Highland Heartbreakers: Highlander Series Starters, Volume One

by Paula Quinn

  “Eachann?” MacAedh’s brow wrinkled. “Ye canna mean Eachann of Mearns?”

  “Aye,” Alex said. “Eachann of Mearns is my máthair’s brother. Do ye ken him?” Alex asked.

  MacAedh’s gaze flickered. “Eachann of Mearns was the verra man who betrayed Mac Alexander.” MacAedh’s gaze narrowed in speculation. “What was yer sire’s name, lad?”

  Alex’s heart raced. With each revelation, he was growing more overwhelmed and confused. He swallowed hard and then whispered, “Malcolm. His Christian name was Malcolm, after his grandsire.”

  “His grandsire was Malcolm?” MacAedh repeated with a narrowed gaze.

  “Dinna I just say so?” Alex was growing increasingly frustrated by MacAedh’s questions. “He was named for his grandsire, just as I am named for mine.”

  As he stared at Alex, his expression transformed from dubious to outright incredulous. “Good God!” he responded with a bark of laughter. “Do ye ken naught of yer own blood, lad?”

  “I told ye I dinna!” Alex snapped.

  MacAedh replied, “If what ye say be true, and I have nae reason to doubt ye, the namesake grandfather ye speak of was King Alexander of Scotland. Which means ye are the son of Malcolm Mac Alexander.”

  Alex could barely breathe. “Ye believe my faither was the son of King Alexander?”

  “Aye,” MacAedh nodded. “I began to suspect something when I saw yer dagger. How else would ye have it? And the rest surely canna be coincidence.”

  How could it be so? But how could it not? It all suddenly made perfect sense. The man who’d betrayed King Alexander’s bastard son was the same kinsman who’d also betrayed Alex’s father. His sgian-dubh had the same inscription as a legendary sword. His father had been an enemy of the king.

  “Did ye ken him?” Alex asked.

  “I only saw him once,” MacAedh said, “but my brother loved him well… enough to give his life…”

  Alex had always yearned to know what manner of man his sire was, and how he was regarded by other men. “What was he like?”

  “Malcolm Mac Alexander was a braw and bold warrior, the kind born to lead men… He would have made a fine king. He might have succeeded were it nae for the perfidy of Eachann of Mearns.”

  Alex’s chest constricted with a profound sense of loss. Would his father have won the throne of Scotland if events had not taken such a tragic turn?

  “What happened to my faither?” he asked at length. “Was he also slain?”

  MacAedh shook his head. “After the slaughter at Stracathro, he waged war for another four years until he was betrayed by a kinsman who turned him over to the Cenn Mór in exchange for lands and titles.”

  “My uncle,” Alex said flatly. He voiced the next question with hesitation, uncertain if he truly wanted to know the answer. “Did the king kill my faither?”

  “Nae one kens,” MacAedh replied. “He was taken south to Roxburgh Castle. There has been no word of him these past seventeen years.”

  “Then he could still be alive?” Alex had harbored hope for many years that his parents yet lived. Eventually, he’d given up that hope but now it unfurled once more inside him.

  MacAedh laid a hand on his shoulder. “I would nae place any great faith in it.”

  “I dinna understand why has this been kept from me all these years. Surely Faither Gregor knew! Why dinna he tell me?”

  “Faither Gregor was probably sworn to shield ye. Perhaps ’tis why he encouraged ye to come to me, in hope that ye would discover the truth for yerself.”

  The truth. Alex almost wanted to laugh. Everything he’d believed and the life he’d known was completely false. All his life, he’d sought counsel from Father Gregor only to learn he’d deceived him with silence.

  “Ye are the son of the last man who challenged the king.” MacAedh continued softly. “But should this ever become kent, yer life could be in great peril.”

  Alex gazed down at the gleaming steel that felt so unwieldly in his hand. Had the sword now come to him by Divine Providence? Alex had never felt more confused.

  “As the son of Mac Alexander, the sword is rightfully yers,” MacAedh said. “And with it, ye have as much right to claim the throne of Scotland as any man alive. ’Tis yer choice now to train with it or to bury it. Whate’er ye decide, ye can trust that yer secret is safe with me.”

  “I dinna even ken what to think right now.”

  MacAedh eyed him for a long moment with his arms crossed over his chest. “Perhaps the greater question is—what will ye do?”

  Chapter Seven

  The next morning, Alex’s mind still whirred with unanswered questions. MacAedh had disclosed much to him. It had always tormented him that he knew so little of his family, but perhaps what he’d learned would torment him even more. He could hardly wrap his mind around the fact that he was the grandson of a king, but the blood bond was nothing but a liability. This was why he’d been sent away. Nothing was as he’d imagined.

  His father had been imprisoned and might be dead, but what had become of his mother? Was she dead? Or was she still alive and living under his uncle’s control? Now that he understood his kinsman’s involvement, Alex resolved to learn the truth about his parents’ fate—no matter the cost.

  Determined to find answers but not knowing where else to begin, Alex took up his quill to pen a brief letter to Father Gregor. Perhaps if he told the abbot what he had learned from MacAedh, the priest might be more forthcoming with what he knew.

  He’d just sanded and sealed the parchment when Domnall arrived for his lesson. Although he still lacked overt enthusiasm, it was clear their relationship was on a stronger footing than before. Since he’d managed to capture Domnall’s interest with the rise and fall of the Persian Empire, Alexander decided to move forward today with a discussion of Rome.

  “The Roman Empire was called, imperium sine fine which means empire without end,” Alex translated as he carefully unfurled a rolled parchment containing an ancient, hand drawn map of the known Christian world. He made a slow circle with his finger to encompass the area from Scotland to Asia Minor. “This was once the most extensive political and social structure in western civilization, and thrived for over fifteen hundred years. Do ye ken why?” he asked.

  “The Romans had a vast army with many horses,” Domnall answered.

  “Aye, but a vast army is nothing without great generals at its head,” Alex replied. “The Roman legates were among the greatest generals the world has known, not only due to their strategic skills, but also because of their road building. This was the key to expanding the empire,” Alexander explained.

  “’Tis much how the Normans took Britain,” Domnall remarked. “After invading England, they built fortresses and castles of stone which they have used to claim the surrounding lands piece by piece.”

  “Aye,” Alex agreed, pleased that Domnall had seen the parallel he’d intended in his illustration. “They, indeed, followed the Roman strategy and successfully seized control of all of England.”

  “But they dinna succeed in Scotland. The Romans, the Norsemen, and the Saxons all tried and failed. My máthair’s ancestors fought them all.” Pride gleamed in Domnall’s eyes. Alex had never seen him so animated. “Why do ye want to be a priest?” Domnall suddenly asked.

  Alex didn’t immediately answer. In all truth, he’d begun to ask himself the same question. After seventeen years at the monastery, he once would have said it was the only logical path, but so many things in his life had altered in the course of a fortnight. Now he wasn’t certain of anything.

  “I have ne’er kent another life,” Alex finally answered. “Why do ye ask?”

  Domnall shrugged. “I dinna ken why any man of sound mind and body would choose such a life. How can ye prefer books to battles?”

  As a boy, Alex’s only true pleasure had come from books. Most of his reading had been ecclesiastical in nature, but the abbot had also favored him with access to some of the great works of Greek and Lat
in literature—Homer’s Odyssey, Ovid’s Metamorphosis, and his favorite, the Histories of Herodotus. He’d burned his lamp late into the night immersed in these fantastical stories of demi-gods, kings, and warriors. Perhaps he was most drawn to the ancient histories because he’d known almost nothing of his own origins. No past. No family. No true home. It was as if his own life were an empty book—until now.

  “I told ye I am no warrior,” Alex replied. Yet he had come from warrior stock. Had he been given the choice, would he, like Domnall, have followed a soldier’s path?

  “Ye’re bluidy good with that knife of yers,” Domnall said. “With some training, I wonder what ye could do with a sword.”

  Alex instinctively glanced to where it lay safely hidden under his mattress. Was the remark coincidental? Or had MacAedh told Domnall? For a moment, Alex was tempted to confide in Domnall. For the first time, he felt a kinship with MacAedh’s surly and rebellious nephew. He was beginning to understand Domnall’s rebellion and bitterness. They, indeed, had much in common, but their friendship was too new and untried, and trust came hard.

  “I have no sword,” Alex lied.

  Domnall grinned. “Easily remedied.”

  “There is no need,” Alex replied dismissively.

  “Ye only need speak the word if ye change yer mind.”

  “Thank ye,” Alex replied.

  Domnall hesitated at the door. “I go with my uncle to Inverness in a few days. ’Tis the annual gathering where the feus are paid to the king. Ye are welcome to come if ye like.”

  “Will the king be there?” Alex wondered if by going he might somehow be able to discover something of his father’s fate.

  “He’s ne’er come before. He dislikes the Highlands.” Domnall grinned. “I think he feels unsafe here—probably for good reason. He usually sends one of his lackeys as his agent. We’ll be driving at least a hundred head of livestock as payment. Afterwards will follow feasting and games.”

  He cared little for the feasting and games but with Domnall gone he would have nothing to do if he stayed behind. “I think I would like to go,” Alex said.

  “Verra well.” Domnall nodded. “I’ll speak with my uncle.”

  *

  After Domnall’s departure, Alex’s restlessness returned with a vengeance. He needed some answers but his only hope was that Father Gregor would be more informative about what he knew. He wondered if the journey to Inverness might lead him to others who knew his parents. But how to make inquiries without being discovered? Perhaps MacAedh could ask some questions on his behalf?

  Intending to send his letter to the abbot, Alex tucked the sealed parchment in his robe and went in search of MacAedh. But to his dismay, the thane was nowhere about.

  Alex left the keep for midday prayer but instead of retiring as usual to the chapel, he found his gaze drawn to a distant promontory. He needed a solitary place to think and pray. His instincts urged him to go to that high place apart from people just as the Lord had done in troubling times.

  After wandering for about half a mile in the general direction, he encountered a narrow drover path that seemed to lead the right way. The going was steep, rocky, and overgrown from irregular use, but he was certain it led to his intended destination. When he reached the top of the cliff, Alex was surprised to discover a circle of carved stones marking an old Druid worship site. In the center of the circle stood a great oak tree. At first he hesitated to go further, but then considered the place. What better way to venerate the one true God than to rededicate to Him this former site of Pagan worship?

  Kneeling beneath the branches, Alex retrieved his psalm book. Though he opened the page by habit, he closed his eyes and recited the verses by rote. “Bow down thine ear, O Lord, hear me: for I am poor and needy—Ouch!” He cried out as an acorn dropped upon his head. “Be merciful unto me, O Lord,” he continued, “for I cry unto thee daily.” He drew breath to continue, only to be struck by another acorn, and then a third! “Bluidy squirrels!”

  Mumbling a curse, he rubbed his head, and once more took up his psalter. “Give ear, O Lord, unto my prayer; and attend to the voice of my supplications. In the day of my trouble I will call upon thee: for thou wilt answer me.”

  He startled at a sudden rustle of leaves, but there was no wind to stir them. The branches above him shook more violently, but now he had the good sense to protect himself. But this time, the hailstorm of acorns was echoed by a ripple of feminine giggles.

  Alex’s gaze darted upward, searching through the thick canopy of green to a flash of billowy white. Had he somehow conjured a wood sprite? He was quick to shake off that notion. He didn’t ascribe to old folklore or superstition, and would surely burn in hell if he allowed such Highland heresy to rub off on him.

  Closing his book, he stood and searched the tree more intently. The glimpse of white he’d seen transformed into a more corporeal shape—that of Sibylla.

  “Sibylla?” he cried out. “What the de’il are ye doing in that tree?”

  “Looking for mistletoe, of course,” she answered as if he were a simpleton.

  “Mistletoe?” He frowned at her. “Ye shouldna follow the Pagan ways.”

  “Is it evil and heathenish to make medicine for my clan?” she argued. “’Tis not as if I’m performing human sacrifices!”

  Alexander had no reply.

  “I come here often to be alone,” she said, stretching out full length. The branch barely dipped under her weight. “It’s quiet and peaceful and the view of the land is breathtaking. There’s room for two. Ye should come up here and see it.” Swinging back up to a sitting position, she dangled her bare legs and patted the place beside her.

  “I willna humor ye, Sibylla.”

  “Why nae? Canna ye climb?” she taunted. “Or perhaps yer robes get in the way? Ye could always do what I do and tie them up.”

  His gaze tracked slowly upward from her delicate bared toes, to a set of trim white ankles, and then to a pair of smooth, shapely calves. Alexander shut his eyes before he could give in to the temptation of looking higher. He really should leave now. He’d come to this place seeking peace for his soul, but all he could think about now were the strange stirrings in his body.

  “Enough of the games. If ye want to speak ye’ll come down!”

  “Verra well,” she replied with a huff. “Hold out yer arms.”

  “What? Ye canna mean to jump!”

  She grinned. “But I do.” Bracing her hands on either side of her hips, she wiggled forward on the branch.

  “Ye’ll break yer fool neck,” he warned.

  “Nae if ye catch me.” Her gaze sought his. “Would ye let me fall, Alexander?” she asked softly.

  “Nae,” he murmured with a slow shake of his head. “I’d ne’er see ye hurt if I could help it.”

  Her mouth stretched into an impish grin. “Then ye’d best hold out yer arms.”

  Before he could protest, she launched herself from the tree. Alex crashed backwards feeling like a ton of stones hit him as her small body slammed him onto the ground. While he lay stunned and breathless beneath her, Sibylla burst into uncontrolled chortles. But he found no humor in his situation. Nothing had ever disturbed him more than his present situation.

  By the time he caught his breath, heat of an unfamiliar kind had begun to warm his blood and infuse his loins, as he lay beneath her soft, feminine body. As much as he wished it, he couldn’t bring himself to move—except for the parts that shouldn’t.

  Awareness of his arousal came to her suddenly. Her breath hitched and gaze widened, but she made no move to pull away. Instead, they both lay fixed and still, and almost afraid to breathe. Alex willed his body to ignore its natural response, but his efforts were futile. He’d never before been so much at odds with himself.

  “What is wrong, Alexander?”

  He opened his eyes to find her staring down at him with a furrowed brow.

  “Nothing.” He shook his head, only to refute himself a moment later. “Every
thing,” he said. “Everything is wrong. Nothing is as it should be.”

  “I dinna understand ye.”

  “Neither do I,” he replied. “’Tis why I came here—to be alone and to figure it out.”

  “Do ye want me to leave?” she asked.

  He knew what he should say. He knew what he should do but, somehow, he was powerless to resist the lure of her warm, soft body. “Nae,” he replied after a moment. “I dinna want ye to go.”

  “I’m glad.” She smiled. “I dinna want to leave.” To his dismay, her gaze drifted down to his mouth. She leaned closer until her silky hair brushed his face. “If ye dinna mind, I would verra much like ye to kiss me, Alexander.”

  He knew he should not but, God help him, he wanted to. “Kissing leads only to temptation,” he replied.

  “But a kiss in itself isna sinful or wicked,” she argued. “A kiss can mean many things. Are there nae chaste kisses? Kisses of friendship? Affection? Kisses given as greetings? Kisses to say goodbye?”

  “Aye, but that’s nae the kind of kiss ye wish for, is it?” he asked.

  “Nae.” She shook her head with a grin. “I’ve had all of those kinds before. What I havena known is a lover’s kiss.” Her grin faded and her eyes entreated as she whispered, “Would ye oblige me, Alexander?”

  If he allowed himself to respond to her request, the dam would surely break. Alex shut his eyes, trying to marshal both his wits and his faltering will, but he failed to block out her subtly fragrant scent that seemed to come straight from heaven above, her warm, sweet breath, and her pliant breasts pressing against his ever-tightening chest… and then her petal soft lips brushing lightly over his. He felt her hesitancy and wanted to reassure her but sheer force of will restrained him. He’d never wanted anything as much as he wanted to kiss her back. His bones ached with the need to respond, but he knew very well that his resistance would crumble to dust.