Claimed by the Highland Warrior

by Michelle Willingham

  ‘Let’s stop here for the night,’ she said quietly. ‘We’ll get some rest and start again in the morning.’

  ‘Nairna.’ He lifted his head and she saw the regret etched on his face. ‘Never in a thousand years would I knowingly hurt you. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.’

  She moved away from him, stepping down from the wagon. Her thoughts were in such turmoil right now that she didn’t trust herself to speak. Instead, she nodded and walked towards the stream, holding her bruised wrist.

  Bram let her go, never taking his eyes from his wife. He watched as she knelt by the stream, bathing her wrist in the cool water. It felt as though someone had taken a knife and carved out his soul.

  He’d done this to her. He’d let the nightmares bend him into the shape of a man he didn’t know. She must have said something to him, possibly touched him. And he’d had no control over the visions that plagued him.

  The encounter with the English soldiers had conjured up a darkness he didn’t want to face. Seeing their armour, hearing their threats against Nairna, had brought back the past few years. Although they were no different from the countless soldiers he’d seen before, seeing them had been like pouring oil over the flames of his memory.

  Because of it, he’d hurt Nairna, the innocent wife whom he’d wanted to protect. There were not enough words to apologise for what he’d done and she wouldn’t understand what had happened anyway.

  The years of torment had changed him, so that he no longer slept like a normal man. He remained awake for long hours, until exhaustion caught him without warning. Never did he sleep at night and never when he craved rest.

  One moment, he would be standing; the next he’d have no memory of how time had passed or what had happened to him. More than once, he’d blacked out in the midst of working on one of the damned stone walls. He’d awakened to the pain of a lash striking across his back, a whip that only ceased when he returned to his labour.

  You’re not there anymore, he reminded himself. It’s in the past.

  But Callum was still there. And no one could shelter his brother from the English torturers.

  He got down from the wagon and unhitched the horse, leading it to the water. His wife remained where she was, though he didn’t miss the guarded fear in her eyes. Seeing it only intensified his self-hatred.

  As the horse drank, he stared into the water, angry with himself for what he’d done. He needed to say something to her, or, better, do something to make amends. Words weren’t enough.

  The soft shush of her skirts against the grass told him that she’d come up behind him. ‘Are you all right, Bram?’

  He nodded. ‘Is your wrist still hurting?’

  ‘A little.’ But in her voice he heard the tremor of worry.

  He reached up to take her wrist. Gently, he caressed the skin, furious with himself.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said quietly. And in her green eyes he saw that she wasn’t going to turn her back on him because of a moment of darkness. Her quiet reassurance was a forgiveness he’d never expected.

  He stared at her wrist, then reached down to the hem of his tunic and rent the fabric, tearing off a long thin strip.

  Nairna stared at Bram, uncertain of why he was damaging his tunic. ‘What are you doing?’

  He took her wrist and fumbled with the strip of cloth, wrapping it around her bruise like a bandage. His hands were trembling, but he kept winding the cloth until it covered her skin. It was loose and awkward, but she voiced no criticism. It was his way of trying to atone for his actions. Her heart stumbled, for she knew he’d never meant to hurt her.

  ‘You don’t have to do that,’ she murmured. When he reached for her other wrist, she stopped him. ‘I know you weren’t aware of what happened. I shouldn’t have touched your scar.’

  For a long moment, he held on to her hand, staring at the bandage as if he were searching for the right words. ‘I lost control of myself. I can’t remember the last time I slept and I haven’t eaten a full meal in years.’

  She reached out to touch his face, bringing him up to look at her. His fingers clasped with hers, as if he needed the reassurance.

  Her skin warmed beneath his and she found herself studying him. There were wounds she couldn’t see, scars that went deeper than any physical wounds. And though she knew his body and mind had been damaged by the imprisonment, beneath it all, she saw a man who needed saving.

  Bram moved away to gather firewood and Nairna joined him, searching for tinder. Neither spoke until he’d managed to light the fire.

  She searched the supplies and brought him some food. Though he tried to eat the oat cake, he took only a bite or two before setting it aside.

  ‘How will you regain your strength if you don’t eat?’ she asked, frowning at his untouched food.

  He shook his head. ‘It’s too much, too soon.’ He rested his wrists upon his knees, staring at the flames. ‘Nairna, if you’re weary, go on and sleep. I won’t bother you tonight.’ He nodded towards the wagon, in a gesture of dismissal.

  But if she left him alone, he wouldn’t sleep. She knew it. Nairna moved to sit beside him. ‘Come and lie down with me. I’ll wager you’re more tired than I am.’

  In his worn face, she could see the years of exhaustion, but Bram shook his head. ‘I’ll stay here and keep watch.’

  Another thought occurred to her. ‘Are you afraid to sleep?’ She wondered if nightmares plagued him, perhaps visions of the past.

  She reached out for him. Bram lifted her bandaged wrist to his mouth, brushing his lips against the pulse point. She shivered slightly, the unexpected tremor sending desire spiralling through her.

  ‘Go on and sleep in the wagon without me,’ he urged, but instead she laid down beside him, resting her head in his lap. She’d come this far and she wasn’t about to leave him now.

  For he was her husband. And he needed her.

  She felt him gently stroke her hair. As she closed her eyes, even knowing she wouldn’t sleep, Bram touched her as if she were the salvation he’d craved for so long.

  Chapter Five

  The following evening, they arrived at Glen Arrin. The sight of his home should have filled him with relief and thankfulness, but Bram’s nerves tightened with fear of what the others would say. It was his fault that Callum had been taken captive. His fault that his father had died. And though he longed to see his brothers, he was afraid of the blame he would face.

  As they approached, his heart grew heavier. Glen Arrin might have been a formidable fortress years ago, but those days were long past.

  Half-a-dozen thatched huts encircled the keep and the outer palisade wall revealed large open segments. Broken and frail, the fortress barely held together, like an old man too stubborn to admit his weakness.

  Years ago, his father had promised to build a castle, one that could defend their clan from any attack. Those promises hadn’t been fulfilled, it seemed.

  ‘It needs a bit of fixing, doesn’t it?’ Nairna ventured when he’d pulled the wagon to a stop. She stared at the keep, as though she were trying to find something nice to say. ‘Some thatch and new wood might help.’

  He eyed her with disbelief, then glanced back at Glen Arrin. She was being far too generous. Although he’d wanted her to live with him in a place they could be proud of, the fortress was worse than he’d expected.

  ‘A strong wind would blow it down,’ he admitted. ‘It’s a disaster.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t say that. It just needs a few men to work on it.’

  ‘Over the next five years,’ he countered.

  ‘It just needs a new foundation, new walls, a new roof and a new door.’ She sent him a wry grin. ‘Nothing much at all.’

  He didn’t respond to her teasing, but when she squeezed his palm, she reminded him, ‘You’ve come home, Bram. After all this time, you’ll see your family.’

  Her words stopped him short. She was right. He’d been dwelling upon the appearance, rather than being gra
teful for his freedom.

  He breathed in the clean air, heavy with moisture. And for a moment, he let the familiar sights offer him comfort. He was glad to be home.

  He helped Nairna down from the wagon. ‘Come on, then. Let’s go inside. Pray God the roof doesn’t fall on our heads and bury us.’

  He took her hand in his, leading her forwards. As they passed the meagre huts, a few curious men raised their hands in welcome, calling out a greeting, their faces breaking into smiles. He recognised the faces of his clansmen, though he couldn’t quite recall some of the names.

  He led her further inside until they reached the narrow tower. At a closer glimpse, he saw how unstable the structure was. The frame was worm-eaten, the wood showing signs of decay.

  Before he could think any more about it, he saw his brother standing there. Tall, with dark hair and a dark beard, Alex had grown into the image of their father Tavin.

  Alex stared at him, as though he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. ‘My God, you’re alive,’ he breathed, crushing him into a hug.

  Bram gripped his brother hard. Words choked up in his throat, leaving him with nothing to say. He couldn’t even speak a greeting, for fear that it would loosen all the emotions he’d locked away. Seeing Alex again, grown into a man, made him aware of all the years he’d lost.

  ‘You’re taller than I remember,’ he managed at last.

  Alex pulled back, a smile creasing his mouth. ‘I suppose you grew a beard to hide that face, so you wouldn’t frighten the others.’

  ‘I’m still better looking than you.’ He managed a rough smile, and gratefulness washed through him. He did have two remaining brothers, even if Callum wasn’t here.

  ‘What happened to you, Bram?’ Alex asked.

  ‘Lord Cairnross took me as his captive.’ Bram didn’t make full eye contact, but he saw the discerning look in his brother’s gaze. ‘Callum is still imprisoned.’

  Alex cursed and guilt crossed his face. ‘Bram, they told me both of you were dead. I swear to you, if I’d known any differently—’

  ‘You were four and ten when we were taken,’ Bram reminded him. ‘I suppose you believed what they told you.’

  His brother gave a single stony nod. ‘It doesn’t make it right.’ After an awkward pause, he added, ‘Our uncle became chief of the clan after Da died.’ He stared into Bram’s eyes, as if trying to make excuses. ‘When Donnell died two years ago, I took his place. But I know our father wanted you to be the chief.’

  The last thing Bram wanted was to assume control of the clan. He shook his head, ‘It belongs to you, Alex. I’ve no wish for the title.’ Or the responsibility. Whether it was expected of him or not, he wouldn’t consider taking it from his brother.

  Alex remained unconvinced. ‘There’s time to decide on that later.’ He directed his attention to Nairna then, and Bram realised he hadn’t even brought her to greet his brother.

  He moved to her side, touching her shoulder. ‘You remember Nairna, my wife.’

  She lowered her head in greeting. ‘Alex. It’s been a long time.’

  A faint smile touched Alex’s mouth, and he said, ‘It has. I’m not surprised Bram stopped to bring you back with him. A bonny lass you always were.’

  The compliment was meant to set her at ease, but instead it evoked a twist of jealousy within Bram. He didn’t like seeing Nairna embarrassed. His hand moved about her waist, drawing her closer to his side.

  Alex seemed to read his thoughts, and he reassured him, ‘Peace, brother. Laren is my wife and I have daughters of my own.’

  Daughters? It seemed strange to even imagine his younger brother with a wife, much less bairns. Almost as if Alex had assumed the life Bram had expected to have. Once again, he was jolted by the passage of time.

  ‘I would like to meet your wife,’ Nairna said. ‘Are they inside?’

  Alex shrugged. ‘Possibly. Or Laren could be out walking. You can go and find her, if you wish.’

  Nairna left them, and once she’d gone, Alex gestured for him to walk at his side. They moved around the perimeter of the fortress, neither speaking for a time.

  The familiar walls, though worn and broken, offered a quiet peace. ‘I remember climbing that wall, when we were boys,’ Bram said.

  ‘You used to run along the top edge.’ Alex sent him a sly grin. ‘And you dared me to join you.’

  ‘You were too afraid.’

  ‘No, I wasn’t so foolish as you,’ Alex countered. ‘You lost your balance and fell into Ross MacKinloch’s pig pen.’

  He’d nearly forgotten about that. ‘And you didn’t go for help, either. You sat and laughed at me, while I was covered in dung.’

  Alex grinned. ‘A good memory, that day was.’

  ‘For you. Mother blistered my ears, screeching about how I was going to break my neck.’

  Truly, they’d been thickheaded lads. An unexpected smile pulled at his mouth.

  His brother returned the smile, adding, ‘It’s good to have you back, Brother.’ But behind the words, there was concern and he didn’t miss the way Alex eyed his thin frame. ‘How are you now? Do you need a healer?’

  Bram shook his head. Most of his wounds were now scars. ‘I’m improving each day. I just need to train, to prepare for when we rescue Callum.’

  Alex shook his head. ‘You’ll stay here while we find Callum.’

  There was no chance he’d remain behind. ‘Why? You think I’m too weak?’

  ‘Aye.’ Alex didn’t bother to disguise the truth. ‘You’ve been in a prison for seven years, and even Dougal could defeat you, as thin as you are now.’

  ‘Dougal?’ he shook his head in disgust. ‘But he’s only seven—’ He broke off, realising what he’d said about their youngest brother.

  ‘Four and ten,’ Alex corrected.

  The reminder of the lost years forced him into silence. All of them had aged, but he’d thought little about Dougal, for the boy had been off at fostering since the age of four. He hardly remembered what his brother looked like and it bothered him to think of it.

  ‘Is he back already?’

  Alex nodded. ‘He’s inside. I’ll take you to him.’

  When Bram entered the keep, trestle tables were overturned, while dogs barked, snarling at each other for bones. The stale odour of rotting rushes caught him without warning, and it was so similar to the prison conditions that he froze.

  In that sudden moment, he felt the walls closing in on him and his skin crawled. If he shut his eyes, it was like being there again, trapped in chains. He stumbled back towards Nairna, who was staring at the sight in disbelief.

  As soon as he reached her side, her own unique scent caught him, masking the darkness. He wanted to bury his face in her hair, blotting out the harsh memories. But he didn’t dare touch her.

  ‘I’m going to drag your legs through your arse, pudding-faced bastard!’ a voice yelled. The insult had come from a young man whom he barely recognised as Dougal. Though he was tall and strong for his age, the boy was hardly able to fight off Ross MacKinloch, who appeared to be toying with him. Dougal swung a reckless punch that missed his opponent.

  ‘Mind your temper, lad,’ Ross warned. A thin smile lined the older man’s face. He picked up a chair and went after Dougal.

  ‘What are they doing?’ Nairna asked, her eyes wide.

  ‘Ross trained each of us,’ Bram said. ‘When we were young, he taught us how to use every weapon. He knows what he’s doing. Dougal will be fine.’

  ‘But he’s just a boy,’ she protested. ‘He’ll be hurt.’

  Dougal overheard the remark, for he retorted to Nairna, ‘I’m not a boy.’

  ‘Aye, you are,’ Alex interrupted. He beckoned to Dougal, ‘Have you no welcome for your eldest brother?’

  A shadow of resentment darkened the lad’s face. ‘I don’t even know him. Why should I welcome him?’ With that, he picked up another chair, smashing it against the stone. Holding a chair leg in his hand, he went after Ross. ‘
Come back and fight me, old man!’

  Bram watched the pair, not letting any expression cross his face. Dougal’s defiance shouldn’t have surprised him. They’d hardly known each other, and it had been so long, he supposed it was to be expected that his youngest brother wouldn’t remember him.

  When Bram was twelve, Dougal had followed him everywhere. The young boy had tried to take Bram’s weapons, dragging a bench across the room to climb up and reach the blades he wasn’t supposed to touch. It bothered him to think that the boy who had once attached himself to Bram’s leg was now indifferent.

  Alex lowered his voice. ‘Dougal’s getting worse every day. Thinks he can fight the English.’ Shaking his head, he directed to Nairna, ‘At least when he fights with Ross, he won’t be hurt. Well, aside from a few bruises and scrapes.’

  Bram stared at their youngest brother. The skin upon Dougal’s arms was reddened, while blood trickled from his nose. The lad fought with pure aggression, letting his rage dictate his actions. He swung his fists without thinking, his long arms and legs clumsy.

  Bram watched his brother fighting, feeling a sense of unease. Was that how his father had viewed him? Had he been like Dougal, struggling to prove himself? For a moment, he imagined himself in his father’s place, fighting to protect his son. If he ever had a son of his own, he hoped he could train the boy to keep a calm head.

  Anger and aggression only caused clumsiness. It was better to lock away all emotions, concentrating on bringing down the enemy. He’d managed to gain his freedom by numbing himself to everything but his goal. And though he’d had to live with the guilt of leaving Callum behind, it was the only way to save them both.

  A moment later, Ross tripped the lad, twisting Dougal’s arms behind his back and shoving him against the floor. ‘You’re finished, lad. The English would have slit your throat, just like that.’

  Nairna was trying hard not to look, but her face grew worried. Bram moved up behind her and started to rest his hands on her shoulders before he thought better of it. Instead, he lowered them to his sides and bent closer to her ear. ‘Are you hungry? Shall I see about food before we retire for the night?’