Highland Scandal

by Mageela Troche

  “I shall.”

  “I must do something for ye. I’ll try to quell the talk in the clachan.”

  A burly man walked in—her husband—and he glared from Luighseach’s touch to Rowen.

  “She has brought me news aboot my sister.”

  He made a sound in the back of his throat. “She’d be deid soon, nay?”

  “Nay, she did not kill the laird.”

  Luighseach clutched her heart. Her husband let out a breath of relief. “’Tis been hard for my wife.” He pulled an arm around her. She rested her hand on his chest.

  “Thank ye for telling us…um…Mistress Murray.” He grimaced from embarrassment, unsure of Rowen’s position.

  The clan must have thought her Lachlan’s mistress. They were not wrong, and with the auld laird have a string of them, the clan mustn’t be surprised his son followed his lead. It must have been in the blood. Then with the fairy talk and her deemed a banshee by all of the highlands, she was faced with the danger Lachlan faced. She couldn’t ignore it or pretend it no longer existed. She said her farewells and hastened from their home.

  She jumped onto the horse and hurried down the tract to the gawks of the people. She had lost her composure, that veil she had hid behind that protected her opened wound those banshee tales caused. Lachlan was laird and she believed that this time she could be with the man that she loved. She could have a life and deal with the chatter. As long she spent the rest of her days with Lachlan, she swore she could handle anything. She had put Lachlan in danger and she couldn’t have a life with him. She loved him too much to let him lose all he had.

  * * * *

  Winter cold had lost its grip in the air. Though the night was still chilled, Lachlan’s leine stuck to his sweaty back. He swung his sword against the pole. Slivers of wood flew about him. His arms burned from exhaustion. Sweat burned his eyes. His throat dried, he didn’t have a drop of saliva to ease the grating from each grunt.

  Swinging his sword always brought him a sort of peace, where his mind stop running and his instinct took over. This night, his mind raced to match the force of the blows. He swung again and the blade buried in the thick, notched wood.

  He huffed, sucking in air. He scraped his arm across his forehead and rubbed his eyes. Blinking, he spotted Rowen coming toward him. He brushed back his hair, leaving sweat on his hands.

  She raised a brow at the blade. “Will you come to bed?”

  He yanked the sword out and wiped it on his plaid. “Nay.” He smacked his lips to wet his mouth. That did not work, so he marched to the castle well. He lowered the bucket.

  “Lachlan, he confessed more than his guilt at attacking Sheena.”

  He cringed at how exposed she was to her. When Rowen told him of the bairn’s death, Lachlan merely nodded. Later, he had peeked at the child, a little boy. A brother. They shared blood and could have shared much more. And Sheena…

  All these thoughts circled about and led him back to his mother. He wrenched up the bucket. He cupped water in his hands and drank deeply, once, twice, and then splashed water on his face.

  “I have told you bits about my mother.”

  “Aye, about her voice, and how she burned the porridge one time and flapped about like a bird and you thought it a game. She would pick you up with a groan and your feet would drag, but you loved being carried by her. She would stroke your cheek when she rocked you even though you didn’t fit on her lap anymore. She loved you.”

  His eyes burned. “She tried to kill me.”

  He smirked at her sharp inhale. Not that he found humor in it, he simply never knew how to react or how to feel when he felt every emotion.

  “It happened before I was fostered.” He glanced around the courtyard as if he were searching for the river. “I don’t remember where we were, but I know we went there all the time. It was so warm that day. I had ripped my sleeve on a branch.” He rubbed his thumb over the spot. The cut had healed without a scar.

  “Is it odd that I remember that? Ma said she’d mend it later. I pressed it down until all the blood filled my hand. Then Ma came in the water. I splashed her. She stared at me. I thought her mad at me. I froze and started to cry. She grabbed me and waded deeper in the water.”

  He rubbed his arms, wiping away the haunting sensation of water lapping at his skin. “She stopped and let me go. At first I floated, but she pushed me under. I fought against her. My chest burned and my mouth opened. I fought and I fought. Then I was on the shore and the sky above me. I heard my mother’s weeping.”

  He flinched as Rowen snaked her arm around his waist. She rested her cheek against his arm.

  “She died a fortnight later, or so I thought.”

  “Oh Lachlan.” Tears thickened her voice.

  “I do not know why she did it, but I can understand. She was an unmarried woman with a child. Her life would have been better without me. You lack the words to give me comfort, aye?”

  She nodded.

  “Do not fret. I do not know if I wish comfort or something else. At this moment, I feel nothing but one thing…”

  “Which is?”

  “I still love her.”

  Chapter Twelve

  At first, Lachlan struggled to ignore the fact that his mother lived. There was a murderer still to be caught, Jonty to be killed, and Murray to cut down. Time worked against him. He had much requiring his attention. Yet he knew he had to go see her.

  First were the men, and then the security of the castle and clan. That took about a fortnight. He still felt uneasy as he departed from the castle. If he were Jonty, this would be the time to attack and lay claim to the clan. The lad wasn’t smart enough, following the lead of his aunt. She wanted nothing more than to see Lachlan dead. Both were probably enjoying the hospitality of Laird Murray. They were boasting of their win before the first blow.

  The journey across the width of the highlands was not as cold as his first one, but it was wet. Scotland for you, he thought, as rain slashed at him. Reaching the edge of the Scottish land, Lachlan felt torn—return home or face his mother.

  He landed on the tiny, windswept island. Vikings reached these shores to loot, pilgrims for prayer, and him for his mother. The sapphire sea provided a background and sea birds were his company as he traveled to the nunnery.

  Lachlan spared no glance about the small island. He knew the stories of the Scottish kings resting here and the faithful traveling in pilgrimage. At this moment, he was no different. Reared in the holy church, he had learned his prayers, and even recited them. Walking along, he bowed his head and prayed. He prayed for the health of Rowen and son, for his clan, to cut down Murray’s men, for his father’s soul, and to see his mother.

  The church, Teapull Ronain, rose beside the nunnery. He knew the Augustinian nunnery was founded around the same time as the Benedictine Abbey nearby. His mother came here as refuge. He came for the truth.

  The gate was an opening in the red and gray stone. The only trees on the island had budded and bent in direction of the wind. Their branches scraped against the roof of the church and its buildings. He rang the bell. He waited. He glanced about to the Isle of Mull. The king would soon have these isles back in his realm. A nun appeared, appearing stark in her black habit. She stared at him.

  “I am Laird Lachlan Gordon.”

  She angled her face to the side. Her eyes narrowed upon him. She nodded and opened the gate to him. He followed behind, feeling like a naughty boy walking toward his punishment.

  She opened the door to the chapel. “Wait here.” She walked down the nave and vanished in the darkness.

  The church had a three bay aisle on the north side. He noticed a small chapel with its rib vaulted ceilings. His mother worshipped in these walls. What was she seeking? Forgiveness? Redemption?

  He bowed his head, not sure if in prayer, since none sprang from his lips. Most likely, to cease him from thinking. He heard the rustle of clothing and looked up.

  A nun halted in her progress. He
couldn’t see her. She collected herself and came nearer.

  “Lachlan,” she whispered. Did he hear relief even tenderness in her reverend voice.

  He searched her face. A lined face that once possessed beauty and now wore a benevolent mask. Her eyes had drooped with age, but not enough to hide the rich brown that resembled the moor.

  He blinked, and then the face that had faded away with time returned to him. The beautiful woman with a face flushed with wellness and life and eyes that twinkled, reminding him of autumn leaves catching the light. He had collect leaves for many years after he had been fostered. Her long, brown hair—hair he had clung to as a child and rubbed his nose with, loving the ticklish sensation. Now, her habit covered it.

  They stared at each other. The right corner of his mouth twitched. “Why, Mother?”

  “Let’s walk.” Beside one another, they started down the nave. The top of her head reached his upper chest. He had always looked up at her and it reminded him that she had been absent from his life. “I must start at the beginning. I was meant to marry your father. However, I was quite ill, near to death, and not expected to live. So my father made arrangements with Ewan to wed Isabella.”

  “Then you lived.”

  She nodded. “Aye, I did. It took some time to recover. Isabella wanted to show me her grand life and invited me for a stay. I must admit that I was prideful and vengeful. My sister and I did not have a loving relationship.”

  “So you had an affair with the man meant to be your husband.”

  “’Tis not as simple as that, but aye. I usurped her place. Then you came along.”

  “And your family cut all ties with you,” he finished when she halted.

  “I had your father. He loved me so. It seemed that he had since he first saw me. I used that, and swore that you would help me get what I wanted.”

  “To be lairdess?”

  “Nay. I do not know what I wanted. I was a young lass and lacked compassion. Once I had you, my life changed. You were so strong and red.” She hesitated, and then rested her hand on his forearm. “I love you so. You became my world. That led your father to return to Isabella and into a new woman’s arms. I did not mind. I only wanted you. Life was not easy for either of us. Semias had fallen in love with me, and I used that to my advantage. I led him to believe that marriage was possible. ”

  He never stopped loving her. Lachlan left that knowledge unspoken.

  “Time passed. Then I received a message from my father. He wished me to return to him, but I must leave you behind. At first, I balked. Then your father arranged for you to be fostered. You would be gone from my life. I would have nothing.”

  “You tried to kill me so you would not be alone,” he hissed.

  “You remember that.” The tears shined across her cheeks. One drop caught on the line bracketing her mouth and slowly spread in the crease.

  “It comes to me at night. I can swim without concern now, but aye, I have not forgotten.” His voice was weak, revealing the hurt he had buried.

  She halted. She palmed the rosary hanging about her neck. “I tried to kill myself first. I could not do it. I wanted to live. I wanted my life back. That was why…I couldn’t do it. I had pulled you out. I shook you trying to get you to breathe. Semias came along and tossed you on the shore. God gave you back to me.” She stroked his forearm.

  “Then you left?”

  She snatched away her touch. Guilt blanched her face. “It seemed best for you. What I did to you? I was sinful. I was a danger to you. How could I stay with the temptation of something more than an unmarried woman with a child.”

  “What temptation?”

  “Your grandfather dangled my old life before me. I could have a life with all the comforts befitting my station. I would weep at what I had missed.” She stared off unseeing.

  “I heard you at night,” he confessed in a whisper.

  Her gasp echoed in the church. “I thought you did not know. I tried to protect you.”

  He shrugged, unsure if he refused to face his own heartache, his little boy guilt at not being able to care for his mother, or to ease her pain. “How do you go from wanting to return to your old life to being a nun?”

  She blinked. “Your grandfather sent me here when I told him that I couldn’t return home and live a life he wished.”

  “Which was?”

  “He wanted to wed me to an English lord on the other side of the border. I could be a grand lady of the castle and improve my family’s standing. I just had to give you up.”

  “You did in the end.” He heard the accusation and saw her flinched as if she was flogged by it.

  “What I did was for your gain not mine.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I agreed to come here to protect you. My sister hated you.”

  “Hates me still,” he added.

  “Isabella agreed to take you unaware that her husband was planning to rid himself of her. She would have killed you. Children die.”

  Kenny’s face flashed in his mind.

  “I made an agreement. I would leave her to her husband and go away. She knew Ewan would look for me unless I was dead.”

  “Why did you let me think you dead?” He snarled then wished he hadn’t at her crumbling face.

  “If you knew…”

  Then his father may have learned of it, too. “Semias?”

  “I told him some story and enlisted his assistance. He brought me here. He vowed to keep my secret.”

  “He did. Though, Gordon learned you lived. Semias used your location to hold power over him. He only told me the day before he died,” he said.

  Her brows pinched. Her mouth opened and closed. She pressed her lips tightly and shook her head mournfully.

  “After Gordon’s death, explain why you did not wish me to know.” He shook his head in confusion.

  “I was afraid. I thought you would hate me. That I would hurt you.”

  “You did.”

  “I cannot ask you to forgive me for what I have done to you.”

  He paused. He felt rage, confusion and sorrow. That was one emotion he never felt. “I never hated you. I grew to understand your reasons, though I couldn’t truly know your motives.”

  “Has the truth been a balm to you?” Her gaze latched onto him. Hope shined from them.

  “Aye, it stung at first.”

  “Tell me about your life.”

  “I am laird, chief of Clan Gordon.”

  “Do you wish for that responsibility?”

  He twisted his mouth. “I do not know. I am surrounded by people I cannot trust.”

  “Trust. A dangerous thing, but I learned trust must be given to be tested.”

  “I have a son.” He straightened, feeling pride at being able to speak the truth.

  She beamed. “You have happiness in your life. I am glad. I have often imagined what your life would be like.”

  He told her everything from his first day in MacLean household to his wedding day. His throat was raw, but he continued on, listening to her velvety laughter and her moan of sorrow. She never took her eyes off him. He knew she did not want to let him go, always keeping a hand on him the same way Rowen did with Kenny. Lachlan did not wish to relinquish her back to God.

  “I must depart.”

  She dug her fingers into his arm. He wrapped his free arm around her. She smelled of beeswax, incense, and wool. She clung to him. Her head fit under his chin.

  “You must leave this time.” She cupped his cheek. “Goodbye, son. I love you.”

  He swallowed the thick lump of emotion. “I love you, Mother.” He turned around. Standing in the church’s threshold, he paused and looked over his shoulder. She stood there. He only saw her face. The blaze of candles flickered across her serene visage, in warm coppers and bronzes. She raised her hand to her mouth and sent him a kiss.

  He nodded, and then turned away, letting the door shut behind him. The tears started once he was out of the gate.

  * * *
*

  Lachlan sat in the dark hall. Most of the uisge beatha was gone. It had not banished his troubles. His vision remained cleared. His mind raced. Damn, Rowen. She hurt him again. He hadn’t stayed behind after her refusal to his proposal.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” He aimed that question upward. Her answer must have been lost somewhere in the smoke blackened beams.

  “Laird, the clachan is on fire.”

  Lachlan flew out of his chair and sent the solid oak chair to the floor. He rushed out into the night. A glow appeared within the sky. He hurried to the stable and saddled his horse. He galloped from the castle, letting out a streak of curses.

  Nearing the clachan, smoke hit him first. Grayish smoke blended with the clouds. It was the one night in Scotland when it did not rain. The winds blew westerly and deeper into the heart of the clachan. The flames reached above the tree line of the ancient forest in the distance. Their roar rumbled through the night and drowned out any calls from the folks battling to save their homes from the hungry flames.

  It seemed most of the night had passed, but Lachlan finally arrived at the clachan’s edge. He leaped off his horse and tossed the reins to a wee lad. Around him, the cries of his people blended to with the crackle of the thatch roofs burning. Coughs punctuated the cries.

  Men threw water on the burning homes. Every able bodied person raced forward with water pails. Some people gathered up the children while others gathered their animals. A cow raced down the tract. Lachlan jumped out of its path before ending up under its stomping hooves.

  He grabbed a spade from a woman and threw dirt onto the flames. “Cut down the roof! Get more water!” His throat burned from the shout.

  Sweat ran down his face and into his eyes. He did stop. He had to save his people. A powerful rush of wind blew the flames sideways. Tiny embers danced across the ground. Horrified screams waved behind him. The home over caught aflame.