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

by Emily Royal

  “Elyssia, please…”

  “Richard, keep him away from me!”

  Pulling away from her brother’s embrace, she turned her back on Tavish and crossed the yard.

  Before Tavish could follow her, a hand gripped his arm. Though the Englishman’s face was wet with tears, his expression held an undertone of steel. Perhaps the loss of his sister was what he needed to show his strength. Or perhaps it was the fact that Elyssia appeared broken beyond repair.

  “Leave her be,” Richard growled.

  “Who are you to tell me what to do in my own home?”

  “Let her grieve for her sister in peace. She withstood all you did to her; bending, not breaking. Now she has finally broken, would you triumph over her remains? If you hurt her any more, MacLean, so help me God, I’ll drive my sword into your heart!”

  “You think I’d hurt her—even now? You think I don’t regret what I’ve done to her?”

  Tavish choked down the sobs which tightened in his throat, and he bowed his head.

  “I feel nothing but shame for my actions. From the day I took her captive, I’ve been at war with myself, my thirst for vengeance for my sister and my people battling against my love and admiration for your sister. Each time she cried in pain or sorrow, it drove a knife further into my heart. Would that I could atone for what I have done to her as she sought to atone for my sister.”

  “She has atoned for it, MacLean. Why can’t you let her go?”

  “Because I love her. I cannot live without her. Since I lost my sister, Elyssia has been the one person I have valued above all others. I feel naught but shame that she’d even think I could view her as a whore, though I called her such; shame that she calls her son bastard. I need her strength—and her love. What life will she lead if she returns to England with you? With me by her side, she can do anything she wishes.”

  “What do you want, MacLean?”

  “I want to wed her. I want to spend the rest of my days with your sister by my side, to rule the clan with me—as an equal, as she deserves.”

  He sank to his knees and reached his hands out in a silent plea, his huge muscular body dwarfed by Richard’s slighter frame as the Englishman stood as straight as the trees of the forest, unmoving, his expression stern and unforgiving.

  “I beg you, de Montford. Grant me your sister’s hand in marriage.”

  Richard ignored his outstretched hands.

  “No.” The breeze caught his response, the denial floating in the air.

  “Richard, please. Can’t you forgive me?”

  “No!” Richard replied. “I’ll not give her to you.”

  “Why not, Englishman? Is it because I’m a Highlander? Despite your wearing our plaid and enjoying our hospitality, do you still see us like animals?”

  “Do not judge me. I don’t see you like animals.”

  “Then why deny me?”

  “Even after all that’s happened, you still don’t understand, do you? It’s not for me to give permission.”

  “Then who? I shall petition him if you deny me.”

  “It’s no man’s decision, MacLean. It’s her choice and hers alone. She’s not mine to give. Neither is she yours to take.”

  “Then I have lost her.”

  “If you give up so readily, then you don’t deserve her,” Richard replied. “Prove yourself worthy. Let her come to you of her own free will. Would that not be a sweeter reward than taking her by force? If you wish her to live with you as an equal and not in subjugation, then you must you find a way to win her hand.”

  Richard took Tavish’s hands in his own. His slender fingers ran across the glove concealing the stumps on Tavish’s left hand.

  “Forgive me for what I did, MacLean,” he said. “If I felt I had the right to grant permission, then I would. For I believe you love her. Part of me wishes to kill you for what you did to her, but you have paid for it. It’s time to set vengeance aside, time for love and forgiveness to triumph. Though she has not spoken of it, I believe my sister loves you.”

  Tavish blinked, and a salty droplet splashed onto his hand.

  “Give her time to grieve,” Richard said, “then go to her. If you can prove yourself worthy of her, then I would be glad to call you brother.”

  * * *

  Elyssia ran her fingertips across the surface of the headstone. Over time the texture of the granite would wear away, weathered by the elements. The stone would become smooth, blurred by time—as memories fade with age, the pain growing less acute, softening to a dull ache within the hearts of those left behind.

  Memories. All that remained of Alice. Save for the crude little doll Elyssia had fashioned for her, none of Alice’s possessions held any value for her. Alice had cared little for material wealth and comfort. The purest form of love was the love for others. It was a lesson Alice had taught her. Not by words or instruction, but by how she had lived her life, repaying unkindness with love, abuse with forgiveness, ignorance with insight.

  Elyssia kissed the piece of rag and placed it at the base of the headstone. The material had frayed where Alice had held it to her breast almost every night since Elyssia had stitched the pieces together.

  She had no need for objects or possessions to remember Alice by. To preserve the memory of her sister, she only had to live a life of peace and love. She had her son to care for. She would teach him to be strong, but also kind, forgiving, loving—in honour of Alice.

  “I’ll do that for you, Alice. Your nephew will grow to be a man you can be proud of. I shall tell him about his aunt. Richard and I will try to make you proud of us. Every night I shall look to the stars and pray that I can be worthy to have called you my sister.”

  A hand on her shoulder sent a jolt through her. Had Alice’s ghost returned from beyond the grave to issue a warning? Did she believe Elyssia would fail her?

  “Elyssia…”

  The soft male voice was not that of a disembodied spirit.

  “Don’t get up.” He lowered himself to crouch beside her.

  He had grown thin. A downy beard masked his chin but did not completely conceal the tremors, his lips clamped tightly together to stem the tide of emotion.

  The moss green of his eyes, so like his brother’s, had grown dull. Hatred no longer burned within them, the fires of passion quenched by loss.

  Suffering had turned the boy into a man.

  Callum released her shoulder and took her hand. His fingers, warm against her skin, had been roughened by years of swordplay, the callouses an echo of his brother’s.

  “I’m sorry about your sister.”

  “Thank you.” She withdrew her hand, but he pulled it back.

  “Elyssia, please believe me.” A bubble of sorrow resonated in his throat, the voice of a child pained with guilt and tortured by his conscience.

  “I regret much of what I did, but the one thing I regret most of all is that I did not recognise your sister’s true value until it was too late.”

  “Nor I, Callum.”

  “Don’t say that!” Callum cried. “You were the only one who valued her. As for us, not even my brother, whom I have admired all my life, recognised her qualities. Among all of us, only Finlay was able to look beyond that which the rest of us called half-wit.”

  Her throat caught at the insult and she tightened her hand into a fist.

  “Forgive me, Elyssia. I say it not to pain you, but to recognise my own cruelty. I never should have uttered such foul words.”

  He reached for her hand again, smiling as she curled her fingers around his.

  “I should never have listened to her.”

  Margaret.

  The image of Margaret would always haunt her—her lifeless body in Tavish’s arms; Tavish crying over the loss of his childhood sweetheart, the woman he had been destined to marry. Bitter bile swirled in her throat, the taste of rejection.

  “May I stay here for a while, Elyssia? With you?”

  She pulled her hand free.

  �
�I cannot stop you from doing what you want in your own home, Callum. You’re the laird’s brother. I’m nothing but his discarded whore.”

  Callum flinched.

  “Forgive me,” she said. “I’ve been too harsh.

  “No, Elyssia, you have no need to ask for forgiveness. When I think on what I did. I had you whipped! I’ve never seen Arran so distressed as when I ordered him to lash you. That was my doing, and I’m ashamed to think of it. Even after what I’d done, you were the only one who showed me kindness, who tended to my wounds after my own whipping. Please forgive me!”

  His eyes glistened with moisture, the watery light of the winter sun picking up the trace of a single tear which released as he blinked. He wiped it away, leaving a trail of moisture.

  “I love my brother as much as Alice loved her sister. I want him to be happy, and I know Alice would wish the same for you.”

  Tavish—would she never be free of him? Would he plague her thoughts, encroach on her dreams even after she returned to England?

  “I’m sorry about Margaret,” Callum said, the force of shame blurting out the words, “sorry I ever listened to her. She flattered me, praised me, understood my weaknesses and took advantage. She told me to be strong, to make my brother proud. Only now do I realise that her words and actions were born of cruelty and jealousy. Beneath the soft exterior of a lady lay a woman who preyed on the weaknesses of those around her. My weakness, my brother’s—and yours.”

  “My weakness?”

  “Duncan taught me about weakness. He said I must conquer it to be a warrior. He also said I must understand the weaknesses of others. I recognised yours as soon as you came here. We all did.”

  He nodded towards the gravestone.

  Alice.

  “My love for my sister is no weakness, and I would not have you call it so! It’s the one thing I can be proud of.”

  “You misunderstand me.” His throat tightened as tears began to pool once more. “Your love for your sister is—was—a good thing, but Margaret viewed it as a weakness.”

  She closed her eyes, sorrow threatening to overcome her once more.

  Callum’s voice grew gentle.

  “Do you know what my brother’s weakness was—is—has always been?”

  “Aye.” She opened her eyes, blinking away the moisture until his face came into focus. “His love of the clan. His people, his sister, and the land.”

  “No, lady, that is something we all share. A man’s true weakness is unique to him. It makes him act without regard for his own safety or for what is rational. It governs his every waking thought and invades his dreams at night to the exclusion of all else.”

  “Your brother has no such weakness.”

  “Aye, he does,” Callum replied, “and it has ruled over him for almost three years. Your weakness, my lady, is your love for your sister. My brother’s…”

  He took her hand, squeezing it until she met his gaze. His emerald eyes softened, their expression showing guilt, admiration, and acceptance.

  “My brother’s weakness is his love for you.”

  She uncurled her legs to stand, but he took her arm.

  “Don’t go, Elyssia.”

  “I wish to go inside,” she said. “It’s cold out here.”

  “No, you don’t understand,” he pleaded. “I meant don’t leave Glenblane. You belong here. My brother loves you and I… I care for you.”

  She shook her head, and he clutched her fingers, the act of a frightened child seeking comfort and reassurance.

  “Please!” he cried. “I lost my own sister, and I miss her. Sometimes I dream at night that she’s still here, but in the morning she’s gone, and it pains me so much! I-I would like another sister. Someone to guide me and teach me what is right.”

  His voice broke into a sob, and she drew him into an embrace, his body, though smaller than Tavish’s, showing signs of developing muscles.

  “Let me be your brother, Elyssia. Let me grow to be a man and stand beside my brother to love and protect you as one of our own.”

  “Forgive me, Callum. I cannot.”

  A flash of pain sparked in his eyes. They were the eyes of his sister—the young woman whose death had set events in motion as a stone rolling down a mountain gathers dirt and grows before it obliterates and crushes everything, good and evil, in its path.

  At length, he nodded.

  “We must all pay the price of our sins. You have paid the price for the sins of your sire. I now understand the price I must pay for my own sins—to lose someone I could love like a sister. But I will say this, my brother is a fool to let you go.”

  Elyssia freed herself from his embrace and returned to the building. Her heart swelled at the faint cries of the child who had woken and needed his mother. The sharp tug at her soul on hearing his mewling cry warred with the pull of Callum’s cries which, though inaudible, drew a blade across her conscience, cutting into her heart.

  In two short days, she would leave with Richard. Her future lay with her brother, the one man who would never call her whore.

  But a voice whispered in the air that her heart would remain at Glenblane forever—with him.

  Chapter 30

  The iron-hard ground dug into Elyssia’s back, but the cold failed to penetrate the plaid. The warmth from the sun’s rays caressed her face. Even in the midst of winter, nature could bless the land with air and light.

  Soft shapes reflected the pink tone of the sunlight, ringed by an orange fire. Clouds hung in the sky, their moisture dissipating into wisps, dancing into the air, rather than pooling in an angry mass. She followed the line of the clouds with her eyes, to the golden ball of the sun which had begun to lower itself towards the horizon. A sharp cry from above was joined by another. Two shapes drifted into her line of vision, circling each other in a spiral of love and unity, growing smaller as they gained height. Calling to each other, they reached their peak and locked together to plunge towards the earth before resuming their courtship.

  The eagle had found his mate.

  “Have you brought her here to show her to me? You can give her a fine home, my friend, a beautiful land, raw with passion. But if you want to mate for life, you must give her love.”

  As if in answer, they resumed their ascent. Elyssia pulled the plaid closer and closed her eyes. Soft sunlight penetrated her eyelids, bathing them in a pink glow. The song of the trees rushed through the needles of the pines, releasing their fragrance which united with the woody base notes of the peat.

  The heartbeat of the earth reverberated through the ground beneath her. The tone grew lighter, faint crackles reminiscent of the sound of leaves being crushed underfoot…

  A shadow blocked the light, and she opened her eyes. Silhouetted against the setting sun, he stood over her.

  Her body reacted as if the ground beneath her had burst into flame, sending a ripple of heat through her.

  “Why have you come here?”

  “To see you.”

  “Can’t I spend my final days here in peace, before I return home?”

  He knelt beside her, and her skin tightened with need, the ripple of desire penetrating the thick wool of the plaid.

  Elyssia sat up, clutching the plaid as if to protect herself from him, willing her body not to respond to the invisible rope of attraction which bound her to him.

  “Where is your home, Elyssia?” he asked softly. “Where do you belong?”

  She lifted her gaze to the sky. The birds still circled in their courtship as the male wooed his mate, asking her to stay with him.

  “I belong nowhere,” she said, “but Richard will give me refuge.”

  “And when he takes a wife, what then? She may insist he cast you out.”

  “Richard would never…”

  “Are you willing to risk it? The chance that you may have to spend your days begging on the streets, with a Scottish bastard clinging to your skirts?”

  She freed her left arm from the blanket, raising it to st
rike him, but he was ready for her. His grasped her wrist, his hand forming a band of iron.

  “You may wish to strike me, but I would have you listen to me first.”

  “No!” she cried. “Richard would not see me on the streets. But even if he cast me out, I would survive. Unlike you, I would gladly suffer for someone I loved. I’d even whore myself out, letting myself be led by the neck to my masters if it put food in my child’s belly. I may have failed my sister, but the devil take me if I fail my son!”

  He released his grip as if her skin burned him.

  “Our son.”

  Base notes of pain deepened his voice.

  “He’s not your son, Tavish. You lost any claim you might have had the day you declared you’d place a bastard in my belly to repay my father for the bastard he placed into the belly of your sister. I will give them both a home where they will be loved for themselves. When I go home, I’ll take with me two children who shall grow up to be fine men who will never hate another for his lineage, whereas you will be rid of the family you sought to destroy and the child who killed your sister merely by entering the world.”

  “You’re wrong,” he said. “I would suffer for someone I loved. Hold out your hand.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “Do it now, woman!”

  Instinctively, her body obeyed, and she lifted her right hand. He removed his glove and held up his hand, palm facing upwards.

  “Dear God… Tavish…”

  A jagged scar dominated the centre of his palm. The skin had reddened and puckered with slivers of white radiating outwards, forming the shape of an arrow which pointed towards knobbly stumps where the two smallest fingers should have been. Severed at the base, the skin stretched over them, jagged and rough where the shards of bone remained. Her hand itched in recognition.

  He placed his palm over hers, uniting their wounds.

  “This is the reminder of my sins, Elyssia.”

  She ran her fingertips over the stumps, puckered with sharp little points which lay beneath the skin.

  “Oh Tavish, how you must have suffered! Who did this?”