The Highlander’s Demand

by Wine, Mary

  His father had made use of such invitations often, and he’d handed out rewards to his favorite members of the staff.

  “I’ll manage well on me own, Fenella.”

  She frowned. “Perhaps, Una? She has golden hair.”

  Buchanan shook his head and sat down to begin unlacing his boots. Innis was quick to move toward him, slipping to her knees to help work the leather lace free of the antler-horn buttons which ran on either side of the opening. It was caked with mud and grime from the road, but she applied herself to the chore with zeal. He struggled to hide his distaste. Was it too much to ask of fate for a woman to reach for him because she desired him freely and no his position as laird?

  Rhedyn hadn’t offered herself to him in leu of not being locked above the kitchen.

  But how long would the lass’s resolve last?

  Buchanan was suddenly bone weary.

  “I’ll bathe by meself, Fenella. Go on with ye both now,” Buchanan encouraged them.

  Innis sat back on her haunches and sent a look toward Fenella.

  “Do nae start thinking I don’t have a taste for women,” Buchanan admonished them both.

  “I would no’ dare think such a thing,” Fenella defended herself quickly.

  Too bloody quickly…

  Buchanan finished with one lace and pulled the boot off his foot. “Me father has no’ been in his grave for more than a season. A bit of decorum is called for. As it is, ye insisted I move into this chamber.”

  “It is the laird’s chamber,” Fenella stated firmly. “Every castle has its spies. We can nae have any talk about whether or not ye have been accepted as the new laird. If ye took yer bath behind the kitchens, everyone would say I don’t accept ye as me laird.”

  Fenella snapped her fingers at Innis. They both lowered themselves before they left. Buchannan reached up and drew his hand down his face. There were moments when he wished himself the humblest of crofter sons.

  Rhedyn likely felt similar at that moment.

  That thought sobered him.

  More like shamed ye….

  He tossed his kilt aside and pulled his shirt over his shoulders. The tub was warm and inviting, but as he sank into the water, he wasn’t feeling anything but disgust for his actions.

  There were a great many things he’d known becoming laird would make him. But a kidnapper? There was something he’d not contemplated doing. At least not beyond a bit of well-meant ribbing over some ransom for a bride perhaps.

  At least vengeance is no’ leaving ye satisfied…

  Perhaps there was some satisfaction in that idea. Buchanan ducked his head beneath the water and worked a lump of soap through the strands of his hair.

  But he couldn’t dismiss the guilt gnawing at his insides. His father had tried to explain it to him more than once. Buchanan felt the memories stirring as he rinsed the soap off.

  Son, a laird must do what will cause the least suffering. Even when the path to that end is no’ something you might have ever seen yourself taking.

  Doing the wrong thing, for the right reason…

  Buchanan understood it now. As he rose from the tub, he felt his teeth grinding. For certain, Rhedyn would like a bath, but he didn’t dare order one taken to her. His clan wanted her blood, and if he wasn’t going to appease that demand, then the Mackenzies certainly wanted to know their enemy’s daughter was suffering discomfort.

  She was a strong lass.

  Alone, he might contemplate the strength she’d displayed. If she stood up to him in front of his clan, though, he’d have to crush her. But there was some solace in the fact that she was a woman. Even if he crushed her, she’d live, and in time, he’d find a way to send her back to her father.

  It was an imperfect solution to a bad situation. But what mattered was the good which would come out of it. Even if Colum Lindsey had muttered the details of where Iain was riding, Buchanan wasn’t fool enough to discount the fact that his half-brother had to bear part of the responsibility for his own death. Raiding by moonlight meant accepting the risk that those ye rode against might not allow ye to take what was theirs.

  The problem lay in the men who had ridden at Iain’s side. Good Mackenzies who could no more abandon their laird’s brother than their own colors. Even if they’d been opposed to the actions of their leader, they’d have fought to the bitter end beside him.

  And so, they’d died.

  And now, Buchanan was tasked with keeping his Retainers from riding out to spill Lindsey blood in retaliation that would spawn a chain of bloodshed.

  A crofter’s son…

  Well, he was the laird’s son and now laird. Even a crofter’s son could be tasked with no’ being a coward and facing up to the challenges presented to him by life. Achievement wasn’t at the end of the easy path. Rhedyn was a laird’s daughter. She’d know it, too.

  In any event, they were both stuck with their lots. And that was simply the end of it.

  And they were stuck with each other, too.

  That was the part Buchanan knew without a doubt was going to keep him awake.

  *

  Buchanan had locked her in a storeroom.

  At least it had functioned as one at some point. Now, it was mostly empty. A thick layer of dust lay over the entire floor, affording Rhedyn a clear view of her own tracks. Her nose tickled as she turned in a slow circle to investigate her surroundings.

  The shutters over the windows were weathered and dry. The wood had shrunk, allowing gaps between the two sides to appear. The stone wall marked where rain and snow had made its way inside to drip down to the floor. A dark trail of mold had grown almost to the floor.

  The room was located all the way at the top of the largest tower in the castle. Above her head, she could see the rafters which held up the roof. No one came up to it because of the climb. The few bundles in the room were covered in dust as well, proving they’d been placed there and forgotten.

  Was that Buchanan’s intent?

  To forget her?

  The afternoon wind was making the shutters rattle. She could smell rain on the air and soon fat drops were splatting on the closed shutters. With the rain clouds came a gloom that cast the room into semidarkness. The lack of light spurred Rhedyn into investigating the few bundles resting on an old box. She’d be locked in darkness soon.

  There was little in the bundles, just rabbit pelts. They’d been carefully stacked and wrapped to keep them fresh. She undid more than a hundred of them, likely the fruits of coffers paying their annual rents in goods they could procure from the land. The fur was soft and warm, the hides cured so they could be sewn into hoods. Added to wool, the pelts would make a very nice cloak or over robe for the winter months.

  The wind gusted again, filling the room with a chill.

  She put the bundles aside and looked inside the wooden box. It was a large one, filled with carefully folded ends of wool fabric. Next to the fabric was a sewing box. She pulled out the contents, smiling at the way someone had thoughtfully stored the scissors and pins inside more wool to keep them from rusting. Small tails of thread lay on the bottom of the crate, proving someone had sat in the room and worked a needle through the pelts.

  But whatever they had sat on was long gone. There was not so much as an end of a candle anywhere. Long cobwebs trailed down from the rafters, many of them dark with dust. The lonely room chilled her blood.

  There were worse fates than death.

  Left alive in the bare room, there were countless opportunities for suffering. She suddenly understood why a person might choose to end their own life. Starving took a very long time when compared to bleeding to death. Rhedyn looked at the small scissors in her hand.

  “Kill yerself, and I will return for yer sister.”

  Buchanan’s words rose from her memory. She listened to the shutters rattle and looked back at the pelts.

  She’d have to make do. And keep her mind from running wild with crazy thoughts. Idleness gave her too much time to think.r />
  She pulled one of the needles free and threaded it. Selecting two of the pelts, she began to tack them together. She wasn’t going to shiver through the night hours when there was something she might do about it. Her dress was made only of linen, for she’d been bound to a wedding, not traveling. The afternoon rain was cutting through it easily, promising her a frigid night if she had naught else to shield her from the highland temperature. Later, the wool scrapes would make a fine partlet to protect her neck and chest.

  The light was fading when she heard steps coming close. She set her blanket aside and stood. Someone fit the key into the lock and turned it. The chain was pulled free before the door opened. The yellow glow of a single flame spilled inside. Rhedyn bit her lip to contain the sound which wanted to escape her.

  She’d never take a simple candle for granted again.

  The pool of light cast by the flame was like the most treasured friend. Even if it was being carried by the huge Butler. Even his scarred, hairless head was a welcome sight.

  He dropped a bucket on the inside of the chamber with a grunt. She thought she witnessed a glimmer of pity in his eyes, but he’d placed the candle down beside the bucket and closed the door before she was certain.

  Not that it mattered. The sound of the chain being replaced made it clear Tyree was loyal to his laird’s will.

  But he’d brought her light.

  The little, flickering flame was cheerful. She moved forward to investigate what the bucket contained. The wooden slats which made up the bucket were old and dry. It would no longer hold milk or water. The Butler had used it to carry up several items. The largest was a chamber pot. Her temper flared over feeling thankful for such an item, but she had to be practical as well.

  Her belly rumbled as she lifted a bowl from on top of the chamber pot. The scent of warm stew filled her nose, making her mouth water. She sat down and unfolded the length of linen wrapped around the bowl. A spoon was tucked into the bucket, along with a pottery jug with a piece of waxed rope into its neck. Once she removed the stopper, she found the jug filled with fresh water. The last thing in the bucket was a simple wooden comb. She stared at it as she chewed on a piece of meat from the stew. She wouldn’t have thought Tyree would think of such a comfort, and she discovered herself feeling warmed by his foresight.

  Do nae see more in his actions than a man obeying his laird…

  Tyree had heard Buchanan tell her not to kill herself. Aye, the supper was to ensure she lived.

  But the comb?

  Rhedyn shook her head as she tipped the bowl up to drink more. It was humbling to discover herself so grateful for something as basic as a comb. She hadn’t been properly thankful for the life she lived.

  With her belly full, she pulled the fur blanket close and sipped at the water. The wind made the flame dance. She hummed softly in response. Somehow, she’d get out of the room.

  Somehow.

  *

  Buchanan paused outside the door.

  Humming?

  He listened to the soft, feminine sound and felt his emotions stir. Crying he might have understood, but the lyrical melody stunned him. He stood for a long moment, his lips curving up. But a tingle on his nape made him turn.

  Tyree was watching him from the stairs. The Butler had one of his massive hands clasped around his ring of keys to keep them from jingling. Buchanan felt the man’s presence like a noose around his neck. The grin was gone from his lips along with any outward show of his emotions.

  “Ye fed her?” Buchanan asked as he moved toward the stairs.

  Tyree nodded. “Seeing ye told her no’ to kill herself or ye’d go after the younger daughter. Seems a waste of a trip to Lindsey land to find her sister. I’m thinking of the horses, mind ye.”

  “It would be a waste,” Buchanan agreed.

  His tone was gruff. He passed Tyree as he tried to decide why he was so irritated. The answer Buchanan arrived at didn’t settle his mood. He grunted as he walked by Fenella, never seeing the calculating look the Head-of-House sent his way.

  The reason for his mood was simple enough. As much as he hadn’t wanted a hostage to deal with, what he needed even less was a distraction. His father had only been dead for six months. Securing and maintaining the position of laird required all of Buchanan’s attention. Highlanders didn’t follow a weakling.

  Aye, that’s how ye ended up with a hostage, laddie…

  He wasn’t regretting it. Not when the alternative was to have carried back the knowledge that he’d run Colum Lindsey through.

  She’d likely be crying if he’d killed her father.

  At least in private. It was the truth that Rhedyn Lindsey had a solid spine, and it was the sort of compliment he didn’t often get to pay to a female. She’d spit in his eye, sure enough, if he earned her disapproval. Something new stirred inside him. A ‘something’ he got the feeling he’d be better off not naming. At least so far as it went with his captive.

  Buchanan stopped, pausing in the passageway between the kitchens and the great hall. A few candles flickered in holders along the walls, but they could only chew back a portion of the darkness. It suited his mood as he contemplated the way being the laird meant he was going to live a life of always trying to decide which evil action was the lesser one.

  “Ye look in need of some comfort, Laird.”

  Buchanan snapped his head around to see Innis emerging from the kitchens. There was a sweet smile on her lips and a gleam in her eyes.

  “I told ye abovestairs, lass, I am no’ interested.”

  Innis fluttered her eyelashes, appearing just a bit disappointed as she lifted the tray in her hands up to gain his notice. “Fenella instructed me to serve ye, and I dare not refuse. She might put me out of the kitchens if I am disobedient. I need me place, for me parents are both gone. Surely ye do nae begrudge me a small place here?”

  The tray held a goblet.

  His Retainers would require cunning to handle, but Buchanan realized his household would take just as much forethought. Fenella watched him closely, and her staff was very good at reporting his every move. Innis came forward, offering the tray. As Buchanan lifted the goblet, he recognized the scent of the cider.

  It was one of his favorites.

  He’d thought he’d snuck more than a pitcher or two of it out of the kitchens beneath Fenella’s notice, but he realized it wasn’t likely so. Fenella’s duties went beyond just knowing how much flour was needed to see the Retainers fed through the winter. She needed to understand how to please her laird.

  “Thank Fenella for me.”

  Innis lowered herself, but her eyes offered him a blazing look of spiritedness if he was in the mind to partake of more than just cider. When he continued to turn away, the maid let out a sound of frustration.

  “Fenella is burying herself in work…to forget the loss of her son.”

  Buchanan stopped and turned toward Innis. There was a flash of victory in her eyes that she didn’t allow to show on her face.

  “Iain should have had more care for his actions,” Buchanan began carefully. “He condemned the men who rode with him to death with his recklessness. Raiding by moonlight is best left to fireside tales, for the reality is no’ so grand.”

  “It was no’ Iain’s fault that he was betrayed by the bastard Lindseys,” Innis declared passionately.

  “A man must take responsibility for his actions, Innis.” Buchannan stepped closer to her to keep their conversation from traveling down the hallways and into the ears of anyone who might be hiding in the shadows.

  She stepped forward, making Buchanan stop short. He had a clear view of her ample cleavage.

  “I know ye are a man who does nae shirk from his responsibilities,” she whispered heatedly.

  Buchanan shook his head, and her eyes narrowed.

  “Better to let me help ye find a husband, Innis, a man of yer own.”

  She took the last step between them. “I’d forgive ye a wife.”

  Bucha
nan retreated from her. Frustration showed on her face for a moment. “I can be very helpful to ye. A girl like me may no’ have anything much to her name, but I’ve heard plenty in me time serving. I know what’s being said and by who. A girl like me can help ye avoid making mistakes.”

  Her threat wasn’t lost on him. Buchanan’s visit to the storeroom had been noted by his staff. Perhaps in an English castle the servants might keep to their places, but every person serving in the kitchens was a member of the clan as well.

  Another lesson his father had made sure to teach Buchanan.

  Damn Iain and his foolishness!

  Buchanan felt his half-brother reaching back from the grave. Iain had always been more rebellious to their father’s rules. His mother had followed her heart and defied the wishes of her family to love Buchanan’s father. Her son had inherited that trait and never mastered self-control.

  “Thank ye for the offer, Innis.”

  He left before she might come up with another argument. But he doubted she was finished attempting to secure a place in his bed. Buchanan rubbed his forehead once he’d reached the sanctuary of his chamber. It was the only place he was completely at ease now.

  He suddenly understood why Rhedyn was humming inside the storeroom. She was alone there, with no one to judge her. It was a pleasant thought indeed. Even if it surprised him to discover himself contemplating how alike their circumstances were.

  Captor or captive. There appeared to be little difference.

  *

  Edinburgh…

  “Ye are displeased with me,” Vychan stated what was obvious.

  Colum grunted. “Me daughter is in the hands of the Mackenzie, and we are riding south.”

  “We will no’ be able to help her if we are dead on the border of their land,” Vychan informed his sire. “The Makenzies are powerful.”

  “I know it well.”

  “Me mother was a McLeod, sister of the laird,” Vychan said. “Once I’m legitimate and yer heir, Cedric McLeod will have a stake in this matter. Even the Mackenzie will no’ want to face so many clans united against them.”

  “A sound enough plan,” Column agreed. “Except why are we sitting here?”

  The town house was a fine one. Servants were hurrying to pull lengths of cloth off the furniture and open wide the window shutters. They’d arrived without warning, but it wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. The servants who kept the Edinburgh residence of the Lindsey clan were adapt at springing into action when their master appeared suddenly.