A few observers had started to emerge from the castle’s rooms, all fascinated by the sudden chaos in the castle. Rob shoved past them, calling for them all to get out of his way. Those who listened were lucky; those who didn’t were shoved mercilessly aside.
Rob reached the solar and threw open the door with so much force that it split against the stone wall.
Ellen looked up at him, startled. She was sitting in front of the fire, pressing a thick piece of linen against Hugh’s stomach.
“Rob, good to see ye,” Hugh said with a weak smile. “How was yer swim? Oh, and how is Lady Kenna?”
Rob circled the room, ignoring the eyes that were on him as he moved. When he reached his father’s desk, he shoved a few papers aside, sending some skittering to the floor as he brushed them away. Finally, his fingers closed around the cold metal handle, and he lifted the small blade up so that it could be seen in the light of the fire. It was a fairly short dirk and a bit dull, but it would do the trick on such short notice.
“Father’s whittling knife? Really?” Hugh asked, coughing a bit.
He tried to sit up, but Ellen pulled him back down.
“Hardly need anything too fancy to kill the likes of ye,” Rob said.
The very words chilled him more than the river had. Was he really going to kill his brother? Yes, he was. Hugh had tried to take everything from him—his wife, his child, his future. He still might accomplish it, too, if Kenna could not be warmed back up. If Kenna lived, he knew he would come to regret his decision. It would haunt every moment of his existence. But if Kenna died, he would not be given another chance to seek justice.
Rob raised the blade and rushed forward, fueled by rage and pain, unlike anything he had ever known. Then, suddenly, his entire body hurt. He was laying on the floor, his father over the top of him, Murtagh and Jacob each straining to pin down his arms. The knife was gone, thrown somewhere across the room the moment that his father had tackled him.
“What… the… devil… is going on here!” Laird Lovat shouted as he struggled to contain Rob, who wanted nothing more than to shove his father away so that he could destroy Hugh with his bare hands. “Rob, enough!”
For some reason, his father’s voice cut through his mind when all other reason had failed to do so. Rob stilled, breathing heavily.
Laird Lovat cautiously sat up, removing a bit of pressure off of Rob, though Murtagh and Jacob both still held his arms. His father surveyed the room, taking in the blood, and mud, and scattered papers and asked again, “What the devil is going on here?”
“Rob gave Hugh this gash! Ye saw him just now; he is like a wild animal,” Ellen cried.
Rob laughed, feeling sick to his stomach. Was this woman really going to make this his fault?
“Rob, did ye do this to yer brother? Is that from a sword?” The Laird’s voice was oddly calm, as if Hugh only had a lightly bloodied nose and not a fairly deep gash going across his body.
“Aye, I did. Hugh pulled his sword first. I canna help it that he isn’t very good with it. Ye are better at archery, aren’t ye, Hugh?”
“That is enough!” Ellen screamed. “Laird Lovat, please lock him up! He is crazed, he is mad. Please, I do not wish to see him any longer.”
“Not a great archer though,” Rob continued. “When he shot on the camp, he missed. He was aiming for Kenna. Bet that pissed ye off, Ellen—to find out that he failed ye.”
“Shut up!” Ellen screamed.
“So, ye had to do something else. Ye stitched—” Rob stopped to laugh. It came out harried and crazed, but what else could he do? What was this absurdity that was now his life? “Ye stitched rocks into her cloak and then pushed her into the river and then drew a sword on me when I tried to go after her. She could be dead right now, ye ken. She could have died in the forge of all places.”
Murtagh and Jacob both pulled their grips from Rob’s arms, but he was too exhausted to move. He just lay there, shaking, feeling the rage that had been carrying him dissipate into sorrow and fear.
“Jacob, go to the forge. And tell someone to fetch the healer.”
“Laird Lovat, please, this is such a lie! We were at the dock trying to help Kenna, trying to tell her that everything was going to turn out alright, but she wouldn’t listen! Rob saw her jump and now is blaming us fer it because he is upset and—”
“Enough,” Laird Lovat said. “I will hear nothing more ‘til Jacob returns.”
Time passed, but Rob couldn’t for the life of him decide how long it was. Why had he come after Hugh? Why hadn’t he stayed with Kenna? Had he really thought Hugh would be capable of escaping when he was wounded so? At least then he would have been able to hold Kenna if she died. He would have found out that she was dead while he was on his feet, not collapsed on the floor like a pathetic fool.
A few jaunting footsteps began to echo down the hall and then Jacob, breathing heavy, was back in the doorway.
Laird Lovat looked at Jacob. “Well?”
“What Laird Rob said...” Jacob shifted, his eyes darting uncomfortably over to Hugh. “Well, it seems to be true.”
“And Kenna?” his father asked when Rob couldn’t find the words.
“The Lady was with the healer. They were bringing her inside, sayin’ she was warm enough to be moved.”
Rob felt the breath he had not comprehended he was holding release. Then, he felt his father’s firm grip on his arms, and he was hoisted to his feet.
“Father, I—” Hugh started.
“No. Dinna say a word. Ye tried to murder a woman, a noblewoman of yer own clan, fer reasons I canna think to comprehend. Because she is still alive, I’ll give ye both yer lives. I’ll send the healer to ye, Hugh, so that ye can be patched up. Ye’ll both be able to sleep here, in this castle, fer one more night. Then ye will leave. And ye will never come back.”
“No!” Ellen cried out. “Please, we will never—”
“If she dies overnight, then I’ll order both of yer executions,” Laird Lovat said, his expression blank. “Goodbye, son.”
And, without another word, the Laird of Lovat took Rob by the arm and led him from the room, neither of them looking back.
* * *
Rob paced outside of his chambers. His clothes were still a little wet, and his head felt like it was ready to split in two, but nothing was going to keep him from staying right where he was.
When the door finally opened, an overweight man that reminded him a bit of the Earl of Sutherland slipped out.
“How is she?” Rob asked before the man had a chance to shut the door behind him. “Is she alright?”
“The lady is fine. She was warmed up just before the cold could do irreparable harm. It would not surprise me, though, if she caught some sickness. Likely a chill or fever.”
“What of the child?” Rob asked.
“My Laird, it would appear that—”
“Is it alive, or not? Aye or no?” Rob advanced on him, feeling his hand drop to his sword hilt. Murtagh had done him the kindness of bringing it back up from the dock after he and his father had gone down to investigate the scene.
“Aye!” the healer replied, glancing back and forth between the blade and Rob. “‘Tis my current assessment that the child is perfectly fine, though a great deal of that relies on Lady Kenna remaining healthy and resting well. I recommend that she remains in bed for at least a week and drinks plenty of hot fluids.”
Rob collapsed to his knees, running his hands through his damp hair in relief. What would he have done if he had lost two precious things in one day? What if it had been three? He took in a few gasping breaths.
“My Laird, are ye alright? Do ye need me to examine ye?”
“No, I’m fine. Can I go in and see her?”
“Aye.”
The chamber felt like an oven, the fire having been built up to a massive size in the process of warming Kenna up.
“Rob?” a soft voice called.
“Kenna,” he returned, going over to sin
k himself on the bed beside her.
“Is Hugh?”
“Banished. Starting tomorrow. Guards on he and Ellen until then.”
“I see,” she said nodding. “Are ye alright?”
“No. Not yet.”
Kenna reached up and cupped his cheek. “Is there anything I can do fer ye?”
“Get better. And quit getting into trouble.”
“I’ll do what I can,” Kenna replied with a smile, pulling him into a tight embrace.
* * *
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Chapter 1
The bagpipes cut through the otherwise somber atmosphere beneath the gray skies as the long line of men, members from five different clans, marched down the last leg of the journey and pooled by the graveside of one Quinn MacFarlane. As he led the procession, Lachlan MacFarlane’s boots sank into the ground that was still soggy from yesterday’s rains. Beyond the expansive graveyard, the view was breathtaking and even in his dark mood, Lachlan took a moment to appreciate it. From the plateau, he could see the land of three different clans, two of which were responsible for the death of his beloved cousin. A light fog clung to the acres of woods, farmlands, and villages and only his keep, a large and proud stone castle that he was proud to call home, rose up and stood against the weather.
For the first time in years, the Fentons and the Brisbanes stood side-by-side without causing bloodshed. Once, they and the MacFarlanes were a feared alliance, but now Lachlan knew that at least one of those clans was responsible for the arrow that had ended Quinn’s life. He just wasn’t sure where to put the blame.
After months of playing peacekeeper to the violent feud, enough was enough. This morning, they would mourn and this evening, Lachlan would make his decision known. Either the fighting ended or he would take steps to strip Errol Fenton and Gair Brisbane from power.
Even now, he could feel the hatred simmering at his back, but he didn’t bother to turn around. The two feuding lairds were honor bound to attend the funeral, even though one of them was responsible for the murder. They were surrounded by two other clans, the Cunninghams and the Donahues, who were also members of an alliance. Anyone who dared to start a battle today would swiftly meet their end. The peace would continue today and for another two days in honor of Quinn and Lachlan would make sure that it didn’t start back up again.
Father Shaw waited until the bagpipes quieted before he launched into the funeral rites. When he paused, the clan’s seanchaidh, or historian, stepped forward.
“Quinn MacFarlane, son of Eanrulg, grandson of Hume, great-grandson of Camhlaidh, and kin to Lachlan, Calder, Balfur, and Elig MacFarlane. A direct descendent of our clan’s beginnings and a warrior and hunter who brought down the great wolf that took the lives of three of our children. Quinn also fought in the bloodied battle to keep our beloved safe and saved the life of our noble Laird.”
There were murmurs in the crowd as the historian continued to list Quinn’s many feats, but Lachlan was distracted by the reminder that Quinn had indeed saved his life when Lachlan had foolishly slipped away and joined the battle against invaders trying to take control of the Highlands. Five years younger than his cousin, Lachlan had always privately thought that his father should have chosen Quinn to inherit the lairdship, but Quinn had never seemed interested. He had a wilder side that enjoyed the hunt and the fighting. Too often, he told Lachlan that he would not be tamed as laird.
The low hum behind him turned to an outright chuckle and Lachlan could only assume that the seanchaidh was now going over Quinn’s additional conquests—the women who fell happily enough into his bed although none had stayed long enough to become his wife.
Finally, Father Shaw took back over and Lachlan’s throat tightened when it was over. As a cold fury snapped inside of him, he turned and led the procession back through the villages toward the impressive MacFarlane keep. For three days, the castle would host the neighboring clans and their families during the funeral celebrations while the other visitors who stayed would scatter among the land. Many brought food with them, so Lachlan was not worried about feeding them and those that couldn’t find housing would bed in the stables or erect encampments in the fields. It would be chaos, although, privately, Lachlan knew that Quinn would have adored it.
The women of the village and the female visitors lined the path to the keep, all of them nodding in reverence to the brilliant man they’d lost today. Maggie, his mother, and Freya, his sister, stood closest to the castle. Freya especially held grief in her eyes. She and Quinn had been particularly close and she was taking his death hard. She had wept since the moment they’d learned of his death, but she’d pulled herself together today and nodded at her brother with trembling lips. Next to her stood Kenzy, the sister of one of his warriors. For the past several months, he’d felt the pressure to marry and produce an heir. Kenzy was the most logical choice although he barely knew the woman. At least now, he could put the decision off. Traditionally speaking, he wouldn’t expect to marry during the three-month mourning period of his cousin.
Inside the keep, his father immediately pulled him into an empty chamber and closed the door. Calder had stepped down two years prior when a battle injury took most of the strength out of his right leg and left him bed-ridden for months. Lachlan had taken over during that time and when his father never recovered fully, he stayed in power. His father had accepted his fate and even seemed to enjoy his older years without the pressure of protecting a clan. He was an infinite source of wisdom.
“Lachlan,” he said in a low voice. “I knew that ye are hurting, but ye must not let that anger show during the celebration. This is a time to bring the other clans closer together.”
“Aye,” Lachlan said shortly. “And the Cunninghams and Donahues are more than welcome to enjoy our hospitality, but Errol Fenton and Gair Brisbane will not leave this keep until we’ve established an end to the feud. Quinn thought he could broker peace and he is dead for his efforts. They are both lucky that I am not joining in the fighting.”
His father watched him intently with his aging eyes. For years, Calder MacFarlane had been a hard but fair Laird. He’d told Lachlan that he would set aside his own desires for the good of the clan. That’s exactly what Lachlan was doing now.
“Tonight,” Calder started.
“Tonight, I will be a gracious host to the four neighboring clans, but in the morn, we will begin the negotiations. If they doona submit, then I will go to the king and lay claim to our vengeance.”
“And if ye do find a way to broker peace? Will ye set aside yer anger?”
Personally, there was no way that Lachlan could forgive, but since he didn’t know which clan was responsible for Quinn’s death, he wouldn’t take action. For the good of his clan, he knew that the alliance of five was the only thing that kept their lands from being raided by others who wanted access to the river. If the Fentons and Brisbanes could cease their fighting, then Lachlan would set aside his need for revenge. “Aye,” he said shortly.
There was a soft knock on the door and when it opened, Freya walked in and tried to smile at them both. “Father, may I have a moment with Lachlan?”
“Aye. I will see ye both in the hall soon.” After kissing his daughter, Calder walked out and left them alone.
Lachlan sighed and eyed his sister. Freya was younger than him by almost a decade. In looks, they shared their father’s dark, thick hair and their mother’s flashing green eyes. Normally a sweet and soft-spoken young woman, she’d recently become argumentative and difficult. When a previous marriage agreement fell through, Freya staunchly refused to entertain the
idea of marrying another MacFarlane and Lachlan began to see why.
She seemed to harbor feelings for Gair Brisbane, Laird of the Brisbane clan. Even during the feud, they’d hosted the clan leader a number of times and at some point, Freya had developed what Lachlan prayed was just a passing fancy. He couldn’t agree to wed his sister and Gair while there was still so much bloodshed, but his fears were validated when she aggressively defended Brisbane declaring that he and his men would never have taken Quinn’s life.
Although he didn’t have proof, Lachlan was inclined to agree. Brisbane and Quinn knew each other well and was even once considered friends. Gair would never have murdered Quinn in cold blood and he wouldn’t have mistaken him for a Fenton in the heat of battle. Errol Fenton, on the other hand, was a snake. Calder had told his son that he had always suspected that Errol had killed his own brother to be the Laird. He would not hesitate to kill Quinn hoping that Lachlan would finally join the fighting.
“Freya,” Lachlan said in a tired voice. “If ye are here to defend Brisbane…”
“I am not. I’m here to tell ye that we have an additional guest. We have no more rooms available except for the chamber adjoining yours.” It was the chamber that would have been given to Lachlan’s wife when he did marry. “I need yer permission to house her there.”
“Her?”
“Errol Fenton.” She said his name stiffly and with unusual hatred. “He has brought his daughter with him. Sloane. I have made it clear that if ye should approve the arrangement, it doesna mean anything, although I doona believe it matters. She seems a wee bit touched in the head.”
Sloane Fenton. Lachlan knew that Errol had a daughter only a year or two older than Freya, but he’d always kept her hidden away whenever Lachlan was forced to travel to Fenton’s lands. It surprised him to know that Errol had brought Sloane here.
Highlander's Haunted Past (Highlander's Seductive Lasses Book 1) Page 25
