Cottage in the Mist

by Dee Davis

  "True," Jeff agreed, "but I seem to have. I mean, I went after my sister when it was important. And brought her back when that was necessary as well. Not that she appreciated the last."

  Elaine put a hand on his shoulder. "You had no choice. She'd have died if you'd left her there. And anyway, it all worked out in the end."

  "That it did," Mrs. Abernathy agreed. "But you don't know where Bram is. And to date, at least, you've only been able to find him when there was a need. First, for him to care for you after the accident and second, for you to let him know about the intruders. And although you have a need now to know that he's all right, it's not specific enough. What we need is more information."

  "But you already said that his branch of the clan was a small one," Jeff broke in. "So there isn't much written about Dunbrae or about him."

  "But if there is anything," Elaine continued. "It would be at Dunmaglass, right?"

  "There might be something there," Mrs. Abernathy admitted. "But the Macgillivray seat has no' been there for a couple hundred years. Better, I'm thinking, to go straight to the source."

  "Dunbrae?" Lily's heart started to pound. "It still exists?"

  "Aye. Not in its entirety, mind you. But there are walls still standing. And if you can put stones together again here," she said, clearly referring to the cottage, "then perhaps there's something you could learn there."

  CHAPTER 11

  "I DINNA KNOW IF THIS is still accurate," Bram said, looking down at the crude map he'd drawn on the piece of parchment. The three men were in the great room, the drawing spread upon the massive table on the dais. "I've no' been to Tigh an Droma except the once. And I was just a wee lad at the time."

  "So we're going in blind," Ranald groused.

  "We can send men ahead to get the lay of the land," Iain assured him. "Besides, I'll wager the two of us have ridden into far worse."

  "I canna remember when." Ranald still seemed less than convinced. "We have no idea how many men Alec Comyn has nor where they might be waiting for us."

  "So then dinna come," Bram snapped, feeling irritation rise. "I'll handle it in my own way."

  "Nay." Ranald shook his head, his eyes reflecting regret. "I dinna mean to imply we wouldna go with you. I only wish the odds were slightly more in our favor. Or that we could trust the memories of a wee boy."

  Bram sighed, his frustration vanishing as quickly as it had come. "'Tis sorry I am that I canna remember more. I dinna like the idea of riding into the unknown any more than you do. But I canna sit by and let my father's death go unavenged."

  "I understand your need," Iain said, a shadow crossing his face. Iain had lost his father to treachery not much more than a year ago now. "And you know that we'll stand by you. But Ranald makes a good point. We canna go into this without a better understanding of our enemy."

  "And how do we do that?" Ranald queried. "We canna contact Moy or Dunmaglass. We dare not let anyone know that Bram is here. Or that we're riding with him. Not when there's even the smallest doubt that he might have been the traitor."

  "I told you—" Bram began, the heat of anger shooting through him again.

  "You canna ignore the facts, Bram," Iain said, cutting him off. "And Ranald is right. Whatever we do, we must do on our own. 'Tis too great a risk otherwise."

  Bram nodded, dropping down onto a bench, wondering how the hell it had all come to this. If only his father had called for him sooner. Or if Bram had insisted on coming home. But there was nothing gained in wondering what if.

  "Alec Comyn is no' a man to ignore the possibility of retaliation," Ranald said, pulling Bram from his thoughts. "Even if he is denying that he attacked Dunbrae, he'll no' be sitting idle on the chance of your coming."

  "Well, if this map is accurate," Iain responded, "then our best shot is going to be to come at him from the hills to the west."

  "You're right, 'tis the most logical choice," Ranald mused.

  "And the one the Comyn will least expect," Bram added. "He'll assume we'll come from the south. From Dunbrae. At least from this point"—He tapped the map—"it gives us the possibility of surprise."

  A commotion off to the right pulled Bram's attention away from the drawing. Iain's captain, Fergus, strode into the great hall, two more of Iain's men beside him, a fourth man hunkered between them, anger turning his face a deep red.

  "What's this then?" Iain asked, his hand moving to his dagger.

  "We found him outside on the path coming up to the gate," Fergus called as they crossed the chamber. "Figured him for one of the bastards that snuck into the canyon last night."

  "I'm no' Comyn," the man in the middle spat, lifting his head. And Bram raised a hand, recognizing the voice—the age-weathered face.

  "'Tis my father's man," he assured them, then rushed across the floor to meet Frazier, the two embracing as the others watched. "I feared you were dead."

  "Nay, lad, 'tis no' easy to take down a Macbean," Fergus said, his smile fading as a shadow crossed his face. "Although there were no' many survivors."

  "Robby?" Bram asked as the two of them crossed back over to Iain and Ranald by the dais, Iain's man Fergus following behind them.

  The old warrior shook his head. "Dead. After you were safe, we turned back to fight the bastards."

  "Do you ken who it was?" Iain asked, as Ranald offered the old man a tankard of ale.

  "Aye." He nodded. "'Twas Comyns. I recognized their colors. Besides, there's no mistaking the look of them. Those eyes and all that hair."

  Bram and Ranald exchanged a look.

  "You were Seamus Macgillivray's captain?" Iain asked.

  "Aye, that I was. For more than thirty years." The older man shrugged. "But time has a way of making a man weak." He shrugged. "Seamus and I faced that together. His goal was to step down. Leave the holding to his son." Frazier's eyes cut to Bram, his expression grim.

  "Why did I hear nothing of this?" Bram asked, grief rocking through him with the power of a lance. "He said naught to me."

  "Ye were no' ready, lad," the old man answered.

  Bram fisted his hands, but Frazier waved him quiet. "I dinna mean you were weak. Only that you had to want it. Being laird is a right, but it is also a privilege. One earned. And yer father needed to know that you were ready to handle it."

  "I was born ready." Bram pushed away from the table. "But my father could never see that."

  "In his own way, he loved you, lad," Frazier said. "He just had no way o' showing it. And you were gone more often than not."

  "Because he sent me away."

  "Isn't that always the way of it with men?" Katherine queried as she swept into the room, a fresh pitcher of ale in her hands. "Pushing each other about, talking around everything but what's important. It's a wonder any of you ever get anything done at all." She stopped, eyeing the newcomer.

  "Bram's father's man, Frazier," Iain said by way of introduction. "He's managed to escape the carnage at Dunbrae."

  Bram watched as Katherine studied the man and then her husband. "And you believe him?"

  Frazier ruffled, clearly unaccustomed to being found wanting by a woman. But then if Frazier knew half of the truths of this household he would no doubt be running for sanctuary. The thought brought a smile.

  "What are ye laughing about, boy?" Frazier snapped.

  "Nothing." He lifted a hand, swallowing his mirth. "Nothing at all." He turned his attention back to Katherine. "I swear on my life, this man is a friend. He helped me to escape Alec and his men—at great risk to himself, I might add." And to others. Bram shuddered, his thoughts turning to Robby.

  "Well, then," she said, setting the pitcher on the table. "Any friend of Bram's is more than welcome here. I'll see that Flora sends some food. I'd imagine it's been a while since you've eaten." She bent to kiss her husband, her golden hair swinging forward like a curtain. And then with a smile, she was gone.

  "Hell of a woman, that," Frazier mumbled.

  "Aye, that she is." Iain's smile was war
m, but there was still a sliver of doubt present. Bram recognized the caution for what it was. Iain hadn't survived all that he had endured without keeping a clear head. And despite the fact that Bram trusted Frazier, he understood the need to tread carefully. "So tell us, how did you manage to get away?"

  "And more importantly," Ranald added, his gaze narrowed as he studied the older man, "how did you manage to track Bram here?"

  Flora bustled into the room with a platter of meat and cheese, her ruddy face filled with curiosity as she put the trencher in front of Frazier. "Lady Katherine said that you were hungry."

  Bram swallowed another smile. Clearly Flora and her mistress were of an accord when it came to Frazier. Neither inclined to completely trust this newest addition to the household. With a last shake of her head, she turned and waltzed from the room.

  "Women," Frazier mumbled, stabbing a piece of cheese. After following it up with a swig of ale, he sat back, eyeing the assembled company. "I wasna planning to follow you. I'd thought to fight to the death. To stay and avenge Seamus. But 'twas no' possible. We were far outnumbered. And they'd no plans to spare anyone.

  "After we saw you away, young Robby and I headed back for the tower. The battle had already turned. So many men lost. But we fought on. Determined to take as many Comyns with us as we could. We'd fought our way back into the great room. And were close to surrounded. There were only about four of us left that I could see. Robby, me, Angus Macfarland and his son."

  Bram blew out an angry sigh. Hamish had been not more than a boy.

  "I thought for a moment we might prevail. Not overall, mind ye, but at least there in the great room. We had them down in number. But more arrived. Eight, I don't know, maybe ten. We continued to fight hard, but we were sorely outnumbered. Young Hamish fell first. And then his father." Frazier looked down at his hands. "And then they took Robby. Not before he'd kilt four of them, mind ye. But I knew he was dead before he hit the floor." The older man's gaze locked on Bram. "I know he was yer friend, lad. I only wish that I could have saved him."

  Bram nodded, swallowing his pain. "I am certain you did what you could."

  "If you were surrounded, as you say," Ranald asked, his voice deceptively mild, "how is it you managed to escape?"

  "I got lucky. There was a loud noise of some kind." He stopped, his hands clenched as he remembered. "I've no idea what it was. But as the men reacted, I took my chance." He paused again, this time regret coloring his face. "I made a run for it. I'm no' proud of the fact. But in my heart—" He pounded a fist to his chest, his gaze meeting Bram's. "—I knew that yer father would expect me to protect you above all else. And there was no way I could do that if I were dead." He sighed. "So I slipped away through the same gate as you." His grizzled eyebrows rose as he shot a look across the table at Bram. "I canna say it sits well to have run, but were I given the chance to do it over, I'd have done the same."

  Iain sat forward, his mind clearly turning over the weight of Frazier's story. "And so you followed him here? Bram, I mean?"

  "Nay." Frazier shook his head. "Too much time had passed. And there had been no time for plans to rendezvous." He looked to Bram, who nodded in agreement. "But I knew he wouldna go to Dunmaglass. Yer father never had any use for his uncle or his brothers. And I dinna think you'd see it differently."

  "I do not," Bram said in agreement. "But—"

  Frazier waved him quiet. "'Twas no' a great leap to see that you'd come here. You've idolized yer cousins since you were a wee lad. Even now you talk of little else but the adventures the three of you have shared."

  "Aye, but he always liked me more than Iain," Ranald said with an affable laugh.

  "I dinna like either o' you much at the moment," Bram groused. "And Frazier exaggerates."

  "Ach, well, that doesna follow so well with my recollections of you always being underfoot where e'er Iain and I were to be found." Ranald laughed, and Bram relaxed. He might still be youngest, but he was far from a lad. And there were bigger concerns afoot than his relationship with his cousins.

  "Ranald's right. We've always been close. So why not assume I'd go to Ranald's holding?"

  Frazier dipped his head, his bushy-eyed gaze shooting toward Ranald. "Without meaning offense, Iain has the backing of Moy and I knew it would be the wiser move. Besides, 'twas no' trick to learn that the two of you were only just returning from there. And Duncreag is far closer than Tur nan Clach."

  "I suppose it is," Ranald grumbled. "But let it be known the wrath of the Macqueens is every bit as fearsome as that of the Mackintoshes." Despite the teasing tone of his voice, there was a feral glint in Ranald's eye.

  "No one is claiming otherwise," Iain assured his cousin. "And I agree that coming here was a logical move. But since you obviously had your ear to the ground, Frazier, why did you not go back when you learned that Malcolm had been given Dunbrae?"

  "Loyalty," the old man said simply. "They were saying that Bram was a traitor and I knew for certain that it was a lie. Better, I thought, to find Bram and help him first. Besides, as I say, there was no love lost between the brothers. My allegiance has always been with Seamus. Because o' that, I canna know for certain that Malcolm would have welcomed me."

  Iain nodded, his expression inscrutable. "Well, then I'd say you made the right decision. And now that you've found Bram, what would you have him do?"

  There was no hesitation. The old man pushed to his feet, anger and grief cresting in his eyes. "Avenge his father's death—and the others. Seamus canna rest until the Comyns have paid."

  "Then we are agreed," Bram said, nodding toward the map on the table. "And to that end we're already making plans. But apparently so are they. Last night, we were attacked."

  The man drew a sharp breath, his brows drawing together. "Comyns?"

  "Aye, looks as though. The colors were true," Iain said, quickly filling the older man in on the details of the attack. "But considering what you've told us about the fighting, I canna see how they got here so fast."

  "Can you no' ask them?" Frazier frowned, his eyes narrowing.

  Iain's smile held a hard glint of steel as he casually shrugged. "There were no survivors."

  "Just as well," the man said, clenching his fist, a nerve in his weathered jaw twitching. "For what they've done, they deserve to go straight to hell."

  "I canna argue with that," Ranald agreed. "But it might have proved useful to have had a prisoner to question."

  "It is what it is." Bram shrugged, impatience rising as his fingers closed around the pin on his plaid.

  Frazier's gaze followed the movement. "Seamus's crest." He frowned, his hand automatically closing on his dagger. "How came you by it, then? Yer father ne're went anywhere without it."

  "The men who attacked Duncreag left it behind," Bram said, swallowing bitter bile. "We found it in the aftermath. A message, I'm guessing."

  "Aye." Frazier nodded, his face still flushed with anger as his eyes fell to the parchment on the table. "Proof that the bastards killed yer father. And that if you dinna stop them first, they'll find a way to kill you, too."

  "Which is why we have to concentrate on our next move," Bram said, his fingers still touching the cool metal of the crest. "You have the right of it, Frazier. Whatever path we choose, my father must be avenged."

  "Well, you canna come in this way and expect to meet with success." He pointed to the west on the map, the place they'd marked for their approach. "There's an outpost here. And Alec will certainly have made sure that it is fully manned."

  "But they'll be expecting us to attack from Dunbrae."

  "Mayhap. And they'll no doubt be watching that way as well. But they know that you're no' there. And that you've no support from that quarter. Yer uncle is no' interested in retribution. Or in you. So they'll be watching for other places as well."

  "But the rest of the valley is guarded by mountains. Best I remember, there's no way through at all," Bram argued.

  "Aye." Frazier smiled, his eyes narro
wing in triumph. "So it would seem. But, ye forget, yer father and I grew up in these mountains. 'Tis my feeling we should come in here." He pointed to an area in the northeast.

  "But—" Bram began in protest.

  "You think it looks impassible, I know. But, that's where yer wrong, lad." Frazier tapped a weathered finger on the map. "There's a passage of sorts here. A narrow twist of a path following alongside a burn. Seamus and I used it when we were no older than you, Bram. For reiving, ye ken. It'll be the perfect approach. They'll ne'er see it coming."

  CHAPTER 12

  IT WAS AN IMPOSSIBLY normal day, which on the face of it was ridiculous. Maybe it was the company or maybe it was the beauty of the surrounding fields and mountains, but whatever the reason, for the first time since she'd learned of her parents' deaths, Lily felt as if life might actually go on.

  Which immediately made her feel guilty.

  She'd lost everything. Her family. Her home. Her fiancé. Or at least the idea of him. And yet, here in Scotland she'd found something as well. Hope. Although, truth be told, it was fleeting at best, impossibly insane at worst.

  Lily sighed, closing her eyes against the enormity of it all.

  "I know it doesn't feel like it now," Elaine said, lifting a hand from the steering wheel to cover Lily's, "but things have a way of working out."

  "Aye, that they do." Mrs. Abernathy nodded sagely from the back seat as they barreled along in Elaine's tiny car.

  They'd spent the morning combing through the records in Dunmaglass. First at the vicarage and then at the little museum that passed as an historical society. Unfortunately, they'd come away with little to show for it. A notation of Bram's birth, and a record of his service as a page as a small boy. There was also a record of his father's death, but no details, and nothing at all of Dunbrae. It was as if the place had never existed.

  Lily tipped her head back with a sigh.

  "'Twas a long time ago," Mrs. Abernathy said, accurately guessing her turn of thought. "'Tis no' surprising that there is nothing more. Events recorded centered around the heads of the clans. The smaller lairdships were no' often documented well. And when the clans lost power and scattered, what records that existed were often abandoned or lost. 'Tis lucky we found anything at all."