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

by Emily Royal

  Respectable?” Elyssia cried, squeezing Alice’s hand even though her sister may not have understood the insult. “Edward Morland curried favour with Papa to further himself in the eyes of the king. He was a monster who took pleasure from torturing the men in his power! John de Beauchamp was a bitter old man who only wanted my dowry!”

  “How dare you!” Her father took Elyssia by the arm. “You shall come inside where I’ll determine what is to be done with you. I’ll not have my daughter acting like a whore for all to see.”

  “Lyssie!” Alice’s plea followed her as Papa dragged her inside, her feet stumbling as she tried to keep pace. His grip tightened as they entered the hall. With an angry word, he dismissed the waiting servants before throwing Elyssia forward. She tripped and fell to the floor—the same floor on which Flora MacLean had been destroyed.

  “Would you sully our family name by returning here?” Papa snarled.

  “If we’re not welcome here, Papa, I’m sure Richard will take us.”

  “You’re not to go near your brother.”

  “And what of you, Papa? What have you done to sully our name? The young Scotswoman you destroyed on this very spot, do you know her fate?”

  Papa’s lip curled into a sneer. “I care not.”

  “She died giving birth to your child!”

  “My child!” Papa scoffed. “That little whore was fucked by every man in my employ and likely half the horses in my stables. Who can say whose child she spawned?”

  “I’ve seen him, Papa. He has Richard’s eyes.”

  “Then perhaps Richard fucked her; in which case, my son has risen in my estimation. And don’t forget, daughter, she was raped on your orders.”

  “You gave me no choice. You threatened Alice.”

  “You had choices.” Papa took her shoulder, his lean fingers digging into her flesh.

  “If I remember right, you made a choice to free that little whore. Disobedient, defiant. If I did not know what a pure woman your mother was, I’d say you were not my daughter. The body of a whore and the heart of a savage. Had I known the disgrace you’d bring on our family, I’d have drowned you at birth.”

  He raised his free hand, and the blur of movement preceded an explosion of pain across her face. Ignoring her struggles, Papa rained blow after blow on her body until a shrill scream interrupted him.

  “Stop! She’s having a baby!”

  His grip slackened, and Elyssia fell to the floor once more. She drew her knees up, closing her eyes against the pain.

  Dear Lord. In trying to protect her, Alice had revealed her shameful secret. Elyssia cradled her belly, the instinct to protect the life growing within her matched only by the instinct to protect her sister.

  “So, my daughter is a whore,” Papa snarled. “Take them away.”

  His footsteps echoed across the chamber, accompanied by Mamma’s lighter tread. Rough hands pulled her to her feet, the world inverted, and darkness overcame her.

  * * *

  “I want to fight, Iona.”

  “I’m sure you do, young master, but you’re too young. Heed Master Tavish’s words.”

  Callum scowled at the lass in his bed. He was fond of Iona—she had kept his bed warm for many months—but her unwavering loyalty to Tavish irritated him.

  “You should listen to me, not Tavish.”

  Iona placed a light kiss on his lips. The touch of her lithe young body against his skin sent a rush of desire through his cock.

  “Come here,” he said, his throat hoarse with lust.

  “Master Callum, if ye cannot even control yer cock, then what help will ye be to Master Tavish in battle? A soldier must have complete command over himself.”

  “But I want to fight, to seek out the de Montfords and tear them apart for what they’ve done to us.”

  “Do ye not think it’s time to forget your thirst for vengeance?” Iona took his hand, holding it firmly when he tried to withdraw.

  “Nay, little master, listen to me.” Iona’s voice took a firm tone. Her presence in his bed seemed to blur the lines of rank between them. Though barely older than Callum himself, Iona had seen her share of heartache. She had lost her parents to a fever six summers ago and since then had cared for her brother and sisters, uncomplainingly devoting her own childhood to raising them. Yet she had not taken pity on herself. She had done her duty, her young shoulders bearing burdens greater than anything Callum himself had borne.

  She moved her hand across his flesh to administer to him once more. He sank back into a languid doze as her skilled little fingers caressed his length.

  “You should be kind to those who showed you kindness, Master Callum,” she chided, a smile in her voice as pleasure rose within him. “Ye must understand the true meaning of justice.”

  “Of what do you speak?”

  “The Englishwoman.”

  He sat up, but she pushed him back “No. Listen to me, little master. Who do ye think treated your wounds after Tavish had you whipped?”

  “Margaret.”

  Iona shook her head. “Tavish forbade all to touch you. The only one who defied him was the Englishwoman. The same woman who treated me when I burned my hand.”

  She lifted her hand to reveal an ugly scar on her palm. “Were it not for the Lady Elyssia, I might have lost the use of my hand. She tended to me and undertook my duties while I healed.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Did you not also know that Master Tavish had met her two summers before she came here?”

  Tavish? He’d already known the woman?

  “I hear from Duncan she saved Master Tavish’s life,” Iona said. “She risked her life to free him when he was a prisoner of the English. She never spoke of it while she was kept captive here. Why do ye think that was?”

  “I know not.”

  “Shall I tell ye what I think? I think she wished to atone for Mistress Flora, so she endured everything without a fight. I know what happened with Angus, but I cannot believe she’d whore herself in such a manner unless she had no choice. The one thing that’s driven her has been her need to protect her sister, whom all here taunted and called half-wit.”

  Half-wit. That’s what Callum himself had called Alice. Yet she had been harmless enough, and kind. Her eyes had only ever shown a benign serenity, not a shred of anger or dislike. A gentle soul.

  “It matters not, Iona. Flora’s dead and that whore’s family are responsible. What can I do? She’s gone.”

  “Aye,” Iona replied, “and I pray that she and her sister arrived home safe and well. As for you, young master, I’d urge you not to let your thirst for vengeance lead you to ruin. You must learn the lesson of forgiveness before you venture out into the world as a man. Do not let your bloodlust cloud your judgement. I fear it already hampers your brother’s.”

  “Tavish can look after himself.”

  “He’s a fine warrior, aye, but I fear that when he leaves for war, he’ll not return.”

  * * *

  When Elyssia woke, she lay on a mattress, the aroma of fresh straw in her nostrils.

  A tapestry hung on the wall opposite, depicting a familiar hunting scene—a deer surrounded by hounds and men on horseback. The detail of the saddle on one of the horses was blurred where the stitching had frayed. She had always intended to mend it as a child.

  She was in her old bedchamber.

  Ignoring her aching body, she limped to the door and tested the handle, but it was locked. Once more she was a prisoner—in her own home. She could only pray Papa’s treatment of her would be kinder than what she had endured at Glenblane, at his hands.

  The image of his face tore through her mind—moss-green eyes full of tenderness and love, turning, at the last, to a burning hatred. In her chamber on the top floor of a turret, her only means of escape was to throw herself out of the window. Were it not for the need to protect Alice and the child inside her, she would end her misery in a heartbeat. She returned to the bed and sank onto the mattress, b
ut sleep eluded her.

  The door opened to reveal Papa. Standing in her doorway, hands on hips, he gazed down at her, a look of satisfaction on his face.

  “I’ve decided what is to be done with you.”

  “Am I to remain here?”

  “No. You’ll leave for your new home shortly.”

  Her heart leapt in hope. Had Papa relented enough to send her to Richard? A new future stretched ahead—keeping house for her dear brother, a man who would be a loving uncle to her child, though it was a bastard.

  Papa’s face distorted into a sneer.

  “I have a very accommodating houseguest who is willing to take you, sullied as you are.”

  He stepped aside.

  “Come forward, my friend. Daughter, stand in the presence of your new protector.”

  A man moved out of the shadows. His once handsome face was blurred on one side, the skin puckered as if by fire. He grinned to reveal white, even teeth.

  “How delightful to see you again my dear.”

  Elyssia’s throat tightened, and she fought for breath as she looked into the eyes of the man who had owned her two years ago.

  Edward Morland had returned from the dead to claim his property.

  Chapter 23

  “I see the English.”

  Duncan nudged Tavish’s arm and pointed towards the edge of the forest. They had been camping out in Callander Woods for a fortnight, on the watch for English troops. After the first sightings, Wallace had ordered the army to prepare for battle. Saddled and ready to ride, they now waited for the order to fight.

  Tavish flexed his muscles, his sword hand eager for battle. He’d waited too long to slice the heads off these English bastards.

  “With luck, de Montford will be among them—and his son. My chance has come, Duncan, to exact revenge once and for all.”

  Duncan placed a warning hand on his arm. “Take care, my friend. De Montford may seek you out also. Watch your back.”

  “I have you to watch my back, Duncan.”

  “You’d do well to heed your own instincts for survival than rely on others, Tav. Longshanks has an army to be reckoned with.”

  “The English have been marching up and down the country for several days. Their supplies will have run low. Weakened by lack of food and idle from lack of battle, their complacency will be their downfall.”

  “What of your complacency, Tav?”

  “I’m not complacent! De Montford will die today. His family will be destroyed, as he destroyed mine.”

  “Even the woman?”

  Tavish jerked his arm where Duncan held it. “She matters not. She’s gone.”

  He closed his eyes, guilt gnawing at him for his false words. But today was not a day for regrets. In all likelihood, Elyssia was dead. Even if she had survived the journey home, she was lost to him. What he had done to her, what she had forced herself to do—neither could be forgotten. Better they remain apart. The greater ideals of familial duty and retribution would have destroyed them.

  But you loved her.

  An order rang out, and the army surged forward. As Wallace had predicted, Longshanks’ men were mustering near Falkirk field.

  At a signal from ahead, they moved towards the edge of the forest before emerging into the field and forming schiltrons, giant circular shapes, armed with spears and arrows—impenetrable masses of men, four in all. Between each mass, archers stood, ready to fire upon the enemy. A small troop of armed men brought up the rear, their backs to the forest, Tavish and Duncan among them.

  At either side of Wallace’s army, men began to emerge.

  The English.

  Cries rang out as the two armies met. Tavish spurred his horse on. He didn’t want to skulk at the back like a coward. He wanted to slay as many English as he could. He must kill de Montford: the satisfaction of knowing the man was dead would not surpass the disappointment if he weren’t the one to send that evil bastard to hell.

  A rushing, whispering sound came from above, punctuated by warning shouts. A thousand arrows flew towards them, forming a wide arc in the air before falling towards the Scots, arrowheads clattering against their shields.

  The schiltrons began to disperse as arrows hit their targets. Bodies crumpled to the ground. Injured men screamed as they were trampled underfoot. Those fortunate enough to be killed instantly lay quiet. Men on horseback cut through the crowds, swords swinging in the air: arcs of scarlet liquid flew in all directions as men lost limbs and heads. The earth shuddered with the vibration of hooves and falling bodies as the blood of the Scots mingled with that of the hated English, the two nations united only in death.

  With a roar, Tavish spurred his horse on. Ignoring Duncan’s warning cry, he rode straight at the approaching enemy, slicing at all in his path, not caring whether his sword met horseflesh or man.

  “De Montford!”

  Lust for savagery pounded in his ears, turning his vision red. No longer was the battle one to free his countrymen—it was the battle Tavish fought on his own, to avenge his sister and honour his clan.

  Cries of retreat sliced through his mind. Wallace’s men were hopelessly outnumbered, and their only chance was to scatter.

  But Tavish forged ahead, screaming de Montford’s name. That man must die this day, even if it cost Tavish his life.

  He roared again, and a man astride a black destrier turned his horse around and steered it purposefully towards him. Tavish held his sword aloft, but before he drew close enough to fight, his horse shuddered sideways, and he lost his seat. The animal collapsed on top of him, forcing the air from his lungs. He tried to pull free, but his legs were trapped. While the battle raged around him, the animal thrashed its body, screaming while the lifeblood drained from its flank from which a sword protruded.

  A man’s face appeared above him, mouth twisted into a smile. But his eyes remained hard—eyes so familiar, and yet so different.

  On the edge of his vision, Tavish saw the blurred shape of a foot. The man smiled again before a kick to the head sent him into oblivion.

  De Montford had found him.

  * * *

  Tavish roused at the sound of a key turning. Since arriving at his captor’s destination, he had been left to rot in a cell. The occasional scrape of wood had signalled the approach of his jailer, who would deposit scraps of stale bread and toughened meat into his cell together with a small bowl of water.

  He did not know how long he’d been a prisoner. Each day Tavish woke he was weaker than the last. Fog thickened in his mind, mirroring the thickening of his tongue, dry and useless against the back of his throat. The throbbing in his head grew stronger until sharp pains cut through his mind each time he moved.

  His dreams had been plagued by the squealing of rats fighting over the crumbs which had fallen between the cracks in the stone floor. Each night voices had drifted across the air in his cell. The occasional beam of light had crossed his vision, broken by the shadows of the bars in the door, sometimes picking up the flash of a pair of eyes. It was as if his captors toyed with him, waiting until he was weak enough to succumb to their methods of questioning.

  The key rattled again. The door creaked open, and footsteps approached. Two men wearing chain mail hauled him to his feet. A blow to the head tempered any struggles as they forced his arms behind his back and bound his hands. The rope cut through the skin of his wrists as they tightened the knots. Resistance was futile. In his weakened state, he could not overpower a child, let alone two armed men.

  They dragged him into another cell and pushed him forward. He tripped and fell face down on the floor, his bound hands unable to break the fall.

  “Get him up.”

  Hands lifted him upright to face his captor.

  Two men stood before him. One was a similar age to Tavish, the other much older. The older man bowed in mock courtesy.

  “Welcome, Tavish MacLean.”

  His eyes flashed in the torchlight. That same blue—the eyes of the man on the battlefiel
d.

  “De Montford.”

  “Aye. It gives me great pleasure to have you as my… guest.”

  The younger man shifted on his feet, betraying his discomfort. His eyes were a similar shade of blue but held a tone of compassion rather than hatred. He must be Richard de Montford—the brother she had spoken of with such love; the only one in the world, save Alice, who truly valued her.

  The older man nodded.

  “Let us begin.”

  A wooden bench stood against the wall of the cell. Next to it was a table laden with instruments of torture.

  An involuntary cry escaped Tavish’s lips at the prospect of what was to come, and he struggled against the hands holding him.

  Pain exploded in his head at another blow before he was lifted onto the bench. The ropes binding his hands were sliced through and replaced by cold, unyielding metal against his wrists and ankles.

  “And now we must talk.”

  “Papa, may I—”

  “Silence!” De Montford’s roar cut off his son’s lighter voice. “You’re a witless fool with your sensibilities. How many did you kill at Falkirk? None! You scuttled into the corner of the field like a coward, unworthy to be called my son. But no more. Tonight you’ll learn what it is to be a man.”

  De Montford’s face came into view, a lazy smile on his face. “There’s no rush. We have all night.”

  “Take as long as you wish, de Montford,” Tavish croaked. “I’ll not betray my countrymen. Ye’ll find us Highlanders are made of sterner stuff.”

  De Montford grunted. “See what fools they are, Richard, suffering under the delusion they’re better than us? They need to be contained. They’re like animals that roam in the wilds. Unfettered, they’re too witless to tend to themselves.”

  “My countrymen prospered before Longshanks saw fit to oppress us,” Tavish hissed. “Where would you be without us? Our labour pays for your prosperity. I’ll wager you know nothing of how to tend to another creature. You treat your own son like an animal.”