Fate of a Highlander

by Baker, Katy

  He knew he played a dangerous game, lying to Alasdair Stewart. If he discovered Finn’s true intentions, his fury would be terrible, his retribution swift. Stewart wouldn’t kill him, of course, although Finlay would probably wish for that before the end. No, Lord Alasdair Stewart had far more inventive ways to make Finn pay.

  His fists clenched. It will be worth it, he thought. It will be worth any pain to see Eleanor safely home again. It will be worth it to keep a vow after I’ve broken so many.

  He walked out of the kitchen and across the courtyard towards the stables. He was so caught up with thoughts of how he might get Eleanor safely out of the camp that he suddenly collided with somebody leaving the stable.

  A heavy shoulder slammed into him and an angry voice growled, “Watch it, fool!”

  Finn looked up to find Balloch glaring at him. The man’s eyes widened as he realized who’d bumped into him and then his glare intensified, his fingers curling into fists.

  Finn hadn’t seen the man since their altercation in the forest the day he met Eleanor. Balloch was travel-stained and had splotches of blood all over his plaid—blood that didn’t appear to be his own.

  “Be so kind as to step aside,” Finn said.

  Balloch didn’t move. Finlay sighed. He didn’t have time for this.

  “Ye seem to have forgotten yer rank, soldier,” Finn said, keeping his voice pleasant but with a touch of steel. “Now kindly step aside.”

  Balloch grinned. “I dinna give two shits about yer rank. Ye havenae got Angus to back ye up now. I’m Lord Stewart’s nephew and that means I outrank ye every time. Do ye know where I’ve been, Hound?”

  Finn made a show of looking him up and down. “From the look of ye I’d guess ye’ve been trying to shave again. I’ve told ye before ye shouldnae try such complicated tasks.”

  Finn watched him closely, waiting for the telltale sign that he was about to lash out. With Balloch, violence never lay far below the surface. To his surprise, Balloch only grinned wider.

  “I’ll tell ye where I’ve been, shall I? A secret mission. One that will see the downfall of the MacAuleys.”

  He reached beneath his plaid and pulled out a tattered bit of material which he brandished in front of Finn like a trophy. It was drenched with blood but even so Finlay recognized the colors. The MacAuley plaid. He felt the blood drain from his face.

  “Aye,” Balloch said, his grin widening. “I thought ye might recognize it. Yet, it shouldnae bother ye to see the MacAuleys wiped out, should it? Traitor that ye are?”

  Balloch's words sliced into him like blades. It was all he could do to keep his expression neutral, to keep the pain from showing on his face. Only long years of practice allowed his expression to remain cool. But inside, his stomach knotted. Traitor. Aye, he was that and more. What would his brothers think if they could see him now?

  His eyes strayed to the blood staining Balloch's plaid. MacAuley blood. Had Finlay's kin died at the hands of Balloch today? Had his brothers?

  Nay, he thought fiercely. Balloch is baiting ye. He is a thug with all the imagination of a lump of wood. Stewart wouldnae trust him with any secret mission.

  He strode past Balloch, shoving him out of the way. The big man made no move to stop him but when Finlay had moved past, he said over his shoulder, "I hear ye brought the lass back with ye. Excellent. I've been looking forward to getting reacquainted with her."

  Finlay froze in his tracks and then turned slowly. "If ye lay a hand on her, I will kill ye."

  Balloch laughed and walked away without another word. Finlay watched him go, fury seething through his veins. Balloch was full of piss and wind, a spoiled bully riding on his uncle’s influence. He wouldn’t dare hurt Eleanor, not here, not while she remained a guest of Lord Stewart.

  But if he does, Finn thought, I will kill him. Nobody will hurt her. Not while I live.

  ELEANOR DOUBTED SHE’D ever felt this uncomfortable in her life. The dress was too tight, the chair too hard, the heat in the room stifling. But these weren’t the reasons why she sat straight backed and tense, doing her best to hide the unease that coiled through her like a snake.

  No, it was the hard, hungry eyes that watched her from all around the room. The raucous, ribald jokes aimed in her direction, quickly stifled when Stewart growled at the perpetrator, and of course, the presence of Alasdair Stewart himself sitting beside her, way too close for her liking.

  When Stewart had said that she was to join him for dinner tonight she’d assumed he’d meant a private dinner—and that would have been bad enough—but this loud, brash feast in front of his men was far worse. She felt like a prize on display. Which, of course, was exactly what she was.

  She glanced over her shoulder. Finn stood by the wall behind her chair. He didn’t look at her, his eyes continually scanning the gathering, guarding her just as Stewart had ordered him to. His presence was just about the only thing making this evening bearable.

  The hall of the manor house—the large room where she’d first met Stewart— had been turned into a makeshift banqueting hall. Long trestle tables had been laid out in a square around the room, leaving an open space in the middle. Stewart took pride of place on the head table by the fireplace and Eleanor sat on his right, Balloch on his left.

  Eleanor did her best to ignore Balloch even though he kept grinning at her, obviously taking great pleasure in her discomfort. The rest of the tables were taken up by Stewart’s men, his officers at a guess, although the term ‘officer’ was a very loose description to give to the dirty, rowdy renegades that sat eating, drinking, arguing, and occasionally fighting, at the tables.

  Eleanor took a sip from her goblet. The wine, she was surprised to admit, was excellent, and the food that had been brought out so far was much better than she’d expected. Lord Stewart, it seemed, still clung to a few luxuries, even in the midst of war.

  As she sipped, she glanced around the room, assessing. Even though it was loud, full of raucous laughter and ribald jokes, to Eleanor’s mind the joviality seemed a little forced. The men ate and drank with gusto, as though this might be their last opportunity. She sensed tension beneath the bravado and it didn’t take much for that to spill over into violence. Two fights had already been broken up, the combatants bodily thrown out of the hall and ordered to muck out the stables.

  The men were worried, Eleanor realized. Finn had said that the army would soon be moving out, marching to meet their enemies, the joint forces of the MacAuley and MacConnell clans in battle. From Balloch’s swagger and Stewart’s calm arrogance, it seemed that he was in the ascendency and that the coming battle was a mere formality but now she began to wonder. Perhaps Stewart wasn’t in as strong a position as he liked to portray. Perhaps he was on the defensive. That would explain how he’d manage to lose his physicians to the MacAuley raids.

  “Not eating, my lady?” Stewart said, making her jump.

  She had barely touched the plate of roast chicken that had been placed in front of her. The defiant part of her wanted to tell Stewart where he could stick his roast chicken but that would be foolish. She needed to keep him sweet. For now.

  Without a word she began eating, mopping up the gravy with a slice of crusty bread.

  Lord Stewart watched her eat for a moment and then said, “Tell me of yer homeland.”

  Eleanor nearly choked on her food. She swallowed and then croaked, “What do you want to know.”

  “Everything. But ye can start by explaining what kind of place allows women to train as physicians. Everyone knows that women are too weak of disposition for such things.”

  Oh, you reckon? Eleanor thought. Stewart was watching her keenly and she sensed that she had to tread very carefully here. She needed a credible story—one he would believe.

  “Not all women,” she said, meeting his eyes. “Only high-born women. My father is an important military man.” This at least was true. He’d done several tours of duty as a colonel in the army and been away for most of her childho
od. It was one of the reasons she’d barely known him. “He saw the merit in training his daughter to take care of his men’s injuries.”

  To her relief, Stewart nodded as though he could understand the sense in such a measure. “Mayhap that is why ye have been parading around in men’s clothing, looking hardly decent.”

  “Yes,” Eleanor said quickly. “Pants...er...trews, I mean, are much easier to work in than a dress.”

  “And this father of yers, this man who saw the merit in training his daughter, he also saw fit to send ye across the sea on yer own, to an unknown land, did he?” Stewart’s gaze sharpened and his eyes glinted with suspicion.

  “I came here to help people,” she said, unable to keep the annoyance out of her voice. “Is that so strange?”

  To her surprise, he smiled. “I wonder if all women in yer homeland are as wilful as ye. Mayhap it comes from allowing them to do a man’s job.”

  Eleanor opened her mouth to reply but was saved by a sudden commotion amongst the men. The musicians in the centre of the hall had come to the end of their song and were standing to receive the applause of the crowd. Except they didn't receive much applause. The men were shouting and jeering. Somebody even threw a chicken bone.

  Lord Stewart sighed dramatically. "Ye canna find good musicians anywhere these days." Swivelling in his chair, he beckoned to Finn. “The entertainment is sadly lacking tonight, Hound. Ye will play for us. Something rousing, to stir the men's blood."

  Finn flushed. Anger glinted in his eyes. "Nay. I willnae."

  Stewart glared at him. "Aye. Ye will. That's an order."

  He clenched his fist suddenly and a spasm of pain swept across Finn's face. Stewart opened his fist and the expression passed.

  Eleanor glanced from Finn to Stewart and back again. What the hell? What had just happened? She watched, nonplussed, as Finn made his way into the centre of the hall. One of the musicians handed him a stringed instrument that Eleanor guessed was a lute, and then the two musicians fled, obviously relieved.

  Finn stood alone in the centre of the hall, holding the neck of the instrument and staring into space as if deep in thought. The jeers around the hall intensified and Balloch suddenly shouted "Ho! He we go! The Hound is going to howl for us!"

  This brought a round of laughter. Finn ignored it as he took a seat on one of the stools vacated by the musicians and began strumming on the instrument, picking out a few chords in a minor key that rang through the hall as clear as a bell. Then he began to sing.

  As Finn's deep, clear voice filled the hall, the laughter died. The jeering fell away, to be replaced by rapt silence. Eleanor understood why. The song was in Gaelic and she understood not a word but even to her untrained ears she knew she was listening to a master at work. She remembered suddenly the night in the woods when she'd woken to hear him singing. Then he'd been singing under his breath, unaccompanied by any instrument and even then she'd been struck by the quality of his voice. Now she was stunned by it.

  Deep and haunting, it filled the hall with sound. Perfectly in tune, perfectly in key, his voice seemed to swell like a wave until Eleanor felt as though she was being swept away by it. Although she didn't know the words, the song conjured up images in her mind's eye. She saw a loch sparkling under a silver moon. She saw a ring of standing stones silhouetted against the night sky. She saw dark bowers where no human had ever trod. She saw mist-wreathed clearings where no human ever would. Without knowing how, she realized it was a song about the Fae.

  She risked a glance at Stewart. He was leaning forward, his hands steepled in front of him, watching Finlay intently. There was a look on his face she couldn't quite identify. Was it wariness? Unease? Did this song mean something to him?

  She turned back to watch Finn. What was going on here? How could a man like him, work for a man like Stewart, a man he clearly hated? It made no sense.

  Finn's song finally came to an end and he held the last note for a long time, allowing it to ring out and hold them all spellbound until it finally faded into silence.

  Nobody moved for a moment. Then there came a thunderous banging as the men thumped their tankards on the table in appreciation and called for more. Finn obliged. He broke into another song, this one jaunty, quick-tempoed and obviously a drinking song.

  "Ye appreciate my Hounds singing, I see," Stewart said.

  Eleanor jumped. She'd been so caught up in Finn's song that she'd forgotten he was sitting next to her. "I...I...um never thought somebody like him would have a voice like that," she floundered.

  "Aye," he agreed. "Some might think it was a gift given by the Fae."

  Something about the way he said it sent a spike of alarm through Eleanor. "The Fae?" she laughed shrilly. "Everyone knows they don't exist!"

  "Do they?" Stewart said quietly. "Then mayhap it is a talent passed down through his bloodline. Mayhap Finlay MacAuley inherited it from his ancestors."

  Eleanor looked at Stewart sharply, sure she must have just misheard. "MacAuley? Did you say Finlay’s clan name is MacAuley?"

  Stewart raised an eyebrow. "Did my Hound not tell ye that detail? I'm nay surprised. Nobody wants to advertise the fact that he's a traitor. Aye, lass. He's a MacAuley. And not just any MacAuley, in fact, but brother to the laird of the MacAuley. The people we are fighting against. Over the years my Hound has been most useful in betraying his clan's secrets. And now he's going to be most useful in helping me to destroy them."

  Eleanor stared at him, feeling suddenly cold.

  "Ye can ever trust him," Stewart warned. "The man may have the voice of an angel but he is a liar and a traitor."

  Something hard settled in Eleanor's stomach. No. It couldn't be true. Could it? Finn couldn't be a traitor. He couldn't be fighting against his own family. There must be some sort of mistake or Stewart was lying to her. But even as she thought this, she knew it wasn't the case. Finn had never told her his clan name but he wore a plaid in different colors to everyone else. Why was that? Unless it was his clan plaid, the MacAuley plaid. His brother’s colors. The colors of the clan he was fighting.

  Finn finished his song. Then he stood, put down the lute, and walked from the centre of the hall without a word. There was a chorus of shouting and banging of tankards on tables. Balloch cupped his hands around his mouth and made a howling noise like a dog. Finn flicked him a baleful glance before taking up his position behind Eleanor once again.

  She resisted the urge to look at him. Her thoughts tangled around each other, becoming a confusing knot. Why had Finn kept his identity from her? And why was he fighting for Alasdair Stewart against his own family? It didn’t make sense. Unless Finn really was what Stewart claimed: a liar and a traitor.

  She took another sip of wine. Lord Stewart was talking to Balloch, paying her no attention. She risked a glance over her shoulder and found Finn watching her. Their eyes locked and her heartbeat quickened. She ripped her gaze away. Oh hell. She didn't know what to think. She didn't know what to feel.

  Determined to keep a clear head, she drank no more wine but ate everything that was brought to her and listened. She listened to the conversations and banter of the men, trying to pick up anything that might be useful, anything that might help her figure a way out of this mess.

  Finally, the meal came to an end. Suspecting that the men would now fall into even more drinking, dicing and general rowdiness, Eleanor told Stewart she was tired and that she'd like to go back to her room. Stewart waved her away irritably.

  "Hound! Make sure the lady is escorted safely back to her chamber."

  Finn gave a tiny bow. "As my lord commands. This way, my lady."

  Eleanor followed him from the room and into the blessedly cool and quiet corridor outside. They walked in silence. Finn said not a word, did not even look at her. No candles had been lit and so the corridor was dark. When she glanced in Finn's direction she couldn’t see much of him, except the glint of moonlight that reflected in his eyes. But she could feel him. His presence by her side was
dark and brooding, like a thundercloud. She thought suddenly of the way he'd sang in the hall tonight, the beauty of his voice.

  Liar. Traitor.

  They reached her room. Somebody had been in and lit a fire, for which she was grateful. The spring night had turned chilly.

  "One of my lads will keep watch on yer door," Finn said.

  He turned to leave and Eleanor suddenly blurted. "Why didn't you tell me who you are?"

  He froze, turned. “What?”

  Eleanor looked up at him. "Lord Stewart told me you're a MacAuley. That your brother is the laird of the MacAuleys."

  "Of course he did," Finn said under his breath. "That bastard."

  "He also told me you can't be trusted. That you're a liar and a traitor. That you're fighting against your own family. Is it true, Finn?" She tried to keep her voice steady but it shook a little.

  His gaze met hers and she saw anguish in his eyes. "Aye, it's true," he breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. "I am all those things and more."

  Eleanor took a step back, her legs feeling suddenly shaky. Could she trust anyone in this god-forsaken place?

  He reached a hand towards her but she backed away. “Why...why didn’t you tell me? Why did you lie to me?”

  He stared at her for a long moment. “Because if ye knew the truth ye would see me as everyone else does. As Stewart’s Hound.”

  "I don’t get it. It's obvious you hate Stewart. Why do you serve him?"

  He glanced away, scrubbed a hand through his hair. "Because I havenae a choice."

  "Of course you have a choice!” she replied. “He doesn’t own you!”

  Anger flashed in his eyes. "Ye dinna know of what ye speak, woman. I canna disobey Alasdair Stewart any more than I can stop breathing."

  She shook her head. "I don't understand."

  "Nor will ye," he snapped. "It's between me and him. I would thank ye to keep yer nose out of my business.”