Secrets of a Highland Warrior

by Nicole Locke

  His father made some sound like a chuckle or agreement and Rory felt the need to sit. This was the most he’d ever talked to his father. The times before that, when they had conversed, it had usually been about how he’d failed at matters of politics and training. But his wife...he didn’t intend to fail her.

  ‘I am well wed.’

  ‘Marriage isn’t easy,’ Finley said, flourishing the goblet at him, ‘and you have no training.’

  ‘She’ll teach me soon enough...just as Mother has taught you.’

  Definitely a laugh from his father now. Rory pulled out a too-small chair from the even smaller table and rejected both. It was probably better to stand on unsteady legs.

  Finley tipped back his cup. ‘Marriage often requires unexpected sacrifices. Compromises that you can’t conceive of ever making, but are the right decision for your wife. For you. Yet, sometimes I’ve wondered if the decisions we made were the right decisions for everyone else.’

  ‘Maybe I will have that drink.’ Striding to the side table, Rory swiped the flagon of ale and poured it. He understood sacrifice and compromise. He’d negotiated everything the moment he met Ailsa. What he didn’t understand was this conversation with Finley. Once the goblet was clasped tight in his fist, he leaned against the nearest wall.

  Finley pointed at him. ‘You always did that as a child.’

  ‘Did what?’

  ‘Lean or slouch against walls. Never could understand if you were simply trying to intimidate your friends who weren’t as tall as you or—’

  ‘The furniture in this house never fit me.’

  Finley’s brows suddenly dropped and Rory wanted to take back the words.

  If he desired to announce that he didn’t belong here, he couldn’t have said it any clearer. The chairs didn’t fit him here because his body wasn’t like the other Lochmores. It was the truth, but why at a time of truce like this, did he have to reveal it? He couldn’t even blame the extra ale since he hadn’t taken a sip.

  ‘You never said,’ Finley said.

  He still wasn’t saying. At least not what he truly meant because he hadn’t gained the benefit of his wife’s blunt tongue. However, he had gained his wife’s company and was beginning to understand a different way of looking at the things around him.

  Maybe that was why after he’d come through the gates of Lochmore Castle, he’d forced himself to see his home differently, or maybe it was because his mother presented the family brooches. Maybe...just maybe...he’d listened enough to Ailsa’s healing words and deeds.

  Because instead of his first reaction, that of blame or of pointing out all the times he’d wished Finley had given him guidance, he found himself wanting to ease his father’s frowns.

  ‘It never seemed important,’ Rory said. ‘For the most part it suited me fine.’ Relaxing against the wall, Rory realised the truth of those words. Growing up, he’d known no different than small chairs and smaller beds. It was only now he thought of changing things, of making his life different.

  ‘When you get to my age, you realise what’s important.’ Finley set down his goblet. ‘I was gone for many months during the time you were born. Such a surprise upon my return. Such...joy upon your mother’s face. From that moment on, I wanted life here at Lochmore to be more than fine. I wanted everything for you and so I made you my own. Do you understand me?’

  Rory shook his head, knowing he couldn’t be hearing this conversation correctly.

  ‘Truly? Even after you gathered the family cartularies and read them in the crypt? Even though you’ve been to McCrieff land, met McCrieffs?’

  Shock had Rory bracing hard against the wall. His father, Finley, was telling him he knew he wasn’t his father. That sacrifices and compromises were made.

  ‘You need to know that your mother and I only ever wanted what was best for you,’ Finley continued. ‘One of my favourite memories was when you refused that vile green broth your mother kept trying to get you to drink. No matter what she did, every time she held the cup to you, you knocked it out of her hands. You were stubborn and fierce from the very beginning, just like us.

  ‘From your expression, you’re probably wondering how I noticed these things since I was never around.’

  Rory cleared his throat. ‘You are Lochmore’s Chief and have many responsibilities.’

  Finley made some non-committal sound. ‘I raised you as my father did me. His...harshness suited me fine. Made me strong enough to support and care for this clan and your mother. So when I became a father, I did the same to you.’

  All those years ignored with no praise and only criticism. ‘I thought—’

  ‘That I didn’t care for you? How could I not? You’re my son.’

  Locking his knees, Rory wanted to sit now and damn the chairs if they didn’t fit him.

  ‘I called you my son the moment I saw you. When I gazed at my wife’s adoring face as she held you, I claimed you. I was fiercely proud of you then and am even more so now.’

  His father’s words brought more questions to Rory’s mind, but he did hold one absolute certainty. ‘I’m proud to be your son.’

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘It’s dark in here,’ Ailsa’s voice drifted around the cold stones. ‘How did you find your way down the stairs without breaking your leg?’

  ‘I lit a torch,’ Rory answered.

  ‘I can see that, but it’s hardly enough to read by if that’s what you’re intending to do in the crypt in the middle of the night.’ She turned the corner and he could see her. Her arms crossed over her body against the cool night air. ‘Ah, you’re not reading. No journals, just a flagon of ale.’

  Rory slid over on the bench. ‘With no goblet because I couldn’t drink any more. But my father insisted on celebrating, so I couldn’t leave the room without it in my hand.’

  Carefully, she sat next to him. ‘Celebrating?’

  Ailsa was dressed in a simple gown with loose laces and plain slippers on her feet. But nothing was plain or simple about her red hair which was unbound and waving about her shoulders and down her back. Aside from the ceremonial brooch she’d pinned on her gown, she looked ready for bed and utterly beautiful. Especially when she curled her feet under her as she sat.

  ‘Would you believe, as large as I am, my father can drink more than me? So he celebrated, while I became unsteady on my feet. How did you know I’d be here?’

  ‘You didn’t come to bed and the Hall is still full.’ She played with the blanket that was on the bench. ‘I thought you may have wanted quiet again. But it’s an odd place...being in a crypt.’

  He had no defence to that.

  ‘Why didn’t you come to bed?’ she asked.

  ‘I thought maybe to read the journals, but they had been put away and I didn’t want to disturb anyone this late at night.’

  ‘Then you stayed?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Because you’re angry with me?’

  Rory grabbed a corner of the blanket and pulled it over them. ‘I feel many things, but anger isn’t one of them. Neither is blame, accusations nor betrayal.’

  ‘You—you stormed out of here when I tried to talk to you.’ She seemed surprised by the blanket, so he tucked it under her legs, the movements bringing them closer, his body already responding despite the location, his exhaustion and conflicting thoughts. He knew it would always be thus with his wife, and he looked forward to it.

  ‘Since then I walked around until we ate. Did you not see the mud on my shoes?’

  ‘I see the mud on them now, as well as the splatters up your breeches.’

  He looked like a beggar next to his wife. ‘I should have taken care with my appearance. You are very beautiful tonight.’

  She shifted against him as if his compliment affected her. ‘A significant walk, then. I informed you your entire existence is a lie and
that I’ve known it from the beginning and now you’re sharing a blanket.’

  ‘It was quite a walk. There was even an unexpected rut or two I stepped into which put all matters into perspective.’ He adjusted his arm so she could rest her head more comfortably. ‘I wasn’t angry that you told me. I was angry that my father was—is—Hamish. You need to know I already suspected I wasn’t Finley’s child. After all, I’m much larger than Finley and there was always a matter of...aloofness with my parents. I never felt as though I was a Lochmore. I knew this when I married you.’

  Ailsa didn’t want to be right that Rory had spent his childhood alone. How could a child ever feel as though he didn’t belong? ‘Did you think I’d be angry that you didn’t tell me?’

  ‘You have every right to be. This matter is grave. I am McCrieff’s child. An illegitimate baby, but all the same his only issue. What’s more, I wished Hamish dead. For what he did to Paiden, for what he tried to do to the rest of my clan, to you. If he wasn’t on his deathbed, I would demand an honour match with my own father. What kind of child wants to kill his own father?’

  Ailsa couldn’t bear the pain in his voice. ‘Don’t. Don’t torture yourself. Hamish is not a man anyone could tolerate. He was a harsh ruler and the older he became the more punishing his edicts. My father and myself were often his favourites to exact some petty revenge upon. If I hadn’t wanted to preserve life or my soul...’

  ‘And this man’s my father.’

  Curse her choice of words. ‘Please don’t grant him another thought!’

  ‘I can’t talk to Hamish, even if I wanted to,’ he continued as if he didn’t hear her. ‘Anything I say won’t erase the past, and if I said anything at all he’d know I was his son. And that can never be.’ A drumming of his fingers as if, despite his words, he wondered what that conversation would be. ‘Useless to even think about these matters, he’s already passing.’

  ‘Blame me. If I had told you earlier—’

  ‘When I arrived? That’s an impossible circumstance. I’ll need to talk to my mother,’ Rory whispered.

  ‘What will that solve?’ She started to pull away, but Rory held her fast and she let him. ‘Even if you do know with certainty, it changes nothing.’

  ‘Changes nothing? Hamish, my father, must have raped her. She must feel some resentment for me. I came down here to read the journals, to see if there’s any evidence of my lineage. If we are to go forward, this is something that must not be known.’

  She closed her eyes for two breaths. Closed them a bit more before she said, ‘Rory, I have to tell you something.’

  ‘There’s more?’ he said quietly. ‘I may not like these crypt talks with you, my wife.’

  She was the bearer of too great a truth not to tell him, though she feared she would hurt him even more. With every bit of her body and soul, she didn’t want to hurt him more.

  ‘A clan has secrets and as the healer and midwife Rhona knew of them. When she was ill, she wasn’t lucid. She’d beg me to cool her fever with fire. She’d talked nonsense, and mumble details of clan members. Sometimes she’d look right through me and tell me such matters of healing import, I’d get cross with her for not telling me sooner.

  ‘I’d call them ramblings, but they weren’t. They were more gasps of memory between the pain. Everything she said was audibly clear, I just didn’t understand the context of what she said. Not until I met you.’

  ‘Me?’ Rory asked. ‘There’s more to tell about my birth, isn’t there.’

  ‘There’s more,’ she said. Curse her small stature for her body didn’t feel substantial enough to hold this man. Still, she wrapped herself as tightly about him as she could. Pressed every bit of who she was against him so he’d know she was there.

  ‘It can’t be worse than my mother raped and my father... Hamish.’

  At the sounds of his hesitancy, Ailsa would have ripped her heart out and pressed that directly to his if she could have. Even so, the way she felt, the hammering of her heart and the feel of his... There was no easy way to speak of this.

  ‘You mother wasn’t raped,’ she said. ‘Because Helen isn’t your mother.’

  She felt Rory’s heart stop for one beat, his breath stop for two more before he suddenly released both with force. It shook her as well as him. Then he slowly extricated himself from her. It was his fingers first, each lift bringing the fresh chilly air to her skin. Then one limb before another. His legs next before he shifted his body.

  Until the only thing that held them together was the blanket he had over their laps. It was still tucked around her, but was slowly unravelling from him and slipping to the floor. She watched it slide down his leg, watched how he didn’t grab to secure it to him. She hoped, wished, whatever happened next that what they’d found with each other wouldn’t be so easily lost.

  ‘Finley is not my father,’ he said. ‘And now Helen is not my mother.’

  Free from his hold, Ailsa carefully adjusted herself so that she could face him. What she saw were shadows and light flickering against his dark hair and darker eyes, and she silently cursed the lone torch he’d lit. What needed to be said next was very important and she wanted to see him! ‘You’re not questioning me.’

  ‘After everything, the one certainty I have is that nothing is certain.’

  Was that true for them as well? She took courage from the fact that he was still in the room with her, that he hadn’t left the bench and was instead turned towards her so they could face each other.

  ‘If Helen is not my mother,’ he said after another moment. ‘what are you trying to tell me? Am I to assume the McCrieff healer knew that Helen wasn’t my mother? That she talked of this? Did she...?’ He swallowed. ‘Did others hear her?’

  ‘No one. I was the only one to care for her. Sometimes she’d look at me, grip my arm as if demanding I know things I hadn’t before. Sometimes she told me matters she didn’t mean to tell me. When it started, I never left the room. I didn’t want her burned or tortured in her old age if her words were heard by the wrong ears. She was hurting enough as it was and I made sure no one was there when she was awake. Others took the linens and the waste pots and came and brought me food.’

  ‘It was just you,’ he whispered as if he couldn’t believe it to be true.

  ‘She wasn’t ill long, death came fast. It was just me.’ Why were they having these conversations in a crypt? No one had died, but Rory was as pale as a ghost and she knew, in a way, she was killing his childhood.

  ‘You knew,’ he said and repeated, ‘You—knew. How did she?’

  ‘Hamish is a callous man, who used everyone around him. And he liked young girls the most. As far as I know, none of them consented. Rhona helped one of these girls, Marion, a girl from the McNeill clan, with the pregnancy and the birthing. Rhona, who must have been very young herself, said Marion’s body barely recovered from his use and the birthing was too much.’

  ‘Marion was my mother...and she died.’

  There was no reason to repeat the truth, especially when it was cruel. ‘Rhona said her hatred kept her alive until the baby was birthed. Rhona admired hatred and especially anyone that hated Hamish. Because she was weak or maybe because Hamish didn’t care enough to know, Rhona was able to keep the pregnancy hidden.’

  ‘Rhona gave the baby, me, to my parents? How did they know?’

  ‘Rhona only told me that the baby was given away to a woman who couldn’t conceive, who was desperate. There was no husband there. But I always dreamed the baby went to a cheerful home.’

  ‘That baby’s name was...is... Rory.’ He grabbed the blanket and returned it to his lap. ‘That’s why you say my name the way you do.’

  ‘Though I suspected, I didn’t know the baby was you. What are the chances?’ She pulled a corner of the blanket, grateful when she felt the tug as he firmly held on to the bit that was half across his lap
. ‘My entire life has been formed by the Lochmores. From the tales of the Great Feud and how I felt about the baby who died, how I felt when Magnus died. Both of those led me to become a healer, something I am blessed to be.

  ‘But learning of Rhona’s story and Hamish’s baby given away, and then you, Rory, arriving in the McCrieff courtyard. When I married you, I couldn’t be sure whether I did it for the clan, for myself, or because of the stories that were told to me.’

  ‘For yourself?’

  ‘I was...attracted to you.’

  ‘I see,’ he said, a quirk to his mouth that she loved. ‘That is good.’

  She more than lifted her lips, she smiled. She could feel it from ear to ear. It was good. They were good. Flickering torchlight, cold crypt in the middle of spring, dead of night, but they were good. She’d make certain it would happen despite the doubt in his eyes. It would be up to her to erase that doubt, though it would be far more difficult than simply pouring a tincture. Rory’s past and present would require time and healing. For now, she’d show him she cared, that she loved. ‘In the end, right now, I know it doesn’t matter why I married you, I’m simply glad I did.’

  Rory had no happy answer to Ailsa’s bright smile or sweet words. ‘I as well, my wife, but it is not as simple as that.’

  But he wanted it to be simple. He wanted it to be easy, because if it was, he’d be able to take the woman who sat next him into his arms. Hold her, comfort her, love her. Not stare helplessly into her wide green eyes shimmering with tears in the flickering light of the torch. Not tell her she shouldn’t, couldn’t, be glad they married.

  ‘I’m a McCrieff!’ he said. ‘With many people not wanting me ruling McCrieffs. Except, even if I am a McCrieff, I don’t deserve to rule. Who would want Hamish’s issue ruling the McCrieffs when he has done such harm?’

  ‘I want you to. My father most certainly does. There isn’t anyone worthier than you.’

  Her words were no balm. ‘My blood’s a McCrieff, and not just anyone’s, but a man hated by many. And you were wrong. My mother was raped. He raped Marion.’