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

by Shona Thompson

  Without speaking, Padraig leaned into the burn, filling the drinking flasks. As he did so, Finlay turned to Wallace frankly.

  “I dinnae ken what yer mother has told ye about Seoras, but here’s the truth. I ken ye dinnae want to hear it, sonny, but he was a bloody murderer…”

  The words tumbled from the laird’s mouth without any apparent warning, unexpectedly spearing Wallace in the heart. He hadn’t anticipated this. He could feel his heart pumping hectically. Already flushed, the extra heat dispersed around his face, beginning to coalesce into a sort of rage.

  “Nae, he wisnae. He was wronged by them all,” Wallace muttered unclearly.

  Finlay and Padraig shared a glance. “Nae, he wisnae. Ye dae ken he killed his brother in cold blood—my father—just so he could get his hands on the lairdship?”

  “But, he was attacked by yer father, wis he nae?” said Wallace, in confusion. “My mother told me. Everyone in the clanless kens it!”

  Wallace’s mind whirled about desperately, trying to process the facts he was hearing. But Padraig just looked sadly into his eyes. “Nae, lad, that’s nae what happened, an’ I was there! Seoras wanted the lairdship and killed his brother. It’s still something that’s wi’ me to this day,” said Padraig.

  Wallace stared into the old man’s face, there was no denying his emotion, which momentarily misted his clear blue eyes.

  “It’s true,” said Finlay softly. “Me father was murdered by yers. Everything that has happened between the two clans, twas all because of Seoras…”

  “But ye killed him!” he argued.

  Finlay nodded, but then added, “Aye, but only because he made me. It was either me or him. I had no choice but to fight!” Wallace could see the pain in his eyes when he continued on, “An’ did ye ken that he killed my father right in front of me when I was only a wean?”

  Wallace felt bile rise painfully in his chest. This was not what he had been told. Although now that he came to think about it, he had heard a rumor circulating through the clanless, saying that Seoras had indeed landed the first blow and led them to ruin. At the time, he dismissed it, considering those who told it to be traitors—but now, he wasn’t so sure.

  “So ye must hate me, right?” Wallace stuttered, trying to come to grips with all this. His mind was spinning. Surely there was no hope now of Finlay ever accepting him.

  But to his surprise, Finlay shook his head. “Nae lad, I dinnae hate ye. In fact, I feel some sympathy with ye. Ye didnae choose this. Not even the clanless chose this. The only person who brought all this on yer people was Seoras…and…” he cut off, his green eye checking Padraig.

  “An’ we have been thinking that it is time to put it all right,” said the counselor in a quiet voice.

  For a moment, Wallace tensed. He was not sure what Padraig meant by this. Instinctively, his hand crept towards his dagger. Was this an ambush? Would Finlay have his men leap out and slay him?

  Maybe Padraig could read his mind, because he extended a friendly hand to him. “Relax. What we mean is, put it right by uniting the two clans once more, an’ ye can be the one to do it,” Padraig told him.

  Mad emotions were racing through Wallace’s heart. It was all too much to take in, and having just got himself to his feet, he immediately sat back down again by the slender streamside.

  “Aye, ye take a minute, laddie,” said Padraig softly. He looked to Finlay, who continued for him.

  Water continued to rush through the burn, the noise drowning out the beating of his heart. Wallace was glad of its cool rush coursing through his veins, slowing down the panic he felt inside. The shade of the crag side seemed to cast a conspiratorial shadow over the men as they conversed.

  “Ye see, Wallace, it’s obvious, e’en to an old goat like me, that ye and my daughter have something between ye,” Finlay said, his differently-colored eyes meeting Wallace’s.

  Wallace didn’t know what to say. “Aye, well, I mean, nae,” he floundered. It still wasn’t too clear to the lad just what the laird was saying. It couldn’t be possible that he was about to give him his blessing, was it?

  “So, then, what do ye say that we try to get along and unite the two sides of our family once more? With ye and Freya at the heart of the new clan?” Finlay said.

  Wallace’s head almost burst open. This was more than he could have ever hoped for, but he was struggling with the emotion of it all. The lies that his mother had told him had finally been laid bare, and the shock against his young mind was immense.

  He was so overwhelmed that it felt like he could not speak. Something tight was gathering around his throat.

  Just as he brought himself back under enough control to answer, a loud shout rang out from the shadows of the crag.

  “Attack! Kill! Kill the laird! Slit his throat!”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Well done, Wallace. I had thought ye’d abandoned us, but ye’ve played yer part well!”

  Men poured into the valley from out of nowhere. They must have been hiding in gaps in the crags, just waiting.

  “Get him! Slice his throat! Kill him!” she screeched.

  “Mother!” cried Wallace, appalled.

  The satisfied face of his mother smirked back at him. Proudly, she shouted to the laird, “Ye see, that son o’ mine, he’s every bit o’ his father! He will tak’ yer place, ye’ll see!”

  Nora had the laird surrounded, by a squad of men, some of whom Wallace recognized from the clanless houses. One face in particular leaped out at him from the crazed semi-circle guarding the laird.

  “Hughie!” pleaded Wallace. “Nae, stop this; it’s all wrong!” he yelled. He hoped that Finlay could see that none of this was his doing, but when he caught a brief sight of the laird in the scrum, Finlay shot Wallace a look of disgust.

  The slack-jawed youth looked up at him with bovine torpidity. It wasn’t hard for Wallace to disarm Hughie, deftly removing his dagger in one stealthy swoop. For a moment, Hughie looked as if he was going to fight, but something in Wallace’s determined stance must have scared him off.

  Hughie turned on his heel, scarpering across the parched and craggy landscape as fast as his bandy legs would carry him, hiccupping loudly.

  Incensed, Nora turned to Wallace, but before she could get a word in edgeways, he pushed her quickly out of the way. Blindsided, Nora stumbled and fell against the dried grass.

  He hadn’t wanted to do it, but it was the only way to get her to move. However, the men that encircled the laird would not be so easy to shift. There were three of them—all men that Wallace vaguely recognized from his home; thickset, square-jawed lads, each armed with clubs and daggers.

  Before he had chance to feel daunted, Wallace launched himself headlong into them, stabbing and slashing in a frenzy of rage.

  “Get out of here while ye still can!” he warned them. The conflicted feelings in his veins had been rising. No, he didn’t want to fight his own men, but equally, he could not let them kill the laird.

  Wallace’s eyes connected with Padraig’s blue bolts of steel. Giving a quick nod, they acted in unison. Together, they threw themselves at the three men, pushing and shoving, turning themselves into a human battering ram.

  “Go!” Padraig yelled to Finlay, spying a gap in the attack. Finlay was able to get free. However, Padraig was bogged down with fighting, the three sweating brigands almost on top of him.

  “Padraig!” Finlay called, looking aghast. Padraig was singlehandedly taking on the three thugs, but the counselor just shook his head. The laird clearly did not understand Wallace’s actions in the fight and scowled at him hotly.

  “Nae,” Padraig said decisively. “Dinnae fash yoursel’ wi’ me! Ye get away!” he insisted. “Please, I can manage!”

  As if to prove his point, Padraig kicked one of the brigands out of the way. He toppled on top of the other two, creating confusion.

  “Gae!” shouted Padraig. “I’ll follow ye!”

  It seemed as if Padraig had the situ
ation under control and was breaking free from the grasp of the men. Reluctantly, Finlay turned to go, speeding across the arid landscape.

  But within seconds, the lull in the fighting instantly reignited. One of the men captured Padraig.

  “Padraig!” called Wallace, speeding over to his side. The cowardly men were attacking him while he was already down and bleeding. One of them—a sneaky-faced, mousy-haired man—ran his hands up and down his garments, searching for loot. In anger, Padraig cried out. Wallace rushed to his aid.

  But it was too late. The silver-haired counselor’s eyes were already closing, a weak sigh coming from his ailing heart.

  “Padraig!” called Wallace, aghast. Immediately, guilt rushed in. Only a short while ago, he had thought this man a traitor, but now he knew better. He had sacrificed himself for what was right. Wallace’s heart pumped painfully. He struggled in vain to get the man to breathe.

  “It’s nae use, Wallace,” his mother snarled, suddenly appearing from behind him. “The cur’s dead, and so too will be the laird if ye just help us!”

  It was a plaintive plea, shot right into the heart of the lad, but it refused to pass through. Wallace stood his ground.

  “Nae,” he said, throwing her out of the way once more. Then he turned his attention to the three pigs in front of him, stripping Padraig of his possessions and his dignity.

  Incensed, Wallace found some unknown strength to pummel his way through the men, stabbing and punching. It took a long time. Wallace did not know how long he was there in the whirling heart of the angry malsrom, but not for one minute did he falter.

  The only way to protect the laird from further onslaught was to get rid of these men—and his mother. After several minutes of rough shoving and fighting, Wallace finally succeeded in inflicting enough damage upon the trio to make them retreat; one of them nursing a broken jaw, and the other, with blood dripping from his head. The third man simply fled, terrified, at the sight of Wallace and his berserk eyes.

  But victory had come at a terrible cost. Wallace looked to where the silver-haired counselor lay.

  “Goodbye Padraig,” he said simply. “Yer sacrifice shall not be in vain!”

  Wallace’s mind spinning madly, he paused by the running burn, now stained red with the blood of Padraig. From behind him, Nora burst through the shadows.

  “Traitor! Ye let him go! Yer nae son o’ mine!” she barked, her blue eyes intense with hatred. But the hatred turned to hurt. “I needed ye. Where were ye?” she asked.

  It was quiet now, the energy of the fight dissipating into the heavy summer skies. For a moment, Wallace could almost imagine the whole thing away, as if it had never happened, its memory being carried on the gentle breeze across the landscape.

  But the wounds on his wrists were all too real, as was the bleeding corpse of Padraig before him.

  “Ye needed me! What about me? What about what I needed—like to ken the truth about Seoras!” he snarled, turning his ire deeply onto his mother. There was no way he was taking this from her. “Ye’ve done nothing but lie!”

  His mother gaped at him open-mouthed. It seemed as if she was about to say something, to deliver another chapter of her mind to him. But before she could, Wallace turned on his heel to go.

  “Wallace!” his mother called angrily from behind. “Dinnae ye dare walk away from me!”

  But Wallace was already leaving. It was the only way. If he had to listen to any more of her lies, he didn’t know what he might do.

  “Wallace!” Freya leaped up and ran towards him. His arrival had disturbed the early morning quiet of the keep, with dogs barking loudly in the barracks outside and a loud chattering coming from the members of the court.

  Freya had been quietly sewing in the corner of the hall when Wallace had come clattering into the room. Instantly, she jumped up, frantic at the sight of the bleeding, disheveled lad.

  Outside, a murmur distorted the peace—guards, soldiers, men all humming with concern. Something was happening—that much was clear, but no-one seemed to know quite what.

  “What, what’s going on?” Freya asked of him. Wallace cut through the throng that he had seemingly brought with him, servants darting this way and that, people shouting and yelling.

  “Freya!” Wallace hurled himself immediately into her arms. A jolt ran through Freya’s body, his touch instantly invigorating and befuddling her in one go.

  “Freya, it was terrible! Padraig’s dead! But ye must believe this, I didnae ken anything about it afore it happened. I mean—at least—I didnae have any part in what happened!” he pleaded, falling to her knees.

  Alarmed Freya looked down at him. “Wallace? What? Padraig’s dead? How? Where’s Father?”

  “He was attacked by the clanless out in the lands, but I swear, I didnae play any part…” Wallace explained, his words tumbling into the stunned face of the girl.

  Freya felt herself turn cold. “Attacked? Where’s father? Wallace? By whom?”

  “By his mother’s men!” Finlay’s voice rang out as he appeared behind them. Freya spun her head around. Before her stood her father, tatty and undone, his léine all ripped and blood soaking the sides of his kilt. “An’ all on his say-so!”

  “Father?” Freya called. Her mind was in confusion. On one side, she had Wallace entreating her to believe him—on the other, the face of her father, demanding that she listen.

  “Please, sire, will ye listen,” Wallace rushed straight up to the side of the laird, who had assumed the center of the room, seating himself on the fine mahogany chair by the fireplace. The fire was unlit, but the fury burning in her father was enough to heat any room.

  Even though the darkness of the keep usually ensured the summer sun kept out, there was no escaping the febrile atmosphere in the hall that morning.

  Instantly, the hum in the room reduced to silence. Wallace looked momentarily awed, his face connecting tentatively with Freya’s. His eyes were flashing with all sorts of things that she could not comprehend.

  She so wanted to believe in him, and yet, he had somehow been involved in an ambush of her father!

  “Nae, I willnae listen! I have heard enough! I saw enough! If Padraig was killed, then ye are the reason for it! An’ ye would have killed us all!” he hurled his words like a stone.

  Freya’s eyes opened wide in horror. “Wallace?” she asked, disbelieving.

  “Nae, nae, it’s nae true. I promise ye, Freya, I wouldnae harm ye, not e’er,” he protested.

  “He kent all about the plot! It was all planned from the start!” exploded her father, fastening a protective arm about his daughter.

  The faces in the hall froze in disgust. Wallace could sense the mood changing. Looking around anxiously, he tried once more to get them on his side.

  “Please, I didnae ken about this. I was trying to stop it!” he cried.

  “Guards!” Finlay commanded. “Take him to the end of the clan lands and leave him there!”

  From the recesses of the darkened room, a pair of burly men were summoned like obedient dogs. Immediately, they set themselves at either side of the lad, bundling him into capitulation.

  “Now listen to me, laddie, an’ listen well.” The laird spoke softly, but with a clear menace. He advanced over to where Wallace was being held securely by the two expressionless guards. “If I ever see yer face on Craig land again, t’will be on a spike! Do ye hear me!”

  Then he shook Wallace vigorously before pushing him back out of the room. From beside her father, Freya choked back her tears as Wallace was bundled away at full speed.

  “Wallace,” she whispered. “Nae, it cannae be true,” she said hopelessly. She snatched up her skirts and raced out of the room.

  Freya ran and ran, stumbling as fast as she could, through the hallway of the keep and out of the front door. She raced across the pebble path in blind desperation, tears streaming from her eyes.

  “Freya!” called her father loudly. “Come back here!”

  But Freya pa
id him no heed, casting her eyes around madly for any signs of Wallace. Wherever the guards had taken him, they were far away now. She traced the bare outline of the crag side for miles around without seeing a hair of him.

  “Listen, hen, he’s as guilty as hell,” her father called out to her. She could hear his voice carry on the breeze that teased through the arid atmosphere.

  Freya sat, stiff-backed, unable to believe it. It all looked so bad--but then, from inside her, a memory popped to the fore.

  Just before he had gone with her father, Wallace had been trying to tell her something. And before that, at the fair, he was on the verge of saying something; something that Freya felt certain was serious.