Highland Crown

by May McGoldrick

  “Cinaed.”

  “Lachlan.”

  No formalities. No affection. Cinaed’s sadness evaporated. They were simply two men meeting in a sparsely furnished, dust-covered lodge with no servants or attendants to break the heavy silence. A saddlebag lay open on a table and beside it, a bottle of whiskey and two silver cups.

  He motioned, and Cinaed sat across from him.

  “You have no wish to be greeted properly by your clan.”

  “I have no clan. Or rather, they’ve shown they don’t wish to have me.” He sat back, surprised by the stinging bitterness in his tone.

  “Time will rust the sharpest sword, but not yours, I see.”

  “I need no poetry,” Cinaed replied. “I asked you to come here because I want to hear the truth, without the fanfare of a ‘homecoming.’”

  The wind whistled down the chimney, and the smell of ancient fires filled the room. The ghosts of their ancestors were making their presence known, and he felt their eyes on them. On him.

  “When I received your message, I nearly laughed. So fitting that you should want to meet here at this lodge.” Lachlan looked around him with affection in his eyes. “It makes me believe that somewhere deep inside, the past is a part of you.”

  Cinaed watched the older man stare into the corners of the lodge. He imagined him seeing it in a different time, perhaps in a time when he was young. Perhaps even before his time, when clan chiefs were the protectors of their people, when fathers and mothers grew old together and children never left the land.

  Lachlan reached for the bottle, poured two drinks and pushed one across the table.

  “After the battle at Culloden,” he began, turning his gaze to Cinaed, “many of the defeated Highlanders fled into these hills, bloodied and heartbroken. This building sheltered many in those dark days. But a fortnight later, this lodge became a place of great honor for the Mackintosh clan. Your grandfather decided to stay here.”

  Lachlan drank his whiskey, waiting to be asked the next question. Cinaed knew nothing about any grandfather. He’d never given any thought to it. He’d barely been given any information about his father. But he knew plenty about those who’d suffered at Culloden.

  Lachlan poured another drink. Cinaed’s sat untouched on the table.

  To witness moments of grandeur and then to taste defeat. This lodge and Lachlan had both weathered storms. Cinaed couldn’t stop unexpected emotions from creeping in. Pity? Empathy? He couldn’t say. This man wanted to share information with him, but right now was not the time to be distracted by family history.

  “Why did you send me that letter? Why did you want to see me?”

  Lachlan shook his head and smiled. “Impatient as always. You haven’t changed a whit from when you first arrived at Dalmigavie as a bairn.”

  When he first arrived? The man was a master of misdirection, but Cinaed let him have his way, for now.

  “When did I first arrive at Dalmigavie?”

  He feared his earliest memories of childhood were more imagined than real. He’d always felt he was an outsider, always looking on, rather than being one with other children. Later, he became a castaway. He was correct to feel he didn’t belong. But why?

  Lachlan sat back in his chair. “Do you remember anything of your past? Of a time before you came to us?”

  Cinaed didn’t know what he was supposed to remember. Sometimes, when he was drifting off to sleep, another time and place would slip into the edges of his dreams. A soft whisper in French. Songs hummed over a basket of flowers. The skirts of a woman who loved to whirl around and lift him into her arms to dance. It wasn’t his mother. He couldn’t place these memories.

  Every time he thought of them, he wiped them away and recalled the hard face of his mother, Anne Mackintosh.

  “When did I first arrive at Dalmigavie?” he asked again, his tone sharper than before.

  “You were almost four years of age when your mother sent you to us.”

  Four. No wonder he didn’t belong. He was an outsider. The words finally sank in. Sent. He was sent here.

  The thick walls of the past were crumbling around him, stone by stone, allowing long-forgotten memories to filter through like sunlight through colored glass.

  Mon fils, mon bébé. Je suis ta maman. The gentle murmur of the words was in his head. He couldn’t shake them or make them go away. Cinaed had always known French. He spoke the language like someone born to it.

  The face of a fair young woman with curls that hung around her face came to his mind.

  Je suis ta maman. I am your mother.

  “Who is my mother? Who sent me here?”

  “I’ll not speak of her. She’ll be the one to tell you who she is. How and why she gave you up is not for me to be telling either. But I’ll tell you this, my sister Anne was no more blood kin to you than that horse you rode in on.”

  He wanted to deny it, but he couldn’t. Anne Mackintosh’s coolness, her lack of affection made sense to him now. He was raised by others. By the clan. She never called him “son.” The only time he recalled her being kind to him was on her deathbed, when she’d handed him the ring.

  His real mother was alive. Alive. In his mind, he ran down a dark tunnel, trying to find the light, trying to recall memories. He wanted to remember her face.

  “But you won’t have long to wait. She’s making arrangements to come to the Highlands, though I know it’ll be difficult to manage, considering who she is. But she’s determined to meet you.”

  Cinaed ran his hand over his face, fighting to pull back the curtain still stretched across his memory. But the darkness wouldn’t lift.

  “What of my father? Was he a Mackintosh?”

  Lachlan shook his head and leaned forward, planting his elbows on the table. “I’ve had to wait years until I could reveal the truth to you. But I believe the time has come.”

  His curiosity was aroused. But none of this mattered. He had his own life. He had Isabella. His past had no hold on him. Whatever “truth” this man was about to throw at him, it was only a thistle seed in the wind.

  “You are…”

  Cinaed knew who he was. As a child he’d wanted to know more, but a father’s name meant nothing to him now.

  “Your true name is Cinaed James Stuart.” He paused, letting the sound fade from the air. “You are the only male alive descended directly from our Bonnie Prince.”

  Cinaed stared, not comprehending. His father was a sailor. He’d been lost at sea before Cinaed was born.

  This was foolishness. The ravings of a man too long here in the mountains. Cinaed knew the history, the same as all Highlanders knew it. Bonnie Prince Charlie died in exile, and his only acknowledged heir was his daughter, Charlotte. She, too, was already dead.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  The old man shrugged. “Your father, Jamie, was a bastard, a year older than Charlotte, born and raised in secret.”

  Lachlan wore the smile of a man who’d just bestowed on him the most precious gift on earth. But Cinaed felt no richer for it. He had a thousand questions—not the least of which was why his so-called father’s existence was a secret, with only Lachlan Mackintosh privy to it. But his greatest wish was to walk out of this lodge and leave this nonsense behind.

  Cinaed had seen enough Highlanders, displaced from their homes and their land. He knew how far people would go, how desperately they would cling to a misbegotten belief, to keep their hope alive.

  “I don’t believe it,” he repeated.

  Lachlan sat back and shook his head. His sad smile told Cinaed he was not surprised by his reaction.

  “Where is the ring you were given?”

  “My wife is wearing it. My mother, your sister, gave it to me.”

  “That ring signifies the truth of your parentage. It was a gift from your father to your true mother. Did you never wonder why it’s a crowned thistle?”

  “This is madness.”

  “You don’t need to believe me. You’ll m
eet her. And you will believe her, for she has undeniable proof. You’ll believe her just the same as all of us believed her when she sent us a four-year-old lad to raise, to prepare him for his destiny.”

  He still didn’t believe Lachlan. Or her, whoever she was. And he wasn’t going to waste his time here with this insanity.

  Cinaed rose abruptly to his feet and walked a few steps away, but then stopped and turned around.

  “You sent me away. Why?”

  “Your grandfather was the rightful king of Scotland, but he couldn’t gather enough support in ’45. He couldn’t bring the people together. Your father was born on a foreign land and not even half the man Prince Charlie was. But it didn’t matter; it was too soon. The Highlands were still bleeding. But you—”

  “What does that have to do with a lad of nine years? How does any of that justify tearing a child from the only home he’s ever known and casting him out to sea?”

  Lachlan came to his feet. “We had to keep you safe. You were our last chance. You think we cast you out, but you were always watched, always protected.”

  Cinaed thought of all the help Searc had given him over the years.

  “Until now,” the old man continued, his eyes flashing. “Cinaed James Stuart, you are the true son of Scotland, and the Mackintosh clan and a score of others are ready to march with you.”

  * * *

  They’d been apart for only a few short weeks, but Isabella saw immediately that Maisie and Morrigan were no longer the naïve young women she’d been worrying about.

  Both of them were happy to see her. They were in good health and appeared extremely well adjusted to life in these mountains, regardless of having spent all their years in the cities.

  Her half-sister, Maisie, in particular, had matured considerably in the days since they’d said good-bye on the coach road outside Inverness. She’d always been quiet and amiable, but she now showed no hesitation about speaking her mind when she was told of their schedule and travel plans to Halifax.

  “Isabella, listen to me,” she said. “I’m twenty years old. I love you as a sister, but none of the problems that drove us from Edinburgh affect me. There is no reward on my head. No one chasing after me. I’m not going to be coerced into moving to the other end of the world. I need to find my own way, and I’ve decided it will be here in Scotland.”

  As the three of them walked in the courtyard of the castle, Morrigan was listening closely to the younger sister. Seeing the pursed lips and restless hands, Isabella knew Morrigan’s impatience, at least, hadn’t changed. She clearly had a few things on her mind, and she was doing her best to wait her turn to share them.

  Isabella felt the many eyes on them, especially on her, since she’d so newly arrived. There’d been some polite greetings and curious looks, but no warm welcome. She didn’t know how Searc had explained her, or if he’d said anything about her at all. The laird was meeting with Cinaed at the hunting lodge, and not a single person approached to greet the carriage when they arrived, except the two young women on either side of her.

  “Are you ready for my opinion of the move to Halifax?” Morrigan asked bluntly.

  “Let me guess, you’re no longer fond of our original plans either?”

  “They were always your plans, Isabella, and not mine. Not ours,” she corrected, sending a look at Maisie. Morrigan, a year older, had never in six years shied away from expressing an opinion for both of them. To Isabella, it was a blessing that her reserved younger sister had a person to stand up for her.

  People walked past them, sending Isabella a few nods. Some were coming close enough to eavesdrop. But this was not the time or place to continue this conversation. Neither of the young women wanted to hear her reasoning. They were without friends and penniless. They had no place to live, no means of feeding themselves or clothing themselves. Still, they each had a strong mind and a good education. They also had courage.

  Isabella took a deep breath, trying to calm her worries. Because she’d always played the role of mother, now that she’d returned, they were eager to express their opinions and remind her of their independence.

  She noticed Blair following at a respectful distance. Even within the safety of these castle walls, Cinaed was making sure someone was watching over her.

  “Very well. Each of you should formulate your own plan for the future. When you’re ready, I’ll be open to hearing what you’ve decided.” She looked from one to the other. “And whatever it is, I’ll be there to support you.”

  Isabella left them looking at each other, surprised expressions on their faces. She wanted to see John Gordon.

  She found Jean sitting with her nephew in a tiny room off a gallery above the castle’s great hall. A week had passed since the young man had been brought up here. His arm was set, and his bruises were mending. Still, sitting beside him, she could tell he was wrestling in his mind with the torture he’d endured. His aunt spoke to him, told him that Isabella had come to see him, but she didn’t think he heard or noticed her. She’d seen this before in Edinburgh, when prisoners came to them after being subjected to the brutality of the authorities.

  “He’ll recover, won’t he?” Jean asked her.

  Isabella crouched beside her friend and took the old woman’s quivering hand in her own. “With you beside him, he will.”

  “Do ye promise me?”

  How many times she’d been asked that same question. A desperate mother or wife wanting some guarantee that a wound would heal. How many times she’d given an answer based on hope rather than on medical knowledge.

  “I promise.” She kissed Jean’s hand and stood.

  Her life, the future Isabella had imagined she’d be building in Halifax with all of these people, was quickly fading. The two young women she’d traveled north with would make their own plans. John Gordon was better off staying in one place until the scars in his mind had a chance to heal. Dalmigavie Castle was a fortress in the mountains, safe. It could provide a sanctuary for John … and perhaps for her as well. She hoped he’d be allowed to stay here, along with her sister and stepdaughter. No matter what Maisie and Morrigan thought right now, they would need time to form a rational plan for their future.

  Standing by the railing and looking down into the great hall, she thought of Cinaed. Her love for him warmed her. For so long, she’d thought she hadn’t the freedom to decide her own future. Things seemed to be changing. Her fight was not over, but she now had the power to decide her own road. But would the man she wanted wait a year, six months, or a month for her to join him in Halifax … or wherever he’d set sail for?

  She started toward the room she’d be sharing with her family, but Cinaed suddenly stepped in front of her.

  She hadn’t expected him to come here. As she reached for his hand, Isabella knew he was the light of her life, the air in her lungs, the blood in her veins. She could not do without him. Regardless of everything facing them, the thought of being apart from him was too painful to imagine.

  “Come with me.”

  There’d been nothing to indicate his arrival—no cheering, no sounds of excitement.

  “Does anyone know you’re here?” she asked when he pulled her into an empty room.

  “No one knows but you.” He closed the door behind them and took her in his arms.

  She held him. She pressed her face against his chest and held him tight. Their love for each other was the only certainty she had now in this tumultuous life.

  “The lasses. How are they?”

  “They’re fine. Both girls have been well taken care of by your clan.” Isabella looked up into his face and cradled his cheek. “You’re upset. What did Lachlan tell you?”

  He shook his head. “First, I want to hear about your family. Are they anxious to go? And Gordon? How is he faring?” He paused. “Are you ready to leave?”

  A fist squeezed Isabella’s heart as she relayed the conversation she’d had with Maisie and Morrigan. “They need time. And it’s the same
with Jean’s nephew. It would be best if he wasn’t moved right now. But I don’t want to abuse the Mackintosh clan’s hospitality.”

  He caressed her face, looked into her eyes. “Do you want to stay here?”

  She wanted to go with Cinaed, but she couldn’t. Not yet. Her voice struggled, but she cleared it. “I need to stay, if your uncle allows it. I can’t leave them, any of them. They need me.”

  Perhaps it was her imagination, but Isabella saw some of the tension lift from his shoulders. He nodded and rested his forehead against hers. His hands cupped her face. Their lips were only a breath apart. She’d felt the storm raging through him before. Now that seemed to have passed, but the respite was momentary, and clouds appeared in his eyes.

  “What did Lachlan tell you?” she asked again.

  “Stories and fairy tales about my parentage. None of which I believe.”

  She wanted to know all of it, and she waited.

  “He claims … he says … he imagines…” Cinaed stepped away from her. Going to the window, he looked outside.

  Isabella hated to see him so tormented, but she didn’t know how to soothe the pain.

  “He believes in a lie.” He turned around to face her again. “He’s asked me to stay here at Dalmigavie until my mother arrives.”

  “Your mother?” she asked, surprised. “I thought she was dead.”

  He shrugged. “I guess that was another lie. I was told today that she is well and making arrangements to come to the Highlands.”

  “Who is she?”

  He shook his head. “She’s either a brazen liar or a queen. And my father was the son of … of Bonnie Prince Charlie.”

  Isabella found herself unable to utter a sound. Questions on top of questions whirled in her brain. But amid the storm of confusion, she thought about the way Cinaed had been received by those in power when the two of them had entered Searc’s drawing room. She recalled the way those far less fortunate were drawn to him. So many times, she’d heard the words son of Scotland. She’d even heard them on Hudson’s lips.