The Chieftain: A Highlander's Heart and Soul Novel

by Maeve Greyson

  Alexander watched her with those damned dark eyes of his that seemed to peer into her soul. After a brief moment, he gave her the barest nod and a smile. “Lie ye down, lass. I’ll be fine.”

  “Call out if need be, aye?”

  “Aye,” Alexander said, his voice like a gentle caress she’d craved all her life.

  Catriona stretched out on her pallet then curled to her side with her back to Alexander, every fiber tensed as taut as a fiddle string. Catriona's stomach knotted. Sweet Jesu, what ails me? She’d prayed for the man to awaken ever since he’d arrived and now that he had… She swallowed hard. Now that he had, she wasna all that certain how she felt about it. Granted, she was more than pleased that Alexander fared better and the fever had at last broken, but the man stirred a great many feelings within her, feelings she’d ne’er be able to share or embrace.

  “Lass?”

  “Aye?” Catriona lifted her head and waited.

  “What be your name?”

  “Catriona.”

  “Catriona,” Alexander repeated. The way he rolled her name off his tongue with a deep gentle burring of his ‘r’s’ made her shiver. He gave it a sound it had ne’er before possessed. “Catriona?”

  “Aye?”

  “Thank ye.” Alexander paused for a heartbeat then said, “Thank ye for all ye’ve done. For me. And my men.”

  “Aye, now go to sleep.’’ Catriona’s cheeks warmed along with her at heart at such appreciation. “Dawn will be here in but a few hours and ye need your rest.”

  “Aye, lass. Rest ye well.”

  Not bothering to answer, Catriona breathed in a deep breath to calm herself, then let it ease out in a silent sigh. If only. She winced at the thought, squeezing her eyes shut as though blocking out the possibility. Ye daren’t hope, fool. Clan Neal is your husband and family.

  The tightness of unshed tears made her throat ache. Tears she’d held at bay ever since her dying mother had made her swear to watch over her younger brothers and see that her drunken brute of a father didn’t destroy the clan with his foolhardy ways.

  Mother had protected them all before that, protected them from Father’s drunken tirades and shielded the clan as much as she dared. Catriona couldn’t hate Mother for the burden she’d left her. Mother’s vow of til death do us part had kept her married to a man she’d hated. A man whose cruel and calculating nature intensified with drink. Father was a soulless man who couldna make the right decision if his life depended not it. Mother had told Catriona that right before she had died. She’d also warned Catriona to always keep her chamber doors locked when she retired. Mother had ne’er said why. Catriona had suspected but ne’er asked. ’Twas easier to pretend an evil didna exist rather than speak about it.

  And now a legacy Catriona ne’er wanted trapped her like the biting steel of a hunter's snare. The legacy to protect Mother’s clan. Catriona’s clan now. There would be no husband for her. What outsider would wish themselves bound to such a remote clan? What man would spend his life at Tor Ruadh, ever in the shadows of a drunk, inept chieftain and then under Calum’s cruel leadership while Catriona did her best to protect her people?

  Aye. I’ll always be alone. I can ne’er leave Clan Neal.

  She’d given Mother her word.

  Chapter 3

  Alexander stared up into the quiet darkness, finally aware of all that surrounded him in what felt to be a verra long while. The place, this high-ceilinged room that looked to be the main hall of the keep, hummed with the comforting noises of a safe place in the night. Burning logs popped and crackled. Embers shushed and hissed as the wood settled deeper into the beds of ash. A faint tang of wood smoke filled the air, mingling with the scents of the last meal cooked and the musk of slumbering men on their pallets. Life. The warm air of the room reeked with life.

  Snoring. Alexander listened harder. He’d recognize that irritating nasal whistling anywhere. 'Twas cousin Alasdair. He huffed out a silent laugh, regretting the movement as pain shot across his middle. Who wouldha thought the sound of Alasdair’s annoying snores would ever be a source of relief? Worry over his cousin's loss in the massacre had plagued him but thank the Lord above he’d survived and found his way back to them. Good. He hoped Ian, his other cousin, Alasdair’s brother, had made it. The two brothers always fought side by side. Where one went, the other followed just as surely as the rising moon chased the setting sun.

  He turned his head to the side and watched the steady rise and fall of his brother’s chest and felt the better for it. He couldna remember the severity of Graham's wounds, but he knew for certain his brother hadna escaped unscathed during their dash to the tunnel.

  A muscle spasm wrenched through him with vicious ferocity, interrupting his study of all around him. The cruel twisting burn knotted in his left thigh, seared its way up through his buttock, then ripped across the small of his back. Alexander grit his teeth and lifted his left leg, arching and flexing as much as he could to overcome the wicked cramp. He hurt from the tips of his toenails to the verra last hair on his head. He swallowed hard and did his damnedest not to groan aloud. Lore a’mighty, what I wouldna give for a dram or two to dull the pain.

  After what seemed like an eternity, his knotting muscles eased to a bearable level. He tested the bindings around his forearms again. While they appeared to be nothing more than folded strips of linen, the infernal things held strong. A disgruntled snort escaped him. He needed to move about to relieve this damned cramping. He pulled at the ties again, straining against them. Sharp pain, a burning rip, deep and excruciating, radiated from his shoulder down to his middle, convincing him of the error of his ways.

  Out of breath as though he’d just run across the glen, he sagged back into his pallet of blankets. “Sons a bitches,” he said in a hissing whisper into the peaceful darkness. She had said lay still. Mayhap, he should heed the lass’s advice.

  The lass. Aye, as strong-willed a woman as he'd e’er met. Catriona.

  The thought of her brought a smile and somehow lessened the torture of his discomfort. Memories of the last few days flickered broken and dim as a waning candle, but one thing he remembered well was the soothing sound of her voice telling him all would be well.

  And then he had set eyes on her. Fair skin all aglow in the candlelight. Saint Bride herself had surely touched those fiery tresses that framed her face and shone like polished copper. The first time he’d opened his eyes, before he’d freed himself of that hellish fevered darkness, he’d thought for certain she was an angel sent to halt his suffering and guide his soul to the everlasting. He looked forward to the morning’s light when he could better see her in all her glory.

  He turned his head toward her pallet and listened. The rustling of blankets and uncomfortable shifting had finally stopped. He prayed that meant she’d found her rest. Regret shaded his thoughts. He hated that he’d caused the poor lass so much trouble. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, remembering the tempting scent of her while she had helped him drink. She smelled of fresh linen, lye soap, and vibrant woman. He’d sip water 'til Hell froze over if she’d cradle his head against her that long. She’d been soft and warm, so much more comfortable and easing to his aches than any pallet or pillow.

  A high-pitched sob followed by a rattling crash at the head of the hall interrupted his pleasant musing. Alexander shifted, turning his head and squinting to see through the heavy veil of shadows across the room. There were two figures. One slight of frame. A woman. The dim light flickering from the hearths made her white shift shimmer with the glow of a restless ghost. She cowered and pulled away from the larger figure. A man. He held tight to one of her arms.

  “If ye had brought the port as I instructed, I wouldna have to punish ye!”

  The lass cried out again, sounding piteous and lost. “Please…” Scuffling sounded. Benches overturned and hit the floor with a bang. The woman jerked and pulled away, struggling to free herself from the man. “Forgive me, sir. Please…ye’re hurting
me. Please let me go.”

  “Let ye go?” The man barked out a low, malicious laugh. “Not until I’ve corrected ye and ye’ve serviced me proper.” A loud smack echoed through the room followed by the woman’s heartbreaking cries. “My belt awaits ye in my room, now get the port and we’ll carry on with the night’s entertainment.”

  Alexander yanked against the bindings imprisoning his forearms. A sense of urgency and rising fury made him roar. “MacCoinnichs!” By damn, if he couldna help the women, his brethren could. “MacCoinnichs to arms!”

  “Sweet Jesu!” Catriona shouted. She sprang up from her pallet and stormed up the length of the room toward the raging man and the sobbing woman. “Calum! Let her go this instant!”

  Alexander wished the hearths cast more light. He struggled to make out the figures at the end of the room. One of them he knew to be Catriona. The one she’d called Calum was taller, towering over both the women, but the man’s lanky form was narrow. Ignoring the ripping pain across his stomach, Alexander lifted his head and scanned the entire room, searching for someone able to assist the women. “Duncan, Sutherland, Magnus—get that bastard!”

  “What the hell do ye think we’re doing?” Duncan said with an irritated growl from somewhere deeper in the shadows behind Calum and the women.

  Who the hell was this Calum? He prayed to God Almighty that he wasna Catriona’s husband. A jealous twitch of possessiveness flashed through Alexander, increasing his frustration not only with his bindings but even more so with his weakened condition. He wished he was at Catriona’s side rather than strapped to this damned table, Alexander flexed his fists as he watched the two in their heated back and forth. He couldna make out everything said, but he heard enough to make him wish he could step in and bring Calum to his knees.

  With a frustrated shift from side to side, he yanked against the bindings with renewed fury. Damn the pain. He had to get free. “Dammit all to Hell and back!”

  Catriona appeared to be holding Duncan and the rest of his men back to keep them from seizing the bastard. Why the hell was the lass protecting the vile devil? I’d no' be kept from snapping that whoreson’s neck.

  “Take your hands off me, bitch!” The hard crack of another slap echoed across the hall and Catriona stumbled back a few steps, the light from the hearth highlighting her form.

  “Kill that bastard!” Alexander roared, adrenaline and rage fueling his strength so his loud bellow risked shaking the foundations of the keep.

  “She’ll no' let them kill him,” Graham said from his sickbed where he had shifted to an upright seated position. “'Tis doubtful she'll even allow them to thrash him. The man’s her twin brother, ye ken?”

  “Aye, but mayhap they’ll have the chance to make him wish he was dead afore she's able to stop them.” The knowledge that Calum was Catriona’s brother and no' her husband gave Alexander a small bit of comfort. He strained to see, craning his neck to look around Graham. “Move your arse! I canna see.”

  Graham huffed out an amused snort as he slid out of Alexander’s line of sight. “'Tis good to see ye awake and back to your pleasant self, brother. I’m glad ye’re alive.” He turned and studied the scuffle at the head of the hall. “Looks to be ended and appears that Magnus and Duncan are escorting the next chieftain of Clan Neal to his chambers.”

  Alexander strained to verify Graham's observation. The poor lighting in the room made it difficult to discern that the two hulking forms on either side of Catriona’s brother were in fact Magnus and Duncan. He could, however, tell that the men were no’ struggling o’er much to drag Calum's thrashing and cursing arse from the room.

  A brighter flickering light in his peripheral vision pulled his attention back to the head of the room. Catriona stood consoling the young maid keening out uncontrollable sobs. A heavyset woman, holding a candlestick high, stood with a hand under Catriona’s chin. She drew near to Catriona’s face and angled her jaw toward the light. The old woman jerked her head back and forth with such fervor that her silver-gray braid whipped back and forth across her broad back. Alexander wished he could join them to see for himself how Catriona fared. The blow had popped hard like the shot of gunfire and when Catriona had stumbled back from the impact, she’d almost gone to the floor.

  Straining against the damn straps binding his arms, Alexander made an oath to himself. An oath he looked forward to keeping. By Heaven above and Hell below, Catriona’s brother will rue the day he was born.

  After what was entirely too long, in Alexander’s opinion, Catriona released the young maid to the care of the older woman and made her way back down the hall toward her pallet. Head bowed. One hand to her cheek. She walked as one publicly shamed and drowning in humiliation.

  Anger. Disgust. Frustration. The unmistakable ache to comfort Catriona and right the unjust wrongs he’d just witnessed. All those things pounded through him. He had to help Catriona. He didna ken how but he had to find a way.

  “Catriona,” he called out in an urgent whisper, praying she’d harken to his call.

  Eyes averted, she paused a moment at the foot of his bed then continued toward her pallet as though he’d not spoken.

  “Catriona, please.” He had to speak with her, give her what reassurance he could, some small bit of comfort.

  “Aye, Master MacCoinnich?” She stood just past the foot of his bed, her back to him, head still bowed.

  “Master MacCoinnich?” Her formal address pained him no small amount. “Alexander, to ye. Always. Ye ken?”

  She pulled in a deep breath, lifting her bowed head and straightening her shoulders as she did so. But she remained turned away. “Alexander, then. What do ye have need of, sir?”

  “I need ye to look at me, lass. I need ye to come close and let me see with me own eyes how ye fare.”

  Catriona’s chin dropped, and she stared down at the floor.

  "Please, Catriona. Grant me the relief I seek by knowing ye’re well after battling with that worthless bastard.” He paused a hair's breadth. "I would see so with me own eyes, lass. Please."

  “I am well, Alexander. I assure ye.”

  “Then show me. Let me see for m’self.”

  Catriona turned and eased her way over to the side of his bed, keeping her face turned aside. Even in the dim lighting, he could tell her eyes shone with unshed tears.

  “Untie me, Catriona. I beg ye,” he said in a soft whisper he hoped would gentle her turmoil. He needed to touch her. Give her what little comfort he had the power to give.

  Her mouth tightening into a quivering line, Catriona retrieved a small knife from the table beside the bed. Without a word, she cut the strips of linen away from his arms.

  Sensing she was about to step away, Alexander took hold of her wrist and with a light persistent tug, pulled her closer. “I mean to punish that bastard for what he did. He had no right.” He loosened his grip, slid her hand into his and brought it to his mouth. With the most reassuring look he could manage, he pressed a kiss to the silk of her skin and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “Brother or no’, he had no right.”

  “I shouldha moved faster. I erred by thinking him slowed by drink. 'Twas my error.” Catriona hitched in a shuddering breath and stared across the room, focused on where the scuffle had occurred.

  Alexander reached up and brushed a finger along the curve of her jaw. When she turned toward him, he cupped her face in his palm. “Ye didna err, lass, and ye should ne’er have to gauge your movements by how fast a blow might be given. No man should ever raise a hand to a woman.”

  Catriona closed her eyes and swallowed hard, leaning her face into his hand like a wee kitten starved for attention. Without warning, she stiffened and drew away.

  “Catriona?” Puzzlement filled him. Why had the lass reacted so? Had he imagined her accepting his touch? What had changed to offend her?

  “Ye need your rest and so do I.” Catriona gave him her back then lowered herself to her pallet. “Go to sleep, Alexander, and try not to tumbl
e off the table since ye’re no longer tied, aye?”

  “Aye.” He wouldna trouble her further with words—not this night. But as he lived and breathed, he would have the woman know he would tend to her brother later and Calum Neal, chieftain or no', would ne’er lift a hand to his sister again. He’d damn well see to it.

  “Alexander?” Catriona’s soft whisper rose from her pallet, surrounding him like a mist rising in the glen.

  “Aye, lass?”

  “I thank ye…for giving a care.”

  “'Twas the least I could do for the woman who kept me from death’s door.” He tried to make it sound as though his caring was nothing more than a polite repayment of all she’d done for him. But deep in his heart he knew, 'twas a great deal more than that, and that realization troubled him no small amount. If he allowed his caring for Catriona to grow, what would become of him and all his caring when it came time to leave?

  Chapter 4

  Catriona angled her chin to the left and tilted her head back. She lowered her handheld mirror to better examine the spreading bruise along her jawline. The salve of arnica had faded the angry coloring a small amount but not as much as she'd hoped.

  Spoiled wicked bastard. Catriona flinched as she pressed her fingers against the angry purplish spot and worked her mouth open and closed. At least the blow had been glancing, or it wouldha broken bone or cost her teeth. She stared at her reflection in the small oval mirror framed in wood, pondering the mess life had become of late.

  “I fear I can no longer protect them, Mother,” she whispered to her downcast reflection. “Not from Calum.”

  Calum had grown too cruel and calculating. To maneuver his edicts to protect the clan, as Mother had done with Father’s demands for so many years, would prove impossible. Once Mother had died, Catriona had accepted the task as her own. She’d been a bewildered fourteen-year-old lass, but she’d promised Mother, sworn on her heart even that she’d carry on the protection of Mother’s clan. So, she’d done it. What had helped her the most was that Father’s health had faded as soon as Mother had died. In fact, Gordon Neal had sworn his ailments were because of the curse Margaret Neal had placed upon him with her dying breath. 'Twas rumored Mother had been a white lady. Catriona knew in her heart the rumors to be true.