by Elise Ramsay
Lachlan stood and picked her up. Hugging her close he kissed her forehead. “Then let's be to the Kirk.” Putting her down he laughed and took her hand.
So in a torn and dirty dress, in front of just two witnesses, Effie Mackinnon married Lachlan Kincaid.
Over the following weeks, Lachlan courted her and kept his promise. Each night he slept on a fur in the corner of the room but day by day their love grew. It was just two weeks later when they had been out riding. As they rushed back to their room, Effie took Lachlan’s hand. “It is time my husband,” she whispered into his ear as they closed the door to the world.
“Really?” Lachlan asked his voice shaking slightly.
Effie gave him an answer by taking his lips with hers and kissing him until she could hardly breathe. She had been so lucky to be rescued by a Highlander, who had captured her heart.
Gunn
Highlanders Revenge
& the
Secret Love
Highland Hearts of the Clan Kincaid Book 1
by
©Copyright 2016 Elise Ramsay
All Rights Reserved
Chapter 1
Isobel Gillies felt the hairs raise on the back of her neck. But she fought the urge to run. She was being a wee bit silly. No one was there, no one was watching her. After all, who in the world would be following her?
Nobody, that’s who!
Closing her eyes, she focused on the breeze and the sweet smell of heather. There was nary a sound out of place. Then the bubbling sound of a Black Grouse rolled across the hillside. She knew what would come next, the harsh grating as it displayed to the females. The sound was low, sharp, and scraped across her nerves but it portended no danger. Still, she wished she hadn’t strayed so far along the Glannoch Valley. So far, in fact, that she was a little lost. That was a first for Isobel and the very thought tightened her stomach and tensed her shoulders. How could she get lost? As a lassie, she had never taken a wrong turn in all of her eighteen years. That she, who knew the mountains and valley tracks as well as she knew the back of her hand, could be lost was a testament to how deep into daydreaming she had fallen.
For hours, she had walked and walked under the beautifully blue and cloudless sky. Kicking her heels through the purple heather and staring out at the wonder of the highlands. How warm it was for the end of summer! She had removed her plaid from her shoulders miles back and had tied it loosely around her waist, letting its length trail down with her skirts. She had felt light and carefree as the warm sun played upon the smooth, pale skin of her face and the gentle breeze had lifted and toyed with the loose tendrils of her rich, auburn hair. The ever-present hen harriers cried out here and there, swooping and soaring, in search of prey.
How nice it had been to claim her free time on such a glorious day. Her sister, Moira, was helping their mother with the chores for their small home and the larger work that needed doing at the keep. Isobel smiled, glad that it would be Moira, and not she, who would be helping to feed the Clan elite this afternoon when they returned from their sport. The crowd would be in a much more raucous frame of mind, made so by the competitive hunting. Hunting merely for food, for survival, was a much more sober affair. Competition between men made them harsher, rougher, and generally less appealing. Less appealing to her, at least. Some of the lassies seemed to be drawn to the men when they were in their baser moods. Isobel yearned for something different, something better… someone like Gunn Kincaid.
Gunn was the very reason she had been daydreaming and become so very lost. He had been in her thoughts from the moment she had set off walking on her very precious day off. She had secretly been looking forward to being alone, walking miles, so that she could think of him, and only him. She had longed to let her mind dwell on Gunn Kincaid without fear of missing a comment and drawing suspicion from her beloved mother, whose question, “Where is your head away to today, my lassie?” had been much repeated in the recent months. Aye, for certain, her mother suspected a love interest. This much Isobel knew, for her mother had twice mentioned the fact that she had once been Isobel’s age. That could mean only one thing! Her mother was hoping to elicit information about the boy in question, fearful of being right and that her daughter was indeed in the grip of love.
In the grip of love she most certainly was. Isobel had set off from their tiny farmhouse on the Kincaid Lands as soon as the sun had begun to peep over the horizon. It had been chill enough for her heavy plaid shawl at that hour, so she had wrapped herself well, tucking a small packet containing some cold pork from yesterday’s meal and two roughly baked bannocks into the folds of her shawl.
By the time she had reached the edge of their small two-acre plot, she was already imagining being in the arms of Gunn Kincaid.
Gunn was the most handsome man she had ever seen. Older than her by some six years, he was tall and broad. He had a dark complexion for a Highlander, with his hair a rich brown, flexed with deep red, just like his own father. His hair was very thick, and her dreams so often contained an image of her own small, pale hands running through it. His eyes were blue, almost too blue for his darkness. In them, she thought that she could easily see how the Kincaid Chieftain, Gunn’s father, would have been at that age. No one seeing the two men together could ever mistake them for anything other than father and son. Lachlan Kincaid was surely the most beloved Chieftain in the North Western Highlands. She had smiled to herself, feeling sure that most Clansmen and women felt that way about their own Chief, but knowing that, in the case of the Kincaid Clan, it must be true.
Lachlan had, she had been taught, taken his place as the head of the Kincaid at a very young age. He had been catapulted into the position by the misery of illness. His father, brother, and uncle had all been taken by illness in just a few short months, leaving Lachlan Kincaid in a position he would not have expected to hold until he was many years older. Although it was true that a successor to the head of a Clan might not always be blood kin, there was no such man suitable in the Kincaid Clan at that time, and there were none who would not have followed the young Lachlan Kincaid anywhere.
Her own mother had regaled her with the tales from that recent history, always painting Lachlan as a much-admired figure; much admired by her mother, too, she believed!
Just months into his leadership, Lachlan Kincaid had plunged the Clan into a feud. Not just one, but two. It had been his innate kindness and his willingness to follow his heart, no matter the consequence, which had torn the deepest of rifts between the Clans of Kincaid, Mackinnon, and Sinclair.
Lachlan Kincaid had rescued the daughter of Ross Mackinnon from what would have been a most evil marriage to the brutish son of the Sinclair Clan Chieftain, Tormod Sinclair. The girl had run away from her fate and was given shelter by Lachlan Kincaid, who had found her hiding in woodland not far from the Kincaid Lands. In the months following, he had not only refused to return the lassie but had married her. Thus, setting in stone a feud which would thrive down the centuries.
Even knowing that their new, young Chieftain had taken them all from a simple life to one which would always hold a potential for warring and peril, the whole Clan had stood with Lachlan, shoulder to shoulder. As her mother had told it to her, his kindness and his need to do the right thing had been so apparent. It had been akin to the way his own father had dealt with the Clansmen and women down the years, that the Clan thought nothing of standing at his side. Lachlan’s father had ruled with kindness. He had stored gifts of food and sundries bestowed upon him by his Clansmen and redistributed them to those of his Clan in the greatest need. His fairness in the arbitration of their myriad disputes had been legendary throughout the Western Highlands, inviting scoffing and scorn from some, and admiration from others. Lachlan Kincaid had ruled in the exact manner of his own father and continued to do so to this very day.
The whole idea of a man standing up for his principals, no matter the cost, was so romantic and appealing to the young Isobel. She knew that she was probabl
y crediting Gunn Kincaid with the qualities of his father, but doubted she was far from the truth in doing so.
Gunn was a quiet man. A man whom perhaps nobody knew as well as they might have liked. With his strong body and his dedication to the training of his father, he was a supreme hunter and tracker. His skills in the fighting tournaments, which the Clan held at their regular gatherings, were second to none. Isobel had watched him fight many times. His shoulders were so broad and each of the lean muscles of his torso were so defined, it was as though an artist had drawn him. Her heart stirred with memories of these muscles tensing and rippling with every well-timed, almost graceful movement, as he swung lances or fought in hand-to-hand tournaments. Even as a young lassie of twelve, she had watched the young man with an interest she had never felt in another. Her young lassie’s crush had grown and grown until it had become the love she felt now as a young woman.
As she had grown up, he had noticed her more and more. Not apparently in the romantic way she had always hoped for, but he had often sought her out for conversation at the gatherings. Several times, he stopped at the edge of her family’s farm on his way to or from the hunt. He often stopped to speak with her father on the business of farming; not just their own farm, but the farmland of the castle, with which her own father often helped. Like many of the Clansmen, Lorne Gillies supplied labor and farming knowledge to his Chieftain as part of his allegiance. Gunn was much concerned with the running of the castle keep and lands that surrounded it, and his father left a large part of these responsibilities to his eldest son. Isobel had come to cherish these visits from Gunn to her father, all the while trying to hide her excitement and longing from her family, especially her shrewd-eyed mother.
As much as Gunn’s passion for his Clan and their lands was apparent, so was his pure hatred for the Clans of Mackinnon and Sinclair. He had only ever known times of feud between his Clan and theirs’ his whole life. His beloved mother, Effie, being at the very center of his feelings, for had his father not saved her, he knew well what fate she would have suffered at the hands of her would-be suitor back then, Tormod Sinclair. The very name made Isobel shudder. His perversion and cruelty towards women were legendary throughout the Western Highlands, and Isobel fancied that Gunn dwelt upon the rough treatment his mother would have received.
As far as she knew, Gunn had only met his maternal grandfather, Ross Mackinnon, once. This had been in the Lowlands when the Clan Chieftains of their region had been called down by the king, Alexander II of Scotland. He had done what many kings of Scotland had done and called the Clan Chiefs down to test their loyalty. For who knew when he might need to shamelessly use their allegiance, as well as their Clansmen, as fodder for his own wars? She had even voiced this once to Gunn, who had agreed while laughing gently and smiling at her temerity of opinion. Thumpety-thump, her heart skipped a beat as she remembered. Gunn had flashed his blue eyes and smiled. It was as though he had enjoyed her spirit. Then he had told her that he thought her tenacious and opinionated. That was a favorite memory, for, more importantly, he seemed to like it.
She had heard that his one meeting with his grandfather had been tense. While he had never spoken of it to her, the gossip and alleged first-hand accounts ran rife around the keep for weeks afterward. It was told that Ross Mackinnon had spied his grandson at the king’s gathering at Dunkeld. The Clans had agreed among themselves beforehand to go peaceably in the presence of the king, him knowing little, and probably caring even less, about their localized feuding. It was in this spirit that Ross Mackinnon had approached the impressive looking young Gunn. Isobel thought that the ties of blood must be a strong draw, even among feuding men. She imagined the dour Ross Mackinnon looking with veiled pride at the offspring of his offspring. As soured as his relationship with his runaway daughter must have been, perhaps Ross Mackinnon could not stem the tide of feeling between a man and his natural born grandson.
It was never heard what opening line Ross Mackinnon had attempted to engage him with, but there were many who heard Gunn’s sharp response.
“You tried to barter my mother for power. Knowing what a foul beast Tormod Sinclair was, and is, still you chose to sacrifice your kin... your own daughter, to a life of pain and degradation. Understand, Ross Mackinnon, that I do not, nor ever will, accept you as my Grandsire and understand, Ross Mackinnon that you and I have nothing further to say to each other.”
Isobel regularly played the oft-reported exchange in her mind. What a man Gunn Kincaid was! How she wished he had noticed her; really noticed her. How she wished he loved her as much as she loved him. How she wished he was here now, allaying her fears that she was being followed.
Looking up into the sky, she could see that fluffy white clouds had formed while her thoughts had been otherwise engaged. The sun was slowly sneaking behind one of them, and she felt the first stirring of a chill in the air. Was it that which caused a momentary shiver? She untied her plaid and wrapped it around her shoulders. Something, maybe instinct, forced her to spin around and look about her. She was so sure that, out of the corner of her eye, she had seen something or someone dart swiftly into the cover of the trees. That could not be true. For if t’were then, they were hiding from her. The very thought caused her heart to hammer but this time, it did not think of love. This time, she imagined Tormod Sinclair, and her blood ran cold.
Chapter 2
Gunn Kincaid’s day was progressing much more slowly than he had anticipated. He was supposed to be calling on three of the farms to discuss the field and crop rotation on the Kincaid lands but had been sidetracked. Once again, some wee lassie’s father had cause for complaint at the behavior of Rory Kincaid. Rory was his father’s cousin. For years and years now, a hopeless drunk whose lewd behavior towards women was growing ever more out of control. Gunn could not stand the shambling wreck of a man, but his own father’s loyalty towards him always stayed his hand. Lachlan Kincaid would not deal firmly with Rory on any complaint. Gunn knew instinctively that this would one day cause a certain amount of unrest among the Clansmen. Lachlan, as Chieftain, dealt fairly and fearlessly in arbitration on every point but this one, and, sooner or later, it would come to bear upon them all. Rory was a liability and one man that Gunn himself did not trust. A man like that spent so long soaked in ale. A drunk man could not hold his tongue, nor make right decisions, and would one day do something which the whole Kincaid Clan might come to regret.
Once again, Gunn chose to deal directly and discreetly with the matter. Having spoken with the wee lassie’s father, he had promised a full and immediate face-to-face apology from the errant Rory, who was alleged to have lifted his kilt to the girl in one of the deserted corridors of the keep. The wee lassie, having never before in her young life seen such a sight as that, ran screaming and crying, and did not stop until she’d reach the tenanted cottage of her own father. Desperate and ashamed, she gave him her full account. The man had come to Gunn, rather than list it as a quarrel for arbitration by the Chieftain, probably because he feared a besmirching of his own wee daughter’s reputation if the drunkard would claim she had led him on.
Gunn had pitied the man for the circumstances in which he found himself and the poor wee lassie. Now he felt the shame of the blood kinship to Rory, which hung about him like a dead weight at times. He could feel the man’s relief at the suggested route of recompense. It would defend his daughter’s honor without the risk of causing insult to his much admired Chieftain. It was, Gunn knew, the best outcome all round. However, upon finding the stinking Rory, he knew he would have a fight on his hands to get him to comply, with the swift justice Gunn had planned.
Rory had obviously continued to drink right from the time of the incident and was babbling incoherently at Gunn. Gunn threw cold water in his face from the jug in Rory’s chamber, until the middle-aged man began to make some sense. Appalled that Rory did not even attempt to deny or explain his actions, Gunn stared at him while he laughed and re-enacted the scene, once again lifting his k
ilt, this time giving Gunn the awful sight of his drink-shriveled manhood. No wonder the wee lassie had screamed!
Rory, in his drunken defiance, could see nothing wrong in what he’d done and, at first, flatly refused to make amends.
“They all love it, make shy as they might that they’re afeared of me! They squeal like piggies and run to their fathers, but all of them love to see!” Rory smelled like a man whose body had not seen the water for many a long month, if not longer. His face was pockmarked and unnaturally red from the drink. His nose was bloated, a haggard lump in the middle of his face. No woman, from lassie to wench, would enjoy his attentions. It amazed Gunn that the man himself did but know it.
“You sicken me, Rory. That wee lassie is no more than fifteen years, how can you let yourself think she’d be glad to see you in all your glory?” Gunn knew his own face was wearing an ugly sneer, but he could not help but be disgusted by the man, albeit his own kin.
“Ach, stop wi yer wet nursing, ya wee jump up!”
“Wee what?” Gunn was dumbfounded.
“Ach, you heard me, boy. I’ll no be apologizing to anybody, you hear me?” Looking suddenly sweaty and pale, the older man slumped down into a chair and looked sullenly out of his chamber window.
Gunn drew closer to him as if to bear down upon him. No man, even a drunkard, could have denied the menace in the action, nor do any other than be afraid at that moment.
“You will apologize. As soon as I can get you on your feet and over to that farm, by God, you will apologize.”
“Your father would not make it so. My Chieftain! He would not see his own kin treated in this way, boy.” He emphasized the last word with a slur. The older man’s head was beginning to dip, and Gunn fought hard against his natural tendency towards pity.
