Highlander’s Twisted Identity (Highlanders 0f Clan Craig Book 2)

by Shona Thompson

  Maybe it was the spark in the girl’s nature, but as Finlay delivered his rebuke to Freya where they stood on the edge of the clanless territory, his eyes clouded momentarily with regret.

  “I only wish ye could be trusted not tae scarper; then ye wouldn’t need guarding!” He paused, looking irritated. “What happened tae Robbie and Brodie? I might ay’ kenned ye’d get the better of them!”

  It was true—Freya was too quick for the two hulks her father had appointed to guard her. Sometimes Freya wondered why on earth Finlay had chosen them to guard her. They were kind enough, but not exactly over-blessed in the brains department. And right now, judging by the look in his eyes, her father was wondering this too.

  Freya screwed her eyes up and tried not to laugh at the memory of her father asking Sine one day if Freya had a crush on Robbie. Hiding behind the door, she had to contain her mirth.

  Her mother cried out in amusement; “Dear Finlay, ye dinnae ken our lassie very well!” she had said, wiping away tears of laughter. “Robbie’s a nice lad, but he’s far too dimwitted for a bright spark like our Freya!”

  And now, true to form, the spark inside Freya blazed with rage as she confronted her father defiantly. She was like the greatest flame in a fire, always burning—so like her mother in every way except for blood.

  Finlay was about to take his daughter and get away from there, when for the first time, he noticed the boy.

  To begin with, he hadn’t even seen him; he had been so still, almost camouflaged against the muddy landscape. Startled, Finlay reached into his leather pouch for his dagger.

  “An’ who are ye, lad, an’ what are ye doin’ with my daughter…?” Finlay demanded of the strange boy. There was a tense moment as the boy came eye-to-eye with Finlay, silent in the muddied glen.

  The poor lad was taken completely by surprise and said nothing—possibly terrified, maybe still working out a reply.

  “Come on—tell me, who are ye!”

  “That's my son…” rang out a woman’s voice, making everyone look. “The rightful Laird of Craig!”

  Chapter Two

  The woman’s eyes flashed angrily against the stormy skies. She had appeared from out of the mountainous crags and now stood there, her dark hair billowing everywhere.

  Both Freya and her father shared a look of confusion. In his differently-colored eyes, the telltale signs of annoyance were starting.

  The only person who seemed to recognize the woman was the lad. He dropped his eyes to the ground in what looked like embarrassment.

  “What did ye say?” shouted Finlay across the windswept vista. All around them were the bare shoulders of the wintery mountainside, still months away from the gentle greening of spring. As if to affirm the seasonal froideur, a sudden arctic blast launched an arsenal of hailstones. All four ducked for cover. The weather might have been doing its best to send them away, but it did not weaken Finlay’s resolve.

  “Freya, are ye alright? If he’s done anything tae ye…?” started Finlay with suspicion.

  “I’m fine, Father. Better still if ye’d have just let me on my own!” flashed Freya. She too was getting a good lashing of the snow and ice raging through the glen. Her answer did not satisfy Finlay one single bit.

  “An’ ye, lad. Who are ye? Come on!” he snarled at the lad, who had still not spoken.

  “He’s the rightful Laird of Craig,” spat the woman venomously. “Are ye deaf, as well as a murderer?”

  Freya could see her father’s confusion was gradually giving way to anger. He was not the only one; the boy, too, looked perturbed.

  “Mother,” he mumbled with displeasure.

  The woman stayed in front of them, radiating anger. She was about the right age to be his mother, Freya supposed. But unlike her son, she was dark in complexion, with thick black hair raging around her ears.

  She guessed she was about the same age as her mother, but she hadn’t aged as well. Her skin was as craggy as the landscape surrounding them, almost every inch of it furrowed and lined. Despite this, her stark and piercing blue eyes were still every bit as clear and cool as ever they had been.

  Freya watched her father closely. His expression changed rapidly; “Nora…!” he said, giving a gasp that might have been recognition, but betokened rapid onset of apoplexy.

  “Finlay,” said the woman, her pale eyes appraising him coolly. “I kent ye straight away…”

  Finlay trained his eyes on Nora’s face. It didn’t seem as if he had recognized her straight away, but as he stared at the woman’s eyes, a look of realization passed through him. Nora’s eyes were just as blue as all those years ago, even if the flesh around them had withered.

  “An’ the lad…?” asked Finlay, turning to the boy. He had been standing alone, by the prickly gorse bush that defined the mud lands.

  “Wallace? He’s Seoras’s son. You know, yer uncle. The one ye killed…” she flashed him a look of utter hate. The wind took her words and thrust them into the air.

  Freya and Wallace shared a glance. This was the first time she had heard his name.

  Freya looked confused. Finlay had told her the history of Seoras and the clan well enough, but until that point, no-one knew of the existence of a son.

  Following his daughter’s lead, Finlay stared in astonishment.

  “I didnae think ye were married?” he questioned, curiously.

  “I wasnae,” replied Nora through thin lips. There was a brief, embarrassed silence as the wind raced around the four of them again.

  Finlay coughed. “But…ah... I don’t remember ye being with child…,” he said, screwing up his face in recollection. He looked as if he was casting his mind back to the night of their final battle, over fifteen years earlier.

  “Aye, I hid it well,” replied Nora, glaring at him with her intense blue eyes. Freya watched as her father disengaged from her gaze and tried another tack.

  “And this is where ye live?” asked Finlay, as if he could not believe it. He cast his eye about the barren lands dubiously.

  Nora simply nodded and pointed to a line of crude-looking blackhouses, which Freya had not noticed, set into a dip of the horizon. If she strained her eyes hard enough, she could just make out a tiny crack of smoke arising from one of them.

  Freya did not know much about construction, but even from here they looked rough and unkempt. And as Freya looked more closely at the woman, she saw her simple white plaid was muddied and torn. It was fastened about her shoulders in a rough knot, devoid of any pin. Her petticoats were in such a state that Freya had to avert her eyes. Nora watched the girl’s reaction to her with open hostility, envy burning in her eyes.

  “We live in muck and shame,” she practically spat. “Down to ye. When ye exiled us, where did ye expect us tae go—a palace?”

  Finlay raised his eyes and looked around at the blackhouses that lined the horizon. “Yer on clan lands. Ye are trespassing, madam!”

  Nora cursed, sending a ball of spit racing in their direction. The dislike on her face was palpable. Instinctively, Freya moved closer to her father. Finlay placed a protective arm on her shoulder as the two of them closed ranks.

  “Just who are ye, turning up like Lord and Lady Muck? If ye dinnae like it, boil yer head!”

  An uneasy silence descended upon the party, in which not even the wind dared to breathe. Freya eyed her father watchfully. Normally, she wouldn’t think twice of jumping in and putting the woman in her place—but there was something stopping her. She looked deeply into Finlay’s face, but it was hard to read him or to know how he might react.

  Freya stared at the boy, the outline of her father’s features echoing in Wallace’s own. It was so obvious; how could she not have seen it before?

  Nora walked over to her son. From the expression on her face, it looked as though she had a few choice words for him, but for now, she simply stood there in defiance.

  Finlay had had enough. On the horizon, a rickety cart wound unsteadily through the mud. Robbie and
Brodie were coming, and they had back up. At this sight, Nora’s expression changed perceptibly.

  “Now see that and hear good,” Finlay said, leaning towards Nora and her son. He dropped his voice and narrowed his eyes against the wind.

  “Tak’ this bairn, yer bastard, and get right awa’ from our lands. Or ye’ll be the worse for it…” And with that, he ushered Freya away into the waiting cart.

  It was a miserable, sodden journey through the wetlands. An entire hour passed without word between Finlay and his daughter. Every time he tried to look at her to start a conversation, she turned her perfectly proportioned face away from him, pouting. They drove on in total silence until reaching lands that surrounded the keep.

  As soon as the cart came to a halt, Freya leaped up and away. Before anyone could so much as blink, she scaddled down across the rough pathway leading up to the keep and inside.

  Finlay chased her into the house. “Freya!” Finlay called desperately after his daughter.

  “Give her time,” said Sine softly.

  Their daughter stomped up the draughty hallway and upstairs to her room, bringing with her an arctic blast that swept across the entire hall. “Aye, but…Freya!” he yelled. The door slammed dramatically.

  His wife’s eyebrows arched in well-practiced acceptance. “Finlay, she’ll come down when she’s ready. Remember what I was like at that age!”

  “Aye, yer right, of course,” said Finlay, going to embrace his wife.

  The passing years had done nothing to diminish the strength of their feelings for each other. Sine was still every bit the girl that he had married—even now, more than twenty years on. Finlay pulled her willowy waist towards him, and for a moment, lost himself in caressing her long, jet-black hair.

  “Nae one gray!” he murmured in admiration as the pair locked into an embrace. For once, the servants were doing something else, and they had the place to themselves. “Come here, ye wee strumpet!”

  Finlay pulled his wife over to the chair by the fire, kissing her furiously. So consumed with passion were they that they didn’t hear the door opening, or the faint footsteps coming towards them.

  “Well, you had me thinking I’d be given an upbraiding, but I reckon now the shoe is on the other foot!”

  Finlay turned around quickly to see his daughter standing there, her previously petulant mood washed away. Instead, she was wearing a wicked grin that illuminated her features from ear to ear.

  There was a pause while Sine grabbed frantically for her plaid, pulling it on speedily. Finlay’s eyes almost popped out of his head.

  “The look on yer face, Father!” cackled Freya. Sine tidied her hair and tried to sit up.

  It seemed as if Freya’s spirits were once more restored. Since there was no telling when her mercurial temper would strike again, Finlay nodded to his wife to leave father and daughter alone whilst all was well. Checking herself, Sine left the room, touching Freya’s shoulders as she went.

  Recovering his composure and checking that his plaid and sporran were correctly in place, Finlay decided that there was no time like the present, and dived in headfirst.

  “Freya—listen, lass,” he began. “Ye cannae just run off into the clanless lands like that. It’s nae safe for a wee lass on her own…”

  “But I wasnae on my own, Father. There was Wallace…,” replied Freya, not missing a beat. Ever since meeting the lad, she had found herself thinking about him in a way she wasn’t used to. He was only a year or two older than her, but somehow, seemed so grown up.

  “Aye, the wee laddie. Yer tae keep away from him—and his ma. Dae ye hear?”

  “But Father,” protested Freya. “What for? He helped me out!”

  Freya would never have admitted it, but she had actually been rather impressed by the way Wallace had singlehandedly seen off a trio of bandits. But to her frustration, her father would not hear a word of it.

  “Hush,” he said, placing a finger to his daughter’s lips. “Listen well, Freya. There’s a good reason why ye need to take heed and avoid the clanless. They’re our sworn foe! Ye dinnae ken the half of it. Just believe me when I tell ye to stay away. For all of oor sakes!”

  “But…” began Freya, but she could see her father was not to be moved. Sullenly, she dropped her eyes. “Alright,” she said softly.

  “Good lass,” said Finlay. He could tell she was disappointed, but he could only hope that his daughter would trust him enough to do as he asked.

  There was a pause. The fire snapped, momentarily pulling their eyes to it. As she brought her clear jade eyes over to see, Finlay caught the sheen of tears in them.

  “What is it, Freya?” he asked softly.

  Freya just shook her head but looked forward. “You called him a bastard…” she said. Instead of sounding accusing, her voice was simply troubled.

  “Aye,” said Finlay, not quite understanding where this was leading.

  “Is that what I am, too?” Freya said in a barely perceptible voice. She cast her worried eyes towards her father. “A bastard? Because I’m nae yer rightful daughter?”

  It took a moment or two for the shock to register on Finlay’s face. He was simply stunned. When he did manage to recover himself, he spoke quietly.

  “My God, Freya, I dinnae ever want tae hear ye say those words ever again!” said Finlay, aghast. “Whatever could have made ye think that!”

  Freya did not have to say anything; the unspoken facts of her birth hovered in the air between them.

  “Come here, hen,” said Finlay, opening his arms to his daughter. “Yer mine and yer mammie’s, and let that be an end to it. One day ye will find a man worthy of ye. But until that day, ye’ll just have to trust yer auld da!”

  As the flames leaped and jumped in the homely hearth place, Freya allowed herself to be comforted by her father.

  “I do, Father, an’ I’ll mak’ ye both proud!” she announced, her eyes shining.

  “You already do!” said Finlay, taking her in his arms.

  Meanwhile, a few short miles away across the land, another pair of young eyes were staring into the fire, where it smoked in the center of the barren room.

  Wallace and his mother were seated together in front of a meager fire. But this room was not welcoming and warm like the laird’s keep. Here, the cold wind danced around. Its icy tentacles clinging to each miserable corner.

  “Dinnae ever forget what he has taken from us—from ye!” his mother hissed. Ostensibly, she was mending stays by the light of the fire. In reality, there wasn’t enough light to see by, and she had run out of twine. Worse still, there was nothing to eat in the house tonight. Neither situation had improved her mood much.

  Wallace shivered as he rearranged his position on the floor beneath the makeshift fire. There wasn’t enough firewood to keep it going, and even the peat they usually shoveled in was drying up. The best that could be hoped for was to poke the feeble pyre and cajole it back into some sort of life.

  It was cold; freezing, in fact. Wallace rubbed his limbs and pulled the grubby blanket over his aching extremities. But it wasn’t the cold that bothered him.

  “All this is down to that bawbag, Finlay!” seethed Nora. Her anger could have warmed half the village.

  Everything about the small dwelling was squalid and makeshift. There was no chair, just a bed—of sorts—at the far corner. There was only one room, also home to various livestock depending on the season, and it smelled like it, too. Nora cast an eye despairingly around the ramshackle room and cursed aloud.

  But her son was not moved by her words. Instead, he lifted his head contemplatively. “He didnae look like a monster…,” said Wallace thoughtfully, tending to the fire. It was in its death throes, kicking out more smoke than heat, making him cough drily.

  “What? Well, he is. He killed his own uncle; never forget it. He slayed yer father and took it all away. And now that lassie—who’s nae even his—will tak’ yer place! Well, I’m nae gonnae let him!” ranted Nora.


  Wallace rolled his eyes. He had heard it all before. For years, his mother had regaled him with tales of the laird’s wickedness. He had been raised on her bile, and like her, had grown to detest both Finlay and his daughter.

  Meeting them for the first time had been something of a shock. Neither of them were what he had expected, but the lassie especially had captured his imagination. Despite all his mother’s efforts, he could not bring himself to hate this wee girl.

  “What if I see her again?” asked Wallace softly. He was less given to the extremes of mood that his mother suffered from. He had been surprised to feel an affinity with this young girl—so clearly in possession of her own mind, even at such a tender age. “Would it really be so awful?” he asked innocently.