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

by Emily Royal

  Send her back to her father with a Highlander bastard in her belly. His father’s words taunted him, but he would ignore them.

  “My love,” Margaret said, “do not judge a young man too harshly.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your brother,” she sighed. “His words and actions were borne out of loyalty.”

  Callum. Of course! Had Tavish not declared that his captive would only be punished by order of the laird and his family?

  Curse him! Tavish would make sure his brother suffered tenfold for what he had done to Elyssia.

  Chapter 16

  Leaves floated across Elyssia’s vision, spiralling against each other. Their rhythm pulsed, swirling to and fro, dancing, chanting, low voices whispering, murmuring, moaning. Among the storm of leaves, Richard’s voice told her to be strong, that she was loved. The leaves danced in and out—in and out, the rhythm increasing then slowing, angry red pulsing at the centre of the vortex.

  The colours, at first sharp and painful, dulled into a deep ache, its edges blurred until they crumbled into fragments and dispersed in the air.

  Another voice joined Richard’s, a man’s voice which had soothed her dreams when she had lain alone at her home, subject to Papa’s derision on her broken engagement to Edward, and Mamma’s harsh words…

  …the body of a whore, Agatha. What man would want you now? Your ridiculous sensibilities regarding these Highlander savages will be your downfall. Your sister is fit for naught—our hopes were placed upon you. But look at you! You bear none of the de Montford countenance. You could easily be mistaken for a whore…

  “…Whore. He called her whore, my lord.”

  A woman’s voice spoke, not the harsh, clipped tones of Lady Sarah de Montford, but the soft lilt of the Highlands.

  The man spoke again, but she could not make out the words. The leaves spiralled into a storm, the rushing noise resembling a waterfall, drowning out her senses, the red turning to darkness before silence and blackness gave her relief from pain.

  When she opened her eyes again, the red had gone, replaced by green—its intensity burrowing into her mind which responded with a surge of desire before morphing into soul-crushing guilt. It was the green which had haunted her conscience. The girl from the dungeon had returned from the dead to exact judgement.

  “Elyssia.”

  No, not the girl. Her Highlander.

  “Tavish.”

  “No, don’t move!” A restraining hand touched her shoulder, and a throb of pain spread across her back. She moved her arm and cried out as a hot shard of agony drove through her right hand.

  “The pain…”

  “I know.” He caressed her cheek, his hand warm against her skin. “It will fade. I’ll never let them hurt you again.”

  Sighing, she sank into the furs, the warmth of his touch seeping into her bones. With her Highlander to watch over her, she would be protected.

  * * *

  A soft, pink warmth caressed the skin of her face, and she opened her eyes. A beam of sunlight shone across the chamber, picking up motes of dust which danced to a lazy rhythm, amorphous shapes which pulsed as she breathed in and out.

  The comforting scent of salve drifted over the air as she moved—woody base notes of herbs combined with another, sweeter scent. For the past sennight she had lain on her stomach on the bed in the chamber she shared with Alice. Her sister slept beside her at night, holding her hand. Isla had tended to her each day, spreading salve across her skin and warning her not to move for the sake of the babe growing inside her.

  The babe. The source of her disgrace and ruination. Yet when she lay on her stomach, her wounds sending fiery agony through her veins, her greatest fear was not for herself but for her child. Someone to cherish and protect from an unfeeling, judgemental world, as she protected Alice.

  After they had cut her down from the whipping block, Tavish had not visited her again except in her dreams. When she reached out for him at night, she found herself alone except for her sister, his soft voice replaced by the hush of Alice’s breathing.

  Occasionally she heard voices outside the chamber—an angry male voice, accompanied by a woman’s voice, one she did not recognise. It was softer and smoother than the voices of the servants, but deeper than Margaret’s; the voice of a woman who had lived and suffered.

  Where was he? Why did he not visit her? Had he admitted defeat—that his people would never accept her? Was he, even now, planning to have her removed as soon as she recovered? His work was done; she carried his bastard in her belly. Her work was done also; the destruction of her body at the hands of the whipmaster was her punishment, the searing burn to her hand the fire to purge her sins.

  Clan MacLean would never accept her. Better that she left and took Alice and Conall with her. The image of their bodies tortured at the hands of unforgiving, grieving Highlanders could not be borne.

  Lifting herself up, she placed her left hand on the mattress, taking care not to use the right. Though tightly bandaged, it still burned with agony when she moved it. Isla had declared her free from putrefaction, but the movement in her fingers was severely restricted. The door creaked open, and two voices cried out.

  “Lyssie, what are you doing!”

  Alice stood at the doorway, Isla beside her.

  “You should be resting, my lady.”

  “I’m weary of being confined,” she said. “I need to feel the sun on my face, to breathe fresh air.”

  Isla nodded in understanding. The odour of sickness clung to the chamber. Gentle hands helped her to her feet and wrapped a cloak around her shoulders before she limped outside.

  Each servant they passed stopped in their tracks. Their first encounter was Ross, who merely stared. Further along, they came across Iona, the young girl from the kitchens, together with another servant, barely older than a child. The two girls whispered to each other before scurrying away to resume their duties.

  Was she now the subject of gossip? An object of humiliation and contempt?

  “Take me back to my chamber, Isla. I cannot bear to see them look at me thus.”

  “My lady?”

  “Do they despise me that much?”

  “Oh no,” Isla said. “They wonder at your courage—how you bore such punishment without uttering a sound. They understand you’re an innocent who has paid for the sins of the guilty.”

  “‘Tis Callum who is…” Alice’s voice trailed off as Isla shushed her.

  “No matter. Come, lady. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

  Stepping into the sunshine, she lifted her face up, and the warmth of the rays caressed her face. The sun had always given her comfort when she had run away from Mamma’s admonishments, seeking sanctuary in the garden or up a tree, knowing that Papa would beat her for her unladylike behaviour. If only she had been born a man, they would have given her the same freedom they gave Richard. But as a woman, she had no voice, destined to be the property of another.

  But who would want her now?

  Shaking the thought from her mind, she took in a deep breath before crossing the courtyard.

  Her body froze at the dark shape in front of her, the notches in the wood and fresh stains on its flank. The crack of the whip against her flesh tore into her mind. The air grew stale; the odour of sweat, fear, and loathing crept into her senses; a thick fog constricting her throat. Sharp cries echoed in the distance, the wailings of a heartbroken young man, screaming with hatred borne of inconsolable grief and loss. She stumbled forward, into darkness…

  Thin, tender fingers squeezed her wrist as Alice brought her back into the light.

  “Do not look at it, my love,” Alice whispered. “You must forget. Come away. Naught can be gained from remembering.”

  * * *

  “So, Tavish, you intend to proceed?”

  “Aye, Duncan. Callum must pay for what he’s done, and the clan must see it.”

  Tavish leant against the window of his chamber. It overlooked th
e courtyard, in the centre of which stood the dark symbol of his hatred and thirst for revenge—a thirst which had almost destroyed her. Not even the satisfaction of having Callum thrown into the dungeon had shattered the guilt which clawed at him. His brother may have issued the order and administered the final erratic lashes on her back, but Callum’s hatred was borne of his love for Flora. He looked up to Tavish—adored him—and his bitter hatred for Elyssia was a reflection of Tavish’s own lust for retribution against de Montford. How could he blame an impressionable young man for his passions?

  But Callum must be seen to be punished. Ignoring his brother’s pleas, Tavish had dragged him to the dungeons himself and locked him in a cell. His mother and Margaret had looked on without protest, sadness lacing Ma’s eyes, but they had deferred to him as laird. Biddable, obedient women, they understood that here at Glenblane he ruled over everything from the edge of the forest to the mountains on the horizon and all that was contained within it—including the people. As Ma had deferred to his da, so Margaret would defer to him.

  Unlike Elyssia. When he had first seen her, fire had burned from her eyes—her defiance of the sadistic Allendyne; the passion he had awoken the first night they had shared together. Even when his own men had taken her captive, she had fought them, spitting fire in defiance of her captors, only to be cowed when her sister was in danger. Her need to protect Alice had led to her whipping. Callum had repaid the shallow scratches to his face with deep scars that had not only marred Elyssia’s body but had broken Tavish’s heart.

  If Callum were to become a man, he must accept a man’s punishment. He had defied the wishes of his laird and must suffer like for like.

  As if in answer to his thoughts, she came into view, her sister on one side, Isla on the other. The old woman had barely left her side, tending to her wounds, feeding her and reporting to Tavish each night on her recovery. Isla understood that his guilt kept him away from her, but the understanding glowing in her eyes was accompanied by disapproval. Only he and Isla knew Elyssia carried his child.

  She froze in front of the block, and Tavish caught his breath, his body calling silently to hers, the scars on his back throbbing in understanding of the marks she now carried on her own flesh. Her body pitched forward, and her companions caught her before they resumed their shuffle across the courtyard.

  “You must act, Tav, before a tragedy occurs.”

  “I know not what you mean, Duncan.”

  Duncan sighed. “Aye, you do. You’re the laird and must make such decisions yourself. But I would say that any man who embarks on a journey of vengeance must dig two graves along with a burial site for all the innocent lives who drown in the waves that ripple out when the stone of revenge is dropped into the loch.”

  “You speak nonsense.”

  “I speak the truth.” An edge of cold steel laced Duncan’s voice. “You think I notice little, but I see much.”

  “Not everything.”

  “Aye, Tav, everything. I hear the servants’ talk. They have begun to accept her. I see Isla—see how she looks at the Englishwoman, and how she looks at you. I know that not just one life was at stake when she was tied to the whipping block, but two.”

  Duncan, his beloved friend. Was there nothing he could conceal from him?

  “The deed is done, Tav. Now you must decide what to do next.”

  “I must send her home,” Tavish sighed.

  “What do you think her father will do when he realises she carries your bastard?”

  “He cannot treat her worse than we have.”

  Before the women reached the opposite side of the courtyard, they were intercepted by a man. He reached out to Elyssia and fell to his knees.

  Arran.

  Breaking free from her companions’ hold, Elyssia held out her left hand to him. He took it, bending his head to kiss it before taking her bandaged right hand and caressing it. The low murmur of his voice turned into sobs. For the first time in his life, Tavish saw the usually stoic whipmaster bent and broken, kneeling before the woman he had tortured—the woman who had forgiven him.

  “Not all of them see her as the enemy,” Duncan said. “They may even come to accept her… and her child.”

  “But I cannot,” Tavish growled. “It would make Clan MacLean look weak. What do you think Wallace would think of me? Even if he approved, I cannot do that to Margaret. I love Margaret.”

  “Do you?”

  “I’ve known Margaret almost all my life. She expects me to marry her. It wouldn’t be fair to leave her unwed.”

  “How fair is it to marry her when your heart lies elsewhere?”

  “I have no heart for the Englishwoman.”

  Duncan remained silent, but Tavish’s words echoed in his mind. The dark wall they fashioned around his heart might conceal his true feelings, but they still taunted him at night.

  Dear God, he could deny it no longer. He had wanted her from the moment he’d seen her at the garrison. Duty to his clan and a desire for revenge had driven away the tenderness he’d felt towards her, but the lust had remained, intensifying into a burning need. But only when he saw her body on the whipping block and thought they’d taken her from him did that bodily desire reveal itself for what it was; what it had been for some time.

  Love.

  He turned from the window and faced his friend.

  “I will decide what to do in time, Duncan. But first I must deal with Callum.”

  * * *

  “The master has sent for you.”

  Ross stood in the doorway to Elyssia’s chamber. Was she to resume her role as his whore?

  No—at least, not yet. Instead of leading her to Tavish’s chamber, Ross took her to the courtyard. Most of the clan had formed a circle around the whipping block. Arran stood beside it holding the whip.

  “Ah, Ross. Thank you.” Tavish beckoned to her. Margaret and another woman stood beside him. The other woman was much older, soft grey hair almost completely concealed by a veil, green eyes so like his. She must be his mother.

  Tavish’s voice echoed across the courtyard.

  “Bring him out.”

  Two men appeared holding a third man between them. A wail rang out, and their charge began to struggle.

  “Tavish! Ma!”

  No longer the angry man, he had been reduced to a boy, a frightened child.

  “Secure him.” Tavish’s voice was grim, his eyes hard, jaw set firm, body stiff.

  They tied Callum to the whipping block. Elyssia’s own wrists itched at the memory of the rope burning her flesh, and her skin tightened with fear of what was to come.

  “Get on with it.” Tavish’s cold, toneless voice was unrecognisable. Had she not seen his lips move, Elyssia would have thought another man had spoken—a man with no mercy, no heart. A man like Papa.

  She touched his hand. “Don’t do this.”

  “I’m laird here, and my word is law. Callum must be punished. I’m doing this for you,” he growled.

  “Not in my name!” Elyssia turned to the older woman. “You must be his mother. How can you condone this?”

  The woman shook her head. “My son is laird. I must accept his rule.”

  “What kind of mother are you? Can you not see how frightened he is? I cannot be the only one to speak for him. Where is Alice?”

  “Your sister is with Isla,” Tavish replied. “She’ll not bear witness to this.”

  “But I must?”

  “Be quiet, you whore!” Callum cried, “I’d rather be whipped raw than have a creature such as you speak for me.”

  “Then so be it,” Tavish said, his voice quiet and cold. “Eight lashes, Arran. One for each lash on the lady’s back.”

  Elyssia tried to break free, but he held her firm, his body impervious to her cries. In her weakened state, he was too strong for her. With each attempt to move, needles of pain flashed across her back, a reminder of the lash, mirrored by the sharp cracks of the whip in the air and the boy’s screams.

 
Margaret’s eyes displayed no emotion; the woman beside her wiped a tear from her eyes but remained still. The men stood firm, used as they were to the brutal punishments and injuries of the battlefield. But the servants, not restricted by the etiquette of nobility or the rules of the men, could not temper their emotions. Iona—the young girl from the kitchens—wailed uncontrollably, her body shaking as Lorna held her.

  How could he subject his brother to such torture?

  “I never wanted this,” Elyssia sobbed.

  “I know,” he whispered in her ear. “Forgive me, but my brother must learn to control his emotions. If he cannot control himself when safe among his own people, how can he learn to survive in battle? A bitter lesson it may be, but a lesson nonetheless. Callum may not thank me, but he’ll be a better man for it.”

  He nodded to Ross. “Cut him down. Take him to his chamber and lock him in.”

  “What about his wounds, Master Tavish?”

  “He must learn to endure the pain. He’s been pampered for too long. Nobody is to see him until I say.”

  Tavish addressed the onlookers.

  “Return to your duties unless you wish for the same.”

  Chapter 17

  In the evening light, Elyssia could just discern a human shape outside the door to Callum’s chamber. Tavish had instructed Ross to prevent anyone from seeing his brother.

  After Ross had cut Callum down, the crowd dispersed, and Tavish resumed training with his men. Beneath the cheers, as they sparred with their swords, a faint undercurrent rang in his voice. He bore his guilt well, but it was visible in his eyes.

  Obedient and loyal, the household resumed their duties, Iona’s sobbing the only evidence of feeling. Tavish’s mother comforted the girl but made no attempt to defy Tavish by visiting her younger son.