, but it grew stronger, coupled with the whining of a child. Conall.

  Even though the child was of his blood, he could not look at the boy with anything other than disgust, knowing who his sire was. The child had done nothing other than being born, but his very birth had brought about such misery! Someone had to pay—and the child was the only tangible thing Tavish could focus his anger on. Cast aside, left to fend for himself, the boy had little chance of survival, but Isla had taken care of him to the best of her ability, finding a home for him in an outbuilding.

  The boy had none other to speak for him, to defend him against the hatred that was ingrained into his people.

  Except now. Now he had one other, to fight for him as fiercely as she fought for her sister, as passionately as she had once fought for Tavish himself.

  Rounding a corner, he came upon the two of them—brother and sister walking together in the yard, oblivious of his presence.

  “They all hate me,” the boy whined.

  “Hush!” Elyssia took his hand. “They know not what they say, sweet boy. They don’t understand.”

  “Aye, they do,” the boy sniffed. “They hate me because I killed my mother.”

  “That’s a wicked lie!”

  “No, it’s true. She died giving birth to me. They tell me she was destroyed by the English dogs, but it was I who finally killed her. They say I’m the son of the devil.”

  “Oh, Conall! We must forgive those we do not understand, but it’s wicked to say such things. Believe me when I say you’ve done nothing wrong. The ones who hate you are at fault. You’re innocent—in my eyes and in the eyes of God.”

  “They hate you, too. Is it because you’re English?”

  “Partly. They also hate me because of my father.”

  “Is he also my father?”

  Elyssia said nothing, but Tavish saw her nod her head.

  “Are we both to be hated for things we did not do?” the boy said. “Things our… our father did?”

  “Aye.”

  Tavish shifted uncomfortably at Elyssia’s barely-heard whisper. Did she accept so readily the hatred of his people for her father’s sins? The boy clung to her.

  “You’re my only friend,” Conall said. “I’m glad you came here, even if they do not treat you well.”

  “There’s my sister also,” Elyssia said. “We both love you, Conall, and I promise I’ll take you home with me when the time comes for me to leave. I—we—have another brother. His name is Richard, and he’s kind and brave. He’ll give you better protection than you’ve had here.”

  “Are you leaving?”

  “Aye.”

  “When?”

  Elyssia sighed. “When I’ve paid my debt.”

  Her debt! Aye. When her disgrace was complete, she’d be returned to her father with a bastard in her belly. How could she bear it with such fortitude? A sharp pain pricked in Tavish’s hand. Looking down, he saw he had curled his hand into a fist, digging the nails into the flesh to mirror the pain in his heart. He did not want her to go.

  He waited for their voices to fade before venturing into the courtyard, Duncan’s words echoing in his ears.

  It’s no sin to love the daughter of your enemy.

  No. He did not love her. It was lust, nothing more.

  Better for her that she quickened with child as soon as possible so she could be sent home. Winter was approaching, and he needed to be rid of her before the year was out.

  It was time she warmed his bed again.

  * * *

  “My dear!”

  Lorna’s welcome was so different to the reception Elyssia had been given on her first day in the kitchens. More of the servants had taken a liking to her since she’d tended to Iona’s injuries. The poor child’s burns had long since healed, but she had been left scarred. Now winter had a strong grip on Glenblane, the fires burned constantly. Almost every day one of the servants sustained a burn, but Elyssia was glad to treat them.

  Alice had secured their affections more easily. Her health suffered as the weeks passed and the air grew colder, but the servants took her into their hearts. Poor Alice had elicited nothing but hatred and misunderstanding from Papa’s household. But here, her tender, loving nature overcame their innate hatred for the English. They understood, as only those with no power can, that two women, the property of the men in their family were not responsible for the atrocities the English had committed against their countrymen.

  Yet you are responsible.

  That voice whispered in her mind. It haunted her at night, reminding her of her dreadful secret.

  Since the day he had claimed her on the mountainside, Tavish had resumed sending for her. Willingly, she let herself be taken, night after night, in his bed; her payment to atone for her sin. But when he touched her, the cloak of darkness enabled his true nature to emerge. At night he was no longer a man seeking vengeance; he was her Highlander—the man whose gentle touches and feather-soft kisses set her skin ablaze. When their bodies joined, he brought her to pleasure with his lips and tongue. He waited for her to cry his name before driving himself inside her, pushing her over the crest of a great wave which crashed against her soul, battering it until she sobbed for him, offering herself, never wanting him to leave her.

  But her Highlander could only reveal himself in the dark; alone and away from his clan. In the harsh light of the dawn, the captor always returned.

  Isla had become a friend. Their mutual affection for the boy Conall had drawn them close, as had Isla’s fondness for Alice.

  Elyssia still avoided Callum, though the passionate young man occasionally sought her out, often accompanied by Margaret. As Elyssia’s gown grew more and more tatty with each day and her hands grew coarser, she compared herself unfavourably to the genteel Scotswoman—Tavish’s betrothed. Margaret only spoke kindly to her, often chiding Callum when he threw insults at Elyssia and taunted Alice.

  What sort of wife would Margaret be? Would Tavish take her with the same
fervour he took Elyssia? How could Margaret bear the notion of Tavish lying with another? Elyssia blinked back the moisture in her eyes. Margaret would be his wife and Elyssia cast aside. He’d forget her, while she would remember him until the day she died.

  After another encounter with Callum and Margaret, the softly spoken woman steered the hot-headed young man away. Waiting until they had gone, Isla took Elyssia’s hand.

  “Be careful around them.”

  “I can bear Callum’s hatred,” Elyssia replied, “as long as he leaves Alice alone.”

  “I did not mean only Callum,” Isla replied. “Be wary of Margaret also, especially now.”

  Elyssia shook her head. “Margaret tempers his behaviour. She’s been nothing but kind.”

  “A female wolf will smile at her prey to mesmerise it before she rips its throat out. I beg you to take care. You have another to think of now.”

  “Aye, I understand—Alice, Conall…”

  “No, not them,” Isla said. “I looked after the Lady Molly, Master Tavish’s ma, and learnt to spot the signs as soon as the old laird begat her with child. You must take care of the life growing inside you, lass.”

  A cold hand brushed against Elyssia’s skin, and she touched her stomach.

  Her disgrace was complete.

  “Forgive me for being the one to tell you, but there’s little benefit in denying it. The sooner you know, the sooner you can prepare yourself for whatever may befall you.”

  Nausea threatened to overwhelm her, and she drew in a sharp breath. Isla squeezed her hand.

  “Have… have you told anyone else?”

  “Nay, lass. And I won’t. You’re early yet, which is why I urge you to take care.”

  Isla’s soft voice could not compensate for the harsh ball of fear curling inside her gut. Tavish had his revenge—a Highlander bastard was inside her belly.

  Chapter 13

  A month after Isla’s revelation, Elyssia ventured into the forest again. Her desire for solitude and fresh air surpassed any fear of barbarians, and she found herself wandering towards the summit of the mountain overshadowing Glenblane Castle.