Latharn's Destiny: Highlander Fate Book Six

by Knight, Stella

  At the mention of a feast, Evelyn’s ears perked up. She needed to serve during tonight’s feast—it would be her first real opportunity to spy for Latharn.

  Adrenaline fueled her as she worked alongside Marsail to chop a pile of vegetables for venison stew, her mind solely on tonight’s feast and how she’d gain useful information. For some reason, she craved Latharn’s respect.

  Before she knew it, evening had fallen. Floraidh made the female servants, who would serve in the great hall during the feast, wash and change into fresh clothing.

  “The laird and the nobles donnae need tae smell ye as they eat,” Floraidh said bluntly, wrinkling her nose.

  Evelyn’s heart pounded against her ribcage as she washed and changed into a fresh servant’s gown. Deoridh, the servant whose place she’d taken, had roughly been her size; Floraidh had given her Deoridh’s clothing to wear. She hoped she'd found out something useful tonight; Latharn’s advisor Gormal and his guard Horas already seemed to think her serving as a spy was a mistake. She needed to prove them wrong.

  “I’m sorry about what I told ye—about Latharn being alive,” Aimil whispered.

  Evelyn whirled, surprised. Aimil hovered behind her with an apologetic smile.

  “’Tis all right,” Evelyn said. She needed to make certain she seemed loyal to Padraig. “’Tis none of my concern even if he were alive. I’m just happy tae have a post here tae serve Laird MacUisdean.”

  “The next bit of rumor I share will be truthful,” Aimil said with a mischievous smile.

  They hurried out of their quarters when Floraidh ordered them to get to work; the nobles were just arriving. Evelyn trailed the other servants to the kitchens where one of the undercooks handed her a platter of fresh bread that she took into the great hall.

  Evelyn stifled a gasp as she entered, taking in its grandeur. In her time, the great halls she’d seen in old castles were dank and crumbling, with no hint of the life that had once dwelled within them. This great hall was sprawling and teemed with life; several dozen nobles sat at long oak-paneled tables beneath a high-vaulted ceiling. Candlelight and flames from the roaring fireplace illuminated the hall in a romantic, hazy glow. Fine wool tapestries decorated with nature scenes draped the walls, giving the large hall a homey feel. The tantalizing scent of smoked venison and roasted vegetables glazed with honey hit her nostrils; she couldn’t help but inhale.

  For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine her parents seated at one of the long tables, their heads bowed close together as they shared a private conversation. Her mother had spoken of meals in the great hall with fondness. At first, she’d found such feasts overwhelming, but as she fell in love with Tormod and the nobles began to accept her, she’d looked forward to the feasts.

  Smiling as she thought of her mother, Evelyn set down the platter of bread on one of the tables and took a subtle look around. At the head table sat Padraig, his head bent as a man at his side spoke to him in low tones. On the opposite end of the hall sat Neacal. Neacal looked around the hall with a bored expression, idly sipping his ale. Why wasn’t he at the head table with his brother?

  As Evelyn swept in and out of the hall for the rest of the feast, setting down and taking away plates, she did her best to listen in on snatches of conversation. But she wasn’t catching anything of note, and it was difficult to understand some of the nobles' thick brogues.

  She’d started to give up on picking up anything of use when she heard an intriguing snatch of conversation as she walked by the head table.

  “It must be done soon tae secure yer claim,” the man at Padraig’s side said.

  “I ken,” Padraig said shortly.

  “Yer brother doesnae—"

  Evelyn had to keep walking to avoid suspicion, but she needed to know more. What must be done soon to secure Padraig’s claim? Was his claim not already secure?

  When she returned to the kitchens to fetch a fresh pitcher of ale, she decided to be bold. She took a deep breath and returned to the great hall, moving to the head table. She kept her head bowed down low as she refilled cups of ale, listening intently to the conversation.

  “And there should be no doubt,” Padraig was saying, “my weak brother willnae try anything, but I have him in the castle, under watch, just in case. And as for the others who may try tae—”

  Evelyn let out a very modern curse as she accidentally spilled ale onto the table. To her horror, Padraig and the nobles seated next to him stopped speaking. Their eyes all landed on her.

  “I—I’m sorry, my laird,” she said hastily, wiping at the table with the corner of her apron.

  “Look at me, lass,” Padraig said, his voice sharp.

  Dread swirling in her gut, she looked up at him. He stared at her for a long moment, something unknown flickering in his grey eyes.

  “What did ye say? That oath ye swore?”

  Evelyn blinked in surprise. And then she remembered that the curse word she'd used—or at least the modern form of the word—didn't yet exist in medieval Scotland. Would telling him the word cause some sort of odd butterfly effect? If she weren't so terrified in that moment, she would have laughed at the thought.

  “I—I said, ‘fuck,’ my laird,” she stammered. Of all the conversations she’d imagined having in the fourteenth century, this wasn’t one of them.

  Padraig raised his eyebrows, amusement dancing in his eyes.

  “I’ve not heard that oath before. I like it,” he said, grinning at the nobles next to him. “Where did ye hear such a word, lass?”

  “From a Frenchman,” she said, thinking quickly.

  Padraig and the men around him laughed, with several men jeering about the raunchiness of the French. Evelyn quickly wiped up the ale, hoping that this was the end of it, and she could slip back out the hall unnoticed. But as she started to turn, Padraig’s hand went up to grab her arm.

  “Take care not tae spill around me again,” he bit out. “I donnae like sloppiness, lass.”

  All humor had vanished from his voice and his expression; his face was completely flat. It was a terrifying transition, and Evelyn now understood how he must use fear to maintain his leadership.

  “Aye, my laird,” she murmured.

  His hand tightened on her arm until she was certain it would leave a bruise. Only then did he release her. Evelyn gave him a hasty bow and left the hall, fear and dread coursing through her.

  Chapter 6

  “Ye didnae hear what he was planning tae do tae secure his claim?” Gormal asked, for what seemed like the millionth time.

  Evelyn gritted her teeth. It was the next afternoon; she and Tulach had left the castle to see Latharn under the guise of running an errand to the village. She’d told them what she’d overheard at the feast, deciding to leave out Padraig’s notice of her—and his threat. She had no doubt they’d refuse to let her keep spying if they knew what had occurred. And though dread still raced through her veins at the memory of Padraig’s cold, cruel expression and his bruising of her arm, she refused to let that one incident dissuade her.

  “No. But there will be other feasts I can serve at. I’ll be able tae learn more,” she said.

  "Very well," Latharn said, after a brief pause. "But be careful. I ken how these feasts can be. Did any of the nobles take notice of ye?”

  She swallowed hard. Telling herself the lie was necessary, she shook her head.

  “No,” she said, and guilt filled her at the relief in Latharn’s eyes.

  "Do ye both have time for a meal before ye return?” Latharn asked, gesturing to a table behind him.

  A strange thrill went through her at Latharn’s request, though she told herself he was just being polite. He’d extended the request to both her and Tulach, who looked delighted as his eager gaze landed on the table set with a meal of smoked salmon, bread and ale.

  “Aye,” Tulach answered for the both of them. “Floraidh doesnae expect us back for some time.”

  Latharn nodded, but his focus was on her. She fe
lt her face warm under his regard as they all sat down to eat. As Gormal and Horas engaged Tulach in conversation, Latharn sat down next to her.

  “I wanted tae thank ye again," he murmured. His breath fanned against her ear, and she had to will herself not to tremble with desire. "For what ye're doing."

  "There’s no need," she said, keeping her gaze on her plate. “I’m doing this for my parents—and because ’tis the right thing tae do.”

  "Still," he insisted. "Ye're doing this at great risk tae yerself."

  She looked up at him as he offered her a heart-stopping smile, and warmth encircled her belly.

  "I heard that ye were a servant for many years?" she asked abruptly, wanting to take the focus off herself—and her lingering guilt over her lie.

  "Aye," he said, shaking his head as if he could hardly believe it himself. "Until a few weeks ago, it was all I kent. I did secretly longed for more—I was hoping tae elevate my station tae steward one day. I never dreamed that I had a title. Land.”

  “A title and lands that were taken from ye,” she reminded him.

  “I ken,” he said, giving her a rueful smile. “But ’tis still much tae take on.”

  “I can only imagine,” she said. “I’ve spent my life as a servant. ’Tis hard for me tae imagine my mother living in a great manor.”

  Though she wasn’t telling the truth about the servant part, she was truthful about her disbelief over her mother living in a fourteenth-century manor. Her mother had seemed so thoroughly modern, with her customary jeans and T-shirts, and the sleek suits she often wore to work. She still couldn’t imagine her mother happily wearing medieval gowns. “But I donnae think she cared about the loss of wealth—only my father. Her heart was forever broken by his loss. I always wanted tae fix things for her—tae see her truly happy.”

  She recalled the lingering sadness that seemed to haunt her mother, a grief that plagued her after being torn from the love of her life and the father of her child. At her insistence, her mother had dated occasionally, but none of the men stuck, and her mother insisted she was fine being alone. But Evelyn knew better. There was simply no one who could replace her father in her mother's heart.

  “I’m sorry tae hear about her grief,” Latharn said, giving her a look of genuine sympathy. “I do envy that ye at least kent yer mother. I loved my adopted parents, but I wish I could remember my birth parents.”

  “My mother told me some things about them. Yer mother doted on ye and yer brothers. As did yer father."

  She told him more of what she could recall from her mother’s stories: how surprisingly athletic his mother had been, performing archery with his father and brothers, accompanying them on hunting trips, not caring about the disapproval of the other nobles. How his father took care to invite a servant to sit at his side during feasts and tell him about his life, encouraging his young brothers to do the same. How both of his parents would never allow the nurses to put him or his brothers to bed; they would insist on singing them to sleep themselves.

  Latharn listened to every word, so intently she wished she had more that she could tell him.

  "Thank ye, Eibhlin," he said, giving her another heart-stopping smile. “What ye’ve told me—’tis like ye’ve given some part of my parents back tae me.”

  “Tell me about yer adopted parents,” she said. “What were they like?”

  Latharn was silent for a long moment, his eyes filling with both love and melancholy.

  “They had many bairns, so they were very strict with us. We had tae tend tae our duties around the house and the land before we could enjoy any leisure. But my father loved tae tell us tales. Tales he’d heard from traveling merchants who visited the lairds he’d served, tales from bards of the clans. And my mother, she liked tae sing as she cooked for us. My father convinced her tae sing for us during our leisure time. She had a lovely voice. Had she been of higher birth, she could have sung at the king’s court.”

  He looked lost in memory for a moment before turning to her.

  “And yer mother?” he asked. “She was a Sassenach, aye?”

  She hesitated, fearful of giving too much away, but he was looking at her with such genuine curiosity that she relented.

  “Aye. She came tae the Highlands tae visit distant kin,” she said, sticking with the cover story her mother had used in the past. “My parents’ eyes locked at a feast. She said she kent she loved my father the moment she laid eyes on him. She told me he confessed the same tae her. He was the love of her life, ’tis why his death broke her so. She raised me with as much joy and love as she could, but there was always something missing. I just wanted her tae have joy in her life.”

  A sudden sadness pricked at her chest at the memory.

  “I may not have kent yer mother, but I suspect ye did bring her joy.”

  Her heart picked up its pace at his words and his kind smile, which only made him more handsome. As his eyes locked with hers, a blazing rush of heat spiraled around her belly, and it suddenly became difficult to breathe.

  "Eibhlin and Tulach should return tae the castle,” Gormal said abruptly, interrupting the moment.

  Evelyn tore her eyes away from Latharn’s, realizing with embarrassment that the others were looking at her and Latharn. Horas looked curious; Tulach looked amused, while Gormal’s face was tight with annoyance.

  Evelyn swallowed hard, lowering her gaze. She reminded herself that this was a different time; she was a mere servant, and Latharn would soon claim his title as laird. They were probably breaking all sorts of societal rules by just sitting next to each other.

  She got to her feet along with Tulach, giving Latharn a hasty bow.

  “Thank ye for the meal, my laird,” she said, before turning to leave, her body still tingling with awareness—and unrequited desire.

  Chapter 7

  Latharn stood by the door, watching as Eibhlin rode away. Spending time with her had been his only flicker of joy after a trying couple of days.

  The day before, Gormal had arranged for him to meet with a noble by the name of Baigh, who’d secretly remained loyal to Latharn's father during the years he'd served Steaphan MacUisdean.

  When Latharn had entered Baigh’s drawing room, he'd sunk to his knees before Latharn, lowering his head in a reverential nod.

  “Yer father remains my chieftain in my heart,” he said, shame flickering across his face. “I feigned loyalty tae Steaphan in order tae survive. Ye donnae ken what it was like back then—Steaphan was killing or imprisoning anyone who didnae fall in line. But I always remained loyal tae yer father in my heart.”

  “Ye donnae have tae apologize,” Latharn said, gesturing for Baigh to get to his feet. He’d done nothing to deserve such reverence, at least not yet. He wanted to earn the respect of the men who chose to follow him.

  “I’ll do what I can—what I must—tae help ye claim yer titles. But I must warn ye, though Padraig has only just come tae power, he’s already instilled much fear intae the peasants and clan nobles alike. I fear ye’ll have a trying time getting men tae swear fealty tae ye.”

  A heaviness seeped into Latharn's bones at this, though he'd already suspected this to be true. Baigh offered to bring some of his kin over to his side before Latharn left his home, yet his heaviness had lingered.

  "If ye're going tae bed the lass," Gormal said now, pulling him from his thoughts, “do it after ye wed a lass who will help solidify yer claim."

  Latharn stiffened, turning to look at Gormal, who was glaring at him. He was grateful that Horas and Aoife were outside—he didn’t need them to hear Gormal’s words.

  "Bed Eibhlin?" he asked, hoping that he looked properly offended, though just the thought sparked a torrent of desire in his belly. Eibhlin lying beneath him, that curtain of fiery red hair spread about, her lovely lips parted as she whimpered his name . . .

  “Ye’re thinking about bedding the lass right now. Like yer father, ye're not a good liar," Gormal said, his expression softening for a moment, a
look of amusement shining in his eyes, before it was gone once more. "The lass is bonnie, aye, but ye need tae think of who ye're going tae wed when ye're laird. 'Tis important that 'tis the right choice; it willnae help yer cause if ye’re bedding a servant while we’re trying tae secure ye a bride.”

  “I wasnae thinking of bedding the lass,” Latharn lied. “I was just showing her kindness. She's risking her neck by helping me.”

  "Which is her choice. Put her from yer mind,” Gormal ordered with such authority that Latharn bristled. He was tempted to remind Gormal that he was the one who would soon be chieftain and laird; he was the one who would dole out orders.

  But he opted not to retort, because Gormal was right. He had too much to focus on; his desire for Eibhlin was a distraction.

  “I’ve arranged a meeting for ye with some of Baigh’s kin. Baigh thinks he can get them tae agree tae follow ye. If they in turn can get their allies tae follow ye, we can add even more men to our side,” Gormal continued. “Then, when ye have enough men, ye can consider allying with Clan Creagach. They've long been allies of Clan MacUisdean, but I ken the chief doesnae care for Padraig. But first ye have tae convince them ye’re a worthy leader, which I’ve no doubt ye can do.”

  Latharn wasn’t as certain of this, but he held his tongue. I will become a leader my men can admire and respect, he told himself firmly, pushing his lingering lustful thoughts of Eibhlin aside. I must.

  * * *

  The next day, Latharn traveled with Gormal and Horas to Baigh’s manor, where he was to meet with Baigh’s kin: two of his brothers and a cousin. Unlike Baigh’s reverential greeting, these men regarded him with skepticism—even traces of suspicion.

  “I can see that ye’re Seoras MacUisdean’s son. Ye have the look of him,” Baigh's brother Camron said, eyeing him closely. “But how do we ken ye can lead? Baigh tells us ye’ve lived as a servant?”