by Gwyn Brodie
Her mother hurried into the room, wiping her eyes. "Isobel, Laird Drummond has been badly injured."
Isobel breathed a sigh of relief. "I was so afraid he was dead. Do you ken what happened to the poor man?"
"He was seized upon by two highwaymen—and in his own stables!" her mother sobbed.
Isobel met Glena's wide-eyed gaze. "Were the scoundrels apprehended?"
"Nay. They escaped, but the stablemaster and two of the stable lads managed to keep them from taking the laird's stallion. Please excuse me. I must see if I can be of help to Lady Drummond." She spun around and left the room.
Isobel stared out the window as far as her eyes could see. The Highlander had been right. They had doubled back. Her breath suddenly froze in her chest. Could they, at that very moment, be closing in on Drostan. He had vowed he would watch his back, and Isobel prayed with all that was holy, he would.
Chapter Two
Drostan rode into Edinburgh just before nightfall and headed down Grassmarket Street. It was nigh deserted as the majority of the town's residents had already gone to have their supper and find their bed—the very thing he intended to do once he reached the White Hart Inn.
He glanced up at Edinburgh Castle. Torchlight danced along the outer walls of the impregnable fortress standing guard over the city, as it had for many centuries. At a distance, the castle was impressive but close-up, extraordinary. Drostan had had the distinct pleasure of being inside the Scottish stronghold several times over the years and had always left in awe of its unparalleled strength and opulence.
Leaving Eachann at the nearby stables, he made his way to the inn to procure food and lodging for the night. While waiting for his meal to arrive, Drostan leaned back against the stone wall and sipped his whisky, savoring the slow burn of the amber liquid on his throat and tongue. Isobel suddenly came to mind, and he smiled. Perhaps he might chance to see the delightful lass on his return trip to the Highlands. He ran his fingers over his bruised ribs. But he would make sure to stay in her good graces—or at the least, far away from her feet.
The stout innkeeper was most generous with his venison stew and fresh buttered bread, but Drostan was famished and finished off a second serving before shoving his seat away from the table. As he made his way toward the stairs leading up to his room, he came face to face with Marcus Anderson and silently cursed.
Marcus frowned. "What are you doing in Edinburgh, Mackintosh?"
"I might ask you the very same thing, Anderson."
Marcus raised his chin and tried to look down his nose as he had when they were lads. But his meager attempt at intimidation was useless as Drostan was now at least a head taller and much broader through the shoulders. "Father and I are here on important business," he sneered, black eyes glaring as he raked his fingers through his dark hair, which even at thirty-four exhibited a fair amount of grey.
"Then, I'll keep you no longer." Drostan turned and headed up the stairs. Inside the small bedchamber, he flung open the shutters and stared out into the darkness, his hands fisted at his side. He blew out a long breath and removed his boots, then threw himself onto the bed, ignoring the barking dog outside his window and the muffled sounds coming from the bedchamber next to his own.
Damn Marcus Anderson! He clenched his teeth as an unpleasant memory from his childhood resurfaced. If there was anyone he despised, it was that bastard. Six years older than Drostan, he had relentlessly tormented him and his younger brother, Ailig, without mercy while fostering at Willowbrae Castle. But one day, when Drostan had seen but nine summers, Marcus's antics went too far.
Marcus had been at Willowbrae for nigh on two months, during which Drostan and Ailig had spent most of that time hiding from him, for they were no match for the boy who had seen fifteen summers and was large for his age. Drostan had stood at the end of the corridor and watched Marcus sneak into his father's—the laird's—bedchamber, a place Marcus had no business being. Not thinking of the consequences, Drostan slipped into the room behind Marcus and saw him pick up one of his father's prized sgian dubhs.
"Put that down," Drostan ordered.
Marcus had only laughed, then came toward him with the hilt of the weapon gripped in his hand. "If you tell anyone I was in here, I'll cut out your tongue and those of your sniveling brothers as well."
Even though frightened by Marcus's threat to do him harm, Drostan drew himself up, clenched his small fists, and stood his ground. "I'm not afraid of you, Marcus."
The older boy snorted, then grabbed Drostan around the neck and dragged him across the room. Before he knew what was happening, Marcus picked him up, tossed him into a chest, and shut it. Drostan heard the door close, and the other boy's footsteps grow faint.
At first, Drostan was relieved his tormentor had gone, but when he tried to raise the top to get out, he realized Marcus had locked him inside. For more than two hours—in total darkness—he shouted, pounded on the chest, and clawed at the wood around the lock, hoping that would somehow make it open. As time passed, it became harder and harder for him to breathe. Though tears streamed down his cheeks, and his throat ached from shouting, Drostan refused to give up. He filled his lungs and let out a blood-curdling scream. Moments later, he heard the bedchamber door open. He balled up his small fists, fearing Marcus had come back to finish him off. The lock slid open, and then the lid was slowly raised. His heart drummed against his ribs as he blinked up into Ailig's cherub face. He had never been so glad to see anyone in his entire life.
His younger brother's dark eyes widened. "What happened to you, Drostan?" He ran out into the corridor, shouting to let everyone know his brother's whereabouts.
By the time his parents rushed into the bedchamber, Drostan had crawled from the chest and lay stretched out on the floor. His hands were bloody from having torn away portions of his nails while tearing at the wood, and his face was sticky with a mixture of dried tears and blood.
When his mother saw him, she cried out, then sank to the floor beside him and drew him onto her lap. No matter that she was wearing her new yellow gown, the color of buttercups—her son needed her. All of his brothers, except for Taran, who had seen but one summer, stood quietly nearby, fear vivid in their young eyes.
Once his father learned the truth of what had happened, he confronted Marcus. Of course, the bastard denied having anything to do with it. But even so, he was escorted from Willowbrae the following day after breaking his fast. One of the Mackintosh guards serving as an escort had delivered a missive from Drostan's father to the Earl of Kinkirk, Marcus's father, explaining the situation. Marcus was later sent to foster with another laird.
The next time he saw Marcus, Drostan had seen sixteen summers, and Ailig fourteen. The Andersons had spent two weeks at Willowbrae, but by then, Drostan was at least four inches taller than the whoreson, and his shoulders much broader, with his brother not far behind. The miserable cur had left the two of them alone, but Drostan and Ailig had kept a close watch over their three younger brothers. Marcus only preyed on those weaker than himself.
Drostan swung his legs over the edge of the bed and shook his head to clear away the past. He was no longer a boy but a man full-grown and a Highland warrior who could handle a broadsword better than most. Marcus Anderson would do well to keep out of his way.
DRESSED IN HER NIGHTCLOTHES, Isobel sat on the edge of the bed, while Glena brushed out her long hair. On the morrow, after breaking their fast, her family, their guards, and lady's maids would leave the Drummond's manor house and head into the Highlands. Isobel had journeyed there on several occasions and found it to be breathtakingly beautiful and exhilarating, with mountains so high they nigh touched the sky. 'Twas so different from her home at Tweedsmuir Castle on the Scottish Borders.
A knock sounded. "Isobel?" 'Twas her mother, coming to tell her goodnight, as she always did before finding her bed.
The maid opened the door, then curtsied and stepped aside.
"Are Isobel's things packed, Glena?" She sailed
into the room.
"Aye, m' lady."
Isobel slipped beneath the covers. "Though I've most enjoyed my stay at Ivy Manor, and thankful Laird Drummond is recovering well, I cannae wait to be on Bramble's back, riding in the Highlands across the moors and meadows." Since her encounter with the highwaymen, she had not gone out riding alone again. The murders had lingered in the back of her mind, though she had tried her hardest to force them away.
Her mother smoothed back her hair and kissed her on the forehead. Isobel was an only child, and even though she had seen almost twenty summers, her mother still kissed her each night as she always had. And Isobel did not mind in the least.
Her mother smiled. "'Twill be delightful to see Maggie again. We never tire of talking about our adventures together as children. Now, daughter, I bid you goodnight."
"Sleep well, Ma."
"G'night, m' lady." Glena blew out the last candle, before heading to the servants' quarters.
"Goodnight, Glena." Isobel turned onto her side, closed her eyes, and relaxed into the soft mattress. Drostan entered her thoughts—again. For some reason, she could not get the Highlander off her mind. He was different from any man she had ever met and caused such a strange sort of excitement inside her, which was odd as she had not taken the slightest interest in any of the numerous young men who had tried to court her.
Restless, she blew out a loud breath and flopped onto her back like a trout on the bank of a loch. Thunder rumbled in the night sky, and lightning flashed through an opening in the window covering. The pitter-patter of rain against the glass calmed her, and she soon settled into sleep, but with one question on her mind. Would she ever see Drostan again?
ONCE FINISHED BREAKING his fast, Drostan left the inn and went to the stables to fetch Eachann.
The stallion nickered and tossed his head as he approached his stall.
He chuckled. "Glad to see me, are you, lad? Or is it the treat I've brought along with me?" Drostan held out the apple tart he had saved from his morning meal.
Eachann eagerly took it from his hand, then pressed his massive head against Drostan.
"You're most welcome, my friend." He scratched the horse's forehead.
A few minutes later, they were making their way down the Royal Mile to Angus MacIntyre's shop, located at the end of a narrow close. Several years earlier, Drostan had learned of the jeweler's superb reputation as the best silversmith in all of Scotland. One visit to the establishment had proved it to be accurate, and now he made a point to see Angus whenever he traveled to Edinburgh. But today, Drostan had a specific purpose for his visit.
Rain began to fall, and he drew the hood of his cloak over his head. A short while later, the rain stopped, and the sun peeked from behind a cloud. The cobblestones stretching out before him glistened in the bright morning sunlight.
Once Drostan reached the shop, he dismounted and tethered Eachann to a post, then went inside.
Angus grinned. "Have ye come to look at m' goods, or are ye here for a visit, lad?"
Drostan chuckled. "Both. How have you been, Angus?" He had liked the good-natured silversmith from their very first meeting. The jeweler had seen around fifty summers—give or take a few. His shoulder-length red hair was always neatly held back with a leather strap, and he was quick with a smile. And he was an honest man. That in itself meant a lot to Drostan.
"I'm well. M' back troubles me now and again, but other than that, I cannae complain."
"Good. I'm looking for a lady's brooch. 'Tis my mother's forty-ninth birthday." Though the remarkable Lady of Willowbrae Castle expected naught from her eldest son—nor any of her seven children—he always made a point of showing up with something he thought she might enjoy.
"What a fine son ye are, to think of yer dear mother on her birthday." He tapped his chin for a moment before taking an ornately-carved oak chest down from the shelf behind him and placing it on his worktable. He slowly raised the lid. "These are some of m' best."
Drostan carefully examined the contents, and then his gaze fell on an ornate silver brooch with a ruby resting on a bed of interwoven thistles. His mother loved thistles. "I'll take this one."
"Ye've a good eye, Mackintosh."
"I've something else in mind as well. A ring for each of my two wee sisters."
Angus nodded. "Of what an age are the lasses?"
"Earie has seen nigh eleven summers, and Cait, nine."
The silversmith disappeared into a back room and soon returned with a small metal box in hand. He placed it on the table and raised the lid, presenting Drostan with a great many rings of various designs, sizes, and gems from which to choose.
Drostan shook his head. "'Twill be a hard decision. I see a great many to my liking."
The silversmith grinned. "'Tis good to hear."
After searching through the inventory of rings, Drostan made his choices and tossed several coins onto the table. "Will that cover my purchases?"
"'Twill more than do so." The shopkeeper picked up two of the coins and reached them back to Drostan.
He shook his head. "Keep them. 'Tis well worth the workmanship of these fine pieces."
Angus beamed. "I thank ye then." He opened a drawer, brought out a small pouch made of fine black leather, and gave it to Drostan. "'Twill protect the gifts during yer journey. As ye wee sisters grow, I can make the rings grow along with them."
"I'll keep that in mind. Much thanks. I'll come to see you next time I'm in Edinburgh." He secured his purchases inside his sporran.
The older man grinned. "Perhaps by then, there'll be a lovely lass for whom ye'll wish to purchase a trinket or two."
Drostan raised a brow. "I'd not hold my breath if I were you," he said, even as Isobel wiggled her way into his thoughts. Drostan could still hear Angus' laughter as he mounted Eachann and rode away.
He thought of his mother and smiled. She was a rare woman indeed, and he very much enjoyed making her happy—even though she sometimes made him daft by trying to find him a wife every chance she got.
A short distance outside of Edinburgh, near Queensferry, a large crowd had gathered. Curious as to the cause, Drostan dismounted and led the stallion to the edge of the assembly. Inside the circle of onlookers, the disheveled body of a young woman of considerable wealth, which he surmised according to her clothing, lay crumpled on the ground, her gown ripped and torn. She lay on her side, her face concealed by her dark, rain-soaked hair. Her legs were exposed well above the knee, and the bruising there and around her throat told Drostan she had lost her innocence to a madman before being strangled—like the other murdered young women. "Has the constable been alerted?" Drostan shouted.
"Aye, he's on his way," an old, stout man, with white hair and beard, answered.
An elderly lady, carrying a basket filled with market goods, shoved her way through the crowd. Upon seeing the dead woman, a loud sob escaped her. She dropped the basket, fell on her knees beside the body, and quickly tugged the woman's skirts down over her ankles.
Though the day had started much warmer than usual, icy fingers trailed down Drostan's spine, and he shivered. Poor lass. He prayed they caught the murdering bastard before he took another life. His sisters had their parents and five older brothers to protect them. But this one, she had been alone and unable to fend off her attacker. He swallowed back the hard lump that had formed in his throat before making his way to the old woman's side. "Do ye ken the lass?"
Her gnarled hand gently patted the girl's arm. "Aye, I've worked fer her family for many years." Tears slipped from the crinkled corners of her eyes.
"Who is she?"
Her gaze moved back to the girl. "Lady Isobel McDaniels."
Isobel. Drostan's heart slammed against his chest. He prayed it was not the lass he had rescued from the highwaymen. It would have been quite possible for her family to have left Ivy Manor the previous afternoon and arrived sometime during the night. "Might I see her face?" he reluctantly asked. "I ken someone named Isobel." He ha
d to know whether or not it was her.
The old woman nodded.
Duncan held his breath as she gently drew the hair away from the face of the dead woman.
She had seen perhaps nineteen summers, and her blank eyes stared unseeingly into the grey morning mist—but thankfully, she was not the Isobel he knew.
"Lady Isobel has been robbed as well, for the necklace, a gold medallion with three rubies, her father gave her when she turned sixteen summers, is gone. 'Twas fastened around her neck last night. I saw it there m'self."
Upon closer inspection, Drostan could see a thin red line along the pale skin of Isobel's throat, where it was violently ripped off, along with a small cut—perhaps from a ring her killer had worn.
"Out of the way! Step aside! Let the constable through," a man shouted, as he and several others elbowed their way past the large crowd. The official in charge began asking the old woman questions.
Drostan blew out a long breath. There was naught he could do there. He mounted Eachann, and once they were back on the road, gave the stallion free rein, for Drostan wanted to put as much distance as possible between himself and the dead Isobel.
Chapter Three
A strong wind blew in from the sea, whipping Drostan's long hair against his face and throat. Many miles of Mackintosh lands lay behind him, and with the passing of each familiar landmark, Drostan drew closer to home. He would arrive just in time for the midday meal, and his stomach growled in anticipation of Elspeth's venison stew and fresh-baked bread. Anyone who visited Willowbrae Castle sought after the cook's delicious recipes for their own kitchen.
He squinted up at the sun suspended in a cloudless, blue sky, then surveyed the loch and land before him, appreciating the yellow, blue, and purple wildflowers strewn across its meadow and steep hills. Nearby, a pheasant took to win—a sound as familiar to a Highlander as his own mother's voice.
