Secrets of a Highland Warrior

by Nicole Locke

  ‘Drummond.’ Lachlan turned to summon their butler. ‘Would you please ask our guests to join us? It’s time.’

  Flora’s father and brother had arrived last night, escorting Rory’s newly enshrouded remains, and the former Lochmore Clan Chief now lay on a trestle table set up in the new chapel, awaiting Ailsa. The ‘new’ chapel adjoined the castle itself. It had been built in the sixteenth century by Ewan Lochmore, the Lochmore Chief at the time, who had decreed the old chapel in the outer bailey too vulnerable to attack after the raid on Rory’s tomb.

  Ewan Lochmore and his lady, Marguerite, had been the first occupants of the new chapel and were buried in a double tomb in the chapel itself, whereas subsequent Lochmores had been buried in the crypt below. It seemed fitting that Rory and Ailsa would now be re-interred in a double tomb constructed next to that of Ewan and Marguerite.

  Flora fingered the disc-shaped silver brooch pinned to her shawl: Rory’s brooch. Every curve and indent was achingly familiar—she had worn it and cared for it from the day she found Rory until the day she discovered the empty tomb in the old stone crypt and recognised the matching, smaller brooch on Ailsa’s tomb.

  The Lochmores’ carriage drew to a halt and Benneit—tall, broad-shouldered and still straight-backed, despite being in his sixties—climbed from the carriage and turned to assist his Duchess, Joane—as petite and elegant as ever—to the ground. Flora and Joane had forged a strong friendship, despite the gap in their ages, and Flora eagerly greeted the couple.

  ‘So,’ said Joane, once they had all exchanged greetings. ‘Is Rory home at last?’

  ‘Yes. He is in the new chapel. But Ailsa is still in the crypt. I—I know it is silly, but I felt it was important for you and Benneit to be here when they are reunited.’

  ‘We have come to trust those feelings of yours, Flora.’ Benneit’s voice held no hint of mockery, unlike Father, who made no secret of his scorn for Flora’s intuitive streak. ‘Besides...’ Benneit paused as Father and Donald joined them at the bottom of the steps. The greetings over, he continued, ‘Besides, there are four men here and I think it fitting that we escort Ailsa to her final resting place. Not servants, but Lochmores and McCrieffs. It’s a shame Jamie is away, but Lachlan is an honorary member of both clans, is he not? So he will be a more-than-fitting substitute.’

  Jamie was Benneit’s son and heir by his first marriage. Lachlan smiled his appreciation of the Duke’s words and Flora knew they would mean the world to him. All he had ever wanted was to belong. As the four men headed for the old chapel, Joane’s large grey eyes settled on the brooch Flora wore. A frown creased her forehead.

  ‘Is that Rory’s brooch? I thought you left it with Ailsa’s brooch on her tomb?’

  Flora fingered its familiar surface again. ‘I did. But we opened the tomb yesterday to prepare Ailsa and I...well, I pinned her own brooch to her shroud but...but...’

  Sympathy and understanding shimmered in Joane’s large grey eyes. ‘You wanted to take care of it for Rory?’

  ‘Yes. And, if I’m honest, I wanted to wear it one last time. I will pin it to his shroud before the new tomb is closed. But...last night...’ She shrugged. ‘I can’t explain it. I could have pinned it on him last night, but it feels almost as though that should be the final act. When they are back together.’

  Joane smiled. ‘And that will be very soon.’

  Lachlan, Benneit, Father and Donald, each holding one corner of a wooden board upon which Ailsa lay, now entered the inner bailey. Emotion constricted Flora’s throat as she and Joane walked side by side to wait by the chapel door, ready to follow Ailsa inside.

  ‘I am so pleased,’ Joane said in a whisper, ‘that we could all agree not to involve Pastor Collins in this. It feels right, somehow, to keep this informal and private.’

  ‘I agree. It does feel right.’

  Flora had dreaded their officious local pastor taking charge of what, to her, felt intensely personal. As it was, both Father and Benneit would speak a few words before Rory and Ailsa were covered and left in peace, together for eternity.

  The chapel interior was dim and cool, lit by flickering torches set into old-fashioned wall sconces. A pair of trestles had been set ready for Ailsa and, for the first time, they could all see the couple side by side—Rory had been a big man, tall and broad, whereas Ailsa had been petite. A little like both Lachlan and Flora and Benneit and Joane, Flora realised. That observation made the couple feel even more real to her and she only half-listened as first Father, then Benneit, spoke of reuniting the couple and of laying them to rest.

  Her memories were again in the past and she relived that swell of anguish and pain she had experienced when she first ventured into the crypt under the old chapel.

  Always—the whisper had seemed to come from both within her and without, at the same time.

  She blocked the men’s voices, holding her conscious thoughts at bay...listening, seeking...

  She heard nothing. But she felt...contentment. Peace. Deep and satisfying.

  And she relaxed.

  It was time.

  Father and Benneit lifted Rory and placed him in the waiting tomb. Lachlan and Donald moved Ailsa. Flora stepped forward, fumbling to unpin Rory’s brooch from her shawl. She stared down at the two shrouded bodies, lying side by side in the double tomb. Flora pressed her lips to the brooch, blessing the comfort it—and Rory—had afforded her over the years, then she bent over to fasten it to Rory’s linen shroud. As ever, the stiff catch made it tricky to fasten, but she managed and then straightened with a sigh, placing her hand to the small of her back. Lachlan’s arm slipped round her waist, supporting her.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes. It was merely the discomfort of stooping.’

  The stone lid waited to be lifted in place. To cover Rory and Ailsa. The four men positioned themselves at each corner and bent to grasp it.

  ‘Wait!’

  They paused. Flora smiled self-consciously. ‘Just one moment...one last thing...’ She reached out one hand and placed it on Ailsa’s brooch, pinned in the position of her heart. A gentle pat of reassurance? A farewell? And then she did the same for Rory, quickly, before stepping back and allowing the men to heave the stone lid into the air and settle it gently over the tomb. Flora read the carved inscription through blurred vision.

  Here lie Rory Lochmore,

  Chief of the Lochmore Clan,

  and his lady, Ailsa.

  Rest in Peace.

  Rory and Ailsa—together again. Always.

  There were no effigies on this tomb lid, but merely carvings depicting the two brooches. Flora blinked back her tears, for it made no sense to mourn two people who were long dead. They were happy tears, she decided, as she fetched the bundle of greenery she had deposited in the chapel earlier that morning—rosemary, for remembrance, and heather, the scent of home—and placed it on the tomb.

  And, come the spring, she would bring thrift, for as long as it bloomed along the Lochmore cliffs.

  * * *

  That evening, after their guests had departed, Flora and Lachlan strolled arm in arm around the castle grounds as was their custom whenever the weather permitted. Tonight, Flora’s head was full of Rory and Ailsa, hoping they were content now they were together again. She gazed up at the night sky above them, at the myriad stars that spangled the heavens, and she prayed that Rory and Ailsa were up there, somewhere, together. She prayed that their love truly was—as she believed—eternal.

  A breeze picked up and it teased a few tresses out of Flora’s coiffure. Lachlan caught them, sifting her hair through his fingers, before raising them to breathe in her scent.

  ‘Have I ever told you,’ he said, his voice husky, ‘that I adore your hair?’

  Flora smiled. Yes, he had. Often...especially when it was unbound for the night, waving about her shoulders and down her back in
fiery red waves. She leaned closer to her beloved husband and raised her face for his kiss, but then tensed, her hand to her belly, as the babe made its presence felt.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Anxiety laced Lachlan’s tone.

  ‘Yes, of course. He just rolled over. And kicked me, for good measure.’

  ‘Or she,’ said Lachlan pointedly, always quick to reassure Flora that he would be happy for his firstborn to be a girl. He knew her father’s disappointment that his firstborn was a girl had marred Flora’s childhood.

  ‘Or she.’ Flora stroked her swollen stomach lightly, her mind racing. ‘Lachlan...when we discussed names...’ They still had not decided on what they might call their baby. ‘What would you think of—?’

  One finger pressed against her lips, silencing her. Startled, she gazed wordlessly into Lachlan’s smiling eyes.

  ‘Rory if it’s a boy; Ailsa if it’s a girl?’ His smile broadened. ‘I love the names—they are perfect.’

  Flora kissed his fingertip. ‘They will never be forgotten again and we will make sure our children and our children’s children remember them.’

  ‘Always.’

  * * *

  If you enjoyed this story

  be sure to read the other books in

  The Lochmore Legacy miniseries

  His Convenient Highland Bride

  by Janice Preston

  Unlaced by the Highland Duke

  by Lara Temple

  A Runaway Bride for the Highlander

  by Elisabeth Hobbes

  Keep reading for an excerpt from The Rake’s Enticing Proposal by Lara Temple.

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  The Rake’s Enticing Proposal

  by Lara Temple

  Chapter One

  ‘I have one last, but very important, quest for you, Chase...’

  Chase drew Brutus to a halt at the foot of Huxley’s Folly.

  The last time he’d seen his cousin, he’d stood precisely there in the arched doorway of the stone tower, his wispy grey hair weaving in the breeze like an underwater plant.

  The last time he’d seen him and the first and last time Huxley had ever expressed any sentiment regarding Chase’s chosen occupation.

  ‘I do hope what you do for Oswald doesn’t place you in too much peril, Chase. Tessa would be very upset if you joined her too soon.’

  Huxley always referred to Chase’s mother as if her death was merely a temporary absence. It was one of the reasons Chase found visiting Huxley a strain, but that was no excuse for neglecting him these past couple of years, no matter how busy Oswald kept him.

  ‘It’s my fault, Brutus.’ He stroked the horse’s thick black neck. ‘I should have visited more often. Too late now.’

  Brutus huffed, twin bursts of steam foaming into the chilly air.

  Chase sighed and swung out of the saddle. Coming to Huxley Manor always stretched his patience, but without Huxley himself his stay would be purgatorial. Nothing wrong with postponing it a little longer with a visit to the ramshackle Folly tower. Every time he came it looked a little more stunted, but as children he and Lucas and Sam fantasised that it was populated with ogres, magical beasts and escaped princesses.

  He approached the wall where Huxley kept a key behind a loose brick, when he noticed the door was slightly open. He frowned and slipped inside, a decade of working as emissary for his uncle at the Foreign Office coming into play even though he knew there was probably no need. Being sent to smooth out some of the less mentionable kinks in relations with Britain’s allies meant one collected as many enemies as friends. Wariness had the advantage of increasing longevity, but it also flared up at inappropriate moments, and this was probably just such a case.

  No doubt whoever was in the tower was merely his cousin, Henry, the new Baron Huxley, or Huxley’s trusted secretary, Mallory, Chase told himself as he climbed the stairs silently.

  It was neither.

  For a moment as he stood in the doorway of the first floor of the tower he wondered if he’d conjured one of their old tales into being—the Princess locked away and pining for her Prince.

  His mouth quirked in amusement at his descent into fancy as he took in the details of her attire. Definitely not a princess.

  She was seated at Huxley’s desk, which was positioned to provide a view from the arched window, so she was facing away and all he could see was the curve of her cheek and tawny-brown hair gathered into a tightly coiled bun exposing the fragile line of her nape and a very drab-coloured pelisse with no visible ornamentation.

  She was leaning over some papers on the desk with evident concentration and the opening words in Huxley’s cryptic letter forced their way back into his mind.

  There is something I have but recently uncovered that I must discuss with you. I think it will be best you not share this revelation with anyone, except perhaps with Lucas, as it can do more harm than good to those I care about most...

  Huxley’s letter, dated almost a month ago, awaited him on his return from St Petersburg two days ago, as well as a message from his man of business with news of Huxley’s demise and his last will and testament.

  Chase hadn’t the slightest idea what Huxley was referring to, but he had every intention of finding out. Through the centuries the Sinclair name became synonymous with scandal, but now Lucas was married and Sam widowed Chase had every intention of keeping his family name out of the muck and mire it so loved wallowing in. If Huxley had uncovered something damaging and had it here at the Manor, Chase intended to destroy it as swiftly and quietly as possible.

  Therefore, the sight of a strange woman seated at Huxley’s desk and looking through his papers was not the most welcome vision at the moment.

  As if sensing his tension, she straightened, like a rabbit pricking its ears, then turned and rose in one motion, sending the chair scraping backwards. For the briefest moment her eyes reflected fear, but then she did something quite different from most women he knew. Like a storm moving backwards she gathered all expression inwards and went utterly flat. It was like watching liquid drain out of a crack in a clay vessel, leaving it empty and dull.

  They inspected each other in silence. With all trace of emotion gone from her face she was as unremarkable as her clothes—her height was perhaps a little on the tall side of middling, but what figure he could distinguish beneath her shapeless pelisse was too slim to fit society’s vision of proper proportions and the pelisse’s hue, a worn dun colour that hovered
between grey and brown and was an offence to both, gave a sallow cast to her pale skin. Only her eyes were in any way remarkable—large and a deep honey-brown. Even devoid of expression they held a jewel-like glitter which made him think of a tigress watching its prey from the shadows.

  ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’ she demanded, her voice surprisingly deep and husky for someone so slight. That, too, was unusual. Similar demands were fired at him by friend and foe since he’d joined the army and not nearly as imperiously. Predictably he felt his hackles rise along with his suspicions.

  ‘I could ask the same question. Are you another of Lady Ermintrude’s nieces? I thought I had met the lot.’

  She moved along the desk as he approached, putting it between them, but he concentrated on what lay on top. Piled high with papers and books, it was much more chaotic than he remembered and he wondered if his cousin or the young woman were the cause.

  He glanced at the slip of paper she’d inspected with such concentration. It was a caricature of a camel inspecting a pot of tea through a quizzing glass, grey hair swept back in an impressive cockade over a patrician brow. The resemblance to his cousin’s antiquarian friend Phillip ‘Poppy’ Carmichael was impressive and a fraction of Chase’s tension eased, but only a fraction. This particular scrap of paper might have nothing to do with Huxley’s message, but any of the other papers here might hold the key to understanding it.

  He returned his attention to the woman. She was younger than his first impression of her—perhaps in her mid-twenties. Her hand rested on a stack of books at the edge of the desk and she looked like a countrified statue of learning, or a schoolmistress waiting for her class to settle. She did have rather the look of a schoolmistress—proper, erect, a little impatient, as if he was not merely a slow pupil, but purposely recalcitrant. With her chin raised, her eyes had a faintly exotic slant, something an artist would attempt if he wanted to depict a goddess to be wary of.